The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [65]
Tysen, normally fluent in his speech, smoothly cultured, and quite self-possessed, lost not only his ability to reason and speak again, but also nearly every semblance of life. He stood rigid as a board, frozen in place, staring not at Mrs. Griffin but into himself, deep inside himself where one seldom has reason to look because there are many times shadows there, and doors that are better left closed. But he looked, regardless. What he saw, what he finally fully realized, what was staring him right in the face, was the realization that the miserable old hag was right.
Oh, dear God, he had taken intimate care of her, as if she were his child or his wife. He hadn’t hesitated. By all that was holy, what had he done to Mary Rose? And all for the best motives, all to protect her, to save her, to be the buffer between her and MacPhail. She was wearing his nightshirt, he had taken care of her, looked at her, fully appreciated every white inch of her, which he shouldn’t have done, but since he was a man, there’d been no hope for it.
“Well, my lord? Have you nothing to say for yourself? Did you bed Mary Rose? One doubts she was a virgin because a bastard is seldom a virgin, no matter her age. Will she, a bastard, deliver another bastard into this world? Her dear aunt and uncle, so well respected in these parts, in all their goodness, allowed her to be raised with their own sweet Donnatella. Mary Rose should never have remained in a respectable home. Just look what has happened. She is upstairs lying in your bed. And you, my lord, you allowed it. You freely partook in it. And still you let her stay.”
Tysen slowly shook his head, back and forth. He had looked deep into himself, seen the truth, recognized what he must do, and now he must act. He turned and walked out of the drawing room, the sound of his boots striking the tile in the front entrance hall sharp in his ears. Those boots of his might be a bit dirty, but they made loud, sharp sounds as they hit the tiles. And yet, deep inside himself, he heard nothing. He felt waves of guilt and shame, but now, thank the good Lord, they were receding in the face of his resolve to make things right. He heard Mrs. Griffin’s voice calling after him, but he didn’t understand her words. Indeed, they weren’t even words to his mind.
When he opened the door to his bedchamber, he saw Colin still seated in the big wing chair, still comfortably reading a newspaper, obviously still at his ease. Colin, excellent man that he was, had learned years ago that it was best just to give Sinjun her head.
Sinjun was now seated on the bed, close to Mary Rose, speaking to her, and his dearest Meggie was on her knees next to Mary Rose, holding her hand, nodding at whatever Sinjun was saying. Then Mary Rose looked up and saw him.
“Hello, Tysen,” she said, and he would have had to be a blind man not to see the leap of pleasure in her eyes at the sight of him, the smile that hadn’t been there but a moment before, there now, sweet and honest, and it was for him, and he thought, She should not so openly give me her joy. Is there no hope for it?
15
THEN ALL HER joy died on the spot and she said, looking down, “I am going to Vere Castle with Sinjun. I plan to be a nanny to Fletcher and Jocelyn. She doesn’t want me to be, but I have to do something to earn my keep, don’t I?”
She was leaving?
“I’m not ignorant. I speak Latin. I can instruct Phillip, perhaps I can also teach Dahling to play the bagpipes. I don’t play them well, but I do know several tunes. I do know how to do things. I won’t be useless.”
“You speak Latin?”
He was gaping at her, distracted for the moment.
“Yes, and also a bit of French, although my accent is not terribly pleasant. Since there are no longer Latin speakers about, why, then, no one can criticize my accent.”
She spoke Latin? How ever had that come about? He got himself back on track, just shaking his head at her. “You’re not leaving Kildrummy Castle,” he said, and