The Scottish Bride (14 page)

She said, very clearly, “I would jump into that stream again, without hesitation, if you were threatening me.”

He felt anger leap up, flame hot. He wanted to shake her, tell her that she shouldn't go against him, but he couldn't. He looked at the child, who was now even closer to Mary Rose than a minute before. He said formally, “Would you like me to escort you to Vallance Manor?”

Tysen thought she couldn't become any more pale, but she did, and now she was utterly without color. Meggie squeezed even closer.

Mary Rose shook her head.

Erickson said, “Your aunt and uncle and, of course, Donnatella, are quite worried about you. They're hurt that you felt you could not even come home, that you had to escape to this place.”

“What about my mother?”

“No one has told her anything. Your uncle doesn't want to distress her.”

“How could I go into Vallance Manor when I saw your horse in front? After what you tried to do to me, do you honestly believe I would take the chance of walking into a house where you seemed perfectly at home? Into a
house where, perhaps, you would feel free to abuse me again?”

“Abuse? Again? Nonsense. There was no abuse, Mary Rose. You are disremembering everything. You know I would not harm a single curly hair on your head. I asked you to marry me. I was a perfect gentleman. You put me off, you played the clever, elusive female. What was I to think? I was merely going to try to convince you that I wanted you, prove my sincerity to you, that's all, but you decided to punish me, and you jumped into the water. I could not believe you did that. But now things are different. As soon as you are well again, we will wed. All you have to do now is accept me, and I will take you home.”

Mary Rose closed her eyes a moment. Something wasn't right here. She opened her eyes and studied his face, but he looked just as he had a moment ago, all confident, a man clearly in charge, a very determined man. She said slowly, “Does my uncle wish me to marry you?”

“Yes.”

“But that makes no sense. Donnatella wants you. Why does he not prefer you to wed Donnatella?”

“I have told him that I do not love Donnatella. I have told him clearly that I must have you.”

“Will my uncle allow you to force me if I return home?”

The little girl was looking at him like he was a monster, even though she obviously didn't understand exactly what was happening here. The vicar, curse his eyes, looked faintly bored, but Erickson wasn't fooled.

“Forget your damned uncle. He has nothing to do with this. Forget this nonsense about forcing you. My mother is very fond of you, Mary Rose.”

“Your mother, Erickson, refers to me as the Upstart Bastard in a very penetrating voice to anyone within hearing distance.”

“She has changed, I promise you.”

She spoke clearly, with no fear or hesitation. “Please, leave go, Erickson. We used to be friends. I wish we could be friends again. But nothing more. I do not wish to marry you. I am not being coy. I am playing no game with you. I have no wish to wed with anyone. I will not let you take me home. I do not trust my uncle, and that is a pity. Good-bye, Erickson.”

He stiffened, saw that the little girl was very nearly ready to crawl on top of Mary Rose to protect her from him. It was too much. He threw back his head and heard his own laughter ring out in the room.

“Good,” Tysen said. “A man who is laughing isn't thinking of mayhem.”

Erickson said over his shoulder as he strode out of the bedchamber, “This isn't over, Mary Rose.” He nearly knocked Pouder flat. “Good God, man, watch where the devil you are walking!”

“The cravats,” Pouder said. “I must see to his lordship's cravats. I nearly have the hang of folding them properly now. I am his varlet-in-training.”

Erickson stared at the old man he'd nearly knocked over. He'd known him ever since he was too small even to remember. “You're a varlet, Pouder? Oh, I see. Yes, see to the cravats,” he said, and went slowly down the stairs to the grand entrance hall of Kildrummy Castle.

What the bloody hell was he to do now?

 
 
 
 

M
ARY
R
OSE HAD
just eaten a bowl of too salty chicken broth under Tysen's watchful eye when Meggie burst into the room, out of breath because she had been running. “You'll not believe who is here, Papa! It's Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin!”

Sinjun stepped into the very large, very dark, melancholy bedchamber that had obviously had only a long line of men living there with no woman to perk the place up and quickly took in Mary Rose's vivid curly red hair, those incredible green eyes of hers, the bruises on her face, her pallor. And that leap of fear. She said to the room at large, which also included Tysen, who had just built up the fire and was now standing, wiping his hands, staring at her, clearly startled at her sudden presence, “I would have gotten here sooner, but Pearlin' Jane didn't tell me exactly where the trouble was or exactly who the trouble involved until last night just after Colin and I were all snuggled together in bed and—never mind that. Then I had to convince Colin that it wasn't some sort of absurd dream, brought on by a surfeit of—no, forget that as well. It isn't important either. Colin is, naturally, stubborn as a flea since he is a man, but he came around finally.” Sinjun
walked quickly to Tysen, who was now holding out his arms to her, still looking bemused, saying her name, and wrapped her own arms around him.

“Sinjun,” he said again, kissing her, then holding her away from him, “you know I do not believe in ghosts. Even this Pearlin' Jane of yours. Now, will you tell me, with no embroidering of the facts, exactly why you felt compelled to drag yourself and Colin here to Kildrummy?”

“Of course I'll tell you, my dear, but first, who is this?”

“She's Mary Rose, Aunt Sinjun, and her hair is as beautiful as Aunt Alex's.”

“Yes,” Colin said, stepping forward and shaking Tysen's hand, then looking immediately over at Mary Rose, “I suppose that it is. I can see you've been hurt. I am Colin Kinross, the stubborn husband. What is going on here? I never believed Sinjun for a moment—well, perhaps for three or four very short moments, but no more than that—but she was so very worried that something bad was happening to Tysen that we came. I'm sorry, Tysen. If you are wishing us at Jericho, we will leave you be. But it looks as if my wife is correct. There is some trouble here.”

Tysen said, “You have arrived at a splendid time. You can help Meggie protect Mary Rose from Erickson MacPhail.”

“Oh, goodness,” Sinjun said and was by Mary Rose's side in an instant, her cool hand on her forehead. “Of course there is trouble. Is Erickson MacPhail the man we saw striding out of the castle, looking like he wanted to blast everyone?”

“Oh, dear,” Mary Rose said.

“It doesn't matter,” Tysen said. “He finally realizes he has lost. Let him relieve his bile.”

Sinjun said, “Now we are here, nothing else unpleasant
will happen to you.” She smiled down at the young woman who had the most magnificent green eyes she'd ever seen. “Actually, with Tysen here, we're really not at all necessary, but—”

There was a swish at the doorway, then a loud, portentous clearing of the throat. Tysen turned to see Mrs. Griffin standing there, her hands on her abundant hips.

Tysen said pleasantly, “Sinjun, my dearest sister, I beg you not to leave. Now here is trouble that is possibly even beyond my ability to manage. Help me, Sinjun. I am clearly in need of reinforcements.”

Mrs. Griffin said, striding into the bedchamber, swinging her black cane, “I do not wish to believe my eyes! But I cannot disregard what my eyes are seeing. There have been generations of Barthwicks who have slipped out of their mothers' wombs and then died on their own, usually of gnarly old age—at least some of them did—in that bed. Just look at her—all sunk deep in the lovely feather ticking, looking right at home, as if she belonged, as if she was the laird's wife. She is nothing but a bastard. No one has anything to do with her. She doesn't belong here, particularly in that bed. Ah, that raises a question.”

Mrs. Griffin pumped herself up, her bosom attaining new prominence. “What is she doing in your bedchamber and in your bed, my lord?”

Tysen had always enjoyed his share of the Sherbrooke luck. But now it seemed that wondrous luck had deserted him. His bedchamber was very nearly overflowing with people, and poor Mary Rose looked as if she was going to expire on the spot. And now this ridiculous old besom was insulting her at a fine clip, and that made him very angry indeed. He said pleasantly, though it was very difficult, almost beyond him, “Mrs. Griffin, Mr. Griffin—I assume you are standing directly behind your wife, and that is why I don't see you?”

“Just so. We are here to see what is what.”

“That is obscure enough,” Tysen said. “Before you again take your leave, you can see that Mary Rose has been hurt. She is recovering from her injuries. This is all there is to it, this is your what is what. There is nothing that requires your assistance that I can think of. I hope your carriage is still awaiting you in front of the castle?”

“Rudeness isn't becoming, even though you are a vicar and an Englishman,” said Mrs. Griffin. “Of course there is more to this than a mere what is what. I ask you, my lord, who are these people? Obviously they are more im-ported wretched English here to torment us.”

Colin eyed the woman with the thin black mustache over her upper lip and her husband, who was still standing behind her, drew himself as tall as Robert the Bruce, wished he had a claymore to swing about, and said, “Ma'am, I am Lord Ashburnham. I am so Scottish that I wear my plaid to bed and even dream in Scottish, not English or Italian. Just who the devil are you?”

To Tysen's surprise, Mrs. Griffin gave Colin a very quick, very deep curtsy, ruined quickly enough when she opened her mouth. “I am Mrs. Griffin, naturally, my lord. I belong here. I have been coming here for so long that I once even considered marrying Old Tyronne so I could sleep in that bed. I did not marry him, of course, because of Mr. Griffin here, and he was still breathing then, as he is now. Poor Old Tyronne needed more heirs, but alas, I was a bit too advanced in years to provide one.

“Now, I can see that I am needed. There is a conundrum of magnificent proportions here. I—we—are here to resolve everything. First, get that girl out of that bed.”

Tysen rolled his eyes. It kept him from marching up to Mrs. Griffin and either snarling something unvicarlike into her face or throwing her out the window, if only they were
wide enough to accommodate her, which he doubted they were.

Sinjun said slowly, still absorbing the irrefutable fact that this woman actually existed and was standing here in Tysen's bedchamber, “Pearlin' Jane didn't tell me about you, Mrs. Griffin.”

“Obviously this Pearlin' Jane person doesn't know everything,” said Mr. Griffin, one shoulder showing around his wife.

“If Pearlin' Jane had told you anything at all about Mrs. Griffin,” Tysen said to his sister, “I doubt you would have stirred from Vere Castle even if my head was under the guillotine blade. You would have written me a letter of condolence and kept your distance.”

“I do not find you amusing, my lord.”

“No, I imagine that you don't,” Tysen said. “Now, why don't all of us leave Mary Rose to rest? Perhaps Mrs. MacFardle will provide us tea to pour down our respective gullets. Then perhaps you, Mrs. Griffin, will feel that the conundrum is well in hand and you are free once again to take your leave.”

“I continue not to like your humor, my lord.”

“Sometimes, Mrs. Griffin,” Tysen said, swallowing his gorge since there was no choice at all, “I don't either.”

“I insist that you satisfy me, my lord,” said Mrs. Griffin.

Tysen said, “I doubt that I am capable of accomplishing that, ma'am. Come along now. Mary Rose isn't well.”

“She doesn't deserve to be,” Mr. Griffin said, extending his neck so that he could see around his wife's shoulder. “No one has anything to do with her.”

I am not a violent man, Tysen said over and over to himself. Even if I were, I would not allow myself to strike an older man who has probably drunk more than his share of smuggled French brandy.

“You go ahead,” Sinjun said, waving them all away. “I
wish to speak to Mary Rose. Colin, I wish you to remain and listen so that you may tell me things later that I am perhaps missing in all this.”

Tysen didn't want to leave his sister with Mary Rose. He wasn't certain why, but he just knew, all the way to the scar over his left rib that occasionally ached when the weather turned unexpectedly, that it wasn't a good idea. Colin took his arm. “You have no choice,” Colin said, sympathy and humor in his voice. “Sinjun must needs meddle, you know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Tysen said. “The first time she meddled, I believe, she was four years old and Douglas ended up under a rosebush, hiding from our father.”

“Go, my dear,” Sinjun said, giving him that special smile of hers that he had never trusted her entire life. “I will take care of things here. Trust me. Ah, I believe I was five that time.”

Tysen sighed, smiled at Mary Rose. “I will see you soon. Try to rest. Try to ignore my sister.” He then told Meggie not to flatten Mary Rose with too much protection and followed the Griffins out of the bedchamber.

“Now,” Sinjun said, focusing all of her formidable intelligence on Mary Rose, “let me tell you all about Pearlin' Jane and what she said to me.”

“Who is Pearlin' Jane?” Mary Rose asked.

Meggie said, “She is Aunt Sinjun's ghost. She lives at Vere Castle. She's been dead for a very long time, but she takes care of Aunt Sinjun.”

“That's right,” Sinjun said, and sat down in the big wing chair. “She came to me last night and told me that Tysen was in trouble, here at Kildrummy.”

“He is,” Mary Rose said. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I don't think I believe in ghosts either. I've never seen one, even here, and there are supposed to be at least six
ghosts hanging about Kildrummy.” She tried to smile through her tears, but it didn't help.

Meggie squeezed Mary Rose's hand as she came up on her knees beside her. “Oh, no, don't cry, please, Mary Rose. Papa will take care of everything. And Aunt Sinjun is very good at meddling, even Papa agrees that she is. Uncle Colin loves her so very much I even heard him say once that he would lock her in his bedchamber and visit her at his whim. That tells you something, doesn't it?”

There came a snort from Colin, who was seated in the wing chair, reading a newspaper.

“I would like to know what is going on here,” Sinjun said.

“It's not his responsibility,” Mary Rose said and sniffed. She hated herself. Tears were ridiculous. They did nothing but make her skin itch. “Pearlin' Jane could have been right, ma'am, but she's not any longer. I'm leaving. I will not allow Tysen to face any consequences that would harm him. Mrs. Griffin is right. I do not belong here. No one wants me here. I won't allow Tysen to be any more noble than he already has been. Would you please lend me a gown?”

Now this was interesting, Sinjun thought. This lovely ill young woman was in Tysen's bed, and she was worried about him and his blasted reputation but not at all about herself? Did she think so little of herself? If she did, it was understandable, given the horrid things that had spewed from that wretched Mrs. Griffin's mouth. Lovely hair, yes, Mary Rose had lovely hair, and a lovely face. But of course such things wouldn't weigh heavily with Tysen. She had never seen him like this. Melinda Beatrice had died six years ago. It was a very long time for a man to be alone. Of course, there were Max and Leo and Meggie, but children weren't the same thing as having someone to laugh with and talk to, to fight with, to make love
to. Sinjun had worried about him for a very long time now. She looked at Mary Rose, at that pale face, the scratches, the horrible bruise around her left eye, and said calmly, “A gown? Certainly. I will do anything you need, Mary Rose.” She smiled. “Do call me Sinjun.”

“But—”

“You'd best give in to Aunt Sinjun,” Meggie said comfortably. “She and Pearlin' Jane won't let anything bad happen.”