The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [58]
Her voice finally began to fade as she moved down the long hallway, but unfortunately it was still crystal clear to his ears. “Aye, come down and have a cup of tea wi’ me and Mr. Pouder. I know he’s awake, I heard him snort at Ardle, who is holding yer horse for ye.”
Mary Rose, who was clutching the blankets to her chin, said, “You shouldn’t have asked the doctor to come. He will tell everyone in the area that I am here in your bed, with you standing far too close to the bed where I’m lying. Mrs. MacFardle is right. I shouldn’t be here.”
Tysen just shrugged. “I would rather suffer gossip than have you die on me because of my ignorance.” Then he smiled. “Don’t worry, Mary Rose. I am so relieved that you’re going to be just fine, I believe I’ll give you a cup of Mrs. MacFardle’s cider.”
When he returned with the cider not ten minutes later, having been snagged by Dr. Halsey for an inquisition on his opinion of the clearances, he saw that Mary Rose was asleep. He stood over her a moment. She did look a bit like a pirate, the black bruise circling her left eye like a pirate’s patch.
He gently touched her forehead and found it cool. He imagined that he had no more than two hours at the outside before Sir Lyon would be back here, demanding to take her home.
But it wasn’t Sir Lyon who arrived exactly one hour and forty minutes later. It was Erickson MacPhail.
You are a shallow cowardly hind, and you lie.
—Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part I
Tysen walked slowly into the drawing room and closed the door quietly behind him. MacPhail stood by the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest.
Tysen realized his own hands were fisted at his sides. Slowly, ever so slowly, he forced himself to ease. He was a vicar, and he believed firmly in God’s strength, in God’s compassion, but more than that, he was his father’s son and he was like his brothers. Neither Douglas nor Ryder would lose his head and erupt in senseless violence whenever it pleased him to do so. And neither would he.
Erickson stepped toward him and said without preamble, “Dr. Halsey has told us that Mary Rose is here. He said he attended her. He said that she will be all right, that she is merely bruised a bit from getting knocked about in that damned stream. I was excessively worried about her. I am here to fetch her home, to Vallance Manor.”
Tysen walked to one of the tatty old gold brocade set-tees and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He wished his Hessians were polished more brightly. Old Angus had last polished them in Edinburgh. He eyed Mary Rose’s nemesis for a moment, then said mildly, “Actually, you have saved me a good deal of trouble. I was on my way over to your home again to speak to you. About Mary Rose.”
Erickson took a violent step forward. “Damn you, vicar, you will not put me off. Take me to her now, or vicar or no, I will beat you until you crawl to do my bidding.”
Tysen arched an eyebrow, smiled pleasantly at Erickson, whose face was becoming alarmingly red. When he was older, Tysen imagined, his face would slowly become that unbecoming shade of red that results from too much choler. He said on a shrug, “I suppose you could try.”
There was a marked sneer about Erickson’s mouth that Tysen thought was singularly unattractive. “You dare to bait me? To set yourself up against me? You, a man who isn’t really a man at all, but a gutless creature who exhorts real men from the pulpit? You threaten them with hellfire if they don’t swallow their righteous anger and choke on it? You order them to become as weak-willed and spineless as you are? You tell them they are cursed unless they grovel before you?”
Tysen rose slowly to his feet. His heart had speeded up, but—strangely perhaps—he felt quite calm.