Mairghread had wakened long after dawn, though she did not feel at all well-rested. Slowly, she made her way out of her bed, tended to her morning ablutions and waited for Gertie and Tilda. Typically, they were there bright and early each morn, to sit with her after Brogan left.

She estimated an hour passed and still there was no sign of them. Worry began to take hold of her heart.

When enough time passed that she believed something had happened to one or both of them, she decided to get dressed and see for herself. She had just pulled open her clothes cupboard when there came a knock at her door.

In a rush, she pulled it open, glad they were finally there.

’Twas Evelyn standing on the other side of the door, holding a tray with her morning meal.

“Where be Gertie and Tilda?” she asked with confusion.

Evelyn blinked her surprise and bobbed a curtsy. “Gertie be no’ well,” she told her. “Tilda be with her.”

“No’ well?” Mairghread asked, sounding almost as exasperated as she felt. Gertie was of an age where ‘not well’ could mean anything from being tired to near death’s door. Dread and worry began to take over her good sense.

“Aye, m’lady, no’ well. Tilda asked me to sit with ye this day.” The poor girl looked frightened, the tray in her hand beginning to rattle from her shaking fingers.

Mairghread took the tray from her and placed it on her table. “I be sorry fer yellin’, Evelyn. ’Tis only me worry over Gertie that makes me behave poorly.”

Evelyn remained rooted in place, uncertain what she should do or say.

“Come in,” Mairghread told her. “And tell me what ails Gertie.” She tried to remain patient and to look calm.

“I do no’ ken, m’lady. Me mum be the closest thing to a healer we have, but she be busy with her midwifin’ duties this morn. We do no’ ken when she will be able to tend to Gertie.”

With Hargatha still locked away below stairs, the clan was without a healer other than Martha. Of course, Hargatha had never been much of a healer to begin with. More like an instrument of fear and death.

Gertie had always been there for her; now it was Mairghread’s turn to be there for Gertie.

* * *

Mairghread did not ask for permission to enter Gertie and Tilda’s bedchamber. Like a strong breeze coming in off the bay, she opened the door and all but flew inside.

Gertie was in her bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Tilda was sitting beside her, holding her hand.

“Gertie!” she said breathlessly when she saw her lying there, so helpless and sickly looking.

Tilda stood and faced her. “Och! M’lady!”

Gertie coughed, a faint, weak cough.

Mairghread took the chair Tilda had just left. “Gertie, what be the matter?”

Another faint, weak cough. “M’lady? Be that ye come to see me?” Her voice was naught but a whisper. The kind of tired, barely audible whisper that made one’s heart seize.

“I be here,” Mairghread told her as she took her hand. It felt cool to the touch, but not clammy. That had to be a good sign, hadn’t it?

Gertie smiled, albeit weakly. “A sight fer sore eyes, I says.”

“What be wrong with ye? Do ye hurt anywhere?” Mairghread asked as she placed the back of her hand on the auld woman’s wrinkled brow. “Ye do no’ feel feverish.”

She coughed again, a little louder this time. “I just be tired. And a little lightheaded.”

Tired and lightheaded? What could that be an indication of?

“And a bit piqued in the stomach,” Gertie added. “But I be sure I will be well soon enough.”

Mairghread was not as certain as she. Could these be her last days? As near as Mairghread knew, Gertie was more than seventy years auld. Her heart constricted, tightened until she wasn’t sure it was still beating. I can no’ lose her Lord.

“Though me stomach be a bit off,” Gertie said, before letting out another weak cough, “I think I could use a bit of bread and mayhap some broth?”

Just the thought of bread and broth made Mairghread wrinkle her nose. “If that be what ye want, dear, sweet Gertie, then ye shall have it,” she said, patting the back of her hand. Giving her a most warm smile, she got to her feet. “Tilda, will ye stay with her while I see cook?”

“Of course, m’lady,” she said.

She smiled once more at the auld woman who had loved her through so many trying times. “I shall no’ be long, aye?”

* * *

Within an hour of the mistress’s coming to see Gertie, Tilda suddenly fell ill. Mairghread helped her into her night dress and into her bed. Lord, I can no’ lose them both!

She had heard of husbands and wives dying within days of one another, as well as mothers dying not long after losing a child. Could it be that Gertie and Tilda were so close to one another that they too might die together? The though sickened her, made her heart feel heavy with sadness.

Tilda’s cough seemed a bit worse than Gertie’s. And her skin seemed warmer to the touch. ’Twas too early yet to say if they both suffered from the same illness. Only time would tell.

Tilda made the same request for bread and broth. This time when Mairghread returned, she had donned an apron and put a kerchief over her hair. She settled in to tend them like a daughter would her beloved mother. In this case, she had two.

She fluffed pillows, tucked blankets in around them, and tended the fire in their brazier. She spoon-fed them broth and tore off bits of bread, for which they were extremely grateful.

While she tended to them, the women reminisced about days gone by. Their youth, the men they had loved and lost, as well as Mairghread’s childhood. Fond, warm memories. The kind of memories one reflects upon in their old age or near their death.

Slowly, bit by bit, her heart was breaking in two.

As she was quietly listening — and praying — a knock came at the door. A moment later, Evelyn walked in. “M’lady,” she said as she bobbed a curtsy. She looked as though she had something to tell her, but was dreading it.

“What is it, Evelyn?” Mairghread said as she went to the door.

“I do no’ wish to disturb ye, but we have three scullery maids who seem to be ailin’. Cook was wonderin’ if ye would have time to see them, bein’s how Hargatha is locked away and all.”

Three ailing scullery maids? “What ails them?”

Evelyn cleared her throat before answering. “They say they be right tired, m’lady. They each have a bit of a cough and say their stomachs do no’ feel well.”

“Any fevers?”

“No’ near as I can tell,” she replied, glancing in at Gertie and Tilda.

’Twas an oddity, to be certain. Mayhap the scullery maids, upon hearing of Gertie and Tilda’s illness, decided they would use the same excuse so they, too, could rest. She wouldn’t know until she saw them.

“Will ye stay with Gertie and Tilda?” she asked Evelyn.

“There be no need fer that, m’lady,” Tilda spoke up. “We will just be restin’ here.”

“Aye, m’lady. We will just be restin’,” Gertie added.

“I will no’ be leavin’ ye alone,” Mairghread argued. “Evelyn will sit with ye until I return.”

* * *

’Twas not just three scullery maids who had fallen suddenly ill. Within a few hours, there were four men and seven women — all of whom worked inside the keep and most of them in the kitchens – who had come down with the same mysterious illness. Some had awful sounding coughs, while others sneezed. Some complained of severe stomach pains, while others said their stomachs were fine. Some had slight fevers whilst others were cool to the touch. The only thing they each had in common was being so weak they could barely stand.

’Twas an odd illness. Mairghread went from one servant quarters to another, bringin’ bread and broth and hot cider, blankets, and what comfort she could.

Before she realized it, the nooning meal had come and gone. She had not eaten anything save for one of the hard eggs Evelyn had brought to her that morn. Her stomach began to growl so she went back to the kitchens.

“How fare our patients?” Lowrens asked when she stepped inside.

“Restin’,” she told him.

Wiping his brow, he looked around his kitchen. “I fear I do no’ think I can prepare an evenin’ meal for all the usual people, with only the help of two maids.”

The usual people amounted to nearly forty. People who counted on the evening meals, not only for sustenance, but for companionship as well. She truly did not wish to let them down.

“Mayhap we should let people know that the keep has come down with an illness,” she said. “And maybe, instead of our usual feast, we keep it simple this night? Mayhap some baked fish and meat pies.”

Lowrens thought it a good idea. “I be certain word has already spread, but to be safe, I’ll send one of the lads out.”

Mairghread went to the long counter and began to wash her hands in a bucket of warm water. “Good, now tell me, Lowrens, what can I do to help?”

* * *

It had been a very long day of back-breaking work. Brogan’s muscles ached ferociously. When he jumped into the loch to bathe, he got a cramp in his leg. God’s teeth, when did I get so auld? He cursed as he rubbed the pain from his leg.

Cold, tired — nay, near exhausted from lack of sleep the night before — he all but dragged his weary carcass into the keep. He paid no heed to those already gathered for the evening meal. He was just too bloody tired.

He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, a warm meal, and then to fall into his bed. But if last night was any indication of his future, he knew there wouldn’t be much sleep this night either.

As he had been doing every night for the past many, he knocked and entered Mairghread’s room first.

’Twas empty and eerily silent. Even the hearth was cold. A clear sign the room had not been occupied in hours.

Mayhap Gertie and Tilda had managed to get her out of her room after all. Feeling pleased at the idea, he went to his chamber, washed up once more, this time with soap, and donned fresh clothing.

As he went below stairs, he thought of seeking out Martha, to see if there was a tisane she could give Mairghread to help her sleep. But he worried over side effects of such things. He did not want her to sleep for two days. Just a few hours.

The gathering room was all abuzz this night. It seemed cheerier, lighter somehow. Usually, the people chatted quietly amongst themselves. But tonight, they laughed heartily.

Mairghread was not at the dais, which he found perplexing.

As he searched the room for some sign of his wife, Auld George came up to him with his arm extended. “M’laird,” he said with a broad smile that showed several missing teeth. “I just had to come thank ye.”

Taken aback, he grasped the man’s forearm and shook it. “Thank me fer what?” he asked curiously.

“Fer givin’ us our sweet lady back,” he beamed proudly.

The man’s answer left him feeling even more confused.

“’Tis been far too long, if ye ask me. But we all ken we owe it to yer good care.”

Brogan cleared the embarrassment from his throat. “Speaking of our lady, do ye ken where she might be?”

“In the kitchen, helpin’ cook.”

* * *

There she was, in the middle of the kitchen, working right alongside Lowrens. Long, wispy tendrils of hair had come loose from Mairghread’s braid and the kerchief she wore, and her forehead glistened. He thought she looked magnificent.

She was taking sweet cakes from a baking dish and placing them onto a big platter. There were several other women — not the usual scullery maids — working just as hard.

“Mairghread?” he asked, sounding just a bit astonished.

A bright, beaming smile met his eyes. “Brogan! How fare ye?”

“Well, but I am at a loss as to why ye be here, workin’ in the kitchens?”

“A blessin’ she has been, m’laird,” Lowrens told him, quite seriously.

Mairghread cast him a glance and smiled. “As have the other women who have come to help.”

None of it answered the question.

“But why are ye here?” he asked, unable to stop smiling.

“We have several people who have come down with an illness,” she told him. “I do no’ think it be serious. Here,” she said, handing him the platter.

Without thinking, he took the platter. Confused, he stood waiting for further explanation.

Mairghread grabbed a platter of fruits and began to leave the kitchens. All the while, Brogan simply stood, quite perplexed.

She paused at the door and said, “Do no’ just stand there, come with me.”

“Where?” he asked.

Mairghread rolled her eyes. “To the gatherin’ room,” she replied, looking at him as if he were a simpleton.

* * *

For the remainder of the evening, Brogan worked alongside his wife, serving the “lonelies.” At first, he didn’t think it proper that their lady and chief should be serving anyone. But when he mentioned that to his lovely wife, she told him she thought him stark raving mad and to pick up the bloody pace.

He had made numerous trips from the kitchen to the gathering room. Though ’twas not their typical nightly feast, ’twas enough that everyone was fed well. A hearty stew, roasted vegetables, fruits, breads, and cheeses, along with sweet cakes. He could not remember the last time he’d had so many pitchers of ale in his hand that he hadn’t helped to drink.

By the end of the night, he was just exhausted, sweaty, and still hungry. But, he had to admit, he was exceedingly proud of Mairghread. For the first time since he’d met her, she seemed truly happy.

When it came time to clear the tables, a few of the older women volunteered to help clean up. “We’ll set it back to rights, m’lady,” an older woman names Clarice said. “Ye go on now, we’ll see to everythin’.”

“Verra well,” Mairghread said before turning to look at Brogan. “I would like to check on Gertie and Tilda now.”

He had learned only bits and pieces of what had led to his wife — and subsequently himself — serving the evening meal. Dutifully, he followed his wife out of the gathering room, down a long corridor, and to the women’s chamber. Mairghread knocked lightly at the door. “Gertie? Tilda? ’Tis me, Mairghread. And I have Brogan with me.”

He thought he heard the fast shuffling of feet coming from within. Looking to his wife, he raised a curious brow. She gave him a bright smile, winked, and then opened the door.

Candles were lit and a nice fire burned in the brazier. Gertie and Tilda were each in their beds, with blankets drawn to their chins. Tilda looked to be sleeping.

“M’lady?” Gertie whispered in a weak voice. “Be that ye?”

Mairghread rushed to her side, sat on a stool and took her hand. “Aye, it be me.”

“A sight fer auld, tired eyes, ye be,” Gertie replied. Her voice was naught more than a whisper.

But something did not quite feel right to Brogan. Something he could not quite put his finger to.

“Be there anythin’ ye need?” Mairghread asked.

“Nay, m’lady. Evelyn took right good care of us.”

Mairghread smiled warmly and patted her hand. “’Tis good to hear.”

Gertie either coughed or cleared her throat, Brogan couldn’t be certain which. “Pray, tell me lady, how be the others?”

“They be doin’ verra well,” she replied.

“Evelyn said ye took care of all of us.”

“Aye, I did. I also worked in the kitchens this day. Brogan even helped us to serve the evenin’ meal.”

Gertie’s eyes flew open. “Ye what?” she nearly shouted her question.

Her voice did not have the same strained tone as moments before.

“Aye, we did. Many of the kitchen staff have fallen to the same illness as ye and Tilda,” Mairghread explained in a comforting tone.

“But,” she began to speak, but was at a loss for words.

“Do no’ fash yerself over it, Gertie,” Mairghread said. “’Twas fun.”

Fun? Fun was the last thing he would have called the past three hours. Bloody hard work was a more apt description.

“Now, rest,” Mairghread said as she stood. “I will be back in the morn to see ye.”

Mairghread paused at the door, next to Brogan. She turned to look back at Gertie. “I love ye, Gertie.”

Gertie choked back a sob. “And I, ye, lass.”

* * *

As they walked down the dimly lit corridor, Mairghread began to hum a tune Brogan did not recognize.

“Ye seem awfully happy this night,” he remarked.

“I am,” she said with a giggle.

He did not think Gertie was as ill as she had led Mairghread to believe. But he was uncertain how he should broach the subject. The last thing he wanted to do was accuse the auld woman of lying. “How sick do ye think Gertie truly be?”

Mairghread laughed, her smile seemed almost as bright as the sun. “As sick as either one of us,” she laughed.

Pausing to look at her, he waited patiently for her to explain.

“At first I did believe they were both ill. But when more and more people began to succumb to the same illness, I began to wonder. They had no real symptoms. No fevers, no throwin’ up or anything that would keep a body abed.”

He raised a brow. “Why do ye think they pretended to be ill?” Then he remembered his conversation he had the morning before with Gertie and Tilda.

“They have been beggin’ me fer days to leave me room. I admit I took comfort hidin’ away. I worried I would be tempted to drink again, should I get anywhere near a flagon,” she told him.

“They did mention yester morn they thought ye needed a purpose,” he told her.

She turned to look down the hallway. “Aye, I ken,” she said, almost wistfully. “So they gave me a purpose.”

“They knew ye’d no’ be able to stay in yer own room when they were ill in theirs,” he said. “But the others?”

“Oh, they were all in on the ruse,” she said. “But I can no’ hold it against any of them. They meant only to help.”

“A lie from the heart?” he asked a bit disbelievingly.

“Aye, a lie from the heart,” she smiled up at him.

He was not certain how he felt about these auld women and their devious plots. He supposed, in the end, it simply did not matter. If it had not been for their meddling ways, he would not now be married to the beautiful woman who was currently smiling up at him.

Suddenly, he was beset with an urge to lean over and kiss her. ’Twas an urge he could not resist. Without thought or permission, he leaned in and kissed her, lips to lips. ’Twas a chaste kiss and one she did not return.

When he pulled back, confused and frightened eyes were staring back at him.

“Brogan—” she stammered. “I --” she was at a loss for words.

“I be sorry,” he whispered. “I should have asked ye first.” ’Twas the fear in her eyes that nearly made his knees give out. “I frightened ye.”

“Nay,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “No’ frightened, just surprised.”

“Surprised that I would want to kiss ye?” he asked.

“Nay,” she said. “I mean, that is to say,” she simply could not form the words.

“Mairghread, I will no’ kiss ye again, unless ye ask me to.”

* * *

For the remainder of their trek above stairs, neither of them spoke a word. Brogan felt like a heel and the worst kind of cad. Mairghread was fighting her own inner battle.

She had lied when she told him the kiss hadn’t frightened her, for it had. But not for the reasons he thought. Nay, it terrified her to her marrow when she realized how much she liked the kiss. How it made her heart beat faster, her fingers tremble, and her knees quiver. Aye, it terrified her.

Because, after all, she had made a promise to James, to never take another man as husband. To never love another.

When she thought of him, her thoughts always turned to how he and Connell had died. A tear slid from her eye, and made its way down her cheek.

Brogan saw it and paused, a look of guilty horrification on his face. “Mairghread,” his voice was but a whisper. “I have made ye cry!”

“Nay, Brogan, ye did no’.”

His expression told her he did not believe her.

She could not lie to him again. Not even a lie from her heart. “I was thinkin’ about James.”

She watched as his guilt intensified, as he struggled to say just the right thing. The problem was, there was no just the right thing to say. For he did not know what was in her heart, about the promise she had made him.

“The day we buried them,” she choked back a sob. “The day we buried them, I bade them each a promise. I promised James I would never remarry, and I promised Connell I would never hold another bairn in me arms.”

* * *

Brogan wanted to scream, then why the bloody hell did ye marry me? But that would solve nothing. He knew he had two choices. One, he could tell her he understood but that James and Connell would not wish for her to live all the rest of her days without someone to love, without other bairns. Or, he could tell her he understood and stop there.

“I understand,” he said with a slight nod, and began to walk toward their chambers again.

Mairghread was silent, more tears falling, her hands trembling.

“Did ye make a similar promise to yer Anna?” she asked as she swiped away a tear.

“Nay,” he replied as he opened her chamber door. “I wanted to. I tried, but Anna would no’ allow it.”

Puzzled, she looked up at him. “She would no’ allow ye?”

“Nay, she bade me promise to no’ mourn long, and to no’ save me heart fer …”

“Fer?”

“Fer a dead woman. Those were her exact words. Do no’ love a dead woman too long.

Mairghread covered her lips with the tips of her fingers, but the gasp was already out.

“I mourned her loss fer years,” he told her, his tone growing softer, more sorrowful. “I could no’ imagine bein’ able to keep that promise, fer I loved her with all me heart.”

“Then why did ye promise her?” she asked.

He shook his head and rested the tips of his fingers on his hips. “Because I did no’ want her to worry. She was dyin’. We knew she was dyin’. I used to think ’twas a cruel thing she asked of me.”

“And now?”

He smiled wanly. “Now, I see how much she loved me. She wanted me to be happy. The thought of me roamin’ this earth alone, with a broken heart? Nay, she could no’ abide such a thing. She loved me more than that.”