The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [64]
There came a snort from Colin, who was seated in the wing chair, reading a newspaper.
“I would like to know what is going on here,” Sinjun said.
“It’s not his responsibility,” Mary Rose said and sniffed. She hated herself. Tears were ridiculous. They did nothing but make her skin itch. “Pearlin’ Jane could have been right, ma’am, but she’s not any longer. I’m leaving. I will not allow Tysen to face any consequences that would harm him. Mrs. Griffin is right. I do not belong here. No one wants me here. I won’t allow Tysen to be any more noble than he already has been. Would you please lend me a gown?”
Now this was interesting, Sinjun thought. This lovely ill young woman was in Tysen’s bed, and she was worried about him and his blasted reputation but not at all about herself? Did she think so little of herself? If she did, it was understandable, given the horrid things that had spewed from that wretched Mrs. Griffin’s mouth. Lovely hair, yes, Mary Rose had lovely hair, and a lovely face. But of course such things wouldn’t weigh heavily with Tysen. She had never seen him like this. Melinda Beatrice had died six years ago. It was a very long time for a man to be alone. Of course, there were Max and Leo and Meggie, but children weren’t the same thing as having someone to laugh with and talk to, to fight with, to make love to. Sinjun had worried about him for a very long time now. She looked at Mary Rose, at that pale face, the scratches, the horrible bruise around her left eye, and said calmly, “A gown? Certainly. I will do anything you need, Mary Rose.” She smiled. “Do call me Sinjun.”
“But—”
“You’d best give in to Aunt Sinjun,” Meggie said comfortably. “She and Pearlin’ Jane won’t let anything bad happen.”
Colin said, lowering his newspaper so he could see over it, “Yes, Mary Rose, you may trust my wife. I trust her with my life, and she has protected me very well indeed. Oh, yes, do call me Colin.”
There was no way to rid himself of the Griffins aside from tossing them out into the courtyard on their respective ears. Not a bad thought. After two cups of strong tea, Tysen inquired yet again, “Why have you returned?”
“You see how he tries to be as imperious as Old Tyronne,” Mrs. Griffin said to her husband. Then she turned her cannon on him with a goodly amount of enthusiasm. “It will not work, boy. No matter what you want, you will not marry Mary Rose Fordyce. I will not allow you to marry her. She is a bastard. If she is received anywhere, it is only because of her very respectable aunt and uncle. No, her sort will not be the mistress of Kildrummy.”
Tysen lost every word in his brain at that moment. Wed with Mary Rose? Such a thought had never—no, he was merely protecting her, as a man of God, it was his duty to see that Erickson didn’t rape her, that nothing or no one forced her to do anything against her will, that—he closed his eyes and managed to dredge up words for a simple prayer. They were very straightforward, those words that made up his prayer: Lord, if I strangle this woman, will you find forgiveness for me?
“My dearest wife is concerned about your reputation, my lord,” said Mr. Griffin. “She is worried that you not besmirch the family name.”
Mrs. Griffin saluted her husband over her teacup. It was her fourth cup, and Tysen found, despite being wordless and dazed, that one had to be impressed at her capacity. She then bent her look on Tysen, her black mustache quivering. “Even now, my lord, you may be certain that everyone north of Edinburgh is talking of how the new Lord Barthwick—namely, you—has an unmarried bastard female in his bed. According to Mrs. MacFardle, you stayed with her all night and took care of her intimately, and she is even wearing your nightshirt,