He said, “Very well, Donnatella. I am still very sorry about Ian. In the course of things he would be Lord Barthwick now, not I, and you would be his wife. It was a tragedy.”
“But now you are here, my lord.”
“Yes, now things have changed utterly, and I am here. To be honest, I had forgotten all about Kildrummy. I am a widower, ma’am. Perhaps you did not know that I am also a vicar. I am Reverend Sherbrooke of Glenclose-on-Rowan.”
She gaped at him. It was particularly charming since it make her look silly, rather dull-witted, and thus quite human. “You are a vicar?” He’d never heard such incredulity in his life. He smiled at her and said, “Yes, Miss Vallance, I am a vicar.”
She was looking at him, studying his face, still uncertain, still questioning. “But how is such a thing possible? Goodness, sir, I have seen paintings of John Knox, and let me tell you that he looked like what he was supposed to look like. But you do not. You, a vicar? No, it isn’t possible. You are teasing me because you do not wish to engage at present in a harmless flirtation and thus you are trying to put me off.”
He cocked his head at her. “Why isn’t it possible, Miss Vallance?”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his remaining wits. She shook her head at him. “Because you are very handsome. You are also rich.”
His Sherbrooke looks again. Well, there was nothing he could do about the way he looked or about the money that filled his coffers. Now that he thought about it, he himself had seen renderings of John Knox. The man’s face made him shiver a bit. A fanatic in Presbyterian’s clothing. He said, a smile in his voice, “You wish to see handsome gentlemen, you should meet my brothers.”
“Well,” she said slowly, looking even more closely at him now, trying perhaps to see if there was some sort of sign on his face that fit what a man of God should look like, at least in her view. “Thank heaven that you are not a priest, my lord,” she then said, and touched her fingertips to his sleeve. “You are a widower. Do accept my condolences. We will have a late luncheon at Vallance Manor. My father requested that you come.” She cocked her head to one side, the ostrich feather curling around her cheek, and said, “You may say grace to bless our food. It is rarely done. I cannot wait to see Papa’s face.”
Vallance Manor was an upstart, Donnatella told him as they reined in their mounts in front of a compact gray-granite house that looked more English than Scottish and wasn’t old enough to have enjoyed a single soldier pouring boiling oil down on an enemy. It was a neat property, surrounded by pine trees, a graveled drive in front of it, beech trees lined up along the sides. It was inland from the sea, a good half-mile, but Tysen could still smell the sea air, and he liked that.
Donnatella tossed her mare’s reins to a young boy who was missing his front tooth and was gazing at her with naked adoration.
She ignored him, waiting until Tysen dismounted and handed the boy Big Fellow’s reins as well.
He realized he would soon see Mary Rose. Odd that he didn’t think of her as Miss Fordyce. No, she had been Mary Rose from the moment he’d heard her name. He couldn’t very well call her Miss Fordyce now. He would feel like a complete fool. He said, “I trust Mary Rose’s ankle is healed today?”
Donnatella shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I will soon see for myself,” Tysen said.
“You are very kind to be concerned about her.”
“She took a very bad fall. I was worried she had done herself a lasting injury.”
“She didn’t. She is fine.”
He wanted to tell her that since she’d admitted that she didn’t even know, how could she say with such certainty that Mary Rose was fine? Because no one had called for a physician?
He was met and briefly entertained by both Sir Lyon and Lady Margaret in the drawing room, a very modern room filled with furnishings to reflect the contemporary craze for all things Egyptian, from sofas with scrolled arms to chairs with clawed feet.
“How is Mary Rose?” he asked when there was finally a brief lull in the conversation. He was surprised that she wasn’t here to greet him, a bit put out as well. He had saved her, after all, and yet she didn’t care enough to thank him, or at least to acknowledge his presence.
Lady Margaret said, “Mary Rose, my lord, is fine. She naturally will not be dining with us.”
“I don’t understand,” Tysen said slowly. “If she is fine, then why won’t she be dining with us?” A look passed between Sir Lyon and his wife.
“Ah, of course the girl will eat with us,” Sir Lyon said. “My lady was thinking that she had a prior appointment, but I do not believe it is so. Donnatella, my dear, why don’t you fetch your cousin? Then we will have our luncheon.”
Donnatella smiled at Tysen. “I think you will be quite relieved, my lord. You will see that she is fine now.” And she left the drawing room, lifting off her charming riding hat as she went.
Sir Lyon, his voice all bluff and full of bonhomie, said, “Well, did my little beauty take you everywhere, my lord?”
“Yes, sir,” Tysen said and thought of the dozen streams they had crossed, the ancient circle of stones they had seen, the ruins of a very old Scottish castle. “I believe I saw everything.” He then asked about the history of Vallance Manor.
“It was said that Mary, Queen of Scots once stayed here,” said Lady Margaret. “The manor was newly built then. I believe the year was 1570.”
The door opened and in walked Mary Rose, no limp, thank the good Lord.
For a moment, Mary Rose and Donnatella were standing side by side. Mary Rose was tall, very slender, her dark red hair ruthlessly snagged back and rolled into a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her gown was an indeterminate gray from many washings, at least ten years old, he thought. But her eyes—they were the color of rich green moss, moss just rained upon, moss hidden from the sunlight, left in shadows to hold secrets and look mysterious. They’d been clouded with pain when he had seen her the first time, but not now. This was ridiculous—eyes the color of moss hidden from sunlight? He was suffering a flight of fancy that simply wasn’t proper or appropriate. Had he ever even been visited by a flight of fancy before? Perhaps he felt a bit proprietary because he’d saved her. Yes, that was it. He turned purposely to Donnatella, who was smaller than her cousin, her figure lovely and rounded, her hair a rich, deep black, no red in it, her skin as white as a fresh snowfall. They looked absolutely nothing alike.