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

by Suzan Tisdale

  Even the Macintosh and McLaren clan his brother now ruled had better supplies and sleeping quarters than this place.

  Determined to find out why the Mactavishes felt no need for even the simplest forms of protection, he went in search of Reginald.

  Reginald Mactavish’s office was nothing more than an alcove located in the rear of the keep at the end of a long, dark corridor. The space was so small, it didn’t warrant a door and was barely wide enough to hold the small table and chair within. Brogan imagined the poor man had to either crawl under or over the table in order to get to his seat.

  Reginald stood when he saw Brogan. “Good morn to ye, laird,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. There was no warmth or regard in either his tone or his eyes.

  “Good morn to ye,” Brogan returned the greeting.

  Brogan glanced around the tiny confines of the alcove. “Be this truly your office?”

  “Aye, ’tis in fact me office,” Reginald said dryly.

  Though ’twas entirely possible the man had chosen this space for the solitude it offered, he had to wonder how the man could do his job effectively. “I mean no offense, but be there a reason why ye are so far removed from the rest of the keep?” Brogan asked.

  “I go where I am told,” he replied.

  There was something off about his tone, as if there was more he wished to say but dared not.

  “I wonder if ye would take a walk with me,” Brogan said. “There be much I wish to learn about the day-to-day runnin’ of the keep.”

  Reginald pushed his shoulders back, finding insult where none was meant. “I have been runnin’ this keep fer nigh on ten years now. I suppose ye will be wantin’ to make many changes now, and I be one of them, aye?”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Brogan leaned in. “I never said, nor did I insinuate such. I merely want to do what I can to help me wife. She is chief of this clan and ’tis me duty to help her wherever I can.”

  Thunderstruck, Reginald was momentarily at a loss for words. With raised brows and yawning mouth, he stammered for a moment before he was finally able to speak. “Our lady? Chief of the clan?”

  “If what I am told is true, then aye, she is the rightful chief of this clan. Unless me information is incorrect.” Until this moment, there hadn’t been a doubt in his mind that Mairghread was the rightful heir and chief. But mayhap Reginald knew something he didn’t.

  Reginald was quiet for a long moment before his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “Aye, ye be right, laird. She be the rightful heir and chief.”

  “But?” Brogan asked.

  “She has been grievin’ for more than three years, ye ken. Her uncle stepped in—” he paused, no doubt trying to choose his words carefully. “Aymer Mactavish stepped in after that awful night and he has been actin’ as chief ever since.”

  Brogan studied him closely for a moment. “Do ye no’ think she has been grievin’ long enough? Mayhap it be time she takes over?”

  “Ye have no’ yet met her uncle, have ye, laird?” Reginald asked with a good deal of caution.

  He had to admit that he hadn’t. “I am no’ a man to make assumptions,” Brogan said. “But need I worry that Aymer will no’ take the change well?”

  “I will no’ speak ill of our lady or her uncle.”

  Brogan had to admire the man’s loyalty. However, he was smart enough to know that sometimes, loyalty could be misplaced. “I am no’ askin’ ye to,” he replied. “Yer loyalty to yer lady is admirable. I only wish to help her and the clan.”

  “And if the Mactavish disagrees?” he asked with a raised brow.

  “If ye be referring to Mairghread as the Mactavish, then her opinion is of great importance. But if ye be referrin’ to Aymer as the Mactavish, I would recommend ye stop givin’ him a title he has no right to.” Though he had yet to meet Aymer Mactavish, what he did know of the man, he didn’t like. “I am no’ as interested in Aymer’s opinions as much as I am yers.”

  Puzzled, Reginald cocked his head to one side. “Me opinions?” he asked.

  Brogan offered him a warm smile. “Any chief worth his salt will tell ye that a good steward is just as important as a good chief. I ken it be yer good work that keeps the clan runnin’.”

  Pleased with Brogan’s compliment, Reginald sat a bit taller and smiled. “I do me best, laird.”

  “Please, do no’ call me laird. I be yer lady’s husband. I have no title.”

  “So ye’ll be takin’ the Mactavish name?” Reginald asked with a devious smile.

  “Nay,” Brogan returned his smile. “Just as I would no’ insist she take mine.”

  ’Twas apparent he liked his answer as much as his previous compliment. His lips curved into a warm smile. “Then let us walk together. Step back please.”

  Brogan took a few steps away. Reginald shoved one corner of the table forward, stepped around it, before shoving it back into place. Brogan chuckled.

  “I wondered how ye got behind it,” he admitted.

  Reginald gave him a shrug of indifference as he led him down the corridor.

  “Would ye no’ do better to have an office closer to the center of the keep?” Brogan asked as he gave a glance back toward the alcove.

  “At one time, it was,” Reginald told him. “But the Mactavish—” he stopped and corrected himself. “Aymer took me office as his own and moved me to the alcove.”

  “And there was no other, better place to move ye?” Brogan asked.

  Reginald remained quiet. Undoubtedly, he did not trust Brogan enough to speak his mind freely. An intelligent man is oft the most quiet, or so Brogan believed.

  “If we were able to procure ye a bigger office, one in closer proximity to the rest of the keep, would ye be offended?” Brogan asked as he clasped his hands behind his back.

  “I am but a lowly servant, m’laird. I go where I am told.”

  Brogan was growing frustrated with how the man spoke in circles. “Reginald,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I will never ask ye to speak ill of anyone. But when I ask fer yer opinion, I expect ye to give me an honest one. I will accept nothing short of complete honesty from ye.”

  Reginald said nothing as they made their way down the corridor.

  “And ye are far from a lowly servant. Ye be the steward here. Ye ken this keep better than anyone, I would imagine.”

  “I take me duties quite seriously, m’laird. Still, I be yer servant, nothin’ more.”

  Brogan came to an abrupt halt and pinned the man in place with a hard glare. “If ye call me laird one more time, I shall reduce ye to cleanin’ chamberpots for the next year.”

  Reginald raised one bushy brow, but continued to remain mute on the matter.

  “I imagine, that if we work together, and are honest with one another, we could potentially be strong allies. Mayhap even friends.”

  His other brow went up. “Friends?”

  “Me father is chief of Clan Mackintosh. He considers his steward one of his closest friends. Loves him like a brother. So aye, Reginald, me hope is that we can someday be friends.”

  They stepped out of the keep and into the large, open courtyard. A breeze blew in from the west. It leant a crispness, a cleanliness to the air.

  Their boots scraped lightly over the cobblestones whilst Reginald explained the workings of the keep. A group of women were huddled together, talking as they watched children playing nearby. Brogan heard the faint echo of a smithy banging a hammer against his anvil floating in from origins unknown.

  “We have three and forty people who live within the keep. Save for our lady and her uncle, and now ye, they all be servants. The cook, the scullery maids, and the like.”

  To Brogan’s way of thinking, it seemed like an awfully lot of people to take care of Mairghread and her uncle. But he kept his opinion on the matter to himself.

  “Ye’ve met our stable master, Seamus. He lives in the tack room there, but sups within the keep. He has two younger lads who help him
do those things he can no longer do.”

  Brogan listened intently as Reginald continued to give him the rundown of daily life here. “We have nearly three hundred clanspeople. We have farmers, weavers, and even a few whisky makers. All in all, we do well.”

  Reginald led him to the rear of the keep. At seeing the armory, Brogan asked, “Pray tell, why the armory seems built for children? And why be there no weapons?”

  “Ye would have to ask the — Aymer,” was Reginald’s reply.

  “He be no’ here,” Brogan reminded him. “Ye have me word that whatever ye tell me will remain in strictest confidence.”

  Even with Brogan’s oath to keep whatever was said betwixt them, betwixt them, Reginald was still reluctant to answer. “Accordin’ to Aymer, ’twas built as a disguise of sorts. Any potential raiders would no’ look twice at such a building.”

  Though that might seem a good idea in theory, it lacked any practicality. “And the lack of weapons?”

  “They were moved to a safer location, by Aymer’s order.”

  Safer location? A lot of good weapons would do if no one could get to them.

  “What other surprises do ye have in store fer me?” Brogan asked as they passed by the granary.

  Reginald shrugged a shoulder. “Many, mayhap,” he said.

  As they passed by a corral filled with horses, Brogan asked, “Ye do breed the finest horseflesh, aye?”

  “That we do,” Reginald said proudly as they stopped to admire the animals. One came forward to nuzzle against Reginald’s chest. He patted the horse and spoke to it affectionately.

  “Tell me,” Brogan said as he leaned against the top rail. “Why is there no outer wall here?”

  Reginald’s fond smile toward the horse faded almost instantly.

  “Let me take a guess and say ’twas Aymer’s good plan?” He felt he already knew the answer.

  Reginald let loose a heavy breath of frustration. “Aye, ’twas Aymer’s good plan.”

  Brogan shook his head, afraid to learn the why of it. “What, pray tell, was the reason fer removin’ the wall? Especially after what happened the night Mairghread’s husband and child were killed.”

  Reginald pushed away from the corral and began walking toward where the wall had once stood. “He removed it before the raid. Six months before.”

  “Good, lord!” Brogan exclaimed. “And he did no’ see fit to replace it after?”

  “Let me explain it to ye,” Reginald said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “A month before Mairghread married James, her father died. During that time, some stones came loose in a section of the wall. Aye, ’twas an old wall. Decades old. But instead of repairin’ it, as we have done in years past, he ordered the entire wall be taken down and rebuilt.”

  Brogan looked around but could find no signs that any building was taking place. “That makes no’ a bit of sense,” he replied.

  From Reginald’s grim expression, he agreed.

  “And has he said when he plans to rebuild that wall?” Brogan asked.

  “Nay, he has no’. And we be under strict orders no’ to ask.”

  Brogan mulled the situation over in his mind. He was not the chief of this clan. His wife was. Ultimately, the decision to rebuild the wall should be hers. But after all the wine she had drunk the night before, he seriously doubted she’d be in any condition today to make such a decision. “As husband to yer chief,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I believe she would agree with me that a wall is verra important to the safety of this clan.”

  “Ye can say that, can ye? After only a day of bein’ married?” Reginald asked, dubiously.

  “Aye, I can.”

  They reached what was left of the outer wall and climbed over it. They were several yards away from the cliff, overlooking the ocean. Gentle waves rolled against the rocky shoreline, splashing over boulders and jagged rocks that were as old as time.

  “What happened to the stones from the original wall?” Brogan asked.

  “Yer lookin’ at it,” Reginald replied.

  Confused, Brogan quirked one brow. He studied Reginald for a long moment. The man was staring longingly at the sea. Then it hit Brogan profoundly. “Ye jest,” he replied, his voice low and breathy.

  “Nay, I do no’ jest.”

  Brogan turned and walked to the edge of the cliff. Once glance over the edge was all it took to prove his assumption.

  On the jagged rocks below, he could see countless stones. Stones that had once made up the wall that encompassed the holding. Many had broken into smaller pieces. Others, over time, had been washed into the sea.

  “The bloody bastard had them all tossed into the sea.”

  Brogan had to tamp down his burning rage. How could any man leave his clan so exposed? How could a man remove the one thing that kept invaders at bay? He decided then and there, that when it came to the safety of this clan, he was not going to wait to discuss the matter with his wife or her uncle.

  “Reginald, my man, we are goin’ to rebuild that wall,” he said as he stomped away from the edge.

  Reginald was in hot pursuit. “Without Aymer’s permission or order?”

  Brogan stopped abruptly. “Aymer is no’ the chief of this clan. Me wife is. And it will be to the benefit of all, if everyone starts believin’ it. I do no’ give a rat’s arse what Aymer wants. We will begin this verra day to make this clan and this keep safe again.”

  Reginald was beyond pleased. “I have a feelin’ most will be agreeable to Mairghread takin’ her rightful place,” he said as he stepped in beside Brogan.

  “Most?” Brogan inquired gruffly.

  “Some are loyal to Aymer, though I do no’ ken rightly why.”

  “Fear, mayhap?” Brogan offered.

  Reginald thought on it for a long moment. “Aye, many are fearful of Aymer,” he admitted.

  Brogan came to a stop, placed his hands on his hips and faced Reginald. “Ye have me permission to always speak yer mind, whether it be on Aymer, me wife, or the runnin’ of this keep.”

  He wasn’t sure what to make of Reginald’s blank expression. It would, he imagined, take time before the man would be able to trust him. ’Twas best, he reckoned, to lead first by example.

  “Come, Reginald,” Brogan said, resuming his quick pace.

  “Where?”

  “To make plans fer our new wall and guard towers.”

  Reginald smiled, showing almost straight white teeth. “I should like ye to meet someone first,” he told him. “Then we shall make our plans.

  Moments later, they were approaching the blacksmith’s barn. ’Twas a tall, wide structure, with two large doors pulled open to let fresh air in and the heat out. The previous clanging had stopped and now an eerie silence fell over the place.

  “Iarainn!” Reginald called out from the entrance.

  Moments later, a very pretty woman, with dark brown hair plated around her scalp, appeared from the shadows. She wore a heavy apron over tunic and trews, a combination Brogan found odd, for a woman.

  With an amused grin, Reginald introduced them to one another. “Iarainn, this be our new laird, Brogan Mackintosh,” he said. “Brogan, I would like ye to meet our smithy, Iarainn Mactavish.”

  Astounded, ’twas all Brogan could do to keep his chin from hitting the ground. Very few things surprised him anymore, but this? “’Tis a pleasure to meet ye,” he finally managed to say.

  “We met last eve,” Iarainn told him. “At yer weddin’ feast.”

  Brogan searched his mind for the memory.

  “Of course, I was no’ wearin’ me apron or trews,” she said with a smile.

  Of course she wouldn’t have been, he mused. “I fear I met many people last eve,” he told her. “But ’tis a pleasure to meet ye again.” He offered her a slight bow at his waist.

  An awkward silence filled the air. Reginald had his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked back and forth on his heels. His amused grin was beginning to irritate Brogan.
>
  “How long have ye been smithy here?” Brogan asked.

  “Three years now,” Iarainn replied. “Learned at me da’s knee, I did. I was his only child. Much to me mum’s vexation, he taught me all he knew.”

  Brogan detected more than just a trace of pride in her voice. He could see it twinkling in her dark blue eyes. “Let me guess,” he said, returning her smile. “Yer mum would have preferred ye took up sewin’ or weavin’?”

  Iarainn quirked one delicate brow. “Nay, she wanted me to be a fine horsewoman, like she was. Trained some of the best war horses in all the land, she did.”

  Would the surprises within this clan never cease? A female smith? A woman who trained war horses?

  Reginald decided then to laugh at Brogan’s befuddlement. “We be no’ like most clans,” he said.

  That was quite apparent. Brogan looked down at the project she was currently working on. It appeared to be the beginning of a large cooking pot. “Besides cookin’ pots, do ye also make the weapons here?”

  Her reply was nothing but a shrug of indifference. Reginald leaned in closer to her. “He can be trusted, Iarainn.”

  With a dubious brow, she studied Brogan for a long while. “Be ye certain?” she asked Reginald, though she didn’t take her eyes off Brogan.

  “He has just ordered the rebuildin’ of the wall,” Reginald told her.

  Brogan took note of his relieved tone and glint in the man’s eyes.

  “Why be ye wantin’ to do that?” she asked Brogan directly.

  He felt quite certain this was a test of his character. “A keep without a wall or guard towers? Ye might as well just invite yer enemies in. ’Tis folly to believe none will attack when they’ve already done so in the past.”

  Apparently pleased with his answer, she raised her voice. “I make mighty fine cookin’ pots, m’laird. As well as eatin’ knives and such. Mayhap ye would like to give yer new bride a gift? I have a few special pieces in back.”

  Though her behavior was odd, his curiosity was too piqued now to turn away. Silently, he followed her and Reginald to the back of the building. She took a quick left turn and led them into a very small room. The floor was covered with rushes, but otherwise, it appeared empty.