“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.
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?”