Brogan’s hope at starting anew with his wife the following day was delayed. He had slept in an unoccupied room down the hall from hers. A fitful, restless night.

’Twas just before dawn before sleep finally claimed him. Not long after, he heard someone enter the room. Instinctively, he reached for the dirk he kept under his pillow and held his breath.

“Did ye ferget about the wall?”

’Twas Reginald standing at the foot of the bed.

Shite. Grumbling — though relieved ’twas no’ anyone here to do him any harm — he sat up in the bed. “Be it that time already?” he groused.

“Aye,” Reginald said with a nod and amused smile. “It be that time.”

Brogan swung his legs over the edge of the bed, raked a hand through his hair, and took in a deep breath. The last thing he wanted to do was go work in a quarry all day. There were things he needed to discuss with Mairghread, things he needed to say. Most likely, she would sleep half the day.

“Verra well,” he said as he got to his feet. “I will meet ye below stairs in a few moments.”

Reginald gave a quick nod before quitting the room.

* * *

It had been a back-breaking day. Most of it, Brogan had spent in the quarry, with an axe, chipping away at earth and stone. At first, it felt good to strike hardened steel against stone to help get rid of some of his anger.

He, along with a group of five men, worked at chiseling away the needed stones. Another group was in charge of hauling them via wagon and rope, to a section of land less than a hundred yards away. There, another group of men would work at carving the stones to the appropriate size to be used for the much needed wall.

He reckoned in a few days’ time they could begin taking the stones to the keep. For now, ’twas all about gathering and chipping. Gathering and chipping.

’Twas much harder work here than what he had done back at his brother’s keep. Aye, they had a good deal of men to help the process, but the earth here was harder and far less forgiving than his brother’s lands.

His company also was different. Comnall was still in a foul mood because Brogan had sided with the Mactavish lad the night before, which made any hope at a congenial conversation futile. After a while, Brogan had had enough of Comnall’s insolent behavior and sent him out of the pit to work above.

The man who took Comnall’s place, though in a far better mood and spirit, was not the talkative kind. Mayhap his silence was born out of the fact that he didn’t know Brogan at all.

At noon time a group of women had come bearing a meal, for which all the men were mightily grateful. Brogan climbed out of the pit, took a trencher from one of the women, and went to sit away from the group.

The men ate as they rested in the warm afternoon sunshine. ’Twas a bright, beautiful day, one Brogan felt he should be enjoying more than he was. But envy — an emotion he rarely struggled with — began to cloud his heart.

Most of the women who had brought the nooning meal were wives of the men working here. On blankets spread out on the cool grass, they ate and laughed together, these couples. Many of those men stole kisses from their wives. Even the older men.

They were at ease with one another. Comfortable in their marriages, with their spouses, and their lives. Would he ever have ease and comfort with his own wife? And why the bloody hell had she gotten drunk again last eve?

He envied them, these people. He envied the simple life they lived. He wanted what they had. Mayhap, in time, Mairghread would look upon him with the same sweet smile as these women looked upon their husbands. But as thing stood now, that day was a long way off.

* * *

Brogan and the men had worked from dawn to dusk. By the end of the day, there was nary a man not covered in sweat and grime, and aye, even a bit of blood.

Tired from the long, arduous day, they rode back to the keep in the backs of wagons. The Mactavish men, friends one and all, ignored Brogan and his men for the most part. Besides, he was too tired to make small talk. And his mind was on only one person; his new bride.

Some of the men joined them at the loch to bathe, while others went home to their wives. Undoubtedly, a hot bath and hearty meal were waiting for them there.

What, he wondered, was waiting for him at the keep? Undoubtedly, Mairghread was still sorely angry with him for how he had treated her the night before. He could not rightly blame her. He had behaved poorly. Aye, he knew she had intentionally badgered him into losing his temper. But what had been her purpose? Was she intentionally trying to make him look like a beast? Like a low-born man without an ounce of pride or honor in his body?

Diving into the cold loch did nothing to ease his worries.

Why? He asked himself the same question a hundred times today. Why did she provoke him? Why did she look at him with such profound disgust and sorrow?

He had more questions than answers. And the only one who could give him those answers was his wife.

* * *

Brogan was once again late to the evening meal. Mairghread was already at the table on the dais. From his vantage point at the bottom of the stairs, she looked regal and elegant in a dark green gown made of soft silk. His fingers all but itched with desire. Desire to whisk her above stairs, to their chamber, where he would first apologize for his behavior from the previous night. Then he would slowly divest her of the aforementioned dress and spend the rest of the night showing her that she could trust him, with her body and her heart. One look at her and his anger subsided, replaced with a need so acute and intense, ’twas nearly frightening.

But he refused to play the fool this night. Nay, he would be every bit the gentleman she needed. He would apologize, take his time to explain his reasons for his poor behavior, then he would bloody well demand an explanation for hers. And he would not give up until he had it.

Standing on the stairs, he quietly watched his new bride as she downed one glass of wine before immediately pouring another.

Something began to niggle at the back of his mind. His imagination was taking him to a place he did not wish to visit. A dark, ugly place, filled with memories of the time in his own life when he was nothing but a drunken, empty shell of a man.

He glanced about at the people assembled to sup. Not a one paid Mairghread any mind or notice. They were all too busy eating and chatting amongst themselves.

The serving maid, the same young lass from the night before, stood cautiously in the corner of the dais, far away from Mairghread. But her eyes were glued to the woman. Worried eyes.

Mairghread gulped down the freshly poured wine. As soon as that cup was empty, she poured herself another. The maid immediately grabbed another flagon from the sideboard to replace the empty.

’Twas all done with such ease to signify this was habit.

He thought back to the wedding feast. He had assumed she had simply been enjoying the festivities and, as many a bride had done before, had drunk too much.

And last night. She had been drinking long before he had arrived to sup with her. He knew that now, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

He scanned the room for Gertie and Tilda and found them. They sat at a table just in front of the dais. Each of them was watching their lady with as much worry as the serving maid. ’Twas as if they were waiting for something to happen.

He knew this dance. Knew it backwards and forwards. ’Twas as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He could have danced it in his sleep.

Nay, he warned his mind. Do no’ make any assumptions just yet.

Before he would act upon his suspicions, he would gain the facts. Assumptions did no one any good.

While his mind and heart knew that to be true, his stomach tightened into knots of warning.

* * *

“Good eve to ye, Mairghread,” Brogan said as he took his seat next to her. “Ye look verra bonny this night.” She was beyond simply bonny, she was damned beautiful.

Cold and distant, she responded to his compliment with a shrug of indifference.

Scooting closer to her on the bench they shared, he said, “I would like to apologize for how I behaved last eve.”

Mairghread snorted derisively. “Do ye mean when ye tossed me over yer shoulder like a savage in front of everyone? Or when ye scared the bloody hell out of me when ye threw me onto me bed?

In truth, he could not rightly blame her for being upset. Still, he was offering an apology, and olive branch of sorts. “For all of it,” he replied.

She drank down her wine and poured another. “I do no’ ken how men treat women in yer own clan, but here, we respect our women, our wives,” she said.

The maid appeared at his side. “Would ye like wine, m’laird?” she asked, holding a pitcher over his mug.

“Nay, lass, but thank ye. I would like cider.” Before she could ask which kind he said, “Aye, the kind ye give the bairns. I never partake in strong drink.”

She cast an odd glance at her mistress before stepping away from the table.

Mairghread sighed. “Pray tell, why do ye never partake in strong drink? Are ye no’ man enough to handle it?”

Brogan had too much experience at being a drunkard and dealing with drunken people, to allow the insult to injure his pride. He smiled and began piling food onto his trencher. “I fear I can no’,” he admitted. “It turns me into someone I neither like nor admire.”

He had hoped his honesty would soften her demeanor. Instead, it had the opposite effect.

“Lord!” she exclaimed under her breath. “Yer honor is sickening.”

With those four little words, he knew without a doubt that his wife was a drunk.

* * *

Brogan sat in stunned muteness. He did not like the realization he’d just come to. He had, in fact, married a drunkard. Feeling very much a fool for allowing himself to be deceived by the woman’s beauty, and the two auld women sitting but ten steps away from him, he placed his eating knife on the table. Taking in deep, steadying breaths, he decided he would not allow her to provoke him again.

“Ye can insult me all ye wish, lass,” he said, hiding his anger behind a warm smile and soft voice. “But ’twill no’ have the effect ye want.”

“How would ye ken what I want?” she seethed.

Cocking his head to one side, he said, “Ye’re right. I would no’ ken what ye want, because ye hide yerself inside the flagon.”

If looks could have killed, he would have been a dead man. “How dare ye?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Am I wrong?” he asked. “I can assure ye that I would like nothing more at the moment, than to be wrong.”

She gulped down the rest of her wine and set the cup down with a clang. “Ye are a sanctimonious bastard, Brogan Mackintosh.”

He had been called much worse in his lifetime and told her as much.

Before she could respond, Gertie and Tilda were standing behind her. “M’lady,” Gertie said in a soothing voice. “Ye look tired. Mayhap ye should let us get ye to bed.”

“Go. Away.” Mairghread’s words were clipped and filled with anger.

“M’lady, me thinks mayhap ye have had enough to drink this night.”

“I would have to agree,” Brogan said.

“I will drink as much bloody wine or whisky or ale as I desire,” Mairghread told them spitefully. To prove it, she called for the serving maid to bring whisky.

“Mairghread, lass, I wish ye would no’ do this,” Brogan pleaded with her. He was trying to remain as calm as possible, which was not easy at the moment.

“To the devil with ye, Brogan Mackintosh,” she said. The maid appeared and did her lady’s bidding, pouring her a cup of whisky. When the young maid tried to step away with the flagon, Mairghread said, “Leave it.”

The girl did as she was told, though with a good deal of reluctance. The rest of the room had grown quiet. Brogan could feel all eyes in the room upon them.

“Gertie. Tilda. Ye may take yer seats and finish yer meal,” Brogan told them reassuringly. “Yer lady and I wish to finish eating.”

The two older women were hesitant to leave their lady.

Gertie placed a comforting hand on Mairghread’s shoulder. Mairghread shrugged it away, focusing on the cup of whisky in her hands.

With a good deal of reluctance, the women returned to their seats.

Brogan didn’t feel much like eating. Although his stomach was in knots, he managed only a few bites before he pushed his trencher away. Mairghread continued to drink and ignore his presence. The conversation they needed to have was going to have to wait.

Silently, he observed his bride as she sat like a sulking child, drinking one cup of whisky after another. By the fourth, she couldn’t get the cup to her lips without spilling it.

Whisky mixed with wine — or anything else for that matter — was never a good combination. From experience, he knew she was not going to feel well come the morrow. And if she kept drinking as she was, it might be days before she fully recovered.

“Do ye drink every day?” he asked, choosing to speak in a soft, non-accusatory tone.

She swayed ever so slightly as she turned to face him. “Aye, I do.” The vehemence from earlier was gone. Now, Brogan detected sadness, mayhap even a tinge of regret.

“May I ask why ye drink?”

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair without answering. She was quiet, her breathing slow yet steady. Brogan began to wonder if she hadn’t fallen asleep.

“I drink fer many reasons,” she finally answered. “None of which I wish to share.”

He could only hope that she would someday share those reasons with him. If anyone understood what could make a body to drink from sun up to sun down, ’twas he. Now, however, was probably not the best time to share his own past with her.

There had been no formal declaration calling the meal to an end, but people were leaving just the same. Just how long his new bride had been drinking like this, he could only guess. He concluded it probably started not long after she lost her husband and babe.

Servants came and began clearing tables. Quietly, he assumed, so as not to disturb Mairghread. He wondered how many nights had been like this one? When Mairghread drank until she fell asleep and people tip-toed around her. He doubted ’twas respect that bade them behave this way. More likely than not ’twas out of fear. He’d been the victim of her razor sharp tongue more than once these past two days. These people had probably been living with it for years.

Just as he was about to offer to help her above stairs, she sat forward in her chair and poured yet another cup of whisky. She looked out at those who remained behind. “Where has everyone gone?” she yelled. “I have no’ dismissed anyone!”

Brogan took in a deep breath. “I did it fer ye, Mairghread,” he lied. “The hour grows late.”

Having heard Mairghread’s displeasure, Gertie and Tilda once again came to the dais. “There, there, now lass,” Tilda said. “Gertie and I will see ye to yer bed.”

Mairghread spun around on the bench and jumped to her feet. She swayed, holding a cup of whisky in one hand, her other reaching out to find something to hold onto. Tilda took her hand in hers to help steady her.

“I wish ye’d all quit treatin’ me like a bairn!” she shouted. Her words were slurred, and filled with malice. Her eyes were glassy and unable to focus on anyone or anything. Aye, she was bloody well stinking drunk.

Brogan stood and took the hand Tilda had been holding. “Come, Mairghread, let us help ye above stairs.”

She wrenched her hand free of his, fire burning behind her drunken eyes. “Do no’ touch me!”

Gertie looked fit to be tied as tears welled behind her auld, blue eyes. “M’lady, please, let us help ye,” she said as she reached out to take her hand.

“I said, leave me be ye auld whore!” Mairghread cried out as she drew back her hand, the one with the cup, and swung out with it. She hit Gertie’s face with such force it sent her to her knees and the cup shattering to the floor. Blood began to run down her face, from a cut just below her eye.

Tilda bent down to help her friend while Brogan grabbed Mairghread about the waist. Before he could lift her off her feet, she kicked out at Tilda. Her foot struck the woman’s shoulder hard enough to send her tumbling to her back.

“Enough!” Brogan yelled as he pulled the kicking and screaming Mairghread away from the women and the table. “Settle down now!”

She fought like the devil to free herself from his tight hold. Kicking, cursing, clawing at his hands. He was undeterred. As fast as he could, he took her above stairs, all the while she screamed like a women possessed by the devil himself.

* * *

By the time he was kicking open the bedchamber door — again for the second time in as many days — Mairghread was lying limp in his hands. Either she had passed out or she was feigning as much. Either way, he wasn’t about to take the chance and set her free.

He tossed her onto the bed, out of breath, his forehead covered in sweat. ’Twasn’t from exertion, for she was not heavy in the least. Nay, ’twas anger and frustration, nothing more.

She mumbled something incoherent as she tried to roll over, fighting, struggling drunkenly, as if she were swimming in a sea of thick honey.

Brogan knew ‘twould do no good to try to talk to her in her current state. He doubted she would remember anything come the morrow. Instead, he stood with his hands on his hips, watching and waiting for what she might do next. He’d not leave her alone, not for a moment.

“Whisky,” she mumbled. “I need more …” her words trailed off as she took in ragged breaths.

Nay, he thought to himself. Ye need no’ whisky or wine or ale.

Slowly, in a drunken stupor, she rolled onto her belly and tried to climb out of the bed. Brogan took a few steps back, observing, wishing for all the world he was not witnessing any of this.

“They all be fools,” she muttered. “I hate them. I hate him.”

He would take to heart nothing she said this night, or any other while she was drunk. Brogan knew they were nothing more than words induced from too much strong drink.

It took a good deal of effort before she finally managed to get her head over the edge of the bed. “All of them. I hate all of them.” She dropped her head over the edge. “Why can I no’ remember?” she continued to mumble, most of which he could not decipher.

From behind him, came the soft yet quavering voice of the same young woman who had served them their evening meal. “M’laird,” she whispered. “Gertie and Tilda sent me to help.”

She had stepped forward with a bowl of water and washing cloths.

“Nay,” Brogan said, holding his hand up. “Ye may leave that on the table, but ye are no’ to help yer lady this night.”

Aghast, she asked, “But we must. We help her every night she gets like this.”

The tick in Brogan’s jaw returned with a vengeance. “I said, nay. Ye do no’ help her by cleanin’ up her messes.”

Clearly, she did not understand.

“What is yer name?” he asked.

“Mairi,” she replied, looking between her lady and Brogan.

“Mairi, the best thing ye can do fer yer lady right now, is to leave her be. Let her awake on the morrow to see what her actions have wrought.”

He could tell from her confused expression she still didn’t understand. “Go, tend to Gertie and Tilda,” he told her. “They be hurting far worse than yer lady at the moment. Send fer yer healer as well. Gertie might need stitches.”

She made no effort to move as she continued to stare with worried eyes at Mairghread.

They had been doing this for so long, it had become the norm. It would be up to Brogan to change it. “Lass, go now. I promise I will tend yer lady. No harm will come to her this night.”

Hesitantly, she placed the bowl and cloths on the table. “M’laird, we love our lady verra much. She has no’ always been like this.”

Brogan had no doubt she spoke the truth. If Mairghread had always been nothing more than a drunk, her people would not hold her in such high regard. “I believe ye, lass. Now go, tend to Gertie and Tilda.”

She bobbed a curtsey and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Brogan turned his attention back to Mairghread, who had as yet not moved. Her head still hung over the edge of the bed. He knew ’twas going to be an awfully long night.

His anger began to wane, replaced with a good deal of pity. Working quietly, he set a fire in the hearth. Next, he searched her room from top to bottom for hidden bottles of wine, ale, or whisky. By the time he was finished, he had found five bottles of wine and four of whisky. He’d also found empty bottles under her bed, along with one slipper. He put the slipper in her clothes cupboard and the bottles on the table in the corner.

After that task was done, he pulled up a chair and sat near the corner of the bed, where he could keep an eye on her. Not long after, she began to stir. He could hear her begin to wretch, so he quickly grabbed a chamber pot and placed it on the floor under her head. Most of it did manage to make it into the pot. Other than placing the chamber pot under her face, he offered no other assistance.

He refused to remove it or clean up the mess. Nay, she must see what her drinking does.

When the smell became too much, he pulled back the furs from the windows to let fresh air in and returned to his chair.

Och, Mairghread, I pray ye will be able to give up the drink.