The Scottish Bride (16 page)

Her mouth was shiny from his kissing her. He watched her touch her fingertips to her mouth, as if she couldn't quite comprehend what had happened, either. Then she blinked and stared up at him, at his mouth, and that ache was taking him over, making him shake and want to cry with the urgent wanting he felt. She said, with great inadequacy, “That was quite nice, Tysen.”

Nice?
She thought it only
nice
? He was quaking like a tree ready to be toppled over. That cataclysm that had nearly sent him to his knees was only nice? As in a summer day was nice? He simply couldn't help himself. He was pulling her against him again, hard against him, and his arms were around her this time and he was kissing her wildly, his fingers kneading and caressing her back. He at least had the sense not to let his hands go below her waist. She wasn't yet his wife. But he couldn't stop kissing her, that wonderful mouth of hers, her jaw, the tip of
her nose, her eyelids. There was so much, so very much to see, to feel, to taste.

“Marry me,” he said into her mouth. “I cannot bear this, Mary Rose. You must give me my way in this. Everything will be all right. You will speak Latin better than Max, and he will glow with pride. Ellis and Monroe will curl around your ankles and sleep against the backs of your knees. We will all deal well together. Marry me.”

Actually, he was beginning to believe that he would simply fall down and die if she didn't marry him, if she didn't allow herself to become his wife and belong to him. He couldn't stop. He kept kissing her until she made a small noise into his mouth. That nearly whispered little sound shot mindless lust throughout his body. He realized in one last flicker of reason that it was simply all over for him.

He nearly leapt away from her, breathing so hard, so fast, that for a moment he couldn't get hold of his body. When he did, he smiled at her shocked white face. Dear God, he had frightened her. He heard himself say with absolute honesty, “I want to do that to you until we are both very old and doddering.”

“I—” She gulped. “Yes,” she said then. “I would like that very much. I have never done that before. I am twenty-four years old, on the shelf, everyone says. I have never done that, Tysen, never known that one person could make another feel all these strange things. They're frantic sorts of things. I want them desperately. I don't want them to stop. I don't understand.”

“Feel what things exactly?” He couldn't believe he'd asked her that, but he didn't take it back. He wanted to know.

He watched her hand fall to her belly and lightly press inward. He watched her fingers press downward a bit more. She didn't realize what she was doing, but he did,
and he nearly collapsed on the spot. It was all he could do to prevent himself from leaping on her again and throwing her on her back on that soft, giving bed.

“It is like I am somehow hungry, my stomach is hot, and I feel like I want to touch you everywhere.”

He nearly swallowed his tongue. Control, he thought. It had been so many years since he'd felt these ungovernable, roiling feelings that made him want to fly and howl and shout for joy. Go slowly, he thought, go gently. “Mary Rose, if you were my wife, then you could touch me everywhere, just as I could you. There is incredible pleasure when a husband and wife come together, so I have heard. I believe you and I would know that pleasure.”

“I was afraid when Erickson tried to hold me like you did. No, I was beyond afraid, I was terrified. Isn't it peculiar that it is so very different with you? That it is all I can think about? Er, Tysen, could you please kiss me again? Perhaps let me press myself against you, all of you? You are very different from me.”

As God is my witness, I will not go beyond the point where I cannot stop myself
. “I will kiss you and hold you if you promise to be my wife, Mary Rose. I am a vicar. I am not allowed to enjoy myself in such a way without God blessing our union. Surely you understand how I am constrained. I have done things in my life that now, knowing how life is, I would do differently, but despoiling you, giving in to a man's lust—that I will not do.”

“Yes,” she said, so disappointed she wanted to cry, and yet at the same time she admired him tremendously, “I understand. I'm not at all good, Tysen. For many years I was jealous of Donnatella. I am impatient with my mother. I would have shot Erickson if I'd had a gun and knew how to load it and fire it.”

“Are you making some sort of point here?”

“I don't know if I would make a very good vicar's wife.”

“Nonsense. You are human, Mary Rose, delightfully so. Jealousy, anger, frustration—those are not bad things, they're just things that all of us feel because they're there to be felt. They cannot be ignored, at least not all of the time.

“You wish to know what I see when I look at you? I see a beautiful young woman. I am not blind. Looking at you delights me—your hair, your mysterious eyes, that wicked little smile of yours, and your nose, Mary Rose. It's straight and narrow and really quite a nice nose.”

She was trying very hard not to laugh, not to fall to his knees, and weep her eyes out. “Tysen, stop it, just stop it.”

“Oh, no. I also see great kindness in you, Mary Rose. I see no petty meanness in you, just caring. You have been alone too much. You have not been cherished. I also think that you feel things very deeply. Perhaps, someday, you will feel deeply about me.” Oddly enough, at that very moment, he knew it was right to make this girl, a girl he hadn't even known existed a simple week ago, his wife. It was the thing to do. It was what he wanted to do. Then he nearly laughed at himself, at all his mental machinations, all his man's justifications. He also wanted to make love to her until both of them collapsed. He remembered vaguely the awesome desire he had felt for Melinda Beatrice when he'd been all of twenty years old and she was his goddess. He'd prayed for valiant deeds to perform to prove his devotion to her, but there hadn't been any.

The fact of the matter was, however, that his union with Melinda Beatrice was a very long time ago and they had both been so very young. He was a man now. He had tried his best then, but he'd been so ill-prepared. There'd simply been so much he had never experienced, had not
known how to deal with—from his wife to all the people in his congregation. And then he'd been a father and Melinda Beatrice had died.

But things were different now. He was different in many very important ways. His children had changed him, made his life richer, given him more compassion, more patience. The many men and women in his congregation had changed him as well. He had tried to be a good man, a man to minister to them as he should.

But never before in his life had he comprehended the simple joy another human being could bring him, the endless warmth, the caring, the immense joy of the world. And the excitement of just looking at her, a smile on his mouth without his even realizing it. Now she had come into his life—so completely unexpected. She fascinated him even as she brought out every protective instinct he had buried deep inside. This quite pretty girl, who wasn't a girl anymore but a woman of twenty-four years, was now standing in his nightshirt not two feet away from him, and this was the only woman he wished to have by his side. Forever.

Dear Lord, give me the words to convince her that this is a very good idea.

 
 
 
 

Vallance Manor

 

“
S
HE WON
'
T MARRY
me.”

Sir Lyon was disgusted with the young man who was sitting in front of him, his hands clasped between his knees, looking bewildered and defeated. He'd had such faith in him, not only in his good looks but in his ruthlessness. He'd believed him utterly dedicated to this task, but he'd failed.

Sir Lyon said, “Stand up and pull your shoulders back, damn you. You have hardly tried. Good God, man, get her away from that cursed vicar, and it will be done.”

Erickson raised his head. “He won't even allow me to be alone with her. Neither will his daughter. She was practically crouched over Mary Rose to protect her from me. What am I supposed to do? Pound a man of God into the bloody ground? Lock the little girl into a closet?”

“No, of course not. If you did that, you'd be hung up by your heels.” Sir Lyon drank down a snifter of his fine French brandy. He rubbed his chin. He felt a clump of
hair that his valet, Mortimer, blast the fellow, had missed when shaving him that morning. Sir Lyon said slowly, rubbing his palms over the brandy snifter, “There has to be a way to get to her, to spirit her away from Kildrummy Castle. Then the vicar would be out of it. What could he do? Nothing at all. Damnation, boy, I can't believe she actually jumped into the stream. I always believed Mary Rose an obedient, diffident little thing.”

“She's changed, sir,” Erickson said, and for a moment, he was puzzled by it. But it was true. Rather than freezing like a doe in a hunter's sights, just days before, she'd run away from him into the pine forest near Kildrummy. He said slowly, “I can remember her as a little girl. She was quiet, obedient, just as you said. I remember that she was always standing on the outside of things, watching, listening. Maybe she's changed slowly, small things that I just haven't noticed. But she's managed to keep herself away from me for a very long time now. I have tried every tactic, but nothing has worked.

“As I told you, she escaped me last week. She actually managed to run away from me. And she escaped me again yesterday. She moved very fast. I was reaching for her, and then she was in the water, being swept downstream. She's a strong girl. She pulled herself out, since there was no one else about to do it.”

Sir Lyon wasn't much impressed. “She's a female. Find a way to get her. Hold her down so she can't run away.”

Erickson looked toward the fireplace, its grate empty now, and the painting of Sir Lyon's great-grandfather, William Thatcher Vallance, hanging above it. He'd been a terrifying old man who had left more bastards in the area than anyone before or since. He said, “When Ian and I were boys, we were always searching every nook and cranny of Kildrummy, trying to find secret passages. We didn't find any, didn't see a single ghost. We just got
tangled up in a lot of spiderwebs and our boots run over by a battalion of rats. But we did find a very private way into the castle, through a very narrow ivy-covered door that gives onto a private garden just outside the library. The Kildrummy steward, Miles MacNeily, spends a good of time in there, but he is soon to leave, I hear.”

“Yes, he came into an inheritance,” Sir Lyon said. “A good-sized one, I hear. Miles wouldn't care what you did with Mary Rose, in any case.”

“The odd thing is that I believe he would. I remember he was always asking about her, always seemed to enjoy seeing her. I also remember that he was always very nice to her when she was younger, gave her treats, that sort of thing.” Erickson rose and began pacing back and forth in front of Sir Lyon. He looks heroic, Sir Lyon thought, a very fine-looking young man with clear eyes and a noble brow, possibly even more handsome than poor Ian, who shouldn't have died stumbling drunk over a cliff. He still didn't understand how it could have happened. But Ian was long gone now, and how it had happened simply didn't matter anymore.

What mattered was right here, staring him in the face. Erickson MacPhail, the man who was willing to buy his niece and overlook her unfortunate parentage. And his dearest Donnatella would benefit once she got over her snit. He would take her to Edinburgh, introduce her to every suitable gentleman between the ages of twenty and eighty. She would be fawned over, poetry written to her lovely eyebrows; she would be feted, spoiled rotten. That would make her happy, perhaps even content, once away from her cousin, who had somehow managed to steal Ian away from her. No one could credit it, but it had happened. Sir Lyon had marveled at it. He doubted now that anyone remembered Ian had wanted Mary Rose. No, most folk would think of Mary Rose, see her next to her cousin,
and it would be Donnatella who'd lost her betrothed in that dreadful accident. And Donnatella, bless her lovely self, never corrected anyone who showered condolences upon her beautiful head for her Ian's death. And Donnatella, who surely couldn't have been involved in Ian's death.

Sir Lyon said now, “Whatever, Miles MacNeily isn't important. I suppose you could try your plan. As you know, however, the Griffins have returned and also Lord and Lady Ashburnham, Lord Barthwick's sister and brother-in-law, have come to visit. What with the servants also hanging about, there are a lot of folk for you to avoid. Do you know how you're going to get her out of there?”

“Not as yet, but I shall think of something. Time grows short.”

“Aye, it does,” said Sir Lyon. “However, I myself have a few other strategies to try before you attempt it.”

He didn't see Donnatella standing quietly behind the drawing room door.

 

Kildrummy Castle

 

Mary Rose's voice was as thin as the stem of the yellow rose that sat in a vase atop the mantel when she said, “Do you really think I am kind?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Kind, did you say?”

“Yes, you are the one who said I am kind. I want to know if you really believe it.”

A touch of acrimony, just excellent, and yes, he'd also heard just a tiny thread of hope there as well.

He laughed, he couldn't help himself. He grabbed her and hugged her tightly. Then he closed his hands around her waist and lifted her above his head. Her hair swirled
about her head, falling in a rich red curtain of curls about his face. He breathed in the sweet scent of her, a woman's unique scent. It had been so very long. He hadn't forgotten, but since he couldn't act on such thoughts, he'd shoved them way back to the recesses of his brain and avoided ever going there in his thinking.

Tysen looked up at her, this girl with her wonderful scent, hair so rich and deeply red he wanted to bury his face in it, but now he wasn't smiling. He looked more serious than a vicar—namely, a man like himself—in a roomful of pickpockets. “Enough is enough, Mary Rose. I will hold you off the ground until you say yes to me.”

Her hands were on his shoulders, her fingers kneading him. “You will truly ask the Harker brothers to give me a racing kitten?”

“I promise. However, they must deem you worthy and responsible. A racing cat requires great commitment, I've heard Rohan Carrington say. That means that you must begin to have a better opinion of yourself. If you do not believe yourself worthy, then why should they? Now, why would you ever doubt that you are kind?”

“You are the first person in my life who has ever said that. Why should I attribute something to myself when no one else has?”

“Because I'm telling you to, and since I will be your husband, since I haven't told an outright lie since I turned eighteen years old, you must trust what I say.”

“What do you mean, you've told no outright lie?”

“One must shade the truth a bit on occasion, to avoid wounded feelings. I learned to do that very quickly. That, or one simply keeps quiet. Now, to prove my worthiness to you, if the Harker brothers decide you would make a good mistress, I swear that if the racing kitten upsets Ellis and Monroe, I will not complain. I will not force it to live in the stables.”

He would swear that at that precise moment, he saw a gleam of wickedness in her eyes, a wickedness to match Sinjun in her finest moments. She said, all demure as a nun, “If I say yes, Tysen, will you kiss me again?”

Dear Lord
, he thought, and found that all he could do was nod, mute as the village idiot.

“Wait. What if after we are married you discover that you do not like me overmuch?”

“I even like your toes, and that includes the crooked one you must have broken when you were younger.”

Any wickedness was long gone. She looked utterly appalled. Her fingernails dug into his shirt. “You looked at my toes? I mean, why would you look at my toes? No one I know looks at toes. Oh, my goodness, when?”

He kept his voice very matter-of-fact. “I had to wipe you down when you had the fever. No, don't start twitching. No maidenly yells. There was no one else to do it, Mary Rose. You have not even heard me complain about that, have you? I have not upbraided you for keeping me awake nearly all that night. So you see, I am a good-natured fellow.”

“You saw my broken toe,” she said again, and he would swear that in that instant he'd never seen a more mortified face in his life. “You saw even more than my broken toe.”

“Well, yes.”

“It's very embarrassing, Tysen. Only I have ever seen myself without my clothes on. Oh, goodness, you're a man.”

“Well, yes, I am. Mary Rose, if you do not tell me yes very soon now, I just might drop you. Though you are not large, you are beginning to push my limits here.”

Still, her face was full of questions. To his utter relief, she slowly nodded, to herself more than to him. “Very well, then, Tysen. Because I do not want you to be bent over like an old man, moaning and clutching your back, I will say yes.”

“Say it.”

“Yes. I am hopeful. I am also still so embarrassed I want to swallow my tongue. All right, then, I will say all of it. I will marry you, sir, and I pray to God that you will not regret your gallantry.”

He lowered her very slowly, his muscles nearly locking tight at the feel of her against him. To prove to her that he was a man of his word, he kissed her, just as he'd promised.

 

It was a lovely afternoon, sunlight flowing in through the westerly windows. As soon as Meggie and the countess of Ashburnham had left the room, Donnatella looked down at her cousin and said, “You look perfectly dreadful, Mary Rose. Would you like me to brush your hair?”

Mary Rose only smiled. Not too long ago, had Donnatella said something like that to her, she would have felt like a prune pit ground underfoot. But now she didn't think anything Donnatella said would faze her. She didn't doubt at all that her hair had more rats in it than the Kildrummy stables, but it didn't matter, hadn't mattered to Tysen. She was so very happy, all she could do was smile stupidly up at her cousin. “That would be very nice, Donnatella. You look very beautiful with the sunlight shining in your hair.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“How is my mother?”

“Mad, as usual,” Donnatella said as she walked over to Lord Barthwick's dresser and picked up his brush. She said over her shoulder, “She hasn't said much, really. Mother simply told her that you were visiting the daughter of the house here at Kildrummy. Nothing else was necessary. She left the room humming.” Donnatella saw light hairs in the brush. Tysen Sherbrooke was a lovely man, she thought, and obviously in need of a wife. Given he
was a vicar, likely without much spine at all, all his thoughts spiritual and not at all to the point, he would be easily managed. It was something to think about, just in case.

She pulled a dark blond hair from the brush, a small smile on her lips as she walked back to the bed. “Mrs. MacFardle tells me that you must leave the vicar's bed. Indeed, she's yelping that you should have never been in this bed in the first place, that soon everyone will be talking about it, and poor Lord Barthwick will be quite ruined.”

“Yes, I can well imagine her saying that. I am feeling much better. Perhaps this evening I will move back into Meggie's bedchamber. Her bed, just like this one, would hold six people without touching.”