The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [19]
He tossed Big Fellow’s reins to MacNee and very carefully eased out of the saddle, trying not to touch the painful ankle. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should fetch a doctor to see to it.”
“Mary Rose, och, is it you? What is this about, my girl?”
“I fell into one of the sheep killers.”
“Ye must take a care with those blasted cuts in the ground. Well, bring yerself into the castle and I will see what ye need. My lord, just set her down and I will help her. No need for a doctor.”
Tysen ignored her and carried Mary Rose into the main drawing room, a nice room that, despite its size, felt welcoming and cozy. But like the dining room, it was too dark. He would ask Sinjun for advice on wallpaper. Perhaps a pale cream and green stripe. No, that wouldn’t work because the wooden walls were covered with countless paintings of long-dead Barthwicks and a series of beautifully worked tapestries showing Mary, Queen of Scots, from a child married to a French prince to the woman leaning down about to have her head severed from her body.
Perhaps he would ask Mary Rose. He laid her on one of the long, soft, gold brocade sofas and stood back. Mrs. MacFardle moved in. “Well, now,” she said, “at least ye got yer boot off.” She leaned over Mary Rose, clasped the ankle between her two big hands, and pulled.
Mary Rose yelled and lurched off the sofa.
Tysen was appalled at what the housekeeper had done. He said as he elbowed Mrs. MacFardle out of the way, “I have a way with sprains. If you will fetch some ice, ma’am, we will wrap it in towels around her foot. Ah, is there ice to be had in August?”
“Perhaps a bit,” Mrs. MacFardle said and got to her feet, panting a bit. “Ye come to the kitchen with me, my girl, and I’ll tie a wee bit of ice around yer ankle. Then ye can be off, back to Vallance Manor. Och, look here, it’s the little miss, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Meggie said, walking into the drawing room. “Papa, what’s wrong? Who is this lady with her foot without its shoe? Oh, I see, she’s hurt. Goodness, your poor ankle. I know exactly what to do. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Leo is always scraping himself and straining this and that. Bring the ice, Mrs. MacFardle, immediately.”
Mrs. MacFardle harrumphed, gave Mary Rose a long look, and took herself off.
Tysen stood back and watched his daughter sit down beside Mary Rose. With the lightest touch imaginable, she lifted Mary Rose’s foot onto her lap. “This is very impressive,” Meggie said, leaning down to eye the swelling. “Leo would be envious. Oh, Leo is my brother. Your name is Mary Rose? That is quite lovely. I’m Meggie. Margaret, really, but that sounds like a saint, which Papa says I will never be even if I begin a strict regimen of good deeds at this very moment, which, I must tell you, isn’t at all likely to happen.”
“Meggie, we don’t have saints in the Church of England, so it is irrelevant.”
“Yes, Papa, I know. I was speaking metaphorically.”
Mary Rose stared over at Meggie. “How ever do you know that word?”
“Papa uses many metaphors in his sermons. Some people in the congregation come up to me after services and ask me what they mean. Now, isn’t that better? Your poor ankle, all swelled, and the colors are already coming. A very bright purple, I think.”
Sermons? Mary Rose didn’t understand any of this. Maybe she was hearing strange words because her ankle hurt so badly.
Tysen didn’t know how Meggie had done it, but Mary Rose was sitting back against several pillows, her foot on Meggie’s lap, her stocking magically off and folded neatly beside Meggie. Tysen stared at that small white foot, then cleared his throat. “I shouldn’t be here. I will see both of you later.”
“Papa, wait a moment. I believe Mary Rose should have a small glass of brandy. When I wrap her ankle, it will hurt.”
Tysen walked to the large dark mahogany sideboard and poured a bit of brandy into a snifter that he wiped clean on his sleeve.
He held out the glass to Mary Rose. She