The Scottish Bride

by Catherine Coulter

He fell flat on top of her, his head beside hers on the pillow. He felt her hands slow now, lightly stroking down his back, and every once in a while she kissed his ear, his neck, any part of him she could reach.

  She said against his ear, “That was a very incredible thing, Tysen. I had no idea that being married could mean having feelings like that.”

  He hadn’t either. He was floored. He thought of his brothers, who were worldly men and enjoyed making love to women immensely. They’d never been at all shy about speaking about such things. He’d always believed it was a sin, perhaps a sin of overindulgence, what his brothers did with great regularity, perhaps even a sin that they enjoyed their wives so very much. He’d felt superior to them, felt that they hadn’t achieved his ability to rely on his intellect, to let his spirit and his mind control his body. It had to be a sin, for didn’t it make a man forget himself, forget who and what he was, forget what was important in life and what wasn’t?

  Had he truly been such a pompous idiot? Such an obnoxious prig? He grew hard inside her again, and he couldn’t help it, he started laughing. He laughed because for the first time in his thirty-one years, he finally knew the incredible joy of being a man and having a woman enjoy him as much as he did her.

  He managed, finally, to bring himself up just a bit, and he kissed her mouth. “Mary Rose,” he said between light, nipping kisses, “can you feel me inside you?” He started moving slowly, easily, and the pleasure made him want to shout and sing, perhaps even dance.

  “Yes,” she said, leaned up and kissed his shoulder and moved beneath him. “Yes, I can. It is a wondrous feeling, Tysen. Thank you for showing me what was what.”

  He saw their two bodies together, and he realized that it was the first time in his life that he had ever had a woman’s body pressed against his. “Are you sore?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. I rather like this, Tysen.”

  And he laughed again and kissed her, still laughing, and then he wanted very much to touch her again, to feel her tense and go wild when she gained her climax, and it just happened. He slid his hand between them and found her and watched her eyes go vacant. He was, he thought, a man who was very happy. Surely that wasn’t bad, a husband who enjoyed his wife. Surely.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Tysen opened an eye but didn’t move. He said, “I don’t care what is going on, even if Erickson MacPhail is back intending to steal you away again, I don’t want to move. Don’t you move, either. You’ve got to be safe from him since you’re lying beneath me.”

  She laughed, squeezed him hard, and called out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Meggie.”

  Tysen opened an eye. “I have a daughter. I also have two sons. At the moment I can’t remember their names.” He smiled a bit at that. “At least Meggie knocked.”

  They’d just managed to pull apart when the door opened and Meggie stuck her head in. “Good morning. It is nearly eight o’clock, you know. Shall I bring you breakfast, Papa? Mary Rose, are you all right? Are you still talking to Papa? Telling him things? Do you still like Papa?”

  Tysen sighed deeply and said, “She adores me, Meggie, and yes, we would love some breakfast.”

  “Yes, Meggie, I still like your papa.”

  The door closed and Tysen turned to face her. He pulled her hard against him, felt her breasts, her belly, the length of her smooth legs. “So what do you think of being married to me so far?”

  “I lied to Meggie,” she said, and pushed back the covers. “I more than like her papa. Being married to you so far is splendid. I had never in my life imagined feeling such things.” She started to get out of bed, remembered that she was naked, and stopped cold. She turned quickly to see her new husband, the covers at his ankles, also quite naked, and he was staring at her as if he didn’t know what to do either.

  She didn’t move, just kept staring. He didn’t move either, and he also just kept staring. She swallowed, and her hand fluttered, then fell back to the sheet. “Tysen, we are unclothed.”

  She was staring at him, not at his face but at his sex, and he felt pinned. It was the first time a woman had ever seen him naked, and this woman seemed to be very interested in him. Melinda Beatrice had always averted her eyes whenever he’d chanced, by accident, to be naked with her anywhere near. “Mary Rose?”

  “You are a beautiful man, Tysen,” she said, and stood. She started to cross her arms over her breasts, then, almost defiantly, she dropped her arms back to her sides. “I suppose it is ridiculous for me to be embarrassed, since you saw me while I was so ill.”

  “That’s right,” he heard himself say, as if from a great distance, and then he took his own turn looking at her. “It’s different now, though,” he said. “You see, now you’re smiling at me, and you’re moving about and you are very alive and warm and your face is a bit flushed and your hair is incredible, Mary Rose.”

  She squeaked and dashed to pick up her nightgown from the floor near the washbasin. She pulled it over her head, then chanced to look at the basin. “Tysen, oh, my God.”

  Her voice was a thin, wispy sound that had him out of bed in a flash. “What’s wrong?”

  He was at her side in a minute.

  She could only point to the bloody water in the basin.

  “It’s from your maidenhead,” he said, vastly relieved. “It’s nothing to worry about, I promise you.”

  She turned then, looked him up and down, mainly down, her look very interested, and he flushed, couldn’t seem to help himself. He reached for her and pulled her close, both, he supposed, to preserve his modesty and because in truth he wanted her against him again. He breathed in the scent of her, the light rose smell of her hair, the smell of himself, and the smell of sex.

  “Do you forgive me now, Mary Rose?”

  She pulled back slightly, looking up at him, feeling him against her, and she couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. “Oh, yes. I think you are the finest husband in the world.” She pulled back more and looked down at him. “And the most beautiful. A man—you are so very different from me. I think you are incredible, Tysen.” And she reached down and touched him. He moaned and jerked, but he didn’t pull away, just kept holding her against him, wishing she would touch him again, and knowing it was best if she didn’t.

  He didn’t say a thing. He couldn’t think of a thing to say, in any case. She thought he was beautiful? That male part of him? He held her even more tightly. He was hard, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  Luckily for him, there was a knock on the door. He slowly separated from her, sighed, and fetched his own dressing gown.

  “You have a letter from Douglas,” Sinjun called out when Tysen and Mary Rose, holding hands now, both smiling like loons and trying not to look self-conscious, came down the front staircase.

  Colin came through the front door, windblown, wearing only black knit breeches and a flowing white shirt, and grinned at the two of them. “Good morning. I trust both of you are quite well?”

  Mary Rose said, “Oh, yes, Colin. Everything is quite excellent.” She blushed, turned nearly as red as her hair. Tysen, without thought, leaned over and kissed her cheek. He thought she looked luminous, the morning light stark on her face, her green eyes bright, her mouth laughing. He was a married man, he realized at that instant, and she was his wife, and he decided he was quite pleased about it.

  He had become Lord Barthwick, come to Scotland, and gotten himself a bride. God’s plan was as yet unclear to him, but given that Mary Rose was now his, it had to be a good plan.

  “Hmmm,” said Colin, and after eyeing the two of them a bit longer, he turned and gave his wife a wicked look. “I am not at all surprised,” he remarked to the entrance hall at large, which included Pouder, napping in his chair by the front door. “After all, Tysen is a Sherbrooke.”

  “Be quiet, Colin,” Tysen said pleasantly as he took the letter from Sinjun and began to read it. “You’re embarrassing my wife.” How strange it was
to say that word aloud. He continued reading, then raised his head and said, “Douglas is rather irritated with me, but he says it won’t last because Oliver is so excited about learning the management of Kildrummy Castle, and thus what can Douglas do? Oliver is on his way to Scotland. He should be here quite soon. Douglas said he was so eager that he was throwing his clothes into his valise so he could be gone. He says also that I am now in his debt.”

  That very afternoon, Oliver arrived, all his luggage with him, a big smile on his face, and an enthusiastic yell at the sight of Kildrummy Castle.

  “Oh, Reverend Tysen,” Oliver said, pumping his hand up and down. “It is more than I deserve. Oh, my, now you’re Lord Barthwick. You’re my lord now. And you are Mr. MacNeily, sir? You will assist me, sir? You will not leave until I know enough not to bankrupt this beautiful place?”

  “I will not leave,” Miles MacNeily said, laughing as he looked closely at this very young man, “until I am convinced that you will raise Kildrummy Castle and its lands and tenants to new heights.”

  When Oliver met Mary Rose, Reverend Sherbrooke’s bride, he simply stopped cold and stared at her.

  “Oliver,” Tysen asked, “are you all right?”

  “It’s that you’re married, sir—my lord—and I simply hadn’t ever thought of you with a woman, that is, she is your wife and—”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Oliver,” Mary Rose said, and shook the young man’s hand.

  “It is time,” Tysen said to Mary Rose. She knew it was, and yet she was afraid, afraid of what she would learn.

  Mr. MacCray had left earlier, Colin and Sinjun were riding, Meggie was helping Pouder arrange Tysen’s cravats in his bedchamber, Mrs. Golden was preparing their dinner, the new maid was washing their clothes, and Oliver and Miles MacNeily were ensconced in the library, surrounded with ledgers.

  “I asked your mother to meet with us,” he said. He paused, then added, squeezing her hand, “She knows it is time that you’re told, Mary Rose.”

  To their surprise, Miles MacNeily was not with Oliver in the library. He was with Gweneth Fordyce in the drawing room. He rose slowly when Tysen and Mary Rose came into the room.

  Tysen didn’t say a word, just stood quietly, waiting.

  Mary Rose looked from her mother to Miles MacNeily and said, “Sir, are you my father?”

  He smiled at her and said, “I wish that I were, my dear, but I didn’t come to Kildrummy Castle until you were nearly ten years old. For the rest of it, however, your dear mother has agreed to marry me.”

  Mary Rose weaved a bit where she stood. She felt Tysen cup her elbow, holding her steady. “I don’t understand. You have always been very kind to me, sir. Is this why? You have always loved my mother?”

  “Yes, I have loved your mother for a very long time. However, I could not afford to make her my wife until recently, when I inherited property and money from my mother. You see, if she had married me, we would have been forced to live here at Kildrummy since there were no cottages available.” He paused a moment and smiled down at Mary Rose’s mother. He said now, “As for you, Mary Rose, I saw you, your beautiful red hair flying around your little face, all skinny, your slipper hanging off your left foot, and you gave me this big smile, and I fell in love. You also had the most beautiful teeth. No, my dear, I love you for yourself. Do you mind? Can I now be your stepfather?”

  Mary Rose turned to her mother, who’d said nothing, just sat on the settee, gowned in lovely light-blue muslin, looking both pale and worried and quite happy. “Mama?”

  “Yes, my darling, I would very much like to marry Miles.” She drew a deep breath, rose slowly. “You see, he could love me because he was the only one to whom I was never a madwoman. It has been a long time, for both of us. But now you are settled and it is time.”

  Tysen said, “I congratulate both of you. Mary Rose, what do you think about this?”

  “I just don’t know. So many things have happened. I thought Mama would come with us back to England, that I wouldn’t be alone in a foreign country, that—”

  “Oh, dearest,” Gweneth said, her hands outstretched, walking quickly to her daughter. “We can wait if you wish. I will accompany you and your husband back to England.”

  Mary Rose was shaking her head. “No, Mama, that was very selfish of me. I am so very happy being married to Tysen that I cannot imagine you not having that happiness as well.” But as she said those words, Mary Rose thought of her mother and Miles MacNeily in bed together, their clothes on the floor, pressed together like she and Tysen had been last night, Tysen’s mouth all over her, and she simply couldn’t imagine such a thing. She stared at the toes of her slippers. “Oh, goodness,” she whispered.

  Tysen said, “Excellent. We have need of some champagne.” He paused then and said, “May we end it here, ma’am? It really is time, you know. Time for Mary Rose to learn about her father, to learn about the trust he left for her.”

  “Yes,” Gweneth said, “it is past time. It’s just that there is tragedy as well, Mary Rose, and it will hurt you to know.”

  “How can learning who my father was be a tragedy?”

  “Because your father was Ian’s grandfather.”

  Tysen could only stare at Gweneth Fordyce. “You’re saying that Old Tyronne was Mary Rose’s father? That he left her money?”

  “Yes,” Gweneth said. “He was past sixty when I met him. His wife had died, and he was desperate to have more heirs waiting in the wings. It had become an obsession with him.

  “I had come to visit my sister and her new husband. I met Tyronne. I was fascinated by him.” Her hands fluttered a bit, and she turned away from all of them to walk to the large row of windows. “I’ll never forget that he told me he wanted sons, he had to have more sons, that life was too uncertain, too fragile, even with the male heirs he had at that time. Five males, I believe.”

  She turned then, splaying her fingers, as if beseeching her daughter to understand. “I was intimate with him, Mary Rose, and you were the result. He refused to marry me until he knew if you would be a boy. You weren’t, and so he said that he had to find another woman to birth him another boy child.

  “He told me about the trust he would set up for you in Edinburgh. The only requirement was that his identity as your father had to remain a secret. I hated him. I wanted to kill him. But I kept silent because he’d promised to provide very well for you. He said that I could never tell you that he was your father or he wouldn’t keep the money there for you. I suppose he didn’t want you hanging about all his heirs.

  “I had nothing at all. I moved in with my sister and Sir Lyon and very shortly thereafter began my madness. It was Sir Lyon, you see. He wanted me. It was the only way I could discover to keep him at bay.”

  “Mama,” Mary Rose said, barely above a whisper, “I am so very sorry.”

  “No, wait, that isn’t all of it, dearest. There is Ian, Tyronne’s last heir. As you know, Tyronne never married again. There were so many boys—sons, grandsons, nephews, cousins—but slowly, each of them died. Until there was only Ian, and he wanted to marry you, Mary Rose. But, naturally, he couldn’t. You were his grandfather’s daughter.”

  “Ian died,” Mary Rose said. “He got drunk and fell over that cliff.”

  “Perhaps,” Gweneth said. “But I know that Tyronne told him that very same day who you were, that he was your father. And then Ian was dead. It was all over.”

  Mary Rose couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it. “No, I will never believe that Ian killed himself.”

  “I don’t know. I pray that he didn’t.”

  Without another word, Mary Rose turned and walked to her husband. Tysen opened his arms and drew her close. He said nothing, merely held her, resting his cheek against her hair. Finally he said, “Is that all of it, ma’am?”

  “Yes. I do not know the amount Tyronne left in trust for her. It is probably a vast amount. He more than hinted that it was. I do have the name of the old gentleman, the only person
in the whole world, who knew what had happened. I will give it to you now. It is your right.”

  22

  September 15, 1815

  TYSEN AND MARY Rose left the bedside of Mr. Mortimer Palmer, solicitor, a very old man who was propped up in bed, all wrapped up in woolen scarves. He’d given Mary Rose a thick envelope, then blessed her in the manner of a Catholic cardinal and proceeded to cough until Tysen feared he would fall out of his bed with the effort. He was frankly relieved that Mr. Palmer had survived their visit. He wondered what would have happened to Mary Rose’s envelope if Mr. Palmer had died before she’d come.

  They were walking back to Abbotsford Crescent to Sinjun and Colin’s town house, enjoying the warm, sunny weather, breathing in the smells of Edinburgh. Tysen was listening to all the lilting English that he scarcely understood, looking over his shoulder every once in a while at the castle, high and stark on the hill in the middle of Edinburgh. Mary Rose was walking beside him, her brow furrowed, silent and thoughtful, clutching that envelope to her bosom.

  “You may as well open it now, Mary Rose,” he said after a while, smiling down at her. “Don’t worry so. It will be all right.” He led her into a small park and motioned her to a small bench.

  “I’m afraid,” she said, looking at him, then at that fat envelope clutched in her hand as if it were a snake poised to bite her. Finally, after more hesitation, she thrust it into his hands. “Please, Tysen,” she said, “you read it.”

  Tysen opened it. There was a single sheet of paper wrapped around another smaller, very thick envelope. He opened the single sheet of foolscap first and read aloud:

  My dear daughter:

  I am dead and you are either twenty-five or married, and thus are reading this, my letter to you. Your mother was a beautiful woman and I was hopeful she would breed me a son and another heir, but she did not. She birthed you, a female. I prayed and prayed for a son, but God didn’t heed me. No, you are not a son and that is a pity. This is why I couldn’t marry her. She hadn’t proved true. But you are here now and what am I to do? Because I am an honorable man, I am providing you with a dowry.