The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [123]
Tysen nearly roared out of his chair then, ready to separate Samuel Pritchert’s head from his shoulders. He caught himself with effort, and simply nodded.
“It has quite bothered me, sir, because they now see you as one of them—no longer a man of God who has always been set apart from them, set apart from the base desires that seem to plague men and bring them low time and time again.
“They see you, quite frankly, as now being as weak and as much of the flesh as they are, as consumed by matters of the flesh as they and their neighbors are, as all their friends and enemies are. They fear for you, sir. You have fallen low. You are, in their eyes, no longer their spiritual leader. You have fallen from grace.”
Matters of the flesh. Tysen froze. He thought of the last three months, all the glorious nights and glorious mornings, each and every one of them filled with endless delights, endless tenderness and discovery, and dear God, endless lust that bowed him to his knees, made him heave and pant and yell with the utter joy and wonder of it, and emptied his brain of what he was, what he used to be.
Samuel was right. He wasn’t the same man now as the one who had traveled to Scotland. He realized that he’d been smiling for at least three months now, smiling at nothing in particular, something he hadn’t done since he’d been a very young man, since before he’d decided to become one with God, a spiritual man of the Church, before he’d met Melinda Beatrice.
He saw himself clearly then, the before and the after. After that decision so long ago, he’d become dour, so very serious, that he was humorless, unable to see anything that brought simple joy to life. From that point, he’d had only one goal, only one focus. Over the years, that focus had been on the people for whom he alone was responsible. They were to look up to him, to depend on him to tell them how to solve their problems and to succor them in their time of need and pain. And these people expected certain behavior from him, he’d known that very well, and he’d never let them down, before he’d gone to Scotland, before he’d wed Mary Rose.
Certainly he’d always loved his children, but he’d never given them his unstinting attention or the unfettered joy he now lavished on them and on himself and on his new wife.
Mary Rose. His wife. He’d made love to her that very morning, kissing her awake, his hands all over that smooth, warm body, feeling such pleasure, such overwhelming need that seemed to grow greater each time he became one with her. He’d awakened, he remembered, with a wondrous smile on his face, and hard as the oak planks of the bedchamber floor.
Tysen rose and walked to the windows. It was gray and cold outside, a nasty, dreary drizzle streaking down the glass. It had moved from fall to winter in such a short time. He realized he was cold, cold all the way to his bones. He said nothing to Samuel, just walked to the fireplace and built up the fire. Then he drew in a deep breath and turned back to his curate, who hadn’t moved, just stood there, silent and still.
Samuel said at Tysen’s nod, “I will be blunt, sir. Our people do not want a foreigner here. They want you, but they want you the way you were before you went to Scotland and brought her back.”
“Go away now, Samuel.”
“There is just a bit more, sir.”
“Very well.”
“It seems it is your laughter, sir.”
“My what?”
“Your laughter, sir, your unconcealed lightness of spirit, your unexpected flow of charm, your wit. It makes them uncomfortable, it makes them feel as if their spiritual leader has become a stranger. It is your lack of seriousness, sir, that alarms them, your lack of proper gravity and conduct, of proper perspective on what is important in life. You have changed into a different man.