The Scottish Bride by Catherine Coulter Page A

involve himself in local difficulties, but he’d been there, actually seen her fear. He didn’t have a choice. Why had MacPhail really ridden this way?

7

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    D ONNATELLA V ALLANCE ARRIVED at the exact same moment as an old carriage rolled into the inner courtyard through the gates of the castle.
    Tysen heard Oglivie’s voice, overwhelmed by a woman’s imperious voice, then Donnatella said, “Oh, dear, it is Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, here from Edinburgh. I had hoped they would not descend on you quite so quickly. Mrs. Griffin was not pleased when it was announced that you were the heir. Oh, dear. She is a witch. Good luck.”
    â€œWhat about Mr. Griffin?” Tysen asked.
    â€œMr. Griffin has never expressed an opinion, as far as I know.”
    â€œWhat do you know about Mr. Griffin, I ask you, you impertinent chit? Sir, I am Mrs. Griffin. My lord, you will speak to me.”
    He stared at the lady who was striding toward him, like a major in the king’s army, garbed in severe, unrelieved black, swinging a black cane with a golden griffin on its head, her voice as deep and sharp as a man’s.
    He said easily, “I am Tysen Sherbrooke, ma’am, Lord Barthwick. You were first cousin to the former LordBarthwick? Have I got it right? Is it possible that we are related?”
    She had a thin black mustache atop her upper lip and masses of black hair, all twisted in coils on top of her head. Medusa had perhaps resembled Mrs. Griffin. The mustache quivered a bit as she shouted at him, “Related to you, sir? Good Gad, no! No paltry English blood in these veins. Well, no more than a dollop of English blood. I would allow no more. No, sir, I am a Scotswoman, through and through, very nearly.
    â€œYou are not a Scotsman. It is more than just a pity. It is more than a disaster, but God has cursed us for some heretofore unpunished sin and consigned all the worthwhile heirs underground. What are you doing here, Donnatella?”
    â€œI am here to take his lordship on a tour, ma’am. I arrived just before you did.” Donnatella then turned to Tysen and gave him a very warm smile. “Good day, my lord, it is ever so pleasant to see you again. Are you ready to leave?”
    The black mustache quivered again, just a bit, over Mrs. Griffin’s upper lip. Tysen wondered if Mrs. Griffin had a first name, but he didn’t ask because then the lady laughed, a perfectly dreadful sound, all deep and hoarse, and said, “Ha! I’ll wager one of my last groats that a tour isn’t your objective at all, Donnatella. You are here to begin your flirtations with the poor man, who isn’t poor at all since he now owns Kildrummy Castle, which the good Lord knows he doesn’t deserve.”
    Well, that was the truth, he thought.
    Mrs. Griffin turned back to Tysen, gave him a look that clearly told him he was grossly lacking, and said, “You probably do not have a chance, my lord. Donnatella is young, but she is wise in the ways of women, and thus, as a man, you haven’t a chance. Hmmm. Donnatella is aScotswoman, however, and that is probably the only good thing to come out of this debacle. I would have married old Tyronne myself, but I was too old to give birth to another heir, and also, alas, there is Mr. Griffin to consider. A pity, but we will see.”
    Tysen looked beyond Mrs. Griffin to see a very tall, very thin gentleman, nattily dressed, his hair snow-white, thick and full, leaning against the door of the carriage.
    â€œSir,” Tysen said, giving him a slight bow.
    Mr. Griffin nodded, returned with a quick, jerking bow, and nodded once again. He walked up to stand just behind his wife. “My lord. We are here. We have returned, just as we promised ourselves we would. You have met my charming wife, I see.”
    â€œYes, he has, Mr. Griffin. I am still standing outside, and I don’t want to be here. Now, where is Mrs.