The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

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.

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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.

“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.