The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“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 that 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?”

Mary Rose consulted her body. “I feel battered.”

“She should,” Tysen said, stepping closer, taking her left hand between his two large ones. “As I told you, sir, she fell into that fast-moving stream and got knocked about until she managed to pull herself out with a tree branch.”

“You always were a strong girl. You’ve a black eye, Mary Rose. It makes you look raffish, like a little red-headed pirate. Now, his lordship can go stand by the door. I must check you over, see that nothing is broken or needs my bonnie stitches.”

Tysen said, “I have examined her, Dr. Halsey, and there are no nasty deep cuts that would need stitching. No broken bones, either. I have two boys of my own, and I know broken bones when I see and feel them. But she could be hurt internally.”

Dr. Halsey gave Tysen a rheumy look, then straightened. “Aye, but there are other things that can be wrong. Now, Mary Rose, the fever is down and your lungs sound clear. You have no pain in your belly or your chest? Here, let me know if I cause you any pain.”

He prodded her more gently than not, beginning with her head and moving slowly and methodically down to her toes. Then he smiled at her, and back at Tysen. “You will survive, lass. Now, you’ll drink my tonic and I will see you again if you worsen.”

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.