The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [20]
“Just a few sips,” Tysen said. “I once tried brandy when I was a boy. My brothers, Douglas and Ryder, dared me to drink it, as I recall. Then they laughed themselves silly when I vomited on my mother’s rosebushes.”
“Papa, truly, you did that? Uncle Douglas and Uncle Ryder were that wicked?”
“We were boys, Meggie. It wasn’t edifying. You do not have to try it yourself. If Max and Leo try to taunt you into doing it, don’t. Please believe me, it is awful stuff.”
Meggie said thoughtfully, “Perhaps I shall taunt them into doing it.”
And in that way, watching the father and the daughter, Mary Rose drank enough brandy to warm her belly and ease her mind so when at last Meggie wrapped towels filled with small chunks of ice around her ankle, she turned white, but she didn’t cry out.
“You have magic hands,” Mary Rose said to her. “I feel much better already.”
Meggie looked up to see Mrs. MacFardle standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her bosom. “I shall ask Oglivie to drive you back to Vallance Manor, Mary Rose.”
“That would be fine, Mrs. MacFardle,” Mary Rose said. “I don’t believe I could walk there in a week.”
“First you will stay for luncheon,” Tysen said, walking around Mrs. MacFardle. “Then we will see.”
“Papa?”
“Yes, Meggie?”
“You will have to carry Mary Rose to the dining room.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. You’re right.”
“Oh, no, surely I can walk,” Mary Rose said, seeing him hesitate. He didn’t want to get near her. She tried to stand up.
Tysen shook his head, frowned, and leaned down to pick her up. Then he found that he was no longer frowning. Actually, he was smiling down at her.
He heard Mrs. MacFardle harrumph behind him. He wanted to tell her that he was being as careful as he could, but then he remembered how she had grabbed Mary Rose’s foot and pulled on it. He didn’t understand.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, not at all.”
Meggie followed behind her father to the dining room, where Mrs. MacFardle had laid out their luncheon. She was standing behind the laird’s chair, her arms crossed over her bosom, a pose she seemed to favor. She looked disapproving. Nothing new there. Maybe this time she was concerned about Mary Rose. Meggie wanted to assure her that her papa was a saintly man, that he wouldn’t dream of going beyond the line with any lady, particularly one who was hurt.
Tysen carefully eased Mary Rose down on a chair that Meggie held out, then slowly pushed it close to the table.
After he seated himself, he said grace. Meggie said matter-of-factly to Mary Rose, “Papa’s a vicar, you know. He is more properly known as Reverend Sherbrooke. He is an orator of renown, recognized far and wide for his scholarship. My brother Max, though, he reads Latin better than Papa.”
A vicar? Ah, a vicar gave sermons.
Mary Rose looked at the beautiful man who sat at the head of the long dining table. She’d only met two vicars in her entire life, both of them ancient relics, one of them smelling of nutmeg and the other of cedar. This man smelled of fresh air and warmth.
“My daughter exaggerates,” Tysen said calmly. Then he smiled at her. “Ah, Meggie,” he added, “you forgot to mention the richness of my metaphors, so rich, evidently, that many of my congregation don’t understand what I said. I shall have to think about that.”
Meggie giggled. “Papa is known widely for his metaphors as well. It’s only a few people who will admit to not understanding your oratory, Papa.”
Tysen said to Mary Rose as he handed her a bowl, “Would you care for some soup? I have no notion of what it could be, but it smells quite good.”
“Cock-a-leekie soup,” Mary Rose said, still staring at him, and she breathed in deeply. “You are truly a vicar?”
He nodded and watched as Mrs. MacFardle ladled some cock-a-leekie soup into her bowl. “It is made with chicken and leeks and a lot of pepper. You may sneeze,