Scotsman of My Dreams (2 page)

 

Chapter 2

D
alton MacIain, Earl of Rathsmere, stood in the doorway of his library, listening to Howington argue with a harridan. Were there peddlers in Tarkington Square now? He couldn't hear their words, only the tone. Howington was maintaining his usual calm demeanor. The woman wasn't, her voice growing louder, vying with the thunder growling overhead for dominance.

Turning back to the room, he dismissed the two of them. Howington would get rid of her, whoever she was.

He shouldn't have sent his majordomo to Gledfield. If Samuels had remained here he would have opened the door, thereby sparing Howington the duty. Samuels would have also been a buffer between him and Howington. Pity that he hadn't considered that earlier. Now Howington was always present, forever hovering in that obsequious way of his.

He moved unerringly to the window, reached up and closed the drapes against the storm. He remembered their shade, an emerald color he favored. Everything else about the room was as he recalled it: two wing chairs upholstered in a dark green fabric sat before the fireplace with a small table between them; enough books in the shelves that he gave the appearance of being a well-­read man. His onetime companions would have been genuinely shocked to know that he had read most of them, a good thing now.

Thunder rumbled, the windows shivering in response. The drumming of rain on the street outside sounded like muffled artillery.

He made his way to the sideboard on the opposite wall, a distance of exactly ten feet.

Removing the stopper from the cut glass decanter, he reached for a glass and tried to hold it steady. Another roar of thunder, this one sounding too much like cannon fire, made him put down the decanter and the glass, hearing the chink as they landed on the tray.

He stood with his fingers braced against the sideboard, staring straight ahead and willing his hands to stop their trembling.

On the wall in front of him was a painting in a gilded frame, a scene of Gledfield, the MacIain country house. A talented artist had created an image he'd always remember. The great house, constructed of yellowish brick, seemed to attract the sun from its perch on a rolling hill. Dozens of massive oaks dotted the landscape. He'd climbed each one of them, had hidden among their branches and used their trunks as a backrest when he sat and contemplated his home.

Of course, boy that he'd been, he hadn't seen the pastoral serenity. He'd only been wishing for excitement and adventure.

He'd gotten that, hadn't he?

From long practice he calmed himself, taking one deep breath after another. A technique he had learned, strangely enough, in the hospital in Washington. A doctor there had been an aficionado of Oriental principles.

Evidently, if you were getting your leg sawn off, it was helpful to be calm. Helpful for whom: the patient or the doctor?

Luckily, he had kept all his limbs.

He thought about the scene in the painting: the house on the hill, the rolling green lawn, pale blue skies, and a radiance that spoke more of man's wish for heaven than the actuality of Gledfield. He remembered the house as a place of chaos, of laughter, he and Arthur—­the two older brothers—­getting into mischief, fishing and swimming in the nearby Deton River. They had often talked their tutor into giving them lessons beneath the sprawling oak at the bottom left of the painting. His youngest brother, Lewis, was five years younger, while he and Arthur were only a year apart. Most of his memories of Lewis were of the boy whining that he and Arthur wouldn't play with him. Lewis had been right; they'd spent a good deal of time hiding from him or making his life miserable.

Hidden from view in the painting were the stables, his favorite place at Gledfield. He could ride almost before he could walk. He and Arthur challenged each other on a daily basis. Who could take the fence higher and faster? Who could race from Gledfield to the village and back? The prize was never anything important. The one and only time he'd lost to his older brother, he'd had to muck out the bay where Arthur's horse was stabled.

Arthur's forfeits weren't physical. No, he insisted Arthur memorize one of Burns's poems when he lost. Arthur didn't prize their Scottish heritage as much as he did. Lewis was the same. They considered themselves English first and foremost, while something in the Scottish spirit called to Dalton. He'd relished the idea that their ancestors had been Highlanders and wanted to emulate their daring and courage.

Wind rattled the window panes as the storm grew. The floorboards trembled with the grumbling thunder.

He returned to his task of pouring himself a glass of whiskey. What a pity his ancestors hadn't invested in the whiskey trade. No, they'd chosen coal instead, thanks to the Welsh heiress his great-­grandfather had married.

Cautious not to fill the glass to the top, he carried it carefully back to his desk, one he'd had especially built for him to resemble his great-­grandfather's at the family home in London. This was his house, bought with his inheritance, filled with his choice of furniture. A home he'd packed with his friends, sounds of merriment, and parties to all hours of the night.

Arthur wasn't here and neither was his father. They were gone, packed tightly away in the mausoleum at Gledfield.

He took a sip of whiskey, anticipating the first sting in his throat.

Thunder rumbled again and he held out his glass in salute to nature itself.

I'm not afraid.

He wasn't foolish enough to say the words out loud. If he had, Howington would have come to the door, knocked softly, and called out, “Is anything wrong, Your Lordship?”

Then he would be forced to clear his throat, put some modicum of humor into his voice, and answer with a lie. “Nothing's wrong, Howington.”

He wondered if his secretary had gotten rid of the woman yet. Better for Howington that he be occupied with the visitor than with him. Regardless of how long it took, when it was done, Howington would come to the door to inquire as to his health, mentally or physically.

When would this damnable storm be over?

His imagination made it sound like warfare, he knew that. That wasn't the only reaction to his environment lately. When anything fell to the floor, he jerked, startled. And the nightmares? He didn't even want to consider the nightmares.

He placed the glass on the surface of the desk and forced himself to lean back against the chair. All he needed was enough time. Or maybe time would be his worst enemy. Perhaps after a few more months of this, he would grow so tired of pretending that nothing was wrong that he'd do something dishonorable, something to stain the MacIain name forever.

He could just imagine the conversations now.

Did you hear about Rathsmere?

Damnable thing, wasn't it?

Expected it ever since he went off to war. Damn fool.

He always was rash like that. Strange thing for him to come into the title, though. Don't imagine he expected it.

If he'd known, he would probably have remained in America.

No, he damn well wouldn't have.

Just as he expected, Howington knocked on the door.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Your Lordship?”

A little less toadying, but he didn't make that remark. Howington was immersed in a bubble of propriety. God forbid should he try to burst it.

His mother had hired Howington for him, back in his wilder days. Not that he wouldn't have been as wild now had circumstances been different.

Interesting what a bullet could do.

“Who was that at the door?”

That he'd asked surprised him. Normally, he didn't have any interest in the comings and goings of tradesmen and the like. Still, they shouldn't come to the front entrance, but the back one instead.

Howington didn't say anything for a moment, but Dalton knew the secretary was studying him. He recognized the man's considering silence, having encountered it often since returning home.

Now, instead of answering his question, Howington said, “The doctor is coming today, Your Lordship. What with the weather, he'll probably be late.”

“Is that a gentle hint, Howington, not to get myself soused before he arrives?”

“I wouldn't say such a thing, Your Lordship.”

No, but you'd be thinking it.

“Did you report to my mother when she was alive?”

“I beg your pardon?”

He knew a stalling tactic when he heard one.

“Was it your duty to write her once a week? Once a month? Did she want to know what I was doing?”

“The dowager countess expressed an interest in you, sir, but she did so for Arthur and Lewis as well.”

“Good God, did you spy on all of us?”

“When the countess asked, I responded.”

Howington's voice had taken on a decidedly frosty tone. Had he offended the man? It wouldn't be the first time, and doubtless it wouldn't be the last.

He'd once been quite urbane, known for his charm. Had he left that behind in America?

He waved his hand in Howington's direction.

“I will attempt to remain sober until I'm examined again. Not that it makes any damn difference. There, are you happy?”

“Have you eaten, sir?” Howington asked, the words still coated with a chill.

“God, man, you're not my nanny. Stop hovering.”

“Of course, sir.” Howington didn't leave, however, only continued that considering silence.

“What is it?”

“The woman at the door, sir, she wanted to know about America.”

How many times had he told Howington that America wasn't a topic of conversation he would allow? How many times had he cut off the man when he would have asked or commented about something striking his fancy? The fact that Howington mentioned it now was punishment, a little goad for his being an ass.

Maybe he deserved it.

He finished the whiskey, let the glass fall too heavily onto the surface of the desk. The sound was like a slap, one that made him aware the storm was finally passing.

“I'll let you know when the doctor arrives, Your Lordship.”

“You do that,” he said, straightening and walking to the sideboard again. What did it matter if he was drunk when the damn physician arrived?

 

Chapter 3

T
he moment Minerva entered her kitchen, Mrs. Beauchamp advanced on her. The housekeeper, a tall woman with a slender build, possessed a long face that regretfully reminded Minerva of a horse. Her large mouth was often arranged in a smile, however, which gave one the feeling that you were in the presence of a genuinely caring soul.

If Mrs. Beauchamp had any flaws at all, it was that she was too concerned about others.

“Oh, dear, Miss Minerva,” she said now, helping Minerva remove her sodden bonnet. “The poor thing's ruined.”

Since her hands had turned blue from the dye in the ribbon, she could only agree with the older woman.

“It was such a pretty shade,” Mrs. Beauchamp said. “But not if it bleeds so profusely.”

Minerva glanced at herself in the mirror above the sideboard and bit back a yelp. Her cheeks were blue and there were two blue streaks running down her forehead. She wasn't a vain woman, but she didn't want to go through London looking like one of the early Picts, either.

Had she faced Rathsmere's secretary looking the same? She sincerely hoped not. Why hadn't Hugh said something to her?

She fluttered her fingers toward the offending bonnet, now in the housekeeper's hands.

“There's nothing to do but dispose of it, Mrs. Beauchamp. Toss it away in the rubbish. I shall keep to my older bonnets. They've never disappointed me.”

“You need a few furbelows, Miss Minerva. One or two flowers would not be amiss. A touch of color here or there.”

She removed her gloves, wondering what she could say to this comment, a version of which she'd heard every day for the last two years. For some reason, Mrs. Beauchamp had it in her mind to have her dress in pastels with silly little things in her hair. The housekeeper would have her go to dances and soirees, dinners and balls, as if she had anyone to take her to those places. As if anyone wished to.

A change of clothing wouldn't alter who she was. Fine feathers make fine birds, but she was neither fine-­feathered nor a bird. Her wardrobe was more than adequate for what she needed. Most of the time she­­ forgot what she was wearing anyway.

What did it matter?

She truly didn't need to be cosseted, but she often found herself the object of Mrs. Beauchamp's not inconsiderable attention.

Each one of her bureau drawers was sprinkled with a spicy potpourri. While it was an agreeable scent, it was strangely strong, reminding her of the scones she ate every morning.

Mrs. Beauchamp was evidently a seamstress of great talent. A week after the housekeeper arrived, two years ago, Minerva's unmentionables suddenly began boasting lace. She truly didn't need lace or ribbons on her pantaloons or her corset covers, but she didn't have a choice. One day she opened her bureau and a favorite shift had been adorned. Over the next weeks every single one of her undergarments had been altered.

There was a direct correlation between the number of Mrs. Beauchamp's tasks and the amount of lace appearing on Minerva's undergarments, which is why she tried to keep the estimable woman busy at all times.

Still, the woman hovered. When Minerva wasn't hungry, it was as if she had insulted Mrs. Beauchamp's menu selection on purpose. That led to at least a quarter hour of the housekeeper offering a selection of other foods that might tempt her appetite. On more than one occasion Minerva had attempted to explain to the older woman that she wasn't an invalid and that the lack of one meal was not going to alter her health in any regard.

Mrs. Beauchamp was a tyrant with good intentions.

Minerva had the thought that it was a good thing the woman never accompanied her on one of her expeditions. She would have been horrified at the lack of proper meals, not to mention the primitive conditions.

The housekeeper had recently taken on a new role—­guardian of Minerva's virtue.

“It's not at all proper the way he looks at you,” Mrs. Beauchamp said one day after Hugh left the kitchen. “It's too familiar.” The housekeeper leaned over the table and whispered, “It's as if he's lusting after you.”

For a moment Minerva actually considered feigning shock, then realized that if she did so she'd have to continue that faux emotion in the future. Better to simply be herself.

“Hugh and I are old friends,” she said, deciding to leave it at that.

Before Mrs. Beauchamp's employ, she and Hugh had been a great deal more than that. The affair hadn't lasted more than a month, but if Hugh had his way, it might still be ongoing. Passion, however, was a dangerous addiction, especially when it wasn't accompanied by any other emotion.

She had made him her lover. She had taken him to her bed, and it had been a worthwhile and laudable decision at the time. At twenty-­eight, she was certain no one would ever want her and even more certain that she would never marry.

She didn't want a husband; she just wanted to feel passion.

Hugh was a very attractive man, tall with broad shoulders and a handsome face. His green eyes often sparkled at her mischievously.

If she was to be faulted, it wasn't for inviting him to her bed, but for not ending the affair before Hugh got the wrong idea.

She hadn't wanted a permanent liaison.

He had been a most admirable lover and brought her more pleasure than she'd expected. Her body had trembled and shivered and erupted in delight. Unfortunately, her emotions had not been engaged.

In all good conscience, she could not bring herself to take advantage of Hugh. When she tried to explain it to him, he'd only smiled and said that it wasn't a hardship for her to feel nothing. He would be more than happy to come to her bed for the physical enjoyment if nothing else.

Was she a fool to want some emotion? A simple liking was not enough. She felt there was something missing every time they loved, and she couldn't explain it either to him or to herself. She longed for something more.

Her parents had it. So did some ­people she encountered day to day. The neighbors on the far side of the square, the Hamptons, were both young and so blissfully in love it hurt to look at them. The wife rushed out every morning to give him a kiss on the front steps, and the husband raced up the same steps at the end of day.

She told herself she wasn't the only person who would do without love for the rest of her life. She would manage.

“Was your errand successful, then?” Mrs. Beauchamp asked now.

Minerva shook her head. “I'm afraid not.”

Mrs. Beauchamp's look of disappointment no doubt mirrored her own. Neville was a favorite of hers.

“I have not given up, however,” she said. “There must be a way to reach him. I must find a way.”

“And if you cannot?”

“There is no allowance for failure, Mrs. Beauchamp. There must be a way to see the earl, even if I have to masquerade as a maid.”

The housekeeper's eyes widened and her mouth opened. Twin spots of color bloomed high on her cheeks.

“Tell me you are only jesting, Miss Minerva. You cannot think of going into ser­vice.”

She reached over and patted Mrs. Beauchamp on the shoulder.

“No, of course not,” she said. But she wasn't going to rule out anything at this point.

She smiled at the housekeeper, took a plate of biscuits with her and left the kitchen for the comfort of her room. She needed to change her clothes, dry off, and take some time to plan her next move.

At the top of the steps she hesitated at Neville's old room.

When she was eighteen, their parents died. First, her father of a failing heart, and then her darling mother of influenza a few months later. Neville had been ten, and she'd become his parent, responsible for rearing him.

He was a delight, a treasure, the sweetest, most intelligent boy. He'd wanted to learn, to absorb every bit of knowledge his tutor could provide him.

If he'd only stayed as innocent.

She couldn't keep him in short pants forever, tucked away under her arm as if she were a mother hen and he one of her chicks.

More's the pity.

Ever since Neville had assumed his majority and come into his inheritance, he'd begun acting rashly and quite unlike himself. He frequented gaming and music halls, was seen escorting women of ill repute to their lodgings, and boasted of being in a cadre of young men with too much time on their hands and little common sense. All of them led by Dalton MacIain, now the Earl of Rathsmere.

Over the last two years, her brother had changed. To her horror, he became wild. His friends were not those of salubrious character, no matter that a great many of them had titles. Neville had too much money, too much kindness, and too little knowledge.

Perhaps the world needed followers, good soldiers who marched behind great generals. The problem was, Dalton MacIain was not a leader to emulate. Yet he'd taken his hangers-­on, those young men who worshipped his air of daring, and gone into battle all the same.

The fool had gone to fight in the American Civil War as if war were a game.

Neville had followed Rathsmere to America with a smile on his lips and some idiotic notion it would be a lark, a great experience through which they would drink whiskey, wench, and tell themselves how heroic they were being.

Rathsmere had returned a few months ago. Neville hadn't. Somewhere along the way the earl had managed to lose her brother.

“
A
RE YOUR
headaches still as bad, Your Lordship?” the physician asked.

“They are tolerable,” Dalton said. One lie to add to the many he would utter by the time the fool man left.

“If they're still bad, take the laudanum I gave you.”

“No doubt it would help, but I've no intention of going the rest of my life with hallucinations, Doctor. If you have any other tonic you could give me that would otherwise leave me with my sanity and my senses, I might take it. But I'm not going to imbibe opium.”

“If you don't, the headaches will persist.”

“Then persist they must, I suppose,” he said.

If they got much worse, he could always put a bullet in his brain, a match to the one that had hit his right eye and ricocheted over the bridge of his nose.

“Any change in the vision in your left eye, Your Lordship?”

“No.”

“Still only a sensation of light and dark?”

“Yes.” Another truth.

He'd better watch himself. The way he was going, he might become known for his honesty.

The doctor cleared his throat and said in a sepulchral tone, “Your right eye is gone, Your Lordship. It's a miracle you have any sight left at all.”

He wouldn't exactly give the credit to the Almighty. Instead, it was due to him turning at the last moment when he saw the pistol aimed at his head.

He was an expert at not revealing his emotions. Not because he was the Earl of Rathsmere, but because he had years of practice being the second son. Any sign of weakness was an excuse for the earl's disapproval or his tutor's punishment.

The trait had come in handy in the last several years, especially when he was faced with unbelievable stupidity or great duress. Now he allowed a small smile to curve his lips.

He saw and yet he didn't see. All he could discern was light, if the day was bright enough. Sometimes, if someone stood close to him, he could see a darker shape.

That was all.

“Perhaps one day I'll be able to see the faces of angels.”

He could sense the physician's affront.

“Have you any other complaints, sir?”

“In other words, something you could cure? Like a stomachache, perhaps?”

“Is there anything, Your Lordship?”

“Otherwise I am a picture of great health, Dr. Marshall. I am hail and hearty and shall, no doubt, live fifty years or more.”

If I wish it
.

The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

He lifted the glass to his lips. He had changed from whiskey to wine in the last hour. He could feel the glass, knew the shape of it from countless times he'd held a wineglass in his hand. He couldn't see the glint of light from the lamp on the crystal or the deep claret of the wine. Nor could he see the doctor's face, and had no idea of his appearance, having never met the man before returning to London.

What use did he have for a physician prior to leaving for America? He'd rarely been sick. His good health was as much a part of him as his height or the blue eyes now damaged beyond repair.

“I still hold out hope for your recovery, Your Lordship. In some fashion.”

“Hope is a foolish thing to cling to, Dr. Marshall. I've found it's much better to look at life with realism than with hope.”

The doctor did not respond, which surprised him. He'd expected a lecture. Something along the lines of:
Anyone with your fortune and your title, Your Lordship, should possess hope above all things.

Instead, the doctor remained silent.

What good was a blind earl?

R
ETREATING TO
her suite, Minerva removed her clothes, dried herself and, because the day was well advanced, donned her wrapper and walked into the sitting room.

She had equipped the room to resemble a library, something that might be found in any man's establishment. A large marble fireplace occupied one wall, a window the next. An archway led to the bedroom, but the fourth wall was filled with a wide mahogany bookcase holding hundreds of books, each of them handpicked and read and, in some cases, reread. There were a few novels among them, but most of the books were on subjects dear to her heart: anything dealing with antiquity, Scotland, and archeology.

In front of the bookcase, and occupying the middle of the room, was the desk she'd found in a secondhand furniture shop. Three men had struggled for hours to bring it up the stairs and into the sitting room, but it was worth the cost once they were done.