The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [92]
“I was thinking that when I am twenty-five, just next month, I can repay you for taking care of me and my mother. You’ve even allowed her to move in with you. It is very generous. Oh, goodness.” Mary Rose actually felt her jaw quiver, she just couldn’t stop it, and it was hard to swallow.
Tysen said with no sympathy at all, “If you cry, Mary Rose, I will haul you over my shoulder again, ride to that stream, and toss you in. We can see just how long it takes you to climb out this time. Now, you have caused me no end of trouble simply because I am doing the right thing. If only you would finally recognize me as the end to all your misery, and your mother’s as well. You still have tears in your eyes. Stop it now.”
She sniffed.
“That’s something. Now, I’m writing a letter to see if, just perchance, the lie I so smoothly told your uncle yesterday happens to be the truth. I believe it is. Your uncle didn’t gainsay me, but it’s best to have it in writing.”
She stared at him. “You lied? You actually knew you were going to do it, and knowing, you still lied? Oh, Tysen, it is all my fault, that is a sin and you committed it and you are a man of God and—”
“Be quiet and listen.” And he told her the very believable tale he had concocted for her uncle’s benefit.
She said slowly when he had finished, “I have never before been told that Sir Lyon was my guardian. Indeed, I can’t imagine that my uncle would ever have willingly wanted to be my guardian. He was embarrassed that a bastard was living under his roof. It was difficult for him to feel magnanimous, his shame was so great. You know, I wonder if Ian discovered this?”
“I have no idea. I will ask Mr. MacCray, if you wish. Regardless, you and I are going to be married on Sunday, by special license. I spoke this morning to Reverend MacMillan, a very nice old gentleman who says he has known you all your life and thinks you will make a fine wife for a vicar, even though the vicar is foreign. He is, however, concerned that in my nobleness, I am rushing you into this. He is concerned that you might wish to change your mind. I told him that your fondest wish was to wed a vicar, namely me, and move to southern England where you wouldn’t know a soul, present yourself to a gaggle of new relatives entirely unknown to you, and become a mother to three children not your own. I believe he wanted to laugh at that, but he choked so badly trying to hold it back that I had to thump him soundly on the back.”
She was standing there, pale, her face still bruised, her light blue gown a bit loose on her, for she’d lost flesh during the past week—no wonder. She didn’t laugh, didn’t crack even a little smile.
He said very gently as he rose from his chair, “Give over, Mary Rose, give over. Marry me. It is the right thing to do. We will do well together.”
He didn’t look away from her.
Finally, she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “All right, Tysen. I will marry you this Sunday.”
And so it was that the following Sunday morning, in the drawing room of Kildrummy Castle, the Honorable Tysen Edward Townsend Sherbrooke, Reverend Sherbrooke of Glenclose-on-Rowan, brother to the earl of Northcliffe, took his second wife, Mary Rose Fordyce, spinster, of Vallance Manor. Gweneth cried delicately into a lovely lace handkerchief, and Colin Kinross stood beside Tysen as he calmly spoke his vows. As for Sinjun Kinross, she stood beside Mary Rose and lightly squeezed her shoulder upon occasion, perhaps to encourage her to speak up, but no matter.
Neither Mary Rose’s uncle, aunt, nor cousin was present, having sent their regrets, and that was no surprise at all, rather a relief. Also there had been no word at all from the MacPhails, neither mother nor son.
Mrs. Golden prepared a delicious wedding luncheon, and Miles had managed to secure half a dozen bottles of rather decent champagne. She had hired an additional six girls from the village. Two would remain to help her at Kildrummy—a good thing, Tysen thought, for he had very few clean shirts left.
As for the new Reverend