The Scottish Bride (12 page)

“You know he won't,” Mary Rose said, never opening her eyes. “I will leave just as soon as I am able,” she added, and wondered if she would have to walk out of Kildrummy Castle stark naked. Her clothes were shredded and Meggie was ten years old. She sighed. She would worry about it once she'd rested. Yes, an hour, perhaps, to let her body warm and regain strength. An hour . . .

Meggie realized Mary Rose was asleep. She appeared to be breathing easily. But she was so very pale. Meggie stood over her, wondering what was going on, knowing it must be one of those adult sorts of things that they believed a young person, even a very smart one, wouldn't understand.

She gently touched her fingertips to Mary Rose's cheek and patted it. She had to leave now, find her papa and distract him. She looked one more time at Mary Rose before she let herself out of the bedchamber.

Meggie ate her dinner very slowly, gathering the peas one by one onto her fork, wondering all the while how she was going to get food to Mary Rose. Her father said, “You're learning quickly, Meggie. When you moved your
queen, checking me, I must admit that I was worried for a moment.” He hadn't been, but this was one of those untruths that made a child smile and try all the harder.

“Really, Papa?”

“Really. Now, after dinner I must leave you for just a little while. I must ride to see Erickson MacPhail. There are matters I need to discuss with him. He wasn't there earlier. I won't be long.”

“Is it about Mary Rose, Papa?”

Tysen started to shake his head, but then he realized there was a thread of fear in his daughter's voice. What could she possibly know about this mess? He said, “Yes, Meggie, it is about Mary Rose. But don't worry, all right? I will make certain he understands the, er, situation.”

Tysen sat back then, waiting for her to beg him to take her with him. To his surprise, she didn't say another word. She was studying the buttered potatoes in the center of her plate. Now this was strange, he thought, and he was soon frowning. Something was going on here. But what?

It was then that Mrs. MacFardle said from the doorway, “Excuse me, my lord, but Sir Lyon is here. He insists that he must speak to you. He won't be put off—not that I would, naturally, even if you were in your bed, sleeping.”

“Thank you, Mrs. MacFardle. Tell Sir Lyon that I will be right along.” Tysen tossed his napkin beside his plate and rose. He'd taken two steps when he realized that Meggie wasn't right on his heels. He was surprised to see her wrapping several slices of bread in a napkin.

He didn't say anything, but he planned to get to the bottom of whatever this was later. He strode out of the dining room. Sir Lyon was waiting for him in the entrance hall. Pouder was sitting in his chair beside the front door, his head down, nearly reaching his chest, apparently asleep.

“Sir,” Tysen said. “Is there a problem?”

“Where is she, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mary Rose. She is gone. She never came home from her ride. She has disappeared.”

He felt instant, corroding fear. He hoped it didn't show on his face. “And you believe she is here?”

“There is no place else she would go. Of course, her aunt claims that she would never come here, that she would be too embarrassed at her behavior, but I disagree.

“Come now, where is she, my lord? You must tell her that she is to come to me, at once.”

“I'm sorry,” Tysen said slowly, staring at Sir Lyon, whose face was becoming alarmingly red, “but I am afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Why would Mary Rose disappear? What has happened?”

“I do not know,” Sir Lyon said.

Tysen said, “You do not lie well, sir. Come into the drawing room and tell me why Mary Rose felt she had to leave your home.”

Sir Lyon bellowed at the top of his lungs, not moving an inch, “Damnation, there is nothing at all to tell, particularly to you, a bloody English vicar! She is my niece, in my care, curse her eyes, and I want her! Now.”

Pouder jerked upright, blinking his rheumy old eyes, then shaking his head.

“She isn't here,” Tysen said calmly.

“Aye,” said Pouder. “Mary Rose isn't here. I haven't left my post for the past three hours and then it was just for a moment or two when I was needed to fold his lordship's cravats.”

Tysen smiled at the old man, then said again, “Mary Rose isn't here.”

Sir Lyon knew when most men were lying. And he knew to his bones that this damned young man, who was also a vicar, wasn't lying. His eyes were clear of deceit,
and a man who deceived as well as Sir Lyon did certainly knew deceit when he saw it. No, the young man's voice was firm and unexcited. Sir Lyon also understood choler, knew what it felt like, what it sounded like. No, the damned young man, the cursed English vicar who was also the new Lord Barthwick, wasn't lying, damn his eyes. “Then where is she?”

Tysen said very slowly, his fear for Mary Rose rising with his level of anger at this man, “What in God's name have you done, man?”

“Nothing, I tell you. Nothing at all. The girl—no, she's not a girl at all anymore, curse her, she's a damned woman. She is flighty, too flighty for a spinster of her advanced years, and she is stubborn, more stubborn than her madwoman of a damned mother. She turned him down flat, and naturally he didn't like it.”

Tysen felt his anger turn to rage. It was pouring through him, making his pulse pound, sending his blood roaring, ringing in his brain, making his eyes red. “MacPhail tried to rape her, didn't he?”

“No! Bloody hell, I don't know! She jumped in the bloody stream and was quickly swept away from him. He couldn't find her.”

“Are you telling me that MacPhail just left and came running to you?”

“No, certainly not. He looked for her quite thoroughly, then rode back to where she had jumped in. Her mare was gone. Obviously she'd come back and taken her mare. Besides, even overflowing like that stream is now, it isn't deep enough to drown a goat, much less a person. But, curse her eyes, she didn't come home.” Sir Lyon cursed long and low under his breath. Then, oddly, he looked as if he would burst into tears. “I just don't know where she has gone. Are you certain she isn't here? Perhaps hiding from you?”

“She isn't here,” Tysen said, and then, of course, he knew that she was. He waited until Sir Lyon, his ire bursting loose, had ranted even more, until his face was so red that Tysen feared the man would collapse with apoplexy in his entrance hall. Pouder never moved in his chair, never said another word, just kept his eyes on Sir Lyon, no expression at all on his seamed face.

“You will keep me informed,” Tysen said as he nearly shoved Sir Lyon out the front door.

“You will tell me if she comes here?”

“Very probably not,” Tysen said. He didn't say anything more, just waited at the top of the steps until Sir Lyon had mounted his horse and was gone out the front gates. He turned slowly and walked back to the dining room, saying over his shoulder, “Don't worry, Pouder. Sir Lyon will calm down.”

“He be a mangy one, m'lord,” Pouder said, and still didn't move. “He may be old now, but ye have a care wi' him. Always a sneak he was, always.”

Meggie wasn't in the dining room, not that he expected her to be.

What in the name of his beneficent God was he going to do? He took the stairs two at a time, then three at a time. She'd jumped into the bloody stream to escape MacPhail. He pictured that swirling, maddened water in his mind closing over Mary Rose's head, and his blood turned cold. At least, thank God, he knew she hadn't drowned. He was running by the time he reached Meggie's bedchamber. He didn't knock, just turned the handle. The door was locked.

He was a calm man, a man of judgment, of unclouded reason. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Meggie, open this bloody door now!”

To his utter surprise, in but a moment the bedchamber
door opened. His daughter stood there, staring up at him, calm as a nun. “Yes, Papa?”

“Where is she, Meggie?”

But he didn't wait for her to say anything at all, he picked her up beneath her arms and set her aside. He strode into the bedchamber and came to a dead stop. The room was empty. Mary Rose obviously wasn't here. The bed was made, the counterpane not the least bit mussed. There was no sign of anyone at all.

He turned slowly. “Where is she?”

 
 
 
 

“
W
HO ARE YOU
talking about, Papa?”

“I'm talking about Mary Rose, the person you were delivering tea to just a couple of hours ago. Listen to me. She's in trouble, Meggie, very deep trouble. Tell me where she is.”

But Meggie didn't say a word. She swallowed convulsively, then she walked to her father and clasped her arms around his waist and buried her face against him. “Papa, I'm so scared. I was going to come to you. She's very sick, shaking all over, and Papa, she's all cut up, and bruised everywhere, and it looks bad. But she's got a fever and I'm so scared. I don't want her to die, please don't let her die.”

Tysen put his arms around his daughter, kissed the top of her head. “It will be all right, sweetheart. I won't let anything happen to Mary Rose. You can trust me on this. Where did you take her?”

“I helped her into your bedchamber, Papa. I heard Sir Lyon carrying on and yelling and so I ran back up here and got her out. I knew Pouder wasn't in your bedchamber since he was seated next to the front door. I guess he finished rearranging all your cravats.”

“Evidently so. He is still at the front door, snoozing again.” He grasped her shoulders in his large hands. “You took her to my bedchamber? Why there, Meggie?”

“I knew Sir Lyon wouldn't demand to look in the laird's bedchamber, Papa.”

Tysen felt her shudder and just pulled her more tightly against him until he felt her ease again.

“I wouldn't have allowed Sir Lyon to look anywhere, Meggie, but it's all right. Now, listen to me, here's what I want you to do.”

Two minutes later, Tysen quietly opened the door to his bedchamber. The room was warm, a cozy fire built up. Meggie's doing, he supposed. The child had worked quickly. He walked quietly to the bed and looked down at Mary Rose. Her hair was fanned out about her head, still damp, tangled, looking red as blood against the white pillow. Her face was flushed. Meggie was right, she had the fever. He closed his eyes a moment, picturing her thrashing around in the rushing water of that nearly overflowing stream. And the rocks, he thought, so many of them, jagged, sharp, no way to avoid them. There was no hope for it. He sat down beside her and lightly slapped her bruised cheeks. Her skin was hot to the touch. She didn't move. He slapped her again. “Mary Rose,” he said, “come, now, wake up. Talk to me. You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you. Come on, Mary Rose, open your eyes.”

She moaned then, a soft animal sound deep in her throat. He pulled the covers down to her waist, and smiled. She was wearing one of his nightshirts. He supposed that Meggie had put it on her. He laid his palm against her heart. It was beating slowly, but it was steady, thank the good Lord. He leaned close to her and listened. Yes, steady and slow.

He straightened, saw her hands then, bruised and
scraped, some of the cuts fairly deep, several of them oozing just a bit of blood. Well, there was no hope for it, there was no one else to help her. He pulled the nightshirt down to her waist, and sucked in his breath. She was covered with bruises, bright green, yellow, a bit of purple, streaking her ribs, her belly, her shoulders. And the cuts, myriad small slashes, none of them very deep, but ugly, all of them. Tysen was a man of God, but as he looked at her, pictured in his mind that stream and her struggling in it, he knew deep, corroding fear, actually both fear and anger at the damned man who'd driven her to jump in the water.

What to do? Mrs. MacFardle had some medicinal cream he could apply after Mary Rose was bathed. No, he wouldn't say anything about her to Mrs. MacFardle. He didn't want her to know that Mary Rose was here. Further, she obviously didn't approve of a bastard being treated like a person of value. He cupped his hand against her breast again, pressing more firmly to feel the beat of her heart. And he couldn't help himself. He looked at her in those few moments as a man looks at a woman, and he saw that she was nicely made, so very white, her flesh smooth and her breasts wonderfully shaped. His fingers flexed against her flesh, then he grunted at himself and quickly jerked his hand away. He closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn't think like this, couldn't allow himself to see her as a man who wanted her. She was very ill. He heard a soft knock on the door. He pulled the nightshirt back up and covered her again.

Meggie was there, holding a basin of hot water, several cloths over her arm, and a bottle of ointment clutched in her hand. “Excellent, Meggie. How did you ever get that ointment from Mrs. MacFardle?”

“I had to lie to her, Papa. Since she doesn't know me
as well as you do, she believed me when I told her that you had cut your hand.”

“You did well. Now, I want you to go back to your bedchamber.”

“Papa, please let me help you. Mary Rose is—”

“Mary Rose is what?”

Meggie frowned toward the young woman lying in the middle of her father's bed. She struggled to find the words. “It's just that she's very alone, even though she lives in a houseful of people. I don't think there's anyone for her. Not even her mother. She needs me.”

Just as I need you, Tysen thought, and smiled down at his precious daughter. He cradled her cheek in his hand. “I promise I'll take good care of her. No one is to know yet that she's here. If anyone asks about me, just tell them that I am not feeling well and am here in my bedchamber. Now, I don't want you to stay, sweetheart. Go now.”

“You will call me if she worsens?”

“I most certainly will. I promise.” Tysen waited until Meggie had slipped out of his bedchamber.

He locked the door, then walked back to the bed. Tysen hadn't ever taken intimate care of another person, except his children, of course, after their mother had died. He'd rocked them endlessly when monsters had invaded their dreams, wiped their foreheads when they'd been downed by fevers, held them when they vomited, rubbed their stomachs when they had belly cramps. But Mary Rose wasn't a child. She was a grown woman, and she wasn't his wife.

There was no choice. It was either that or ask Mrs. MacFardle to see to her, and that he couldn't, wouldn't, do. He remembered how she had purposely hurt Mary Rose's ankle just because she hadn't believed she belonged here at Kildrummy Castle, in the drawing room, in the same company with her betters.

“All right, Mary Rose,” he said, staring down at her. “I'm all you've got.”

He stripped her down, examined every inch of her, bathed her, rubbed the ointment that smelled like pine and lavender mixed together into every scratch, abrasion, and cut on her white body. No, he wouldn't think of her as having a white body, as having soft white flesh. He realized that she was shivering and quickly put her into his nightshirt again. He took his well-worn dark-green brocade dressing gown and wrapped that around her as well. He pulled the covers to her chin and smoothed her hair, only a bit damp now, from around her face. Her face was as badly bruised as her body. He lightly pressed his palms to her forehead, her cheeks. She was now cool to the touch.

He prayed she would stay that way.

He built up the fire, then pulled a very large leather wing chair at least two centuries old up beside the bed. He lit another branch of candles, picked up the book he'd been reading, and settled himself in to wait.

“I don't understand why you want to do this. You wanted Donnatella. Why me? Why now?”

He nearly dropped his book, Shakespeare's
King Henry IV, Part I
, one of his favorite plays.

“Mary Rose? Are you back with me?”

She wasn't. She twisted a bit, but the covers were heavy and she couldn't throw them off. “
I don't want to wed, don't you understand? I would never marry you, you were fondling my own mother. How could you do that? She is my mother!”

“I know,” he said, smoothing her hair, touching her face, to calm her. “Erickson MacPhail won't ever again be close enough to frighten you, Mary Rose. You must trust me on that.”

“She's my mother!”

“Yes, she is. It's all right, I'm here now.”

She started crying, deep, gulping sobs that seemed to be torn out of her chest, and tears, streaming down her face. He couldn't bear it. He sat beside her and pulled her up against his chest. He rocked her, speaking nonsense to her, holding her, stroking her back, his breath warm on her flesh, so that perhaps on some level, she would know she was safe. He remembered how he'd just stared at her when she'd told him about Erickson and her mother, crying quietly as she'd told him how even now she still wasn't entirely certain that her mother hadn't encouraged, hadn't, in fact, been his lover. Her mother had never said anything to her about it—understandable, Tysen supposed. He'd wanted to hold her then, comfort her, but he hadn't.

Nor had he been shocked. As a vicar, he believed that he had witnessed just about everything perverse, vicious, and brutal that anyone could possibly do. But he'd hated the fact that Mary Rose had seen the two of them, and had been so terribly hurt. Then, of course, she'd been embarrassed that she'd told him.

He leaned over and kissed her temple. He then nearly leapt off the bed at what he'd done, at what he'd felt at the touch of his mouth against her skin. He didn't let her go, he couldn't. He'd kissed her, a woman who wasn't his wife, a young woman who was defenseless, without protection. He closed his eyes. He'd had to take care of her, but that kiss, that wasn't well done of him. He touched his mouth to her cheek, tasted the salty tears, but this time he didn't kiss her, just held her close and closer still, and tasted her tears.

She calmed, her face against his shoulder, her breathing evening out. If she was still awake, he prayed that she wasn't still locked inside herself. “Mary Rose?” His voice was just a whisper against her cheek.

She was asleep. He gently eased her onto her back,
pulled the covers up. He rose slowly, looking down at her. He hadn't even known she existed until—was it even a week ago? Less? He couldn't seem to remember a day when she hadn't been there. No, that was ridiculous. He hadn't been interested in another female, not in this way, since three months after he and Melinda Beatrice had wed. He had to stop it, he was being disloyal, disremembering. Only he knew he wasn't, and he didn't like himself very much for admitting it. But it was true. There'd simply been no one else after Melinda Beatrice had died. He had long ago disciplined himself to master his own body and its demands upon him. And that control had been inviolable, until Mary Rose, a Scotswoman who was also a bastard.

Tysen wasn't a man given to curses, and so he didn't curse. Instead, he walked quietly to the large, blackened fireplace and stood there, deep in thought, staring down into the flames, not ferociously high now but sinking slowly and inexorably into the wood until all that remained was embers that glowed a soft, bright orange.

Mary Rose
. He loved the sound of her name, the feel of it, both in his mind and on his tongue. Dear Lord, what was he going to do?

She awoke in the dark of the night. She was cold, so very cold that she knew if she breathed too deeply, she would shatter, just as the beautiful vase that had fallen off the mantel in her bedchamber had shattered and was no more. She, too, would be no more. She held herself stiff, but not for long. She began to shiver, her teeth chattered, and she simply couldn't stop it. The worse it became, the more fiercely the pain rippled through her. It dug deep, and she moaned with it.

“It's all right, Mary Rose, I'm here.”

“Tysen,” she whispered. “Is it really you? Oh, my, I'm so glad it's you. I don't feel very well. I'm sorry.”

“You have a fever. I will deal with that, don't worry.”

“I hurt—all the smacks and blows from those bloody boulders. I'm sorry.”

“I'll deal with that, too. Now, I want you to lie as quietly as you can for just a moment, not more than three more minutes. Can you do that?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Stop saying that. Just try to breathe deeply. I'll be right back.”

It was a bit longer than three minutes, but then he was beside her again, his sleeves rolled up. He'd lit a six-branch candelabra and set it near the bed. He was surrounded by shadows, but the lines of his face were strong and calm and intent.