The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [12]
At dinner her father had been polite, just as he’d been since Edinburgh, nothing more—surely no outward show of anger. She remembered the one time he’d actually raised his voice and spanked her. That had been when she’d tied the bells to the goat and he’d played a rather clever tune, if one attended to it carefully.
She wished he would yell again, maybe even thrash her. At least it might make him forgive her more quickly. She remembered once when Uncle Douglas had yelled at one of the twins—Jason—and smacked his bottom three times. Then Uncle Douglas had picked him up, scoured his head with his knuckles, told him he was an idiot, tucked him under his arm, and carried him to the stables. Uncle Douglas had probably let Jason be his tiger that day.
She had disobeyed her father, who was closer to God than anyone. Regardless, she had not been wrong to come. She knew, knew all the way to her bones, that her father would need her.
Mrs. MacFardle, in Meggie’s immediate estimation, hadn’t appeared at all pleased to have the new English lord here at Kildrummy Castle. Dark looks, she’d given Papa, beetled black eyebrows drawn nearly together over her forehead every time she had looked at Meggie.
Finally, she’d shown them about and reluctantly served them dinner. Meggie wished Mrs. MacFardle were more like that ancient old woman at the inn where they’d stopped for lunch in Clackmanshire, who’d patted Meggie on the head, her voice singsong and very soft, murmuring Scottish words that Meggie thought were endearments, like “a wee gowan,” which she was told later by dear Pouder meant “a little daisy.” As for her father, he was braw, and that, Pouder said, meant he was a handsome fellow. Meggie didn’t think that Mrs. MacFardle thought her papa was braw at all, not even after he’d said a very eloquent grace over their dinner, which, Meggie believed with all her heart, didn’t deserve any grace at all. The pile in the middle of her plate was called haggis, Mrs. MacFardle told them, a sneer in her voice. Every Scot, she said, ate haggis and thanked the good Lord for providing such a splendid edible. Meggie took one look at that sheep’s stomach with its runny brown ingredients stuffed inside, fastened her eyes on the dark blue carpet that covered the dining room floor, and ate four slices of rich rye bread smeared with thick yellow butter.
Her father took one bite, spoke quickly to Mrs. MacFardle of the huge luncheon he and Meggie had eaten at the Wild Goose Inn, then took one more small taste which meant that as an adult, it was his duty to be polite. There was no one more polite than her father. Even surrounded by sinners, he was polite. Even driven from his own parlor by ladies who pursued him shamelessly, he was polite. He needed her, badly, particularly here in this foreign land, and he would realize it, sooner or later.
It was at dinner that they learned that Mrs. MacFardle was also the cook. Just thinking about it made Meggie hungry. And now her stomach was growling, but she had no idea where to find the kitchen in this huge, rambling place that seemed older than Northcliffe Hall, even though it wasn’t.
She snuggled down, aware that the stone walls of her bedchamber were thicker than her leg. That was comfort-ing, because a storm was blowing in off the sea. It wasn’t too long before she heard the wind, swirling off the water, battering against the windowpanes. Then the rain came, hard and fast, striking the glass with a great deal of force. She wished she wasn’t alone. She wished she wasn’t so cold deep down inside where the thick warm quilt couldn’t reach. At three o’clock in the morning—she knew it was that late because a tremendous slash of white lightning lit up her turret bedchamber and she could read the old clock that leaned against the mantelpiece—she just couldn’t stand it. She was so cold and so scared that she knew her heart was going to burst out of her chest. She grabbed