Brogan slept all the night long in the chair at the foot of her bed. He awoke at dawn, with a stiff neck and an arse that had fallen asleep. Near as he could tell, Mairghread hadn’t moved. She still slept with her head dangling halfway off the bed.

Quietly, he stood and stretched and hurried below stairs. He found Mairi in the gathering room, helping to set out the morning meal. “Mairi,” he said. “Would ye please go sit with yer lady?”

“Aye, m’laird,” she said as she bobbed a curtsy.

“Leave her be, as ye found her,” he warned. “But if she wakes, come find me at once.”

If she thought it an odd request, she didn’t remark on it.

“Where be Gertie and Tilda?” he asked.

“In their quarters,” she answered. “Down the hall, and the second door on the right.”

He thanked her and headed off to see the auld women.

He gave a gentle rap at the door and heard a muffled voice bid entry. Carefully, he opened the door.

’Twas a small, well-kept room. Gertie and Tilda were in small beds set against the opposite wall. One small table sat between the two beds. To his left, was the hearth with two chairs flanking it.

The women were surprised to see him enter their room. “Och! M’laird!” they cried out almost in unison as they started to scramble from their beds.

“Nay, ladies,” he said holding up a hand. “Stay abed please.”

They cast curious glances at one another and pulled their blankets up around their chins.

“How be our lady?” Gertie asked, concern filling her eyes and voice.

“Still asleep,” he said. “Do ye mind if I sit?” he asked, nodding his head toward one of the chairs.

“Och! Of course ye can!” they replied, again, in unison.

He stifled a chuckle as he pulled up a chair to sit between the two women. He had been wise to call for the healer the night before. Gertie had required a few stitches for the gash under her eye. It looked painfully swollen, blue and purple and red.

“How do ye fare?” he asked each of them.

“We’ll be right as rain in no time,” Tilda said. “’Tis naught but a bruised shoulder for me and a black eye for Gertie.”

To Brogan’s way of thinking, it was far worse than bruises. The pain ran far deeper, no matter how hard they might try to deny it.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked them bluntly.

Gertie stammered for an appropriate answer, while Tilda was unusually quiet. “Ladies, I ken Mairghread has a problem with drink. I am neither a fool nor a simpleton.”

Suddenly, his mind took him back to the very first time he’d met these two women. Gertie’s words resounded loudly now. She needs a strong man, she had told him that day. Now, he understood all too well what she meant by it.

“Why did the two of ye seek me out? To marry Mairghread, I mean.”

They cast conspiratorial glances at one another before Gertie answered. “I met ye when ye came to buy horses, a year ago. Well, no’ met as much as overheard ye discussin’ things with Harry, Seamus’s apprentice.” Her cheeks flamed red with her admission of eavesdropping. “Months later, when Aymer announced he had brokered a deal with the Frenchman, well, we had to do somethin’. Me and Tilda stole away from the keep and went to yers. ’Twas then we first met Rose Mackintosh.”

“She be a fine woman, that one,” Tilda broke in.

“Aye, a fine woman indeed,” Gertie replied with a warm smile.

Brogan rolled his eyes.

“Well, we explained our plight to Lady Mackintosh. ’Twas her idea to speak to ye.”

Brogan pondered it for a brief moment. “Did Rose ken of Mairghread’s problem with drink?”

Gertie averted her eyes to her hands. “Aye, m’laird, she kent it. Well, mayhap not all of it.”

Brogan took in a deep breath through his nostrils and let it out slowly. But Rose knew enough, he reckoned quietly. No wonder she thought Mairghread and I would suit.

“When did her drinkin’ start?”

“The day they buried James and wee Connell,” Tilda answered.

“’Twas the saddest time in our lives,” Gertie added. “We lost more than James and Connell that day, M’laird.”

“We also lost our lady,” Tilda said.

* * *

Brogan understood all too well the depths of their pain. They loved Mairghread as much as if she were their very own daughter. When Mairghread hurt, they hurt.

“What exactly happened the night of the raid?” he asked.

The two women grew eerily silent.

“I can no’ help Mairghread if I do no’ ken the reasons behind her drinkin’.”

“Is it no’ enough that she lost them?” Gertie asked, tears welling up in her blue eyes.

He knew, from personal experience, that if one did not face the cold hard truth, if ye kept it hidden, deeply buried, it would eat at ye until there was nothing left of yer soul. “Nay, I need the truth of it. What happened that night?”

Gertie wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “In truth, we do no’ rightly ken, m’laird. We were attacked, and to this verra day, we ken no’ by who.”

Brogan found that a peculiar bit of information. “Ye do no’ ken who?”

The two women shook their heads, looking beleaguered and sorrowful.

“How many were there?” he asked.

Gertie shrugged her shoulders. “Some say only five, others say twenty or more. No one kens fer certain.”

“And James and Connell were killed as well?” he asked, hoping to encourage them to give him more information.

“Aye, they were killed as well. Attacked, they were, in their bedchamber,” Tilda said in a low voice.

“How many others lost their lives?” Brogan asked.

“Two guards,” Gertie told him. “And we almost lost Mairghread as well.”

That bit of news astonished him. Of course, he and his wife had not necessarily had the time to discuss such things. “What happened? To them and to her?”

“James’s throat was cut. And wee Connell,” she choked back a sob, unable to get the words out.

“Connell, he was only three weeks old, ye ken, just an innocent babe!” Tilda said. The look of sheer hatred in her eyes at the man or men responsible was quite evident. “They cut his throat too!”

The women wept at the memory of the awful night, of the loss of an innocent babe. “He was such a good babe,” Tilda said. “Such a sweet babe.”

’Twas no wonder Mairghread drank. ’Twas difficult to imagine losing one’s child in such a manner. “And Mairghread?”

The two women looked at one another before Gertie replied. “She was stabbed many, many times. We almost lost her. If we had no’ found her when we did, she would have died as well.”

“Ye found her?” He directed his question to both women.

“Her uncle and I did,” Gertie said. “I heard her screamin’. I do no’ think I have ever run so fast in all me days.”

He was stunned into muteness for a long while. ’Twas difficult for the women to talk about that night. For some reason, he felt there was more to this story than they were willing to admit. But what, he could not begin to guess. Looking at them, he could see they were tired and worn from the telling.

“Our lady,” Tilda began as she wiped away another tear. “She has no memory of that night, or even of the day.”

“Aye,” Gertie said. “I think ’tis too much fer her to bear, ye ken. She has blocked that night out, to save her mind from madness.”

Brogan found no fault in her reasoning. He knew men who had suffered on the field of battle and for years, could not recount a moment of what had happened to them. It was perfectly reasonable to assume Mairghread had done the same.

Now, it all made perfectly good sense. She drank to ease her pain and suffering.

“She was no’ always like this,” Gertie told him. “She was such a sweet, kind lass. I swear, this I tell ye true.”

“Aye, ’tis true. She always put the needs of her clan before her own,” Tilda added.

“Her mother, her father, they cherished each of their children, and Mairghread was no different,” Gertie said through sniffles. “When Connell was born, ye never saw a woman so blissfully happy.”

“Aye, she did no’ stop smiling from the time he was born until—” Tilda stopped herself, pressed her fingertips to her lips, and began to cry again.

“I swear, m’laird, if ever I get me hands on the man who did this to her, to us, I will kill him, I will,” Gertie said. There was such a resoluteness to her tone that he did not doubt for a moment she spoke the truth.

They sat in silence for a long while. Brogan felt empty and at a loss on what he should do next.

“Do ye think ye can help her?” Tilda asked.

“Help her?”

“Stop her drinkin’,” she replied hopefully.

God, if it were only that easy, he mused.

* * *

’Twas long after noon time before Mairghread woke, groggy and with such a pain in her head she thought ’twould surely be her death. “Och,” she groused as she slowly reached up to rub her temple, afraid just yet of opening her eyes.

For some odd reason, her neck ached, and she felt oddly cold. Something did not quite feel right. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and instantly regretted doing so. Sunshine was streaming in through the open windows, burning her orbs. Quickly, she shut her lids tightly.

It took every ounce of energy she had to roll over. ’Twas then she realized her head had been dangling over the bed. What on earth? Though she only thought the question, it seemed to echo loudly in her mind, clanging like the smithy’s hammer against an anvil.

She took in slow, deep breaths, hoping to calm her stomach. It roiled and churned. Before she could stop it, she was forced to roll over again, to vomit. It came in great, harsh waves, burning her throat. She retched until she had nothing left.

Sweaty, her dress clung to her skin uncomfortably so, but she didn’t have the strength to remove it. She wiped her face on the sleeve and rolled to her back. Lying as still as a mouse, she waited for her stomach to settle.

How much time passed, she couldn’t have said. Though she was certain she was alone in her chamber, the silence was deafening, maddening. Where be Gertie? Tilda? She wondered. Not a morn had passed that they were not here in her chamber, the moment she awakened. ’Twas as if they had some sort of special power to know when she needed them most.

When she was quite certain she’d not wretch again, she rubbed her lids gently with her fingertips. Groaning slightly, she lifted herself on her elbows and took the chance once again to open her eyes.

Brogan was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. “Good morn,” he said.

Shame crept up her skin in a dark shade of red. She could feel it, deep in her bones.

“Where,” her tongue and throat were as dry as wool. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Where be Gertie?”

“Resting,” he replied.

“Resting?” she asked. Worry grabbed at her heart. “What happened? Is she ill?”

For the first time since he married her, he saw genuine concern in her eyes, heard it in her voice. The auld women had no’ lied, he realized. But was there enough of the auld Mairghread left in her to change? To want to change? “Ye do no’ remember last eve?” he asked.

Leaning back against the pillow, she fought hard to find a memory of the night before. But there was nothing. “Nay, I do no’,” she said as she opened her eyes and slowly sat up. “Is she ill?” she asked once again. “Has the healer been called?”

He had to admit he was glad to see the genuine concern in her eyes. He did not relish for a moment telling her what he must. “She be no’ ill, Mairghread. But, aye, the healer was called, to tend to her wounds.”

“Wounds?” she asked, sounding quite worried. “Did she fall?”

Brogan shook his head slowly. “Lass, ye were quite into yer cups last eve. Ye became quite angry when we suggested ’twas time to put down yer whisky and go to bed.”

From her confused expression, she hadn’t a clear memory of the night before. Nor was she anticipating what he was about to tell her. “Ye hit her with yer cup of whisky. It shattered against her face and she required stitches. She has a black eye, but she will live.”

Wide, shocked eyes stared at him from across the bed. “Nay!” she cried out. “I would never hurt Gertie!”

“I ken ye would no’ do it if ye were sober, Mairghread,” he told her, keeping his tone even. “But aye, ye did hurt her last eve.”

Swallowing back tears, she shook her head as she buried it in her hands. “Nay, ye lie! I—”

Brogan stood then, and came to sit beside her on the bed. “Mairghread, I would no’ lie about such a thing.”

Unable to look at him just yet, she kept her face buried in her palms. “Nay, nay, nay,” she murmured.

His memory took him back to the day he had learned he had hurt his nephew. Lord, how guilty he felt when he’d learned the truth. ’Twas the first time in his life that his father had ever laid a hand on him in anger. His was black and blue for a week after. But he had sworn that day, never to touch a drop of anything stronger than soft cider. Thus far, though he had been tempted on more than one occasion to drink, he had kept his promise.

The tactics his father had used on him would not work on Mairghread. He couldn’t very well beat the living daylights out of her. But he could talk to her, from his heart.

“Mairghread,” he said as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

She shrugged it away. “Nay, please go. I wish to see no one right now.”

“Mairghread, ye be no’ the first person to have an addiction—”

She lifted her head so quickly, he was surprised her neck did not snap. “Addiction?” she asked, her brow knotted. “Ye think I have an addiction?” The disgust she held for him was plainly evidenced through angry eyes. “I have no addiction! Go! Leave me be!”

With a sigh of resignation, he stood to his full height. “Do ye see these?” he asked as he pointed to the bottles on the table. “These all belong to ye. Five bottles of wine. Four of whisky. All hidden about yer room. Ye can no’ deny it any longer, Mairghread. Ye are addicted to the drink.”

Fire burned behind her eyes. Fire, hatred and denial. “Leave me!” she shouted as she grabbed a pillow and flung it at him. It landed on the floor at his feet.

“Ye can deny it all ye wish, but the truth remains. Ye are addicted. Ye drink until ye black out. Ye hurt the people around ye. No’ just with yer words, but with yer deeds and actions.”

“To the devil with ye Brogan Mackintosh!” She was seething with anger. Her face was purple with rage, her chest heaving up and down.

There was only one way to get her to see the truth; let her see it with her own eyes.

* * *

Brogan returned to Mairghread’s bedchamber an hour later. With him, he had Reginald, Gertie, and Tilda. In order for her to understand what her drinking was doing to herself and those around her, he needed to show her. She had to see it with her own eyes.

Neither Gertie nor Tilda wanted to do what he asked of them. The women simply did not wish to bring Mairghread an ounce of pain. They felt she’d already suffered enough with losing her husband and babe. It took a good deal of convincing on his part to get them to see how important this was to Mairghread’s potential recovery.

As for Reginald, he would rather die than bring a moment of upset to Mairghread. However, he understood ’twas for her own well-being. Her life depended on it.

They were in Mairghread’s bedchamber now, pleading with her to see reason.

“I could no’ have done what ye said,” Mairghread argued as she sat on the edge of her bed.

Forlorn and sorrowful, Gertie took a step forward. “Lass, I ken ye would ne’er do such a thing on purpose, least while not sober. But aye, we tell ye the truth.”

“Ye became quite angry last eve,” Tilda added. “We ken ’twas the whisky and no’ ye.”

Tears crept into Mairghread’s eyes. Unable to look at them, she turned away.

“Lass, we want to help ye,” Reginald said from his spot by the window.

“Help me?” she asked, wholly confused.

“Aye, help ye stop drinkin’,” he said.

“Bah!” she exclaimed as she once again turned away from them. “I do no’ need help to stop. I do no’ need to stop. Ye are all makin’ more out of my occasional glass of wine—”

Brogan stepped forward then. “Occasional glass of wine?” he asked cynically. “Ye can no’ be serious.”

She refused to look at him.

“Mairghread, yer drinkin’ is more serious than an occasional glass of wine. Ye are not only hurtin’ those people around ye, yer killin’ yerself. Be that what ye want? To die a bitter, sad, lonely woman far too young?”

Anger, as good and dear a friend as the whisky, enveloped her. She picked up the candlestick hear her bed and flung it at him. “To the devil with ye Brogan Mackintosh! To the devil!”