The Scottish Bride (Sherbrooke Brides 6)

MARY ROSE HAD just eaten a bowl of too salty chicken broth under Tysen’s watchful eye when Meggie burst into the room, out of breath because she had been running. “You’ll not believe who is here, Papa! It’s Aunt Sinjun and Uncle Colin!”

Sinjun stepped into the very large, very dark, melancholy bedchamber that had obviously had only a long line of men living there with no woman to perk the place up and quickly took in Mary Rose’s vivid curly red hair, those incredible green eyes of hers, the bruises on her face, her pallor. And that leap of fear. She said to the room at large, which also included Tysen, who had just built up the fire and was now standing, wiping his hands, staring at her, clearly startled at her sudden presence, “I would have gotten here sooner, but Pearlin’ Jane didn’t tell me exactly where the trouble was or exactly who the trouble involved until last night just after Colin and I were all snuggled together in bed and—never mind that. Then I had to convince Colin that it wasn’t some sort of absurd dream, brought on by a surfeit of—no, forget that as well. It isn’t important either. Colin is, naturally, stubborn as a flea since he is a man, but he came around finally.” Sinjun walked quickly to Tysen, who was now holding out his arms to her, still looking bemused, saying her name, and wrapped her own arms around him.

“Sinjun,” he said again, kissing her, then holding her away from him, “you know I do not believe in ghosts. Even this Pearlin’ Jane of yours. Now, will you tell me, with no embroidering of the facts, exactly why you felt compelled to drag yourself and Colin here to Kildrummy?”

“Of course I’ll tell you, my dear, but first, who is this?”

r /> “She’s Mary Rose, Aunt Sinjun, and her hair is as beautiful as Aunt Alex’s.”

“Yes,” Colin said, stepping forward and shaking Tysen’s hand, then looking immediately over at Mary Rose, “I suppose that it is. I can see you’ve been hurt. I am Colin Kinross, the stubborn husband. What is going on here? I never believed Sinjun for a moment—well, perhaps for three or four very short moments, but no more than that—but she was so very worried that something bad was happening to Tysen that we came. I’m sorry, Tysen. If you are wishing us at Jericho, we will leave you be. But it looks as if my wife is correct. There is some trouble here.”

Tysen said, “You have arrived at a splendid time. You can help Meggie protect Mary Rose from Erickson MacPhail.”

“Oh, goodness,” Sinjun said and was by Mary Rose’s side in an instant, her cool hand on her forehead. “Of course there is trouble. Is Erickson MacPhail the man we saw striding out of the castle, looking like he wanted to blast everyone?”

“Oh, dear,” Mary Rose said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tysen said. “He finally realizes he has lost. Let him relieve his bile.”

Sinjun said, “Now we are here, nothing else unpleasant will happen to you.” She smiled down at the young woman who had the most magnificent green eyes she’d ever seen. “Actually, with Tysen here, we’re really not at all necessary, but—”

There was a swish at the doorway, then a loud, portentous clearing of the throat. Tysen turned to see Mrs. Griffin standing there, her hands on her abundant hips.

Tysen said pleasantly, “Sinjun, my dearest sister, I beg you not to leave. Now here is trouble that is possibly even beyond my ability to manage. Help me, Sinjun. I am clearly in need of reinforcements.”

Mrs. Griffin said, striding into the bedchamber, swinging her black cane, “I do not wish to believe my eyes! But I cannot disregard what my eyes are seeing. There have been generations of Barthwicks who have slipped out of their mothers’ wombs and then died on their own, usually of gnarly old age—at least some of them did—in that bed. Just look at her—all sunk deep in the lovely feather ticking, looking right at home, as if she belonged, as if she was the laird’s wife. She is nothing but a bastard. No one has anything to do with her. She doesn’t belong here, particularly in that bed. Ah, that raises a question.”

Mrs. Griffin pumped herself up, her bosom attaining new prominence. “What is she doing in your bedchamber and in your bed, my lord?”

Tysen had always enjoyed his share of the Sherbrooke luck. But now it seemed that wondrous luck had deserted him. His bedchamber was very nearly overflowing with people, and poor Mary Rose looked as if she was going to expire on the spot. And now this ridiculous old besom was insulting her at a fine clip, and that made him very angry indeed. He said pleasantly, though it was very difficult, almost beyond him, “Mrs. Griffin, Mr. Griffin—I assume you are standing directly behind your wife, and that is why I don’t see you?”

“Just so. We are here to see what is what.”

“That is obscure enough,” Tysen said. “Before you again take your leave, you can see that Mary Rose has been hurt. She is recovering from her injuries. This is all there is to it, this is your what is what. There is nothing that requires your assistance that I can think of. I hope your carriage is still awaiting you in front of the castle?”

“Rudeness isn’t becoming, even though you are a vicar and an Englishman,” said Mrs. Griffin. “Of course there is more to this than a mere what is what. I ask you, my lord, who are these people? Obviously they are more im-ported wretched English here to torment us.”

Colin eyed the woman with the thin black mustache over her upper lip and her husband, who was still standing behind her, drew himself as tall as Robert the Bruce, wished he had a claymore to swing about, and said, “Ma’am, I am Lord Ashburnham. I am so Scottish that I wear my plaid to bed and even dream in Scottish, not English or Italian. Just who the devil are you?”

To Tysen’s surprise, Mrs. Griffin gave Colin a very quick, very deep curtsy, ruined quickly enough when she opened her mouth. “I am Mrs. Griffin, naturally, my lord. I belong here. I have been coming here for so long that I once even considered marrying Old Tyronne so I could sleep in that bed. I did not marry him, of course, because of Mr. Griffin here, and he was still breathing then, as he is now. Poor Old Tyronne needed more heirs, but alas, I was a bit too advanced in years to provide one.

“Now, I can see that I am needed. There is a conundrum of magnificent proportions here. I—we—are here to resolve everything. First, get that girl out of that bed.”

Tysen rolled his eyes. It kept him from marching up to Mrs. Griffin and either snarling something unvicarlike into her face or throwing her out the window, if only they were wide enough to accommodate her, which he doubted they were.

Sinjun said slowly, still absorbing the irrefutable fact that this woman actually existed and was standing here in Tysen’s bedchamber, “Pearlin’ Jane didn’t tell me about you, Mrs. Griffin.”

“Obviously this Pearlin’ Jane person doesn’t know everything,” said Mr. Griffin, one shoulder showing around his wife.

“If Pearlin’ Jane had told you anything at all about Mrs. Griffin,” Tysen said to his sister, “I doubt you would have stirred from Vere Castle even if my head was under the guillotine blade. You would have written me a letter of condolence and kept your distance.”

“I do not find you amusing, my lord.”

“No, I imagine that you don’t,” Tysen said. “Now, why don’t all of us leave Mary Rose to rest? Perhaps Mrs. MacFardle will provide us tea to pour down our respective gullets. Then perhaps you, Mrs. Griffin, will feel that the conundrum is well in hand and you are free once again to take your leave.”

“I continue not to like your humor, my lord.”

“Sometimes, Mrs. Griffin,” Tysen said, swallowing his gorge since there was no choice at all, “I don’t either.”