The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [80]
He leaned back, looking down into Mary Rose’s face. She looked beaten down, defeated, and he hated it. But no more pity. He’d never found that to be good for anyone. He kissed the tip of her nose. “Do you know where we can find someone to cook dinner for us?”
18
Id imperfectum manet dum confectum erit.
It ain’t over ’til it’s over.
MARY ROSE HEARD the whisper of sound so very close, nearly in her ear. It was a man’s voice, soft and low, telling her something, but what? Then she jerked awake, realized it wasn’t a dream, and opened her mouth to yell. A fist slammed into her jaw, and she fell back against the pillow.
Erickson smoothed the hair off her face and just looked down at her for a moment in the dim light of the one candle. He had to do this, there was simply no choice. He cursed under his breath as he pulled the covers off her. She was wearing that damned vicar’s nightshirt. It didn’t take him even a moment to realize that she would also shortly be wearing the damned vicar’s dressing gown as well.
Once he’d wrapped her in the dressing gown he hauled her over his shoulder, then walked quickly to the bedchamber door, cracked it open, and looked out. Nothing. No one. It wasn’t all that dark, since several of the bedchamber doors were open and bright moonlight poured through the windows and out through the open doors. He didn’t need a candle.
All he had to do was get her back down to the library, out the door that was covered with draperies, and into the garden. Then it was easy, just through that narrow ivy-covered gate and to his horse, tied a good hundred feet from the castle. Everything was going splendidly. He had known immediately that it was an excellent plan. It was a pity that he’d had to tap her on the jaw to keep her from yelling, but it wasn’t much, after all, and surely she would forgive him. A new bride, perforce, had to forgive her husband. He wondered for a moment if his mother had ever forgiven his father anything. No, that was impossible. He firmly believed that his father had died to escape his mother.
It was just past midnight, and everything was quiet. Erickson paused a moment, listening. He thought about his mother telling him at dinner the previous evening how simply everyone in the area now knew that the new Lord Barthwick—a vicar!—had kicked out not only the Griffins but also poor Mrs. MacFardle, who had surely worked there longer than anyone could remember. Erickson remembered that he’d always hated Mrs. MacFardle, the old witch, for the way she’d treated Mary Rose. He frowned as he thought about that. Actually, she’d been a witch to most everyone, particularly the children. He felt Mary Rose’s limp weight over his shoulder, felt her bouncy hair touch his face. No, he refused to feel guilt about what he was doing. He had no choice.
One step at a time. He was very quiet. Mary Rose didn’t weigh much, so that didn’t bother him. Then, with no warning at all, he heard giggling. Good Lord, giggling? From the room just down the hall.
There was obviously a woman in that room, and she was awake and giggling. Only one thing that could be about. Then he heard a man shout, not loud, then laugh, and another damned giggle. He heard bare feet running across a wooden floor. He stood, frozen, in the middle of the corridor, waiting, wondering what to do, when a door flew back and a woman, dressed in a flowing white nightgown, ran out of the room, still giggling, looking over her shoulder at the man who was running after her. The man who came out of the bedchamber was naked. For an instant, Erickson thought it was the vicar, and he was chasing a woman. But it wasn’t. It must be the vicar’s sister and her husband. They were the only ones left in the castle that the vicar hadn’t kicked out. But what were they doing, running around out here in the corridor? For God’s sake, wasn’t there a bed in that bedchamber?
Suddenly the woman eased back into the shadows