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The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

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“Meggie always has money,” Leo said.

“She wins it off us,” Max said. “I wish she’d cheat, then we could complain to Papa about it.”

Leo said, “Just yesterday, Papa would have laughed if we’d said that. But not today. Not ever again.”

Mary Rose didn’t know what to say, and so she concentrated on helping Leo to rise. He was a bit shaky on his feet, but he was upright and walking, and then, finally, he smiled. “I’m all right, Mary Rose. Poor old Ricketts, when the fellow blew that silly horn, Ricketts must have thought it was Saint Peter calling him to the horse pearly gates in heaven.”

Meggie laughed. “Oh, Leo, if you ever let anything happen to you, I will kill you.”

Fifteen minutes later, they sat on a long, scarred old oak bench in the taproom at the Golden Goose Inn in the middle of Grapple Thorpe village, right across from a lovely green that boasted a pond and at least half a dozen ducks.

And that was where Mr. Dimplegate found them, that lovely young woman, all windblown, shepherding three children. He was the town bully, drank too much, and believed himself to be God’s special treasure to womankind. When he spotted Mary Rose, he knew this day would work out to be just dandy for him. All jocular, grinning widely, just a dash of ale froth on his upper lip, he walked to their table, hands on hips, and leaned down close to Mary Rose. “Eh, ye a governess, little gal? Ye sure are purty as a picture, ye are.”

Mary Rose looked up at the man, who was surely large, looked strong, and was young enough and drunk enough to be a problem. He was also standing much too close.

“No, I am their mother, sir,” she said and turned away from him. When he didn’t move, she said over her shoulder, “Good day, sir.”

It degenerated from there, beginning with a roar from Mr. Dimplegate. “Ye ain’t bloody well their mother, girl! What are ye, then? A maid seeing them back to their home?”

“Go away,” Mary Rose said.

“No female turns her back on Dimplegate,” he yelled and grabbed her arm. “Me, I’m a

grand lover, a man o’ yer dreams.”

“You, sir, are more in the nature of a nightmare.” Mary Rose threw her chocolate in his face. Too bad it had cooled a bit.

Max yelled, “Get away from our mother, sir!”

“Shut yer trap, little sprat!”

Leo jumped up on the end of the table, turned a backward flip and landed on his feet, right in Mr. Dimplegate’s face. Leo shoved him hard, but Mr. Dimplegate had grabbed Mary Rose’s other arm. As he fell over backward, he jerked her up from the bench. They went down together.

The children were on their feet, yelling at him, hitting him. The owner was wringing his hands, having had too many run-ins with Dimplegate to come close. “See yerself home now, Danny,” he yelled. “Hey, you let the lady alone. She didn’t do nothin’. Let her go!” But his voice was swallowed by all the racket.

Mary Rose scrambled off Mr. Dimplegate and backed away from him. But he was fast. He grabbed her hand and held on to her like a lifeline as he came to his feet. “I’m going to wallop that little codshead,” he said, then yelled over his shoulder, “Ye get yer butt here, boy!”

It was Meggie who grabbed up a thick log from beside the fireplace, climbed up on a chair, and bashed Mr. Dimplegate on his large head. He whirled around, blinked up at the little girl who was now his height standing on that chair, and yelled not six inches from her face, “Why’d ye do that fer, little gal? This one, she ain’t nothing, jest a maid or a governess, or a nanny, and she needs a man.”

He poked his finger against his chest. “Ye see? All she needs is me. Now I’ll jest take her out o’ here for a bit and make her all ’appy.”

“She’s my mother, you idiot!” And Meggie hit him again with that log, really hard.

Mr. Dimplegate dropped Mary Rose’s hand, swayed where he stood, and collapsed finally against Meggie’s chair. The chair rocked a bit, then went flying. Mary Rose managed to break Meggie’s fall, which could have been nasty, since she would have landed too close to the stone fireplace. It was Mary Rose who landed against the fireplace, carrying Meggie’s weight, slamming against the hearthstone.

Leo was on his knees beside them in an instant. Meggie was blinking hard, getting herself together. “Mary Rose, are you all right? Oh, God, Max, do something!”

Leo was patting her face, even as Meggie was on her knees now beside her, frantically rubbing her hand.

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” said Mr. Randall, the owner, still wringing his hands.

“Sir,” Max said, “we need you to get us a wagon. We must get our mother home. We live in Glenclose-on-Rowan. Our father is Reverend Sherbrooke, the vicar there. Please, sir, hurry!”

“Yes, yes,” Meggie said, crying now, “Papa will know what to do.”

29

CLOSE TO AN hour later, an ancient wagon belonging to Farmer Biggs, quickly emptied of moldering hay, and pulled by a gray gelding that was even older than Ricketts, lumbered to a stop in front of the vicarage gate.



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