The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [0]
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Epilogue
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Scottish Bride
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2001 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1436-7
A JOVE BOOK®
JOVE Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): July 2001
To Anton,
who’s a cracker.
—C. C.
1
Northcliffe Hall
August 15, 1815
TYSEN SHERBROOKE GAZED out the wide windows onto the east lawn of Northcliffe, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I did know that I was in line for the title, Douglas, but I was so far down on the list of rightful heirs that I never imagined it could actually happen. Indeed, I haven’t even thought of it for a good decade. The last grandson, Ian, he’s really dead?”
“Yes, just six months before the old man died. It seems he fell off a cliff into the North Sea. The solicitor seems to think Ian’s death is what shoved Old Tyronne into the grave. Of course, he was eighty-seven, so he probably didn’t need much of a push. That means that you, Tysen, are now Baron Barthwick. It’s an old barony, dating back to the early fifteenth century, when men of importance were barons. Earls were later additions, upstarts for a very long time.”
“I remember Kildrummy Castle, of course,” Tysen said. “It’s right on the coast, below Stonehaven, overlooking the North Sea. It’s a beautiful place, Douglas, not immensely tall with no windows like the old medieval Scottish castles, but newer, built in the late seventeenth century, I believe. I remember being told that the original castle was destroyed in one of their interminable clan fights. The new one, it’s got gables and chimney stacks—a good dozen of them—and four round angle-turrets. The lower floor of the castle is closed off by the building itself and attached to a curtain wall that encloses a very large inner courtyard.” Tysen paused a moment, seeing everything from a younger perspective, and his eyes glistened a bit as he said, “Ah, but the countryside, Douglas, it is untamed and wild, as if God gazed down upon it, decided against our modern buildings and roads, and left it untouched. There are more crags than you can begin to count, and deep-rutted paths, just one narrow, winding road, really, that leads to the castle. There’s a steep, rocky hill that goes down to a beach, and wildflowers, Douglas, wildflowers everywhere.”
This was quite a poetic outpouring from his staid, very serious and literal brother. Douglas was pleased that Tysen not only remembered Barthwick so well but also appeared to admire it immensely. He said, “I remember your going there with Father when you were—what? About ten years old?”
“That’s right. It was one of the best times of my life.”
Douglas wasn’t at all surprised. It was unusual that any of them had ever had their father completely to themselves. Whenever Douglas had his father’s full attention, he’d felt blessed by the Almighty. He still missed the former earl, an honorable man who had loved his children and managed to tolerate his