Alone in her room all the day long, Mairghread kept thinking on Brogan’s words. Unable as well to get the vision of Gertie’s black eye, the cut on her auld skin just below it, out of her mind.

Gertie.

Gertie was the one person the whole of her life who she could truly count on. When Mairghread was but ten years of age, her mother had died. Gertie had gladly stepped in to assume the role — even though she had taken it the day Mairghread had been born.

It had been Gertie who had given her ‘the talk’ every mum has with her daughter on the eve of her wedding. It had been Gertie who had seen her through childhood illnesses, had gotten her through the first months of morning sickness. It had been Gertie who held her hand while she had given birth to Conner.

It had been Gertie who nursed her back to health after the attack. Gertie was the one who had given her the bad news, had held her for hours while she wept and cried until she had no more tears left.

Always, always Gertie. No matter what horrible things she had done or said, Gertie never stopped loving her.

“And how do ye repay her?” Mairghread whispered her question into the dark night. She stood at her open window again, caring not that she was letting the rain in. It fell gently against the side of the keep, and softly against her skin. It chilled her, yet she cared not. Nor did she feel she had the energy necessary to move.

Numb. She was numb from head to toe.

How had her life been reduced to this? With so much sadness, regret and grief filling her heart there was no room for anything else.

The whisky was whispering to her again, begging her to take just one drink. Just. One.

What would James think of her now? God, how she hoped he could not see her. Would he be ashamed? Would he understand?

Would he hold her and tell her all would be well? Or would he walk away, with his head hung low, ashamed of the day he’d ever met her?

And what of her babe? ’Twas a physical ache to think of him, that sweet, innocent babe. Taken far too soon and in such a horrific manner. Thinking of him made her sick to her stomach, made her fingers tremble.

Last night, she had failed, had succumbed to the whisky’s power, its ethereal voice speaking to her, begging her to take just a sip. She had wakened that morn with a heart filled with regret and humiliation.

She had told herself all the day long she could try again, for it was a new day. She could get through just this one day without drinking. Just one day.

And now, ’twas the middle of the night and her hands were beginning to shake with that all too familiar need to put the bottle to her mouth and drink.

Her thoughts turned to her father, someone she had not thought of in years. She was seven and ten when he died. Less than a month before she was to say her vows to James. “I be so verra proud of ye lass,” he had told her the day before his death. “Ye and James will lead this clan well, lass. He be a good man, and ye’re a finer woman.”

And just like that, he was dead the very next day. Fell from his horse, his skull cracked open on a rock, just as had happened to her brother Charles, five years prior. Why was her family cursed? To suffer as many deaths and tragedies as they had? Why?

She’d lost everyone she had ever loved. Both her parents and four brothers. Then her husband and babe. The people she loved more than anything in this world were all gone now.

Save for Gertie, Tilda and Reginald.

No matter how hard she tried to choke back the tears, they came. Streaming down her cheeks, blending with the rain. Her shoulders shook as she cried, her stomach tightened. And all the while, the whisky and wine called to her. Both of them now, just as they had done last night, together, in unison. Like ugly, discombobulated voices calling to her from a grave.

Drink me.

Below stairs were three people who had stuck by her through it all. Three people who loved her as if she were their very own child. No matter what she said or did, they did not stop loving her.

And in the room next to her, was a man she barely knew. A man she had wed days ago for no other reason than she did not want to marry the man her uncle had chosen for her. A complete stranger, no matter what the church might have to say about it. A man she barely knew. Brogan had sworn he would do whatever he could to help her give up the wine and whisky. But why? He did not know her, not like Gertie or Tilda or Reginald did.

Slowly, she slid to the floor with her cheek against the cold stone wall. For the past three years, she had felt all alone in this world. Without James, without her babe, she had no true reason to go on living.

Or so she had convinced herself. Or was it the wine or the whisky that had done it?

Those two things had been her constant companions, never far from her reach. Always there, no matter the time of day or night. Helping to ease the pain, the grief, the heartache.

People died.

Whisky would always be there for her. Once a bottle was drunk, there was always another to reach for.

But people? People went away. People died. People were murdered. People couldn’t come back.

The lack of memory from that awful night tortured her to her very marrow. She remembered none of it that night, nor anything that happened prior. ’Twas all nothing more than a black void. All she could remember was waking up three days later, near death, with Gertie and Tilda hovering over her, with tear-filled eyes.

Everyone thought she drank to forget. To help ease her pain. That might have been the case in the beginning, but later on, when little bits of her memory started to return, the reasons she drank changed.

During her waking hours, when she was sober, she could remember nothing. But late at night, when she was well into her cups, in that place between passing out and falling asleep, little images had begun to appear. Nothing she could cling to. ’Twas like trying to hold the fog in your hands. You could see it, almost taste it, but the moment you pulled your hand into a fist, ’twas gone.

So she drank in hopes of remembering. Of remembering what truly happened in that room down the hall, the one boarded shut, the one no one was allowed to go into. The chamber that she had shared with James. The chamber where he and their babe had been murdered.

Had she truly done it? Sliced both of their throats with her dirk? The dirk James had given to her on their wedding day? The one with the beautifully carved hilt that she now kept hidden in the bottom of her cupboard?

“Though ’tis true I did no’ see ye do it, Mairghread,” her uncle told her when she was finally well enough to sit up. “But I did find ye on the floor, cryin’ like a banshee that ye had killed them. That ye had lost yer mind and in a fit of blind rage, that ye killed them both.”

He had promised to keep her secret. He had promised not to tell another living soul. But somehow, people had found out. How, she did not know, nor did she truly care. There were times when she heard them whispering behind her back. Long ago, those whispers had hurt just as bad as a fist to her face.

“Could I have done what they say?” she whispered against the cold, stone wall. “Why can I no’ remember?” Why can I no’ remember?

Pulling her knees to her chest, she wept quietly. Occasionally, she would wipe her face against the fabric of her gown. Though she clung to her knees for dear life, she could still feel the tremble in her hands. For a long time, she sat there, worried that if she let go she would come undone entirely.

Twice before, she had tried to give up the drink. Once, two years ago, for reasons she could no longer remember. An entire five days without a drop. But then something happened that sent her over the edge and back into the welcoming bottle.

Then last year, around the anniversary of James and Conner’s deaths. Gertie had convinced her it was time to say goodbye and put those ever present bottles down. She’d made it a full seven days. But on the anniversary of their deaths, she could take no more and dived right back in.

Was it even worth trying again? To what end? What was there for her?

All she loved was gone.

All she had left were two auld women and a steward who looked upon her with pity-filled eyes, wanting the old Mairghread back. The Mairghread they were proud of. The girl they had loved and admired. The woman she had grown into that would have made her parents proud.

But that woman no longer existed, at least not as she had once been.

Her thoughts turned once again to her father and how proud he had been of her. ‘Ye and James will lead the clan when I be gone. I will never worry over the two of ye. Ye will continue with our legacy, Mairghread and build one of yer own.”

A legacy.

She snorted derisively at the memory. “A legacy,” she murmured into the still night. “What legacy? I have no one to leave it to.”

When she closed her eyes, she saw her dear father’s face, his rich, dark red hair and bright blue eyes. So clear was his image ’twas nearly frightening. He looked so very sad. Not disappointed, just utterly, truly sad. “There still be time, Mairghread. Do no’ let Aymer lead. He never understood what ye and I did.”

The sound of his voice stole her breath away. Her eyes flew open as her breast pounded against her chest. He never understood what ye and I did.

Her father’s words played over and over again in her mind, pounding loudly against her skull, drowning out the sound of the whisky’s warm voice.

It all began to make sense. Like a rush of cold water from the falls.

“I be the last one,” she said aloud. “I be the only one who can continue me father’s dreams. I be the only one who can continue the legacy that was his.”

Without a doubt, she knew then, what she must do.

* * *

Once again, Brogan lay in his bed staring up at the ceiling. Although he was tired to his bones, sleep was elusive. His mind kept bouncing around from one thought to another. Of Mairghread, then Anna, the wall, his new home and its people. He also thought of his father, his stepmother, all of his brothers and sisters. He missed the Mackintosh keep. It seemed a lifetime ago since last he’d been there.

He’d travelled west with Ian to help him rebuild the McLaren keep, their sister-by-law’s home. Though he had enjoyed the hard work and felt he had found his purpose in life, something was still missing.

’Twas not until he saw Mairghread for the first time, that he realized what that something was; a wife, children, and loving home.

This, this current state of dread and worry, this keep with its odd inhabitants, its lack of walls, none of it was what he had imagined for his future. And he most assuredly had not imagined a violent, mean-spirited wife with the tongue of a harpy and the soul of a banshee.

There had to exist within her something more. More than she was allowing him to see. Aye, he’d caught brief glimpses at their first and second meetings. Even earlier that day when she thought Gertie had fallen ill. Enough so that he believed she was truly a kind and gentle woman. Was that nothing more than a facade to ensnare him? To lead him to the altar?

Could he truly have been so naive? So desperate for wife, hearth and home, as she had accused him?

He rolled over and stared at the low burning embers in the hearth and thought on the matter. Nay, he finally concluded, he was neither naive nor desperate. Aye, he might have had his head turned by her auburn hair and emerald eyes. But there was something else about her. Something that called to him. Something he could not name or reason out.

He puffed out his cheeks and let his breath out in a rush of frustration. “God, I must believe ye brought me here for a reason,” he whispered to the embers. “Was it to help Mairghread give up the drink? Or was it to watch her die? Am I here only to help her clan, to make it safe once again?”

Part of him wanted to grab her up and toss her into a small room somewhere hidden within the keep. Put her there while the alcohol worked its way out of her system. Until she could once again breathe and function without it.

But he knew ’twould do her no good. The moment he let her out, into the light of day, she would seek out that which she loved more than any living person. She would be drunk in a matter of hours.

Nay, he could not force sobriety on her. Forcing someone into sobriety would be the same as trying to force them into loving someone. ’Twas as impossible a feat as any there was.

Closing his eyes, he strained his ears to listen for an answer. He was met with nothing but the soft crackle of the fire and the gentle rap of rain against the outer walls of the keep.

“What is me reward in all of this? What does my hard work in the quarry even mean? Will I build a wall only to have Aymer order it torn down?” he scoffed at the notion. He knew he’d fight unto his own death before he allowed Aymer to do that. And just why he felt this pull, this need to protect these people? ’Twas certainly not because they all adored him. And it was certainly not to impress his wife. Nay, Mairghread could not care in the least about these people. She was far too gone now, to hope she could change.

Mayhap I should just pack me things, round up me men, and leave here. Go home, back to Mackintosh lands. Have me marriage to Mairghread set aside and forget these past few weeks had ever happened.

He knew he would not do any of those things. ’Twas not just his honor that held him back. He had made a promise to Mairghread and to God, a sennight ago. He could not break the oath he made to either of them. In doing so, he would let his Father down, as well as his blood father. A Mackintosh never went back on his word.

Not even when he was deceived and lied to.

“God, what do ye want from me?”

This time, his question did not go unanswered.

* * *

Mairghread.

He heard her open the door, felt her presence before he even saw her.

Rolling over, he sat up on one elbow and waited. She stood in the black doorway, the light of his hearth casting her in dark shades of gold. Still wearing the same dress from three days ago. He was unable to determine if she was drunk yet again. Patiently, he waited for her to say or do something.

“Brogan,” she whispered his name, her voice trembling with dread and fear. At hearing the faint tremble, his heart begged his legs to get up and go to her, to take her into his arms and sooth away the tears he watched fall down her cheeks. But his mind knew better. She must come to him.

“Mairghread,” he said, nearly choking on the name.

He took note that she was clinging to the door with one hand as if she were afraid to take that all-important step forward. The woman was proverbially stuck. But was she here to curse at him again? Or to ask for his help?

For a long while, she stood there, trembling, shaking, uncertain. Brogan too, remained where he was.

“Did ye speak the truth?” she asked him, breaking the long length of silence.

Confused, he asked, “When?”

She swallowed hard, took in a deep breath and finally let go of the door. He watched as she swayed ever so slightly before she spoke. “When ye said ye wished to be me friend. When ye said ye wanted to help me.”

“Aye,” he replied softly. “I spoke the truth.”

She swayed again, for a brief moment before falling to her knees. “Please, then, help me,” she cried.

* * *

He was out of the bed and scooping her into his arms in the span of a few heartbeats. She wept without restraint against his bare chest. “I can no’ do it on me own,” she cried. “I do no’ want to hurt anyone else.”

“Wheest, now lass,” he whispered soothingly against the top of her head. She reeked of stale wine and vomit, but he could smell no wine or whisky on her breath.

Gently, he sat her on the edge of his bed, but she clung to his shoulders, unable or unwilling to let go. “I do no’ want to hurt anyone else,” she repeated. “The whisky, the wine, they call to me, beggin’ me to drink them. I swear I hear them, Brogan. Please, make them stop!”

Crouching before her, he gently pulled her hair away from her face. Her porcelain skin was blotchy from crying. Her eyes were glassy and red, and filled with so much fear it made his chest feel tight. “Wheest, lass, I am here.”

“I tried, I did, Brogan,” she told him. The words came out in a rush, so fast he could barely make them out. “I can no’ go three days without it. I’ve no’ had a drop since last night, and I swear, I feel as though I want to die.” She fell against him, into his arms, once again. He pulled her down to the floor, where they sat by the fire.

The more she cried and begged for his help, the more constricted his chest felt. Her pain, the anguish, ’twas all almost more than one man could bear. But bear it he would.

Gone was the harpy with the sharp tongue. In his arms was a woman in need. A woman who had gone through more in the past few years of her life than many would in an entire lifetime. Her losses were significant and she’d born many of them with aplomb and grace, if what Gertie and Tilda said was true.

But when she lost her husband and babe? The only way to bear the loss was with the aid of strong drink.

“Wheest, now, lass,” he whispered against her cheek.

He kept his arms wrapped around her, smoothing away the ache as best he could, with tender caresses and sweet, whispered words. After a long while, the tears began to wane, and she began to hiccup, much like a babe might.

“Mairghread, I need to ken that ye truly, with all that ye are, want to give up the drink,” he said. His voice was but a whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

She pulled away to look him in the eyes. “Aye, I truly do,” she said as she wiped her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I do no’ wish to hurt anyone ever again.”

’Twas a good reason, but it could not be the only one. “And?” he asked, encouraging her to speak freely.

Mairghread’s brow furrowed. “Is that no’ enough? I have behaved horribly to everyone left who cares about me. I wish no’ to hurt them anymore.”

“I be glad to hear that,” he told her as he caressed her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “If I am to help ye, I must ken why it is ye drink and why it is ye wish to stop.”

She swallowed hard, searching his eyes for what he could only assume was any hint of dishonesty on his part.

“Do ye drink to help ease the pain of losin’ yer husband and son?” he asked.

Mairghread gave a slow shake of her head. “Nay,” she said. “That was why I started drinkin’, but no’ why I continued.”

“Do ye drink to ferget?” he asked.

She took in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. “Nay, Brogan. I drink to remember.”

* * *

From Brogan’s furrowed brow and perplexed expression, he did not quite understand what she meant.

It took several deep breaths before she could explain. “I can no’ remember anything of that night, or even the day. No matter how hard I try, ’tis naught but a piece of blackness in my memory. But sometimes, when I be well into me cups, I think I see blurry images. Little pieces that I can no’ quite make out. ’Tis like bein’ in a foggy dream, where ye see somethin’, somethin’ ye swear ye could touch if ye could just reach a bit further with yer fingers. But no matter how fast ye run to get to it, it keeps movin’ away.”

Brogan did not need much time to consider what she was saying. “I think, were I in yer shoes, I would have done the same thing. It must be maddenin’, to not be able to remember.” He rubbed a palm against his stubbled jaw and was quiet for a time. “Lass, what will it do to ye if ye can never remember that night?”

She had lived without any clear or concise memory for such a long while now. But she had never stopped to ask herself that what if question. Tears pooled in her eyes again, but she remained mute, afraid to answer that question either to herself or to him.

Brogan touched the tip of her chin with his index finger. “Lass, if I am to help ye, ye must always be honest with me. Even if ye think yer answer will distress me.”

A slight shake of her head expressed her true disbelief in his promise. She was not foolish enough to believe she could speak her mind, freely or openly.

“Lass, I imagine it be difficult fer ye to believe me, fer we are, in a sense, strangers. I promise that I will always be honest with ye, no matter the time or circumstance. I ken no’ any other way to be.”

She searched the depths of his bright green eyes for any hint of disingenuousness. Bright green, with little flecks of black stared back at her. They reminded her of a glen after the rain, when the grass was at its brightest, the trees and rocks nearly black. For reasons she could not begin to fathom, she felt at peace. A calmness settled in around her. ’Twas something she had not felt in many a year and it frightened her. How was it possible to find that sense of peace and calm that had eluded her for three years in the eyes of a man she barely knew?

“If ye will treat me with the same respect, Mairghread, I ken I can help ye.”

Mayhap she had been so deep in the bottle for such a long time that she was willing to listen to anyone who could help her. Or, mayhap, God had truly put Brogan in her life to help her. Either way, she was willing to listen.

Swallowing hard again, to fight back tears and keep the threatening bile down, she said, “I no longer wish to die.”

* * *

Those were the words he needed to hear. “If ye truly wish to live, then aye, I can help ye. But ye must be willin’ to put up the good fight.”

Scrunching her brow, she said, “The good fight? I thought I was supposed to give up fightin’ against the world.”

Brogan chuckled at her sincerity. “Aye, ye can keep fightin’ the world, when ye need to. But now, ye must learn to fight the drink.”

“I admit I be afraid, Brogan.”

“I ken, lass. I warn ye, ’twill no’ be an easy road ahead of ye.”

Too weak, tired and ashamed, she could not lie to his face and tell him she was fully prepared for such a fight. The thought frightened her to her marrow.

“I will be with ye every step of the way,” he told her. “I will no’ leave ye, lass.”

Looking into his eyes, she found that sense of peace and comfort once again. And she believed in Brogan’s Promise.

* * *

Brogan left her alone in his bedchamber only long enough to wake Reginald. His room was down the hall from Gertie and Tilda. Brogan decided to allow the auld women to sleep. Chances were good that he would need them more as the days went on.

Bleary eyed, Reginald opened the door to his chamber. As soon as he saw Brogan standing in the dimly lit corridor, his expression changed immediately to concern. “What be the matter?” he asked.

“All is well,” Brogan replied. “Mairghread has come to me. She wants to give up the drink.”

The man’s shoulders sagged with relief as he let out the breath he’d been holding. “What can I do to help?” he asked as he let Brogan into the room.

Brogan explained what he would need. “A small room. One where the rest of the keep can no’ hear her.”

Reginald lifted one brow. “Why would ye need to keep her away from others?” he asked dubiously.

“’Tis fer her own good,” Brogan replied. “The next few days will no’ be easy fer her. I want to keep the waggin’ tongues from causin’ her any undo harm. They will no’ understand what is happenin’, but it will no’ keep them from talkin’ about it.”

Reginald nodded his approval. “Lord kens there be enough gossips about the place as it is,” he said as he ran a hand through his hair. “I would do nothin’ to bring our lady any distress.”

“I fear the next several days will be nothin’ but difficult for Mairghread. I need yer help, Reginald.”

“Anythin’ at all, Brogan, ye ken that,” he said as he pulled a tunic from the end of his bed and began to dress.

Brogan knew the man meant well. However, he was uncertain he understood the seriousness of what was being asked of him. “Have ye ever helped someone give up the drink before?”

Reginald paused in pushing his foot through the leg of his trews. “Nay,” he said, sounding offended by the question. “But there is naught I would not do fer our lady.”

“I do no’ doubt yer sincerity,” Brogan told him. “But these next few days will be difficult enough to test even the strongest man’s mettle.”

Angrily, Reginald continued to dress. Grim lines formed around his mouth and Brogan knew the man was biting his tongue.

“Reginald, I can no’ do this alone. I do no’ doubt yer love fer Mairghread. But there will be times over these next days where ye might be tempted to give in to her, only to ease her pain and sufferin’. And believe me, she will be in a good deal of pain.”

“Good lord!” Reginald exclaimed. “What do ye plan on doin’ to her? I’ll no’ allow ye to hurt her.”

Brogan held up his palms and shook his head. “I will no’ be doin’ anything but takin’ the drink from her, Reginald. When a body has drunk as often and as long as Mairghread, the takeaways can be horrific.”

“The takeaways?” he asked perplexedly.

“Aye,” Brogan said. “’Tis a phrase me father coined, to describe what happens to a person when ye take the drink away. They will cry, shake, lash out, and cry again. The tremors are enough to bring down a stone wall. She might vomit, more than once. She will become a person ye do no’ recognize. But I swear to ye, those takeaways will no’ last. ’Tis just her body demanding to have what it wants. And what it wants is the strong drink.”

“But that be what is killin’ her slowly,” Reginald replied.

“Aye. But there will be a time or two where she will swear she be dyin’. But I can assure ye, she is no’.”

Reginald thought on it for some time. “I will do what I must, in order to help her.”

Brogan could only pray the man would be able to hold fast and keep his word.