The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [18]
“What is it?”
“Damslip weed. It’s not terribly common around here, but still you must be vigilant. One of the goats died just last year from eating damslip weed.”
Tysen shoved Big Fellow back from the scraggy brown plant and said to him, “Now, you will be a gentleman. You will hold still, Big Fellow.” And the horse stood there, polite as could be, blowing quietly as Tysen swung his leg over the saddle. He’d never before carried a female, not even Melinda Beatrice, had never before imagined climbing aboard his horse with a female in his arms, one with a painful ankle who was making a valiant effort not to cry again. “We made it,” he said, settling her across his legs. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Mary Rose said.
“Hold on to me.”
She wrapped her arms around his back and buried her cheek against his shoulder.
“This is very strange,” Tysen said as he clicked Big Fellow forward. “I don’t know your name.”
“Mary Rose Fordyce.”
He felt a pooling of pleasure at the sound. “A musical name,” he said. “This man you thought was chasing you, who is he?”
“Erickson MacPhail, a man who used to be my friend,” she sighed. “My uncle wouldn’t like it were he to know that I do not like Erickson now and I had told someone that he was profligate.” Another sigh. She said, “Here I am sitting on a man’s lap on top of his horse with my arms wrapped around him. I’ve never done this before.”
“I have never before held a woman on my lap atop my horse either,” Tysen said, looking right between Big Fellow’s ears, ignoring the feel of her hair against his chin. “We shall both have to overlook it as a brief, necessary confusion. Who is this Erickson MacPhail? Why does your uncle like him?”
“He’s a neighbor. Whenever I am out walking I must pay constant attention. This time he came along by chance, but in the past I know he’s waited for me. Perhaps he was waiting for me this time as well. I do wish he would just leave me alone.”
“Why hasn’t your father or your uncle warned him off if you do not wish to be in his company?”
“I don’t have a father. My mother and I live with my uncle and his family. I think my uncle wishes he was Erickson’s father. Uncle Lyon admires him, thinks he’s brave and braw—that means ‘handsome,’ you know—and ever so charming. He does not understand that I don’t want to be mauled by him, which is what he does, given the least opportunity.”
“I’m sorry about your father. I lost my father when I was a lad of eighteen. I still miss him. The one and only time I was ever here at Kildrummy Castle, he brought me, just the two of us. It was a fine thing, having him all to myself.” Again—he’d done it again. Spoken freely, just opened his mouth and let words fall out that hadn’t been approved by his brain.
She said nothing, just nestled closer and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“That’s right, we’re nearly there. Just lie quietly. There’s Oglivie opening the gates.”
“Laird, what is the matter?” Oglivie called out.
The Scottish title gave him a bit of a start, but there was no way around it—he was a laird and a baron now. “The young lady took a fall.”
Tysen thought Oglivie said something, but he couldn’t make out the words. He said against her hair, “Just a few more minutes and you’ll be more comfortable.” Her hair was soft, smelled of the sea and the pine forest and something else he couldn’t identify. Roses, perhaps?
As Big Fellow passed through the wide wooden gates into the enclosed courtyard, he said, “You don’t have any brothers?”
She shook her head against his jacket. “Just my uncle.” He left it, but it wasn’t right. He imagined a man bothering Meggie in five or so years, and a surge of intense rage roared through him. It made his heart pound, made him blink several times. Rage was something he’d never really visited before. It was something dark and vibrant, with a life of its own, all black and ugly. It pulsed violently inside him and made him cold.
He looked up to see the housekeeper standing on the top step