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

by Suzan Tisdale

  “Nay, but we have ropes,” Reginald said. He was far more hopeful than Brogan.

  “Ropes would work,” Henry agreed after thinking on it for a long moment. “I fear it be our only hope.”

  Brogan knew there was no other choice. Looking out at the people in the yard – less than forty in all – he was reluctant to leave them behind to face the mercenaries beyond the wall.

  Tilda pursed her lips and shook her head. “’Tis too bad those ten thousand horse thieves Henry spoke of are no’ here. We could let them fight those men outside whilst we waited for reinforcements.”

  Each of them stared at her as if she were daft. “Och! Are ye mad?” Gertie asked. “’Twould be easier to fight the men beyond the walls than ten thousand thieves and murderers!”

  ‘Twas then that Henry began to smile. A most devious smile that made his eyes twinkle. “I think we could manage to scare up a few of them,” he said.

  Brogan was almost afraid to ask what he meant.

  In the end, he was quite glad that Henry Mackintosh was on his side.

  With Henry’s plan set in place, Brogan, Henry, and Reginald were soon making their way through the secret passage. Moments later, they were scaling down ropes along the side of the cliff.

  In less than a half an hour, they were beating down the door of Michael Mactavish’s home. The puzzled, brown-haired man stepped outside, leaving his frightened wife huddled near the hearth with their three children.

  Reginald quickly explained their quandary. By the time he finished, Michael was fighting mad. “I ne’er did trust Aymer!” he said, spitting the ground at his feet. “I have fifteen horses and ye be welcome to all,” he said as he started walking toward the corral.

  “We only need three,” Brogan pointed out. “For that is all we have with us.”

  Michael chuckled low and deep. “Knowin’ Aymer as I do, three men will be all ye need to go against that coward.”

  “He has at least ten men with him,” Brogan told him as he pulled himself atop a grand, black stallion.

  “Then I suggest we stop at me brother’s home along the way. He has three grown sons who will be glad to help us.”

  In no time at all, they were mounted and heading north to gather Marcus Mactavish and his sons. They rode bareback for the man didn’t own enough saddles for everyone.

  All the while, Brogan prayed silently for God to watch over his sweet Mairghread.

  In between her pains — which were coming in great waves now — she prayed frantically. Prayed for Brogan to find her, prayed she would not have to give birth in this filthy, abandoned place. She prayed for her child, for his future, and that God would somehow find it in His heart to see her babe live.

  Aymer and Courtemanche continued to argue. Courtemanche was frantic with worry that someone would hear her screams. Aymer was worried they would not make it to France if she did not hurry and have this child. Courtemanche continued to threaten to abandon Aymer if she died. They talked about plots and alliances and the future.

  But neither of them made any attempt to help her.

  Each time she cried out in agony, they stepped farther away until they were huddled in the far corner of the hut.

  Soaked with sweat, twisting and turning in tormenting pain, she lay on the floor, praying, hoping, wishing with all her heart for relief and for Brogan. How much time passed, she didn’t know. Doubt crept in. He should have been here by now.

  Chances were he was still out counting horses with Reginald and Seamus. And what of Gertie? Was she still bound to a chair in her room? Had the dark stranger killed her? Her only hope was that Tilda had found Martha, which would have led to the discovery of Gertie. Unless Aymer’s man killed each of them, one by one.

  And even if it was soon discovered she was missing, how on earth would they find her? Doomed. She felt doomed to give birth on this filthy floor, alone, with no help, while two deranged men argued over seats of power and gold.

  Another wave of pain washed over her. Cursing the madmen to hell, she screamed. Low and guttural and loud with suffering. Her screams drowned out the sounds of her tormentors, the men she prayed would die slow, horrible, painful deaths.

  Brogan leapt from his horse before it even stopped. Henry, Reginald and the rest of their men took care of the guards posted along the perimeter of the hut as Brogan thundered across the clearing to the small structure. He paused only once when he heard his wife’s guttural screams. But his pause was brief as fury coursed through his veins, turning his blood hot. When he stepped inside and saw his wife writhing in pain while Aymer and Courtemanche huddled in the far corner, ’twas all he could do to breathe.

  He made no inquiries as to what they were doing. He gave them no time to defend themselves or plead for mercy. With his sword in one hand, his dirk in the other, all the rage and fury he had bottled up came rushing out in his own low, guttural growl. In span of a few furious heartbeats, he was thrusting his sword into Aymer Mactavish’s heart, tearing through bone and flesh as it pinned him to the dirt wall. What he might have said, Brogan did not hear, nor did he care.

  Whilst thrusting his sword into Aymer, he took the dirk and sliced it across Courtemanche’s throat. Their deaths were in tandem, like a macabre, morbid dance. Blood drained from Aymer’s belly, it spurt from Courtemanche’s throat.

  Clutching his wound with both hands, a look of horrific surprise was permanently etched on the Frenchman’s face. Just like Aymer’s.

  Over the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, Brogan heard his wife cry out. He went to her and knelt down beside her. “Mairghread, I be here!” he exclaimed. ’Twas then his hands began to shake.

  Lying on her back, wracked with sobs and tears, she finally opened her eyes. “Brogan!” she cried out.

  He did not know what to do for her. Lost, terrified he would lose her, he quickly removed his plaid, then his tunic. Using the tunic, he wiped the dirt, grime and sweat from her face. “I know not what to do,” he said, his voice filled with worry.

  Grabbing his arm, she looked up at him with pain-filled eyes. “Get me the bloody hell out of here!”

  “But ye’re havin’ the babe,” he said, at a loss to what he should or shouldn’t do.

  She was taking in deep breaths of air into her lungs. “I ken that! But I will no’ have this babe in this filthy hut whilst two dead men stare at me!”

  Henry and Reginald came rushing inside then. Each were covered in blood. “We killed half of them,” Henry said.

  “The other half ran off,” Reginald informed him.

  “Get me out of here!” Mairghread cried out.

  Henry and Reginald stared down at her, their eyes wide with horror. Brogan, not wanting to cause his wife any further distress, scooped her up in his arms. “I do no’ think we can get ye back to the keep,” he stammered out.

  “Just get me outside,” she pleaded with him.

  Wracked with another wave of pain as Brogan carried her outside, the urge to push came over her. There was nothing to grab on to for purchase or strength, save his shirtless chest and arms.

  As quickly as he could, he took her to the nearest tree and gently set her on the ground. Immediately, she rolled to her hands and knees. “Help me,” she ground out as she continued to sweat.

  “God’s teeth!” Henry cried out. “She be havin’ her babe?” Panic stricken, he knew had no more an idea what to do than Brogan.

  Reginald stepped forward, looking just as terrified as Brogan and Henry. “It can no’ be much different than a horse givin’ birth, can it?”

  Knowing that if he did not take charge of the situation, Brogan took in a deep breath and squatted down on his knees in front of Mairghread. “Give me yer plaids,” he ordered both men. Without questioning his order, they both removed their plaids and tossed them to Brogan.

  Mairghread grabbed each of his arms. “I need to push,” she told him through gritted teeth.

  Suddenly, he wished he hadn’t left the room whenever the
women in his life began to talk about birthing babes. But he did know enough that when pushing was mentioned, it meant only one thing; the babe would soon be here.

  Helping her into a squatting position, Mairghread clutched his arms and held on for balance. “Henry, put one of the plaids under her.”

  From his scandalized expression, one would have thought he’d just asked the poor man to strip naked and run through he streets of Edinburgh wearing flowers in his hair. “Henry!” he barked out.

  With his eyes half closed, he tried to do Brogan’s bidding. “I swear I’ll no’ look,” Henry muttered nervously.

  “For the sake of Christ,” Brogan ground out while his wife was bearing down. “Just put it under her to catch the babe!”

  “I can no’ catch a babe!” Henry said, appalled at the idea.

  Panting harshly, Mairghread said, “Just put the bloody plaid under me!”

  Quickly, he did her bidding and stepped away as if he were afraid he’d catch fire.

  Reginald knelt beside her and began to rub her back. “I fear none of us know what to do, lass.”

  There was no way to reply, for the urge to push was too great. Closing her eyes, she groaned and bore down. Exhausted and worried, she pushed with all her might.

  Brogan could not see a thing from his current vantage point. “Be it out?” he asked.

  “Nay,” she said through heavy panting breaths.

  It went on like that for what seemed to all an eternity. Several more attempts to push went unfulfilled. Dread settled deep in his gut. Mairghread collapsed against his chest. “I can no’,” she said, sounding exhausted beyond hope. “I can no’ do it.”

  Brogan knew she must. Letting go of one arm long enough to lift her chin, he said, “Ye can and ye will.” His voice was firm yet kind. “Just lean on me, love. Do no’ give up.”

  She wanted to close her eyes and sleep for a sennight. She wanted to scream that he did not have any bloody idea what she was going through. She wanted to slap the warm smile from his face. Yet at the same time, she wanted to hold on to him for dear life.

  “’Tis a good thing I love ye,” she said harshly.

  Brogan could not resist the urge to chuckle. “And I love ye.” He kissed her forehead and smiled warmly at her. But there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes. “Now, ye keep pushin’, aye?”

  Truly, she felt she did not have any strength left. But the warmth and love in the eyes staring into hers was what she needed to see. Weakly, she began to push again when the urge came.

  “Come, Mairghread,” he said. “Push now. Ye can do this, I know ye can!”

  She knew exactly where her newfound strength came from. It came from the love in his eyes as well as his encouraging words. Laying her head against his chest, she clung to his arms as she pushed and pushed and pushed.

  Finally, she felt the squish of her babe beginning to leave her body. “Someone catch him!” she cried out.

  ’Twas Reginald who kept the babe’s head from hitting the ground.

  One strong push later, and the babe was out.

  Relief consumed Mairghread when she heard her babe’s strong cries for the first time.

  “’Tis a boy!” Reginald shouted happily.

  Clinging to her husband, she sobbed uncontrollably. Using the laces from her dress, Reginald tied off the cord. Poor Henry had to step away then, for he had no desire to learn what happens after a babe is born.

  Brogan leaned against the tree, holding his wife against his chest, his arms wrapped protectively around her and their babe. In her arms, she held their son, a strong lad, with a head full of dark red, curly hair, and strong lungs. Overcome with joy and relief and a heart bursting with love and pride, Brogan’s eyes grew damp. He cared not who saw them, for ’twas the happiest moment of his life. He had a son.

  The sun had begun its late afternoon descent. A peacefulness had fallen over the little yard. While some of his men took their prisoners back to the keep, the others had left them alone to go build a makeshift litter. There would be no way for Mairghread to ride just yet. As far as Brogan was concerned, they could take their time. He wanted to make this special moment last as long as he could.

  “He is so beautiful, aye?” Mairghread asked as she caressed their babe’s cheek with her fingertip.

  Now was not the time to argue over whether or not a man or lad could be considered beautiful. “Aye, he be a right handsome lad.”

  Mairghread sighed contentedly then placed a sweet kiss on the tip of her son’s nose. “What shall we call ye?” she whispered, unable yet to take her eyes off him.

  “Would ye like to name him after yer father?” Brogan asked softly.

  Tearing her gaze from her son, she looked into Brogan’s eyes. “Me da?” she asked. “Why no’ yer da?”

  Brogan chuckled. “Do ye ken how many of his grandson’s carry his name? Six, at last count.” He kissed her forehead and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Nay, I think Gavin suits him better.” Besides, ‘twould be one more thing to haunt Aymer while he rots in hell.

  “Brogan, do ye have any idea how much I love ye?” she asked as tears pooled in her eyes.

  He chuckled before answering. “If it be at least half as much as I love ye, then we have more love than could fill the entire world.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  While Brogan had been off rescuing his wife, Comnall and Liam were left behind to deal with the mercenaries. Comnall was not nearly as confident in Henry’s plan as Brogan had been.

  Each of the womenfolk had been dressed in tunic, trews, and hooded cloaks. Gertie and Tilda, though reluctant at first, agreed to dress as men.

  “I have to admit,” Gertie said as she adjusted the hood of her cloak, “that it feels downright empowerin’ to be wearin’ trews.”

  Tilda giggled in agreement. “I be three and seventy and never thought I would see the day where I was dressed as a man and given a quiver and bow.”

  They took to the upper wall with the rest of the women, and took up spaces between Liam and Comnall. “I think we be as ready as we ever will be,” Gertie told the men.

  Comnall rolled his eyes and sent a prayer heavenward. “Where the bloody hell be Seamus?” he asked Liam.

  “Iarainn went to fetch him.”

  “Why do ye suppose they have no’ attacked yet?” Comnall asked as he peered over the wall.

  Liam shrugged his shoulders. “I imagine they be waitin’ fer Aymer.”

  Gertie spat on the floor at the mention of Aymer’s name. “I imagine he be burnin’ in hell right about now.”

  Tilda nodded in agreement. “And the Frenchman right along with him.”

  Each of those lining the upper wall had all the faith and confidence in their laird, Brogan. None doubted that he was at this very moment, attacking Aymer and the Frenchman and rescuing their lady.

  A moment later, they heard Seamus grousing loudly as he made his way up the ladder. “Did no one think to build stairs fer the wall?” he shouted. “I be an auld man, fer the sake of Christ!”

  Urging him upward was Iariann. “Stop yer bellyachin’,” she yelled at his back. “Or I swear I’ll toss ye over the wall and let the murderin’ bastards below have at ye.”

  He growled deep and low as he made his way upward. Liam and Comnall each grabbed an arm to pull him up the rest of the way. Seeing he was balanced on his own two feet, Comnall helped Iariann next.

  Once everyone was in place, Comnall and Liam took their positions. “Be ye ready?” Liam asked Seamus.

  Thankfully, the man did not shout. Instead, he gave a nod of his white-haired noggin.

  “There be no way this is going to work,” Comnall muttered under his breath.

  “Have faith,” Gertie said, nudging him in his ribs with a hard elbow.

  Liam took a deep breath and looked at the men below. “I recommend ye men be on yer way!” he shouted. His deep voice echoed off the walls and across the glen.

  Three of the mounted men urged t
heir horses closer. “We recommend ye give up yer keep now,” the man in the middle shouted up. “Surrender now and Aymer will let ye live!”

  Liam glanced at Comnall and smiled before turning his attention back to the men below. “We have some three thousand men headin’ toward the keep as we speak! They be Mackintoshes, father and brothers and kin to our laird, Brogan Mackintosh. And they be right mad that ye be attemptin’ to lay siege to this keep!”

  The three men below looked to each other before bursting out with laughter. After catching his breath, the one in the middle spoke again. “Think ye we are to believe such a lie?”

  “Believe it or nay,” Liam shouted back. “Ye’ll find out soon enough.”

  He pulled Seamus to the wall and gave a nod of his head. Seamus took a deep breath and let out a long, shrill whistle.

  Comnall would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. Long moments after Seamus whistled, they could hear the low rumble of countless horses pounding their way across the land.

  Comnall and Liam had heard the tale almost as soon as they had arrived last summer. The tale that Seamus could let out but one whistle and all the Mactavish horses would come running to him. But they had believed ‘twas naught but an exaggerated tale. Until now.

  “Archers!” Liam called out excitedly. “Ready yer arrows!”

  The women, who had had only one lesson on how to nock and aim their bows, stepped forward excitedly. It mattered not where they aimed or even if they hit anyone. What mattered was how the men below would react to both the sound of the horses fast approaching and the arrows flying in their direction.

  The sound of hooves pounding against the terrain was like rumbling thunder in the distance. Soon, the three men who had come forward were looking quite surprised. Their mounts began to whinny and fret with anticipation, knowing a battle was about to ensue.

  As the sound of the horses grew louder, Liam called out to the women. “Archers!”

  One of the women lost an arrow in her excitement. Quickly, she scooped it up and nocked it again. “So verra sorry,” she said, sounding embarrassed.