The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“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 “The furnishings—they are old and out-of-date.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.