The Scottish Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  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?

  7

  DONNATELLA VALLANCE 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?”

  Donnatella shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I will soon see for myself,” Tysen said.

  “You are very kind to be concerned about her.”

  “She took a very bad fall. I was worried she had done herself a lasting injury.”

  “She didn’t. She is fine.”

  He wanted to tell her that since she’d admitted that she didn’t even know, how could she say with such certainty that Mary Rose was fine? Because no one had called for a physician?

  He was met and briefly entertained by both Sir Lyon and Lady Margaret in the drawing room, a very modern room filled with furnishings to reflect the contemporary craze for all things Egyptian, from sofas with scrolled arms to chairs with clawed feet.

  “How is Mary Rose?” he asked when there was finally a brief lull in the conversation. He was surprised that she wasn’t here to greet him, a bit put out as well. He had saved her, after all, and yet she didn’t care enough to thank him, or at least to acknowledge his presence.

  Lady Margaret said, “Mary Rose, my lord, is fine. She naturally will not be dining with us.”

  “I don’t understand,” Tysen said slowly. “If she is fine, then why won’t she be dining with us?” A look passed between Sir Lyon and his wife.

  “Ah, of course the girl will eat with us,” Sir Lyon said. “My lady was thinking that she had a prior appointment, but I do not believe it is so. Donnatella, my dear, why don’t you fetch your cousin? Then we will have our luncheon.”

  Donnatella smiled at Tysen. “I think you will be quite relieved, my lord. You will see that she is fine now.” And she left the drawing room, lifting off her charming riding hat as she went.

  Sir Lyon, his voice all bluff and full of bonhomie, said, “Well, did my little beauty take you everywhere, my lord?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tysen said and thought of the dozen streams they had crossed, the ancient circle of stones they had seen, the ruins of a very old Scottish castle. “I believe I saw everything.” He then asked about the history of Vallance Manor.

  “It was said that Mary, Queen of Scots once stayed here,” said Lady Margaret. “The manor was newly built then. I believe the year was 1570.”

  The door opened and in walked Mary Rose, no limp, thank the good Lord.

  For a moment, Mary Rose and Donnatella were standing side by side. Mary Rose was tall, very slender, her dark red hair ruthlessly snagged back and rolled into a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her gown was an indeterminate gray from many washings, at least ten years old, he thought. But her eyes—they were the color of rich green moss, moss just rained upon, moss hidden from the sunlight, left in shadows to hold secrets and look mysterious. They’d been clouded with pain when he had seen her the first time, but not now. This was ridiculous—eyes the color of moss hidden from sunlight? He was suffering a flight of fancy that simply wasn’t proper or appropriate. Had he ever even been visited by a flight of fancy before? Perhaps he felt a bit proprietary because he’d saved her. Yes, that was it. He turned purposely to Donnatella, who was smaller than her cousin, her figure lovely and rounded, her hair a rich, deep black, no red in it, her skin as white as a fresh snowfall. They looked absolutely nothing alike.

  Mary Rose was—was what? Tysen frowned. She was a woman, not a girl like Donnatella. She also had a very strange look on her face. Those mysterious eyes of hers were narrowed, intent. She wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at Lady Margaret.

&n
bsp; He rose quickly and walked to her. “Hello, Mary Rose,” he said and took her hand in his for a moment. He studied her face. “Your ankle is fit again?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am perfectly fine now.”

  He dropped her hand, and she looked up at him now, full face, and wondered if he had already fallen in love with Donnatella. She knew well enough that she looked like a peasant next to her cousin—a maypole, a scarecrow stuck on a stick to frighten away birds in the fields. She was wearing an old woolen gown that had belonged to her mother when she’d been young. It was too short, far short of her ankles. Not that it mattered. She was nothing. Well, she didn’t want to be anything, particularly to this Englishman—to any man, actually.

  “Excellent,” Tysen said, then took a step back. There was dead silence. Finally, Sir Lyon hefted himself to his feet. “Eh, my lord? Luncheon? I know it is late, but my beauty here wanted you to see everything before she brought you back.”

  “Yes,” Tysen said. “Yes, luncheon would be very nice.”

  Without thinking, he offered his arm to Mary Rose. Donnatella laughed.

  Over forfar bridies—sausage in pastry coats, tossed with onions—Donnatella said to the table at large, “I showed his lordship where poor Ian fell.”

  Mary Rose’s fork fell from her fingers and clattered to the tabletop. But she didn’t say anything.

  Tysen said, “It is a tragedy. I remember Ian from the one time I was here so very long ago. I understand that he was to marry Miss Vallance. My profound sympathies to you all.”

  Everyone thanked him. Mary Rose picked up her fork, kept her head down, and continued eating something that Lady Margaret called finnan haddies, which, Donnatella told him, laughing, was simply haddock smoked over a peat fire. But the name was so quaint, didn’t he agree? Yes, it was a very old Scottish dish that was much beloved.