The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [62]
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,