Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  “Why, because I’m honest? I think you’ll make a very good earl if you continue as you’ve started.”

  He didn’t say anything, which was just as well. She had no intention of complimenting the Earl of Rathsmere.

  Nor of liking the blasted man.

  Chapter 20

  Minerva hadn’t been able to sleep well, which she put at the feet of the Earl of Rathsmere. For some idiotic reason, she kept replaying their conversations in her mind.

  If she looked at his left profile, she could hardly tell that he’d been injured at all. He had a habit of blinking and turning his head in the direction of the speaker, just as he might if he could still see. Occasionally, it was disconcerting to find herself the object of his blue-­eyed stare.

  From time to time she had to look away.

  Sheer attractiveness might have once rendered the Earl of Rathsmere irresistible. She could easily see why endless women had tumbled onto his bed.

  But beauty was in the eyes of the beholder, was it not? Therefore, there was something about her that found him irresistible as well. What was lacking in her character that could so easily ignore his flaws?

  He had a temper and he didn’t mind showing it. He was often unreasonable and argumentative. He gave her orders and he expected her to obey.

  Yet when he spoke of his brother, there was a note in his voice that hadn’t been there before: a fondness, sorrow, and perhaps a certain regret.

  What was life like for Dalton now? He couldn’t carouse and he couldn’t shock society. What was he going to do with his life? What did former rakes do? Other than trying to find Neville, of course.

  She must simply attempt to convince him of Neville’s innocence.

  Why on earth had she told him about the Covington sisters? Why had she given him a mental picture of herself racing down the street, petticoats bouncing in the wind? He was deceptively easy to talk to, and she’d felt a kinship to him, which was idiotic, of course. She had nothing in common with the Earl of Rathsmere. She was the exact opposite in all ways.

  He had been society’s scamp.

  She had done everything she could to avoid society in every degree.

  He had charmed countless women into shedding their clothes.

  She’d only had one lover.

  The Earl of Rathsmere indulged in passion wholeheartedly.

  Passion was a drug, she discovered, an opiate of the senses. She could just as well do without it.

  No, they had nothing in common. Not one scintilla of interest.

  Yet something warm blossomed in her in Dalton’s presence. A feeling that was idiotic at best and disloyal to Neville at worst.

  This Dalton MacIain avoided society. Was it because of circumstance? Or was he truly changed? Had going to America altered his basic character?

  The fact that she wanted to know was a danger sign.

  She really shouldn’t return this morning. She should send a note to him explaining that she had other, more important things to do.

  None of the books she’d meant to read had been opened. In addition, she was behind in her correspondence and in answering several requests. Nor had she finished cataloging the newest finds from her last expedition.

  She moved to her secretary to write the note only to discover that Mrs. Beauchamp had placed her incoming correspondence on the tray just for that purpose.

  Picking up the first letter from Lady Terry, she opened it reluctantly.

  The handwriting was shaky, so different from Lady Terry’s elaborate script that she was startled.

  My dearest Minerva, the letter began:

  Time is marching on as time does. I have not felt well enough to explore the castle of late. In other years I might have left Scotland for sunny France, but even that seems beyond me now. I had hoped to see you soon. Is there a chance of that? I do understand about your dear brother. Please do not think I’m unaware of your fears, but you have proven to be such a joy in my life that I wanted to see you once more.

  Shame enveloped her, turned the back of her neck warm. She really should have found time to go to Scotland, but she’d been so worried about Neville.

  The two had met when Minerva was exploring Partage Castle in Scotland. Lady Terry introduced herself, explaining that she was looking for property to purchase. The older woman had gone on to buy the castle along with acres of surrounding land.

  When Lady Terry wrote and invited her to further explore Partage, she’d been thrilled.

  She hadn’t expected to develop a fondness for the septuagenarian. She enjoyed Lady Terry’s company, sharing what she learned about Partage Castle as well as discoveries she’d made on other sites. Lady Terry’s questions had revealed a similar interest and a surprising sense of humor.

  She really did need to write the dear woman. Even more important, she needed to find a way to go to Scotland. Lady Terry’s health was obviously failing. Besides, a visit to Scotland was a better occupation than whiling away her time with the Earl of Rathsmere.

  She’d go as soon as Neville was found.

  Where was Neville? Not in London, she was beginning to suspect. She had the most terrible feeling he was still in America. If he’d been hurt or killed, would she ever know? Would word somehow come to her?

  Turning, she stared out the window at the coming day. The clouds were scuttling across the London sky, promising fresh breezes and no hint of rain. A perfect day to travel to Scotland. An ideal time to board the train to Glasgow. She would need a few hours to assemble her equipment, but she could manage.

  Yet Dalton would be expecting her.

  She wanted to dismiss the memory of him sitting at his desk, his hands clenched, his face carefully stoic. His voice had trembled when he asked about his brother’s handwriting. His laughter had surprised her, but she began to watch for it. Perhaps she even incited it with her comments.

  Their arrangement was casual, not one of employer and employee. She could easily send him a note, something simple to explain that she was due in Scotland.

  For the first time in her life the idea of an expedition didn’t fill her with excitement. She wasn’t the least bit eager to board the train.

  THERE WAS a fifty-­fifty chance Minerva wouldn’t return. Dalton bet himself that she’d come. This was the woman, after all, who had broken into his home in order to speak to him.

  Curiosity would compel her, if nothing else.

  Would she still be curious about him? Or would she be disgusted?

  He’d told her too much of the truth yesterday. He’d let down his guard. He hadn’t been the least bit charming.

  Her blunt way of speaking fascinated him. She skewered him with words, thought nothing of his wealth or his new title, despised his reputation, and made him work for any crumb of acknowledgment.

  She didn’t hesitate to reveal herself, a frankness that startled and amazed him. Was it because she was plain?

  Although her face had felt—­ His thoughts stumbled to a halt. He had put his hands on her face as he’d never done to another woman, at least one who hadn’t yet shared his bed.

  What had James said? What had a smile done to her face?

  He raised his hand, splaying his fingers as if he could see them. He could still recall the softness of her skin, the contour of her cheeks. Her chin wasn’t pointed as much as squared, her jaw firm. He’d felt her tension when he touched her. Had she clamped her teeth together rather than speak in that moment?

  What had Minerva said? That he needed release? Maybe that was it. He was craving the company of a woman. That was why she occupied his thoughts. He didn’t want to see any of his former acquaintances. The idea of a woman he’d once known feeling sorry for him was enough to make him celibate for the rest of his life. Nor did he want to pay for his pleasure. He had no intention of being blind and having the pox.

 
Would Minerva come today?

  Benny had sent more cases, which meant decisions he had to make, things he needed to buy, investments he should consider. Even if Minerva didn’t return, he’d find a way to continue the work, a way that didn’t involve Howington.

  Like it or not, he was the Earl of Rathsmere. He had a heritage he had to uphold and responsibilities that didn’t feel as onerous as they might have once.

  Would she come today?

  Why did it matter so much?

  A knock on the library door startled him.

  “Your Lordship,” Mrs. Thompson said, “Mr. Wilson is here to see you.”

  It wasn’t yet nine. Nor had he expected to see James today. A leaden feeling settled in his stomach.

  “Show him in, please, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll bring tea, shall I?”

  He nodded, grateful when the gesture wasn’t accompanied by a rolling feeling of nausea.

  When James entered his library, he asked him to close the door. He didn’t want anyone overhearing this meeting.

  “You found something,” he said in greeting.

  “I don’t know what I’ve found,” James said. “The staff at Gledfield are loyal, Dalton. They love your family. To a man, they all think Arthur’s death untimely, especially since no one was ever found to be responsible.”

  “No errant hunters on our property,” he said.

  “No.”

  He nodded again.

  “One thing . . .” James said. He hesitated so long that Dalton knew it wasn’t going to be good news. “Did you know Lewis was there when Arthur was killed?”

  Dalton clasped his hands together, interlacing his fingers and gripping so tightly he was causing himself pain.

  “No, I didn’t know. Nor did Lewis say anything.”

  “He was,” James said. “According to the staff, he left directly after Arthur’s funeral.”

  “Do you think he had something to do with Arthur’s death?”

  There, he asked the question aloud.

  He took a deep breath and felt something slide into place. He’d pushed away the thought each time it had come to him, not wanting to believe Lewis would have killed Arthur.

  “I don’t know,” James said. “There’s the question of why he was at Gledfield.”

  “Lewis went through his inheritance in record time. Maybe he went there to beg money from Arthur.”

  “Would Arthur have given it to him?”

  He remembered what Lewis said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he want the title that much?” James asked.

  The question shocked him into silence.

  “Aren’t you forgetting me?” he finally asked. “There was one brother between Lewis and the title.”

  “Unless you consider the premise that Neville acted on Lewis’s behalf. Maybe Neville was to make sure you died in America.”

  Had James considered that idea all the way back from Gledfield?

  “Lewis didn’t know my friends,” he said.

  “Are you sure that’s true? He couldn’t have met Neville anywhere?”

  “Why would Neville do such a thing? For money? According to his sister, Neville had his own fortune.”

  “Are you siding with Miss Todd now in her determination that her brother is innocent?”

  He wanted to, God help him, and that was such a startling thought that he put it away to examine later.

  “I don’t see how I can,” he said. “I saw him raise his pistol. I saw him fire at me. That’s not something you can easily forget.”

  “It would be the perfect crime, Dalton. Lewis wouldn’t be suspected, especially if your death happened with an ocean between the two of you. And, if God forbid, something happened to Neville, there would never be anyone to divulge Lewis’s part in all this.”

  “Do you think he’s behind Neville’s disappearance?”

  “I don’t know,” James said. “It’s a thought to consider.”

  Dalton nodded again.

  “What do you want me to do?” James asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dalton said. “I haven’t gotten that far in my thinking.”

  He didn’t want to consider that Lewis might be responsible for Arthur’s death or that his brother had somehow convinced Neville to kill him. Yet it made sense in a sickening way.

  “Lewis is a damn good shot,” he said. “Was he in the house when Arthur was killed?”

  “No one saw him.”

  “Do they think he killed Arthur? Does the staff think that? Samuels, Mrs. MacNeal, and the others?” ­People who had cared for and loved his mother and felt the same about Arthur. “What about Alice?”

  “I didn’t come out and ask them who they think shot Arthur,” James said. “Samuels looked at me oddly when I asked where Lewis was when Arthur was killed. I think he suspects something. As to Alice, I haven’t talked to her yet.”

  “Then maybe I should hold back any judgment until you do.”

  “I would advise against confronting Lewis,” James said. “Besides, such an accusation would destroy any future relationship with your brother. Not to mention trust.”

  “I could trust Arthur with my life,” he said. “I wouldn’t trust Lewis with a biscuit.”

  James was smart enough not to say a word in response.

  Chapter 21

  Minerva arrived only minutes after James left. To his surprise, she was brusque and businesslike, insisting that she didn’t want tea, thank you, and shall we begin immediately, Your Lordship?

  When had he become Your Lordship again?

  He didn’t protest, merely retrieved the packets Benny had sent and began to work.

  She didn’t smell of cinnamon today. Had she changed scents deliberately? He could only detect that odd dusty odor. Where did she acquire that? Were her clothes hung in the attic?

  Was she wearing her trousers skirt? He almost asked her, then decided it was better if they maintained this restrained, almost cold behavior.

  Her words were clipped, each of them precise. Twice she stopped herself in mid-­sentence as if she were monitoring her speech.

  After the question of the egress to one of the farms was resolved, he heard her put the packet on the adjoining chair.

  “You loved Arthur very much, didn’t you?” she asked.

  Coming on the heels of what he’d learned from James, the question threw him into the past.

  No one had ever asked him how he felt about his brother. Most of his friends thought he considered Arthur a millstone, the elder brother, the earl, someone who would contain and constrain his lifestyle if he could. The truth was somewhat different.

  “Yes,” he said. “I loved him a great deal. I respected him. He was everything an older brother should be. I’m afraid I can’t say the same about me in regards to my younger brother, Lewis.”

  “Perhaps you’ll ease into the role,” she said.

  Did she only see the good in ­people? First Neville and now him. Neither of them was worthy of her good thoughts. Was her driver in the same category?

  She readily admitted to being shocking, in such an artless way that he wanted to caution her not to do so with just anyone. Her story might be used as fodder to hurt her, cause tongues to wag, and hateful things to be said about her.

  A man’s worth was somehow enhanced by his disreputable character. A woman could be ruined by the same behavior.

  He reached for a few more cases, placing them on the desk between them.

  As they continued going through the packets, his admiration of her way of thinking, her practicality, grew. He’d never considered the women he knew as pragmatic. When he made the mistake of saying that to her, she responded with a pert comment.

  “You’ve never met the right women.”

  “Y
ou might be right.”

  “There’s no question I’m right. Just consider who you associated with, Dalton. They had fortunes or husbands. They didn’t need to be practical. They didn’t have anyone relying on them.”

  Until Arthur’s death no one had depended on him, either, a comment he didn’t voice.

  He sat back in his chair and looked in her direction. Did she study him? Did she remark, mentally, upon his scars?

  “Thank you for your assistance. You’ve made it much more pleasant than dealing with Howington.”

  “Why do you still employ him as your secretary when you dislike him?”

  “When he first came to work for me, I didn’t find anything wrong with him. He was very competent and he’s probably still doing a good job. But something about the man grates on me. It’s a feeling I have, like something you can’t remember or a tune you can’t stop humming.” He shook his head, wondering if he could truly explain. “I can’t put my finger on it and that’s why I don’t dismiss him.”

  “Because it doesn’t seem fair?”

  He nodded. “Before I dismiss him, I’d like to have a rational reason for doing so. Maybe I don’t dislike Howington as much as envy him.”

  “Why envy Howington?”

  “It could be any man, I suppose. Perhaps I envy him the ability to read. To write. To walk into a room and know whether it’s day or night. To write a bank draft. To know how much money is in his pocket. To know if he’s stained his shirt or cut himself shaving. To not frighten children with his appearance.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. He was damned if he wanted her pity.

  “Poor Howington,” she finally said. “To have to bear the brunt of your being a grumbly bear.”

  “I am not a bear,” he said. “As for grumbly, I suppose I am.”

  “I’m surprised that you’re envious of anyone.”

  He inclined his head. “I confess to being beset with as many human emotions as anyone else, Minerva. What about you? Are you ever envious of another woman?”

  “Sometimes the Covington sisters,” she said, to his surprise. “They have each other. As obnoxious and annoying as they can be, they dote on each other. They’re family. I don’t have a sister and I’ve always wished for one.”