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

by Suzan Tisdale

  Aymer sneered at her. “Shut up, auld woman! Or I shall kill her now and let ye watch her die!”

  Tears streamed down Gertie’s wrinkled cheeks. Closing her eyes tightly, she could not bear to watch as Aymer pulled Mairghread from the room.

  Brogan felt he’d been away from his wife long enough. But Reginald and Seamus were insistent that they needed his help.

  “Just one more cottage,” Reginald promised. “It be less than an hour away.”

  “An hour?” he exclaimed. They had already been gone for hours. Hours that seemed like days to a man much in love with his wife. “Nay,” he said. “Ye may go on without me. I am returnin’ to me wife.”

  Some might call it naught more than jitters attributed to impending fatherhood. No matter the reason, he’d begun to feel uneasy about being away so long. He though back to his sister-by-law Rose and how she had conspired with the women of their clan to keep Ian away for an hour or two when her time drew near. His brother loved her, of that, there was no doubt. But even Brogan thought he had hovered too much over Rose during those last few days before she gave birth to John. Back then, he believed his brother was naught more than a besotted fool.

  But now he understood what Ian felt, with vivid clarity. He loved his wife. He knew without equivocation he could not survive losing his wife or their babe. Let them call me a besotted fool, he told himself. I care no’. I love Mairghread and it be perfectly reasonable to be concerned.

  “But Brogan,” Reginald began to argue.

  “Nay,” he said with a shake of his head. “I have been gone long enough.”

  With a light tap to his horse’s flanks, he steered the beast back toward the keep.

  In less than an hour, he was handing his horse off to one of the stable boys and racing up the steps. An uneasiness had crept in to his heart. He barely understood it himself, let alone could he make any attempt to explain it to someone should they ask. Something, an inner voice or feeling, was telling him that Mairghread needed him.

  Eager to see his wife, he did not stop to speak to anyone, or otherwise dawdle or delay. He did not care if his presence annoyed her. He needed to see her, to see that she was in fact quite well. Mayhap ’twas fatherly instincts that propelled him forward. Or perhaps ’twas naught more than unjustified worry. Either way, he raced above stairs and flung open the door to their room.

  His heart fell to his feet when he saw Gertie, tied to a chair, a wad of cloth stuffed into her mouth, and panic stricken eyes.

  “What in the bloody hell happened?” he yelled, reaching her in naught but a few short strides.

  Her eyes were wide with horror as she struggled against the ropes. ’Twas then he realized she was screaming but not looking directly at him. Her eyes were pinned on something behind him.

  In one fluid motion, he removed the dirk from his waist and spun around. A man he did not recognize was coming at him with a dirk raised over his head.

  Ducking low, he was able to miss the blade by a few inches. Lunging forward, he tackled the man about his waist, hurling them both to the floor. There was no time to wonder who this man was, or why Gertie was bound to a chair. He could only act.

  Pinning the man to the floor with his knees, Brogan tossed his dirk into his left hand, balled his right into a fist and plunged it into the man’s face. Blood began to spurt from his nose, but the stranger was not ready yet to give up the fight.

  “Who the bloody hell are ye?” Brogan asked through gritted teeth.

  He replied by planting his feet firmly on the floor and pushing Brogan up and off.

  Caught off guard, Brogan rolled over, and crouched on one knee, ready for the man’s next move. A moment later, he crouched low and lunged once again. Slicing in a wide arc, aiming for Brogan’s neck, the blade whistled through the air. Brogan had anticipated the move, and fell onto his back, knocking a chair over in the process. A moment later, he was on his feet again.

  Just as he was about to tackle the man again, Martha and Tilda appeared at the door.

  “Brogan!” Martha called out.

  The man spun around at the sound of her voice, just the distraction Brogan needed. Lunging forward, he tackled him once again, this time sending him crashing to the floor on his stomach. The dirk fell from his hand and slid across the floor.

  Wrapping a strong arm around his attacker’s neck, Brogan pulled his head up and back by his hair. “Who the bloody hell are ye, and what have ye done with me wife!”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I will find the traitor and kill them with me bare hands, Mairghread thought angrily as another wave of pain shot through her lower belly. Tight, twisting, ’twas near agony.

  They had left the keep an hour ago. Had walked right through the gate without anyone inquiring as to where she was going. The entire courtyard had been eerily quiet. No matter who is to blame, I will find them.

  They had walked a good distance in a north-easterly direction, before several men stepped out of the woods. Much to her vexation, Aymer insisted she mount a horse brought to her.

  “I can no’ possibly ride!” she had argued. “I be about to have this babe, ye ignorant fool!”

  Furious with the disrespect she was showing him, Aymer slapped her hard across the cheek. Blood filled her mouth and trickled from her lips, her cheek burning as white dots blurred her vision. ’Twas the first time in her life she had ever been hit.

  “Ye will mount this horse and ye will mount it now!” Aymer shouted.

  His voice was still ringing in her ears when they finally reached their destination.

  ’Twas an old, decrepit mud and daub hut, nestled deep in the woods. She had forgotten all about the place and could not remember who had once lived here. Not that it mattered in the least at the moment. A blend of fear and anger roiled in her stomach.

  Her pains were coming closer and closer together, and lasting far longer. Intense, deep pain that made it next to impossible to walk. Aymer pulled her from her mount without warning or ceremony. She fell to the ground, racked with pain.

  Frustrated with her, he yanked her by the hair. “Up!”

  Unable to move or speak, she could only swallow back the tears. “Hurt,” she finally managed to mutter.

  Not so much as an inkling of compassion could she find in his eyes. He all but dragged her into the ancient structure. ’Twas all she could do to breathe.

  The small space was void of any furniture. Just a small room with part of the crumbling roof lying on the dirt floor. Decades worth of weeds and vines sprouted from the corners and hung down from the ceiling. It smelled damp, musty.

  Aymer pulled her inside, leaving her where she collapsed in a corner near the entrance. On her hands and knees, she rocked back and forth, the pain nearly unbearable. Please, God, watch over me babe! She cried silently. Please, send Brogan to me before it be too late.

  The next voice she heard made her want to retch.

  “What is wrong with her?” Courtemanche asked. He sounded far more concerned than Aymer.

  “It be her time,” Aymer told him. “She is about to give birth.”

  Although she could not see him, she heard the worry in Courtemanche’s voice. “Why did you bring her here?” he demanded to know. “Why not wait until she had her babe?”

  The frustration in Aymer’s voice was undeniable. “Because we must get to France as soon as possible, ye fool! I told ye, I will need to seek refuge in your castle until I can regain the seat. I can no’ do that with her still sittin’ in it!”

  “But it could have waited!” Courtemanche argued. “What will we do with a babe?”

  “We are no’ goin’ to do anything with the babe but leave it here. Leave it to the wolves and scavengers. As long as that babe lives, I will no’ be able to take what is rightfully mine.”

  Mairghread had heard enough. “Brogan will never allow ye to lead clan Mactavish!” she cried out. “He will see ye dead first.”

  His hand swung out once again, just as shar
ply as before. This time, it landed on her right eye. Bile rose from the pain, from the horror of the moment. “Brogan will kill ye fer that,” she all but spat at him.

  “Stop!” Courtemanche shouted, grabbing Aymer’s arm to keep him from hitting her again. “I do no’ want her face harmed.”

  Me face? She thought. He cares naught about anything but me face.

  Aymer was furious, but backed away. “How much longer?” he snapped at her.

  There was no need to ask to what he was referring. “Hours,” she told him. But if the pains were any indication, ‘twould be far sooner than she wanted. ’Twas growing more and more difficult to keep from screaming out, to keep from crying from the pains as well fear. She thought of Brogan and cursed herself for wanting a few hours to herself. It had been a selfish decision to send him away with Reginald and Seamus. ’Twas a selfish act that would lead to the death of her babe as well as herself. Please fergive me, Brogan, she cried silently.

  “We can not have her giving birth here,” Courtemanche said. His voice was filled with panic and worry. “We do not know the first thing about births. You should not have brought her here.”

  Rolling his eyes, Aymer said, “Would ye like to take her back to the keep?”

  He paled visibly at the notion. “Of course not. But she could die, you fool. I swear to you, if she dies, Aymer, you will not get one red cent from me. Nor will I give you refuge.”

  Clenching his jaw, Aymer growled angrily. She watched him pace back and forth like a cornered wild beast. Undoubtedly, he was trying to think of his next course of action.

  Her own mind was racing for a way out, a way to, at the very least, save her unborn child. She cared not what Aymer or Courtemanche did to her. The only thing she cared about was Brogan and their child. She had to do something and quickly.

  Desperate, she was not above bargaining. “If ye fetch Martha to help me have this babe, and if ye let my babe live, I will give the seat of chief to ye.”

  Aymer studied her dubiously for a long moment. “Ye lie.”

  Shaking her head she choked back tears. “I care no’ what ye do to me, Aymer. Just let me babe live. I swear to ye, I will go with ye to France.” Nodding her head at Courtemanche, she said, “I care no’ what he does to me either. I am too tired to fight ye anymore.” Most of what she said was a lie. There was no way in hell she was going to go anywhere with these men.

  From his pursed lips and furrowed brow she could see he was giving some weight to the idea.

  “Please, Aymer, I beg of ye, let me babe live,” she said, her voice filled with undeniable fear. Pleading, begging, she would do what she must to see that her babe lived.

  Breathing out through his nose, he crouched low, to look her in the eyes. “And let him someday try to rest the seat from me?”

  “Nay, he will no’! Brogan will return to his family.” If she did in fact die, ’twas her fervent wish that he do just that. Take their babe back to Mackintosh lands, where he could grow up in peace, surrounded by people who would love him and protect him. Tears pooled in her eyes when she thought of not being able to watch her child grow. ’Tis better I die than me babe. Nothing was worth this babe’s life.

  Another pain formed, growing, building, twisting, taking her breath and good senses away. No longer able to think clearly, she cried out. Screaming from the intensity, she rocked back and forth again, on her hands and knees. Sweat covered her face, her back and hands, her dress clung to her skin.

  Aymer’s voice sounded far away, barely audible over her own screaming. But she could not focus on what he was saying. She only knew he was angry.

  Unable to hold herself up, she collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony. Tears blended with sweat as she grew uncomfortably hot.

  Aymer and Courtemanche were arguing again, but she cared not and paid no attention to it. Gradually, the pain let up, but did not go away completely. God, please bring Brogan to me.

  It took some vigorous convincing. Reginald, Henry, Liam, and Comnall, had helped to get the man to see things their way. Eventually, he got tired of the blows to his face, gut, and groin and began to disclose what he knew in earnest.

  “’Twas Aymer Mactavish,” he said as he spit a glob of blood on the floor.

  Brogan had already suspected that at the least, Aymer had ordered something be done before he was put to death. “But who carried out his order?”

  The man laughed. “Think ye he is dead?”

  “David ordered his execution,” Henry said harshly.

  The man smiled lopsidedly. “Aye, that he did. But Aymer paid much to gain his freedom. He bribed the guards.”

  The room fell silent as a fissure of fear raked Brogan’s spine. He knew the man was telling him the truth. The news should have surprised him but didn’t. Instead, he became furious. There were many questions to be asked, such as how they had gotten into the keep, who were the traitors who allowed them access. But he asked the most important one first. Grabbing him by his tunic, Brogan leaned in. “Where is me wife?” His words were harsh, clipped, and filled with rage.

  The man took no time at all in telling him the whereabouts of Mairghread.

  “But good luck with gettin’ out of the keep,” he added with a sloppy and pained smile.

  Brogan’s brow knotted into a fine line as he asked him what he meant.

  “Yer keep,” he chuckled, sounding like a madman. “It be surrounded.”

  He had not lied.

  Brogan stood along the walkway of the wooden wall, looking out at the sight before him. Surrounding the keep were some one hundred armed men. Aymer’s mercenaries.

  “Bloody hell!” he ground out angrily.

  Henry, Reginald, and Comnall were standing with him. They were almost as furious as he. Almost, for none of them had a wife being held captive by dark, sinister, insane men. A wife who was about to give birth.

  Liam came racing up the ladder to join them. He took one look at all the armed men below and gave a low whistle. “Shall I give the order for Iarainn to begin handin’ out weapons?”

  As much as he wanted to ride through the gate and kill every last one of them, he knew such thoughts were useless. The Mactavish men were not trained in the fine art of battle.

  “Have ye interrogated the traitors yet?” he asked, gritting his teeth. The mercenary hadn’t known the names of the men who had given entry to Aymer. But he was able to describe them well enough. They were two young men, neither of which Brogan could recall even talking to. Their parents were amongst those who had left months ago, when Mairghread had taken her rightful position as chief.

  “Aye,” Comnall nodded. “They swear there be no others who aided Aymer.”

  “Ye be certain of that?” he asked, his brow furrowed, his face growing darker and darker with fury.

  Comnall smiled as he gave his right fist a good shake. Brogan took note of the bloodied knuckles. “Aye, I be certain.”

  With the traitors in the gaol, Brogan gave the order for every one within the keep to be armed. What they truly needed, however, were more men. More well-trained men, as Henry pointed out.

  “We need more than just a handful of cooks,” Henry said. “’Tis a death sentence to be certain.”

  “Thank ye fer pointin’ out the most obvious,” Brogan ground out as he climbed down the ladder.

  Iarainn was waiting for him at the bottom. “Be it true?” she asked breathlessly. “Be we surrounded?”

  “Aye, ‘tis true. Have ye armed everyone?”

  She swallowed hard before answering. “Much to me consternation, aye, I have. But I warn ye, I have armed Tilda and Gertie as well.”

  The thought of Gertie and Tilda armed sent a shiver of dread up and down his spine. Gertie was fighting mad when he had first discovered her tied to the chair.

  “The order was fer everyone,” Iarainn politely reminded him. “And no’ even I be brave enough to tell those two ‘nay’ on anythin’. Especially this day.”

  The image of
Gertie and Tilda leading the charge to slay the men responsible for taking their lady was an amusing one. It almost brought a smile to his face.

  To Liam and Comnall he said, “Bring everyone to the yard at once.”

  The mercenaries were all that stood betwixt Brogan Mackintosh and the rescuing of his wife. He now stood in the courtyard, looking out at his people with a most heavy heart. Cooks, sculleries and maids, plus his own men.

  ‘Twas a certainty they would be defeated.

  Before he could utter any encouraging words, Reginald and Henry pulled him aside. “We have a plan,” Reginald told him.

  “If the plan involves our people suddenly gainin’ the experience and heart of a thousand highland warriors,” he began.

  Reginald cut him off. “Nay,” he said, sounding most serious. “We need to get to Mairghread. And quickly.”

  Gertie and Tilda appeared at Reginald’s side, each of them holding a broadsword nearly as long as they were tall. “And how do ye intend to do that?” Gertie asked angrily. “Sprout wings and fly?”

  “Of course no’!” Reginald growled. Turning his attention back to Brogan, he said, “Ye ferget, there be more than one way out of this keep.”

  It took a moment for Brogan to realize what Reginald was speaking of. The secret door!

  Reginald smiled knowingly when he saw clarity dawning in Brogan’s eyes. “I have already checked, Brogan. They have no one set below.”

  Brogan was so relieved he could have kissed the man.

  “Ye can take a few of the men with ye,” Reginald said. “Michael Mactavish and his family live no’ far from here. Ye can get to them, get horses, and be on yer way to Mairghread without the men surroundin’ us even knowin’.”

  “What be ye goin’ on about?” Henry asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  Brogan quickly explained about the secret passage out of the keep. His relief faded instantly when he remembered the lack of stairs. “But we have no stairs built yet,” he all but growled.