Meggie was there, holding a basin of hot water, several cloths over her arm, and a bottle of ointment clutched in her hand. “Excellent, Meggie. How did you ever get that ointment from Mrs. MacFardle?”
“I had to lie to her, Papa. Since she doesn’t know me as well as you do, she believed me when I told her that you had cut your hand.”
“You did well. Now, I want you to go back to your bedchamber.”
“Papa, please let me help you. Mary Rose is—”
“Mary Rose is what?”
Meggie frowned toward the young woman lying in the middle of her father’s bed. She struggled to find the words. “It’s just that she’s very alone, even though she lives in a houseful of people. I don’t think there’s anyone for her. Not even her mother. She needs me.”
Just as I need you, Tysen thought, and smiled down at his precious daughter. He cradled her cheek in his hand. “I promise I’ll take good care of her. No one is to know yet that she’s here. If anyone asks about me, just tell them that I am not feeling well and am here in my bedchamber. Now, I don’t want you to stay, sweetheart. Go now.”
“You will call me if she worsens?”
“I most certainly will. I promise.” Tysen waited until Meggie had slipped out of his bedchamber.
He locked the door, then walked back to the bed. Tysen hadn’t ever taken intimate care of another person, except his children, of course, after their mother had died. He’d rocked them endlessly when monsters had invaded their dreams, wiped their foreheads when they’d been downed by fevers, held them when they vomited, rubbed their stomachs when they had belly cramps. But Mary Rose wasn’t a child. She was a grown woman, and she wasn’t his wife.
There was no choice. It was either that or ask Mrs. MacFardle to see to her, and that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, do. He remembered how she had purposely hurt Mary Rose’s ankle just because she hadn’t believed she belonged here at Kildrummy Castle, in the drawing room, in the same company with her betters.
“All right, Mary Rose,” he said, staring down at her. “I’m all you’ve got.”
He stripped her down, examined every inch of her, bathed her, rubbed the ointment that smelled like pine and lavender mixed together into every scratch, abrasion, and cut on her white body. No, he wouldn’t think of her as having a white body, as having soft white flesh. He realized that she was shivering and quickly put her into his nightshirt again. He took his well-worn dark-green brocade dressing gown and wrapped that around her as well. He pulled the covers to her chin and smoothed her hair, only a bit damp now, from around her face. Her face was as badly bruised as her body. He lightly pressed his palms to her forehead, her cheeks. She was now cool to the touch.
He prayed she would stay that way.
He built up the fire, then pulled a very large leather wing chair at least two centuries old up beside the bed. He lit another branch of candles, picked up the book he’d been reading, and settled himself in to wait.
“I don’t understand why you want to do this. You wanted Donnatella. Why me? Why now?”
He nearly dropped his book, Shakespeare’s King Henry IV, Part I, one of his favorite plays.
“Mary Rose? Are you back with me?”
She wasn’t. She twisted a bit, but the covers were heavy and she couldn’t throw them off. “I don’t want to wed, don’t you understand? I would never marry you, you were fondling my own mother. How could you do that? She is my mother!”
“I know,” he said, smoothing her hair, touching her face, to calm her. “Erickson MacPhail won’t ever again be close enough to frighten you, Mary Rose. You must trust me on that.”
“She’s my mother!”
“Yes, she is. It’s all right, I’m here now.”
She started crying, deep, gulping sobs that seemed to be torn out of her chest, and tears, streaming down her face. He couldn’t bear it. He sat beside her and pulled her up against his chest. He rocked her, speaking nonsense to her, holding her, stroking her back, his breath warm on her flesh, so that perhaps on some level, she would know she was safe. He remembered how he’d just stared at her when she’d told him about Erickson and her mother, crying quietly as she’d told him how even now she still wasn’t entirely certain that her mother hadn’t encouraged, hadn’t, in fact, been his lover. Her mother had never said anything to her about it—understandable, Tysen supposed. He’d wanted to hold her then, comfort her, but he hadn’t.
Nor had he been shocked. As a vicar, he believed that he had witnessed just about everything perverse, vicious, and brutal that anyone could possibly do. But he’d hated the fact that Mary Rose had seen the two of them, and had been so terribly hurt. Then, of course, she’d been embarrassed that she’d told him.
He leaned over and kissed her temple. He then nearly leapt off the bed at what he’d done, at what he’d felt at the touch of his mouth against her skin. He didn’t let her go, he couldn’t. He’d kissed her, a woman who wasn’t his wife, a young woman who was defenseless, without protection. He closed his eyes. He’d had to take care of her, but that kiss, that wasn’t well done of him. He touched his mouth to her cheek, tasted the salty tears, but this time he didn’t kiss her, just held her close and closer still, and tasted her tears.
She calmed, her face against his shoulder, her breathing evening out. If she was still awake, he prayed that she wasn’t still locked inside herself. “Mary Rose?” His voice was just a whisper against her cheek.
She was asleep. He gently eased her onto her back, pulled the covers up. He rose slowly, looking down at her. He hadn’t even known she existed until—was it even a week ago? Less? He couldn’t seem to remember a day when she hadn’t been there. No, that was ridiculous. He hadn’t been interested in another female, not in this way, since three months after he and Melinda Beatrice had wed. He had to stop it, he was being disloyal, disremembering. Only he knew he wasn’t, and he didn’t like himself very much for admitting it. But it was true. There’d simply been no one else after Melinda Beatrice had died. He had long ago disciplined himself to master his own body and its demands upon him. And that control had been inviolable, until Mary Rose, a Scotswoman who was also a bastard.
Tysen wasn’t a man given to curses, and so he didn’t curse. Instead, he walked quietly to the large, blackened fireplace and stood there, deep in thought, staring down into the flames, not ferociously high now but sinking slowly and inexorably into the wood until all that remained was embers that glowed a soft, bright orange.
Mary Rose. He loved the sound of her name, the feel of it, both in his mind and on his tongue. Dear Lord, what was he going to do?
She awoke in the dark of the night. She was cold, so very cold that she knew if she breathed too deeply, she would shatter, just as the beautiful vase that had fallen off the mantel in her bedchamber had shattered and was no more. She, too, would be no more. She held herself stiff, but not for long. She began to shiver, her teeth chattered, and she simply couldn’t stop it. The worse it became, the more fiercely the pain rippled through her. It dug deep, and she moaned with it.
“It’s all right, Mary Rose, I’m here.”
“Tysen,” she whispered. “Is it really you? Oh, my, I’m so glad it’s you. I don’t feel very well. I’m sorry.”
“You have a fever. I will deal with that, don’t worry.”
“I hurt—all the smacks and blows from those bloody boulders. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll deal with that, too. Now, I want you to lie as quietly as you can for just a moment, not more than three more minutes. Can you do that?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying that. Just try to breathe deeply. I’ll be right back.”
It was a bit longer than three minutes, but then he was beside her again, his sleeves rolled up. He’d lit a six-branch candelabra and set it near the bed. He was surrounded by shadows, but the lines of his face were strong and calm and intent.
“I’m going to wipe you down with cold water. My nanny did it to me several ti
mes when I was a boy. It knocked the fever right out of me. I’ve done it to my own children. First, here’s some laudanum to ease the pain.”
He lifted her, and she drank the water laced with laudanum. “Good, you drank it all.” He added as if to himself, “I must remember to keep you drinking.” He paused a moment, his hand on the covers to pull them back. When he’d examined her before, she’d been unconscious. But now she wasn’t. “Please just think of me as a physician, all right?”
“No, I can’t,” she said, and shuddered. “You’re Tysen. You’re something else entirely. This is very difficult.”
“I know, but I won’t hurt you, ever. Please trust me, Mary Rose.”
“I trust you,” she said, then closed her eyes. She didn’t move.
He’d felt people’s trust in him before, felt it as a burden or as a pleasure or as a simple obligation or duty.
It was not at all uncommon a thing, but those words coming from her mouth, words he knew she meant to her soul, made something shift deep inside of him, something that was warm and boundless, something that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It should have scared him to his toes, but it didn’t. “All right, then,” he said, and pulled the covers off her. He carefully eased her out of his nightshirt. Then he turned her onto her stomach and began wiping the wet cloths down her back and hips, over her legs, even to her arched feet. One of her toes was crooked. She’d obviously broken it many years before. His fingers closed over that toe for a moment.
Over and over he swept the wet cloth down her, then up again, feeling it grow warm from the heat her body was giving off. He dipped it into the basin of cold water once, twice, more times than he could count. He had to keep it cold. When he turned her onto her back, her eyes were open. She was looking up at him, saying nothing, just looking at him. He saw no signs of pain on her face, no fear, just that limitless trust. He smiled at her, covered his hand with the cloth, and began rubbing it up and down her body. Over her breasts, her belly. He closed his eyes. She was ill. He was a man of mature years, not a randy boy. He could deal with this. He knew well the demands of control. He would not dishonor her, would not shame himself by allowing his body to harden with lust. But of course his body did just that. He wondered briefly why God wasn’t helping him here, but then he wanted to laugh at himself. Why would God concern Himself about a man’s simple and inevitable reaction to a woman’s body? Dear heavens, but she was beautiful. No, he wouldn’t think like that. He kept rubbing her down. Wiping back up her body, he found, was harder. He tried closing his eyes, but it just didn’t help.
The hair at the base of her belly was a deep red, just beautiful, a bit darker than the rich red hair on her head. He looked at her knees, very nice knees, then quickly brought the cold, wet cloth over them and rubbed them longer than necessary, staring at them, just at her knees, nothing either north or south of them.
He wasn’t in good shape. But he was a man, not an immature boy. He would deal with this. He continued rubbing her down until he touched his palm to her cheek and she was once again cool. Thank the good Lord. Then she turned her cheek into his palm and for a moment, just a brief moment, he held her there. He quickly fetched another nightshirt from the ancient armoire and put her in it, smoothing it down over her legs, over her white feet.
He rolled up the sleeves so her hands would be free, covered her to her nose, then rose. She was still looking at him.
“Do you feel better?” He was actually surprised she was still awake, what with all the laudanum he’d put in that glass of water. He took a step away from the bed and prayed that a woman couldn’t see the lust in a man’s mind.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice slightly slurred. “I’m sorry, Tysen.”
“Be quiet.”
He couldn’t believe the harshness of his voice, but she simply smiled at him. “That’s the first time you’ve ever shown impatience with me. Meggie told me that my uncle came here. She said you didn’t have to lie to him because you didn’t realize that I was indeed here, in Meggie’s bed, until she helped me into the laird’s bedchamber. She was afraid her bedchamber wasn’t private enough, that anyone felt free to walk in on a child, but not on you, the laird. That’s why I’m here. I’m s—”
Tysen just waved away her words. “Yes, Sir Lyon was extraordinarily upset that you weren’t here. He knows you didn’t drown, since Erickson searched until he saw that your mare was gone. He assured me that stream was too shallow to drown a goat. Did you ride home and see MacPhail there?”
“Yes. I saw his horse. I didn’t know where to go. I hadn’t intended to come here, truly, but then Primrose just galloped right to your gate. Meggie was out there and she brought me in. Up the back stairs so Pouder wouldn’t see us.” Suddenly she grinned. “I’ve always thought it remarkable that Pouder doesn’t collect dust, since he’s always there.”
“He was collecting dust at a great rate until he realized that I, the new laird, did not have a valet. Since he only has two teeth left in his mouth, his smile at this discovery rocked me back a bit. You see, he’s wanted to be a valet all his life, and now he had his opportunity.” Tysen shook his head. “Only when he said that, he didn’t say ‘valet,’ he said he’d always wanted to be a ‘varlet.’ It took me a while to figure all this out. Now I will find him at the oddest times in this bedchamber rearranging my cravats and straightening my razor and brushes.”
She wanted to laugh, but she was afraid it would hurt too much. “He’s a very nice old man.”
“Yes, he appears to be. He also appears to be very proud of himself. I have told him that we would take his varlet training slowly so as not to disrupt his other, more important duties.”
“You are very kind to him. Tysen, I know you don’t like it, but I am sorry for causing you difficulties. I was thinking that tomorrow morning I can leave and—”
“Oh? You wish to leave? May I inquire as to what you would wear? I chanced to see the remains of your clothes in Meggie’s bedchamber. Did you perchance intend to squeeze yourself into one of her gowns?”
“I will think of something,” she said, his light dose of sarcasm floating through her mind. Her chin went up, a hard thing to do since she was so tired. “It’s possible that Mrs. MacFardle would have something I could borrow. Oh dear, I feel so very tired.”
“No wonder. It’s about time. I gave you a goodly dose of laudanum.” He paused a moment, then the sarcasm was back. “All right, let us say that you are finely garbed in one of Mrs. MacFardle’s castoffs. Where will you go?”
Along with the sarcasm, his voice was sharp, sharper than he’d intended. He saw her fold down, saw the helplessness of her situation wash over her, and felt like a clod. He took one white hand in his and held it close. He said very gently, “Mary Rose, we will think of something. You aren’t yet well enough to think of wearing anything but my nightshirts. Go to sleep now and stop your mad squirreling about for a solution. I will think of something.”
“But—”
He touched a finger to her lips. “No, be quiet. Let go of things and go to sleep. You’ll feel better more quickly. Are you still in pain?”
“No, I don’t hurt anymore.” Two minutes later, her face was turned into the pillow. Her breathing was even. She was sound asleep.
Tysen tried to make himself comfortable in the wing chair. It wasn’t too bad, but still, he didn’t fall asleep for a very long time. When he awoke with a jerk, a moan coming out of his mouth, it was in the full darkness of the night. He realized he’d awakened from a dream of his own making, a dreadful dream that had him so scared he was struggling to find breath even as he lurched out of the chair and began pacing the bedchamber floor, his head still spinning from the terror of that damnable dream. When at last he managed to calm himself, he realized he was cold. He built up the fire, then lit one candle and walked to Mary Rose’s bedside. He laid his palm on her forehead. She was blessedly cool to the touch, thank God for that, and sleeping deeply.
What had t
hat wretched dream meant? All he could remember was the woman yelling, then a man’s voice—slurred, weak, becoming indistinct, and then there was the feeling of death all around him, endless, irrevocable death, and he was there, a shadow, perhaps just a whisper of light, but he was part of it. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.
He didn’t understand. The fear was still stark inside him. He walked back to the chair and eased himself down. He cupped his chin in his hand and spent the remainder of the night staring into the flames.
The man’s voice he’d heard—it was Ian, who had fallen off a cliff six months ago.
13
DR. HALSEY PATTED Mary Rose’s cheek. “Aye, lass, that’s it. Give me a smile. Then you can curse me for pouring this vile potion down your throat.”
Mary Rose did smile up at him. He’d brought her into the world, so her mother had told her. “Where is Tysen?”
“Who? Oh, I see, you mean Lord Barthwick. Tysen—not much of a Scottish name, is it? Oh, well, I suppose that’s to be expected since he’s an Englishman. He’s right here, standing not six feet behind me. I have this feeling his lordship will pound me into the floor if I cause you any more discomfort. How do you feel now, lass?”
Catherine Coulter the Sherbrooke Series Novels 6-10 (9781101562123) Page 13
