The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“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 s

aid, “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?”

“That old bat,” Tysen said, finally feeling a bit of irritation bubbling inside his belly. He rose to pace beside his daughter’s bed, to calm himself. The room was chilly now, and he closed the window, latching it securely. He’d come to Scotland to become the Barthwick laird, a my lord, for heaven’s sake, and now here he was, a debacle. It was time to beard the lioness, he thought, not the lion. The lion had no teeth. He was only a cipher. He said to his daughter, “I believe I will myself get to know our guests,” gave her a nod, and left the room. “Strange how the both of them refused to come to dinner.”

Meggie slipped on her wrapper, pulled on a pair of Max’s socks that came to her knees, and slipped out after her father. Unfortunately, she came face-to-face with Mrs. MacFardle at the base of the grand central staircase.

“I wanted some milk,” Meggie said without hesitation. She could always lie better than either of her brothers. She’d tried to teach them the trick—always look the person straight in the eye when you lied. Otherwise you looked shifty and it was all over.

“Harrumph,” said Mrs. MacFardle and led the way to the kitchen. Meggie looked back over her shoulder toward the closed drawing room door. Evidently her papa had found the Griffins.

The door was partially open, and she heard him say in his calm, deep voice, “I trust you are recovered from the malady that kept you from the dinner table?”

“If that is your roundabout way of asking if I am feeling fit now, the answer is yes. I am here in the drawing room, aren’t I? I have allowed you to enter. I am even speaking to you, although it is difficult—”

Tysen cut her off. His irritation was building. “And has Mr. Griffin also regained his good health?”

“Mr. Griffin, I believe, is determining how long it will take you to destroy all the Kildrummy property. I, naturally, have asked him to do this.”

He ignored that and forged ahead. “I would appreciate it, ma’am, if you would ask questions of me rather than of my daughter. If you wish to know about my family, ask me, and I will decide what you need to know.”

“Why? She’s a smart little gel,” said Mrs. Griffin, dressed in the same stiff pervasive black, spread over nearly the entire sofa. She was holding that black cane, waving it just a bit. It looked like a weapon in her large hand. “She told me everything I wanted to know, whereas you would likely have perseverated. Besides, you went off with Donnatella and were not available to me. Now, to be blunt about all this—I quite despair of Kildrummy ever recovering.”

“I don’t,” Tysen said. “However, ma’am, I think despair would be an excellent trait for you to cultivate.”

“I have no idea what you mean by that, and thus it is very likely irrelevant. Now, isn’t Donnatella a lovely little chit? And you were with her for a very long time, weren’t you? Alone.” She gave him an arch, leering look that made him want to throw an old leather hassock at her.

“Aye,” she continued, her leer even more pronounced as she looked him up and down, “if you weren’t a vicar, I would believe that you had yourself a very fine time indeed. On the other hand,” she added, the thin black mustache over her upper lip mesmerizing him, “it’s possible that since you’re an English vicar, you have no notion of what real sin is or isn’t.”