The Scottish Bride (7 page)

Not ten minutes after the Vallance family had taken their leave, Meggie sidled out the front door to stand beside him.

“Mrs. MacFardle says that Donnatella Vallance is the most beautiful girl ever produced in these parts.”

“You make her sound like a sausage,” Tysen said, turning to face his daughter. “She is fine-looking, I suppose.”
Then he shrugged. Perhaps he would have the opportunity to speak to Sir Lyon about Erickson MacPhail Friday evening when he went to Vallance Manor for dinner. He hoped Mary Rose's ankle would be sufficiently healed by then.

That evening, Tysen and Meggie stood together on the edge of Bleaker's Bluff, looking out over the sea, watching the porpoises dive and play, their honking noises filling the evening air. Oystercatchers spun and wheeled overhead, looking for schools of herring the porpoises churned up. The beach below was covered with large, rounded pebbles. Tysen couldn't begin to imagine how many centuries of tides sweeping over the beach had been required to smooth the pebbles to such perfect roundness. They covered the beach, making it dangerous to walk there. Seaweed wrapped around driftwood lay scattered over the pebbles, the wet green of the seaweed looking nearly black in the fading sunlight.

“Do you wish to sleep in my bedchamber again tonight, Meggie?”

She shook her head, her eyes on a baby porpoise that was diving madly around its mother. “I'll be all right, Papa. I am sorry to admit it, but that storm rattled me. But it's peaceful now, so I won't get scared.”

Tysen nodded, breathed in the sweet, warm evening air. It was incredible here. He hadn't thought once about writing a sermon, which was odd of him.

It was then that Tysen looked up to see a man on horseback coming toward them. Another neighbor?

But when the man was close enough, Tysen felt himself drawing up. It was Erickson MacPhail, he knew it, not a single doubt. The confidence and arrogance in his very posture indicated a man who took what he wanted and damned the consequences and the wishes of anyone who chanced to cross him. Tysen took Meggie's hand and they
waited, father and daughter standing side by side, until the man dismounted and left his horse to graze on the clusters of knicker weed sticking out of clumps of black rocks.

“I heard the castle had a fine new Englishman in residence,” the man called out, striding toward them, tapping his riding crop against his Hessian boot. Then he noticed Meggie. “I had not heard,” he added slowly, his voice thoughtful now, not so belligerent, “that the Englishman had a daughter.”

“I am Lord Barthwick,” Tysen said, surprised at himself for the show of formality, the touch of arrogance in his own voice. “This is my daughter, Meggie.”

“I am Erickson MacPhail, Laird MacPhail, of Hyson's Manor. I am pleased to meet you, my lord, and you, little miss.” He bowed to both of them, then straightened and looked out over the water. He breathed in deeply, his chest expanding. “This has long been one of my favorite look-outs. So many porpoises. As a boy I swam with them.”

“Really?” Meggie stepped away from her father, stepped toward this unknown man. “You really swam with them? What happened? Did they hold you underwater? Flatten you?”

Erickson MacPhail smiled down at her, and it was a charming smile, open and friendly. “Oh, no. Porpoises are some of God's friendliest creatures. They welcome you, nudge you to play, stay with you.”

“Oh, Papa,” Meggie said, turning back to her father, her eyes shining, “I should love to do that. May we? To-morrow, perhaps, if it is warm and sunny?”

“The water is always cold,” Erickson said, grinning from her to Tysen. “You cannot stay in for very long or you will turn blue.”

“Ten minutes, Papa? You taught me how to swim. It can't be colder than the Channel, can it?”

“Possibly,” Tysen said, and felt something quite fresh and spontaneous blossom inside him. “Swimming with porpoises,” he said. “I think I should like that as well.”

“I saw you standing here and supposed you must be the new baron.”

“Yes,” Tysen said easily, eyeing the man who was constantly trying to catch Mary Rose alone and maul her. What sort of a man swam with porpoises, then tried to ravish a young lady? He was well made, fine-looking, he thought objectively. And dishonorable? He would know soon enough. “Meggie, why don't you go down to the beach and stick your fingers in the water? See how cold it is.”

Meggie, excitement in every skipping step, was off.

“Pay attention to the path,” Erickson MacPhail called after her. “It's an easy winding downward, but there are some sharp points.”

Meggie waved but didn't slow. “If she takes a spill,” he said, “she won't be hurt, just scratched a bit. You are an Englishman. Everyone has heard about it, but I wished to see for myself.”

Tysen was watching Meggie's descent. He saw her skirt catch on a rock, pull her over, then he heard her laughter, sweet and clear in the evening air.

“I am just a man,” Tysen said finally, looking back at the man who was probably several years younger than he was. Yes, Erickson MacPhail was handsome, also very well dressed. But there was dissatisfaction written around his well-shaped mouth, Tysen saw. Frustration, perhaps. Resentment? But why? “I hail from southern England, near Eastbourne in a small town called Glenclose-on-Rowan.”

“I have been all over England. I found Brighton a lovely place, Eastbourne as well. You are part of the
Sherbrooke family. Your eldest brother is the earl of Northcliffe?”

“That's right.”

“I remember walking over the land where the Battle of Hastings was fought. It was moving, that spot, perhaps even atmospheric, but it is not Scotland. There is no land more beautiful, more filled with glorious memories than Scotland.”

“It is quite magnificent here,” Tysen agreed. “I met Mary Rose Fordyce yesterday.”

“Oh? I saw her yesterday as well. She was coming out of the pine forest. She'd wondered about you and had been watching you leave the castle. That's what she told me. She likes to watch people going about their business. She is fanciful. She makes up stories about them, based on her observations of them.”

“She hurt herself.”

The man stiffened, his eyes darkened with concern. This was interesting, Tysen thought.

“Is she all right? What happened?”

“She sprained her ankle. Actually, she mistook me for you, chasing her down. She was running as fast as she could away from you. She tripped and fell into a sheep killer.”

“There is no reason for Mary Rose to fear me,” said Erickson MacPhail, and there was anger in his voice, and frustration as well. “I had already left her. There was no discord between us. I think it more likely that you misunderstood, my lord.”

“Not likely,” Tysen said. “She told me that you tried to maul her, that you even wait for her to come out and then you attack her. You have done this many times. I asked her why her father doesn't protect her, but evidently her father is dead. I have met her uncle, Sir Lyon Vallance.”

“He is much admired in these parts. He used to be quite
the sportsman in his younger years. But when it comes right down to it, he stamps his big feet and bellows to the rafters, but there is no heat in him. If something needs to be done, he wants others to do it for him. I mean no harm to Mary Rose. I never have.”

“She believes that you do.”

There was contempt in the young man's voice as he said, “So she asked you, a stranger, an Englishman, to warn me away?”

“No, I have taken it upon myself to warn you off. She is a young lady. She should not have to worry about men waylaying her.” Tysen wasn't used to this, but he said it, his voice clear and cold, “Is it rape you have in mind, sir?”

“Very strong words, my lord. Very strong, indeed. You are a stranger here. You are not a Scot. You know nothing. However, I choose not to take offense. I shouldn't want to bloody your face with your daughter nearby. You mistake the entire matter.” He laughed. “Mary Rose, a lady?” Erickson MacPhail threw back his handsome head and laughed again, laughed louder than the squawking seagulls overhead. Then he waved to Meggie, turned to his horse and mounted in a single graceful movement. “Soon, my lord,” he called, and wheeled his big gray gelding away. Tysen stood watching until he disappeared over a small hillock to the west.

The sun had set. It was chilly now, wind beginning to whip up from the sea. He called to Meggie, watched her wave back and begin her climb up the hill path to where he stood. It had rained the past two nights. Meggie didn't think it would storm tonight. Perhaps she'd given some almond sweetmeats to a local seer and been told it would be clear. He wouldn't be too surprised if that was the case.

Tysen sighed. He didn't understand this business
between Mary Rose and Erickson MacPhail. He knew he shouldn't involve himself in local difficulties, but he'd been there, actually seen her fear. He didn't have a choice. Why had MacPhail really ridden this way?

 
 
 
 

D
ONNATELLA
V
ALLANCE ARRIVED
at the exact same moment as an old carriage rolled into the inner courtyard through the gates of the castle.

Tysen heard Oglivie's voice, overwhelmed by a woman's imperious voice, then Donnatella said, “Oh, dear, it is Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, here from Edinburgh. I had hoped they would not descend on you quite so quickly. Mrs. Griffin was not pleased when it was announced that you were the heir. Oh, dear. She is a witch. Good luck.”

“What about Mr. Griffin?” Tysen asked.

“Mr. Griffin has never expressed an opinion, as far as I know.”

“What do you know about Mr. Griffin, I ask you, you impertinent chit? Sir, I am Mrs. Griffin. My lord, you will speak to me.”

He stared at the lady who was striding toward him, like a major in the king's army, garbed in severe, unrelieved black, swinging a black cane with a golden griffin on its head, her voice as deep and sharp as a man's.

He said easily, “I am Tysen Sherbrooke, ma'am, Lord Barthwick. You were first cousin to the former Lord
Barthwick? Have I got it right? Is it possible that we are related?”

She had a thin black mustache atop her upper lip and masses of black hair, all twisted in coils on top of her head. Medusa had perhaps resembled Mrs. Griffin. The mustache quivered a bit as she shouted at him, “Related to you, sir? Good Gad, no! No paltry English blood in these veins. Well, no more than a dollop of English blood. I would allow no more. No, sir, I am a Scotswoman, through and through, very nearly.

“You are not a Scotsman. It is more than just a pity. It is more than a disaster, but God has cursed us for some heretofore unpunished sin and consigned all the worthwhile heirs underground. What are you doing here, Donnatella?”

“I am here to take his lordship on a tour, ma'am. I arrived just before you did.” Donnatella then turned to Tysen and gave him a very warm smile. “Good day, my lord, it is ever so pleasant to see you again. Are you ready to leave?”

The black mustache quivered again, just a bit, over Mrs. Griffin's upper lip. Tysen wondered if Mrs. Griffin had a first name, but he didn't ask because then the lady laughed, a perfectly dreadful sound, all deep and hoarse, and said, “Ha! I'll wager one of my last groats that a tour isn't your objective at all, Donnatella. You are here to begin your flirtations with the poor man, who isn't poor at all since he now owns Kildrummy Castle, which the good Lord knows he doesn't deserve.”

Well, that was the truth, he thought.

Mrs. Griffin turned back to Tysen, gave him a look that clearly told him he was grossly lacking, and said, “You probably do not have a chance, my lord. Donnatella is young, but she is wise in the ways of women, and thus, as a man, you haven't a chance. Hmmm. Donnatella is a
Scotswoman, however, and that is probably the only good thing to come out of this debacle. I would have married old Tyronne myself, but I was too old to give birth to another heir, and also, alas, there is Mr. Griffin to consider. A pity, but we will see.”

Tysen looked beyond Mrs. Griffin to see a very tall, very thin gentleman, nattily dressed, his hair snow-white, thick and full, leaning against the door of the carriage.

“Sir,” Tysen said, giving him a slight bow.

Mr. Griffin nodded, returned with a quick, jerking bow, and nodded once again. He walked up to stand just behind his wife. “My lord. We are here. We have returned, just as we promised ourselves we would. You have met my charming wife, I see.”

“Yes, he has, Mr. Griffin. I am still standing outside, and I don't want to be here. Now, where is Mrs. MacFardle?”

Tysen couldn't think of a single thing to say. He merely stood there gazing after the very tall lady who was old enough to be his mother and was probably even more vicious than his mother, who excelled at her craft. He prayed that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Griffin would remain for very long. He continued looking after her until she passed through the front door, Mrs. MacFardle now by her side. Mr. Griffin trailed gracefully behind his wife. She continued to swing her griffin-headed black cane back and forth.

“She is quite obsessed with Kildrummy,” Donnatella said calmly, straightening the charming little riding hat she wore. A dark-blue ostrich plume curved around one cheek. “Do not have an apoplexy, my lord, for neither Mrs. Griffin nor Mr. Griffin lives here, thank the gracious Lord. Evidently she decided to see the new master of Kildrummy Castle for herself. She probably will not remain long. She detests the sea air. She says it makes her nose swell. I believe that her nose swells because she drinks so
much smuggled French brandy. Mr. Griffin doesn't drink anything at all. He just stands there, all skinny and blank-looking, well dressed, his arms crossed, and stares at everyone. You have my profound sympathy, my lord.”

Donnatella lightly laid her fingers on his arm. “Would you like to leave now?”

Tysen looked after the couple, Mr. Griffin still right on Mrs. Griffin's bootheels, nearly inside the castle now, and he wondered what his obligations were in that particular direction.

Donnatella laughed. “Don't concern yourself, my lord, truly, she will do just as she pleases without a by-your-leave. For the most part, she is harmless.”

“And for all the other parts?”

“Whatever is involved, I doubt you will like it. She will boss everyone about. You will see that she and Mrs. MacFardle are quite the bosom bows—like to like, as my mother says. Also, Mrs. Griffin is quite rich, for Mr. Griffin owns a huge iron foundry outside of Edinburgh.”

And so Tysen elected not to concern himself, at least not until he returned from his tour.

Donnatella took him all over the countryside. They visited Stonehaven, not at all changed from his boy's memory, all the houses still dark and dreary, hunkered down between a low, meandering cliff and the sea.

Tysen was beginning to believe that he had ridden by every single hillock, seen every tree, remarked upon every crofter's cottage by the time she stopped at a jagged outcropping of a cliff that hung dramatically over the sea about two miles northeast of Vallance Manor. She dismounted, walked to the edge, and stared down. She looked over her shoulder and called out, “Come, my lord. This is where Ian fell to his death. He broke his neck when he hit the rocks below. See there, since it is nearing high tide, you can barely see the tops of them sticking out
of the water. There are no paths leading down to the water here. It was very difficult to bring Ian back up to bury him. Old Tyronne supervised the entire venture.”

Tysen walked slowly toward her. He remembered Ian so clearly in that moment—so very young and strong, his white teeth gleaming when he smiled. He'd smiled so much as a boy, and he was filled with mischief. And then he had died before he reached his thirtieth year. The last heir. He'd been old Tyronne's last hope, his last grandson. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin's last hope as well, Tysen supposed.

As far as Tysen could tell, Donnatella Vallance hadn't flirted with him at all, thankfully. She'd just tried to ride him into the ground. Big Fellow was snorting, tossing his head. He was tired.

Tysen said, looking at those sharp black rocks with the frothy white waves whipping around them, “Donald MacCray, the solicitor in Edinburgh, wrote that Ian was drunk when he fell.”

“That is what was said,” Donnatella said, then shrugged. “Do you remember him from your only visit here? He was younger than you, wasn't he? Perhaps about two years younger?”

“Yes, I was ten at the time, and I believe Ian was around eight. I liked him. It is a pity that it happened.”

Donnatella's chin went into the air, she drew in a deep breath of salty sea air and said, “He changed. At one time he was my hero—when he was twenty and I was only nine. I would have done anything for him. But then he changed, became sullen and withdrawn. I remember hearing of wickedness, of too much wildness in bad places in Edinburgh. Then, last year, when I decided to marry him, he was perhaps happy for a while, but evidently he drank too much one night and stumbled over this cliff. I doubt I will ever forgive him for that.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Vallance. I did not know that you were his fiancée at the time of his death.”

She turned and smiled at him, shrugged. “My father and mother wished me to be mistress of Kildrummy Castle. I did not love him, but I finally agreed to marry him.” She paused then and gave him a sloe-eyed smile designed to make a man's knees go weak, a smile so beguiling it was superior even to those embarrassingly intimate smiles that Mrs. Delaney, the widow of a local draper, frequently sent his way. She was an extraordinarily confident lady who had made it her goal last year to get him into her bed. He would never forget what she'd whispered in his ear one evening after a town meeting regarding the bridge to be built over the river Rowen: “I want to bed you, Vicar, not wed you. Can you begin to imagine how I will make you feel?”

He'd had to admit to her that no, he couldn't begin to imagine. He had escaped without rudeness, surely a remarkable feat, given the lady's perseverance.

“Miss Vallance—”

“My lord, since we are neighbors perhaps you should call me Donnatella.”

He said, “Very well, Donnatella. I am still very sorry about Ian. In the course of things he would be Lord Barthwick now, not I, and you would be his wife. It was a tragedy.”

“But now you are here, my lord.”

“Yes, now things have changed utterly, and I am here. To be honest, I had forgotten all about Kildrummy. I am a widower, ma'am. Perhaps you did not know that I am also a vicar. I am Reverend Sherbrooke of Glenclose-on-Rowan.”

She gaped at him. It was particularly charming since it make her look silly, rather dull-witted, and thus quite human. “You are a vicar?” He'd never heard such
incredulity in his life. He smiled at her and said, “Yes, Miss Vallance, I am a vicar.”

She was looking at him, studying his face, still uncertain, still questioning. “But how is such a thing possible? Goodness, sir, I have seen paintings of John Knox, and let me tell you that he looked like what he was supposed to look like. But you do not. You, a vicar? No, it isn't possible. You are teasing me because you do not wish to engage at present in a harmless flirtation and thus you are trying to put me off.”

He cocked his head at her. “Why isn't it possible, Miss Vallance?”

She looked at him as if he'd lost his remaining wits. She shook her head at him. “Because you are very handsome. You are also rich.”

His Sherbrooke looks again. Well, there was nothing he could do about the way he looked or about the money that filled his coffers. Now that he thought about it, he himself had seen renderings of John Knox. The man's face made him shiver a bit. A fanatic in Presbyterian's clothing. He said, a smile in his voice, “You wish to see handsome gentlemen, you should meet my brothers.”

“Well,” she said slowly, looking even more closely at him now, trying perhaps to see if there was some sort of sign on his face that fit what a man of God should look like, at least in her view. “Thank heaven that you are not a priest, my lord,” she then said, and touched her fingertips to his sleeve. “You are a widower. Do accept my condolences. We will have a late luncheon at Vallance Manor. My father requested that you come.” She cocked her head to one side, the ostrich feather curling around her cheek, and said, “You may say grace to bless our food. It is rarely done. I cannot wait to see Papa's face.”

Vallance Manor was an upstart, Donnatella told him as they reined in their mounts in front of a compact
gray-granite house that looked more English than Scottish and wasn't old enough to have enjoyed a single soldier pouring boiling oil down on an enemy. It was a neat property, surrounded by pine trees, a graveled drive in front of it, beech trees lined up along the sides. It was inland from the sea, a good half-mile, but Tysen could still smell the sea air, and he liked that.

Donnatella tossed her mare's reins to a young boy who was missing his front tooth and was gazing at her with naked adoration.

She ignored him, waiting until Tysen dismounted and handed the boy Big Fellow's reins as well.

He realized he would soon see Mary Rose. Odd that he didn't think of her as Miss Fordyce. No, she had been Mary Rose from the moment he'd heard her name. He couldn't very well call her Miss Fordyce now. He would feel like a complete fool. He said, “I trust Mary Rose's ankle is healed today?”