The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [121]
“What do you think of Ryder and Sophie?”
“I think Ryder could seduce any woman between the ages of eighteen and eighty.”
“Even you?”
“Oh, no, I’m the only woman who wouldn’t succumb to him with a lovely sigh. You have some of him in you as well. You’re both so filled with kindness and laughter, and everyone seems to shine brighter when you’re near. You walk into a room, and everyone just seems to turn toward you, ready to smile. It’s the same with Ryder.”
He was like Ryder? His fun, carefree brother who’d enjoyed seven mistresses at one time?
“But there’s some of Sinjun in you as well, or perhaps you in her. Sophie manages to hold her own with Ryder—very difficult, I imagine. She’s quiet, just gets things done with no muss or fuss, and I believe that Ryder would crawl on his belly if she wanted him to. Such love and patience both of them have for all the children.”
“Oliver was one of Ryder’s first children,” Tysen said. “He knew only his first name, and hunger and endless cruelty. When Ryder found him in an alley in London, he was dragging his broken leg, trying desperately to find a pocket to pick so he could get some food.”
“But look at Oliver now. He is a man and he is smart and knows he belongs. Ryder did very well by him. And just look at you, a man of God, who cares for everyone in Glenclose-on-Rowan, prays with them, helps them overcome tragedy and unhappiness, and shares happiness with them. You are an excellent man, Tysen. Have I told you that I am the luckiest woman in all of southern England?”
“No, you hadn’t yet told me that.”
“I would be certain of it if only I could manage to get a racing kitten.”
“Hmmm,” Tysen said. “I will write to Rohan Carrington and see what the Harker brothers have to say.”
“I will be philosophical about it if I am rejected by them. Perhaps Leo is right. Perhaps Ellis would make a good racing cat. I saw him running from Mrs. Priddie once, and he flew across that kitchen, skidded on a polished patch, turned an entire flip in the air, and was gone again.
“Now, Tysen, I saw a good dozen of the children climbing all over you this morning.”
“It’s because I had the wit to stop in Lower Slaughter and buy all of them presents. They hope to get more out of me if they swamp me with attention.”
“If I swamp you with attention, what will I get?”
“Ah,” Tysen said, raising an eyebrow and looking up at her, “I just had a very great desire for the private gardens at Northcliffe Hall.”
“I have an excellent imagination.”
“And I have an excellent memory.”
26
Eden Hill House
Glenclose-on-Rowan
SAMUEL PRITCHERT, TYSEN’S curate for three years now, a stickler with a rigid soul, a man with a face so morose it was rumored that his own mother cried when he was born, said in his flat, deep voice, “Reverend Sherbrooke, I regret to report that the local ladies—so many of them—feel cut adrift from you, their pastor. They do not feel that you are truly back to minister to their needs. As the lovely and very young Mrs. Tate said, ‘Our dear reverend seems inattentive since he finally came back after his months and months of absence. He no longer cares about us.’ ”
Tysen just stared at him. He’d always thought it amazing how everyone spilled their innards to Samuel Pritchert within minutes of his appearing, despite the fact that Samuel always looked nearly ready to burst into tears—that, or simply sink into a pit of gloom. But everyone did speak to him, frankly, many times too frankly.
Tysen himself trusted Samuel implicitly to keep his finger on the emotional pulse of his flock. Samuel had just given his prologue. He was ready to move forward with but a nod from his vicar. Tysen didn’t want to hear this. Truth be told, he was afraid to hear more, but he knew he had no choice.
And so Tysen lowered his quill to his desktop, leaned back in his chair, and rested his head against his crossed arms. He said