Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 2

  He was just passing by an alehouse, when someone stumbled and fell into him. Startled, he caught her before she could fall to the ground.

  “Och!” she exclaimed as he was setting her onto her own feet. “I be terribly sorry!”

  ’Tis odd, at times, how God works. Or mayhap ’twas fate, or the stars had aligned perfectly. No matter what had caused the woman to stumble into him, Brogan would never be the same man after. He just didn’t know it yet.

  She was one of the most magnificent women he’d ever laid eyes on. Gloriously rich, auburn hair hung in riotous waves across her shoulders. A perfectly oval face framed big, green eyes, the color of emeralds. Auburn lashes, a straight nose, and full, pink lips; God’s teeth, she was beautiful. A long moment passed before he realized she had stolen his breath away.

  Someone bumped into her again, causing her to let out a yelp of surprise and cling to him even tighter.

  They stood, these two oblivious souls, staring into one another’s eyes while the rest of the world passed by. Brogan found it next to impossible to tear his eyes away from hers.

  Another bump against her back, jostled him out of his current state of awe. Had he not been as tall and strong as he was, they would have both fallen to the ground.

  “Gertie!” the auburn-haired woman exclaimed as she turned away from Brogan. “Stop that!”

  Brogan blinked. His brow furrowed at the recognition of the name Gertie.

  “Sorry, m’lady,” came a scratchy voice he recognized from a sennight ago. “It be awful crowded here today.”

  Brogan finally tore his eyes away from the stunning woman in his arms. Standing next to her were Gertie and Tilda. Though they feigned innocence and refused to look at him, he knew better. Gertie was rocking back and forth on her heels, whistling as if she were as innocent as a newly born babe. Tilda was picking imaginary lint from her dark green shawl.

  Stunned, he stood like a fool, looking at the old women and back to the woman he was still clinging to, and back again.

  “Och!” Gertie finally exclaimed, as if she had just now realized ’twas he who had saved her lady from falling flat on her face. “’Tis ye! How be ye this fine day, Brogan Mackintosh?”

  His stunned expression evaporated in the blink of an eye as he replaced it with a cold, hard stare. A stare that would have sent a grown man to quaking in his boots.

  “Och! Ye be right,” Tilda exclaimed as if she too, were only now realizing who he was.

  Brogan glowered at her as a tic began to form in his lower jaw.

  “What a surprise it is to be seein’ ye here this day!” Tilda said with a wide, happy smile.

  If he spoke a word now, he knew he would say something he might later — decades later — regret.

  “Ye know him?” Mairghread asked rather perplexed.

  “We have met, aye,” Gertie replied. “When he came to the keep last year to purchase horses.”

  She lied.

  Right to her lady’s face.

  Mairghread turned her attention back to Brogan. “I fear I do no’ remember ye,” she said, her voice but a whisper and her eyes filled with something akin to regret. Brogan found her response odd, if not a bit intriguing.

  I would have remembered ye, he thought to himself.

  “Come along, m’lady,” Gertie said as she pulled on Mairghread’s arm. “We still need to purchase flour, remember?”

  Brogan’s jaw dropped. Flour?

  Aye, he knew then he’d been set up to meet Mairghread Mactavish. And there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Rose was involved. Up to her pretty little neck.

  For the remainder of the day, Brogan remained silent, refusing to speak to Rose. He met every one of her questions and all her chatting with a cold-as-ice glower and even colder silence. After some time, she realized she was going to get nowhere with her brother-by-law and gave up trying. Even the men who travelled with them could tell he was in a black mood. Unlike Rose, they left him alone.

  ’Twas nearing the evening meal by the time they returned to the keep. Not quite ready yet to give up his frustration, he saw to it that Rose and the other guards were well within the walls of the keep before he left. One of the warriors had the audacity to ask where Brogan was off to. His reply was nothing more than a clenched jaw and a near murderous glare.

  He had no real destination in mind. He simply needed to be away and alone. ’Twas doubtful he would be able to make it through the evening meal without saying something to Rose that would injure her tender feelings. Even if it was well-deserved.

  Though he’d already ridden his mount to Camhanaich and back, they hadn’t ridden fast or hard. Still, he was never a man to be cruel to anything, least of all a horse. So he kept a slow, unhurried pace.

  Brogan took his mount south of the keep, along the little stream that ran through their lands. It led him away from all the construction and daily chaos that was the Mackintosh and McLaren clan.

  The farther away he rode, the more at peace he began to feel. The sun still shone brightly against the pale blue sky. The spring grass danced in the cool breeze as birds flew noiselessly high above. The gentle sound of water rippling across stones and pebbles was just what he needed to calm his frayed nerves.

  Then he thought of Mairghread.

  The woman was beautiful. Damned beautiful.

  He hadn’t been so physically drawn to a woman since his sweet Anna had died.

  But Mairghread? The moment he looked into those emerald green eyes, he felt an instant, visceral reaction. A need, a deep-seated need to keep touching her, to press his lips against the tender flesh at her neck and not stop. ’Twas as profound as a kick in his gut and nearly as painful.

  Aye, Brogan had much to think about as he crossed the little stream.

  What would his sweet Anna say to him? He shrugged for he already knew the answer. “Do no’ leave yerself alone in this world, Brogan Mackintosh. Do no’ keep yer heart or yer life fer a dead woman.”

  Those had been her exact words less than a sennight before she died.

  That had been four years ago.

  Aye, he had promised her he would not mourn her all the rest of his days, but the promise had been a lie. She had been so tremendously ill — with the wasting disease that took her from a beautiful vibrant woman to nothing more than skin and bones in less than two months — that he could have denied her nothing. Not even her simple request not to mourn her long. But his love for her had been so great. Anna and their love for one another had such a profound impact on him as a man, he could do nothing else but grieve and lament her loss. And drink.

  Anna was everything good and right in his world. She was everything to him. Without her, he felt less. Less a man. Less alive. Less everything.

  Losing her had left a tremendous, yawning wound to the very marrow of his soul. Brogan started drinking the day she died and did not put the bottle down for more than a full year. No matter how much he drank, he could not rid himself of the pain and loneliness he felt with her loss.

  A dull throb began to pulse at the base of his neck. He pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. Stretching his arms wide, he turned his head from side to side, his bones cracking loudly with the motion.

  “Ye be an auld man, ye fool,” he said aloud. Only his horse had heard him. “Yer bones crack and groan far too much for a man of only four and thirty.” The horse had no opinion. Instead, he chose to lower his head and nibble at the grass.

  “So what am I to do?” he asked God as he looked up at the clear sky.

  It appeared God was no more interested in having a discussion with him than his horse was. Puffing out his cheeks, he let loose a quick breath, and gave a tug on the reins. The horse snickered once before complying.

  Together, they walked leisurely across the open field. His thoughts kept turning back to Mairghread Mactavish. Their meeting had lasted only a few moments, but ’twas still far too long to suit him. He blamed the three she-devils: Rose, Gertie, and Tilda.

&n
bsp; Had they not interfered with this ridiculous notion that he of all people marry the fair Mairghread, he wouldn’t be feeling as low as horse dung on the bottom of a poor man’s boot. He would not now be wandering aimlessly along the countryside, tired and hungry and confused. Nor would he be struggling with thoughts and memories that were best left in the past.

  But alas, they had. The she-devils.

  “Even if Rose be right — and I am no’ admittin’ to anythin’ — it still be no’ her place to interfere,” he spoke to his horse as if he were an auld friend. “’Tis my life we be speakin’ of, ye ken? No’ hers.”

  Mayhap he had been living in the past for too long. Mayhap it was time to start thinking about his future. “It still does no’ give her the right to do what she did,” he said. “Even if it be the right time, it should be left to me to decide who my bride should be, aye?”

  The horse snickered once and gave a great shake of his head, as if to disagree.

  “What do ye ken?” Brogan said dismissively.

  Across the small glen was a small thicket of trees. Brogan tossed the reins over the neck of his horse to allow the animal a little freedom to roam and graze. While the animal ignored him, Brogan picked a tree to lean against. Sliding down the trunk until he was seated comfortably on the grass, he stretched one long leg out and tossed his wrist over a raised knee.

  He sat for a long while, struggling with his thoughts and feelings. ’Twas a heated debate betwixt heart and mind.

  While he understood ’twas high time he left the past behind him, his heart was not quite as ready to give it up. His chest tightened when he thought of his sweet Anna. To this very day, it did not seem fair nor right that such a sweet, giving lass had died so young. As far as he was concerned, the world would have been much better off with a woman like her in it instead of a man such as he.

  Or the kind of man he had been before he met her.

  Nay, he was not the same man he had once been. Just as he was not the same after meeting her, after falling so hopelessly in love with her, he was also not the same since losing her. Some might believe a man incapable of change, but Brogan knew better.

  Was he ready to move on? Was he ready to take another wife, to start a new life, mayhap be blessed with a bairn or two? Could he leave the memory of Anna behind and begin anew?

  His heart ached still with missing her. He was not quite ready yet to let go. But now, he was willing at least to think about it. ’Twas a step in the right direction.

  Brogan had slept out of doors under a canopy of sparkling stars with only his horse and his confused heart for company. Although he had come to the conclusion it might be time for him to move on with his life, he felt no better for it.

  He walked his horse, rather than rode it, back to the keep, just after the break of dawn. Morning dew clung to everything around him. By the time he walked through the gate, his boots and trews were damp with it.

  As was typical, everyone was already up and about. Several women were cooking over open fires whilst others were readying the long trestle tables inside the large gathering tent for the morning meal. He passed by a small group of men who were readying teams of horses to be used in the quarry. Other men were lined up to take bannocks and sausage with them, to eat as they headed either to fell trees in the forest or to work in the deep pits of the rock quarry. Children giggled happily as they chased one another around the encampment. All in all, ’twas as fine a morning as any.

  So why did he feel such a strong sense of mourning?

  He led his horse to the stables. The stable master, an older man named Ennis, volunteered to tend to his mount. Brogan politely declined his offer and tended to the animal himself.

  He took his time rubbing the hobby down, making sure he had plenty of food and water. He ignored his own growling belly to take the time to clean the bridle and bit. Aye, he knew he was delaying the inevitable, like a child finds every conceivable delay when it is time to bathe or sleep.

  Finally, his need to eat outweighed his desire to avoid Rose and Ian. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, took a deep breath, and left the stables.

  He let out a relieved breath when he did not see Ian or Rose about. With a thankful heart, he happily took a trencher of food from one of the cooks and headed into the large tent. The tent was used as the clan’s gathering room, until the rest of the keep could be built. Upon entering, he quickly perused the tables. No sign of Rose or Ian, which induced him to sigh in relief once more.

  Mayhap this eve, he told himself as he took a seat at one of the tables. Mayhap he would pull Ian aside and ask for his guidance and advice.

  Purposefully, he sat in the darkest corner with his back to the entrance. He hadn’t taken his first bite yet when Rose sat down beside him. He shuddered and wondered if God was playing a cruel jest.

  “Are ye through bein’ angry with me?” she asked with a quirked brow.

  “That depends,” he answered drolly as he pulled off a hunk of brown bread. “Are ye done interferin’ in me love life?” He popped the bread into his mouth.

  Rose gave him a side-long glance. “I do no’ ken why ye were so upset.”

  He chewed and swallowed before answering. “Because me life is me own, Rose.”

  Anger flared behind her bright eyes as she stood up from the table. “Then ye best start livin’ it, Brogan Mackintosh. Else ye’ll wake up some day and find yerself an auld man who is all alone in this world. And ye’ll have no one to blame but yerself.”

  With grace reminiscent of a queen, Rose left him alone to simmer and think.

  For reasons he could not begin to understand let alone explain to anyone, Brogan became angry. The more he thought on it, the angrier he became. So much so that he found he was unable now, to break his fast.

  Mayhap his anger was born because he hadn’t had a decent meal in two days. Mayhap ’twas because he had slept out of doors the night before.

  Or mayhap, just mayhap, ’twas Rose’s I know what is best for you attitude. Or more likely than not, ’twas the fact that she was right which he found so irksome. Either way, he pushed his trencher away, jumped to his feet and went in search of his sister-by-law.

  He was fully prepared to give the woman a piece of his mind. I will marry when I decide the time is right! I will choose me own wife, thank ye verra kindly!

  How on earth did his brother stand to be married to such a meddlesome woman?

  It took a bit of searching and asking around before he learned that Rose was in her cottage, tending to her son. He knocked once, rather harshly. She had barely gotten out the words, “come in” before he shoved the door open.

  He took only one step inside, seething mad. “’Tis my decision to make, Rose.”

  Pretending she had no idea to what he was referring, she lifted one fine brow lifted. “And what decision be that?” she asked before turning her attention back to her son. John was naked and cooing up at his mum as she changed his nappy and clothing.

  Brogan growled deep in his throat. Aye, she was a meddlesome pain in his arse. But she was still his brother’s wife. Without uttering a word, he turned around and slammed the door behind him.

  He stood just a few steps away from the little cottage, his frustration building. Later, with a good deal of hindsight, he would realize he should have walked away. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned around and threw open the door again. “Ye may be me brother’s wife, but that does no’ give ye the right to interfere in me life, Rose.”

  He gave her no opportunity to respond. Once again, he spun around abruptly and slammed the door behind him.

  ’Twas all he could do to keep from yelling at the top of his lungs. His hands, clenched tightly into fists, fair shook with his anger. He thought back to the day before when he had met Mairghread. Aye she was a beautiful woman. But to have the three she-devils lie to his face and force a meeting betwixt them? Nay, ’twas as wrong a thing as any.

  Once again, he spun around and went back into
the cottage. Rose was now sitting in a chair by the fire, nursing her son. Brogan did not care about the impropriety. “Ye lied to me and ye lied to Ian. ’Twas deceit and trickery ye used to get me to meet Mairghread Mactavish! Did ye think I would take one look at her and change me mind?”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “Would ye have agreed to a meetin’ with her had I asked nicely?”

  Realizing he was on the precipice of losing his temper completely, he left again.

  Lingering outside the door of his brother’s cottage, Brogan fumed. “Would ye have agreed to a meetin’ with her had I asked nicely?” Of course he wouldn’t have! But that did not make her actions right or just.

  And what of Mairghread? He could not be married to a woman who would be party to such a scheme, no matter how beautiful he found her to be. Was she in on the deception? ’Twas a good question, he supposed. So he marched back into the cottage. “Did Mairghread know about yer game?” he asked. His tone was harsh, his words clipped.

  “Nay, she did no’,” Rose replied. Her tone and expression were such that he had to believe her.

  Some of his anger began to ease away. There was, he reckoned, no use in being so bloody angry he could bite his own sword in two. He offered Rose a curt nod before leaving. This time, he didn’t slam the door behind him, nor did he thunder away only to return a moment later.

  What truly has ye so angry? he asked himself as he stood in front of the cottage. Mayhap the number of things that were angering him at the moment were too long to list. He hung his head, rested his fingertips on his hips and thought long and hard about his current situation.

  What of Mairghread? If she did not know of yesterday’s deception, he had to wonder if she had any knowledge at all of the plans the three she-devils had in store for them. What if he did agree to such a union only to find out Mairghread had no interest in marrying him? What then?

  If he conceded — he was not quite ready to do that yet — and she turned him down, why, the ramifications would be significant. Rose would not rest until she had him well and duly wed.