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

  Brogan's Promise

  Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens

  Suzan Tisdale

  Cover design by Wicked Smart Designs

  Copyright © 2017 Suzan Tisdale

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Contents

  Also by Suzan Tisdale

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  28. Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Prologue to Black Richard’s Heart

  About the Author

  Also by Suzan Tisdale

  Also by Suzan Tisdale

  The Clan MacDougall Series

  Laiden’s Daughter

  Findley’s Lass

  Wee William’s Woman

  McKenna’s Honor

  The Clan Graham Series

  Rowan’s Lady

  Frederick’s Queen

  The Mackintoshes and McLarens Series

  Ian’s Rose

  The Bowie Bride

  Brogan’s Promise

  The Clan McDunnah Series

  A Murmor of Providence

  A Whisper of Fate

  A Breath of Promise

  Moirra’s Heart Series

  Stealing Moirra’s Heart

  Saving Moirra’s Heart

  Stand Alone Novels

  Isle of the Blessed

  Forever Her Champion

  The Edge of Forever

  Arriving in 2017:

  Black Richard’s Heart

  The Brides of the Clan MacDougall

  (A Sweet Series)

  Aishlinn

  Maggy (arriving 2018)

  Nora (arriving 2018)

  Coming Soon:

  The MacAllens and Randalls

  For Gen, Laurie, Tara, Kate, and Sara.

  Prologue

  No one understood the depths of her grief. Despair and sorrow clung to her heart, weighing it down until Mairghread was no longer certain it beat any more. Her soul was empty, void of any good feelings. Only the pain, the sorrow, and heartache remained.

  Even now, three long years after the deaths of her husband and only child, the pain was as real and as intense as if it had only happened moments ago.

  In order to help pass the time, until she could once again be reunited with them in heaven, she drank. Aye, there was many a late night when she contemplated taking her own life in order to escape the deep suffering in her heart. The only thing that kept her from slicing through the tender flesh of her wrists, or wrapping a rope around her neck, or throwing herself off the parapet, was knowing that if she acted on those thoughts, she would never see either of them again. God would not allow her entry to heaven.

  As it stood, there was a good chance He would not allow her entry anyway. Not if the rumors whispered behind her back were more than just cruel lies. Not if what her uncle hinted at but never really said was actually true.

  There was a time when she would have demanded to know the whole ugly, sordid truth of what really happened that awful night when her world fell apart. The only things she remembered — for she herself nearly died that night — were told to her by her uncle and her maids. And rarely did any of their stories match up.

  So horrific was that night, so horrible was her loss, she took up the flagon and bottle as soon as her outer wounds had healed.

  After countless nights of drinking to the point where she could not have found her own hands with the help of guide and map, it was as natural as breathing. Now, after three long years of this, she doubted she could breathe or think without the aid of drink.

  She cared not anymore what people thought of her. Cared not a whit about the whispers behind her back. Cared not for anything or anyone.

  Were it not for her maid, Gertie — who had taken care of her from the day she came into this world — ’twas highly unlikely Mairghread would still be walking amongst the living. If one could even count the young woman amongst as such.

  Once, before that dark night, Mairghread Mactavish had been a beautiful, vibrant woman who put the needs of her family and people ahead of her own. Aye, she had turned more than a few heads in her youth, what with her long, thick, auburn hair and dark, emerald green eyes. Mairghread was more than just a beautiful woman, however. She was a beautiful soul -- the kind of giving, loving woman that the world definitely needed more of. Or so her maid Gertie used to declare to anyone who would listen.

  But now? Now, when Gertie looked upon her lady, she felt a profound sense of loss. Not just for the man and babe killed that dark night. As far as Gertie was concerned, the world lost more than two souls that ugly night. It had lost her sweet lady, too.

  An empty a shell if ever there was one was Mairghread Mactavish.

  And that was the saddest part of all.

  Chapter One

  Brogan Mackintosh was a sensible, logical thinking man. Whenever possible, he tried to see the good in people and all situations. It could also be said he was as honorable as he was generous -- the kind of man who would give you the tunic off his back if you needed it. There was naught he wouldn’t do for the downtrodden or poor creatures of this earth.

  Never, in the whole of his adult life, did he regret being such a man.

  Until now.

  “Ye want me to do what?” He could not have been more surprised had the sun risen in the west that morn.

  He sat at a long trestle table in the newly finished tower — a tower he had helped build with his own two hands. Across from him sat his sister-by-law, Rose Mackintosh, and two auld women he had met less than a quarter of an hour ago. Rose was a pretty, wee woman, whom he had always admired, adored, and respected.

  Until now.

  “Ye act as though I have just asked ye to kill the king,” Rose replied.

  To his way of thinking, the request was just as difficult, just as insane as killing the king. Nay, killing the king would have been easier.

  He sat in dumbfounded silence as he tried to wrap understand her entreaty.

  “She be a fine woman, m’laird,” the old woman named Gertie said. She was seventy if she was a day. A short round woman with light blue eyes and hair the color of the blade of his sword.

  “I do no’ doubt that she is,” Brogan said.

  He was cut off from saying more by the one named Tilda, the mirror image of Gertie, save for her dark blue eyes and missing upper teeth. “Ye will ne’er find a lass more beautiful.” With the missing teeth, she had a very distinct lisp whenever she spoke.

  “Aye, as beautiful as the Highlands in springti
me, I says,” added Gertie as she looked at her friend.

  “Aye, as beautiful as that. And kind! Och, m’laird, ye’ll ne’er meet one as kind!”

  “Or as givin’,” added Gertie.

  “Or as givin’,” agreed Tilda, adding a nod of her silver-gray noggin.

  At a loss for words, Brogan could only stare at the three women before him. Not a one of them understood the difficulty of their request.

  Rose was studying him closely, undoubtedly looking for signs his resolve was waning. “Brogan, ye have been alone for far too long,” she said. Her tone was soft and filled with warmth.

  Brogan knew her intentions were sincere, born out of a sense of familial devotion. But really! Marriage? To a woman he’d never once laid eyes on? How could she ask such a thing when she knew how much he still loved and mourned the loss of his first wife?

  “M’laird,” Gertie said, drawing his attention away from Rose. “We ken we be askin’ much of ye, me and Tilda. But we ask because we love our lady verra much.”

  “Aye, we do,” Tilda agreed.

  “If she be forced to marry that foul Frenchman, well, ’twill mean the end of our clan and the end of our lady,” Gertie said. Her tone was forlorn, sorrowful and matched the sadness he saw in her eyes.

  “Aye,” Tilda said. “He beat his last wife to death, ye ken.”

  Gertie looked at her friend. “All because she gave him a daughter and no’ a son.”

  “He be a bloody son of a whore if e’er there was one,” Tilda said.

  Brogan had heard enough. “Certainly, there be someone in yer clan who would be willin’ to marry yer lady.”

  Gertie and Tilda exchanged conspiratorial glances with Rose before Gertie addressed his assertion. “Well, ye see, there might be a man or two willin’ to do such ...”

  He sensed a but coming.

  “Ye see, she needs a strong man, m’laird,” Tilda offered.

  “Aye, a strong man,” Gertie said.

  “Are ye sayin’ the men of yer clan are weak?” Brogan asked with a quirked brow.

  Both women shook their heads, aghast at the notion. “Nay, m’laird!”

  Brogan had had enough. Pushing away from the table, he glowered at Rose. “I shall have to politely decline,” he said. Bowing to the three women, he bid them all a gruff good day, and quit the tower.

  “Och!” cried Tilda. “Our poor lady! Now, she will be forced to marry the Frenchman!”

  Gertie, the more devious-minded of the two, looked at Rose.

  “Nay, all be no’ lost yet,” Rose said with a smile.

  “What do ye mean, m’lady?” Tilda asked.

  Gertie smiled deviously. “We need to introduce them.”

  Rose knew her husband hated leaving their keep — what there was of it. ’Twas a work in progress with only one tower completely finished. The main keep, which would house a gathering room, a study for Ian, and fifteen bedchambers, was only partially built. This fine spring day, Ian and his men were working feverishly to finish enclosing the outside of their future home. If it were finished by winter, ‘twould be a miracle.

  Knowing her husband as she did — his penchant for working from dawn to dusk and his strong dislike of shopping — played to Rose’s advantage this day. ’Twas less than a sennight since Brogan had politely refused to marry a woman desperately in need of a good, strong husband.

  Knowing men as she did, she had to believe that Brogan was no different than all the rest. Lust and desire could be grand motivators. In most instances, Rose was not the meddling sort. However, she felt sorry for her brother-by-law and felt motivated to help him see that which he refused; he was lonely. He needed to move on with his life.

  Thus, when there was a mysterious and sudden need for flour and other sundries, which required an immediate trip to Camhanaich - a small village a few hours north and east of their lands. Ian all too happily volunteered his unwitting brother to go in his stead. Brogan had as much of a liking for shopping as his brother, which was to say, he detested it. But adoring his sister-by-law, and being the kind, generous man that he was, agreed to act as her escort.

  They took ten Mackintosh men with them, all well-trained and armed to the teeth. After the events of more than a year ago, when Rose had been kidnapped and held for ransom by Rutger Bowie — may he continue to burn in hell — Ian spared no expense at keeping the love of his life safe.

  Brogan, as most men were, was completely oblivious and had not an inkling of what lay ahead for him.

  They left before he had a chance to break his fast, for Rose insisted they needed to leave before all the ‘good flour’ was gone. Brogan’s knowledge of such things was nonexistent; therefore, he was forced to believe her.

  With her son, John, a sweet boy of nearly one, in the good and capable hands of two Mackintosh women, they set off for Camhanaich just after dawn. Intentionally, she nearly talked Brogan’s ears off on the two-hour journey. ’Twas a purposeful ploy to frustrate and annoy so that by the time they reached the town, he would be all too eager to leave her to her shopping.

  Unfortunately, being the honorable man that he was, he refused to leave her side. “If anythin’ happened to ye, Ian would kill me.”

  On to a different plan, she decided. She intentionally took her time, lingering at each merchant stall. Just enough to annoy her brother-by-law.

  “Brogan,” she said as she was poring through fabrics at the wooler’s stall, “I may be a while. If ye would like to, go on ahead and mayhap get a meat pie? I be certain I shall be safe with the rest of Ian’s guards,” she said with a nod in their direction.

  ’Twas after noontime and Brogan had not eaten so much as a crumb of bread since last eve. Starved, tired of his sister-by-law’s incessant chatting and need to look at every item at every stall — none of which had yet to contain an ounce of the desperately needed flour — he could not wait to be away from her. He gave a few quick instructions to the men before leaving Rose in their capable hands.

  Rose smiled an all-knowing smile as she watched her brother-by-law all but run away.

  Lord, how he hated large crowds.

  Were he not so hungry, Brogan would have declined Rose’s suggestion. Instead, he would have politely insisted they hurry on with purchasing the ‘good flour’ and get back to their keep. He knew his pleas would fall on stubborn, deaf ears.

  Making his way through the crowded street, he caught the scent of meat pies and freshly baked bread wafting through the air. His stomach growled and his mouth watered as he politely pushed his way through, motivated solely by hunger. Thankfully, he found the meat pie maker, made his purchase, and stepped away. The second pie was just as delicious as the first, both eaten in quick succession as he stood next to the stone wall of the ale house.

  Though he was quite thirsty and the temptation to step inside and purchase just one ale was quite strong, he knew he could not. Just one would lead to a second will not hurt, which in turn would lead him to drinking an entire barrel. He had fought too hard and too long three years ago to become the sober man he was today. After the death of his wife, he had fallen so far into the abyss of drunkenness he nearly died. Had it not been for his parents — more specifically his father — chances were he would be rotting in the earth at this very moment.

  He could have gone into the ale house and purchased a cider. But experience taught him that a man of his size and stature ordering cider, led to being taunted and ridiculed. The taunts and ridicule he could deal with. But nearly always, someone would challenge his manhood or call him a coward. It never ended well for the drunkard. A brawl would always ensue. And Brogan, being the sober man he was, would always win.

  So thirsty as he was, he decided to stay outside and take his time returning to Rose. She was probably still looking at silks and wools. ‘Twould be hours before they left this awful place overrun with people.

  He decided, instead, to walk along the street, alone with his thoughts. ’Twas not often he had time to himself, s
o busy were they with building the keep and ensuring the clan was safe. Mayhap, he would find a quiet spot somewhere in this town, where he could sit and think without being interrupted. He had been here only once before, last autumn, and again with Rose.

  Rose.

  She was a good woman, with a good heart. His brother Ian loved her with all that he was. There were times when Brogan envied him. Ian had everything Brogan had at one time wanted. A wife, a child, a loving home. But fate intervened and took his sweet wife before he even had time to get her with child.

  God, how he had loved Anna. She was much like Rose in many respects. Good and generous she had been. Not a day had gone by that she had not made him laugh, usually over something innocuous, and betimes, off-color.

  He knew Rose had only good intentions in her heart when she had suggested he marry the Mactavish woman. But four years ago, he swore he would never marry again — even though he had promised his sweet Anna he would. The pain he had endured at losing her had nearly killed him. He refused to tempt fate a second time.

  So he remained unmarried. And alone.

  Brogan refused even to seek the comfort of bar wenches or whores. Not because he did not have any physical needs or desires. On the contrary, he had both. However, he refused the comfort of women because he felt he would be dishonoring the memory of his wife.

  Down the street he went, passing by one merchant stall after another. ’Twas a nice spring day, with the sun shining brightly and just enough of a breeze to help take away some of the foul smells lingering in the street.