The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“Papa, we didn’t let him do anything at all,” Max said. “Here comes Leo. Just ask him. There is nothing to worry about.”

“Yes,” Mary Rose agreed as she picked up an apple. “Just a small drama. Now, Max, I do believe you have a nasty scratch on your foot. When we return home, you must let me put some ointment on it.”

“Num mihi dolebit hoc?” Max wanted to know.

“What does that mean?” Meggie asked.

“That means ‘It won’t hurt a bit,’” Mary Rose said. “Unless, of course, I want it to.”

“Abeo,” Max said, and ran toward the frothing waves.

“Abeo? What does that mean?” Meggie said, shading her eyes from the sunlight to watch Leo, who was now walking on his hands down the beach.

“He said he was leaving,” Mary Rose said, and laughed.

“Have I told you recently that I love to kiss your belly?”

Her heart was pounding, slow, powerful strokes, waiting, waiting, and she felt his warm breath on her skin, felt her muscles tighten, felt the need for him building, always building, and flowering, opening her, and she managed to say, “No, but I rather believed that you liked it. You seem to spend a goodly amount of time on my belly.”

“And elsewhere,” he said, lifting his head to smile at her. He nearly crossed his eyes when there was a sharp knock on their bedchamber door.

“Oh, dear,” said Mary Rose, her eyes nearly crossed in disappointment.

It was Leo, and he had a confession to make: he and Max had made a new friend, who, it turned out, was a wily gambler, and wicked, and both of them had lost their shoes in a wager.

Tysen didn’t want to know what the wager had been.

Their stay extended for another five days, until finally rain came crashing down upon Brighton, dark clouds and wind whipped up the water, and the temperature plummeted.

Then, because Samuel Pritchert had already prepared the congregation for at least another month of sermons to be written and delivered by himself, Tysen slapped him on the back and told him he was taking his family to visit their cousins.

Samuel Pritchert inquired in his emotionless voice, “How long do you plan to stay away this time, Reverend Sherbrooke?”

“Ah, that remains to be seen, Samuel. I can trust you to keep the spiritual ship on course.” And he laughed and rubbed his hands together. Samuel Pritchert looked over at Mary Rose and the boys, all of them looking tanned and bright-eyed from their extended visit to Brighton, and wondered what sort of a place this once very serious and upright vicarage would become.

They remained two weeks at Northcliffe Hall, and late one afternoon Mary Rose found herself walking in the Northcliffe gardens with the countess. “These are very private gardens,” Alex Sherbrooke said, then sighed. “I suppose, however, that the boys discovered them a very long time ago. The boys can always sniff out anything that perhaps even smacks of a bit of wickedness.” And so it was that Mary Rose saw the endless number of Greek statues, each copulating in one way or another, some so delightfully shocking that she blinked and nearly swallowed her tongue. “Goodness,” she said for the fifth time when she paused in front of a large stone man whose face was buried between the legs of a woman who looked to be in ecstasy. “That is Sophie’s favorite, I believe,” Alex said. “You know, I don’t believe Tysen ever spent any time at all in these gardens. Indeed, I know that he found them dreadful and altogether godless. Do you think he might enjoy them now?”

And Mary Rose, who was still staring, her eyes glazed as she thought of Tysen and her doing the very same things, said on a croak, “I plan to show him as soon as he returns with his lordship.”

“His name is Douglas. He will feel offended if you continue to be so formal.”

“But he looks like he should be treated with great formality,” Mary Rose said.

“Perhaps, sometimes,” Alex said.

“Your sons are the most beautiful boys I believe I have ever seen. Tysen had told me they were identical twins. But to me they aren’t at all alike.”

Alex Sherbrooke sighed. “Most people can’t tell them apart, and that leads to a lot of

mischief. As to their confounded beauty, it’s unfortunately true. It quite drives poor Douglas mad. You see, the boys are the image of their aunt Melissande, and she is the most beautiful woman in all of England. Douglas despairs for womankind when the boys reach manhood. On the other hand, Melissande’s son is the very image of Douglas. Perhaps you will meet my sister and her husband soon. Now, come along, Mary Rose, there are more very interesting, er, presentations for you to investigate.”

And Mary Rose was nothing loath.

That evening, just before dusk, Mary Rose led Tysen to her favorite statues, deep in the private gardens, and they didn’t emerge until a light rain began to fall at nearly eight o’clock.

Douglas Sherbrooke just shook his head, amazed, heart-ened, and very, very pleased.

The Sherbrookes then traveled to the Cotswolds and spent three weeks there. They took both James and Jason with them, who had pleaded on their knees to their earl father and their countess mother to let them see Uncle Ryder and all his children. All in all, it was an excellent performance, and it gained them what they wanted.