Whisky made her forget. One man’s love will help her remember.
He could have walked away when he learned of his bride’s secret — that she is a raging alcoholic. But Brogan Mackintosh is not the kind of man to turn a blind eye to someone in need. He battled his own demons and won the fight against drink years before. Facing the challenges head on, like the battle hardened warrior he is, he is determined to help his new bride overcome the demons that haunt her. And he might even learn the truth surrounding the murders of her husband and infant son.
Mairghread Mactavish isn’t sure she can continue to breathe anymore without the aid of wine and whisky. Plunging herself into the dark abyss of drunkenness was the only place where she could catch glimpses, bits and pieces of her memory from the night her world was torn apart. When she learns the truth about the man she is to marry — a man who has murdered more than one wife and raped countless other women — she makes a desperate decision to marry Brogan Mackintosh instead. Brogan offers her more than a way out of marrying a murderer, however. He might be the only man who can give her back the life she once lived.
This is a story about overcoming grief and alcoholism and finding true love in your darkest hours.
This book has sold more than 10,000 copies since its release.
Prologue
No one understood the depths of her grief. Despair and sorrow clung to her heart, weighing it down until Mairghread was no longer certain it beat any more. Her soul was empty, void of any good feelings. Only the pain, the sorrow, and heartache remained.
Even now, three long years after the deaths of her husband and only child, the pain was as real and as intense as if it had only happened moments ago.
In order to help pass the time, until she could once again be reunited with them in heaven, she drank. Aye, there was many a late night when she contemplated taking her own life in order to escape the deep suffering in her heart. The only thing that kept her from slicing through the tender flesh of her wrists, or wrapping a rope around her neck, or throwing herself off the parapet, was knowing that if she acted on those thoughts, she would never see either of them again. God would not allow her entry to heaven.
As it stood, there was a good chance He would not allow her entry anyway. Not if the rumors whispered behind her back were more than just cruel lies. Not if what her uncle hinted at but never really said was actually true.
There was a time when she would have demanded to know the whole ugly, sordid truth of what really happened that awful night when her world fell apart. The only things she remembered — for she herself nearly died that night — were told to her by her uncle and her maids. And rarely did any of their stories match up.
So horrific was that night, so horrible was her loss, she took up the flagon and bottle as soon as her outer wounds had healed.
After countless nights of drinking to the point where she could not have found her own hands with the help of guide and map, it was as natural as breathing. Now, after three long years of this, she doubted she could breathe or think without the aid of drink.
