The Scottish Bride (2 page)

 
 
 
 

Eden Hill House, the Vicarage

Glenclose-on-Rowan

August 16, 1815

 

“
N
O
,
MEGGIE
,
AND
that's an end to it.”

But it wasn't, of course. He realized suddenly that he was now seeing Meggie with Douglas's eyes. Another Sinjun? Sinjun had driven him beyond sanity when he'd been young, and then he'd tried to ignore her because life had become serious for him and Sinjun was always mocking and teasing him. She laughed a lot, and she'd called him a prig when she was thirteen, which was probably true. He sighed and looked down at his daughter, waiting, but not for long.

“Please, Papa, it's more than necessary.”

Ah, that serious little face, that intense voice. He felt himself weakening and stiffened his back.

“You need me. You know what a help I can be to you, truly. You won't even know I am there. I'll just help you all the time and then disappear.”

Reverend Tysen Sherbrooke, a devout man of God, a man who loved his children, who seldom ever had a cross word no matter how far off the path of righteousness a member of his congregation had strayed, said yet again, “Please, no more, Meggie. I will not tell you again. You will not come with me. You will go to Northcliffe Hall with your brothers. Don't you understand? I'm going to Scotland. I do not know what to expect. I was there years ago and all I remember is rutted paths, sheep everywhere, and barren stretches that went on and on until you wanted to collapse. It is probably still barbaric, with outlaws lit-tering the roads—if there even are roads. I don't remember any. I truly have no idea what I will find. I want you here, safe with your aunt and uncle.”

Meggie, as reasoned and calm as Sister Mary MacRae, the only Catholic nun in the area, said, “Aunt Sinjun lives in Scotland. It can't be savage, Papa. If there weren't any roads when you were there, there will be now. Aunt Sinjun would have had them built. We don't need roads, anyway. We will ride. It will be wonderful. You need me.”

Tysen stared down at this child of his loins, at this wondrous creature who was, for the very first time, bringing back more memories of Sinjun, memories that he now realized had made him many times want to strangle her. Ah, when Sinjun had tied the tail of his kite around Corkscrew's neck. He realized now as he looked down at his daughter that he'd rather exaggerated a bit to Douglas about Meggie's placid self. Had he truly said she was obedient, gentle? Maybe not. If he'd ever really believed that, he'd been blind. He'd been a doting papa, not recognizing what was right under his nose. Actually, he realized in that instant that Meggie could be gentle and obedient or she could be utterly outrageous, like Sinjun.

He just didn't want her to be like her mother, Melinda
Beatrice. He immediately closed his eyes against such a wicked, disloyal thought. No, Melinda Beatrice had been a sainted woman, perhaps just a bit on the unctuous side, but that wasn't something to bring despair, perhaps just an occasional sigh when a parishioner's face tightened after she'd offered well-meant advice. He shook his head and looked down into his own Sherbrooke blue eyes, Sinjun's Sherbrooke blue eyes as well, and touched his fingers gently to Meggie's soft, Sherbrooke light hair. “Why, Meggie, do you believe I need you?”

She looked at him straight on and said, “You are far too nice, Papa. You are too good. You don't see the wickedness in people. Sometimes you don't really see people at all. Your thoughts are too elevated, perhaps too refined and aloof. You need me because I will keep bad people away from you. I will keep females away from you who would try to make you love them and marry them. I will—”

He laid his finger on her lips. He didn't see wickedness? His thoughts were too elevated? Too refined? Was that truly what she believed? He supposed that when he'd asked her why he needed her he'd expected her to fold her tent somewhat, at least retreat to embrace another argument. He shook his head at her, bemused. He didn't recognize wickedness? He was too nice? Blessed heaven, he was easy prey to females who would try to trap him into marriage? He said, with just a touch of irony in his voice, “I appreciate your belief in me, Meggie, although I do not know what I have done to make you believe me such a weakling. As for the ladies, I promise you that I am always on my guard.”

“But Miss Strapthorpe nearly nabbed you, I heard her talking of it to one of her friends. She said she was this close to having you. Just one kiss, she said, and you
would feel bound to marry her. Then there was that time she trapped you in the vestry.”

“But I didn't kiss Miss Strapthorpe, and I managed to escape the vestry with my clerical collar still around my neck.”

“Papa, was that a jest?”

“Certainly not, Meggie.”

“I didn't think it could be, since you don't waste your time in anything frivolous. Now, Papa, I know you didn't kiss Miss Strapthorpe—if you had, she would be my stepmother now, and let me tell you, Papa, that would have made even Max turn green around his collar. As for Leo, I'll wager he would have run away from home.”

“Enough about Miss Strapthorpe. I am a grown man, Meggie. I can see to myself. I promise not to bring back a stepmama to you and the boys.”

“But—”

He touched his finger to her mouth again. “Now, sweetheart, for the last time, you will not accompany me. You will remain here. I swear to you that I will be on the alert for wicked men and for females out to nab me. No, don't say anything more. You will not strain my patience. It is not appropriate for a man of God to yell at his child. It would cause consternation if it got out.”

Meggie grabbed his hand. “Papa, take me with you, please. Wicked people do abound. One man alone cannot see all of them or hear them creeping up on him. And ladies in particular know how to creep, I—”

He marveled at her determination, her seemingly endless string of arguments.

Her small hand was now on his sleeve, tugging. A beautiful hand, he thought inconsequentially, long fingers, graceful. Sinjun's hands, not her mother's. “I haven't seen Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin for three years, not since they came to London and we traveled there to visit them.
I want to see Phillip and Dahling. I don't really care about Jocelyn and Fletcher. They're still just babies.”

Tysen just shook his head again, seamed his mouth tight so he wouldn't say something that could hurt her feelings, and made for the door. He said over his shoulder, “Mrs. Priddie will help you and your brothers pack. You will leave in two days. I am leaving tomorrow morning, very early. Obey me, Meggie.”

He heard some grumbling as he closed the door behind him, but he couldn't make out the words. Meggie was ten years old, perhaps on the verge of turning thirty. No, older than that. He was thirty-one, and surely she had passed that ripe age. He realized now that his brother Douglas was right. Meggie was just like Sinjun had been at her age—intense and carefree by turns, always smiling, always giving orders to her brothers, wanting to take care of everyone. And stubborn—so stubborn that she made up her mind and simply plowed ahead. And she could be demanding and unreasonable, and if she continued with this, then he would perhaps have to discipline her, but he didn't want to.

He'd spanked her just once, last year, something he doubted he would ever forget, but Mrs. Priddie had told him that what Meggie had done deserved for her to be locked in her room on bread and water for a year. He'd been afraid to ask her, but Mrs. Priddie rolled it right out of her mouth without hesitation. “She tied the sexton's bell rope to Molly the goat, Reverend Sherbrooke. Then she carefully placed half a dozen old boots all around that dratted goat—who wanted all of them, naturally, since she had also poured some porridge in each boot. The bell rang and rang because Molly had to have all that porridge. Oddly enough, it nearly made a melody. Sexton Peters nearly croaked of apoplexy on the spot.” Then Mrs. Priddie had lowered her voice. “I heard him, Reverend
Sherbrooke. I heard him, and he cursed a blue streak. You must speak to him. It was not at all what a sexton should be saying.”

But Tysen imagined that his sexton's ire had reached such heights that the bad words had erupted out of his mouth without his consent. Tysen had spanked his daughter, and she hadn't cried, not a single tear. However, his guilt, when she had just looked up at him, her blue eyes shining with tears that wouldn't ever overflow, had made him want to beg her forgiveness. He'd managed to get out of the room before he committed that act of folly, but it had been very close.

He walked now to his bedchamber and began to methodically pack his clothes in a valise. His valet, Throck-morton, had died the previous winter of just plain old age, a smile on his toothless mouth because the very young and pretty tweeny Marigold was stroking his gnarled old hand. Tysen hadn't seen fit as yet to hire another man. He was a clergyman. It seemed rather ridiculous for a clergyman to have a valet. Mrs. Priddie did quite well with his clothes.

He was also a rich clergyman, but he usually didn't pay much attention to that. Douglas dealt with most of the details, knowing Tysen had no interest in it. Now Tysen was a Scottish baron in addition to being a rich clergyman. He was now Baron Barthwick. It was enough to make him briefly question God's mysterious ways.

He ate dinner alone in the small breakfast parlor that evening, spoke to his sexton who had cursed a blue streak, Mr. Peters, spent more hours than he cared to with Mr. Samuel Pritchert, his curate, a man with a long, thin nose and a dour disposition who could have a recluse talking to him within three minutes. It was amazing how people would almost instantly spill their innards to Samuel. He
was competent, his sermons of the basic sin-and-punishment variety, and he would keep Tysen's flock intact in his absence.

Then he went to his sons' bedchamber. There was a light coming from beneath the door. He knocked lightly, then entered.

Max, nearly nine years old now, was reading—no surprise there—his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms cradling a huge book, a candle burning right over his left shoulder. He was, Tysen thought, looking with pride at his elder son, more of a scholar than he himself had ever been. Max spoke Latin, read Latin, even cursed in Latin when his younger brother annoyed him, which was fairly often, when he didn't think his papa was listening. Tysen didn't understand a great deal of what he said, which was probably for the best.

Leo, named for Leopold Foxworth Sherbrooke, the third earl of Northcliffe and a gentleman who'd held honor above all else, even when it meant having his head severed from his body, was standing on his head, his stockinged feet against the wall. He looked like he was sleeping, his eyes closed, perfectly at his ease. He was probably thinking about his uncle Douglas's horses, which he was allowed to ride at Northcliffe Hall. Tysen shook his head and cleared his throat. “Boys, I came to say good-bye to you. I am leaving very early in the morning.”

Max immediately lifted the great tome from his lap and laid it reverently on the carpet. Tysen saw that it was in Latin. As for Leo, he simply dropped his legs over his head and came up in a single graceful roll, grinning. “I want to ride Garth, Papa. He's a mean brute.”

Tysen knew that Douglas would never allow Leo even to sit on that vicious stallion's back, thank the good Lord.

“We know that we're to go to Uncle Douglas,” Max said. “I have been wondering, Papa, if Leo and I will have a title now that you do. You know, James is Lord Hammersmith and Jason is an honorable. Perhaps as the elder son, I will now be Sir Something?”

“I'm sorry, Max, but you and Leo are still just the same. I suppose you will be able to say that you are Lord Barthwick's very honorable sons, though.”

“We are already honorable, Papa,” Max said. “Uncle Ryder is always saying that honor is what men must embrace,” he paused, then added, “if you're not embracing a woman that is. Er, that's what Uncle Ryder says, Papa.”

“Yes,” Tysen said. “I am not surprised.”

“Besides,” Max said, shrugging, “who wants to be a Hammersmith? Silly name, doesn't mean anything. James likes it, though.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Leo, who was straightening his trousers and pulling his socks in order. “I'm not even eight years old and I'm already a rat-faced little idiot.”