The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [48]
Meggie whispered, clasping Mary Rose’s hand, “Come, Mary Rose, you’re terribly wet and cold. I know just where to hide you. You are beyond cold, aren’t you? You’re freezing. I don’t want you to become ill. Hurry.”
Meggie led her up the servants’ back stairs, pausing at each landing to see if anyone was around. They heard Mrs. MacFardle humming a goodly distance away. “That sounds pretty,” Meggie whispered. “I didn’t know any sound she made could sound that nice. I’m glad we didn’t see Pouder. He usually sits right by the front door but you can never be certain. I suppose you already know that.”
“Oh, yes. Pouder has occupied that spot since before I was born.”
“I have nearly tripped over him several times. He is Papa’s valet-in-training, something he says he always wanted to be.”
“I have always liked Pouder. He was always kind to me. He was very old even when I was a small child.”
She wanted to giggle at the thought of Pouder seeing her, clutching his meager chest in shock, and expiring right there in his chair. She was becoming hysterical. It wasn’t a good sign. She drew a very deep breath, trying to calm herself. She realized, of course, that what she really wanted to do was sink into oblivion, simply lie down in some corner and fade into the wainscoting. But she did neither. She docilely followed Meggie Sherbrooke to her bedchamber in the north tower. It was one of Mary Rose’s favorite rooms. As a child she had spent many happy hours playing in this wonderful room. It had been Ian’s bedchamber, but she didn’t tell Meggie that.
“Take off your clothes, quickly, Mary Rose, and climb into my bed to get warm. I’ll find more blankets. Goodness, I don’t think I have anything you can wear. You’re a bit larger than I am.”
“Yes,” Mary Rose said, managing a slight smile. “Yes, I am a bit bigger than you.” She was stripping off her clammy clothes even as she spoke. Within two minutes her boots were on the floor beside all her wet clothes, and she was in the bed, shivering under all the blankets Meggie was piling on top of her. Meggie said, after she gently laid her palm against Mary Rose’s cheek, “I’ll find some clothes for you, don’t worry. Yes, I will figure something out. You just stay there and I will fetch some hot tea. Hot tea is many times the best mediator. That’s what Papa says. I don’t know exactly what that means, but I think he’s right. He usually is.”
Meggie slipped out of the bedchamber, closed the door quietly behind her. Mary Rose lay curled up, trying to get warm, but the cold was very deep. Even her blood was cold, the very marrow in her bones was freezing her from the inside. She tried to take deep, slow breaths. She tried to calm herself. She was out of that stream, she was safe, Erickson was nowhere about. Breathe slowly, yes, breathe very slowly. You can do it, Mary Rose. You’re safe now. Breathe.
It seemed like forever until, finally, she began to warm. She realized then that her old riding hat was still atop her head, the plume tangled in her hair. She must look ridiculous. She reached a hand out from under the mound of covers and pulled it off. Then she tried to spread out her hair over the pillow. It required both hands to draw most of the tangles out, and then she was cold again, so cold that she pulled the covers to her nose. Once she was warm, she quickly realized that every inch of her body hurt, fiercely. Well, it wasn’t unexpected. The rushing water had slammed her against every boulder, every rock, every pebble in that wretched stream. She wondered if there’d been some fish she hadn’t seen who’d taken a nip of her when the water had ripped her past them. She hoped none of the cuts or scrapes was bleeding. She didn’t want blood on Meggie’s bedclothes.
Her brain stopped when she heard footsteps outside the bedchamber.
Meggie, she thought. Please, it had to be Meggie. But of course it wasn’t. It was boots, a man’s