The Scottish Bride

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 difficult wife with a wry smile

and a shrug of his shoulders. Douglas sighed. So much

change. “Since you are now the holder of an ancient me3

dieval barony, I suppose I shall have to let you sit above

the salt.”

Tysen didn’t laugh, but perhaps he did smile, just a bit.

He hadn’t laughed much since he’d decided to become a

man of God when he was seventeen. Douglas remembered

their brother Ryder telling Tysen that of all the men

placed on this benighted earth, it was a vicar who should

have the greatest sense of humor, since God obviously

did. Just look at all the absurdities that surrounded us.

Hadn’t Tysen ever observed the mating ritual of peacocks,

for example? And just look at their buffoon of a prince

regent, who was so fat he had to be hoisted in and out of

his bathtub? Ah, but Tysen was serious, his sermons highminded,

stark in their message that God was a stern taskmaster

and not apt to easily overlook a man’s lapses.

Tysen was now thirty-one years old. He certainly had the

look of the Sherbrookes—tall, well built, brown hair

streaked with blond, and Sherbrooke eyes the color of a

summer sky. Douglas was the changeling, with his jetblack

hair and dark eyes.

But Tysen didn’t have his siblings’ love of life, their

seemingly inborn boundless joy, their belief that the world

was a very fine place indeed.

“Sitting above the salt—I haven’t heard that phrase in

a very long time,” Tysen said. “I suppose I must travel to

Scotland and see what’s what.” He sighed. “There is always

so much that demands my time here, but Great Uncle

Tyronne deserves an heir who will at least see that the

estate is run properly—not that I have much experience

in that area.”

“You know I will assist you, Tysen. You need but ask.

Would you like me to accompany you to Barthwick?”

Tysen shook his head. “No, Douglas, but I thank you.

It is something that is my responsibility. I have an effi-

4 CATHERINE COULTER

cient curate who can assume my duties for a while. You

remember Samuel Pritchert, don’t you?”

Oh, yes, no way to forget that dour prig. Douglas

merely nodded.

“No, I will go by myself. All the heirs dead. Douglas,

I remember all the cousins. So many boys. All of them

are really dead?”

“Yes, a great shame. Disease, accidents, duels, a case

of too much revelry. As I said, the last heir, Ian Barthwick,

evidently fell off a cliff into the North Sea. The

solicitor wasn’t specific about exactly how it happened.”

“There must have been six boys to inherit, all of them

before me. And that’s why, as I remember, Great Uncle

Tyronne set me up as an heir. It amused him to see it

done legally—to place an English boy in line for an ancient

Scottish barony. Naturally he never expected that it

would come about.”

“And now it’s yours, Tysen. His jest came back to hit

him in the face. The castle, the rich grazing lands, more

sheep than you can count even when you’re trying to fall

asleep—all of it belongs to an Englishman. And many of

the crofters and tenants are fishermen, so that means that

even during bad times, no one starves. It isn’t a wealthy

holding, but it is substantial. I understand that Great Uncle

Tyronne didn’t believe in clearances. None of that has

ever been done on Barthwick land.”

“Good for him,” Tysen said. “It’s a pernicious practice,

Douglas, dragging people off land that they’ve farmed or

raised sheep on for hundreds of years.” He paused a moment,

then said, “I suppose that my son Max is now the

heir to the Barony of Barthwick. I do wonder what he

will have to say to that.”

He would probably quote some Latin, Douglas thought.

His brother’s elder boy was very intelligent, quiet, a

scholar, perhaps even more serious than his father had

been at his age. He had been named after their grandfather,

the only scholar in the entire line of Sherbrookes, so

far as Douglas knew.

“When you leave, Tysen, bring the children here, and

Alex and I will look after them. Your Meggie can whip

not only her brothers into shape but her cousins as well.

Heathens, the both of them.”

Tysen did smile then, a slow, calm smile. “She is amazing,

isn’t she, Douglas?”

“Just like Sinjun at her age. Meggie will rule your

household, Tysen, if you’re not careful.”

Tysen looked appalled. “No, really, not at all like Sinjun,

Douglas. Perhaps she looks like Sinjun, but a hoyden

like Sinjun? Oh, no. I remember Sinjun could drive you

to Bedlam with her antics. Oh, no, Meggie is much more

restrained, much more a little lady than Sinjun ever was.”

Douglas said, “Do you remember how Father threw up

his hands when Sinjun kicked Tommy Maitland in his

backside and he went flying off a cliff? Thank God he

didn’t break his neck.”

Tysen said, “And that time she sewed all your trouser

legs together? I can still hear you yelling, Douglas. No,

Meggie isn’t like Sinjun was. She’s very obedient. I’ve

never had a day’s worry with her.” Suddenly a slight furrow

appeared between his brows. “Well, perhaps she does

have our two servants at her beck and call. Perhaps also

the boys do obey her quickly, usually without fuss. Then

there’s Cook, who actually bakes dishes just for Meggie.

But it is her sweetness, her patience, that gains her the

love and obedience of all those at the vicarage, even her

brothers.”

It was difficult to restrain himself, but Douglas didn’t

roll his eyes. Was his brother completely blind? Evidently

so. Meggie was careful around her father, the chit was

6 CATHERINE COULTER

that smart. He said, “I remember I boxed Sinjun’s ears so

many times I lost count.”

Tysen said, “I did that once. As I remember, I was

thirteen and she was nine and she had tied the tail of my

favorite kite around Corkscrew’s neck—you remember

Corkscrew, don’t you, Douglas? What a dog! He was the

very best. In any case, then Sinjun throws a stick and off

goes Corkscrew, and believe it or not, that kite lifted off

the ground, before it got tangled up in one of Mother’s

rosebushes and got ruined. I smacked her before she managed

to run and hide from me.” Then, very suddenly, Tysen

managed a very big smile. “I hadn’t realized—I will

see Sinjun and Colin. It’s been too long.” He rose and

stretched. “Well, I suppose there is no time like the present.

Samuel Pritchert will take good care of all our people.

Thank you for taking the children, Douglas. I believe I

will leave on Wednesday. I daresay I can write a good

dozen sermons in my head, it will take so long to get

there.”

Meggie quickly ran down the long hallway when she

heard her father moving toward the door of Uncle Douglas’s

estate room. She ran right into her aunt Alex. “Goodness,

Meggie, are you all right?” Alex grasped her niece’s

arms and eyed her closely. “You were listening, weren’t

you? Oh dear, I did too at your age. Your aunt Sinjun

still does. What is going on, Meggie?”

“Father is going to Scotland on Wednesday. He’s leaving

the boys here.”

Alex raised a brow. “Oh, yes, the new title. It’s right

that he should go. And what about you?”

“Oh,” Meggie said, giving her aunt a very wicked

smile. “I’m going with him. He needs me, you know.”

“You think he will take you?”

“Oh, yes,” Meggie said. “Is there anything I can do for

you, Aunt Alex?”

Alex Sherbrooke just stared down at her niece and

lightly touched her fingertips to her lovely hair. Tysen

didn’t have a chance, she thought. She sent Meggie up to

the schoolroom to have luncheon with her brothers and

cousins. They were evidently holding special races, using

the tables and desks for obstacles, their tutor, Mr. Murphy,

had told her as he’d mopped the sweat off his brow. Alex

knew that Meggie could bring them back to order. She

was still smiling when Tysen and Douglas came out of

the library.

“Hollis just told me that luncheon is served,” she said.

“Indeed, my lord,” Hollis said, giving Tysen a rare

smile. “The title and dignities will suit you well.”

“Thank you, Hollis.”

Alex said, “Is the new and very worthy Baron Barthwick

ready for some of Cook’s thin-sliced ham?”

“How very odd that sounds,” Tysen said thoughtfully,

then he added in a very serious voice, “And be sure that

I am seated above the salt cellars, Alex. I am now that

important.”

She laughed, as did Douglas, but Tysen didn’t. He

merely acknowledged with a slight smile that he’d said

something that could be construed as moderately witty,

then asked about his nephews’ health.

“Their health is splendid,” Douglas said. “It’s their

damned good looks that are driving me to the brink of

madness. Both James and Jason will slay the women, Tysen.

By God, they are only ten years old—the same age

as little Meggie—and already all the local girls are showing

up on our doorstep at all hours, presenting colorful

bouquets of flowers wrapped up in pink ribbons for Alex,

presenting me with homemade slippers, even plates of

tarts that they claim they baked with their own small

hands—anything to bring themselves to the twins’ attention.

Most of the time, they have no idea which twin is

which, so you can imagine how many pranks the boys

play on them.” Douglas shook his head, then added,

“Thank God, so far the boys take it in stride, but it’s

nonetheless nauseating and portends bad things for the

future.”

Tysen said as he seated himself at the small dining table,

“I suppose they do greatly resemble your sister,

Alex.” He added matter-of-factly, “It’s true that she is the

most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Isn’t it strange

that the twins should look so much like her and not like

you or Douglas?”

“Tony, damn his eyes, just laughs and laughs whenever

that is pointed out,” Douglas said and handed Tysen a

plate of Cook’s famous thin-sliced ham, sprinkled with

her renowned Secret Recipe that always had badly

crushed basil leaves in it. “At least Tony and Melissande’s

children look like we could be their parents, so that’s

something. Now, Tysen, let me tell you the rest of what

Great Uncle Tyronne’s solicitor wrote.”