Marighread continued to kick and scream and curse. Brogan had to spin her around to keep her from hurting the auld woman. “Mairghread, please!” he said, raising his voice.
Comnall appeared first, with Henry fast on his heels.
“Brogan!’ Comnall called into the room.
Over the din of the two screaming women, Brogan ordered the men to remove Hargatha. “And do no’ let her anywhere near this room again!”
At first, they tried to be gentle with the auld woman, but she was having none of it. “Get yer hands off me! Do ye no’ ken who I be?”
Finally, they had to pull her from the room while she shouted repeatedly that Mairghread was possessed by the devil himself and needed an exorcism. Mairghread’s replies were just as bad. “Ye be a harpy! A mean-spirited, bloody ugly auld hag and I wish ye dead!”
Brogan struggled with his attempts at calming her. “Mairghread!” he shouted. “Settle the bloody hell down!”
’Twas long after Hargatha was out of the room and the door closed before Mairghread finally settled. “I hate that auld woman!” she declared.
“Are ye quite finished?” Brogan asked, squeezing her tightly about the waist to gain her attention.
She let out a long breath, and finally acquiesced. He counted to ten before putting her down. He was now covered in sweat, out of breath, and quite close to losing his temper. Giving a great shake of his head, he went to the window and pulled back the fur. He took in deep, long breaths of the salty air and prayed.
Lord, please give me patience.
And patience he was going to need when once again she was overcome with another bout of hallucinations. ’Twas late into the night when she became convinced there were snakes climbing in through the window, the arrow slits, and cracks in the walls.
“Me God!” she cried. “Please, get them off me!” Once again, she was on the bed, trying to climb the wall in order to escape them. Brogan had to call for Charles and Peter to come help him with her delusions.
Clawing at her dress, pulling at her hair, she screamed and screamed, begging them to help her. ’Twas one of the most gut-wrenching, disturbing events Brogan had ever witnessed.
This night, it took nearly an hour to calm her down.
On the floor, in the corner, next to the door, he held her as she quivered and wept. “I be so sorry,” she told him between sobs. “I be so sorry.”
’Twas agonizing for him to see her in such a state of distress. Aye, he knew that in the end, these days would be well worth it. But it did not make the going through them much easier. All he could think to tell her was that all was well and everything would be fine.
“I feel so terrible,” she told him. “I do no’ ken what comes over me.”
Though his own takeaways had not been anywhere near as violent, nor haunted like hers with hallucinations, he had to believe hers was worse because she had been drinking far longer than he had.
“Do ye think she be right?” Mairghread whispered against his chest.
“Who?” he asked as he rubbed her back with his palm.
“Hargatha.”
He chuckled. “That ye be possessed? Nay, lass. Ye be no more possessed by the devil than I.”
She snuggled in closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Thank ye, Brogan,” she said softly.
All the self-doubts and second-guesses he was having over his decision to keep her here fell away with those three words. Filled with such sincerity, warmth, and genuine gratitude, he knew they weren’t the words of a madwoman. They had come from her heart.
Morning dawned bright and pristine on the fifth day of her confinement. ’Twas one of those mornings when a man felt alive and thankful. Mairghread was feeling better as well. Though she was far from completely better, the tremors and shakes had subsided significantly. Last night had been difficult for her, but she was finally able to sleep for more than a half an hour at a time. Though ’twas still fitful sleep, interrupted by nightmares, and the hot and cold streaks.
Brogan sent a silent prayer up to God, thanking him for her remarkable progress.
Reginald arrived, bearing another tray of bread and broth for Mairghread, as well as eggs and ham for Brogan. While she sipped at her broth and picked at her bread, Brogan ate his meal like a newly released prisoner of war.
“Ye do look much better, this day,” Reginald told her. They were sitting side by side on the bed while Brogan sat on the stool.
“I do feel a bit better today,” she told him with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
“Each day ye will find yerself feelin’ better and better, aye? And before ye ken it, ye’ll be out of here, and takin’ over as chief.”
With a furrowed brow, she sat the bowl of broth down. “Me? Chief?” she asked. “I do no’ ken if that is such a good idea.”
“Why not?” Reginald and Brogan each asked incredulously.
“Look at me,” she told them, holding her arms out. “I fear I would no’ make a good chief. I can barely be a wife, or a chatelaine.”
Brogan was kneeling before her in an instant. “Ye be wrong,” he said as he took her hands in his. “I ken right now might no’ be the best time, but when ye’re better? Aye, lass, ye’ll make a fine chief.”
“I agree,” Reginald said. “Ye will make a fine chief.”
He knew she didn’t believe either of them, but it mattered not. Eventually, with time, when her mind was not so cloudy and weary, she would see.
“But let us first get ye through this tryin’ time, aye?” Brogan said, offering her a most encouraging smile.
She nodded and swallowed back tears. “I do no’ ken why ye’re bein’ so nice to me.”
“Would ye no’ help someone in need?” he asked. “If our situations were reversed, would ye no’ help me?”
One tear fell away and trailed down her cheek. “I would try, I think.”
“There ye have it then,” he said.
From her confused expression, she did not completely understand his meaning. “We be alike, ye and I. We help those in need.”
Mairghread shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose,” she said.
“’Twill no’ be long now, Mairghread,” he told her. “Ye will see. Ye’ll be right as rain soon enough.”
A man never truly knows what the future has in store for him. If anyone had told him a month ago that he would marry a beautiful woman — one who should be chief of her own clan — he would have laughed at them. And had they told him he would spend the good majority of his first days as a married man, locked in a room with her whilst he helped her overcome her addiction to alcohol, he would have considered them well and fully mad.
“Thank ye, Brogan,” she said as she gave his hands a gentle squeeze.
To his way of thinking, she did not truly owe him any thanks. All he wanted was for her to get and be better. For them to be able to build a life together. For the first time in many days, he was actually looking forward to their future.
Gertie and Tilda came to see her after the morning meal. They brought her a fresh dress, chemise, and woolens, along with her comb.
Brogan stepped into the hallway while they helped Mairghread to wash up and change her clothing. Charles and Comnall were standing guard this morning.
“I think, mayhap, ye could use a dip in the loch and clean clothes as well,” Comnall chided him playfully.
Brogan ran a hand across his face and realized it had been days since last he had shaved. “I think ye be right,” he replied.
“We will keep an eye out for her,” Charles told him.
He mulled it over for a time. She had been improving, especially the past two days. The hallucinations had stopped, and the tremors were tolerable. He asked them to wait while he went to speak with the women.
“Och!” Gertie declared with a wide smile. “We shall watch over her, m’laird, of that ye can be certain.”
Tilda patted Mairghread’s hand. “Is that no’ right, lass? Ye will be fin
e with us fer a time, aye?”
She smiled warmly at both women. “In truth, I feel verra tired. I would like to rest fer a spell, if ye do no’ mind.”
They went back and forth for a time, with the women not wanting to leave her, and Mairghread wanting very much to take a nap. Amused at what should be a simple decision, Brogan stood by the door and waited patiently for them to make up their minds.
“Gertie,” Tilda said, calling the argument to a halt. “Why do no’ ye go below stairs and see if cook can come up with something other than watery broth and warm bread for our lass. I will stay here whilst she rests. Brogan, ye can go take a bath and change.”
He turned to Mairghread, afraid that if he didn’t agree and leave at once, ’twould be midnight before they made up their minds.
“I shall no’ be long, lass,” he told her. “If ye need anything, send Charles or Comnall for me at once.”
Gertie left with Brogan. Like a true gentleman, he offered her his arm as they descended the stairs. Gertie giggled and beamed. “I can no’ remember the last time a handsome lad offered me his arm,” she told him with a wink.
Brogan had to laugh. “I bet ye drove the lads mad in yer youth,” he said.
She quirked a brow. “And who says I be no’ drivin’ them mad now?” she teased.
Brogan placed a hand over his heart. “Fergive me, fair maiden.”
After they reached the landing, Brogan led her to the next set of stairs. “’Tis true, m’laird, I can no’ remember e’er feelin’ so much hope. Tilda and I, we be verra grateful to ye, fer what ye be doin’ fer our lady.”
“She be doin’ the work, Gertie. I am merely there to hold her hand.”
Gertie dismissed that statement immediately. “Nay, ye and I both ken it be far more than hand holdin’ ye be doin, m’laird. Ye be givin’ Mairghread back her life. That be a priceless gift.”
“I am merely helpin’ her to do what is right,” he replied.
“Whatever ye think it be yer doin, just ken we are all verra grateful, m’laird.”
He patted the top of her hand. “I think, Gertie, it be time ye called me Brogan. I be no’ yer laird, nor yer chief. I am simply Mairghread’s husband.”
She paused and looked up at him. “Ye are far more than simply her husband. And I would rather cut off me hand before I call ye by yer given name. Ye deserve our most humble respect.”
Seeing he would get nowhere with her on that matter, he encouraged her forward. “I shall see ye safely to the kitchen,” he said. “Then return to ye after I change me clothes, aye?”
Gertie laughed and rolled her eyes. “M’laird, ye be a kind, kind man. But I have been walking the halls of this keep since I came to live here at the age of three and ten. I shall be fine.”
“As ye wish,” he said when they reached the second landing.
“Now, off with ye. I will make certain cook offers up something other than bread and broth. Our lady be wastin’ away to skin and bones.”
That was decidedly truer than either of them wanted to admit. These past days had been a trying time for Mairghread, emotionally as well as physically.
“Ye’ll see how bonny she is, once she has put on a wee bit of weight, m’laird,” Gertie told him.
As far as he was concerned, she was already a bonny lass.
Hargatha Mactavish did not like being told what she could or could not do. For two days, she seethed angrily over what she considered harsh and undeserved mistreatment by Brogan Mackintosh. Did he not understand who she was?
’Twas an insult, to be certain, the way he had his men drag her from Mairghread’s room. ’Twas also an insult the way Mairghread behaved, like a deranged savage, cursing and screaming. “Any fool could see I was right!”
“Bah!” her anger simmered. “I be the healer, no’ some mindless eejit!” She pulled herbs from the jars on the shelf in her kitchen and sat down at her table.
Alone in her cottage, this was the first time since that day when she had a moment to herself. Busy with tending to the usual injuries and ailments, she hadn’t had much time to plan on how she would retaliate. But now, with the quiet solitude found only in her cottage, she had time to plan.
“He thinks I be some foolish auld women,” she said as she ground herbs in her pestle and mortar. “I ken a possession when I see it. The priest would see it too, if he were no’ off at the MacRay clan tendin’ their flock.”
Grinding the herbs always gave her a sense of strength and power that she could not get anywhere else. “I have the power to give life or take it. To ease someone’s pain, or make it worse,” she mumbled. “Knowin’ how the herbs work is a special power, given to me by God himself.” ’Twas something she firmly believed.
“’Tis me duty to do His good work. ’Tis no’ an illness she suffers from, but the devil himself.”
Taking solace in her fervent belief she was doing what God directed, she took the herbs and placed them carefully inside a small pouch with a smile. “We shall purge those demons from her,” she declared. “One way or another.”
“Do no’ fash yerself over it,” Hargatha told the young man guarding Mairghread’s room. He had not been one of the two men who had pulled her out of the room the other day. This was to her advantage, of course. Another sign, she was certain, that God was on her side.
He was eying her cautiously. “I have spoken to Brogan. He kens what we need to do.” ’Twas the cold hard truth, as far as she was concerned. It mattered not to her that Brogan disagreed. “’Tis just a simple tisane, laddie, to help our lady.”
“Mayhap we should wait until Brogan returns,” he said, the doubt bouncing around in his eyes.
“Aye, we could wait,” she told him, even offering up one of her warmest smiles. “But I would hate to see our lady suffer a moment longer than necessary, aye?” She held out the cup, which had been steeping in warm water for more than a quarter of an hour. “Here, ye can take it to her yerself.”
Reluctantly, he took the cup, uncertainty clearly evidenced in his eyes.
“That be a good lad,” she told him as she patted his arm. “Just ye give that to our lady now, and make certain she drinks every last bit of it. ’Twill help her gain strength and she will be feelin’ much better verra soon.”
Without waiting for him to reply, she turned and left.
If this does no’ work today, there will be other chances, she promised herself.
Tilda was dozing on the little stool next to Mairghread’s bed. The gentle rap at the door forced her awake almost at once. Her lady, however, did not stir. Poor lass, she thought. She has been through far too much for someone so young.
Pushing herself to her feet, she answered the door and found the young Mackintosh man standing there holding a cup.
“What is it?” she asked him in a whisper so as not to wake Mairghread.
“A woman was just here,” he said, holding out the cup for her. “She said ’tis from the cook? Said ’tis fer Lady Mactavish.”
“What be it?” she asked as she took the cup from him. One whiff, and she was curling up her nose.
“I do no’ ken rightly,” he admitted. “But she says Brogan kens and that we are to give it to Lady Mactavish straight away. She says it will help her gain her strength.”
Tilda was completely behind anything that would help her lady feel better and gain the strength she needed. “Verra well,” she said.
Bowing slightly at the waist, he left her alone to return to his post.
With the cup in hand, she returned to her spot by the bed, and set the cup on the floor. “Lass?” she said in a low voice, “Cook has sent ye somethin’ to help ye gain yer strength.”
Mairghread grumbled and rolled away.
Tilda wasn’t about to relent. “If cook says ye need to drink this fer yer strength, then ye should. Come now, lass. Sit up and drink.”
It took a little prodding, but she was eventually able to get Mairghread to sit up in the bed. “What is it?” she aske
d dubiously. “It smells like death!”
Tilda chuckled as she placed the cup in her hands. “I think it be a case of ‘the cure is worse than the disease’.”
Brogan was fishing through his trunk for fresh clothing when a knock came at his door. He opened it to find a young lass, with bright blue eyes and dark blonde hair. “Gertie said ye might be needin’ this, m’laird.”
“Thank ye kindly, lass,” he said as he took the pitcher and linens from her. “What be yer name?”
“I be Gretchen, m’laird. I work in the kitchens,” she replied as she bobbed a curtsey.
He thanked her again and shut the door behind him. Pouring the fresh, warm water into the basin, he cleaned up as best he could. What he wanted most was a long hot bath, but there was no time for such luxuries at the moment. Mairghread needed him.
Mairghread. He smiled when he thought of her.
During these past several days, he was beginning to learn more about her. She was not truly the cold-hearted harpy he had first believed her to be. Nay, that was the drink taking over her heart and mind. Sober — albeit for less than a sennight now — he could see she was a witty and kind woman.
The trials she had gone through over the years would have pushed anyone to drink. No longer did he believe she willingly chose to become the calloused, sharp-tongued drunk. Nay, her drinking was born out of a deep sense of loss. And ’twas more than one loss she endured over the years. Losing James and Connell had been the thing that sent her over the edge.
He took the time to shave the whiskers from his face and nicked his chin. He cursed under his breath, and placed one of the wet clothes against it. Glancing into the small looking glass he shivered. “Ye look like hell,” he muttered.
Dark circles had formed under his eyes and even he could see he had lost weight. This morning had been his first real meal in many days.
Clean, shaven, and with still damp hair, he donned a green tunic and black trews. Turning to grab his dirty clothes from the floor, he saw his bed. Tempted though he was to climb into it and take a good long nap, he knew he could not. Mairghread needed him.
Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 18