The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [30]
“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.
Mary Rose was—was what? Tysen frowned. She was a woman, not a girl like Donnatella. She also had a very strange look on her face. Those mysterious eyes of hers were narrowed, intent. She wasn’t looking at him, she was looking at Lady Margaret.
He rose quickly and walked to her. “Hello, Mary Rose,” he said and took her hand in his for a moment. He studied her face. “Your ankle is fit again?”
“Yes, my lord. I am perfectly fine now.”
He dropped her hand, and she looked up at him now, full face, and wondered if he had already fallen in love with Donnatella. She knew well enough that she looked like a peasant next to her cousin—a maypole, a scarecrow stuck on a stick to frighten away birds in the fields. She was wearing an old woolen gown that had belonged to her mother when she’d been young. It was too short, far short of her ankles. Not that it mattered. She was nothing. Well, she didn’t want to be anything, particularly to this Englishman—to any man, actually.
“Excellent,” Tysen said, then took a step back. There was dead silence. Finally, Sir Lyon hefted himself to his feet. “Eh, my lord? Luncheon? I know it is late, but my beauty here wanted you to see everything before she brought you back.”
“Yes,” Tysen said. “Yes, luncheon would be very nice.”
Without thinking, he offered his arm to Mary Rose. Donnatella laughed.
Over forfar bridies—sausage in pastry coats, tossed with onions—Donnatella