“Don’t worry about anything. I’m going to take you back to the castle. Mrs. MacFardle surely has some ancient recipe to make you instantly better. Why were you running? Did something frighten you in the forest?”
“Just a man,” she said. “Just a man who is profligate.”
“You heard Big Fellow coming and you thought it was this man chasing you down?”
She nodded. Her ankle pulsed and throbbed, and she wanted to cry with the pain of it. But she’d already wet his handkerchief and knotted it, and what did tears matter anyway?
“Come along,” Tysen said. He didn’t think about it, he simply picked her up in his arms and carried her to Big Fellow, who was trying to worry a strange-looking plant from between two small rocks.
“No, boy,” Mary Rose said, waving her hand at his horse. “Don’t eat that. It’ll make your belly swell up just like my ankle.”
“What is it?”
“Damslip weed. It’s not terribly common around here, but still you must be vigilant. One of the goats died just last year from eating damslip weed.”
Tysen shoved Big Fellow back from the scraggy brown plant and said to him, “Now, you will be a gentleman. You will hold still, Big Fellow.” And the horse stood there, polite as could be, blowing quietly as Tysen swung his leg over the saddle. He’d never before carried a female, not even Melinda Beatrice, had never before imagined climbing aboard his horse with a female in his arms, one with a painful ankle who was making a valiant effort not to cry again. “We made it,” he said, settling her across his legs. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Mary Rose said.
“Hold on to me.”
She wrapped her arms around his back and buried her cheek against his shoulder.
“This is very strange,” Tysen said as he clicked Big Fellow forward. “I don’t know your name.”
“Mary Rose Fordyce.”
He felt a pooling of pleasure at the sound. “A musical name,” he said. “This man you thought was chasing you, who is he?”
“Erickson MacPhail, a man who used to be my friend,” she sighed. “My uncle wouldn’t like it were he to know that I do not like Erickson now and I had told someone that he was profligate.” Another sigh. She said, “Here I am sitting on a man’s lap on top of his horse with my arms wrapped around him. I’ve never done this before.”
“I have never before held a woman on my lap atop my horse either,” Tysen said, looking right between Big Fellow’s ears, ignoring the feel of her hair against his chin. “We shall both have to overlook it as a brief, necessary confusion. Who is this Erickson MacPhail? Why does your uncle like him?”
“He’s a neighbor. Whenever I am out walking I must pay constant attention. This time he came along by chance, but in the past I know he’s waited for me. Perhaps he was waiting for me this time as well. I do wish he would just leave me alone.”
“Why hasn’t your father or your uncle warned him off if you do not wish to be in his company?”
“I don’t have a father. My mother and I live with my uncle and his family. I think my uncle wishes he was Erickson’s father. Uncle Lyon admires him, thinks he’s brave and braw—that means ‘handsome,’ you know—and ever so charming. He does not understand that I don’t want to be mauled by him, which is what he does, given the least opportunity.”
“I’m sorry about your father. I lost my father when I was a lad of eighteen. I still miss him. The one and only time I was ever here at Kildrummy Castle, he brought me, just the two of us. It was a fine thing, having him all to myself.” Again—he’d done it again. Spoken freely, just opened his mouth and let words fall out that hadn’t been approved by his brain.
She said nothing, just nestled closer and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“That’s right, we’re nearly there. Just lie quietly. There’s Oglivie opening the gates.”
“Laird, what is the matter?” Oglivie called out.
The Scottish title gave him a bit of a start, but there was no way around it—he was a laird and a baron now. “The young lady took a fall.”
Tysen thought Oglivie said something, but he couldn’t make out the words. He said against her hair, “Just a few more minutes and you’ll be more comfortable.” Her hair was soft, smelled of the sea and the pine forest and something else he couldn’t identify. Roses, perhaps?
As Big Fellow passed through the wide wooden gates into the enclosed courtyard, he said, “You don’t have any brothers?”
She shook her head against his jacket. “Just my uncle.” He left it, but it wasn’t right. He imagined a man bothering Meggie in five or so years, and a surge of intense rage roared through him. It made his heart pound, made him blink several times. Rage was something he’d never really visited before. It was something dark and vibrant, with a life of its own, all black and ugly. It pulsed violently inside him and made him cold.
He looked up to see the housekeeper standing on the top step to the castle. “Mrs. MacFardle,” he said, “I am glad you’re here. We have a young lady in need of some care. She hurt her ankle.”
He tossed Big Fellow’s reins to MacNee and very carefully eased out of the saddle, trying not to touch the painful ankle. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should fetch a doctor to see to it.”
“Mary Rose, och, is it you? What is this about, my girl?”
“I fell into one of the sheep killers.”
“Ye must take a care with those blasted cuts in the ground. Well, bring yerself into the castle and I will see what ye need. My lord, just set her down and I will help her. No need for a doctor.”
Tysen ignored her and carried Mary Rose into the main drawing room, a nice room that, despite its size, felt welcoming and cozy. But like the dining room, it was too dark. He would ask Sinjun for advice on wallpaper. Perhaps a pale cream and green stripe. No, that wouldn’t work because the wooden walls were covered with countless paintings of long-dead Barthwicks and a series of beautifully worked tapestries showing Mary, Queen of Scots, from a child married to a French prince to the woman leaning down about to have her head severed from her body.
Perhaps he would ask Mary Rose. He laid her on one of the long, soft, gold brocade sofas and stood back. Mrs. MacFardle moved in. “Well, now,” she said, “at least ye got yer boot off.” She leaned over Mary Rose, clasped the ankle between her two big hands, and pulled.
Mary Rose yelled and lurched off the sofa.
Tysen was appalled at what the housekeeper had done. He said as he elbowed Mrs. MacFardle out of the way, “I have a way with sprains. If you will fetch some ice, ma’am, we will wrap it in towels around her foot. Ah, is there ice to be had in August?”
“Perhaps a bit,” Mrs. MacFardle said and got to her feet, panting a bit. “Ye come to the kitchen with me, my girl, and I’ll tie a wee bit of ice around yer ankle. Then ye can be off, back to Vallance Manor. Och, look here, it’s the little miss, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Meggie said, walking into the drawing room. “Papa, what’s wrong? Who is this lady with her foot without its shoe? Oh, I see, she’s hurt. Goodness, your poor ankle. I know exactly what to do. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Leo is always scraping himself and straining this and that. Bring the ice, Mrs. MacFardle, immediately.”
Mrs. MacFardle harrumphed, gave Mary Rose a long look, and took herself off.
Tysen stood back and watched his daughter sit down beside Mary Rose. With the lightest touch imaginable, she lifted Mary Rose’s foot onto her lap. “This is very impressive,” Meggie said, leaning down to eye the swelling. “Leo would be envious. Oh, Leo is my brother. Your name is Mary Rose? That is quite lovely. I’m Meggie. Margaret, really, but that sounds like a saint, which Papa says I will never be even if I begin a strict regimen of good deeds at this very moment, which, I must tell you, isn’t at all likely to happen.”
“Meggie, we don’t have saints in the Church of England, so it is irrelevant.”
“Yes, Papa, I know. I was speaking metaphorically.�
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Mary Rose stared over at Meggie. “How ever do you know that word?”
“Papa uses many metaphors in his sermons. Some people in the congregation come up to me after services and ask me what they mean. Now, isn’t that better? Your poor ankle, all swelled, and the colors are already coming. A very bright purple, I think.”
Sermons? Mary Rose didn’t understand any of this. Maybe she was hearing strange words because her ankle hurt so badly.
Tysen didn’t know how Meggie had done it, but Mary Rose was sitting back against several pillows, her foot on Meggie’s lap, her stocking magically off and folded neatly beside Meggie. Tysen stared at that small white foot, then cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be here. I will see both of you later.”
“Papa, wait a moment. I believe Mary Rose should have a small glass of brandy. When I wrap her ankle, it will hurt.”
Tysen walked to the large dark mahogany sideboard and poured a bit of brandy into a snifter that he wiped clean on his sleeve.
He held out the glass to Mary Rose. She hesitated, drawing back a bit. “The last time I drank brandy I was fourteen and wanted to be wicked with my cousin, Donnatella. She was only ten, and yet she was the one who decided we would drink the brandy. I was so sick I wanted to die.”
“Just a few sips,” Tysen said. “I once tried brandy when I was a boy. My brothers, Douglas and Ryder, dared me to drink it, as I recall. Then they laughed themselves silly when I vomited on my mother’s rosebushes.”
“Papa, truly, you did that? Uncle Douglas and Uncle Ryder were that wicked?”
“We were boys, Meggie. It wasn’t edifying. You do not have to try it yourself. If Max and Leo try to taunt you into doing it, don’t. Please believe me, it is awful stuff.”
Meggie said thoughtfully, “Perhaps I shall taunt them into doing it.”
And in that way, watching the father and the daughter, Mary Rose drank enough brandy to warm her belly and ease her mind so when at last Meggie wrapped towels filled with small chunks of ice around her ankle, she turned white, but she didn’t cry out.
“You have magic hands,” Mary Rose said to her. “I feel much better already.”
Meggie looked up to see Mrs. MacFardle standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her bosom. “I shall ask Oglivie to drive you back to Vallance Manor, Mary Rose.”
“That would be fine, Mrs. MacFardle,” Mary Rose said. “I don’t believe I could walk there in a week.”
“First you will stay for luncheon,” Tysen said, walking around Mrs. MacFardle. “Then we will see.”
“Papa?”
“Yes, Meggie?”
“You will have to carry Mary Rose to the dining room.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. You’re right.”
“Oh, no, surely I can walk,” Mary Rose said, seeing him hesitate. He didn’t want to get near her. She tried to stand up.
Tysen shook his head, frowned, and leaned down to pick her up. Then he found that he was no longer frowning. Actually, he was smiling down at her.
He heard Mrs. MacFardle harrumph behind him. He wanted to tell her that he was being as careful as he could, but then he remembered how she had grabbed Mary Rose’s foot and pulled on it. He didn’t understand.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, not at all.”
Meggie followed behind her father to the dining room, where Mrs. MacFardle had laid out their luncheon. She was standing behind the laird’s chair, her arms crossed over her bosom, a pose she seemed to favor. She looked disapproving. Nothing new there. Maybe this time she was concerned about Mary Rose. Meggie wanted to assure her that her papa was a saintly man, that he wouldn’t dream of going beyond the line with any lady, particularly one who was hurt.
Tysen carefully eased Mary Rose down on a chair that Meggie held out, then slowly pushed it close to the table.
After he seated himself, he said grace. Meggie said matter-of-factly to Mary Rose, “Papa’s a vicar, you know. He is more properly known as Reverend Sherbrooke. He is an orator of renown, recognized far and wide for his scholarship. My brother Max, though, he reads Latin better than Papa.”
A vicar? Ah, a vicar gave sermons.
Mary Rose looked at the beautiful man who sat at the head of the long dining table. She’d only met two vicars in her entire life, both of them ancient relics, one of them smelling of nutmeg and the other of cedar. This man smelled of fresh air and warmth.
“My daughter exaggerates,” Tysen said calmly. Then he smiled at her. “Ah, Meggie,” he added, “you forgot to mention the richness of my metaphors, so rich, evidently, that many of my congregation don’t understand what I said. I shall have to think about that.”
Meggie giggled. “Papa is known widely for his metaphors as well. It’s only a few people who will admit to not understanding your oratory, Papa.”
Tysen said to Mary Rose as he handed her a bowl, “Would you care for some soup? I have no notion of what it could be, but it smells quite good.”
“Cock-a-leekie soup,” Mary Rose said, still staring at him, and she breathed in deeply. “You are truly a vicar?”
He nodded and watched as Mrs. MacFardle ladled some cock-a-leekie soup into her bowl. “It is made with chicken and leeks and a lot of pepper. You may sneeze, but then you will smile with pleasure.”
She had practically accused him of being profligate, like Erickson MacPhail. “I am so very sorry,” she said aloud as she watched Mrs. MacFardle ladle the soup into his bowl then Meggie’s.
“Why ever for?” Meggie asked Mary Rose as she took a small taste of her soup.
“I was somewhat rude to your father,” Mary Rose said. “I thought he might be another bad man.”
“Papa?” Meggie looked down the table at her father and smiled. “How could you ever believe Papa to be a bad man? Goodness, the problem is that Papa is too good, much too straight and proper, and—”
“Meggie,” Tysen said, pointing his spoon at her, “that is quite enough. Try the dish Mrs. MacFardle is holding out to you.”
Mary Rose grinned. “Those are very English—potatoes boiled until they are mush, with butter running through them.”
“Aye,” said Mrs. MacFardle, “a lot of butter. My granny said that Englishmen thrived on plain, solid food. We want ye to thrive, my lord. Too many young Barthwick men dead. Don’t want ye to be amongst them, because if ye do croak it, then what will become of us here in the castle?”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacFardle. I should just as soon not join them either. The luncheon is delicious.”
Mrs. MacFardle turned to Mary Rose. Where there was only disapproval aimed toward Tysen, toward Mary Rose there was downright dislike. “Ye’ve eaten quite enough, my girl. Oglivie will drive ye back to Vallance Manor.”
Tysen was appalled at his housekeeper’s rudeness. He opened his mouth, only to be forestalled by Mary Rose, who said calmly, “I am ready to leave, Mrs. MacFardle.”
6
TYSEN WAS SITTING in a large cushioned chair behind the battered oak desk in the musty, dark library that was filled with so many books he was struck dumb with pleasure at the sight of all of them. Then he’d discovered that most of them had yet to have their pages cut. The Barthwicks weren’t, evidently, much for reading. Ah, but now they were his books. He’d rubbed his hands together as he took down Homer’s Iliad, a dark-red book so old the leather was cracked and peeling. He would have to have someone go through the books very carefully and oil them. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Max’s face when he walked into this room. Max would want to be the one to restore this magnificent, gloomy library. He could also see his son carefully cutting each of the pages, smoothing them down, pausing to read every few pages, unable to stop himself. Tysen rose slowly when he saw his daughter peering around the door.
“What is it, Meggie?” he asked, smiling at her, wondering why she was just lingering there and not dancing through the room right up to his desk.
“You’re smiling, Papa. It’s very nice. I don
’t mean to bother you, but I want to know why Mrs. MacFardle was so mean to Mary Rose.”
“That is an excellent question. I don’t know. She just shook her head and pursed her lips when I upbraided her. At least we saw Mary Rose off in the dogcart with her foot resting on three pillows. Oglivie told me he took her right to the front steps of Vallance Manor.”
“She has a lot of curly red hair, just like Aunt Alex.”
“Yes, she does.” Her hair had smelled of roses, he thought, and unconsciously drew another deep breath, but this time there was only the musty odor of a room left closed up for far too long. Tysen shook his head. “These wretched accounts. I will need help with them. I know Mr. MacCray told me about an estate manager, but I don’t remember his name. Where is the man?”
“His name is Miles MacNeily. His mother died and he had to go to Inverness to see to things. He will be back in three or four days.”
“Meggie, how do you know this?”
“I was out in the stables, making certain that Big Fellow was being taken care of properly, and I overheard MacNee and Ardle speaking of it. You know that servants know everything, Papa. When I offered them both some almond sweetmeats that Aunt Sinjun gave me, they told me how the old laird wanted to burn down Kildrummy Castle after Ian died, but none of the servants would let him do it. Pouder, they told me, flung himself on top of the old laird and pinned him down on the floor until the other servants dashed in to help him.”
“Pouder? It is hard to imagine that. I can’t see Pouder even able to flatten a fly. Of course, Old Tyronne was eighty-seven, but Pouder can’t be more than a decade younger.”
“I shall ask Pouder about it,” Meggie said, grinning. “It must have been quite a sight.”
Tysen said, “Old Tyronne’s melancholy is understandable. Every one of his heirs was dead. Still, it is a pity that he died so embittered.”
“Oh, no, he wasn’t sad about that, Papa, at least according to MacNee and Ardle. They said he was angry at Miss Donnatella Vallance because she wouldn’t marry him. Ranted that he could get another boy child off her and it was all her fault for being so selfish. Not his fault, never his. He’d done his best, but now he claimed he didn’t care, and that was why he wanted to burn Kildrummy Castle. He wanted to burn it to the ground, make it hot enough so the devil would accept it in hell.”
The Scottish Bride Page 5