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

by Suzan Tisdale

  Nay, he warned his mind. Do no’ make any assumptions just yet.

  Before he would act upon his suspicions, he would gain the facts. Assumptions did no one any good.

  While his mind and heart knew that to be true, his stomach tightened into knots of warning.

  “Good eve to ye, Mairghread,” Brogan said as he took his seat next to her. “Ye look verra bonny this night.” She was beyond simply bonny, she was damned beautiful.

  Cold and distant, she responded to his compliment with a shrug of indifference.

  Scooting closer to her on the bench they shared, he said, “I would like to apologize for how I behaved last eve.”

  Mairghread snorted derisively. “Do ye mean when ye tossed me over yer shoulder like a savage in front of everyone? Or when ye scared the bloody hell out of me when ye threw me onto me bed?

  In truth, he could not rightly blame her for being upset. Still, he was offering an apology, and olive branch of sorts. “For all of it,” he replied.

  She drank down her wine and poured another. “I do no’ ken how men treat women in yer own clan, but here, we respect our women, our wives,” she said.

  The maid appeared at his side. “Would ye like wine, m’laird?” she asked, holding a pitcher over his mug.

  “Nay, lass, but thank ye. I would like cider.” Before she could ask which kind he said, “Aye, the kind ye give the bairns. I never partake in strong drink.”

  She cast an odd glance at her mistress before stepping away from the table.

  Mairghread sighed. “Pray tell, why do ye never partake in strong drink? Are ye no’ man enough to handle it?”

  Brogan had too much experience at being a drunkard and dealing with drunken people, to allow the insult to injure his pride. He smiled and began piling food onto his trencher. “I fear I can no’,” he admitted. “It turns me into someone I neither like nor admire.”

  He had hoped his honesty would soften her demeanor. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

  “Lord!” she exclaimed under her breath. “Yer honor is sickening.”

  With those four little words, he knew without a doubt that his wife was a drunk.

  Brogan sat in stunned muteness. He did not like the realization he’d just come to. He had, in fact, married a drunkard. Feeling very much a fool for allowing himself to be deceived by the woman’s beauty, and the two auld women sitting but ten steps away from him, he placed his eating knife on the table. Taking in deep, steadying breaths, he decided he would not allow her to provoke him again.

  “Ye can insult me all ye wish, lass,” he said, hiding his anger behind a warm smile and soft voice. “But ’twill no’ have the effect ye want.”

  “How would ye ken what I want?” she seethed.

  Cocking his head to one side, he said, “Ye’re right. I would no’ ken what ye want, because ye hide yerself inside the flagon.”

  If looks could have killed, he would have been a dead man. “How dare ye?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “Am I wrong?” he asked. “I can assure ye that I would like nothing more at the moment, than to be wrong.”

  She gulped down the rest of her wine and set the cup down with a clang. “Ye are a sanctimonious bastard, Brogan Mackintosh.”

  He had been called much worse in his lifetime and told her as much.

  Before she could respond, Gertie and Tilda were standing behind her. “M’lady,” Gertie said in a soothing voice. “Ye look tired. Mayhap ye should let us get ye to bed.”

  “Go. Away.” Mairghread’s words were clipped and filled with anger.

  “M’lady, me thinks mayhap ye have had enough to drink this night.”

  “I would have to agree,” Brogan said.

  “I will drink as much bloody wine or whisky or ale as I desire,” Mairghread told them spitefully. To prove it, she called for the serving maid to bring whisky.

  “Mairghread, lass, I wish ye would no’ do this,” Brogan pleaded with her. He was trying to remain as calm as possible, which was not easy at the moment.

  “To the devil with ye, Brogan Mackintosh,” she said. The maid appeared and did her lady’s bidding, pouring her a cup of whisky. When the young maid tried to step away with the flagon, Mairghread said, “Leave it.”

  The girl did as she was told, though with a good deal of reluctance. The rest of the room had grown quiet. Brogan could feel all eyes in the room upon them.

  “Gertie. Tilda. Ye may take yer seats and finish yer meal,” Brogan told them reassuringly. “Yer lady and I wish to finish eating.”

  The two older women were hesitant to leave their lady.

  Gertie placed a comforting hand on Mairghread’s shoulder. Mairghread shrugged it away, focusing on the cup of whisky in her hands.

  With a good deal of reluctance, the women returned to their seats.

  Brogan didn’t feel much like eating. Although his stomach was in knots, he managed only a few bites before he pushed his trencher away. Mairghread continued to drink and ignore his presence. The conversation they needed to have was going to have to wait.

  Silently, he observed his bride as she sat like a sulking child, drinking one cup of whisky after another. By the fourth, she couldn’t get the cup to her lips without spilling it.

  Whisky mixed with wine — or anything else for that matter — was never a good combination. From experience, he knew she was not going to feel well come the morrow. And if she kept drinking as she was, it might be days before she fully recovered.

  “Do ye drink every day?” he asked, choosing to speak in a soft, non-accusatory tone.

  She swayed ever so slightly as she turned to face him. “Aye, I do.” The vehemence from earlier was gone. Now, Brogan detected sadness, mayhap even a tinge of regret.

  “May I ask why ye drink?”

  She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair without answering. She was quiet, her breathing slow yet steady. Brogan began to wonder if she hadn’t fallen asleep.

  “I drink fer many reasons,” she finally answered. “None of which I wish to share.”

  He could only hope that she would someday share those reasons with him. If anyone understood what could make a body to drink from sun up to sun down, ’twas he. Now, however, was probably not the best time to share his own past with her.

  There had been no formal declaration calling the meal to an end, but people were leaving just the same. Just how long his new bride had been drinking like this, he could only guess. He concluded it probably started not long after she lost her husband and babe.

  Servants came and began clearing tables. Quietly, he assumed, so as not to disturb Mairghread. He wondered how many nights had been like this one? When Mairghread drank until she fell asleep and people tip-toed around her. He doubted ’twas respect that bade them behave this way. More likely than not ’twas out of fear. He’d been the victim of her razor sharp tongue more than once these past two days. These people had probably been living with it for years.

  Just as he was about to offer to help her above stairs, she sat forward in her chair and poured yet another cup of whisky. She looked out at those who remained behind. “Where has everyone gone?” she yelled. “I have no’ dismissed anyone!”

  Brogan took in a deep breath. “I did it fer ye, Mairghread,” he lied. “The hour grows late.”

  Having heard Mairghread’s displeasure, Gertie and Tilda once again came to the dais. “There, there, now lass,” Tilda said. “Gertie and I will see ye to yer bed.”

  Mairghread spun around on the bench and jumped to her feet. She swayed, holding a cup of whisky in one hand, her other reaching out to find something to hold onto. Tilda took her hand in hers to help steady her.

  “I wish ye’d all quit treatin’ me like a bairn!” she shouted. Her words were slurred, and filled with malice. Her eyes were glassy and unable to focus on anyone or anything. Aye, she was bloody well stinking drunk.

  Brogan stood and took the hand Tilda had been holding. “Come, Mairghread, let us
help ye above stairs.”

  She wrenched her hand free of his, fire burning behind her drunken eyes. “Do no’ touch me!”

  Gertie looked fit to be tied as tears welled behind her auld, blue eyes. “M’lady, please, let us help ye,” she said as she reached out to take her hand.

  “I said, leave me be ye auld whore!” Mairghread cried out as she drew back her hand, the one with the cup, and swung out with it. She hit Gertie’s face with such force it sent her to her knees and the cup shattering to the floor. Blood began to run down her face, from a cut just below her eye.

  Tilda bent down to help her friend while Brogan grabbed Mairghread about the waist. Before he could lift her off her feet, she kicked out at Tilda. Her foot struck the woman’s shoulder hard enough to send her tumbling to her back.

  “Enough!” Brogan yelled as he pulled the kicking and screaming Mairghread away from the women and the table. “Settle down now!”

  She fought like the devil to free herself from his tight hold. Kicking, cursing, clawing at his hands. He was undeterred. As fast as he could, he took her above stairs, all the while she screamed like a women possessed by the devil himself.

  By the time he was kicking open the bedchamber door — again for the second time in as many days — Mairghread was lying limp in his hands. Either she had passed out or she was feigning as much. Either way, he wasn’t about to take the chance and set her free.

  He tossed her onto the bed, out of breath, his forehead covered in sweat. ’Twasn’t from exertion, for she was not heavy in the least. Nay, ’twas anger and frustration, nothing more.

  She mumbled something incoherent as she tried to roll over, fighting, struggling drunkenly, as if she were swimming in a sea of thick honey.

  Brogan knew ‘twould do no good to try to talk to her in her current state. He doubted she would remember anything come the morrow. Instead, he stood with his hands on his hips, watching and waiting for what she might do next. He’d not leave her alone, not for a moment.

  “Whisky,” she mumbled. “I need more …” her words trailed off as she took in ragged breaths.

  Nay, he thought to himself. Ye need no’ whisky or wine or ale.

  Slowly, in a drunken stupor, she rolled onto her belly and tried to climb out of the bed. Brogan took a few steps back, observing, wishing for all the world he was not witnessing any of this.

  “They all be fools,” she muttered. “I hate them. I hate him.”

  He would take to heart nothing she said this night, or any other while she was drunk. Brogan knew they were nothing more than words induced from too much strong drink.

  It took a good deal of effort before she finally managed to get her head over the edge of the bed. “All of them. I hate all of them.” She dropped her head over the edge. “Why can I no’ remember?” she continued to mumble, most of which he could not decipher.

  From behind him, came the soft yet quavering voice of the same young woman who had served them their evening meal. “M’laird,” she whispered. “Gertie and Tilda sent me to help.”

  She had stepped forward with a bowl of water and washing cloths.

  “Nay,” Brogan said, holding his hand up. “Ye may leave that on the table, but ye are no’ to help yer lady this night.”

  Aghast, she asked, “But we must. We help her every night she gets like this.”

  The tick in Brogan’s jaw returned with a vengeance. “I said, nay. Ye do no’ help her by cleanin’ up her messes.”

  Clearly, she did not understand.

  “What is yer name?” he asked.

  “Mairi,” she replied, looking between her lady and Brogan.

  “Mairi, the best thing ye can do fer yer lady right now, is to leave her be. Let her awake on the morrow to see what her actions have wrought.”

  He could tell from her confused expression she still didn’t understand. “Go, tend to Gertie and Tilda,” he told her. “They be hurting far worse than yer lady at the moment. Send fer yer healer as well. Gertie might need stitches.”

  She made no effort to move as she continued to stare with worried eyes at Mairghread.

  They had been doing this for so long, it had become the norm. It would be up to Brogan to change it. “Lass, go now. I promise I will tend yer lady. No harm will come to her this night.”

  Hesitantly, she placed the bowl and cloths on the table. “M’laird, we love our lady verra much. She has no’ always been like this.”

  Brogan had no doubt she spoke the truth. If Mairghread had always been nothing more than a drunk, her people would not hold her in such high regard. “I believe ye, lass. Now go, tend to Gertie and Tilda.”

  She bobbed a curtsey and left, closing the door softly behind her.

  Brogan turned his attention back to Mairghread, who had as yet not moved. Her head still hung over the edge of the bed. He knew ’twas going to be an awfully long night.

  His anger began to wane, replaced with a good deal of pity. Working quietly, he set a fire in the hearth. Next, he searched her room from top to bottom for hidden bottles of wine, ale, or whisky. By the time he was finished, he had found five bottles of wine and four of whisky. He’d also found empty bottles under her bed, along with one slipper. He put the slipper in her clothes cupboard and the bottles on the table in the corner.

  After that task was done, he pulled up a chair and sat near the corner of the bed, where he could keep an eye on her. Not long after, she began to stir. He could hear her begin to wretch, so he quickly grabbed a chamber pot and placed it on the floor under her head. Most of it did manage to make it into the pot. Other than placing the chamber pot under her face, he offered no other assistance.

  He refused to remove it or clean up the mess. Nay, she must see what her drinking does.

  When the smell became too much, he pulled back the furs from the windows to let fresh air in and returned to his chair.

  Och, Mairghread, I pray ye will be able to give up the drink.

  Chapter Eight

  Brogan slept all the night long in the chair at the foot of her bed. He awoke at dawn, with a stiff neck and an arse that had fallen asleep. Near as he could tell, Mairghread hadn’t moved. She still slept with her head dangling halfway off the bed.

  Quietly, he stood and stretched and hurried below stairs. He found Mairi in the gathering room, helping to set out the morning meal. “Mairi,” he said. “Would ye please go sit with yer lady?”

  “Aye, m’laird,” she said as she bobbed a curtsy.

  “Leave her be, as ye found her,” he warned. “But if she wakes, come find me at once.”

  If she thought it an odd request, she didn’t remark on it.

  “Where be Gertie and Tilda?” he asked.

  “In their quarters,” she answered. “Down the hall, and the second door on the right.”

  He thanked her and headed off to see the auld women.

  He gave a gentle rap at the door and heard a muffled voice bid entry. Carefully, he opened the door.

  ’Twas a small, well-kept room. Gertie and Tilda were in small beds set against the opposite wall. One small table sat between the two beds. To his left, was the hearth with two chairs flanking it.

  The women were surprised to see him enter their room. “Och! M’laird!” they cried out almost in unison as they started to scramble from their beds.

  “Nay, ladies,” he said holding up a hand. “Stay abed please.”

  They cast curious glances at one another and pulled their blankets up around their chins.

  “How be our lady?” Gertie asked, concern filling her eyes and voice.

  “Still asleep,” he said. “Do ye mind if I sit?” he asked, nodding his head toward one of the chairs.

  “Och! Of course ye can!” they replied, again, in unison.

  He stifled a chuckle as he pulled up a chair to sit between the two women. He had been wise to call for the healer the night before. Gertie had required a few stitches for the gash under her eye. It looked painfully swollen, blue and purp
le and red.

  “How do ye fare?” he asked each of them.

  “We’ll be right as rain in no time,” Tilda said. “’Tis naught but a bruised shoulder for me and a black eye for Gertie.”

  To Brogan’s way of thinking, it was far worse than bruises. The pain ran far deeper, no matter how hard they might try to deny it.

  “How long has she been like this?” he asked them bluntly.

  Gertie stammered for an appropriate answer, while Tilda was unusually quiet. “Ladies, I ken Mairghread has a problem with drink. I am neither a fool nor a simpleton.”

  Suddenly, his mind took him back to the very first time he’d met these two women. Gertie’s words resounded loudly now. She needs a strong man, she had told him that day. Now, he understood all too well what she meant by it.

  “Why did the two of ye seek me out? To marry Mairghread, I mean.”

  They cast conspiratorial glances at one another before Gertie answered. “I met ye when ye came to buy horses, a year ago. Well, no’ met as much as overheard ye discussin’ things with Harry, Seamus’s apprentice.” Her cheeks flamed red with her admission of eavesdropping. “Months later, when Aymer announced he had brokered a deal with the Frenchman, well, we had to do somethin’. Me and Tilda stole away from the keep and went to yers. ’Twas then we first met Rose Mackintosh.”

  “She be a fine woman, that one,” Tilda broke in.

  “Aye, a fine woman indeed,” Gertie replied with a warm smile.

  Brogan rolled his eyes.

  “Well, we explained our plight to Lady Mackintosh. ’Twas her idea to speak to ye.”

  Brogan pondered it for a brief moment. “Did Rose ken of Mairghread’s problem with drink?”

  Gertie averted her eyes to her hands. “Aye, m’laird, she kent it. Well, mayhap not all of it.”

  Brogan took in a deep breath through his nostrils and let it out slowly. But Rose knew enough, he reckoned quietly. No wonder she thought Mairghread and I would suit.

  “When did her drinkin’ start?”