Brogan sent word to Mairghread that he hoped she was feeling better and he looked forward to seeing her at the evening meal. Then he and Reginald went in search of his men. Together, they would scout out the best place from which to quarry the stone for a new wall.

Although he would have preferred something much closer to the actual keep, in the end, they had to settle for a spot a mile away. “With enough wagons and strong backs, we could begin buildin’ on the morrow,” Reginald declared with far more hope than Brogan in truth felt.

This was not the first wall Brogan had ever built. He knew it would take months of backbreaking work, mayhap more than a year. But it was necessary. He could not think of a keep in all of Scotia that did not have at the minimum a wall made of wood.

In addition to finding a place to quarry, plans were also set in motion to guard the keep. “We need to erect towers,” Brogan told Reginald and the men. “We can harvest the necessary lumber from the forest.” He nodded toward a deep, dense forest that lay not far from the keep.

“What about patrolling the borders?” Henry asked.

Brogan looked to Reginald for advice.

“Aye, we do patrol the borders,” he replied. “But only at night.”

The more Brogan learned, the angrier he became. No wall, no towers, and men who only patrolled at night. ’Twas appalling.

To Henry and Comnall he said, “I will leave the two of ye in charge of patrolling the borders. I am certain Reginald can help ye to choose good men to help. When we get back to the keep, we will send word that we want all able-bodied men to assemble in the yard first thing tomorrow morning.”

“How often do yer men train?” Henry asked Reginald.

Ashamedly, he replied, “We do no’.”

Brogan made a decision, then and there, not to ask any further questions as it pertained to the safety of the keep. The answers made his head throb. “I believe, fer now, it be more important to begin first with the wall. Once we have that started, we will begin trainin’ the Mactavish men.”

* * *

Brogan and his men bathed in the loch before returning to the keep. Brogan needed the cold water to help cool his burning temper, more than he needed to be clean.

“Have ye ever kent a man to order the tearin’ down of a wall?” Comnall asked to no one in particular.

“Or one whose borders be patrolled at only night?” Henry offered.

Their questions were answered with resounding ‘nay’s’ from the rest of the men.

Nay, Brogan had never known such a man. If his suspicions were correct, the last thing Aymer Mactavish wanted was for his clan to be safe. ’Twas the only plausible explanation. No man could be so foolish, could he?

Thankfully, it would be months before he would meet the man in person to find out for himself. Taking in a lungful of air, he plunged under the cold water. He counted to thirty before coming back up for air.

It dawned on him then, that in a few short months Aymer would be returning with Claude Courtemanche. That was not a meeting he was going to enjoy. Courtemanche was as cruel as the day was long. ’Twas a meeting he would not relish, but he would stand firm and resolute in any decisions he might make before their return.

“I be starved,” Henry said as he began making his way out of the loch. “Do ye suppose this evenin’s meal will be as good as the feast we had last night?”

Brogan smiled. He was not as interested in the meal as much as he was looking forward to spending time with his new bride. Tonight, he told himself, would not be wasted on excessive consumption of wine. Tonight, we shall finally consummate this marriage.

Thinking of Mairghread put a smile on his face and a near skip in his step. In truth, he was looking forward to the consummation. But he was also looking forward to getting to know her better and telling her about the plans for the new wall, and how the people — most of them anyway — were looking forward to her taking over as chief.

* * *

By the time they returned to the keep, the evening meal had already begun. Brogan raced up the stairs and to the chamber he shared with Mairghread. The room was empty. He donned a clean tunic, ran his fingers through his still damp hair, and bounded down the stairs. He was quite eager to see his new bride, to have a quick meal, and return to their rooms. Tonight, he promised himself, would be a night of exploration. An exploration of body as well as mind.

The gathering room was crowded, filled with almost as many people as the night before. The same men who had played at the wedding feast were once again in the corner playing.

He heard her laugher before he saw her. ’Twas mayhap one of the sweetest sounds. Lilting and alive, and filled with so much happiness.

Then he saw her, at the table on the dais. Her hair was plaited elegantly around her head. A veil made of a soft, wispy material hung down her back from plait. What he could see of her burgundy gown made his desire for her surge.

As he eagerly approached the dais, he saw her pour herself a glass of wine. No’ this night, he told himself.

The sweet laughter and bright smile faded rapidly when she saw him step onto the dais. So quick was the change, he paused on the stairs for a brief moment. Mayhap she was embarrassed over the events of last eve.

Before taking his seat next to her, he took her hand in his, bowed over it and placed a sweet kiss on the soft skin. “Good eve, me lady wife,” he said with an affectionate smile.

A light blush crept up her neck, to the roots of her hair. “Good eve,” she said.

But there was no warmth in her tone, nor could he find any in her eyes. Instead, all he saw was the same sorrowful resignation as yesterday, when she stood at the altar.

“How fare ye this night?” he asked as he took his seat.

“I am well,” she replied without looking at him. She sipped on her wine as she looked out at the people below. They were alone on the dais this night, for his brother and friends had left that morn.

A maid offered him wine, which he politely refused. “I would like cider, please,” he told her.

The young woman looked perplexed. “Aye m’laird, as ye wish.”

As soon as she left, Brogan turned his attention back to Mairghread. “What did ye do this day?” he asked, hoping to break the silence and the coolness between them.

She took another drink of wine before answering. “No’ much.”

Why did he get the sense she was angry with him? “Mairghread, are ye well?”

Another drink emptied her cup. “I am well, as I said before.”

“Then why do I get the sense ye’re upset with me?” he asked as he took a good portion of meat from the platter in front of him.

“Why did I find myself undressed in my bed this morn?” she asked. Aye, her tone was as cold as ice on the loch in winter time.

Brogan resisted the urge to laugh. “If ye mean to ask me did I take advantage of yer state of inebriation last eve, the answer is nay. Gertie and Tilda helped me get ye into bed.”

His answer did not seem to appease her. “And after?”

He chewed and swallowed the savory meat, set his eating knife down, and leaned in to whisper into her ear. “Lass, when it comes to lovin’, I would prefer each of us be sober.”

Mairghread’s eyes grew wide as her skin burned, almost as deep as the color of her dress. He took a good deal of satisfaction knowing ’twas he who made her blush so deeply.

The maid returned with his cider, poured a mug of it, and dipped a curtsey. Without thinking, he took a drink. One taste and he was carefully spitting it back into his mug. He looked around for the maid, found her in the corner, and called her forward. He’d gone through the same thing the night before, but with a different serving maid. “Lass, could I please have some soft cider?”

He’d seen the confused look in her eyes before. Seen it countless times in bar wenches and serving maids. “M’laird?” she said, looking confused. “Do ye mean the kind we give the bairns?”

Brogan smiled warmly at her. “Aye, I mean the kind ye give the bairns.”

She bobbed another curtsy before leaving to fetch the soft cider.

“Why soft cider?” Mairghread asked as she drank more of her wine. “Did ye have too much whisky last eve?”

He tore off a hunk of bread and reached for the bowl of butter. “Nay,” he replied. “I touched no’ a drop of hard drink last eve.”

She looked aghast. “What do ye mean ye touched no hard drink last eve?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?” he asked.

“’Twas our weddin’ feast. Did ye no’ wish to celebrate the momentous occasion?” Was that disdain he was detecting in her voice?

Brogan chuckled softly at her inquiry. “I did celebrate. Quite happily as a matter of fact.”

She gave him and ‘oh, I see’ look. But of course, she didn’t really understand.

“I never partake of strong drink,” he told her as he cut off a hunk of venison.

“Never?” she asked suspiciously.

He gave a slow shake of his head. “Never.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Finally, she drank down the rest of her wine and immediately set out to pour another cup. “I’ve married a bloody monk,” she said under her breath.

Brogan leaned in once again to whisper in her ear. “Nay, lass I am no’ a monk. And if ye come to our marital bed sober this night, I shall prove it to ye.”

Anger burned behind her bright eyes. Intentionally, she drank down the entire cup of wine before slamming it down onto the table. She began to pour another cup, when Brogan halted her by placing his hand on hers. He was about to tell her he thought she’d had enough wine last night to last a grown man a week, but Henry appeared before them.

“Brogan,” he said. Out of breath and looking flustered. “We need ye in the courtyard.”

“What be the matter?” Brogan asked, still keeping his wife from pouring more wine.

“There be a bit of a problem betwixt Comnall and a Mactavish man.”

Brogan rolled his eyes. “Let me guess,” he began. “There be a lass involved.”

“Aye, there be.”

He turned to face Mairghread. “Please, lass,” he whispered. “Do no’ over drink this night. There is much I wish to discuss with ye.” He dared not add, and much I wish to do with ye.

* * *

The courtyard was filled with men and women of varying ages. They were surrounding Comnall and a young Mactavish man Brogan did not know. The two were face to face, toe to toe, staring one another down. Though Comnall was a good three inches taller, wider in the shoulders, and more muscled, the angry young man glowering at him did not cower.

“Ye will stay away from me sister,” the young man growled.

Comnall smirked. “Yer sister be auld enough to make up her own mind.”

Brogan groaned inwardly. “Comnall, stand down,” he ordered as he approached.

Comnall continued to smirk at the younger man, shrugged his shoulders once before taking a step back.

Just what he whispered under his breath before stepping away, Brogan couldn’t hear. But the young man did. In a flash, he lunged at Comnall, wrapping one arm around his neck, and pulled him to the ground.

A cheer broke out among the Mactavishes. “Get him, Neyll!” someone from the crowd called out.

Brogan stood over the two men for a brief moment. He’d never seen Comnall taken down so quickly before. Especially not by someone who was shorter and seemingly less strong. Neyll had one arm wrapped around Comnall’s neck, with his free hand pressed on top of his head. His wiry legs were wrapped around Comnall’s torso, summarily keeping the bigger, strong Mackintosh man exactly where he wanted him. Comnall’s eyes were beginning to bulge, his face purple — either from sheer rage or lack of air.

“That is enough!” Brogan barked out. “Let him go!”

“No’ until he apologizes,” Neyll ground out.

Brogan let out a quick, frustrated breath. “Well, he can no’ apologize if he be dead, now can he?”

The young man thought on it for a brief moment before finally giving up and letting loose. Comnall rolled onto his hands and knees, and took in great, deep breaths.

Brogan extended his arm to Neyll. The lad looked at it as though it were covered in cow dung. Declining his offer, he got to his feet and stared murderously at Comnall.

“What did he say?” Brogan asked.

Neyll raked a hand through his dark blonde hair. “He said he did no’ want anythin’ to do with a Mactavish whore. He called me sister a whore!”

Brogan watched as Comnall struggled to his feet. “Be that true?”

“He was the one who started it!” Comnall thundered. “I was merely introducin’ meself to Briggid, when he came out of nowhere, tellin’ me he did no’ want a Mackintosh anywhere near his sister.”

Brogan sighed inwardly. “Comnall, mind yer tongue and yer tone.”

Duly chastised, Comnall pursed his lips together and continued to glare at Neyll.

“Briggid is far too young and innocent fer the likes of him,” Neyll said through gritted teeth. “Ye make yer man apologize, m’laird, or I will.”

Comnall spat on the ground. “No’ bloody likely!”

Before they could come to blows once again, Brogan stepped in between them. He pressed a hand on each of their chests. “That is enough!”

Neyll looked mad enough to take on one hundred men. Comnall looked as though he was planning the young man’s death.

“Comnall, did ye in fact call he sister a whore?”

When Comnall looked at his feet instead of directly in his eye, Brogan had his answer. Turning to Neyll, he said, “I will apologize on behalf of Comnall, because apparently, he does no’ have the honor nor the ballocks to do it himself.”

Comnall began to protest, but Brogan halted him with a stern glare of reproach. “On the morrow, and until further notice, ye will no’ be patrolling the borders at night. Ye will be working in the quarry with me and the others.”

“The bloody quarry?” Comnall asked incredulously.

“Aye, the bloody quarry. Unless ye’d like to pack yer things and go back to Ian and explain to him why ye’ve been sent back.”

Comnall’s face burned deep red. ’Twas quite apparent he wished not to be sent back to Ian.

“As fer ye,” Brogan said as he turned his focus back to the younger man. “Neyll, is it?”

He replied with a curt nod.

“Ye seem to ken how to take care of yerself. I have never seen anyone take Comnall down the way ye did.”

“I have four older brothers,” Neyll replied. “I had to learn to take care of meself at a young age.”

Brogan was beginning to like the lad. “What are yer duties here?” he asked.

“I work in the stables,” he replied. “I also raise cattle with me da.”

While noble pursuits, Brogan thought the young man might prove more useful elsewhere. “Would ye object to patrollin’ the borders?” he asked. “Ye certainly ken how to take care of yerself.”

“I can at that, m’laird,” Neyll said. Although he did not look nearly as murderous as he had a few moments ago, Brogan knew he was still quite upset. “And I can assure ye, Comnall will not be a bother to ye or yers again.” He turned to look at Comnall. “Is that right? Can I give this young man that promise?”

Looking sheepishly and duly chastised, Comnall replied with only a quick nod and a murmured ‘aye’.

“Good,” Brogan said. “’Tis settled then. But fer future reference, when issues such as these arise, please seek me out so that I can offer ye good counsel and mete out punishments where necessary.” ’Twas a message meant for all of the Mactavish people and one he hoped they would have the good sense to heed.

* * *

Although he had been gone less than a half an hour, when he returned to the gathering room, he discovered his wife was nearly as drunk as she had been the night before. He returned to his seat and now cold meal. Mairghread did not even acknowledge his return. She sat, staring out across the room as she drank.

Worry began to settle deep into his gut. Was she so disgusted with the thought of sharing her bed with him, that she could not do it without being drunk? Was she regretting her decision to marry him?

He looked down at his trencher, his appetite now gone. There were many things he wanted to discuss with his new bride. But from her expression and demeanor, now mayhap, was not the best time. Chancing a quick glance, he could see the flush in her cheeks and glassy eyes, a sure sign she was well on her way to being sotted drunk.

“On the morrow, I should like to discuss a few things with ye,” he said as he took a drink of cider.

“Such as?” she asked.

He took note of the slight slur in her speech and it angered him. It had been a long, worrisome day. What with learning what he had regarding Aymer and the lack of walls, weapons and other common defenses, and then the brawl between Comnall and Neyll, his patience was as thin as a spider’s web. And now, with his wife well into her cups, he doubted he could have any sort of adult conversation with her pertaining to anything of import. “On the morrow, when ye are sober, would be best.”

She threw her head back and laughed. ’Twas not the same, sweet laughter he had heard earlier. Nay, ’twas filled with something dark and quite ugly. Malice blended with disgust. “If ye think I will be sober on the morrow, ye are sadly mistaken.”

He felt his skin burn hot with rage and had to take in a deep breath to keep it in check. “Do ye need the aid of strong drink in order to bed me?” He regretted the question the moment he heard himself ask it.

Mairghread leaned over, ever so slightly. “Aye, I do.”

’Twas not only what she said, but how she had said it that sent him over the edge. He slammed his mug down so hard, it shook the entire table. Mairghread’s eyes grew wide with a blend of fear and astonishment as he grabbed the cup of wine from her hand and slammed it down next to his.

In one fell swoop, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, rump up. He stormed through the now stunned-silent guests and headed for the stairs.

* * *

“Put me down!” she cried out as she kicked her feet.

Brogan said not a word as he thundered down the corridor to their chamber. “Ye bloody son of a whore!” Mairghread screamed as she hit his back with her fists.

He kicked open their bedchamber door. It banged against the wall with such force he thought he might have broken it. Inside, he crossed the floor in a few quick strides and tossed her onto the bed.

She landed on her back with an oomph.

Towering over her, he stood with his hands on his hips and glowered. “Why did ye agree to marry me?” he demanded. “If the thought of beddin’ me drives ye to drink?”

Before she could answer, Gertie and Tilda were in the room. “M’laird!” Gertie cried out. “Please, do no’ harm her!”

Brogan spun on his heels and glared at the two women. “I have never, in my life, harmed a woman! Out! Now!” His voice echoed off the walls. Hesitantly, each woman tried to look around the wall of muscle blocking their way.

“Out!” Pointing to the door, he ordered them once again to leave. “I said out.”

From the bed, Mairghread called out, “If ye find me dead on the morrow, ye ken ’twas him!”

Never in his life had he been tempted to hit a woman. Nay, he did not wish to hit her so much as to throw her over his knee and…

He was done. If he did not leave now, he might very well do or say something he would regret for the rest of his life.

Raking a hand through his hair, he took one last look at Mairghread. Aye, she was drunk and frightened and God only knew what else, for he certainly didn’t. Neither, at the moment, did he care.

“Tend to yer lady,” he grumbled at Gertie and Tilda before he stormed out of the room.

* * *

The cool night air did nothing to tamp down the flaming hot anger coursing through his veins. He had stomped out of the keep, down the stairs, and into the courtyard. Henry had tried to stop him, to inquire as to what was wrong, but one savage glare from Brogan made him back away.

Now he found himself crossing the old wall and heading toward the cliffs.

He stood there, just at the edge, staring out at the moonlit sea, wishing for all the world he was anywhere but here.

Why did she agree to marry me? He wondered. If the thought of joinin’ with me is so deplorable she must drink to do it?

None of it made a damn bit of sense. She was not the sweet, pretty woman he remembered from their first meeting. And what about that night, back at his brother’s keep, when he’d first proposed?

What had happened in these past two weeks to change her?

Was it remorse? Had she changed her mind? Was she so filled with regret at her decision?

If that be it, why did she no’ come to me?

Was it fear of him that kept her from speaking to him? Was she afraid of what he might say or do if she came to him?

He hated losing his temper with her. Hell, he hated losing his temper, period. But a man can only take so much.

“If she is in fact afraid of ye, how ye just behaved toward her did neither of ye any good,” he said shamefully. Looking heavenward, he prayed. “God, help me to help Mairghread see that I be no’ a monster. That I be a good man. A man she can trust.” He puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly. “And please, help me control this Mackintosh temper.”

* * *

Brogan stood at the cliff’s edge for an hour. The wind had picked up, bringing with it the salty sea spray. Prayer had helped calm his fury, helped ease his worries away. With the firm belief that God had put Mairghread in his life for a reason, he finally let go of his anger and dread.

Holding his head high, he went back into the keep. A few maids were still about, cleaning up the last of the evening meal. They stopped at once, looking up at him as if he was a great beast sent from the bowels of hell to wreak havoc on them and the lady they all loved so dearly.

If his father, John Mackintosh, had taught him anything, it was to own up to one’s mistakes. He paused at the stairs and offered them his most sincere smile and apologies. “I be terribly sorry fer losin’ me temper earlier,” he told them. “I did no’ mean to shame yer lady, myself, or ye.”

Three sets of stupefied eyes stared back at him. The maids each bobbed a curtsy before he left them to do their work and headed up the stairs.

Their bedchamber was quiet and still, save for the soft crackle of the low burning fire in the hearth. He could just make out Mairghread’s sleeping form in the bed. Quietly, he made his way across the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Mairghread,” he whispered her name. She moved not at all, so sound asleep was she.

“I came to apologize fer losin’ me temper, lass. ’Tis no’ like me to behave so poorly. Especially toward a woman.”

She did not so much as stir at the sound of his voice. Or the gentle nudge he gave her shoulder. Undoubtedly, she was in a deep sleep from all the wine she had consumed earlier.

On the morrow, he told himself. On the morrow, we shall have it all out and begin anew.

* * *

Mairghread feigned sleep, so as to avoid any kind of communication with Brogan. She was not nearly as drunk as she wanted to be. Let him think what he wants, she told herself when he gently nudged her shoulder. I care no’.

Finally, mercifully, he sighed once, covered her with the fur then left the room. She lay as still as fawn in springtime long after he left, afraid he would come back. She did not want to see him, let alone speak to him.

I do no’ care what he thinks of me.

But she did care. Cared far more than she wanted to admit to herself. Guilty tears built behind her closed eyes.

Although he’d been here but two days, he’d apparently earned the admiration of nearly everyone within the keep. Even Reginald seemed to admire him.

Nay, she was not nearly as drunk as she wished to be. Chancing a peek from under the covers, she made sure the room was empty before slipping from the bed. In the dark, she made her way to the cupboard and withdrew a bottle of whisky. After years of consuming the amber liquid, it no longer burned going down. It calmed her, made her feel warm and safe.

In nothing but a light chemise, she stood alone in the dark and drank. Something she had done innumerable times before. Barefooted, she padded to the window and pulled the fur open. Stars dotted the indigo sky above and a cool breeze flittered in through the open window.

Nearly every night these past three plus years, she stood at this window and thought of her husband and son. God, how she missed them. Not even the whisky could dull that ache in her heart, no matter how many times she tried.

“I be sorry James,” she whispered into the night. “I should never have married him. I broke me oath to ye and to our babe.”

If she were ever sober enough to be honest with herself, she might admit that was what truly ate at her soul. She had survived and they hadn’t. She was moving on with her life.

Why did I live? Why did God take them from me?

Just as every other night she’d asked those questions, she found no answer whispered back from the stillness nor from the bottle.