The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“No, certainly not. He looked for her quite thoroughly, then rode back to where she had jumped in. Her mare was gone. Obviously she’d come back and taken her mare. Besides, even overflowing like that stream is now, it isn’t deep enough to drown a goat, much less a person. But, curse her eyes, she didn’t come home.” Sir Lyon cursed long and low under his breath. Then, oddly, he looked as if he would burst into tears. “I just don’t know where she has gone. Are you certain she isn’t here? Perhaps hiding from you?”

“She isn’t here,” Tysen said, and then, of course, he knew that she was. He waited until Sir Lyon, his ire bursting loose, had ranted even more, until his face was so red that Tysen feared the man would collapse with apoplexy in his entrance hall. Pouder never moved in his chair, never said another word, just kept his eyes on Sir Lyon, no expression at all on his seamed face.

“You will keep me informed,” Tysen said as he nearly shoved Sir Lyon out the front door.

“You will tell me if she comes here?”

“Very probably not,” Tysen said. He didn’t say anything more, just waited at the top of the steps until Sir Lyon had mounted his horse and was gone out the front gates. He turned slowly and walked back to the dining room, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, Pouder. Sir Lyon will calm down.”

“He be a mangy one, m’lord,” Pouder said, and still didn’t move. “He may be old now, but ye have a care wi’ him. Always a sneak he was, always.”

Meggie wasn’t in the dining room, not that he expected her to be.

What in the name of his beneficent God was he going to do? He took the stairs two at a time, then three at a time. She’d jumped into the bloody stream to escape MacPhail. He pictured that swirling, maddened water in his mind closing over Mary Rose’s head, and his blood turned cold. At least, thank God, he knew she hadn’t drowned. He was running by the time he reached Meggie’s bedchamber. He didn’t knock, just turned the handle. The door was locked.

He was a calm man, a man of judgment, of unclouded reason. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Meggie, open this bloody door now!”

To his utter surprise, in but a moment the bedchamber door opened. His daughter stood there, staring up at him, calm as a nun. “Yes, Papa?”

“Where is she, Meggie?”

But he didn’t wait for her to say anything at all, he picked her up beneath her arms and set her aside. He strode into the bedchamber and came to a dead stop. The room was empty. Mary Rose obviously wasn’t here. The bed was made, the counterpane not the least bit mussed. There was no sign of anyone at all.

He turned slowly. “Where is she?”

12

“WHO ARE YOU talking about, Papa?”

“I’m talking about Mary Rose, the person you were delivering tea to just a couple of hours ago. Listen to me. She’s in trouble, Meggie, very deep trouble. Tell me where she is.”

But Meggie didn’t say a word. She swallowed convulsively, then she walked to her father and clasped her arms around his waist and buried her face against him. “Papa, I’m so scared. I was going to come to you. She’s very sick, shaking all over, and Papa, she’s all cut up, and bruised everywhere, and it looks bad. But she’s got a fever and I’m so scared. I don’t want her to die, please don’t let her die.”

Tysen put his arms around his daughter, kissed the top of her head. “It will be all right, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to Mary Rose. You can trust me on this. Where did you take her?”

“I helped her into your bedchamber, Papa. I heard Sir Lyon carrying on and yelling and so I ran back up here and got her out. I knew Pouder wasn’t in your bedchamber since he was seated next to the front door. I guess he finished rearranging all your cravats.”

“Evidently so. He is still at the front door, snoozing again.” He grasped her shoulders in his large hands. “You took her to my bedchamber? Why there, Meggie?”

“I knew Sir Lyon wouldn’t demand to look in the laird’s bedchamber, Papa.”

Tysen felt her shudder and just pulled her more tightly against him until he felt her ease again.

“I wouldn’t have allowed Sir Lyon to look anywhere, Meggie, but it’s all right. Now, listen to me, here’s what I want you to do.”

Two minutes later, Tysen quietly opened the door to his bedchamber. The room was warm, a cozy fire built up. Meggie’s doing, he supposed. The child had worked quickly. He walked quietly to the bed and looked down at Mary Rose. Her hair was fanned out about her head, still damp, tangled, looking red as blood against the white pillow. Her face was flushed. Meggie was right, she had the fever. He closed his eyes a moment, picturing her thrashing around in the rushing water of that nearly overflowing stream. And the rocks, he thought, so many of them, jagged, sharp, no way to avoid them. There was no hope for it. He sat down beside her and lightly slapped her bruised cheeks. Her skin was hot to the touch. She didn’t move. He slapped her again. “Mary Rose,” he said, “come, now, wake up. Talk to me. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Come on, Mary Rose, open your eyes.”

She moaned then, a soft animal sound deep in her throat. He pulled the covers down to her waist, and smiled. She was wearing one of his nightshirts. He supposed that Meggie had put it on her. He laid his palm against her heart. It was beating slowly, but it was steady, thank the good Lord. He leaned close to her and listened. Yes, steady and slow.

He straightened, saw her hands then, bru

ised and scraped, some of the cuts fairly deep, several of them oozing just a bit of blood. Well, there was no hope for it, there was no one else to help her. He pulled the nightshirt down to her waist, and sucked in his breath. She was covered with bruises, bright green, yellow, a bit of purple, streaking her ribs, her belly, her shoulders. And the cuts, myriad small slashes, none of them very deep, but ugly, all of them. Tysen was a man of God, but as he looked at her, pictured in his mind that stream and her struggling in it, he knew deep, corroding fear, actually both fear and anger at the damned man who’d driven her to jump in the water.

What to do? Mrs. MacFardle had some medicinal cream he could apply after Mary Rose was bathed. No, he wouldn’t say anything about her to Mrs. MacFardle. He didn’t want her to know that Mary Rose was here. Further, she obviously didn’t approve of a bastard being treated like a person of value. He cupped his hand against her breast again, pressing more firmly to feel the beat of her heart. And he couldn’t help himself. He looked at her in those few moments as a man looks at a woman, and he saw that she was nicely made, so very white, her flesh smooth and her breasts wonderfully shaped. His fingers flexed against her flesh, then he grunted at himself and quickly jerked his hand away. He closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t think like this, couldn’t allow himself to see her as a man who wanted her. She was very ill. He heard a soft knock on the door. He pulled the nightshirt back up and covered her again.

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.”