The Scottish Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  Tysen saw the doctor out of the bedchamber. He heard Mrs. MacFardle’s strident voice echoing down the corridor, “Ach, Dr. Halsey, it’s a pitiful state of affairs we have here. Imagine, Mary Rose in the laird’s bed, and him taking care of her, of all things, and here he is an English vicar. Had he but told me, why, I would have said that he could not, it wasn’t proper. But he didn’t mutter a single word to me, so what was I to do? Nothing good can come of it, ye’ll see.”

  Her voice finally began to fade as she moved down the long hallway, but unfortunately it was still crystal clear to his ears. “Aye, come down and have a cup of tea wi’ me and Mr. Pouder. I know he’s awake, I heard him snort at Ardle, who is holding yer horse for ye.”

  Mary Rose, who was clutching the blankets to her chin, said, “You shouldn’t have asked the doctor to come. He will tell everyone in the area that I am here in your bed, with you standing far too close to the bed where I’m lying. Mrs. MacFardle is right. I shouldn’t be here.”

  Tysen just shrugged. “I would rather suffer gossip than have you die on me because of my ignorance.” Then he smiled. “Don’t worry, Mary Rose. I am so relieved that you’re going to be just fine, I believe I’ll give you a cup of Mrs. MacFardle’s cider.”

  When he returned with the cider not ten minutes later, having been snagged by Dr. Halsey for an inquisition on his opinion of the clearances, he saw that Mary Rose was asleep. He stood over her a moment. She did look a bit like a pirate, the black bruise circling her left eye like a pirate’s patch.

  He gently touched her forehead and found it cool. He imagined that he had no more than two hours at the outside before Sir Lyon would be back here, demanding to take her home.

  But it wasn’t Sir Lyon who arrived exactly one hour and forty minutes later. It was Erickson MacPhail.

  You are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie.

  —Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part I

  Tysen walked slowly into the drawing room and closed the door quietly behind him. MacPhail stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Tysen realized his own hands were fisted at his sides. Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced himself to ease. He was a vicar, and he believed firmly in God’s strength, in God’s compassion, but more than that, he was his father’s son and he was like his brothers. Neither Douglas nor Ryder would lose his head and erupt in senseless violence whenever it pleased him to do so. And neither would he.

  Erickson stepped toward him and said without preamble, “Dr. Halsey has told us that Mary Rose is here. He said he attended her. He said that she will be all right, that she is merely bruised a bit from getting knocked about in that damned stream. I was excessively worried about her. I am here to fetch her home, to Vallance Manor.”

  Tysen walked to one of the tatty old gold brocade set-tees and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He wished his Hessians were polished more brightly. Old Angus had last polished them in Edinburgh. He eyed Mary Rose’s nemesis for a moment, then said mildly, “Actually, you have saved me a good deal of trouble. I was on my way over to your home again to speak to you. About Mary Rose.”

  Erickson took a violent step forward. “Damn you, vicar, you will not put me off. Take me to her now, or vicar or no, I will beat you until you crawl to do my bidding.”

  Tysen arched an eyebrow, smiled pleasantly at Erickson, whose face was becoming alarmingly red. When he was older, Tysen imagined, his face would slowly become that unbecoming shade of red that results from too much choler. He said on a shrug, “I suppose you could try.”

  There was a marked sneer about Erickson’s mouth that Tysen thought was singularly unattractive. “You dare to bait me? To set yourself up against me? You, a man who isn’t really a man at all, but a gutless creature who exhorts real men from the pulpit? You threaten them with hellfire if they don’t swallow their righteous anger and choke on it? You order them to become as weak-willed and spineless as you are? You tell them they are cursed unless they grovel before you?”

  Tysen rose slowly to his feet. His heart had speeded up, but—strangely perhaps—he felt quite calm. All this litany of insults he had heard before, a number of times, beginning when he was at Oxford.

  It made little impact, really, for it was naught but ignorant words, cruel words, sparked by unreasoning anger. There was, he had learned, too much unreasoning anger in this world. He said, “Do you love Mary Rose Fordyce?”

  Erickson stopped dead in his tracks, a sleek dark brow up a good inch. “Good God, man, I want to marry her!”

  “I see. So to convince her of your sincere regard, of your lasting affection, you were going to rape her? To escape you, she had to jump into the stream?”

  “Damn you, there was never a question of rape. You’re a vicar. You don’t understand how females behave, what lengths they will go to in order to make a man grovel at their dainty feet. Mary Rose is very much a female. She is coy, she teases, she pretends to become hysterical, all to get her way. All her denials, her small dramatic gesture of jumping into that ridiculous stream, it was just a simple performance, a show of melodrama. She wants to marry me, to give her status, to give her a real name, for God’s sake. She’s through with her fun. She will marry me now. I will speak to her and you will see that she has quite changed her mind.”

  “All right, then,” Tysen said, rising. “I will take you to see her. However, I will remain to ensure that you do not try to coerce her or bully her. I would say, though, that her jump into that stream—although you prefer to believe it merely a girl’s teasing gesture—rather proves to me that she would do just about anything to escape you. No, you will not rant further. Be quiet and listen to me.

  “She has been quite ill. You will not try to threaten her in any way, is that perfectly clear to you?”

  Erickson stared at the far-too-handsome man, damn him, who was a bloody vicar, who was looking at him as if he was worth very little and full of naught save wind. He wanted to bash his face in, break that nose of his. Make him ugly. Yes, he wanted to beat him until he was so ugly Mary Rose wouldn’t want to ever look at him again.

  Was that why Mary Rose didn’t want him? She wanted the bloody vicar who was also Lord Barthwick? He said slowly, “Why did she come here, to Kildrummy Castle?”

  “To escape you yet again. Now, would you like to speak to her, to assure yourself that she indeed improves? I will give you five minutes, no more. She must rest. She is still very weak.”

  Mary Rose wasn’t alone. Meggie was curled next to her on the bed, one of her small hands on Mary Rose’s arm, both of them fast asleep. At the sound of her father’s low voice, Meggie jerked up and blinked. She pushed her hair out of her face.

  She shot a quick look at Mary Rose and whispered, “Papa, I wanted to guard Mary Rose, but I fell asleep. She is all right, isn’t she? Oh, my, isn’t that Mr. MacPhail with you? Why is he here?”

  “He wants to speak to Mary Rose,” Tysen said, his voice as emotionless as he could make it. He saw the change in his daughter’s posture, in the expression on her small face, and wanted to smile. She drew herself up and said, “Very well—if she awakens. I believe she is now stirring. He may speak to her, but I will remain. He will not distress her.”

  “Well, MacPhail?” Tysen asked, turning to face the man, who looked both furious and bemused.

  “For God’s sake, man, she is a child. Make her leave.”

  “Oh, no, she considers herself Mary Rose’s protector. Ah, yes, Mary Rose just opened her eyes. Remain where you are a moment and I will tell her that you are here.” He paused, adding, “Naturally I will reassure her that you can attempt nothing that she would dislike.”

  He heard Erickson MacPhail cursing under his breath behind him. Rather vivid and varied animal parts, but not as colorful as his brother Ryder’s Beloved Ones, who could spit out the most rank curses, even better than sailors raised in the king’s navy. He walked to the bed, smiled down at Mary Rose, and took her hand between his. “Do not be alarmed.
You have a visitor, but he will not upset you in any way. Both Meggie and I swear it to you. He simply wishes to assure himself that you are all right.”

  “I don’t want to see him. Please, Tysen, he will—”

  Tysen touched his fingertips to her lips. “Let him speak, Mary Rose, and then that will be the end to it.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “you’re perfectly right. I must speak to him and then it will be the end to it.” She drew a deep, steadying breath and said, “May I have some water first?”

  “You’ll get through this in fine style.” He lifted her head and put the water glass to her lips. He thought he heard MacPhail say something, but he ignored him. When she’d finished drinking, she sighed and sat up as Tysen fluffed a pillow behind her. Meggie moved even closer to her now, snuggling against her side.

  Mary Rose watched Erickson walk toward her, every step announcing his anger, his frustration, his absolute bafflement that a vicar was standing at his elbow and a ten-year-old girl was squeezed next to her on that huge bed. She wondered if he still saw her as the woman he fully intended to have. She realized that yes, he did. She wondered if more men were like him, believing that any woman they wished to have was theirs. She also knew that Meggie was giving him a look that clearly said she would leap on him if he tried anything. She felt immense gratitude for the little girl plastered to her side.

  Erickson stopped at her bedside and stared down at her, not saying a word for a very long time. Then, “You have a black eye.”

  “Yes,” Mary Rose said, and she was tempted to smile, but she didn’t.

  “You are feeling all right, Mary Rose?”

  He sounded like the man she’d known all her life, the man who had been her friend, so long ago, it seemed now. “Yes, just a bit sore. The fever is gone.”

  Then he became what she’d expected, even though he tried to keep his voice calm, cajoling, just slightly scolding, as if she were a child. “You should never have jumped into that stream. You were swept away from me before I could do anything. I was very worried about you. I searched and searched, but I couldn’t find you. I was very frightened for you, Mary Rose. When I rode back, Primrose was gone, so I knew you were safe. You should never have jumped into that water.”

  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?

  14

  MARY ROSE 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?”
r />   “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.”