“Oliver is twenty-one, Papa. He just came down from Oxford in early June.” She said to Miles, “Do you like his name? Dalrymple?”
“It sounds quite noble,” Miles said. “There have been several Dalrymples who have figured prominently in the government.”
“Yes, that is what Uncle Ryder told him. My uncle Ryder selected it for him, you see. Oliver didn’t know who his papa was; then his mother died—it was due to something called blue ruin, Uncle Ryder said. I don’t know what that is, but it killed her. All he knew when Uncle Ryder found him was that his name was Oliver. Now he sounds ever so elegant.” She frowned a moment, then added, “And complete. Oliver is now complete.”
“He is a very lucky young man,” Miles said. “Just imagine, finding abused children and taking them in. It is an excellent thing your brother does, my lord.”
“All of my uncle Ryder’s Beloved Ones are lucky,” Meggie said and poured him another cup of tea, beautifully executed because of the lessons her aunt Alex had given her.
Tysen was rubbing his hands together again. “I must write a letter. Miles, I will join you later. Meggie, keep out of trouble.”
Tysen wrote a letter to Oliver and one to Douglas, and dispatched Ardle, one of his stable lads, with the packet to Edinburgh. Now, he thought, striding to the stables, it was time to beard the MacPhail laird in his den.
He found the MacPhail manor house without difficulty. It was about the same size of Sir Lyon’s holdings, but Erickson’s holding wasn’t as nicely kept up. The lawn in front of the manor house needed a half a dozen men with sharp scythes, walls needed paint, stone needed to be replaced.
Erickson MacPhail wasn’t at his manor house. The laird was riding, he was told by a pinch-mouthed housekeeper whose sleeves and hands were dirty.
Where would he be?
It was late in the afternoon. Mary Rose had ridden back to the rushing stream. When Erickson came some ten minutes later, she knew he’d seen her and followed her. “Marry me,” he said.
“I don’t want to marry you, Erickson.” Mary Rose spoke calmly, her voice slow and patient, although her heart was beating so fiercely in her chest she thought it would surely burst out of her.
“You have told me that, Mary Rose,” he said, his voice just as calm as hers, perhaps a bit patronizing because he believed her to be toying with him, and he thought it naught more than a silly woman’s game, and he’d tired of it. He’d more than tired of it the day she’d raced back into the forest and he’d lost her.
She really was quite lovely, he thought now, knowing he would get his way because regardless of what she wanted, what she felt, he would have her. Aye, she wasn’t at all plain. Her hair was rich, thick, a brilliant mix of colors, from the brightest red to a deep auburn. He raised his hand to touch it, then thought better of it.
And those eyes of hers, that soft green color. She had her mother’s eyes. He remembered how Gweneth was so very beautiful and hot in her passion. Mary Rose’s nose was narrow, her brows nicely arched. Her mouth—he did like that mouth of hers. He wanted to kiss her again, to feel whether her lips were as soft as he remembered. There was a line of light freckles over her nose.
She was looking at him, and the look wasn’t promising. Why didn’t she want him? No, it had to be a ridiculous woman’s game. He was getting impatient with her. He had planned to go slowly, to woo her, but she wasn’t cooperating. Damn her, she should be on her knees, kissing his hands, grateful to him for rescuing her, but no, she was shaking her head at him, that damned chin of hers up.
“Please believe me, Erickson. I’m not toying with you. This is no teasing game. I have never learned how to play those sorts of games. Listen to me now. I truly do not wish to marry you.”
In that moment he finally believed her, and she saw that he did. Then, because he couldn’t begin to comprehend why she wouldn’t want him, he knew it had to be because she had given her affection to someone else. He asked, his voice rough in his growing anger, “Then who is the man you want?”
“There is no other man.” Even as she spoke, he saw something in her eyes, something that betrayed her. But there was no other man about for her to—“By God, it’s that damned vicar, isn’t it? You’ve known the man for a week. Just because he is a vicar, a man pledged to God, you, you silly girl, believe he has to be kind, gentle, a soft creature who will always treat you like a bolt of silk. Given who and what he is, well then, that’s probably true. He probably is soft and gentle. Damnation, he isn’t the sort of man a woman needs.”
She jumped to her feet. “Shut up, Erickson. How dare you insult him? I know him and you don’t.”
“I’ll wager the pretty fellow wouldn’t know what to do with a woman even if she were to stand naked before him.”
“That is absurd. He has three children!”
“His wife must have guided him, told him how to accomplish his manly duty.”
“Be quiet.”
Erickson realized he wouldn’t gain anything by continuing on this track. He still wanted to reason with her, gain her compliance. He said more calmly, with a bit of compassion in his voice, “You’re being foolish, Mary Rose, shortsighted. He is the new Lord Barthwick. He comes from a noble English family. He won’t marry you. But even beyond that, I honestly doubt he even comprehends what it is like to feel affection or lust for a woman. He’s a vicar, for God’s sake, he sleeps with his Bible, clasps his hands in prayer when he sees a man who would harm him.”
He saw that her face had turned red, the freckles were standing out against her white skin. “Oh, leave go, Mary Rose. You’re a bastard, for God’s sake. Neither are you anymore a young girl. I’m the only one who wants to marry you.”
“No.”
“Very well,” he said, his eyes on her breasts. She knew there was no hope for it, not with that gleam of pleasure in his eyes, that gleam that bespoke a man’s victory over a woman. Yes, Erickson was looking forward to this no matter her protestations. She shook her head, beyond words now. She knew he would try no more arguments to win her compliance.
“I have no money. A man with your responsibilities does not wed when there is no gain. It makes no sense. It would be very stupid of you. Your mother would not like it. She would forbid it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I will have all that I want. Trust me, Mary Rose. I can give you pleasure.”
“No.”
“Then it will be a bit rough for you. Perhaps you will not fight me overly much once I have given you a taste of lovemaking.” He took a step toward her.
He was twice her size. Mary Rose had no choice. She took a deep breath and jumped into the stream.
She shrieked as she went under. She hadn’t realized how numbingly cold the water would be. It knocked the breath out of her, froze her lungs, numbed her arms and legs instantly. She fought her way to the surface. The current had already swept her a good dozen feet away from him. She saw him standing on the edge of the stream, heard him yelling, and prayed he wouldn’t jump in after her. He looked like he would, then he didn’t. Only a fool would willingly leap into obviously frigid water.
At least the water wasn’t over her head. The rocks were sharp and plentiful, however, the current so strong that she was hurled against every wretched rock in her path. She felt the shock and pain of it to her bones. She prayed that her only punishment for this outlandish action would be bruises, and not a broken neck.
The rocks were shredding her clothing and her flesh, the water freezing her, the ferocious current tossing her about like a rag doll. But at least she wouldn’t drown, not unless she hurt herself so badly on the rocks that she was knocked unconscious.
She knew too that she had to get out of the water or she would die from the cold. Her poor mare, Primrose, was back where she had jumped in. She hoped that Erickson wouldn’t take her with him when he left. Surely he had left by now. She realized then that he could simply ride beside the creek, dry and laughing, until finally, somehow, she managed to get herself ou
t, and he would be right there, grinning down at her.
She saw that there were trees lining the stream along this stretch. He wouldn’t get close enough to see her. She had to get out of the water now to have a chance of escaping him. If he caught her, she would be so weak she wouldn’t even be able to kick at him.
She was swept directly beneath an oak tree branch that was bobbing up and down in the water. She managed to wrap her arms around the thin branch, praying it would hold her weight. Thankfully, it was still attached to the tree. She was sodden and cold, her fingers nearly numb, her body aching, but she wasn’t about to let go of that branch. She took a deep breath and pulled herself slowly, every inch she gained sending waves of pain through her body, up out of the churning water. It frothed around her, pulling, pulling. She didn’t know if she could do it. She saw Erickson in her mind, pulling her legs apart, looking at her, and she gripped the branch with all her strength. In the next instant, she was free of the water, her legs up and wrapped around the branch. Then she managed to pull herself onto the branch. It was bending dangerously low, nearly touching the water. Please, don’t break, don’t break. She pulled herself along the length of it for at least six feet. She nearly fell, flattened herself on the branch, then pulled herself along again. She made it. At last, she was hugging herself against the tree, taking huge breaths, thankful that she was alive and that Erickson likely wasn’t close by. By now surely he had ridden farther down to where the trees fell away to reveal the myriad waterfalls, all of them at least a dozen feet high. She was grateful she hadn’t had to go over them.
She was shivering violently as she climbed down the tree, going from branch to branch, her feet numb now inside her boots. Her gown kept tangling between her legs, making her slip, making her knees buckle with the weight. She was a mess. Her hair was hanging in her face, sodden and heavy. She pushed it back and kept moving slowly down the tree.
How far downstream had she been swept? A mile, perhaps more? She prayed it was much less. She was so tired and cold she was shaking now, her teeth chattering.
She panted for breath. When she felt the ground beneath her feet, she hugged the tree trunk for a moment. She was exhausted. She was also stupid. She couldn’t believe she had jumped into that raging stream. Actually, truth be told, she would have jumped off the top of Ben Nevis to get away from Erickson MacPhail. Anything was better than being raped by him.
She began to walk back to where she’d left Primrose. Suddenly she heard Erickson yelling, heard his horse pounding through the underbrush. She froze in her tracks. No, he wasn’t close. He was a goodly distance away, thank God. All she had to do now was find Primrose and get away from this place.
But where would she go?
She wondered if her uncle would allow Erickson in the house now when she told him what he had threatened to do to her.
Her head ached ferociously. Finally she found Primrose, lazily chewing on some slimy water reeds. She led her mare away into the thickness of the pine trees. She waited there, even though she knew she risked becoming ill. She couldn’t risk running into Erickson.
Finally, when she felt like a pillar of ice, she mounted Primrose. When she neared Vallance Manor, the first thing she saw was Erickson MacPhail’s horse being held by one of her uncle’s stable lads in front of the manor.
She knew then, all the way to her bones, that she was no longer safe here in her own home. No, she thought, it wasn’t her home, it was her uncle Lyon’s home. He wouldn’t protect her.
She didn’t know what to do, but then it didn’t matter. She turned Primrose south, toward Kildrummy Castle.
11
Nunc, vero inter saxum et locum durum sum.
Now, I really am between a rock and a hard place.
“GOODNESS, MARY ROSE, what are you doing out here? You are all wet and shivering. What happened? Did your mare throw you? Oh, my, look at all those cuts on your hands and face! Let me get Papa.”
Mary Rose grabbed Meggie’s arm as she slid off Primrose’s back. “No, no, Meggie. No, please, I don’t want to involve your papa in any of this . . . well, I guess it’s a muddle. Nothing is good right now. I didn’t know where to go. I can’t see your papa, don’t you see? He doesn’t deserve any of this and—”
She knew she wasn’t making sense. Meggie was only ten years old, she shouldn’t be involved in this mess either, but now it was too late. She realized in a flash that this child was probably the only one who could help her. She got a hold on herself and said, “Listen, Meggie, I’m not hurt all that badly, just cut up and bruised a bit. But this isn’t good. I’ve got to hide. Can you help me?”
Meggie didn’t hesitate. She clasped Mary Rose’s hand between hers and said, leaning close, “Yes, of course. First, let’s take your horse to the stable. I will tell MacNee and Ardle to keep their tongues between their teeth. But why don’t you want Papa to help you? At home he is involved in everything. All his parishioners call him whenever they have problems. He’s really quite good at fixing things, even when a wife wants to hit her husband over the head with a board.”
Mary Rose nearly laughed at that, but the hopelessness of her situation was sitting heavy as a board on her own head.
“Actually, Mrs. Crow did hit her husband on his head, and he lost his memory for a while. Papa thought he was just pretending, but it got Mr. Crow a lot of sympathy from his wife.”
“I cannot, Meggie, trust me.” She wasn’t going to spit out that it would compromise him, place him between her uncle and Erickson MacPhail, or perhaps place him against the two of them. No, surely her uncle didn’t know what Erickson had planned to do. Surely he hadn’t given him permission to do what he had to do to gain her agreement to marry him. She just didn’t know, and not knowing, she couldn’t take the chance that her uncle would simply give Erickson the key to her bedchamber and tell him to do what he wanted. Her voice wobbled a bit as she said, “I just need to hide for a little while, until everything calms down. Your papa doesn’t need to know I am even here.”
“All right, Mary Rose. We’ll figure all this out,” Meggie said.
Mary Rose watched her hand over Primrose to Ardle, who just nodded, never stopped staring at her, which wasn’t surprising, since he’d known her forever, and she knew she must look like a madwoman, all frowsy and wet. “Thank you,” she said to him. “Really, Ardle, thank you.”
“I’ll take foin care of ol’ Primrose, Mary Rose. Dinna ye fache yerself now, lass.”
She was very grateful to him. She smiled, remembering Tysen saying the same thing to her in his starchy, clipped English accent. No soft lilt to his voice. “Thank you,” she said again and lightly touched her fingers to Ardle’s brown woolen coat.
Meggie whispered, clasping Mary Rose’s hand, “Come, Mary Rose, you’re terribly wet and cold. I know just where to hide you. You are beyond cold, aren’t you? You’re freezing. I don’t want you to become ill. Hurry.”
Meggie led her up the servants’ back stairs, pausing at each landing to see if anyone was around. They heard Mrs. MacFardle humming a goodly distance away. “That sounds pretty,” Meggie whispered. “I didn’t know any sound she made could sound that nice. I’m glad we didn’t see Pouder. He usually sits right by the front door but you can never be certain. I suppose you already know that.”
“Oh, yes. Pouder has occupied that spot since before I was born.”
“I have nearly tripped over him several times. He is Papa’s valet-in-training, something he says he always wanted to be.”
“I have always liked Pouder. He was always kind to me. He was very old even when I was a small child.”
She wanted to giggle at the thought of Pouder seeing her, clutching his meager chest in shock, and expiring right there in his chair. She was becoming hysterical. It wasn’t a good sign. She drew a very deep breath, trying to calm herself. She realized, of course, that what she really wanted to do was sink into oblivion, simply lie down in some corner and fade into the wainscoting. But she di
d neither. She docilely followed Meggie Sherbrooke to her bedchamber in the north tower. It was one of Mary Rose’s favorite rooms. As a child she had spent many happy hours playing in this wonderful room. It had been Ian’s bedchamber, but she didn’t tell Meggie that.
“Take off your clothes, quickly, Mary Rose, and climb into my bed to get warm. I’ll find more blankets. Goodness, I don’t think I have anything you can wear. You’re a bit larger than I am.”
“Yes,” Mary Rose said, managing a slight smile. “Yes, I am a bit bigger than you.” She was stripping off her clammy clothes even as she spoke. Within two minutes her boots were on the floor beside all her wet clothes, and she was in the bed, shivering under all the blankets Meggie was piling on top of her. Meggie said, after she gently laid her palm against Mary Rose’s cheek, “I’ll find some clothes for you, don’t worry. Yes, I will figure something out. You just stay there and I will fetch some hot tea. Hot tea is many times the best mediator. That’s what Papa says. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I think he’s right. He usually is.”
Meggie slipped out of the bedchamber, closed the door quietly behind her. Mary Rose lay curled up, trying to get warm, but the cold was very deep. Even her blood was cold, the very marrow in her bones was freezing her from the inside. She tried to take deep, slow breaths. She tried to calm herself. She was out of that stream, she was safe, Erickson was nowhere about. Breathe slowly, yes, breathe very slowly. You can do it, Mary Rose. You’re safe now. Breathe.
It seemed like forever until, finally, she began to warm. She realized then that her old riding hat was still atop her head, the plume tangled in her hair. She must look ridiculous. She reached a hand out from under the mound of covers and pulled it off. Then she tried to spread out her hair over the pillow. It required both hands to draw most of the tangles out, and then she was cold again, so cold that she pulled the covers to her nose. Once she was warm, she quickly realized that every inch of her body hurt, fiercely. Well, it wasn’t unexpected. The rushing water had slammed her against every boulder, every rock, every pebble in that wretched stream. She wondered if there’d been some fish she hadn’t seen who’d taken a nip of her when the water had ripped her past them. She hoped none of the cuts or scrapes was bleeding. She didn’t want blood on Meggie’s bedclothes.
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 11
