The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [37]
No. He had to exercise better control of himself. He realized then that he was out of his element, far away from what he knew and understood, from everything familiar to him, all of it lying many miles to the south. He’d been tossed into an utterly different pocket of the world, where, to this moment, nothing was what it seemed. He felt like a blind man on a narrow path.
He finally opened his eyes, blinked, and saw that darkness had fallen in this land so very far north that it had to be nearly ten o’clock at night before the light finally faded away and the land was blanketed in blackness.
He felt at peace. He still had no intention of asking Mr. Griffin or Mrs. Griffin to remain. He wasn’t a coward, though. He would show himself to them when they left. He would keep his mouth closed, no matter the provocation.
Mary Rose Fordyce was another matter entirely. She was a bastard. But that wasn’t relevant. Saying that marrying Erickson would be a triumph for her made his belly twist and cramp with the unfairness of it. Evidently, though, it was of primary importance to everyone else hereabouts. No, he would not allow Erickson MacPhail to force himself on her.
He had come to a decision, and he meant it. He also realized, just before he fell asleep that night, that he would be pleased to have the old bat and her silent, disapproving husband gone from Kildrummy. Actually, he wondered what she would say to him when he stood there, perhaps giving a farewell nod and a little smile as their carriage passed out of the inner courtyard. He would, perhaps, even wave both of them happily on their way.
He smiled into the darkness. When the scream came, jerking him out of a deep sleep, he nearly fell out of his bed.
9
Tutene? Atque cuius exercitus?
You? And whose army?
TYSEN DIDN’T EVEN think of his dressing gown. He ran out of his huge bedchamber into the long corridor, his nightshirt flapping against his ankles. It was near dawn, the light dim and gray.
Another scream.
It wasn’t coming from Meggie’s bedchamber. It was coming from the guest chamber at the far end of the corridor. It was Mrs. Griffin, and she was yelling her head off.
Maybe Mr. Griffin, pushed beyond reason, was strangling the old witch.
Not a proper thought, he told himself as he ran down that corridor, wincing with each footfall since the floor was very cold. Not even a remotely acceptable thought for a vicar.
He threw open the door and dashed into a very dark room, with all the draperies closed, and he stubbed his toe. He drew up short, gritting his teeth at the shock of the pain, when he suddenly saw a candle flickering in the darkness, just a small circle of light, and in the center of that small circle of light was Mrs. Griffin’s face. White as new snow; the mustache that topped her upper lip as black as a man’s funeral armband. Her hair was tied in rags. It was a terrifying sight.
His toe still hurt. He called out, “What is wrong, Mrs. Griffin? I heard you scream. What is the matter? Where is Mr. Griffin?”
“Oh, it’s you, Vicar,” she said, gasping for breath. “I saw her. For the first time since I have been in this accursed castle, I finally saw her. Just last year I wanted to see her, I actually spoke into the empty room, asking her to show herself, but she did not come. She had to wait until I was furious and under great duress because I wanted to smack you in the head for ordering me to leave. I did not want to see her. I was not prepared to see her. Yes, she waited until I would be terrified into the grave with my fear. Mr. Griffin is right here, beside me, probably still asleep.”
“Who came, Mrs. Griffin?”
“Why, the bloody Kildrummy ghost, of course,” she yelled at him, her harsh, churning breath making her candle