Then the moment came when the priest declared Brogan could now kiss his wife. ’Twas yet another moment among many that she dreaded.
With her eyes closed, she lifted her chin ever so slightly, and waited.
If she thought he would kiss her without first looking into her eyes, she’d be waiting a very long time. The uncomfortable silence stretched on and on until he could take no more.
“Please, look at me lass,” Brogan whispered. ’Twas a plea, not born out of desperation, but of something she could not readily identify.
Reluctantly, she drew her eyes upward and looked into his. He smiled. Warmly, thoughtfully, before pressing his lips to hers.
’Twas a warm, sweet kiss filled with tenderness. A tenderness she had not felt in more than three years. It nearly sent her to her knees.
Guilt piled upon more guilt until her eyes were damp. She refused to shed the tears, lest he think they were tears of joy. Remorse, bitter and harsh, began to rise in the form of bile. Not because the kiss sickened her. Nay, ’twas because of what the kiss signified and how it made her heart skip a beat or two.
Thankfully, the crowd erupted into loud cheers right before Gertie, Tilda, and a handful of other women swarmed her. They were overjoyed for their lady, happy she had made such a fine choice in Brogan. None were reluctant to tell her just that.
Having nearly smothered her with hugs, kind words, and giggles, they ushered her out of the kirk and into the keep, leaving Brogan standing alone at the altar with his brother and his men.
She seemed in much better spirits once the feast began. Brogan and Mairghread sat side-by-side on the dais that took up one entire wall of the gathering room. Reginald sat to her left. To Brogan’s right sat Ian and Rose and next to them, Leona and Alec Bowie.
The rest of the room was filled near to bursting with Mactavish clanspeople.
Brogan and Mairghread barely had a chance to say a word to one another, for they were constantly being interrupted by well-wishers.
Overall, the mood of the people assembled was cheerful as they joyously partook of fine food and drink. In the corner, a group of men -- two playing lutes, one a flute, and another a drum — played one lively tune after another while the guests ate.
Flowers were placed on every conceivable space. They even hung from the chandeliers and the massive beams overhead. Bouquets of them lined each table. Even the backs of the chairs on the dais had been draped with sweet-scented blooms.
Mairghread’s spirits seemed to lift as she ate and drank the seemingly endlessly flowing sweet wine. He drank only cider, watching the feast and revelry with clear, sober eyes. After a time, his new bride actually smiled at him and even agreed to a dance or two. Not only with him, but she also agreed to dance with Henry and Comnall, as well as Ian. Brogan was intelligent enough not to allow jealousy rear its ugly head when she danced with his men. And he knew Ian was too much in love with his own wife to do anything untoward.
Much relieved to see that sorrowful look of regret removed from his bride, the worries he’d had at the altar earlier faded away. He could honestly say, that he was the happiest he had been in a very long while. ’Twas with great anticipation that he looked forward to leaving the grand hall and taking his bride above stairs. His fingers all but itched with the anticipation of divesting her of her green gown and finding the paradise that surely lay under it, and within her.
After their third dance, they returned to their table where Mairghread picked up a pitcher of wine and poured herself another cup. “Here,” she said, pouring wine into an empty mug and offering it to Brogan. “More wine fer me new husband!”
He chuckled, accepted the mug, and placed it on the table without taking so much as a sip. Mairghread was too busy drinking her own to notice. Then Reginald drew her attention away. Brogan didn’t mind, for her mood had changed for the better since the ceremony.
Ian leaned in to speak to him. “Does she no’ ken?” he asked. There was no need for Brogan to ask what his brother was referring to.
“Nay,” he said. “But there will be plenty of time on the morrow to tell her.” Aye, on the morrow they would discuss why he never imbibed strong drink.
He chanced a glance at Rose. She bore an odd expression on her face as she watched Mairghread take to the dance floor once again. Concluding she was tired from the long journey as well as from being with child again, he decided against asking her how she fared.
As the hours wore on, Mairghread became more inebriated. So much so that even his men noticed her slurred words and glassy eyes, and they had been drinking just as much as she. Brogan supposed she was not used to consuming so much wine. She’d simply gotten carried away, along with everyone else around her.
When she swayed in her chair, holding on to the table for balance, he decided mayhap ’twas time to retire. Though ’twas still light out, the sun just beginning to set.
“Mairghread,” he said through smiling lips. “I think it be time to retire.”
She threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Och! The night still be young, like we!” she said as she spread her arms wide and looked up at the ceiling.
Her declaration made him chuckle. Aye, she was a free spirit, deep down. He was going to enjoy that about her. He’d not quash it, not tell her to behave like a proper lady. “Aye, we be young, lass.”
Grabbing a mug, she gulped down more wine, and slammed the empty mug on the table. “More wine!” she declared with a giggle. “More wine fer all!” she called out as she jumped to her feet. Unfortunately, she’d drunk too much wine and had stood so quickly that it made her dizzy.
Brogan caught her around the waist before she could fall to the floor. She let out an ‘oomph’ when he swooped her up into his arms. Ian jumped to his feet as well, looking quite concerned for his new sister-by-law. “Is she well?” he asked.
Before Brogan could respond, Mairghread looked up into Brogan’s eyes. “Och!” she said with a smile. “Me champion.”
When she rested her head against his chest and sighed, Brogan could not resist smiling. A fast moment later, he felt her go limp in his arms.
He gave a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. The passionate wedding night he had imagined was no longer possible. His bride had passed out in his arms.
Brogan had carried his wife above stairs and took her to her — now their — bedchamber. Her head lolled from side to side, a sure sign she was indeed passed out. With great care, he laid her upon the bed. As he was deciding how to remove the pretty gown, Gertie and Tilda appeared at the door.
“Is all well, m’laird?” Gertie asked with a voice laced with concern.
Brogan looked up and gave her a warm smile. “’Tis naught to be concerned with,” he said. “She will no’ be the first bride to drink too much at her weddin’ feast. She’ll be right as rain on the morrow.”
The two women were much relieved. “Would ye like us to help ye?” Tilda asked, with an inclination toward her lady.
He had divested more than one woman of her clothing in his lifetime. But usually, that was during a passionate moment. He accepted their help gratefully. In short order, they had Mairghread down to her chemise and under the covers.
The women had been unusually quiet during the process, which Brogan found exceedingly odd. Thinking they were worried only for their lady’s well-being and safety, Brogan said, “Do no’ fash yerselves. Yer lady’s virtue and well-being is safe. I shall let her sleep this night.”
He received no thanks of relief from either woman. They left without uttering so much as good eve.
Chapter Five
It had not been the wedding night Brogan had been envisioning for the last two weeks. Though his groin ached with desire for his new bride, he wanted her to be awake and fully alert when they finally consummated their marriage.
There were times when being an honorable man was painful. Especially when he slept next to her, breathing in her scent — a blend of flowers he could not name — and listen
ing to her soft breaths. The night was made even more painful when twice he woke to find her round derriere pressed against his loins, and once with her head in the crook of his arm.
A man could only take so much temptation.
Dawn came and went and still she slept. He remembered well those days when he himself had drunk far too much. Mornings were usually a blend of regret and upset stomach. Believing she would wake feeling the same way he used to, he decided it best to leave her be. There would be time for loving later. Hopefully as soon as the evening meal was over.
Reluctantly, he left the bed, making sure to pull the fur around her shoulders. He pulled dark blue trews and an even darker blue tunic from his trunk. After he dressed, he added wood to the fire, took one longing look at his sleeping bride, and left the chamber.
Because he had anticipated a much different wedding night, he had given his men this day to do with as they please. There was no sense in destroying their hopes now, just because he was not now basking in the afterglow of a night of loving his new bride.
The gathering room had already been put back to rights from the feast of last eve, the floors swept and new rushes laid. Flowers still hung from the beams, but other than that, there was no sign a feast had even occurred.
As he stood in the middle of the large space, he heard voices fast approaching. When he turned, Ian, Rose, Alec and Leona were coming down the stairs.
“Och!” Rose declared as she bounced her babe on her hip. “We did no’ think to see ye before we left!”
Ian gave him an affectionate slap to his back. “Ye look as though ye have no’ slept,” he said with a wink and a grin. “I wonder why that be?”
The last thing Brogan wanted to do was explain his wedding night to his brother.
He patted the top of John’s head. “Ye take good care of yer mum and da, aye, laddie?” he said, affectively ignoring Ian’s jest.
Tears welled in Rose’s eyes. “Ye will no’ believe this, but ye shall be missed,” she told Brogan.
He quirked a brow, tempted he was to say something sarcastic. Instead, he said, “I will miss all of ye as well.”
“Mayhap ye could come home fer Christmas Tide,” Rose suggested with a good deal of hope.
They discussed the possibility for a time before Alec declared ’twas time to leave. “We wish ye and Mairghread all the best,” he said warmly. “May ye and she be as happy as Leona and me.”
Brogan thanked them and led them out of the gathering room, down the stairs, and into the courtyard where their horses and the men who had accompanied them were waiting.
Rose handed John off to Ian and turned back to look at Brogan. “I mean what I said, Brogan. Ye will be missed. But I be verra happy ye have married. Ye will be good fer her,” she said before wrapping her arms around his waist in an affectionate embrace.
Before he could ask what she meant by ye will be good fer her, Ian said, “Come, Rose. There be the promise of rain in the air. I do no’ wish to be caught up in it.”
Rose swiped a tear from her cheek with the tips of her fingers and said, “Please, send word if ye need anythin’, anythin’ at all.”
While Leona held the bairn, Ian helped his wife to mount first, then handed the babe up to her. He went back to Brogan, hugged him, and said, “Ye will do well here. Send word if ye need anythin’, anythin’ at all.”
Brogan bit his cheek to keep from laughing, for Ian had just said what Rose had. “Thank ye, me brother. And should ye need me, do no’ hesitate to ask.”
Ian gave a quick nod before climbing up behind Rose. He wrapped his plaid around her and their babe and gave a quick kiss to the top of her head.
“We shall see ye come October,” Alec said as he stepped forward with an extended arm. “Reginald has agreed to purchase barley from us.”
That was news to Brogan, but then, he had been too busy with all the activities of yesterday to even begin thinking about barley, or agreements. “’Tis good to ken,” Brogan said as he wrapped his hand around Alec’s forearm. “Ye take care of Leona and send word when she has the babe, aye?”
Leona gave Brogan a warm embrace. “We wish ye all the best,” she said before turning away.
Brogan watched as Leona and Alec mounted. He stood in the courtyard for a long while as he watched his family and friends leave through the non-existent wall, where a gate should have stood.
There would be no time to spend missing them for there was far too much work to be done here.
He’d been too late for the morning meal. With a growling stomach he went in search of the kitchen in hopes of begging for something to break his fast.
As in most keeps, the kitchens were set apart from the rest of the keep. These were only slightly different in that a long covered walkway connected the kitchen to the main building. He thought back to Mrs. McCurdy, the woman who had served as Mackintosh cook when he was growing up. If you missed a meal for any reason other than death or severed limb, you would have to wait to fill your belly until the next meal was served. He hoped the Mactavish cook was not thusly inclined or nearly as frightening.
He stepped into the large space and nearly leapt with joy at the smells coming from within. ’Twas alive with busy servants undoubtedly preparing the nooning meal. A young lass of mayhap four and ten was the first to notice him. Her eyes grew wide as she bobbed a curtsey. “M’laird,” she said with a quavering voice. One by one the rest of the people stopped what they were doing to look at him.
“Good morn,” he said with a slight bow.
In the center of the room, at a long table, stood mayhap the skinniest, tallest man Brogan had ever seen. Mayhap no more than forty years of age, his light brown hair was cut close to his scalp. With a clean-shaven face, a dimple in his chin, and a large, hawkish nose that sat between dark brown eyes, he was, to say the least, a most peculiar looking man. “M’laird,” he said as he put down the large knife he was using to slice meat.
“Good morn,” Brogan said once again. “I ken I be late for the mornin’ meal,” he began as he continued to look about the room for someone who might possibly be the keep’s cook. “But I thought, mayhap, I could get a bit of bread and cheese to break me fast.”
“Of course,” the skinny man said. “I shall send Sarah out with a tray, if ye’d like to eat in the gatherin’ room. Or up to yer chambers mayhap?”
Brogan offered him a sincere smile. “If it be no’ too much trouble,” he said. “Unless the cook here is like the one where I grew up.” He chuckled at memories of Mrs. McCurdy. “If ye were late fer any meal, she would chase ye out of her kitchens with a broom. ’Tis how I learned to run fast and never be late to sup.”
The hard lines of the man’s face softened. “Sounds like me auld grandminny,” he said as he wiped his hands on a drying cloth hanging from his belt.
Brogan stepped forward. “I be Brogan Mackintosh,” he said.
“We ken who ye be,” the man said. “Everyone here kens who ye be,” he said.
“Aye,” Brogan said. “I hope to learn everyone’s names in time. Mayhap, ye could introduce me to the cook and rest of the staff.”
The man tried valiantly not to laugh at Brogan. But the rest of the staff could not resist a chuckle or giggle. He turned around and glared at each of them. “Ye’re lookin’ at him,” he said. “I be Lowrens Mactavish, the cook.”
’Twas not as if Brogan had never met a male cook before. Still, he was a bit surprised by the presence of one here. “’Tis me pleasure to meet ye, Lowrens,” Brogan said. “And I shall do me best never to be late fer a meal again.”
Lowrens gave a slight nod and went back to his food preparations. “The gatherin’ room or yer chamber, m’laird?”
“The gatherin’ room will be fine,” Brogan said. “And I be no’ yer laird. Brogan be fine.”
The entire room came to an abrupt halt. “We could no’ do that, m’laird,” Lowrens said with wide eyes.
“I am neither laird nor chief,” Brogan replied.
Lowrens gave a quick glance over his shoulder, as if to warn his people it mattered not what Brogan said. They would all show him the respect he deserved simply by being Mairghread’s husband. Turning back to Brogan, he said, “We shall have a tray brought to ye anon.”
Brogan thanked him and left the kitchens to wait in the empty gathering room.
With his stomach full, he went in search of his men. According to the scullery maids, they had been given quarters in the armory.
The armory sat on the northeastern side of the keep. ’Twas a short, squat building made of wood, which looked to have been erected within the last year or two. The edge of the thatched roof met him near the center of his chest. He wondered how on earth a man was able to stand upright in it, for it looked to have been built for children and not grown men.
It took several moments before he found the entrance, in the back of the building. He had to take a few steps down in order to reach the low door. Whoever had designed the building apparently didn’t give one thought to an easy exit.
One quick look around the empty space told him if he were forced to live in such a cramped space, he’d go mad. It was dark and smelled of dampness. Sections had been carved into the walls and covered with thin mattresses. Eight spaces in all and not a one appeared big enough for his men.
What stunned him most, however, was the fact there was not a weapon to be found anywhere within. Not so much as a dirk or an arrow or a bow.
If he hadn’t seen their rolled up pallets and other belongings stacked neatly against the far wall, he would have believed someone was playing a prank. Sadly, they weren’t. Undoubtedly, he would hear his men’s complaints at the noonin’ meal. That was, if they didn’t seek him out sooner.
First there was no outer wall to offer any protection from invading forces. Now, he was discovering the so-called armory was not fit enough to house more than a dozen small men. And it was completely void of any weapons.
Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 7