The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

“Meggie, I myself ordered them to leave. I recognized Mrs. Griffin for what she was. She was leaving this morning, her spouse with her. Your performance only advanced their departure by an hour or two.”

Meggie didn’t say a single thing.

He became very still, then said slowly, “You believe I am weak? You believe that she could have succeeded in staying even though I ordered her to leave?”

“You are so very good, Papa,” she said, barely above a whisper.

She had no faith in him at all. Tysen felt the blow hard and deep. Did she see him as good or as simply ineffectual? As a man who dealt in the spiritual realm and had little understanding of the real world?

Meggie said, her chin going up now, “Aunt Sinjun said a female always has to be prepared to act. She said that gentlemen many times don’t have the fortitude to do what is necessary. She told me about the time she was willing to kill one of Uncle Colin’s enemies. She didn’t kill him, as it turned out, and that was good since the man hadn’t been guilty after all, but she said to act, Papa. She said that a lady should never dither.”

Tysen thought he would surely choke at the strange combination of irritation, bemusement, and despair mingling in his throat. He hiccuped, cleared his throat. “I am going back to bed.” He began to walk back up the stairs, paused, then turned to see Meggie standing exactly where’d he left her, staring after him. “Did you really swing your leg at her?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Dear heavens,” he said. “You must have whistled loudly to wake her up. What did you whistle?”

“A song Aunt Alex taught me about how women will one day rule the world and all men will become butlers.”

Tysen could only shake his head. It was laughter rather than self-doubt that got the better of him just before he fell asleep again.

Vallance Manor

Mary Rose brushed her mother’s thick dark-red hair that was still untouched by gray. It was long and smooth, perfectly straight, unlike her own hair, which curled and twisted, dancing about her head to some unknown but merry tune.

“It will be a beautiful day, Mama. No rain in the sky.”

“Tell me about the new laird.”

Mary Rose started at the sound of her mother’s soft voice. As a rule, Gweneth Fordyce didn’t speak all that much, but when she did, it sounded like lilting music. “He is very nice, Mama. He is an Englishman, a vicar, and he is also very handsome. Perhaps too handsome, but nevertheless, he is very kind. An honest man, to be admired.”

Her mother said nothing more, just nodded, her eyes focused on the beech trees outside her bedchamber windows.

“His name is Tysen Sherbrooke, and his family is powerful in England. His brother is the earl of Northcliffe. Tysen is a widower. His little girl, Meggie, is here with him. She is precious, Mama. She helped me when I sprained my ankle.”

“Donnatella will want him.”

So soft her mother’s voice, so gentle, like a whispering breeze through her hair. “Well, yes, she probably does. But I don’t think he is at all interested—well, I don’t know what he will do. She is very beautiful.”

“Donnatella is just like her mother. She is a bitch wrapped in lovely packaging.”

Mary Rose blinked at that. “Mama? You really don’t like Donnatella? But you rarely even see her.”

“I remember that the first word she ever spoke was ‘mine.’ What does that tell you? You know that everyone talks about everyone, Mary Rose. You know that. I hear everything. I even hear you speaking Latin to yourself when you’re upset, or in a stubborn mood, or you’re reading aloud one of those ancient books. I believe Ovid is your favorite.”

Mary Rose gulped a bit. She did enjoy reading Ovid. It was terribly wicked, at least the parts she liked to read. She said, “Reverend Morley taught me Latin. I like it very much.”

“I know. You can say anything you like about anyone and get away with it, since no one can understand you. Now, Mary Rose, you must take care, because Donnatella is still very angry at you about Ian.”

It seemed to Mary Rose that her mother, quite suddenly and without warning, had fully recovered her wits. Perhaps her fragile mind, like a wheel that had gotten stuck in a ditch, was now back on its track. She’d prayed nearly every day of her life for that to happen. She said calmly, as if her mother really was with her completely, “There is no reason for her to be angry with me about Ian. The poor man is dead. I liked him very much, Mama. He was a good man.”

“He was a gambler, Mary Rose. Perhaps it wasn’t yet a vice, but I believe he would have become more ensnared as he got older.”

“Well, it is a moot point. He is gone, all his virtues and vices with him.”

“There is still Erickson. Like Ian, he turned from Donnatella to you. Keep your distance from him, Mary Rose, he is not to be trusted. Why does he no longer want Donnatella? Also, he is much too close to your uncle. I have seen them speaking quietly together, all alone. Whenever your uncle deals with another in that low, quiet voice of his, he is up to no good. Take care.”

“I will take care, Mama.”