The Scottish Bride (13 page)

“I'm going to wipe you down with cold water. My nanny did it to me several times when I was a boy. It knocked the fever right out of me. I've done it to my own children. First, here's some laudanum to ease the pain.”

He lifted her, and she drank the water laced with laudanum. “Good, you drank it all.” He added as if to himself, “I must remember to keep you drinking.” He paused a moment, his hand on the covers to pull them back. When he'd examined her before, she'd been unconscious. But now she wasn't. “Please just think of me as a physician, all right?”

“No, I can't,” she said, and shuddered. “You're Tysen. You're something else entirely. This is very difficult.”

“I know, but I won't hurt you, ever. Please trust me, Mary Rose.”

“I trust you,” she said, then closed her eyes. She didn't move.

He'd felt people's trust in him before, felt it as a burden or as a pleasure or as a simple obligation or duty.

It was not at all uncommon a thing, but those words coming from her mouth, words he knew she meant to her
soul, made something shift deep inside of him, something that was warm and boundless, something that he hadn't felt in a very long time. It should have scared him to his toes, but it didn't. “All right, then,” he said, and pulled the covers off her. He carefully eased her out of his nightshirt. Then he turned her onto her stomach and began wiping the wet cloths down her back and hips, over her legs, even to her arched feet. One of her toes was crooked. She'd obviously broken it many years before. His fingers closed over that toe for a moment.

Over and over he swept the wet cloth down her, then up again, feeling it grow warm from the heat her body was giving off. He dipped it into the basin of cold water once, twice, more times than he could count. He had to keep it cold. When he turned her onto her back, her eyes were open. She was looking up at him, saying nothing, just looking at him. He saw no signs of pain on her face, no fear, just that limitless trust. He smiled at her, covered his hand with the cloth, and began rubbing it up and down her body. Over her breasts, her belly. He closed his eyes. She was ill. He was a man of mature years, not a randy boy. He could deal with this. He knew well the demands of control. He would not dishonor her, would not shame himself by allowing his body to harden with lust. But of course his body did just that. He wondered briefly why God wasn't helping him here, but then he wanted to laugh at himself. Why would God concern Himself about a man's simple and inevitable reaction to a woman's body? Dear heavens, but she was beautiful. No, he wouldn't think like that. He kept rubbing her down. Wiping back up her body, he found, was harder. He tried closing his eyes, but it just didn't help.

The hair at the base of her belly was a deep red, just beautiful, a bit darker than the rich red hair on her head. He looked at her knees, very nice knees, then quickly
brought the cold, wet cloth over them and rubbed them longer than necessary, staring at them, just at her knees, nothing either north or south of them.

He wasn't in good shape. But he was a man, not an immature boy. He would deal with this. He continued rubbing her down until he touched his palm to her cheek and she was once again cool. Thank the good Lord. Then she turned her cheek into his palm and for a moment, just a brief moment, he held her there. He quickly fetched another nightshirt from the ancient armoire and put her in it, smoothing it down over her legs, over her white feet.

He rolled up the sleeves so her hands would be free, covered her to her nose, then rose. She was still looking at him.

“Do you feel better?” He was actually surprised she was still awake, what with all the laudanum he'd put in that glass of water. He took a step away from the bed and prayed that a woman couldn't see the lust in a man's mind.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice slightly slurred. “I'm sorry, Tysen.”

“Be quiet.”

He couldn't believe the harshness of his voice, but she simply smiled at him. “That's the first time you've ever shown impatience with me. Meggie told me that my uncle came here. She said you didn't have to lie to him because you didn't realize that I was indeed here, in Meggie's bed, until she helped me into the laird's bedchamber. She was afraid her bedchamber wasn't private enough, that anyone felt free to walk in on a child, but not on you, the laird. That's why I'm here. I'm s—”

Tysen just waved away her words. “Yes, Sir Lyon was extraordinarily upset that you weren't here. He knows you didn't drown, since Erickson searched until he saw that your mare was gone. He assured me that stream was too
shallow to drown a goat. Did you ride home and see MacPhail there?”

“Yes. I saw his horse. I didn't know where to go. I hadn't intended to come here, truly, but then Primrose just galloped right to your gate. Meggie was out there and she brought me in. Up the back stairs so Pouder wouldn't see us.” Suddenly she grinned. “I've always thought it remarkable that Pouder doesn't collect dust, since he's always there.”

“He was collecting dust at a great rate until he realized that I, the new laird, did not have a valet. Since he only has two teeth left in his mouth, his smile at this discovery rocked me back a bit. You see, he's wanted to be a valet all his life, and now he had his opportunity.” Tysen shook his head. “Only when he said that, he didn't say ‘valet,' he said he'd always wanted to be a ‘varlet.' It took me a while to figure all this out. Now I will find him at the oddest times in this bedchamber rearranging my cravats and straightening my razor and brushes.”

She wanted to laugh, but she was afraid it would hurt too much. “He's a very nice old man.”

“Yes, he appears to be. He also appears to be very proud of himself. I have told him that we would take his varlet training slowly so as not to disrupt his other, more important duties.”

“You are very kind to him. Tysen, I know you don't like it, but I am sorry for causing you difficulties. I was thinking that tomorrow morning I can leave and—”

“Oh? You wish to leave? May I inquire as to what you would wear? I chanced to see the remains of your clothes in Meggie's bedchamber. Did you perchance intend to squeeze yourself into one of her gowns?”

“I will think of something,” she said, his light dose of sarcasm floating through her mind. Her chin went up, a hard thing to do since she was so tired. “It's possible that
Mrs. MacFardle would have something I could borrow. Oh dear, I feel so very tired.”

“No wonder. It's about time. I gave you a goodly dose of laudanum.” He paused a moment, then the sarcasm was back. “All right, let us say that you are finely garbed in one of Mrs. MacFardle's castoffs. Where will you go?”

Along with the sarcasm, his voice was sharp, sharper than he'd intended. He saw her fold down, saw the helplessness of her situation wash over her, and felt like a clod. He took one white hand in his and held it close. He said very gently, “Mary Rose, we will think of something. You aren't yet well enough to think of wearing anything but my nightshirts. Go to sleep now and stop your mad squirreling about for a solution. I will think of something.”

“But—”

He touched a finger to her lips. “No, be quiet. Let go of things and go to sleep. You'll feel better more quickly. Are you still in pain?”

“No, I don't hurt anymore.” Two minutes later, her face was turned into the pillow. Her breathing was even. She was sound asleep.

Tysen tried to make himself comfortable in the wing chair. It wasn't too bad, but still, he didn't fall asleep for a very long time. When he awoke with a jerk, a moan coming out of his mouth, it was in the full darkness of the night. He realized he'd awakened from a dream of his own making, a dreadful dream that had him so scared he was struggling to find breath even as he lurched out of the chair and began pacing the bedchamber floor, his head still spinning from the terror of that damnable dream. When at last he managed to calm himself, he realized he was cold. He built up the fire, then lit one candle and walked to Mary Rose's bedside. He laid his palm on her
forehead. She was blessedly cool to the touch, thank God for that, and sleeping deeply.

What had that wretched dream meant? All he could remember was the woman yelling, then a man's voice—slurred, weak, becoming indistinct, and then there was the feeling of death all around him, endless, irrevocable death, and he was there, a shadow, perhaps just a whisper of light, but he was part of it. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

He didn't understand. The fear was still stark inside him. He walked back to the chair and eased himself down. He cupped his chin in his hand and spent the remainder of the night staring into the flames.

The man's voice he'd heard—it was Ian, who had fallen off a cliff six months ago.

 
 
 
 

D
R
. H
ALSEY PATTED
Mary Rose's cheek. “Aye, lass, that's it. Give me a smile. Then you can curse me for pouring this vile potion down your throat.”

Mary Rose did smile up at him. He'd brought her into the world, so her mother had told her. “Where is Tysen?”

“Who? Oh, I see, you mean Lord Barthwick. Tysen—not much of a Scottish name, is it? Oh, well, I suppose that's to be expected since he's an Englishman. He's right here, standing not six feet behind me. I have this feeling his lordship will pound me into the floor if I cause you any more discomfort. How do you feel now, lass?”

Mary Rose consulted her body. “I feel battered.”

“She should,” Tysen said, stepping closer, taking her left hand between his two large ones. “As I told you, sir, she fell into that fast-moving stream and got knocked about until she managed to pull herself out with a tree branch.”

“You always were a strong girl. You've a black eye, Mary Rose. It makes you look raffish, like a little red-headed pirate. Now, his lordship can go stand by the door. I must check you over, see that nothing is broken or needs my bonnie stitches.”

Tysen said, “I have examined her, Dr. Halsey, and there are no nasty deep cuts that would need stitching. No broken bones, either. I have two boys of my own, and I know broken bones when I see and feel them. But she could be hurt internally.”

Dr. Halsey gave Tysen a rheumy look, then straightened. “Aye, but there are other things that can be wrong. Now, Mary Rose, the fever is down and your lungs sound clear. You have no pain in your belly or your chest? Here, let me know if I cause you any pain.”

He prodded her more gently than not, beginning with her head and moving slowly and methodically down to her toes. Then he smiled at her, and back at Tysen. “You will survive, lass. Now, you'll drink my tonic and I will see you again if you worsen.”

Tysen saw the doctor out of the bedchamber. He heard Mrs. MacFardle's strident voice echoing down the corridor, “Ach, Dr. Halsey, it's a pitiful state of affairs we have here. Imagine, Mary Rose in the laird's bed, and him taking care of her, of all things, and here he is an English vicar. Had he but told me, why, I would have said that he could not, it wasn't proper. But he didn't mutter a single word to me, so what was I to do? Nothing good can come of it, ye'll see.”

Her voice finally began to fade as she moved down the long hallway, but unfortunately it was still crystal clear to his ears. “Aye, come down and have a cup of tea wi' me and Mr. Pouder. I know he's awake, I heard him snort at Ardle, who is holding yer horse for ye.”

Mary Rose, who was clutching the blankets to her chin, said, “You shouldn't have asked the doctor to come. He will tell everyone in the area that I am here in your bed, with you standing far too close to the bed where I'm lying. Mrs. MacFardle is right. I shouldn't be here.”

Tysen just shrugged. “I would rather suffer gossip than
have you die on me because of my ignorance.” Then he smiled. “Don't worry, Mary Rose. I am so relieved that you're going to be just fine, I believe I'll give you a cup of Mrs. MacFardle's cider.”

When he returned with the cider not ten minutes later, having been snagged by Dr. Halsey for an inquisition on his opinion of the clearances, he saw that Mary Rose was asleep. He stood over her a moment. She did look a bit like a pirate, the black bruise circling her left eye like a pirate's patch.

He gently touched her forehead and found it cool. He imagined that he had no more than two hours at the outside before Sir Lyon would be back here, demanding to take her home.

But it wasn't Sir Lyon who arrived exactly one hour and forty minutes later. It was Erickson MacPhail.

 

You are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie.

—Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part I

 

Tysen walked slowly into the drawing room and closed the door quietly behind him. MacPhail stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest.

Tysen realized his own hands were fisted at his sides. Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced himself to ease. He was a vicar, and he believed firmly in God's strength, in God's compassion, but more than that, he was his father's son and he was like his brothers. Neither Douglas nor Ryder would lose his head and erupt in senseless violence whenever it pleased him to do so. And neither would he.

Erickson stepped toward him and said without preamble, “Dr. Halsey has told us that Mary Rose is here. He said he attended her. He said that she will be all right, that she is merely bruised a bit from getting knocked about in that damned stream. I was excessively worried
about her. I am here to fetch her home, to Vallance Manor.”

Tysen walked to one of the tatty old gold brocade set-tees and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He wished his Hessians were polished more brightly. Old Angus had last polished them in Edinburgh. He eyed Mary Rose's nemesis for a moment, then said mildly, “Actually, you have saved me a good deal of trouble. I was on my way over to your home again to speak to you. About Mary Rose.”

Erickson took a violent step forward. “Damn you, vicar, you will not put me off. Take me to her now, or vicar or no, I will beat you until you crawl to do my bidding.”

Tysen arched an eyebrow, smiled pleasantly at Erickson, whose face was becoming alarmingly red. When he was older, Tysen imagined, his face would slowly become that unbecoming shade of red that results from too much choler. He said on a shrug, “I suppose you could try.”

There was a marked sneer about Erickson's mouth that Tysen thought was singularly unattractive. “You dare to bait me? To set yourself up against me? You, a man who isn't really a man at all, but a gutless creature who exhorts real men from the pulpit? You threaten them with hellfire if they don't swallow their righteous anger and choke on it? You order them to become as weak-willed and spineless as you are? You tell them they are cursed unless they grovel before you?”

Tysen rose slowly to his feet. His heart had speeded up, but—strangely perhaps—he felt quite calm. All this litany of insults he had heard before, a number of times, beginning when he was at Oxford.

It made little impact, really, for it was naught but ignorant words, cruel words, sparked by unreasoning anger. There was, he had learned, too much unreasoning anger
in this world. He said, “Do you love Mary Rose Fordyce?”

Erickson stopped dead in his tracks, a sleek dark brow up a good inch. “Good God, man, I want to marry her!”

“I see. So to convince her of your sincere regard, of your lasting affection, you were going to rape her? To escape you, she had to jump into the stream?”

“Damn you, there was never a question of rape. You're a vicar. You don't understand how females behave, what lengths they will go to in order to make a man grovel at their dainty feet. Mary Rose is very much a female. She is coy, she teases, she pretends to become hysterical, all to get her way. All her denials, her small dramatic gesture of jumping into that ridiculous stream, it was just a simple performance, a show of melodrama. She wants to marry me, to give her status, to give her a real name, for God's sake. She's through with her fun. She will marry me now. I will speak to her and you will see that she has quite changed her mind.”

“All right, then,” Tysen said, rising. “I will take you to see her. However, I will remain to ensure that you do not try to coerce her or bully her. I would say, though, that her jump into that stream—although you prefer to believe it merely a girl's teasing gesture—rather proves to me that she would do just about anything to escape you. No, you will not rant further. Be quiet and listen to me.

“She has been quite ill. You will not try to threaten her in any way, is that perfectly clear to you?”

Erickson stared at the far-too-handsome man, damn him, who was a bloody vicar, who was looking at him as if he was worth very little and full of naught save wind. He wanted to bash his face in, break that nose of his. Make him ugly. Yes, he wanted to beat him until he was so ugly Mary Rose wouldn't want to ever look at him again.

Was that why Mary Rose didn't want him? She wanted the bloody vicar who was also Lord Barthwick? He said slowly, “Why did she come here, to Kildrummy Castle?”

“To escape you yet again. Now, would you like to speak to her, to assure yourself that she indeed improves? I will give you five minutes, no more. She must rest. She is still very weak.”

Mary Rose wasn't alone. Meggie was curled next to her on the bed, one of her small hands on Mary Rose's arm, both of them fast asleep. At the sound of her father's low voice, Meggie jerked up and blinked. She pushed her hair out of her face.

She shot a quick look at Mary Rose and whispered, “Papa, I wanted to guard Mary Rose, but I fell asleep. She is all right, isn't she? Oh, my, isn't that Mr. MacPhail with you? Why is he here?”

“He wants to speak to Mary Rose,” Tysen said, his voice as emotionless as he could make it. He saw the change in his daughter's posture, in the expression on her small face, and wanted to smile. She drew herself up and said, “Very well—if she awakens. I believe she is now stirring. He may speak to her, but I will remain. He will not distress her.”

“Well, MacPhail?” Tysen asked, turning to face the man, who looked both furious and bemused.

“For God's sake, man, she is a child. Make her leave.”

“Oh, no, she considers herself Mary Rose's protector. Ah, yes, Mary Rose just opened her eyes. Remain where you are a moment and I will tell her that you are here.” He paused, adding, “Naturally I will reassure her that you can attempt nothing that she would dislike.”

He heard Erickson MacPhail cursing under his breath behind him. Rather vivid and varied animal parts, but not as colorful as his brother Ryder's Beloved Ones, who could spit out the most rank curses, even better than
sailors raised in the king's navy. He walked to the bed, smiled down at Mary Rose, and took her hand between his. “Do not be alarmed. You have a visitor, but he will not upset you in any way. Both Meggie and I swear it to you. He simply wishes to assure himself that you are all right.”

“I don't want to see him. Please, Tysen, he will—”

Tysen touched his fingertips to her lips. “Let him speak, Mary Rose, and then that will be the end to it.”

“Yes,” she said slowly, “you're perfectly right. I must speak to him and then it will be the end to it.” She drew a deep, steadying breath and said, “May I have some water first?”

“You'll get through this in fine style.” He lifted her head and put the water glass to her lips. He thought he heard MacPhail say something, but he ignored him. When she'd finished drinking, she sighed and sat up as Tysen fluffed a pillow behind her. Meggie moved even closer to her now, snuggling against her side.

Mary Rose watched Erickson walk toward her, every step announcing his anger, his frustration, his absolute bafflement that a vicar was standing at his elbow and a ten-year-old girl was squeezed next to her on that huge bed. She wondered if he still saw her as the woman he fully intended to have. She realized that yes, he did. She wondered if more men were like him, believing that any woman they wished to have was theirs. She also knew that Meggie was giving him a look that clearly said she would leap on him if he tried anything. She felt immense gratitude for the little girl plastered to her side.

Erickson stopped at her bedside and stared down at her, not saying a word for a very long time. Then, “You have a black eye.”

“Yes,” Mary Rose said, and she was tempted to smile, but she didn't.

“You are feeling all right, Mary Rose?”

He sounded like the man she'd known all her life, the man who had been her friend, so long ago, it seemed now. “Yes, just a bit sore. The fever is gone.”

Then he became what she'd expected, even though he tried to keep his voice calm, cajoling, just slightly scolding, as if she were a child. “You should never have jumped into that stream. You were swept away from me before I could do anything. I was very worried about you. I searched and searched, but I couldn't find you. I was very frightened for you, Mary Rose. When I rode back, Primrose was gone, so I knew you were safe. You should never have jumped into that water.”