For a quarter of an hour, the two auld women did everything in their power to change their lady’s mind. In the end, Gertie threw her hands into the air and declared she had given up. She also added a few choice words about how disappointed she was. “Yer mum be rollin’ in her grave, I swear it!” she declared right before she and Tilda left the room.
In the hallway, a teary-eyed Tilda asked, “What do we do? Do we tell Brogan?”
Gertie shook her head, frustrated with the sudden turn of events. “Nay, we tell Reginald.”
Tilda looked much relieved. “Och! She loves him even more than she loves her uncle. Mayhap he can talk some sense into her.”
Gertie could only pray that Tilda was right.
“Nay,” Reginald declared as he sat at his desk in his private room. “I will do no such thing. If our lady does no’ want to marry Brogan, ’tis her decision.”
Gertie and Tilda presented a united and determined front as they stood opposite his desk. “But ye must,” they said in unison.
Reginald replied with a grunt and a wave of his hand. “Ye two are the most meddlesome women I have ever kent. If ye had left her alone to begin with—”
Gertie was not about to listen to his argument again. As far as Reginald was concerned, everyone needed to leave their lady the bloody hell alone. And he included her uncle amongst those who need to stop interfering with her.
“If we had left her alone, think ye that when her uncle returned with the Frenchman, she would have had the good sense to argue agin it?” Gertie asked with a good deal of fury. “Nay, she would no’ and ye verra well ken it, Reginald Mactavish.”
Tilda agreed wholeheartedly. “What would ye do then? What would any of us do? Ye ken she’ll no’ go against her uncle.”
“Aye, ’twas only through the grace of God she agreed to marry the Mackintosh,” Gertie said. “Just think what her life would be like married to the Frenchman. Then compare it to what it could be like with the Mackintosh man.”
Reginald appeared to be giving consideration to her words. He sat back in his chair, with his arms spread out against the edge of the desk. He thrummed his fingers onto the wood, his face growing darker and darker. “Ye do no’ even ken this Mackintosh man,” he said. “How do ye ken she will fare better with him than the Frenchman?”
Gertie gave an inward roll of her eyes before answering. “Ye’ve met the Frenchman, have ye no’?”
Reginald’s curt nod was his only reply.
“And ye have met the Mackintosh, aye?”
He gave another curt, impatient nod.
“Then even ye can see who she must marry.”
He let loose with a frustrated breath. “Why must she marry anyone?” he asked gruffly. “Why can ye no’ all just leave her be?”
’Twas all Gertie could do to keep from wrapping her gnarled hands around his stubborn neck. “Ye ken why!” she said. “If she does no’ marry and have a child by the next anniversary of her birth, her uncle will inherit everythin’. Think ye he a better choice to lead us than the Mackintosh?”
Even Reginald had to admit the truth of her statement. Deflated, his shoulders slumped and he hung his head low. “What I would no’ give to ask Donald Mactavish what the bloody hell he was thinkin’ when he created that insane will of his!” ’Twas not the first time he’d question such, since the man’s death some four years ago.
Gertie humphed her agreement. Though in truth, she could not read nor write to save her soul from the devil, she would however, if she could have one wish in this world, ‘twould be she was able to read and see with her own eyes just what Donald Mactavish actually wrote in his will. Thus far, no one save for Aymer, had ever seen it. Gertie trusted Aymer as much as she trusted the Frenchman: not at all.
“Heed me words, Reginald. If we do no’ get her married to Brogan Mackintosh, her uncle will return with that bloody Frenchman and he will force her to marry him that verra day.”
Reginald didn’t like the idea of that particular union any more than Gertie or Tilda did, loathe as he was to admit it. He had been wracking his brain for months, trying to come up with a viable solution. The only thing he had come up with was taking his sweet lady and leaving. But Mairghread would never have agreed to such a plan.
He had met Brogan Mackintosh not more than an hour before. And as much as it irked him, he had to admit he did like the Mackintosh fellow far more than the Frenchman. He thought back to the conversation between Brogan and Seamus. Mayhap the auld man was right in his estimation of Brogan and his men.
With a heavy sigh of resignation, he looked at the two women. “Verra well,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “But I warn ye now, ye will stay out of our lady’s personal affairs from now on!”
Though they were smiling and nodding their heads in agreement, he knew better. They’d interfere whenever and wherever they thought ’twas needed.
Reluctantly, Reginald gave a gentle rap at his lady’s door.
“Go away ye auld biddies!” came his lady’s reply from within.
“’Tis me, Reginald, m’lady,” he replied, hoping she would turn him away as well.
Instead, the door flung open. “Thank God it be ye and no’ those two auld women!” she said, looking quite relieved.
He offered her a slight bow before she pulled him into her chamber and shut the door behind him. “Have ye any whisky on ye?” she asked.
He knew his lady’s love of strong drink. Although it saddened him to no end to see her so addicted to it — and against Gertie’s wishes — he had tucked a flask into his pouch before he had left his office. He had hoped that a sip or two might soften her heart and aid in changing her mind.
Mairghread was yanking it from his hand before he could even offer it to her. She guzzled down a good deal of it in short order. He watched as she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. With the back of her hand, she wiped at her lips, looking grateful and relieved.
“Thank ye, Reginald. I ken I can always count on ye,” she said before taking a chair in front of the hearth. “What brings ye here this day?” she asked before taking another drink. This time, she sipped more than guzzled.
When he was silent for too long, Mairghread gave a nod to the chair across from her, inviting him to sit. He sat and studied her closely for a long moment. Such a beautiful woman she had grown into. Although he knew he was working from his heart, he still felt very much the betrayer of trust. He’d know his lady since the day she was born. Loved her as much as if she were of his own blood.
“Ye look as if ye come to bear me bad news, Reginald,” she said. “What be the matter?”
“Ye ken, m’lady, that I think of ye as the daughter I never had.”
She smiled warmly at him. “Aye, I do. And ye have been much like a father to me, since me own died.”
’Twas true. He had gladly stepped in to roll almost the moment after Donald’s unexpected death. “And ye ken I would ne’er give ye poor advice.”
Those beautiful green eyes flickered with understanding. Her smile faded almost instantly. “If ye have come to tell me I must marry Brogan Mackintosh—”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “Nay, m’lady. I would no’ tell ye that ye must marry him.”
Much received, she took another sip.
“But I would tell ye that ye should.”
“What is the bloody difference?” she asked. Pursing her lips together, she waited impatiently for his response.
“The difference is that ye have a choice. Ye can marry him or no’, ’tis up to ye.”
Her eyes filled with skepticism. “And I be choosin’ no’ to marry him.”
“As is yer right,” he said agreeably. “However, I fear that if ye do no’ marry him, yer uncle will force ye to marry Courtemanche.”
There was a time, long ago, when Mairghread would have been able to hide her true feelings. But now? Either because of the heartache or too much strong drink, she no longer possessed that ability. Lord, how he hated playing on her fear
s. But if it would keep her safe, and out of the hands of Claude Courtemanche, he would do it.
“M’lady, this be no’ a simple time. Were it up to me, ye’d no’ ever marry again, unless it was yer wish to do so.”
He allowed her one more long pull from his flask before he took it away. “M’lady, I love ye as if ye were me verra own daughter. Me wife and I were never blessed with children of our own, as ye well ken. But if ye were me daughter, I would tell ye to choose verra wisely. And I would tell ye that Courtemanche is no’ the wise choice. Ye and I both ken ye do no’ like goin’ against yer uncle, and I fear that if ye do no’ marry Brogan Mackintosh, ye will be forced into a union with the Frenchman.”
When her shoulders slumped and her face fell, he knew he had gotten through to her. He felt no better for it. He leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “M’lady, I have met Brogan Mackintosh and his men.”
“And what do ye think of them?” she asked, her voice naught but a trembling whisper.
He rolled his tongue across his teeth. “As much as I hate to admit it, I believe they be men of good character.” He chuckled at remembering the interaction between them and Seamus. “And Seamus thinks verra highly of them.”
Mairghread gave a half-hearted laugh. “Let me guess, he measured their worth on the condition of their mounts?”
“Aye, m’lady, he did.”
She stood and went to stare out of her window. It faced the ocean. Betimes, when a stormed brewed or the breeze was strong enough, ‘twould bring the salty spray right into her room. There were times, many times, she wished she had a great ship upon which to sail away.
“I’ve never kent Seamus to be wrong before, m’lady,” Reginald offered hopefully.
There was no way for her to argue otherwise.
Reginald went to stand next to her at the window. “What are ye truly fearful of?”
She’d have to be far more drunk in order to answer that question. Instead of being honest with herself or him, she said, “I will marry Brogan on the morrow.”
Chapter Four
Though Rose had just discovered she was once again with child, she refused to miss this most momentous occasion. Much to Ian’s vexation, they had arrived only a few short hours before the ceremony was set to begin. Of course, Ian was usually vexed when it came to his lovely wife. She had that effect on him, and Brogan doubted she would ever change. He also doubted Ian would want her to.
Deep down, Brogan was glad they were here. Were it not for Rose, he would never have met the lovely Mairghread. Although he had fought gallantly against the idea of marriage, once he set eyes upon her, his determination never to marry again began to wane. In less than twenty-four hours, he found himself agreeing to the idea.
As for the rest of his family, none would be able to attend. Undoubtedly, his father and step-mother were only just now receiving word of his upcoming marriage. They lived on the opposite side of the country. And the last he had heard from his father, the Camerons were threatening war again.
Frederick and Aggie were safely ensconced at the Carruthers holding that her blood father had gifted her. Just last week, she had given birth to a son. Her second, Frederick’s first by blood. Their other children, Ailrig and little Ada, were thriving and healthy. Ailrig, under the good care of his parents, was, according to Frederick, growing like a weed and at only two and ten, was only a few inches shorter than he. He has the making of a fine warrior, Frederick had declared in his last letter. And wee Ada? Och! I fear she will be the death of me when she is aulder, fer she is as beautiful as her mum.
Also in attendance were Alec and Leona Bowie, who Rose had championed on their behalf for an invitation. Leona and Rose were cousins, the best of friends, and quite happy to both be with child at the same time. ’Twas all they could talk about that morn.
However, Brogan knew the main reason Rose had championed so vociferously was so that Alec could potentially broker a deal with the Mactavish clan to purchase his barley. Because he had only just arrived himself, he left Alec in the good care of Reginald. The steward would have a much better idea on how much, if any, barley they could purchase. Though in truth, it still amazed him that the Bowies were now living lives as farmers instead of murderous thieves. Oh, how the world sometimes worked and turned in peculiar ways.
Brogan now stood at the altar, with his brother at his side. His stomach was tied in knots, and no matter how many times he wiped his palms upon his trews, sweat continued to form in them. Rarely, if ever, was he this bloody nervous. He certainly had not been this nervous when he had married Anna. Nay, he’d been younger and more arrogant then, and madly in love. He’d gone to that wedding like a proud, puffing peacock. But today? Today was different for a whole host of reasons.
Older than Brogan by only a few years, the priest was short but thin and had light brown hair and hazel eyes. Brogan had only met him moments ago. Now, he stood on the dais, cleared his throat, and gave a quick nod to someone at the back of the kirk. Moments later, the doors opened wide, allowing the sunshine to spill through. A heartbeat later, Mairghread appeared on the arm of Reginald.
Mairghread was nothing short of a breathtaking vision of beauty. When Brogan first caught sight of her, standing at the entrance to the tiny kirk, she stole his breath away. He heard Ian chuckle when he gasped. Standing taller, he watched as she slowly made her way down the aisle.
The pale green, silk gown clung to every curve. Her auburn hair hung loosely over her shoulders and down her back. Tiny pale blue and yellow flowers dotted her hair, making her appear like a fey creature or a goddess.
But when she drew nearer, on the arm of Reginald, Brogan caught a glimpse of resignation in her emerald green eyes. Resignation and a profound sadness. Then she cast her eyes to the floor, as if she could not bear to look at him.
For a brief moment, he thought of stopping the ceremony and taking her to a private spot so that he might inquire as to why she looked so pensive and distraught. Was it, by chance, simply a woman being nervous on her wedding day? Something niggled at the back of his mind that it was far more serious than that.
She had refused to meet with him after his arrival yesterday. Refused even further to sup with him last night. Nay, that look… that sorrowful glint her in eye was more than just nerves.
When Reginald placed her trembling hand in his, her skin felt cold and clammy. She managed to smile up at him, but there was no warmth in it, no tender regard. ’Twas a forced, indifferent smile. He did not like it one bit.
Before he could stop the proceedings from going further, to take her away and inquire as to her true feelings on this union, the priest began the proceedings.
He only half-listened as the priest blessed the union, so focused he was on the woman who would soon be his wife. She, however, looked only at the priest.
“Please face one another,” the priest directed.
Even after they turned to face one another, Mairghread chose to look down at her feet. Was she refusing to look at him, or was she afraid? The question burned on the tip of his tongue.
“Do ye, Brogan Mackintosh, promise to have this woman as yer wife, fer all the rest of yer days? To protect her, cherish her, and keep yerself only unto her?” the priest asked.
“Aye, I do so promise,” Brogan answered. His tone was nothing but warm and sincere.
“Do ye, Mairghread Mactavish, promise to have this man as yer husband, fer all the rest of yer days? To honor and obey him, cherish him, and keep yerself only unto him?”
Brogan could barely hear her soft reply.
The priest was satisfied with her answer, but Brogan was not. Far from it. He wanted her to look at him when she said the words. He wanted to know, in his heart, that this marriage was what she wanted.
Tamping down the growing dread, he decided that after the ceremony, he would take her aside and ask her, whilst they were alone. Aye, there was always a bit of uncertainty at times like these, when a marriage is made not out of some gr
eat fondness or love for one another.
Nay, they were no’ a love match. There was no great romantic story they could pass on to their children. This marriage was born out of her need to not be forced to marry Claude Courtemanche. Then it hit him, like a large stone thrown at his head. He was simply a means to an end. Nothing more.
But Brogan wanted to be more than that. He needed more. He needed for her to at least look at him when she gave that promise. If not now, then at some time in the very near future. He did not know what he might do if she could never think of him as more than the man she had to marry to save herself from a fate worse than death.
One brief glimpse into Brogan’s eyes, and she wanted to scream and run from the kirk. Aye, Mairghread saw only kind adoration in his green eyes. An adoration she felt she neither deserved nor wanted.
Had Reginald not been holding onto her, she might very well have collapsed. Or ran. She wasn’t sure which of those inclinations were strongest. Instead, she took in deep breaths and went to her doom. To the altar where she would have to lie to God, to herself, the people watching, and worst of all, to Brogan.
Mayhap she would have been better off marrying Courtemanche? She would have felt no compunction about lying to a man like him. Nay, ’twould have been a lie that would have rolled offer her tongue with ease.
But to lie to Brogan? Nay, such deceit was not fair, nor just no’ right to such a nice man as he.
But lie she did. Right through her teeth. But not to his face. Nay, she could not look him in the eye and say the words the priest demanded. So she kept her gaze on Brogan’s boots.
What made the day even more difficult was the fact that Gertie and Tilda had hidden her whisky. They had allowed her only one small glass of wine to help settle her nerves. Damn them! Damn them and Reginald for talking her into this.
Soon, her only thoughts were of hurrying through the ceremony so that she could go to the feast. Not to eat, but to consume vast quantities of wine. ’Twould be the only thing to give her enough strength to get through the rest of this day.
Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 6