The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“I insist that you satisfy me, my lord,” said Mrs. Griffin.

Tysen said, “I doubt that I am capable of accomplishing that, ma’am. Come along now. Mary Rose isn’t well.”

“She doesn’t deserve to be,” Mr. Griffin said, extending his neck so that he could see around his wife’s shoulder. “No one has anything to do with her.”

I am not a violent man, Tysen said over and over to himself. Even if I were, I would not allow myself to strike an older man who has probably drunk more than his share of smuggled French brandy.

“You go ahead,” Sinjun said, waving them all away. “I wish to speak to Mary Rose. Colin, I wish you to remain and listen so that you may tell me things later that I am perhaps missing in all this.”

Tysen didn’t want to leave his sister with Mary Rose. He wasn’t certain why, but he just knew, all the way to the scar over his left rib that occasionally ached when the weather turned unexpectedly, that it wasn’t a good idea. Colin took his arm. “You have no choice,” Colin said, sympathy and humor in his voice. “Sinjun must needs meddle, you know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Tysen said. “The first time she meddled, I believe, she was four years old and Douglas ended up under a rosebush, hiding from our father.”

“Go, my dear,” Sinjun said, giving him that special smile of hers that he had never trusted her entire life. “I will take care of things here. Trust me. Ah, I believe I was five that time.”

Tysen sighed, smiled at Mary Rose. “I will see you soon. Try to rest. Try to ignore my sister.” He then told Meggie not to flatten Mary Rose with too much protection and followed the Griffins out of the bedchamber.

“Now,” Sinjun said, focusing all of her formidable intelligence on Mary Rose, “let me tell you all about Pearlin’ Jane and what she said to me.”

“Who is Pearlin’ Jane?” Mary Rose asked.

Meggie said, “She is Aunt Sinjun’s ghost. She lives at Vere Castle. She’s been dead for a very long time, but she takes care of Aunt Sinjun.”

“That’s right,” Sinjun said, and sat down in the big wing chair. “She came to me last night and told me that Tysen was in trouble, here at Kildrummy.”

“He is,” Mary Rose said. A tear rolled down her cheek. “I don’t think I believe in ghosts either. I’ve never seen one, even here, and there are supposed to be at least six ghosts hanging about Kildrummy.” She tried to smile through her tears, but it didn’t help.

Meggie squeezed Mary Rose’s hand as she came up on her knees beside her. “Oh, no, don’t cry, please, Mary Rose. Papa will take care of everything. And Aunt Sinjun is very good at meddling, even Papa agrees that she is. Uncle Colin loves her so very much I even heard him say once that he would lock her in his bedchamber and visit her at his whim. That tells you something, doesn’t it?”

There came a snort from Colin, who was seated in the wing chair, reading a newspaper.

“I would like to know what is going on here,” Sinjun said.

“It’s not his responsibility,” Mary Rose said and sniffed. She hated herself. Tears were ridiculous. They did nothing but make her skin itch. “Pearlin’ Jane could have been right, ma’am, but she’s not any longer. I’m leaving. I will not allow Tysen to face any consequences that would harm him. Mrs. Griffin is right. I do not belong here. No one wants me here. I won’t allow Tysen to be any more noble than he already has been. Would you please lend me a gown?”

Now this was interesting, Sinjun thought. This lovely ill young woman was in Tysen’s bed, and she was worried about him and his blasted reputation but not at all about herself? Did she think so little of herself? If she did, it was understandable, given the horrid things that had spewed from that wretched Mrs. Griffin’s mouth. Lovely hair, yes, Mary Rose had lovely hair, and a lovely face. But of course such things wouldn’t weigh heavily with Tysen. She had never seen him like this. Melinda Beatrice had died six years ago. It was a very long time for a man to be alone. Of course, there were Max and Leo and Meggie, but children weren’t the same thing as having someone to laugh with and talk to, to fight with, to make love to. Sinjun had worried about him for a very long time now. She looked at Mary Rose, at that pale face, the scratches, the horrible bruise around her left eye, and said calmly, “A gown? Certainly. I will do anything you need, Mary Rose.” She smiled. “Do call me Sinjun.”

“But—”

r /> “You’d best give in to Aunt Sinjun,” Meggie said comfortably. “She and Pearlin’ Jane won’t let anything bad happen.”

Colin said, lowering his newspaper so he could see over it, “Yes, Mary Rose, you may trust my wife. I trust her with my life, and she has protected me very well indeed. Oh, yes, do call me Colin.”

There was no way to rid himself of the Griffins aside from tossing them out into the courtyard on their respective ears. Not a bad thought. After two cups of strong tea, Tysen inquired yet again, “Why have you returned?”

“You see how he tries to be as imperious as Old Tyronne,” Mrs. Griffin said to her husband. Then she turned her cannon on him with a goodly amount of enthusiasm. “It will not work, boy. No matter what you want, you will not marry Mary Rose Fordyce. I will not allow you to marry her. She is a bastard. If she is received anywhere, it is only because of her very respectable aunt and uncle. No, her sort will not be the mistress of Kildrummy.”

Tysen lost every word in his brain at that moment. Wed with Mary Rose? Such a thought had never—no, he was merely protecting her, as a man of God, it was his duty to see that Erickson didn’t rape her, that nothing or no one forced her to do anything against her will, that—he closed his eyes and managed to dredge up words for a simple prayer. They were very straightforward, those words that made up his prayer: Lord, if I strangle this woman, will you find forgiveness for me?

“My dearest wife is concerned about your reputation, my lord,” said Mr. Griffin. “She is worried that you not besmirch the family name.”

Mrs. Griffin saluted her husband over her teacup. It was her fourth cup, and Tysen found, despite being wordless and dazed, that one had to be impressed at her capacity. She then bent her look on Tysen, her black mustache quivering. “Even now, my lord, you may be certain that everyone north of Edinburgh is talking of how the new Lord Barthwick—namely, you—has an unmarried bastard female in his bed. According to Mrs. MacFardle, you stayed with her all night and took care of her intimately, and she is even wearing your nightshirt, and isn’t that—one hesitates to say it, but I must—yes, it is utterly depraved, even for an Englishman.”

Tysen, normally fluent in his speech, smoothly cultured, and quite self-possessed, lost not only his ability to reason and speak again, but also nearly every semblance of life. He stood rigid as a board, frozen in place, staring not at Mrs. Griffin but into himself, deep inside himself where one seldom has reason to look because there are many times shadows there, and doors that are better left closed. But he looked, regardless. What he saw, what he finally fully realized, what was staring him right in the face, was the realization that the miserable old hag was right.

Oh, dear God, he had taken intimate care of her, as if she were his child or his wife. He hadn’t hesitated. By all that was holy, what had he done to Mary Rose? And all for the best motives, all to protect her, to save her, to be the buffer between her and MacPhail. She was wearing his nightshirt, he had taken care of her, looked at her, fully appreciated every white inch of her, which he shouldn’t have done, but since he was a man, there’d been no hope for it.

“Well, my lord? Have you nothing to say for yourself? Did you bed Mary Rose? One doubts she was a virgin because a bastard is seldom a virgin, no matter her age. Will she, a bastard, deliver another bastard into this world? Her dear aunt and uncle, so well respected in these parts, in all their goodness, allowed her to be raised with their own sweet Donnatella. Mary Rose should never have remained in a respectable home. Just look what has happened. She is upstairs lying in your bed. And you, my lord, you allowed it. You freely partook in it. And still you let her stay.”