Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens

by Suzan Tisdale

  And with that, he brought the mallet down, once, twice, and yet again. In place now, he held the mallet over his head, and called out once again. “For Clan Mactavish!”

  ’Twas a quarter of an hour before the crowd settled down and began filing into the keep. A special feast had been prepared and everyone in the clan was invited. Not just the lonelies. Nay, this was a night to be enjoyed by one and all.

  Mairghread felt a great sense of pride, not only in how her people had banded together, but also for her husband. Tonight would be a night of celebration, one that had been a long time in coming.

  A few days after the gate was put in place, Dougall Bowie arrived with wagons of grain and more than two-dozen Bowie men. Their presence caused quite a stir, what with their reputations as blood-thirsty murderers and thieves. All of it was true, of course. But the Bowies were trying to turn over a new leaf, as farmers, whisky makers, and people of good repute.

  Gertie and Tilda shook with fear when the men came stomping into the gathering room. They couldn’t help but stomp, for they were such large men. Everyone one of them seemed to have been cut from the same piece of cloth. Dark hair, darker eyes, and apparently the inability to smile.

  “I have letters fer ye,” Dougall said, reaching into a pouch that hung at his waist. “From The Bowie, and yer brother, Ian.”

  Brogan gladly accepted the letters while Mairghread asked after Leona.

  “She be doin’ well,” Dougall said. “Her bairns came a bit earlier than expected.”

  “Bairns?” Mairghread asked with a smile.

  “Aye,” he replied, accepting her offer of ale. “Two wee daughters. She has named them Rose and Lily.”

  “Those be verra pretty names,” she told him.

  For the first time, she saw the fierce Highlander smile. “She could have named them George and Walter fer all Alec cared. Ye would have thought him the first man in all the world ever to be a father. In truth we did no’ think he would survive the birthin’!”

  Mairghread giggled as she took her seat, then looked at Brogan. He was standing next to the hearth, reading the letter. She could not help but wonder how he might behave if and when she ever got with child. More likely than not, he would be his usual calm and collected self.

  “Ian says that Rose be doin’ well. Convinced it be a boy again. Rose is hopin’ fer a girl,” Brogan said as he read the letter.

  His mood seemed to be lifted with the contents of the letter. ’Twas not as if he’d been unhappy of late. But whatever was in the letter seemed to bring him much joy. There was a twinkle in his eye that had not been there since the night they placed the last bolt into the gate.

  “They have also finished the second story of the keep and have officially moved in,” he smiled.

  That was indeed good news, though she was more happy for him than anything else. Someday soon, she was going to have to admit to him what was in her heart. Deep down, she hoped such an admission would bring him as much joy as the letter in his hands.

  Samhain Eve arrived cold and dreary. The fires in every hearth in the keep and every cottage on Mactavish land was let to grow cold for the entire day, in order to prepare for the evening’s impending activities. As soon as the sun set, massive bonfires would be lit. From there, men would light torches, and run from house to house, where they would light fires in each hearth or brazier. Whilst there, they would be served a quick mug of ale, or in Brogan’s case, hot, spiced cider. ’Twas an old tradition, its beginnings unknown.

  Mairghread was in the gathering room with Gertie and Tilda, preparing for the evening events. So cold was the air within that they could see their own breaths.

  “I tell ye, it be auld Brennis Mactavish that haunts the marsh,” Gertie was saying. She and Tilda were in a heated argument over what souls haunted what part of their lands.

  “And I tell ye it be Red Vernis, the first chief of this clan that haunts it,” said Tilda.

  Mairghread had given up trying to intervene. She was cold to her bones and tired. Bone tired. She’d been this way for two weeks. Tired and unable to keep anything down. She’d had suspicions, of course, for she had been with child before. But she’d visited Martha yesterday, just to be certain. Though she didn’t consider herself the least bit superstitious, she would not share her happy news with Brogan until the morrow. ’Twas bad luck to speak of such things on Samhain Eve.

  Gertie and Tilda continued to argue. Mairghread did her best to ignore them. ’Twas naught more than ghost stories to be told each year at this time. Many of her people still held the belief that barriers between the living and dead would be stretched thin at the midnight hour. If one looked hard enough, or strained their ears, one might be able to see or hear a long dead relative.

  Mairghread put no stock in that notion. That isn’t to say she did not believe in fairies, fey creatures, or demons, for she truly did. She still burned sage once a month to help keep out evil spirits. She simply didn’t believe it possible to talk to the dead and have them respond.

  She knew because she had tried every Samhain since she was nine-years-old. That was the year they lost Andrew. And every year since, right up until she lost James and Connell, she had tried to reach her dead brothers and parents. Each year ’twas the same: she would talk and pray and hope, for even a tiny glimpse of all those she held dear. But ’twas all for naught.

  So she gave up believing in that.

  But she still believed in demons. Aye, those were as real as the earth on which she walked. As real as the air she breathed.

  One of the younger guards, a brown-haired lad named Charles, came rushing into the gathering room. He was out of breath and covered with sweat. “M’lady! M’lady!” he called from the door.

  “What is it?” she asked as she set the bowl of sweets on the table. Whether it was instinct or that the lad looked as though he’d just seen a ghost, dread settled over her.

  “Henry sent me to tell ye,” he was fighting for breath. Taking in great, deep lungfuls, he was fighting hard to tell her something either important or God-awful

  Her first thought was that something had happened to Brogan. “What?” she asked, rushing forward, holding her breath.

  Resting his hands on his knees, he said, “Aymer be less than an hour away.”

  They had been preparing themselves for this eventuality for months. Now that it was here, she didn’t know if she should laugh or cry or scream.

  “Be he alone?” she asked, swallowing hard. Her fingers trembled, not with fear, but with something akin to murderous rage.

  “Nay, m’lady,” he replied. “The Frenchman be with him and more than one hundred soldiers.”

  Undoubtedly they were well-trained soldiers, bought and paid for, without any sense of duty or honor to anyone. Save for the man with the biggest purse.

  Taking in a deep breath, she straightened her back and lifted her chin. “Charles, run back to Henry and tell him no’ to allow Aymer entry until Brogan gives it. And send Liam and Comnall to me at once.” Turning to Gertie and Tilda, she said, “Ye two, get Mairi and Evelyn, send them above stairs at once. Then I want ye to go to yer rooms and stay there.”

  “The bloody hell I will!” Gertie exclaimed. “I’ll no’ leave ye alone with that monster, no’ while I still have a breath in me body.”

  “And neither will I, m’lady,” Tilda added, bobbing her chin once to show she was quite serious on the matter.

  “Verra well, ye come above stairs with me,” she agreed. There really was no arguing with them at times. Turning to one of the younger maids, she said, “Send Mairi and Evelyn to me, straightaway.”

  A moment later, she was rushing above stairs with Gertie and Tilda trying to keep up.

  “What is yer plan?” Gertie called out from behind her.

  Her plan? Other than imagining her uncle’s head on a pike, she wasn’t certain. “Unfortunately, I will have to meet with him.”

  ’Twas no surprise to see the wall. Aymer’s spies had b
een keeping him well informed of the goings on inside the keep for months now.

  He owed the wall to Brogan. A part of him wanted to thank him, for being so diligent on its construction. ‘Twould save him time when he became chief.

  The Mackintosh was sadly mistaken to believe walls could keep him from his divine right. God had chosen him to lead this clan, not his weak and feckless brother, Gavin. Aye, Gavin had become chief by order of birth. But Aymer knew ’twas God’s plan for him to become chief. His proof? God would not have allowed him to come this far only to take it all away. If God did not want him killing his brother, or any of the others, He would have stopped him. The only logical conclusion he could come to was that aye, God wanted him to lead.

  So it stood to reason, at least in his mind, that ’twas his divine right.

  Brogan Mackintosh was naught but a test. A test to see what he was willing to do to get that which he coveted above all things; the Mactavish seat.

  Just as the wall had not surprised him, neither did the fact they would only allow he and Courtemanche to enter and with only two guards. The rest of the men would have to make camp outside the newly built wall. It mattered not to Aymer.

  Upon entering the keep, he took note of the two men posted at the bottom of the stairs that led to sleeping chambers above. Tall, fierce looking men he did not recognize and was left to assume they had to be Mackintoshes. While he found all these new protections for Mairghread irksome, he cared not. He was so close to having everything he had worked for his whole life. A few guards, a wall, they were simply bothersome. Like midges in the summertime. Annoying, but easy to do away with. One simply needed to be smarter and stronger than the midges.

  The frigid air in the gathering room was also to be expected, for it was, after all, Samhain. He had not yet decided if he would allow this ridiculous custom to continue after he became chief.

  “Why is there no fire in the hearth?” Courtemanche asked as he rubbed his hands together. The two men with them seemed just as displeased, but said nothing as they took up posts on either side of the cold hearth. Bloodthirsty mercenaries, they stood quietly as a warning to anyone who might try to do him harm.

  “’Tis Samhain,” he smiled, explaining further the custom and ritual.

  Courtemanche grunted his displeasure. “Thankfully, I will not have to suffer through another one of these cold nights. Soon, I shall have your niece to help warm my blood.”

  Aymer chuckled, playing along. Frankly, he cared not what the man did with his niece. She was naught more than another obstacle in his righteous path.

  Courtemanche was growing impatient the longer they were made to wait. “I want to leave this place,” he said, his teeth chattering. Soaked to the bone and freezing cold did not make for a pleasant Claude Courtemanche.

  Aymer went to find serving maids, but the halls were empty. Growing more perturbed with his niece’s lack of respect, he hid his ire behind a smile and air of entitlement.

  “Why can we not light a fire?” Courtemanche whined.

  Aymer chuckled inwardly at the weak man’s distress. “I told ye, ’tis a custom on this night.”

  “And where are the serving wenches?” Courtemanche asked. “We have been here for half an hour and no one has offered us so much as a crust of bread.”

  Aymer was certain he knew the answer, but was not about to put it to voice. ’Twas naught more than a way for Brogan Mackintosh to demonstrate his misguided belief that he was in charge. “They are busy preparing a feast for later this eve.”

  There was no sense in being perturbed or put off by their horrible mistreatment. Nay, he knew the best course was the one he was currently on. His steel, cool reserve had served him well these many years. He would not allow this blatant show of disrespect to define him, or take him off God’s chosen path.

  Courtemanche was still complaining moments later, when Mairghread stepped into the room.

  Draped over her dark green wool gown was the Mactavish plaid. Worn just as her father had worn his. The only difference now was that it was affixed to her shoulder with the Mackintosh brooch Brogan had given her. With refined grace and elegance, she all but floated into the room.

  Aymer saw her first, and went to her at once. “My niece!” he declared happily. If one didn’t know any better, one might think he had a genuine love for her. Mairghread, however, knew the truth.

  Hiding a myriad of feelings, she allowed him an embrace. Silently, she swore this would be the last time he would ever put his hands on her.

  Brogan was standing in the shadows, at the ready. Though he had not approved of her need to meet the man alone, face to face, he understood the importance. Knowing he was just a few steps away strengthened her resolve.

  The Frenchman, having heard Aymer, finally stood. “My friend, you were right,” he was speaking to Aymer, but looking at her. His dark eyes slowly raking her over, from head to toe. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” His smile bordered on a sneer and showed a mouthful of crooked teeth. ’Twas difficult not to retch all over his feet.

  “Mairghread, I have brought yer betrothed to ye,” Aymer said.

  “We shall be married at once!” Courtemanche declared joyfully.

  Ignoring his declaration, she took the seat at the head of the now empty trestle table. She had ordered every morsel of food removed from the gathering room. Aymer would take naught one more thing from this keep.

  “Married?” She cocked her head to one side. “I fear there has been a mistake.”

  Mayhap she took a bit too much enjoyment in seeing his sneer fall away. “I can no’ marry ye.”

  His face pinched, he looked at Aymer. “Be this some sort of jest?”

  She would not allow her uncle to answer. “Nay, I do no’ jest. Ye see, I be already married.” Directing that last part right to her uncle, she saw just a flicker of anger in his eyes.

  “What goes on here, Aymer?” Courtemanche was beginning to sound like a screeching auld woman. “What game do you play?”

  “Settle down, Claude,” he told him. His gaze was still pinned on Mairghread. “’Tis naught but a small obstacle to overcome.”

  “Obstacle?” she asked. “Think ye me marriage to Brogan naught more than an obstacle?”

  “I am certain ye were no’ in yer right mind when ye agreed to marry him,” Aymer said, still smiling as if he held some secret she was not aware of. “If ye do no’ voluntarily set it aside, I will petition the king to do it fer ye.”

  She was growing weary of his smugness. “I will do no’ such thing.” Her words were clipped and filled with undeniable resoluteness. “No’ fer ye, or fer anyone else.”

  “We shall see,” he murmured.

  “In case ye have fergotten,” she said as she stood. “I am the chief of Clan Mactavish. I answer to no one but me king and ME people. I did no’ need yer permission to marry.”

  “But ye made a promise to Claude.”

  “Nay, ye made the promise to Claude,” she reminded him. ’Twas growing more and more difficult not to slap the smug sneer off his face.

  “How long have you known she was married?” Claude demanded, stepping between the two people, and staring Aymer down. “Did ye bring me all the way here knowing full well she had already married?”

  “Claude, me friend, ye worry far too much.” Turning away, with his hands clasped behind his back. “I should have warned ye that me niece is no’ necessarily of sound mind. Of course, fer the purposes ye want her for, that does no’ matter.”

  Brogan could not bear to listen to another insult against his wife. Stepping out of the shadows of the dark hallway and into the light of the gathering room, he came face to face with Aymer Mactavish for the first time.

  Taller than he had envisioned, with light brown hair and brown eyes so dark they looked black. Pale skin like an English nobleman who never stepped outside his keep to do an honest day’s work. Not at all what Brogan had expected.

  “Aymer, I will only te
ll ye once. If ye insult me wife again, I shall ferget me manners and pummel ye into the ground.” A tic had formed in his jaw, his fury toward this man barely contained.

  If his presence had surprised Aymer at all, none would have known it. Not so much as an eyebrow did he twitch.

  “I take it ye are the Mackintosh lad who convinced me niece to marry him under false pretenses?” Aymer sneered.

  Lad? Ignoring the insult, he said, “I be Brogan Mackintosh. And it took very little to convince her, considering her alternative.” He nodded his head toward Courtemanche who, at the moment, looked as though he might soil his fancy trews. Absentmindedly, he reached up and touched the bridge of his nose and took a few steps back. Aye, he recognized Brogan. Undoubtedly remembering their first meeting when John broke his nose.

  Shrugging with indifference, Aymer turned his back to Brogan, as if he were nothing more than a servant boy.

  “As I was saying, Mairghread, ye can either set this false marriage aside, or ye can suffer yer fate at the hands of our illustrious king, David.”

  “If ye’re tryin’ to frighten me, Aymer, ye will no’ succeed,” she seethed, her fists clenching and unclenching. “I am no longer afraid of ye.”

  “Afraid of me?” He feigned being appalled. “After all I have done fer ye?” Tut-tutting as if he were offended. “After all yer dirty little secrets I kept?” He quirked a brow, leaned in and hissed. “Does yer current husband ken what ye did to yer last?”

  He might have thought he was whispering, but Brogan heard every word. Without warning — or much forethought — he took him about the shoulders and spun him around. Grabbing his tunic with meaty fists, he spoke through clenched teeth. “What secret? The fact that ye gave James the Devil’s Brew?”

  Aymer’s mercenaries had swords drawn and pressed on either side of Brogan’s neck. A rapid heartbeat later, Henry and Comnall were behind each of them, pressing swords to their backs.

  “I would no’ do that, were I ye,” Henry said, his voice calm, his tone low.