The Scottish Bride (8 page)

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.

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.

“Would you care for some damson jam, my lord? It's delicious on Cook's scones.”

“Thank you, Lady Margaret,” Tysen said. He continued smoothly to Mary Rose, “I was standing with Meggie on Bleaker's Bluff last evening when we had a visitor. It was Erickson MacPhail.”

Fear emptied all expression on her face. He'd scared her because he had decided it was time to bring MacPhail's dishonorable behavior into the open. But it wasn't well done of him. Before she looked down at her plate again, he saw something else in those very green eyes of hers. They held no secrets, no mysteries now. It was helplessness, he saw. She looked utterly helpless. If he hadn't been seated, he would have kicked himself.

Mary Rose calmly picked up her fork and cut up an overcooked carrot. She wouldn't be so surprised again that she dropped her fork. She had control of herself now. But why had Erickson sought him out? What had he said to Tysen? And why, she wondered as she looked over at him, her face perfectly blank now, had he brought Erickson's name up, here at luncheon?

Sir Lyon said, oblivious of the swirling undercurrents at his table, “Erickson MacPhail, a fine young man. His father was an excellent friend. Many of us were very distressed when he fell into one of those ridiculous sheep killers and broke his neck in a demned footrace with one of his crofters. Erickson is now the MacPhail laird.” He gave a proud look toward his daughter. “He has been just one of many of our local boys to crowd upon my doorstep, all of them lapdogs for my dearest Donnatella. The day she turned seventeen, by gad, I thought I should have to keep my brace of pistols close about to scatter all those smitten young dogs.”

“I have told Erickson no, Papa,” Donnatella said calmly and took a bite of small boiled potatoes. “I told you that.”

“But now Ian is dead, Donnatella,” Lady Margaret said. “Perhaps you should reconsider Erickson's suit. Hyson's Manor is a fine holding. Except for Erickson's mother, who is a rather dreadful woman, it would be an excellent place to reside. The good Lord provides, however. If you married Erickson, she would doubtless have the good manners to die soon, don't you think?”

“It would benefit everyone,” Donnatella said. Then she looked directly at Tysen. “We will see. Yes, we will just have to see, won't we?”

Tysen felt like a grouse on the run from hunters. He wondered where Sir Lyon kept his brace of pistols. He said, “MacPhail said he used to swim with the porpoises when he was a boy.”

“Splendid young fellow,” Sir Lyon said, and drank down his glass of wine in one long gulp. “Absolutely splendid.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, motioning immediately for the man standing just off to his left, probably the butler, Tysen thought, to pour him another glass, which he did. “Thank you, Gillis. I cannot understand, myself, how diving in and out of the water with bloody fish would be much fun, but to each his own.”

Donnatella laughed behind her napkin.

“Mary Rose,” Tysen said, turning to her, “you are acquainted with Erickson MacPhail.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Tysen wanted to shoot himself. Why in the dear Lord's name had he shoved her into the open like that? He held himself silent, waiting to see what she would say. Perhaps she would throw her jam pastry at him. Actually he knew very well why he'd done it. Tysen had never been content to sit about when something needed to be resolved. He wanted this situation faced and Sir Lyon properly informed so he would protect his niece. He was clumsy in his approach, but he would see her safe.

Mary Rose said after a long moment, “When I was a little girl, I swam with Erickson and the porpoises. They are mammals, Uncle Lyon, just like us. Not fish. Erickson taught me how to swim. He taught me that the porpoises wouldn't hurt me, that they loved to play and dive and plunge around.”

“Surely you are wrong,” Sir Lyon said. “They live in the water. Only fish live in the water.”

“But you have seen Erickson recently, haven't you, Mary Rose?” Donnatella asked, her voice cool, a thread of something Tysen didn't understand running through it. “Not that I mind, of course,” Donnatella added in a bright voice. “After all, I did turn him down, didn't I?”

“Yes, I see him often,” Mary Rose said. “Too often.”

Enough, Tysen thought. Very well, he would speak privately to Sir Lyon. He was Mary Rose's uncle. It was his responsibility to protect her. It didn't matter if he wanted Erickson MacPhail for a son-in-law, but even then, Tysen didn't want to see Donnatella taken in either. One thing was certain, he would never allow Erickson MacPhail to become Sir Lyon's nephew-in-law. Surely the news that MacPhail was trying to accost Mary Rose would make Sir Lyon reassess his opinion that the man was an excellent fellow.

Lady Margaret rose gracefully from her lovely Louis XVI chair. “Donnatella, you and Mary Rose come with me,” she said, and swept out of the small dining room before the two remaining male persons had time to put down their forks.

When they were alone, Sir Lyon eyed the young man on his right and said, “Is there some sort of problem here, my lord? You need my assistance perhaps in some estate matter?”

 
 
 
 

T
YSEN SAID SLOWLY
, relieved that Sir Lyon hadn't drunk any more wine, “No, sir. There is no estate problem. It is much more serious. You see, the reason Mary Rose hurt her ankle was because she was running from MacPhail and tripped into a sheep killer. I believe he at-tempts to get her alone. He will probably rape her if he isn't stopped. You are her uncle; it is your responsibility to warn him off. It was imperative that you knew what was happening. I wish Mary Rose had told you, but since she did not, I have.”

Sir Lyon looked at him for a very long time, no expression at all on his face. He rubbed his knuckles over his cheek. He drank more wine. He said finally, “And just what would your point be, my lord?”

Tysen could only stare at the man. “My point is that you are her uncle, sir.”

“Listen, my boy,” Sir Lyon said, sitting forward, his hands clasped beneath his chin. “You do not understand the way of things. I know you are a man of God. That particular calling perhaps sharpens your sensibilities, makes you question, perhaps, the means necessary to gain a needful end. Aye, Donnatella whispered to her mother
that you were a vicar, and my Margaret whispered it to me right before we came in to luncheon. I am sorry that I forgot to have you invoke God's blessing upon our meal. The haddock was on the dry side. Perhaps a prayer from a vicar would have made it more tender. Now, my lord, you do not understand the situation here. You believe Erickson to be dishonorable. You wish, because you are a vicar, to question his motives, to deplore his actions, perhaps to flay him as a sinner.”

“As a man of God, certainly I question his motives and condemn his actions. He is unnatural. His behavior is beyond the line. As a man, I also find that I would like to flatten him if he bothers her again. I am, however, no blood relation to her. You, on the other hand, are her uncle, her only male relative. It is your duty to stop him. She is very afraid of him.”

Sir Lyon frowned into his remaining wine. “I know that he wants her, he has told me so. I don't know why, but he does. She is, after all, nothing compared to her cousin. What's more, she carries The Taint and it will always be there. Yes, Erickson will rape her if he must, but only if he must. He has assured me of that. He wants her. I have given him my permission. He can have her. She'll get no better offer.”

Tysen felt as if he was listening to a language he had never heard before. He simply didn't understand. He rose slowly and placed his palms on the tablecloth. “I will not allow this man to rape an innocent young lady.”

“I told you that he would rape her only if he were forced to. I have knowledge of this. I don't approve of it, but Mary Rose is very stubborn. She doesn't appear to accept what she is. Well, she does, I suppose, in a sense, but she has this stubborn pride that is completely misplaced. She gives herself airs. She believes herself to be above Erickson, which is utter nonsense. She won't listen
to him. She won't accept him. She insists that she will not have him. She must be made to realize that Erickson MacPhail represents a tremendous triumph for her. Even her mother—when her wits are unclouded, which isn't often nowadays—hasn't said anything against Erickson.

“Perhaps you can assist us, my lord. Mary Rose must be made to see that if she weds him, mouths will be closed. All talk of what she is will stop. Erickson, as her husband, would ensure that all talk would end. If the lad has to force her, why, then, that is what will happen, and the consequences—namely, her marriage to him—will, by far, outweigh the rough-and-tumble methods.”

“Of course I will not assist in this. She doesn't want to marry him. Trust her, she isn't being coy. I tell you, she is terrified of him. Do you really want your innocent niece to be raped? To be forced into a union she fears?”

“You grow melodramatic, my lord. Erickson wants to marry her. It is a wondrous thing for her to wed with him. To gain that end, I approve whatever it is he must do.” Sir Lyon cocked his big head to one side, frowning until the light dawned. “My God,” he said, blinking at Tysen, “you don't fully understand her situation, do you?”

Tysen was as baffled as he was angry. His voice was as cold as his brother's when he donned his magistrate's robes. “Understand what? This entire business should be distasteful to any civilized man.”

Sir Lyon threw back his head and laughed and laughed. He took a sip of wine and spewed it out, and still he laughed. Finally he managed to say, “I apologize for not realizing that you are new here and thus do not understand. Ah, it is amusing. Of course Mary Rose is my niece, but here is where you labor under a severe misapprehension, my lord.

“Mary Rose isn't a lady. She is as far from a lady as
it is possible to be.” Sir Lyon just shook his head at the young man's obtuseness.

“Mary Rose is a bastard, my lord. She is an embarrassment. She has no worth, no value. She is not a lady, she can never be a lady. For reasons unfathomed by either myself or her aunt, Erickson MacPhail is willing to marry her. Since she refuses to have him, I have told him he may do what he must to bring her to the altar. If she does not wed him, she will never have anything, never be anyone, never have respect or recognition or even a civil nod from the local gentry. Nothing. Don't you understand? She is and always will be a bastard.”

“She will have her mother and her good name.”

“She never had a good name.”

“Of course she does. Just because her parents were not man and wife, she isn't to blame. Why can't you leave her be? Let her do what she wishes to do? Respect her for the good and honest person she is? Perhaps, if her situation is so very dreadful here, and will grow only worse as she grows older, then she and her mother could live elsewhere, where no one would ever know about her being a bastard.”

Sir Lyon looked at Tysen with pity. “You are an optimistic man, my lord. You have high ideals. You believe the best of your fellow man. I, however, am not so sanguine. In my experience, some rare men are truly worthy, even selfless upon occasion, but usually men are weak and greedy and brimming with ill will toward those more vulnerable than they are.

“Ladies, too, aren't all that benevolent, my lord. They are malicious, they will shred the reputation of any female who strays outside the rules they themselves have set. It would not matter where Gweneth and Mary Rose chose to live. She would become known soon enough for what she is.

“Leave be, my lord. Let Erickson have her. All will be well. She will not be abused. He will treat her kindly—why should he not? He is a good man, I swear it to you. He will also be sympathetic to her mother, see that she has nurses, and surely you must agree that this is something to admire in him. Her mother, Gweneth Fordyce, you see, is quite mad, has been for years. She is my wife's younger sister, and she has lived with us since before Mary Rose was born. Leave off. Let the situation resolve itself in the way that it should. It is not your affair. Keep out of it, sir.”

Tysen looked Sir Lyon right in his very sincere face and said, “Why did Donnatella say that MacPhail wished to marry her? That makes no sense.”

“Ah, my little beauty,” said Sir Lyon, now at ease again, twirling the lovely crystal wineglass between his fingers. “She told me that she turned Erickson down. It was then, she told me, that he went on to Mary Rose. So Mary Rose is his second choice. Perhaps that is why she is teasing him so. She is upset that she is second in his affections. But it has always been so. Donnatella is very beautiful, and even as a child her beauty drew the boys from all around. Now, about Erickson. I suppose it must gall Donnatella, just a bit, you understand, to have the young man so very quickly change the, er, recipient of his affection. My little beauty has hinted to me that perhaps Erickson wants to be close to her, and thus his willingness to wed Mary Rose. Well, let Donnatella believe what she will. Erickson is very fond of Mary Rose. Now, do not worry about her, there is no need. It is a play with a happy ending. Let it work itself out.” And Sir Lyon smiled, replete with his lunch and with his wine, and more than pleased that he had so admirably performed his duty.

Tysen said, drawing himself straight and tall, “I will not allow this, Sir Lyon. If she doesn't wish to wed him,
why, that is the end to it. If you will not speak to the man, then I will. I will not allow Erickson MacPhail to rape her.”

 

Meggie was lying in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, for she had one of the long narrow windows open a bit and the evening air was cool. She said to her papa, “You are upset, Papa, and it is no longer about my sins.”

Tysen forced his attention back to his very precocious daughter. “It is an adult sort of problem, Meggie. It is about Mary Rose and the man you met last night—Erickson MacPhail. I must deal with a problem that involves the two of them.”

“Mrs. MacFardle said Mary Rose was a bastard. I overheard her talking about Mary Rose to Mr. and Mrs. Griffin when they were at luncheon. I asked Mrs. MacFardle later what that meant, and she said that Mary Rose's mama hadn't been married to her papa, that no one even knew who her papa was. Is that why there is a problem? Because Mary Rose doesn't have a father?”

“Yes, that is part of it. What do you think of Mr. and Mrs. Griffin? I was sorry that they weren't well enough to dine with us this evening.”

“Mr. Griffin doesn't say much, just stands around looking at you, all disapproving, his mouth tight. Mrs. Griffin called me into the drawing room and told me to stand like a little soldier while she questioned me. She said I wasn't to speak too softly or too quickly. I answered a great many questions, Papa. She has a mustache, just like Mr. Clint's, in the village.”

“What were some of these questions?” He was irritated, but he supposed that since he'd gone on Donnatella's tour, Meggie had been left to her own devices. Next time he would take Meggie with him. Her presence would keep
Donnatella behaving properly if she was inclined toward flirtation.

“She asked me all about our family. She was particularly interested in Uncle Douglas. She said it would have been less repulsive if he were the new Baron Barthwick because he already had a title, was a peer of the realm, and at least knew what was what. As for you, she said that a so-called man of God would find himself sauced up really fast here.”

“She has a point there,” Tysen said, wondering if he were sauced up, if it meant he would be laid low. He leaned down and kissed Meggie's nose.

“Did Mr. Griffin ask you any questions?”

Meggie shook her head. “No. Oh, yes, Mrs. Griffin wanted to know all about Mama.”

Tysen stiffened. Beyond the line, he thought, that was well beyond the line.

“I told her that Mama died a very long time ago. I also told her that you didn't want a wife, so Donnatella wouldn't be able to seduce you.”

He jerked back as if he'd been slapped. “Meggie, I am your father. I am a vicar. You are ten years old. Do not use that word again.”

He eyed her. Meggie was smart, she was endlessly curious. “All right,” he said, “where did you hear it this time?”

“I overheard Aunt Alex speaking to Aunt Sophie about a man named Spenser Heatherington and how Helen had probably seduced him without a by-your-leave. They laughed a whole lot then, Papa.”

It was too much or not enough, Tysen was thinking, staring now beyond his ten-year-old daughter to the rumbling sea, which was loud this evening, waves crashing against the black, pitted rocks covered with the white bird droppings at the base of the Kildrummy cliff.

He drew a deep breath. Helen Mayberry and Spenser Heatherington, Lord Beecham. Actually, from what he'd heard about them, it was very likely to have happened just that way. Helen was a unique woman, Douglas had said, and laughed his wicked satyr's laugh. It was obvious to Tysen that Douglas admired the woman very much. Actually, Spenser and Helen had been married nearly four years now. They were, according to his brother, happy as loons, and they had two children.

Tysen cleared his throat. “Mrs. Griffin—did she say how long she and Mr. Griffin would remain here at Kildrummy?”

Meggie said matter-of-factly, “She said she was staying until Mr. Griffin was satisfied that you wouldn't run everything into the ground. But she said that Mr. Griffin didn't hold much hope that this debacle would end well, even when Miles MacNeily returns. Papa, what's a debacle?”