On the northeastern side of the keep, a room was prepared for Mairghread. ’Twas a small space carved out of the attics on the fourth floor, with low ceilings, arrow slits, and only one small window that faced the ocean.

Reginald procured a small bed and set it up on the wall nearest the door. A brazier was brought in and placed in the center of the room. A few other essentials, such as a chamber pot, a short stool, as well as linens, and the space was complete. Before the rest of the keep had begun to stir to start their day, Brogan took Mairghread to her new, but temporary chamber.

With her hand in his, he led her into the room. Confusion and trepidation flashed behind her eyes.

“Do no’ fash yerself,” Brogan said with an encouraging smile. “’Tis only temporary.”

She ran a hand across the edge of the bed. “What happens here?” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice. “Why are ye lockin’ me away?”

Brogan placed gentle hands on her shoulders. “We have ye here fer yer safety. These next few days will be tryin’ times, Mairghread. The takeaways will be difficult. Yer body must get used to no’ having whisky or other strong drink.”

Although he was using his most sincere smile and warmest voice, it did not have the affect he desired. Her fear was as palpable as the rain falling against the keep.

“I shall remain by yer side through it all, lass. I will no’ leave ye.”

At the moment she didn’t know which frightened her more; him never leaving or being completely alone.

“I shall be with ye as well, m’lady,” Reginald promised her. “As will Gertie and Tilda. Remember, always, that we are here because of our fondness fer ye. We want only fer ye to get better.”

Mairghread smiled amiably as she took his hands in hers. “I thank ye, Reginald.”

His eyes began to grow misty. He made an excuse about needing to tend to something below stairs. “But I shall return to ye soon, I promise.” Moments later, he quit the room, leaving Mairghread alone with Brogan.

“I fear I do no’ ken what to do now,” she laughed nervously.

“’Tis naught but a game of patience, now,” Brogan replied.

Mairghread began to wander about the room, though in truth, there was nothing much to see. Brogan lit a fire in the brazier then pulled up the stool to sit near it. He remained quiet, she supposed, for her benefit and peace of mind.

She had not taken so much as a small sip of wine for two days. Her hands trembled and her stomach began to roil. Unfastening the bits of leather that kept the fur in place over the window, she tossed it aside to let in much needed fresh air.

From the high vantage point, she could see the ocean waves rolling in, spraying salty sea air as they crashed against the craggy cliffs. The rain had ceased, but the sky was still a dull, ugly gray. A few white seagulls flew overhead. Mairghread watched as they dove into the water to catch a meal.

“When I was a little girl,” she began in a soft voice, “we used to fish on the little beach down below.” Oh, how her life had changed over the years. She had been a carefree child once. Always ready for an adventure, afraid of nothing, willing to try anything at least once. Much to her mother’s dismay, her three older brothers had always encouraged her search for excitement.

“My brother, Walter, drowned in that ocean.” Wistful and sorrowful, she stared at the ocean for the longest while. “We never found his body. He was only eight years old when we lost him.”

* * *

Brogan had been listening intently from his spot by the brazier. He too, had lost a brother at a young age. He had been nine years old when they lost Harry — all of seven — to the ague. The loss had been nearly unbearable for their father, for he’d already lost their mother.

“We lost our brother, Harry, to the ague,” he told her. “There be no’ a day that goes by when I do no’ think of him. And that was more than twenty years ago.” Standing to his full height, he tried to catch a glimpse of the ocean beyond where she stood. “I can no’ imagine the pain ye must have suffered at losin’ him as ye did.”

“I think his death put me mum in her grave, fer she died less than a year later,” she told him, never once taking her eyes off the ocean. A deep sense of melancholy fell over her, weighing down her shoulders.

“I lost me mum when I was five,” he told her. “I do no’ remember much of her. Me da always told me she was a good woman. Quiet,” he said with a chuckle. “Which is the exact opposite of his current wife, Elsbeth(?)”

Finally, she tore her eyes away from the window and began to wander around the room again. With her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, she asked, “How many times has yer da been married?”

“Four,” Brogan replied. “Betwixt all of them, he had eleven children. Eight still live.”

With her index finger, Mairghread began to trace the outline of the stones in the wall. “And grandchildren?”

Brogan chuckled. “Too many to count,” he replied. “But last I heard, there were seventeen.”

She turned to face him. “And ye? Do ye have children?”

Why her question pulled at his heart the way it did, he was not entirely certain. “Me wife, Anna, died before she got with child.”

“I be terribly sorry, Brogan,” she replied with a deep frown.

They were silent for a long while. Mairghread was the first to look away. “Do ye want more children?” she asked, feigning disinterest in his answer.

“Aye, I do,” he said.

“And if I am unable to give ye any?”

He answered as honestly as he could. “I want children. Preferably with ye, Mairghread. But if we can no’ conceive them together, I am no’ against adopting.”

She spun around to face him, her face contorted, twisted in confusion. “Ye would do that?”

“Aye,” he said. “I would. There be many poor children in this world in need of a good home.”

“But they would no’ be yers by blood,” she pointed out the obvious.

Brogan smiled warmly. “Does blood matter when a child is in need? I would love them just the same.”

She twisted her lip for a moment, pondering his answer. “Ye are an odd man, Brogan Mackintosh.”

Chuckling, he said, “Aye, so I have been told.”

* * *

For the next hour or so, they spoke of many things. None of them of any importance. Brogan found that when she was talking, she was not thinking about the tremor in her hands or the stomach he knew must be twisting in knots.

“How do ye ken so much about these takeaways ye mentioned?” she asked as she plopped down on the edge of the bed.

“Because I have suffered through them.”

As her eyes flew open, she exclaimed, “Ye jest!”

His lips curved into a warm smile. “Nay, lass, I do no’ jest.”

She gave her head a good shake in disbelief. “Ye? The honorable and pious Brogan Mackintosh?”

He doubted she meant it as an insult. “Aye, me. The honorable and pious Brogan Mackintosh,” he replied with a wide wave of his hands and a bow.

“Do tell,” she challenged as she rested an elbow on her knee, her chin planted against her fisted hand. Settling in as if she were awaiting a bard’s tale, she eagerly awaited for more.

“’Tis a simple tale, truly,” he began as he retook his seat. “Within an hour of losing me Anna, I picked up the nearest bottle of wine. When that was done and did not give me the calm I desired, I picked up a bottle of whisky. I did no’ stop drinking for a year after.”

Puzzled, she said, “Ye truly do no’ jest.”

He gave her a shrug of his shoulders, as if to say she could believe him or not, it didn’t matter.

“That is why ye drink the bairn cider,” she said as clarity began to dawn.

“Aye, lass, that be why.”

Suddenly, she became aware of the totality of her current situation. “Will I never be able to have a glass of wine again?” she asked, appalled at the notion.

“Nay, lass, ye will no’.”

His matter-of-fact attitude brought her to her feet. “But I do no’ like cider!” she exclaimed.

He bit his cheek to keep from laughing aloud. “Then drink milk,” he told her. “Or a tisane.”

Mairghread began to pace about the room. “I like milk as much as I like cider,” she declared.

Brogan could see she was beginning to fade rapidly into the first stages of the takeaways. Unwilling to distress her further, he stayed rooted on the stool and watched.

“Cider! Milk!” she scoffed. As she paced about the room, she twisted the hem of one sleeve betwixt her fingers. “I am no’ a bairn,” she told him. “I do no’ see why I can no’ have at least one glass of wine with me meals.”

“Because one will always lead to two. Which in turn will lead to another and another, until ye are once again quite drunk. It defeats the purpose of what we be doin’ here.”

A low growl built deep in her belly. “Why does me skin itch?” she demanded, but did not wait for his answer. “It feels like I have been rollin’ around in itch weed.”

“I do no’ ken why,” he told her. “All I ken is that when ye take the drink away, it does odd things to yer body as well as yer mind. ’Tis as if the drink be fightin’ ye from within, tellin’ yer body ye need it to live.”

“How long do these takeaways last?” she asked, growing more exasperated with each passing moment.

Brogan stood up and began to brace himself for the tirade he was certain was building up within her. “Lass, do ye remember that I told ye I would always be honest with ye?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed. Pacing frenetically around the room, she did not stop to answer.

“The takeaways can last as much as a fortnight.”

She waved a dismissive hand and continued her tour around the room. “A fortnight?” she said disdainfully. “Bah! I swear ye only tell me things to see my distress!”

He knew there would be many moments like this, where she would be calm one moment, only to scream and rail the next. He chose his words very carefully. “Remember why we be here, Mairghread.”

She came to an abrupt halt and glowered at him. Though she remained quiet, he was almost certain she was wishing for his immediate and painful death.

“Do ye think ye could stand to eat a bit?” he asked with a measured tone.

“Nay,” she told him. “But I would certainly love a sip of wine right now.”

He knew she was both serious and jesting at once, for he caught a glimmer of something playful in her green eyes. “Would ye settle for a bit of broth and bread?”

“Be I a prisoner now, only to be served meals fit for criminals?” she asked.

He let loose the chuckle he had been holding back. “Fer the time bein’. But I have it in good with the gaoler. There be a chance yer sentence can be reduced fer good behavior.”

Another roll of her eyes, and she turned away from him. “Ye be a daft man, Brogan Mackintosh.”

“So I have been told.”

* * *

Gertie and Tilda came to see her as soon as Reginald told them what had happened. They came rushing into the room, all a twitter, and worried sick over their lady. “Why did ye no’ come to get us?” Gertie demanded of Brogan. She did not wait for his reply. Instead, she went immediately to Mairghread, who was once again at the window. Wrapping her auld arms around the young woman, she said, “Och, lass! How do ye fare? What do ye need?”

Mairghread smiled and shook her head. “I am well,” she said. “As fer no’ coming to fetch ye, I told Brogan to allow ye both to rest.”

“Rest?” Gertie scoffed at the notion. “I be no’ some decrepit auld woman. I work as hard as any of the young ones ye have workin’ in this keep!”

Mairghread calmed her by giving her a warm embrace. “Wheest, now, Gertie! Ye’ll work yerself into an apoplexy.”

Gertie pushed away, appalled with her lady. “Ye be no’ too old fer me to pull yer ears, lassie!”

A delightful laugh filled the room. The sound of it warmed Brogan’s heart.

“Tilda would no’ allow ye to do that,” Mairghread replied mischievously. “She has always loved me more than ye did.”

Tears pooled in Gertie’s blue eyes. They were not tears of sorrow nor insult, but of sheer, unadulterated joy. “Lord, it be good to hear ye jest like this,” she said.

Mairghread quirked a brow playfully. “Who says I be jestin’? ’Tis only the truth I speak. Not once in all her years did Tilda ever pull me ears, or paddle me bottom. I say ’tis because she loves me more.”

She went to Tilda then, and pulled her into a warm hug. “’Tis true, is it no’?” she whispered.

When Tilda closed her eyes, an errant tear made its way down her cheek. “Aye, lass, it be true. No matter what Gertie says.”

Brogan was enjoying this tender moment between the women. His curiosity, however, was piqued. “What, pray tell, could this lovely lass have done to earn a pulled ear or a paddled bottom?”

“Och!” Gertie exclaimed. She clucked her tongue and shook her head in dismay. “She was forever disobedient! Always sneakin’ off with her brothers when she was supposed to be learnin’ how to be a lady.”

“Because me brothers enticed me,” Mairghread said. “Catching toads, battling pretend enemies or trying to catch fairies was far more fun than learning to sew or how to sit with me back ramrod straight. Who could blame me?”

* * *

While Gertie and Tilda stayed with Mairghread, Brogan left long enough to acquire broth and bread. Thankfully, the kitchen staff did not make any inquiries as to why he wanted such a simple meal.

When he returned, the women were sitting on the bed, with Mairghread in the middle. She was crying and Gertie and Tilda were doing their best to console her.

“What happened?” he asked, setting the tray on the floor.

Tilda wiped away a tear. “She be missin’ her mum, m’laird.”

He remained quiet, allowing the women to tend to her. Once her tears settled, he offered up the meager meal. “Ye will need to keep up yer strength.”

Without argument, she sat back in the bed and tried to eat. After managing a few bites of bread and broth, she declared she could eat no more.

“I think I would like to rest now,” she told them.

Gertie and Tilda fussed over her, tucking her into the bed as they had done when she was younger. She was far too tired to argue and was asleep before they bid Brogan goodbye.

* * *

Mairghread’s moods began to ebb and flow rapidly as the morning wore on. One minute she was as calm as could be, the next, she would begin the frantic pacing.

“I swear me skin be on fire!” She cursed aloud and loosened the ties on her gown. “Lord, do ye have to keep it so hot in here?” Standing at the window, she fanned her face with her fingers.

“Mayhap, when ye’re better, ye could show me where ye used to fish,” Brogan suggested.

She let loose a long, heavy breath. “I wish I could jump in the ocean right now,” she said.

“I imagine it would be right warm this time of year,” Brogan jested.

Mairghread chose to ignore him. “I do no’ feel well,” she finally admitted. “I feel like I swallowed a bucket of eels.”

The image made his own stomach churn. “I could ask the healer for something to help settle it,” he offered.

“Bah!” she scoffed. “I will have to assume by your statement that ye have no’ yet met our fine healer.” Wrapping her arms around her waist, she shivered. “She believes sufferin’ is God’s punishment for misdeeds and sins.”

He thought that a rather odd way of thinking for a healer and told her so.

“She is an auld biddy. Prone to gossip and rumors. I’d rather no’ ask her fer anythin’.”

Uncertain if she was serious or exaggerating due to her current state of ill health, he remained silent. To keep busy, he put the tray in the hallway. His men would be taking shifts in guarding the door, per the request he made earlier.

“Besides, we would have to walk a mile or so before we could get to a place safe enough to climb down, the walk back again, over rough terrain, just to get to the beach.”

“Is that how ye did it as a child?” he asked.

With a shake of her head, she said, “Nay. There be steps, right over there,” she said as she pointed out the window. “No’ far from here. But when Uncle ordered the removal of the wall, he had the men throw the stones over that ledge. They now block the stairs my great-great-great grandfather had carved into the side of the cliff.”

Brogan took note of the sorrow in her tone. So she was aware of the destruction of the wall. Mayhap she did not love her uncle as much as she wanted everyone to believe. Mayhap, she only loved him because he was all the family she had left in the world.

“Lord! James was so angry when he found out!” That memory made her shiver. “We had gone to Edinburgh fer a honeymoon of sorts. When we returned three months later, the wall had been torn down. Och! James was fit to be tied.”

“I take it James did no’ agree with yer uncle on this?” Brogan asked for clarification sake.

“Of course not!” she decried. “James was livid. He and uncle fought for weeks over it. James ordered the wall rebuilt. He had the men rig up a system so they could bring those ancient stones back up.”

Brogan knew next to nothing about her first husband. But he was beginning to sound like an intelligent man.

“The process was taking forever,” Mairghread said. “James was no’ happy. But it made sense to retrieve as many of the stones as they could, instead of quarrying for new.”

Brogan humphed and nodded his agreement. I wish I had been so lucky. “Has anyone told ye that I have ordered the wall rebuilt?”

She turned to face him, with a most quizzical expression. “Ye have?”

“Aye,” he told her. “We began to quarry a few days ago. Reginald helped me locate a spot about a mile from here.”

“I have been wantin’ to do that for more than three years,” she told him with a relieved smile. “I thank ye.”

He supposed her gratitude should not mean as much to him as it did, but he found he was grateful for it. “’Twas the right thing to do.”

“Still, I am thankful to ye,” she replied, her smile fading as was the color of her skin. “Brogan, I do no’ feel well,” she said as she reached out to keep from keeling over.

In two quick strides, he was there, catching her before she fell. With gentle care, he helped her to the bed. “Take in deep breaths,” he encouraged her. “’Twill pass soon.”

“I feel awfully cold now,” she told him as she began to shake. “Please, pull the fur.”

He did as she asked, before pulling a blanket around her shoulders. The shaking continued to get worse and soon, her teeth were chattering.

“I really do no’ feel well,” she told him again.

Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. Soon, she was shaking violently, her teeth chattering, and her skin growing paler. “Wheest, now, lass,” he whispered. “Try to take in slow breaths.”

He was simply doing what his father had done for him. Offering words of encouragement and whatever comfort he could. But seeing her in such distress made his stomach seize.

When she continued to get worse, he began to worry. For the life of him, he could not remember how long he himself had gone through this particular stage of takeaways.

Not wishing to leave her alone to gather more blankets, he continued to hold her as closely as he could. Rubbing her arms and back through the blanket, he hoped it would help warm her and soothe her at the same time.

“I am goin’ to be ill,” she said through chattering teeth.

Quickly, he grabbed the chamber pot and held it while she threw up the bread and broth from earlier. When he realized he had not thought to get a pitcher of water and washing cloths, he could have kicked himself.

Once she finished, he removed his tunic and gave it to her. Sweat covered her face and neck. The tremors began to subside, but not enough.

“I hate throwin’ up,” she told him as she wiped her face on his tunic. “I would rather ye stripped me naked, took me to the courtyard and beat the bloody hell out of me.”

He was growing to like her sense of humor and could not hold back his laughter. “I feel much the same way,” he said.

* * *

Before nightfall, she had thrown up three more times, and was now suffering with dry heaves. One minute she was hot, the next, shivering violently.

Gertie and Tilda had come to see her again after the noonin’ and evenin’ meals. Brogan watched as their hearts broke before his eyes. They felt helpless and were beginning to wane in their trust of him.

Gertie pulled him aside for a moment, and with much seriousness, asked, “Are ye sure ye can no’ give her just a wee sip? To help her no’ shake so?”

He knew she meant well, that her question came from her heart. “Gertie, I ken ye have never watched someone go through such a thing. I wish I could take all her sufferin’ away. But if we give her so much as a drop of wine, we will have to start all over again.”

Gertie glanced at the object of her distress. She was lying with her head in Tilda’s lap. “I hate to see her suffer so.”

“I ken ye love her. No one will ever be able to say otherwise. I ken I be a stranger to all of ye. I be askin’ much of ye to put yer faith in me.”

She scrutinized him for a long moment. “I do no’ ken why, m’laird, but aye, I do have faith in ye.”

“Ye must also have faith in Mairghread,” he told her.

Gertie drew in her bottom lip and turned her attention back to Mairghread. “She tried, twice before, to give it up. But she simply could no’ do it. But I do no’ remember her bein’ this ill then.”

“Be it possible she did no’ give it up entirely?” he asked.

“Aye, that be possible,” Gertie admitted honestly. “All I ken was she was no’ fallin’ down drunk back then.”

They both looked at Mairghread. For now, she was resting peacefully, but Brogan knew ‘twould be short-lived. If his own experience was anything to measure by, the worst was yet to come.

* * *

And the worst did come.

’Twas long after the midnight hour. Henry had come to the door with a tray of warm broth and bread. Although Brogan was quite certain she would not be able to keep it down, she did need to try at least to keep up her strength. “How fares she?” he whispered from the dark corridor.

“Resting,” Brogan answered. “But fitfully.” He took the tray and thanked him. “How did it go in the quarry this day?”

Henry scratched the back of his head and yawned. “One of the Mactavish men broke three fingers. He had been chipping away at a stubborn piece of rock when it finally gave way. Smashed his fingers. The healer be wantin’ to cut them off, but his wife refused. So we have to wait and see.”

“Good, God! How bad did he smash them?”

“Near as I can tell, ’tweren’t too bad. But that healer, she says they must be cut off before gangrene sets in. I never kent a man to get gangrene from a broken finger.”

“Neither have I,” Brogan replied. “I’ve seen many a broken finger in me time and never has a healer suggested amputation.” To his way of thinking ‘twasn’t treatment she was suggested, but mutilation.

“Me and Charles will be standin’ guard here in the hallway. Just give a shout if ye need anythin’.”

He thanked him once again and quietly closed the door.

Mairghread stirred and opened her eyes. “Who be here?” she asked groggily.

“Just Henry. He brought ye more warm broth and bread.”

The thought of eating was displeasing to her. She scrunched her face and waved the tray away. “Nay, please. I do no’ wish to think of food.”

Once again, she was breaking into another sweat. Tossing the covers aside, she asked him to please remove the fur to let in fresh air.

He imagined this cycle of hot and cold would run its course in a few days. Dutifully, he set the tray on the edge of the bed and went to the window. “’Tis a chilly night,” he remarked over his shoulder as he drew the fur away. “But at least the rain has stopped. Ye can see the moon this night.”

From behind him, he heard the crash of the tray. He spun around to see Mairghread scurrying up the bed, pressing herself against the wall as if she were going to climb up it. “Get them away!” she screamed. “Get them away!”

“Mairghread!” he called out her name as he tried to pull her down from the wall. “Mairghread, what be the matter?”

“Can ye no see them? My God! There be worms in the soup!”

He followed her line of vision, but saw no worms. “I see nothin’, lass,” he told her. “Come down now, let me help ye.”

She shook her head violently as she stared at the foot of the bed. Sheer horror was painted on her face and he saw it, deep in her eyes. “Nay! Get them out! Please!”

“But Mairghread, there be nothin’ there, lass,” he tried pleading with her, but to no avail.

Screaming with such terror that it made his heart pound in his chest. Believing worms were now climbing up her dress, she started to frantically wipe them away. “Nay! Nay! Nay!” she shouted over and over again. Begging and pleading with him to remove the worms that only she could see. “They be on me! Get them off me!”

Henry and Charles came rushing into the room, wide-eyed and uncertain. Brogan explained what was happening as best and as quickly as he could. Then he did the only thing he could think of. “It be all right, lass,” he told her as he began to scoop away the imaginary worms. “See? Henry and I be gettin’ rid of them. Ye see, lass?”

Immediately, Henry picked up on what Brogan was trying to do. “Aye, m’lady,” he said as he too pretended to scoop up the worms. He offered her his most sincere smile, though he wasn’t even certain she saw him. “We will get them all out fer ye in no time.”

“Grab a bucket,” Brogan told Charles who had been standing by the door, looking lost and perplexed. He actually looked about the room for the bucket. Smacking his hand to his forehead, he rolled his eyes at his own ignorance. “I have the bucket,” he told Brogan as he handed him the invisible, nonexistent bucket.

It took them nearly a quarter of an hour to convince her they had in fact gotten every last worm. Charles even went so far as to dump the bucket out the window on three separate occasions. All the while, Mairghread cried and pleaded and pointed out the worms they had missed.

Once she was finally convinced all of the worms had been removed, she slid down the wall into a heap of tears and sobs. Brogan knelt on the bed beside her, holding her close to his chest while she wept. He whispered soothing words against her hair and caressed her back.

“Please, Charles, fetch me warm water and more washing cloths,” Brogan directed in low, hushed tones.

The young man looked positively relieved for the chance to leave the room.

Henry remained behind, looking harried and confused. Looking at Brogan, he raised a brow as if to ask what just happened. Brogan had no answer.

Try as he might, he could not remember suffering with hallucinations during his bouts of the takeaways. Never in his life did he miss his father as much as he did right now.

With little else to do, Henry began to clean up the tray that had crashed to the floor earlier. All the while, he shook his head, unable to put into words what he was thinking. He set the tray in the hallway and returned to offer Brogan moral support, for there was naught else he could do.

Charles soon returned with water and fresh linens. Henry grabbed the little stool and placed it next to Brogan. Charles set the basin on the stool, dipped a cloth in, and rung it out before handing it off to Brogan.

As carefully as a mum tending a child, Brogan wiped away Mairghread’s tears. “Wheest, now, lass,” he consoled. “All be well now, aye?”

She sniffed and gave a slight nod, but otherwise remained silent. Trembling in his arms, she clung to him.

“I think it be safe fer ye to leave us now,” Brogan told his men.

Neither of them dawdled a moment longer than necessary. Once the door closed behind them, Brogan returned to his ministrations. Rubbing his hands against her back, her arms, he whispered repeatedly that all was well.

Mairghread hiccuped once, then again. “There were no worms, were there?” she asked him, sounding ashamed and humiliated.

“Nay, lass, there were no worms.”

* * *

The remainder of the night was no better. Between bouts of shivering cold and sweating profusely, she suffered with dry heaves. Often confused, there were several times she forgot where she was and worse yet, who Brogan was.

By dawn, she could stand no more and Brogan was exhausted. But he continued to fight for her.

“Please, I beg ye, just give me one drink,” she pleaded as she clung to Brogan’s tunic with white-knuckles. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, and now her skin held a gray, deathly pallor. She was beginning to remind him of his Anna, in the days before the wasting disease had taken her. Gaunt, pale, gray, with dull, near lifeless eyes.

But there had been no hope for Anna. There was naught to be done by the time the healer made her diagnosis. But Mairghread? There was hope there, no matter if she could not see it at the moment.

Brogan remained firm in his resolve not to allow her to fall back into the abyss of drunkenness again. “Nay lass,” he whispered. “Ye ken ye can no’ do that.”

“Just one,” she continued to plead. “Just one tiny little drink. I need it Brogan, as much as I need air!”

Prying her hands from his tunic, he held them tightly betwixt his own. “Ye need to live more than ye need to drink,” he told her. “Remember that, Mairghread. This will all be over soon, I promise ye.”

“Nay,” she argued, choking back tears. “I will die, Brogan, I can feel it!”

“’Tis the alcohol talkin’, Mairghread. Ye will no’ die,” he said with a firm, yet kind voice.

With much force, she pushed away from him and began to pace about the room. “I can no’ stand this!” she said as she pulled at her own hair. “I be goin’ mad, I tell ye!”

He went to her immediately, and pulled her in closely. She fought against him, pounding her fists against his chest, cursing him to the devil. “I hate ye, Brogan Mackintosh! I hate ye with all that I am.”

After a long while, she quit struggling and all but collapsed in his arms. “Do no’ let me die, Brogan, please,” she said as she wept into his tunic.

“Wheest, now,” he replied softly. “I will no’ let ye die, I swear it.”

“Ye swear it?”

He placed a tender kiss on the top of her head. “Aye, lass, I promise.”

* * *

When she was finally calm enough to let go of, Brogan tucked her into the bed. Drawing the blankets up around her chin, he stepped away, to the window. Looking out at the ocean, he began to pray.

Lord, I know no’ what else to do. I have no trainin’ in these matters, only my own personal experience. She seems to be sufferin’ far worse than I did when I went off the drink. I can no’ remember sufferin’ through hallucinations as she has. Please, guide me, help me to do what is right for this woman.

As the hours wore on, he became more and more concerned for her wellbeing. He was also beginning to wish he had taken her from this keep, back to his father’s home, where John could have helped him through all this. He could have helped Mairghread.

’Tis always easier to look back at a time than it is to live through it, he mused as he turned to look at his wife. Although the bed was small, it looked to be swallowing her whole at the moment. On her back, with her eyes closed, her breathing was ragged and fast. Once again, she was soaked with sweat, and mumbling incoherently.

Plagued with self-doubt now, he began to pace about the room himself. Be I doin’ this the right way? He asked himself. Mayhap we should have weaned her off the drink, slowly, over a few weeks, instead of takin’ it all away at once. He stopped and leaned his back against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes.

Thinking back to his own experience with coming off the drink, he could almost hear his father’s voice. “We can do this one of two ways, lad. We can take ye off the drink now, or we can take ye off the drink now.” The halfhearted jest was filled with truth. “There be only way way to do this,” John had said. “And the best way is the fastest way to get yer life back.”

Brogan had suffered with unsteady hands for more than a week. And aye, he had also thrown up more times than he could count. There were also times when he swore his stomach was trying to climb its way out of his body, through his bowels.

There were even a few moments where he had forgotten what day of the week it was. But not once had he hallucinated nor had he forgotten who his father was.

Mayhap the forgetfulness was born out of the fact that he and Mairghread truly did not know one another well at all. It was also possible that her addiction was worse than his had ever thought to be.

His quiet reverie was broken by a soft rap at the door. Crossing the room quickly and quietly, he opened the door a crack to find Reginald. Casting a quick glance to Mairghread, he saw she was sleeping, albeit fitfully. Not wishing to wake her, he stepped into the hallway.

“How does she fare this day?” Reginald asked, concern etched in the hard lines of his face.

“’Twas a rough night,” Brogan said. He debated on how much he should tell him. Not because he did not trust him. Nay, he simply did not want to bring any undue stress to him. “She be restin’ now,” he told him. “Hot one minute, cold the next. I be certain she will be well in just a few more days.”

His relief was palpable. “We are all verra worried about her,” Reginald said as he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “Rumors are already beginnin’ to get around, that she is no’ well. Some say she has finally lost her mind, while others say ye are holdin’ her prisoner her.”

“And what have ye said?”

“I told them the next person I found spreadin’ rumors about our lady would be drawn and quartered then tossed into the sea.”

Brogan could not resist smiling. “I be certain yer lady appreciates your dedication and loyalty. Rumors will run amok until they see her with their own eyes.”

Reginald raised one bushy brow. “I will be honest with ye, Brogan. I do no’ like this, no’ at all.”

“Ye can no’ stop people from gossipin’,” Brogan told him. “They will believe what they wish until proven wrong.”

He let out a deep breath. Changing the subject, he said, “We be makin’ good progress in the quarry. Mayhap by the end of the day we can start bringin’ the new stones in by wagon.”

That was in fact good news. With Reginald and Henry leading the charge on the wall, Brogan could take care of his wife without worrying over other matters.