“Donnatella is Mary Rose’s cousin, I believe.”
“Evidently she is also a handful, at least according to MacNee, who is quite a handsome man, and I think perhaps he would like to flirt with her himself.”
“Meggie, you will not delve into those particular matters, all right?”
“I was just listening, Papa.”
Tysen let that go. He said, “I remember Old Tyronne as quite amiable. Of course, that was at a time when he had more heirs than any man I’ve ever known of.” He wanted to know what else she’d learned, but he was her father, a vicar, and he didn’t believe in gossip, really he didn’t. And then his sweet daughter said, “Mary Rose and her mother live with Donnatella. Mary Rose’s mother is mad, has been for nearly forever. Evidently Donnatella is very lively and terribly beautiful. She is spoiled, but she is so beautiful that no one minds too much when she throws a tantrum.”
Tysen stared, mesmerized. Meggie’s sources of information never ceased to amaze him. She’d learned all this just by distributing almond sweetmeats?
“Donnatella is younger than Mary Rose,” he said slowly. “The old man was well into his eighties, and he actually expected a young girl to marry him?”
“That’s right,” Meggie said, and sidled farther into the room, sniffing the air. “Ardle said that Lord Barthwick believed Donnatella had the finest pair of hips in all of Scotland and was sure that birthing more heirs would be no problem for her. He also said that Lord Barthwick had more self-confidence than a man with two brains. Papa, I think we should open those windows. It is dreadfully close in here.”
“You’re right,” Tysen said, knowing he should say something to Meggie about speaking of a woman’s hips and childbirth, but he just wasn’t up to it. Instead, he walked to the bank of heavy velvet draperies and jerked them open. Dust billowed into the air, setting him to sneezing. It took him a while to get the latch to open on the large glass doors. Finally, with a creak and a groan, the doors flew open, and father and daughter stood side by side looking out into a small garden, no more than the size of the library. It was completely overgrown—wild rose bushes, yew bushes, ivy, daffodils, and bright-red rhododendron bushes were all tangled together, choking each other to gain the bit of available sunlight.
“I had thought the entire manor formed a large square, what with the enclosed inner courtyard,” Tysen said as he walked slowly out onto moss-covered stones outside the library. He turned and looked back. “Oh, I see. The library was simply cut in half to make this garden. Because it is facing the sea, it isn’t obvious that it’s here. A pity it has been let run wild. I wonder how many years since those glass doors have even been opened? Probably longer than you’ve been on this earth,” he added, smiling down at her.
As for Meggie, his smile meant that he was no longer upset with her. It was a vast relief. He had, she thought, smiled more since they’d arrived here at Kildrummy than he had during than the entire past month in England. She said as she studied the tangled vines and branches, “There are many flowers buried under here, Papa. I’ll be able to clean them up and then replant them around the castle. What do you think?”
“I think you are much like your aunt Alex. When she walks around the Northcliffe gardens, the bushes, plants, and flowers all come to attention. Douglas says the plants stand taller than his troops ever did when they were on parade.”
Meggie was already rubbing her hands together. “I will begin this afternoon. I will write to Aunt Alex and ask her advice. Oh, yes, Papa, MacNee also told me about Lord Barthwick’s cousin, Mrs. Griffin. She sounds rather frightening. She and her husband live in Edinburgh, but they were here much of the time, toward the end. MacNee said she was a real tartar and an old besom. What does that mean?”
“She isn’t amiable,” Tysen said and thought, Please, Lord, please keep the dear woman away.
“Well, MacNee said everyone prayed she wouldn’t come back for at least ten years.”
Tysen immediately joined in the prayers. “Donald MacCray didn’t say anything about her,” Tysen said. “I wonder why not?”
Meggie just shrugged, then said, “Oh, yes, Mrs. MacFardle wanted me to tell you that there is a message from Sir Lyon Vallance. He and his family will visit us here tomorrow afternoon at precisely three o’clock.”
Tysen was pleased. He planned to speak to the man about protecting his niece from the likes of Erickson MacPhail.
Tysen nodded in greeting to Sir Lyon Vallance, a tall man with reddened cheeks, probably from too much drink. He’d once been a handsome man, but now he was running to fat. He was a bit beyond his middle years, but seemed bluff and good-natured. He pumped Tysen’s hand up and down in a hearty grip. He was bald except for a very thin gray circle around his head. He beamed a long look around the drawing room and made a small sound of pleasure. Tysen nearly smiled at that. He didn’t blame Sir Lyon. It was a cozy room, and he liked it despite its need to have new wallpaper and perhaps some new furniture and draperies as well. He would take care of that soon enough.
As for Sir Lyon’s wife, Lady Margaret, she was a handsome woman, deep-bosomed, beautifully gowned, nearly as tall as her spouse, more than a glint of intelligence in her dark eyes. She was also quite a bit younger than her husband. Oddly, she was giving the room a rather proprietary look. As for their only child, Donnatella, Tysen realized that she was eyeing him more than was proper. Something of a cynic—a man of God couldn’t escape a measure of cynicism, what with the indignity of human nature—he imagined that the lovely girl was expecting him to sigh over her hand, perhaps hold that delicate hand overlong, perhaps give her a dazed look to show her he was sufficiently bowled over by her charm. Just like Melissande, Alex’s sister, who was, in truth, much more beautiful than Donnatella Vallance. After what Meggie had told him about her, he doubted he’d be bowled over even if he found her utterly charming. He merely nodded to her as he had to her father and mother. He girded his mental loins, and when everyone had a cup of tea in hand, he said pleasantly, “I am pleased to meet my neighbors. I trust Mary Rose’s ankle isn’t paining her too badly today?”
Lady Margaret arched a sleek black brow. “Her what, my lord?”
“Mary Rose’s ankle, my lady,” Tysen said, then took a sip of his tea.
“Oh, yes,” Donnatella said, sitting forward in her chair, offering him an excellent display of her cleavage that was, indeed, quite lovely, almost as lovely as Mrs. Drake-more’s, a widow in his congregation who displayed herself to him each and every chance she got. Truth be told, he’d been treated to many displays of feminine ingenuity since Melinda Beatrice had died six years before. Donnatella continued, giving Tysen another smile that surely invited intimacies, “Don’t you recall, Mama? Mary Rose said something about falling into one of the sheep killers. She sprained it.”
Lady Margaret obviously didn’t recollect Mary Rose’s accident. “She should take more care,” she said, then looked long at Tysen. “You will be delighted to come to Vallance Manor for dinner, my lord. Perhaps Friday evening? Just you and the family. We can become better acquainted.”
“I should be delighted,” Tysen said.
“I shall give you a tour of the area tomorrow morning, my lord,” Donnatella said. “I will come at nine o’clock.”
“I have ridden both south and west,” Tysen said. “I should be delighted to tour the north, perhaps to Stonehaven. I visited the town when I was here before as a boy.”
He handed around a platter of Mrs. MacFardle’s clootie dumplings, his first sight of them but an hour before. He saw Meggie cramming one into her mouth.
“Barthwick has been too long without a mistress,” Lady Margaret said, her voice proprietary enough for a deaf man to hear. “Far too long.”
“From what I have been told,” Tysen said easily, “there has been no mistress here for more decades than I’ve been on this earth.”
Sir Lyon guffawed in his tea. “A bit of wit, m’dear. Charming, don’t you think?”
“Wit is only charming when it doesn’t impede or otherwise obstruct the conversational direction I am taking,” said Lady Margaret. “The furnishings—they are old and out-of-date. It is time a lady saw to things. A lady who has, perhaps, another, more experienced lady, to advise her—in short, her mother.”
Tysen was afraid of that. Evidently Lady Margaret, after only ten minutes in his company, was ready to offer her daughter as his future spouse. But why him? Certainly Barthwick was a nice holding, but surely Donnatella could have her pick of gentlemen in these parts.
He had no intention of embroiling himself with any young lady. He did not want or need a wife, his children did not want or need a stepmama. His flock would perhaps appreciate a vicar’s wife who would have their interests at heart. But if truth be told, even his congregation had appeared more content after Melinda Beatrice was gone. No, not content exactly. After all, Melinda Beatrice had always had their interests at heart; indeed, she was always telling him who needed to be fixed and how. It was just that when their interests hadn’t coincided exactly with hers, then she had ground them under. He shook his head. Such thoughts were disloyal, unworthy of him, certainly more than unworthy of a man of God. He forced himself back to the platter of clootie dumplings and selected one. His nostrils quivered, they smelled so good.
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 likel
y 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.
The Scottish Bride Page 6