The Scottish Bride by Catherine Coulter

calmly picked up her fork and cut up an overcooked carrot. She wouldn’t be so surprised again that she dropped her fork. She had control of herself now. But why had Erickson sought him out? What had he said to Tysen? And why, she wondered as she looked over at him, her face perfectly blank now, had he brought Erickson’s name up, here at luncheon?
    Sir Lyon said, oblivious of the swirling undercurrents at his table, “Erickson MacPhail, a fine young man. His father was an excellent friend. Many of us were very distressed when he fell into one of those ridiculous sheep killers and broke his neck in a demned footrace with one of his crofters. Erickson is now the MacPhail laird.” He gave a proud look toward his daughter. “He has been just one of many of our local boys to crowd upon my doorstep, all of them lapdogs for my dearest Donnatella. The day she turned seventeen, by gad, I thought I should have to keep my brace of pistols close about to scatter all those smitten young dogs.”
    â€œI have told Erickson no, Papa,” Donnatella said calmly and took a bite of small boiled potatoes. “I told you that.”
    â€œBut now Ian is dead, Donnatella,” Lady Margaret said. “Perhaps you should reconsider Erickson’s suit. Hyson’s Manor is a fine holding. Except for Erickson’s mother, who is a rather dreadful woman, it would be an excellent place to reside. The good Lord provides, however. If you married Erickson, she would doubtless have the good manners to die soon, don’t you think?”
    â€œIt would benefit everyone,” Donnatella said. Then she looked directly at Tysen. “We will see. Yes, we will just have to see, won’t we?”
    Tysen felt like a grouse on the run from hunters. He wondered where Sir Lyon kept his brace of pistols. He said, “MacPhail said he used to swim with the porpoises when he was a boy.”
    â€œSplendid young fellow,” Sir Lyon said, and drank down his glass of wine in one long gulp. “Absolutely splendid.” He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, motioning immediately for the man standing just off to his left, probably the butler, Tysen thought, to pour him another glass, which he did. “Thank you, Gillis. I cannot understand, myself, how diving in and out of the water with bloody fish would be much fun, but to each his own.”
    Donnatella laughed behind her napkin.
    â€œMary Rose,” Tysen said, turning to her, “you are acquainted with Erickson MacPhail.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Tysen wanted to shoot himself. Why in the dear Lord’s name had he shoved her into the open like that? He held himself silent, waiting to see what she would say. Perhaps she would throw her jam pastry at him. Actually he knew very well why he’d done it. Tysen had never been content to sit about when something needed to be resolved. He wanted this situation faced and Sir Lyon properly informed so he would protect his niece. He was clumsy in his approach, but he would see her safe.
    Mary Rose said after a long moment, “When I was a little girl, I swam with Erickson and the porpoises. They are mammals, Uncle Lyon, just like us. Not fish. Erickson taught me how to swim. He taught me that the porpoises wouldn’t hurt me, that they loved to play and dive and plunge around.”
    â€œSurely you are wrong,” Sir Lyon said. “They live in the water. Only fish live in the water.”
    â€œBut you have seen Erickson recently, haven’t you, Mary Rose?” Donnatella asked, her voice cool, a thread of something Tysen didn’t understand running through it. “Not that I mind, of course,” Donnatella added in a bright voice. “After all, I did turn him down, didn’t I?”
    â€œYes, I see him often,” Mary Rose said. “Too often.”
    Enough, Tysen thought. Very well, he would speak privately to Sir Lyon. He was Mary Rose’s