The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

TYSEN SAT AT the laird’s very old, scarred desk in the airless library, Miles MacNeily beside him. He had expected the estate manager to be a wizened old man with tufts of gray hair encircling his head, but he wasn’t. He was older, certainly, but not over forty-five. He was tall and lean, very smart and quite fine-looking, his hair the burnished red so common to Scotsmen and his eyes very blue. He dressed well. Tysen wondered why he had never wed.

“Yes, my lord, you understand this all very well. It is because you come from great landholdings in England. All of this, well, it must seem paltry in comparison.”

Tysen merely smiled at that intelligent face and shook his head. He would miss Miles MacNeily. He had learned a great deal from him in just the past day. It appeared that MacNeily’s mother had left him all her holdings near Inverness. Mr. MacNeily would, unfortunately, be leaving within the month. He would be his own master. Tysen thought he would do very nicely as his own master.

“Actually, Miles,” Tysen said, “it is my brother who is the earl, the lord of all he surveys. Don’t forget, I am a vicar, I have always been a vicar. Anything I know I suppose I have simply absorbed over the years.”

Miles gave him a charming smile. “Perhaps, but you have a fine brain, my lord. I have no doubt that I am leaving Kildrummy in good hands.”

“Thank you. Even a vicar enjoys hearing such things said about him. Did you work well with the former Lord Barthwick?”

“Ah, Tyronne, the old laird, he could yell like no man I have heard in my life. I learned to move away from him quickly when I knew he was working himself up to a fury. I didn’t wish to lose my hearing. It never took much to have him screeching his head off. Yes, my lord, we worked well together. It did not take him more than a dozen years to come to trust me. Kildrummy has been my home nearly all of my adult life. I have been happy here. I will miss it.”

They worked for another hour, reviewing the situation of all the Kildrummy tenants, the problems they either faced now or would probably face in the near future. They spoke of all the Kildrummy holdings in the village, the number of flocks of sheep and herds of cows, improve-ments to be made. And on and on it went. It wasn’t an immense task, but there were many details that Tysen knew he would have to commit to memory if he were to run Kildrummy well. He remembered then that he would be returning to England, to his home and his church, to his life that seemed so very far away at this point. What would happen to Kildrummy when he was no longer here to watch over things?

Meggie knocked and peered around the door an hour later. She grinned at her father and ducked a sweet curtsy to Miles. “I am here to fetch you to tea.”

Miles, Tysen quickly realized, wasn’t immune to his little hussy of a daughter, who was flirting shamelessly with him. Since she was ten years old, her twinkling eyes and smiles were given to a man she was ready to accept as a favored uncle. This appeared to delight Miles. Tysen just shook his head at her.

It was while Tysen was sipping his tea that he realized he had the solution to his estate problem; it was staring him in the nose. “Oliver,” he said aloud.

Meggie turned to him, her head to one side. “What about Oliver, Papa?”

“Your uncle Douglas wants him to assist in the running of Northcliffe. I, however, believe it’s Scotland where Oliver will make his way. I think Oliver might be just the man to run Kildrummy.” Tysen rubbed his hands together, then told Miles exactly who Oliver was. “. . . so you see, my brother Ryder Sherbrooke has always taken in abused children—loved them, cared for them, and ensured that they were placed with excellent families or given the skills for the trade they wished. Oliver Dalrymple was one of his first children. He is now—is he twenty yet, Meggie?”

“Oliver is twenty-one, Papa. He just came down from Oxford in early June.” She said to Miles, “Do you like his name? Dalrymple?”

“It sounds quite noble,” Miles said. “There have been several Dalrymples who have figured prominently in the government.”

“Yes, that is what Uncle Ryder told him. My uncle Ryder selected it for him, you see. Oliver didn’t know who his papa was; then his mother died—it was due to something called blue ruin, Uncle Ryder said. I don’t know what that is, but it killed her. All he knew when Uncle Ryder found him was that his name was Oliver. Now he sounds ever so elegant.” She frowned a moment, then added, “And complete. Oliver is now complete.”

“He is a very lucky young man,” Miles said. “Just imagine, finding abused children and taking them in. It is an excellent thing your brother does, my lord.”

“All of my uncle Ryder’s Beloved Ones are lucky,” Meggie said and poured him another cup of tea, beautifully executed because of the lessons her aunt Alex had given her.

Tysen was rubbing his hands together again. “I must write a letter. Miles, I will join you later. Meggie, keep out of trouble.”

Tysen wrote a letter to Oliver and one to Douglas, and dispatched Ardle, one of his stable lads, with the packet to Edinburgh. Now, he thought, striding to the stables, it was time to beard the MacPhail laird in his den.

He found the MacPhail manor house without difficulty. It was about the same size of Sir Lyon’s holdings, but Erickson’s holding wasn’t as nicely kept up. The lawn in front of the manor house needed a half a dozen men with sharp scythes, walls needed paint, stone needed to be replaced.

Erickson MacPhail wasn’t at his manor house. The laird was riding, he was told by a pinch-mouthed housekeeper whose sleeves and hands were dirty.

Where would he be?

It was late in the afternoon. Mary Rose had ridden back to the rushing stream. When Erickson came some ten minutes later, she knew he’d seen her and followed her. “Marry me,” he said.

“I don’t want to marry you, Erickson.” Mary Rose spoke calmly, her voice slow and patient, although her heart was beating so fiercely in her chest she thought it would surely burst out of her.

“You have told me that, Mary Rose,” he said, his voice just as calm as hers, perhaps a bit patronizing because he believed her to be toying with him, and he thought it naught more than a silly woman’s game, and he’d tired of it. He’d more than tired of it the day she’d raced back into the forest and he’d lost her.

She really was quite lovely, he thought now, knowing he would get his way because regardless of what she wanted, what she felt, he would have her. Aye, she wasn’t at all plain. Her hair was rich, thick, a brilliant mix of colors, from the brightest red to a deep auburn. He raised his hand to touch it, then thought better of it.

And those eyes of hers, that soft green color. She had her mother’s eyes. He remembered how Gweneth was so very beautiful and hot in her passion. Mary Rose’s nose was narrow, her brows nicely arched. Her mouth—he did like that mouth of hers. He wanted to kiss her again, to feel whether her lips were as soft as he remembered. There was a line of light freckles over her nose.

She was looking at him, and the look wasn’t promising. Why didn’t she want him? No, it had to be a ridiculous woman’s game. He was getting impatient with her. He had planned to go slowly, to woo her, but she wasn’t cooperating. Damn her, she should be on her knees, kissing his hands, grateful to him for rescuing her, but no, she was shaking her head at him, that damned chin of hers up.

“Please believe me, Erickson. I’m not toying with you. This is no teasing game. I have never learned how to play those sorts of games. Listen to me now. I truly do not wish to marry you.”