Tysen hoisted an eyebrow and looked down at his daughter. “Actually I wanted to see if you would like to play a game of chess with me before dinner.”
Absolutely nothing came out of his daughter’s mouth, which was so unusual that, so far as he could recall, it had never happened before. Tysen said slowly, eyeing that tea tray, “Well, now, why do you have a tray with tea on it? Are you having a party in your bedchamber?”
“Yes, Papa, I would love to play chess with you.”
“Meggie—”
“Oh, the tea tray. Well, you see, I was trying to write a song and decided that my throat was too dry to sing.”
There was a moment of silence, and Mary Rose, whose brain was still frozen, wondered if Tysen would believe that nonsense. Naturally he didn’t.
“Meggie, what is going on here? No more of your storytelling. The truth, if you please.”
Mary Rose knew she’d spill her innards if he asked her anything at all in that calm, utterly gentle tone of voice. She was getting cold again at the power of that voice. She held her breath, knowing that he would stride in at any moment and see her, and ask himself why the devil he had ever come to Scotland in the first place. If she’d had the strength, she would have slithered out of the bed and crawled under it. But she didn’t have the strength. She just lay there, the covers now nearly to her eyelids, staring at that bedchamber door.
Silence, far too much silence, then a very small voice, Meggie’s voice, saying, “Papa, don’t make me tell you, all right? It’s a promise I made to someone, a secret, and my soul will surely be damned to that bad place far below my feet if I tell anyone, even you.”
More silence, then Tysen said, a hint of approval in his voice, “I suppose you will eventually let me know what you are up to?”
“As soon as I can, Papa. I swear.”
He believes it is something inconsequential, Mary Rose thought, a little girl’s whim, and she nearly yelled with the relief of it. She still didn’t move, and evidently neither did Meggie, not until Tysen’s footfalls had faded away down the long corridor.
Meggie was flushed to her eyebrows when she came back into the bedchamber. Mary Rose watched her turn the large key in the lock, then carry the tray over to set it on the small table beside the bed.
“Thank you, Meggie. I’m very sorry.”
“I didn’t have to lie to him,” Meggie said, slowly pouring the very hot tea into a large, heavy mug, “and that’s a relief. I hate to lie to Papa because he feels it so very much when I do, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes. His disappointment makes you want to sink into the ground, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Meggie said, handing her the mug, “it does. One would think that if you lied enough, you would not feel it so much, but it doesn’t change. Oh, my goodness, Mary Rose, look at your poor hand, and your face. There are scratches all over you.”
“Yes, I know, but they’re not that bad.” Actually Mary Rose didn’t want to look. She just wanted to down every drop of that delicious, scalding tea in the chipped mug that Meggie had doubtless filched from a kitchen cupboard. She didn’t say a word, just poured it down her throat. When she finished, she lay her head against the pillow again and sighed. “That was delicious, Meggie. I believe you have saved my life. You see, I jumped into a very fast-running stream and got swept over rocks. I got some cuts and scratches here and there, nothing to worry you.”
Meggie poured her another cup of tea. She didn’t say anything, just watched Mary Rose sip slowly. “It’s Mrs. MacFardle’s favorite mug. It’s the biggest one.” Meggie saw that Mary Rose’s awful pallor was lessening and breathed a sigh of relief. “How long were you in the water?”
“Not more than ten minutes,” Mary Rose said. “Too long, but I managed to catch onto a tree branch and pull myself out. Everything is all right now. Don’t worry, it would have been difficult to drown, the stream isn’t deep enough, even now when the banks are nearly overflowing.” Surely Erickson realized that, surely he would never have left if he’d feared she could drown.
“But you couldn’t go home?”
“I rode immediately to Vallance Manor. Then I realized I couldn’t go inside.”
She saw that Meggie was frowning. Obviously she wanted to know what was going on, she wanted to know why Mary Rose couldn’t stay at Vallance Manor. How to explain to a little girl that this man would have raped her if she hadn’t jumped into the stream? That he was there at Vallance Manor when she’d ridden there, and she didn’t know why? She closed her eyes. “I don’t feel very well, Meggie. Do you think I could just lie here for a little while, perhaps sleep a bit?”
“Yes, Mary Rose. I will go play chess with Papa. Perhaps it will distract him. Perhaps he will forget that I am keeping something from him.”
“You know he won’t,” Mary Rose said, never opening her eyes. “I will leave just as soon as I am able,” she added, and wondered if she would have to walk out of Kildrummy Castle stark naked. Her clothes were shredded and Meggie was ten years old. She sighed. She would worry about it once she’d rested. Yes, an hour, perhaps, to let her body warm and regain strength. An hour . . .
Meggie realized Mary Rose was asleep. She appeared to be breathing easily. But she was so very pale. Meggie stood over her, wondering what was going on, knowing it must be one of those adult sorts of things that they believed a young person, even a very smart one, wouldn’t understand.
She gently touched her fingertips to Mary Rose’s cheek and patted it. She had to leave now, find her papa and distract him. She looked one more time at Mary Rose before she let herself out of the bedchamber.
Meggie ate her dinner very slowly, gathering the peas one by one onto her fork, wondering all the while how she was going to get food to Mary Rose. Her father said, “You’re learning quickly, Meggie. When you moved your queen, checking me, I must admit that I was worried for a moment.” He hadn’t been, but this was one of those untruths that made a child smile and try all the harder.
“Really, Papa?”
“Really. Now, after dinner I must leave you for just a little while. I must ride to see Erickson MacPhail. There are matters I need to discuss with him. He wasn’t there earlier. I won’t be long.”
“Is it about Mary Rose, Papa?”
Tysen started to shake his head, but then he realized there was a thread of fear in his daughter’s voice. What could she possibly know about this mess? He said, “Yes, Meggie, it is about Mary Rose. But don’t worry, all right? I will make certain he understands the, er, situation.”
Tysen sat back then, waiting for her to beg him to take her with him. To his surprise, she didn’t say another word. She was studying the buttered potatoes in the center of her plate. Now this was strange, he thought, and he was soon frowning. Something was going on here. But what?
It was then that Mrs. MacFardle said from the doorway, “Excuse me, my lord, but Sir Lyon is here. He insists that he must speak to you. He won’t be put off—not that I would, naturally, even if you were in your bed, sleeping.”
“Thank you, Mrs. MacFardle. Tell Sir Lyon that I will be right along.” Tysen tossed his napkin beside his plate and rose. He’d taken two steps when he realized that Meggie wasn’t right on his heels. He was surprised to see her wrapping several slices of bread in a napkin.
He didn’t say anything, but he planned to get to the bottom of whatever this was later. He strode out of the dining room. Sir Lyon was waiting for him in the entrance hall. Pouder was sitting in his chair beside the front door, his head down, nearly reaching his chest, apparently asleep.
“Sir,” Tysen said. “Is there a problem?”
“Where is she, my lord?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Mary Rose. She is gone. She never came home from her ride. She has disappeared.”
He felt instant, corroding fear. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “And you believe she is here?”
“There is no place else she would go. Of course,
her aunt claims that she would never come here, that she would be too embarrassed at her behavior, but I disagree.
“Come now, where is she, my lord? You must tell her that she is to come to me, at once.”
“I’m sorry,” Tysen said slowly, staring at Sir Lyon, whose face was becoming alarmingly red, “but I am afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would Mary Rose disappear? What has happened?”
“I do not know,” Sir Lyon said.
Tysen said, “You do not lie well, sir. Come into the drawing room and tell me why Mary Rose felt she had to leave your home.”
Sir Lyon bellowed at the top of his lungs, not moving an inch, “Damnation, there is nothing at all to tell, particularly to you, a bloody English vicar! She is my niece, in my care, curse her eyes, and I want her! Now.”
Pouder jerked upright, blinking his rheumy old eyes, then shaking his head.
“She isn’t here,” Tysen said calmly.
“Aye,” said Pouder. “Mary Rose isn’t here. I haven’t left my post for the past three hours and then it was just for a moment or two when I was needed to fold his lordship’s cravats.”
Tysen smiled at the old man, then said again, “Mary Rose isn’t here.”
Sir Lyon knew when most men were lying. And he knew to his bones that this damned young man, who was also a vicar, wasn’t lying. His eyes were clear of deceit, and a man who deceived as well as Sir Lyon did certainly knew deceit when he saw it. No, the young man’s voice was firm and unexcited. Sir Lyon also understood choler, knew what it felt like, what it sounded like. No, the damned young man, the cursed English vicar who was also the new Lord Barthwick, wasn’t lying, damn his eyes. “Then where is she?”
Tysen said very slowly, his fear for Mary Rose rising with his level of anger at this man, “What in God’s name have you done, man?”
“Nothing, I tell you. Nothing at all. The girl—no, she’s not a girl at all anymore, curse her, she’s a damned woman. She is flighty, too flighty for a spinster of her advanced years, and she is stubborn, more stubborn than her madwoman of a damned mother. She turned him down flat, and naturally he didn’t like it.”
Tysen felt his anger turn to rage. It was pouring through him, making his pulse pound, sending his blood roaring, ringing in his brain, making his eyes red. “MacPhail tried to rape her, didn’t he?”
“No! Bloody hell, I don’t know! She jumped in the bloody stream and was quickly swept away from him. He couldn’t find her.”
“Are you telling me that MacPhail just left and came running to you?”
“No, certainly not. He looked for her quite thoroughly, then rode back to where she had jumped in. Her mare was gone. Obviously she’d come back and taken her mare. Besides, even overflowing like that stream is now, it isn’t deep enough to drown a goat, much less a person. But, curse her eyes, she didn’t come home.” Sir Lyon cursed long and low under his breath. Then, oddly, he looked as if he would burst into tears. “I just don’t know where she has gone. Are you certain she isn’t here? Perhaps hiding from you?”
“She isn’t here,” Tysen said, and then, of course, he knew that she was. He waited until Sir Lyon, his ire bursting loose, had ranted even more, until his face was so red that Tysen feared the man would collapse with apoplexy in his entrance hall. Pouder never moved in his chair, never said another word, just kept his eyes on Sir Lyon, no expression at all on his seamed face.
“You will keep me informed,” Tysen said as he nearly shoved Sir Lyon out the front door.
“You will tell me if she comes here?”
“Very probably not,” Tysen said. He didn’t say anything more, just waited at the top of the steps until Sir Lyon had mounted his horse and was gone out the front gates. He turned slowly and walked back to the dining room, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, Pouder. Sir Lyon will calm down.”
“He be a mangy one, m’lord,” Pouder said, and still didn’t move. “He may be old now, but ye have a care wi’ him. Always a sneak he was, always.”
Meggie wasn’t in the dining room, not that he expected her to be.
What in the name of his beneficent God was he going to do? He took the stairs two at a time, then three at a time. She’d jumped into the bloody stream to escape MacPhail. He pictured that swirling, maddened water in his mind closing over Mary Rose’s head, and his blood turned cold. At least, thank God, he knew she hadn’t drowned. He was running by the time he reached Meggie’s bedchamber. He didn’t knock, just turned the handle. The door was locked.
He was a calm man, a man of judgment, of unclouded reason. He yelled at the top of his lungs, “Meggie, open this bloody door now!”
To his utter surprise, in but a moment the bedchamber door opened. His daughter stood there, staring up at him, calm as a nun. “Yes, Papa?”
“Where is she, Meggie?”
But he didn’t wait for her to say anything at all, he picked her up beneath her arms and set her aside. He strode into the bedchamber and came to a dead stop. The room was empty. Mary Rose obviously wasn’t here. The bed was made, the counterpane not the least bit mussed. There was no sign of anyone at all.
He turned slowly. “Where is she?”
12
“WHO ARE YOU talking about, Papa?”
“I’m talking about Mary Rose, the person you were delivering tea to just a couple of hours ago. Listen to me. She’s in trouble, Meggie, very deep trouble. Tell me where she is.”
But Meggie didn’t say a word. She swallowed convulsively, then she walked to her father and clasped her arms around his waist and buried her face against him. “Papa, I’m so scared. I was going to come to you. She’s very sick, shaking all over, and Papa, she’s all cut up, and bruised everywhere, and it looks bad. But she’s got a fever and I’m so scared. I don’t want her to die, please don’t let her die.”
Tysen put his arms around his daughter, kissed the top of her head. “It will be all right, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to Mary Rose. You can trust me on this. Where did you take her?”
“I helped her into your bedchamber, Papa. I heard Sir Lyon carrying on and yelling and so I ran back up here and got her out. I knew Pouder wasn’t in your bedchamber since he was seated next to the front door. I guess he finished rearranging all your cravats.”
“Evidently so. He is still at the front door, snoozing again.” He grasped her shoulders in his large hands. “You took her to my bedchamber? Why there, Meggie?”
“I knew Sir Lyon wouldn’t demand to look in the laird’s bedchamber, Papa.”
Tysen felt her shudder and just pulled her more tightly against him until he felt her ease again.
“I wouldn’t have allowed Sir Lyon to look anywhere, Meggie, but it’s all right. Now, listen to me, here’s what I want you to do.”
Two minutes later, Tysen quietly opened the door to his bedchamber. The room was warm, a cozy fire built up. Meggie’s doing, he supposed. The child had worked quickly. He walked quietly to the bed and looked down at Mary Rose. Her hair was fanned out about her head, still damp, tangled, looking red as blood against the white pillow. Her face was flushed. Meggie was right, she had the fever. He closed his eyes a moment, picturing her thrashing around in the rushing water of that nearly overflowing stream. And the rocks, he thought, so many of them, jagged, sharp, no way to avoid them. There was no hope for it. He sat down beside her and lightly slapped her bruised cheeks. Her skin was hot to the touch. She didn’t move. He slapped her again. “Mary Rose,” he said, “come, now, wake up. Talk to me. You’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Come on, Mary Rose, open your eyes.”
She moaned then, a soft animal sound deep in her throat. He pulled the covers down to her waist, and smiled. She was wearing one of his nightshirts. He supposed that Meggie had put it on her. He laid his palm against her heart. It was beating slowly, but it was steady, thank the good Lord. He leaned close to her and listened. Yes, steady and slow.
He straightened, saw her hands then, bru
ised and scraped, some of the cuts fairly deep, several of them oozing just a bit of blood. Well, there was no hope for it, there was no one else to help her. He pulled the nightshirt down to her waist, and sucked in his breath. She was covered with bruises, bright green, yellow, a bit of purple, streaking her ribs, her belly, her shoulders. And the cuts, myriad small slashes, none of them very deep, but ugly, all of them. Tysen was a man of God, but as he looked at her, pictured in his mind that stream and her struggling in it, he knew deep, corroding fear, actually both fear and anger at the damned man who’d driven her to jump in the water.
What to do? Mrs. MacFardle had some medicinal cream he could apply after Mary Rose was bathed. No, he wouldn’t say anything about her to Mrs. MacFardle. He didn’t want her to know that Mary Rose was here. Further, she obviously didn’t approve of a bastard being treated like a person of value. He cupped his hand against her breast again, pressing more firmly to feel the beat of her heart. And he couldn’t help himself. He looked at her in those few moments as a man looks at a woman, and he saw that she was nicely made, so very white, her flesh smooth and her breasts wonderfully shaped. His fingers flexed against her flesh, then he grunted at himself and quickly jerked his hand away. He closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn’t think like this, couldn’t allow himself to see her as a man who wanted her. She was very ill. He heard a soft knock on the door. He pulled the nightshirt back up and covered her again.
Meggie was there, holding a basin of hot water, several cloths over her arm, and a bottle of ointment clutched in her hand. “Excellent, Meggie. How did you ever get that ointment from Mrs. MacFardle?”
“I had to lie to her, Papa. Since she doesn’t know me as well as you do, she believed me when I told her that you had cut your hand.”
“You did well. Now, I want you to go back to your bedchamber.”
“Papa, please let me help you. Mary Rose is—”