Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  ­“People forget inconsequential things when they long for home. Arthur and I didn’t part on the best of terms, but I didn’t think about that when I wanted to come home.”

  He didn’t tell her that one of the first greetings he’d received while still on board ship was the news that his brother was dead and he was now the Earl of Rathsmere. No man had ever ascended to a title with as much regret.

  “I think it’s possible Neville’s still in America. I telegraphed my cousin and asked if she could make use of some of her contacts. He might be trying to arrange passage back to England. He might be sailing home this minute. He might have even gone to the British authorities and asked for assistance. We need to investigate that angle as well.”

  He wanted to reassure her somehow, but what could he say to ease her mind? There was every possibility that Neville had died, but he wouldn’t say that. Nor would he tell her about the conditions under which they’d lived for so many weeks and months. That wouldn’t reassure her, either.

  The wish to comfort her was new, yet this compassion he felt was not exclusively singled out for Minerva. Somehow, over the last year, he’d become more aware of his fellow human beings’ welfare.

  Before, he would never have noticed that Mrs. Thompson was always a little weepy after her half day off. Or that one of the upstairs maids had a lisp when she talked that evidently embarrassed her, enough that she mumbled when she spoke. Nor would he have been as acutely aware of Howington’s displeasure. The man had a way of expressing himself without words. The atmosphere of any room immediately changed when Howington walked into it.

  Had he been so immersed in his own pleasure back then, or the drive for it, that he hadn’t been aware of the ­people around him? Had he been so surfeited by drink or exhausted from his adventures that he’d never seen what was before his eyes?

  A strange and ironic twist of fate, that he saw more being blind than he had sighted.

  “What will I do if he’s dead, Dalton?”

  He couldn’t bear the sorrow in her voice.

  Gripping her hand tightly, he pulled her toward him.

  “Come here, Minerva.”

  He could hear her stand. When she moved in front of his chair, he didn’t hesitate, reaching up and placing both hands around her waist. When she tumbled into his lap, he smiled.

  “What are you doing? Let me go, Dalton.”

  He cupped her face with his hands.

  “Kiss me, Minerva.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have this dislike of looking ridiculous,” he said. “If I lower my mouth to yours and hit your nose, it will bruise my consequence. I’ll be an object of pity.”

  “I can’t kiss you.”

  “Just a taste of passion,” he said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I have needs,” he said with a smile.

  “As if that’s my concern.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Of course not. I just don’t want to kiss you.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not one little bit. Not an iota.”

  “No curiosity about what it might be like to kiss the man Queen Victoria said was most certainly the worst rake in all of London?”

  “No.”

  “You’re fibbing, Minerva.”

  “I’m not.”

  He lowered his head, brushed his lips over her heated cheek. To his surprise, she didn’t move away. Slowly, he traced a path to her lips, breathing against them before placing his mouth on hers.

  A kiss should be an appetizer. A kiss was a prelude, strings being tuned in an orchestra pit, dawn on an important day.

  A kiss was not a feast. A kiss was not an explosion of the senses. But this one was.

  He could smell her, that hint of earthiness mixed with her new perfume. Her skin was warm against his fingertips, her cheek heating as he inclined his head to deepen the kiss.

  Her mouth opened slightly on a gasp.

  He wanted to banish her sorrow, the pain Neville had caused her. He wanted to change the tenor of her thoughts, give her something to replace her dread.

  He could give Minerva passion. That’s the gift he could give her.

  He’d been too long without kisses. Too much time had passed since he’d had a woman in his arms, pliant, female, soft and fragrant—­a mystery and a delight.

  He inhaled her breath and the small sound she made when one of his hands reached around to hold the back of her head.

  Her lips were so soft, pillowy, and welcoming.

  He’d been without color in his life for nearly a year yet he could swear he saw sparkles of blue, red, and yellow as Minerva’s tongue darted out and touched his.

  He’d never seduced anyone in his library, but he was giving thought to doing so.

  Would the astounding Miss Todd be amenable to a little afternoon loving?

  SHE ABRUPTLY stood, moving a few feet away.

  When he smiled, she glanced toward the desk, not wanting to be charmed by him. That kiss was bad enough. She had succumbed, only too willingly. She had been swept up in passion again and it happened so suddenly that she hadn’t thought to protect herself. If he’d seduced her, she would have allowed him. She had no defenses against a kiss—­and more—­from Dalton MacIain.

  She didn’t have any doubt whatsoever that a great many women would’ve tumbled into his bed for the sheer beauty of him. Then, added to his physical attractiveness was his charm, when he chose to use it, and his intelligence when it crept out.

  She moved to the chair in front of the desk.

  “Shall we begin?” she asked, wishing her voice didn’t sound so tremulous. It wouldn’t do to let him see how shaken she was by a kiss.

  “I heard from Dorothy,” he said, standing.

  For a moment she stared at him, trying to remember the name. Then it came to her. The girl who’d known Neville.

  “Did you?”

  He made his way to the desk without faltering. Here, in his library, he didn’t use a walking stick.

  “She came to see me last night.”

  She was not going to feel a spike of jealousy. How utterly absurd.

  “She smelled of turnips.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Turnips and a nauseatingly sweet perfume.”

  “Is my perfume nauseatingly sweet?” How foolish of her to ask.

  “No, but I prefer you smelling of cinnamon and dust.”

  “Why did Dorothy smell of turnips?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but I earned her disfavor, I’m afraid. I suggested that less is more in the scent department. She left in a huff.”

  “Had she seen Neville? Please tell me you questioned her before you insulted her.”

  His bark of laughter might have made her smile at any other time, but she waited impatiently for him to tell her what Dorothy said.

  “She has not seen Neville,” he said. “And misses him greatly. Evidently, your brother was quite generous in many ways. She offered to allow me to take his place in her affections.”

  “Of course, one could expect a woman of low repute to be fickle. After all, they survive by the whims of the gentleman they pleasure.”

  “It’s not only the women of low repute who are fickle, Minerva.”

  She was not going to ask him to explain that comment. She didn’t want to hear about a parade of titled women through his bedroom.

  “If she hadn’t smelled of turnips, would you have taken her to your bed?”

  No, she really shouldn’t have asked that question. The kiss had disturbed her. When he didn’t answer, she retrieved one of the packets on his desk and began to feverishly read. This problem involved cattle, of all things.

  “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t have.”

  H
e smiled again, and this time she studied him. He looked dangerous and charming at the same time, a warning to all young girls not to look too close or stare too long lest they be mesmerized.

  She was no longer a young girl.

  “At least you know you didn’t frighten Dorothy.”

  “How reassuring,” he said. “You mean, by that remark, that if I find myself desperate and lonely I can, at least, pay for pleasure.”

  “Did I say that? How shocking of me.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Perhaps it’s true. If you need release that badly, you can always hire one of the women at the pleasure gardens. Or Lucille.”

  And not kiss me.

  “I’ve never, as you say, hired one of those women in my life.”

  “Why did my brother?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Or won’t?” she asked.

  “I find this conversation strange in the extreme, Minerva.”

  “Why, because I’m being frank? You’re the one who’s the Rake of London. Have you never had an honest conversation with a woman?”

  “Not one in which she encouraged me to employ a prostitute, no.”

  “Oh, bother, you know very well I did nothing of the sort. Besides, I doubt you’d ever get that desperate or lonely.”

  “Let’s pray you’re right.”

  She studied him. His right hand was on the stack of paperwork, palm flat on the pages, fingers drawn up as if he wanted to make a fist. His other hand was out of sight. Was that clenched into a fist as well?

  It was evident the kiss hadn’t disturbed him like it had her. Her heart was still beating too fast. Her lips felt swollen and sensitive.

  They worked for several hours and she was careful to keep the conversation on the task at hand and not anything personal. They solved the problem of the wandering cattle, the repairs to the ballroom floor, and a new roof on top of Gledfield’s north wing.

  He was adamant about approving the new stable design, and she had to describe it to him numerous times, making a notation of his comments and improvements. But he surprised her when he demanded that one of the maids be sacked.

  “She stole something,” he said. “That’s grounds enough for dismissal.”

  “Doesn’t the poor thing get another chance?”

  “No,” he said, then refused to say another word.

  “Why not? Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “That wasn’t a mistake, Minerva. That was a choice. A mistake is when you don’t know the difference. Her choice was to steal. It’s a rule at Gledfield. No one will remain on staff who’s proved themselves to be a thief.”

  “So, you do adjudicate morals after all.”

  “Someone who makes the wrong choice should reap the consequences of that choice,” he said, his voice brittle.

  She studied him, realizing what he was saying. He believed his blindness was the payment for his choice to go to America. He was reaping the consequences of his idiocy.

  Finally, it was time for her to go. She stood.

  “Thank you for today,” he said, as he did every day.

  As she did every day, she said something innocuous in response and went to the door. She always said good-­bye to him with a final look, as if to enshrine him in her memory.

  Today, the sight of him disturbed her on an elemental level.

  He’d kissed her, yet made no mention of it afterward, as if it were unimportant.

  She’d never received a more important kiss.

  The curtains were open at the window behind him, allowing the afternoon sun to stream into the room, bathing his shoulders and showering him with light.

  His black hair and black eye patch gave him the appearance of Lucifer, God’s beloved angel before his fall from grace. Had Dalton MacIain ever been that innocent? Or had he been a rake from the cradle, winking at his nurse and cozening the female servants?

  “Who was your first conquest?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He did that when she’d startled him, retreated into faux propriety as if he couldn’t believe her effrontery.

  “It was a maid at Gledfield, wasn’t it? Did your parents ever find out? Or Arthur?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, he shook his head. “You’re the most astounding creature, Minerva Todd. Yes, it was a maid, and no, my parents never discovered it.”

  “Did Arthur?”

  “Yes, and he lectured me extensively on the merits of never taking advantage of the staff. I felt like a worm when he was done.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “She married a miller, I believe, and had a great many little millers.”

  “None of them yours?”

  “Good God, no. One thing I’ve been very careful about, Minerva, is not to sow my seed the length and breadth of England.”

  But he had one child, a little boy who looked exactly like him.

  “And here? Are you never tempted to dabble with the staff?”

  The tips of his ears were turning red. Was he angry or embarrassed?

  “My staff is sacrosanct, Miss Todd. Even my acquaintances knew that. I would have cut them off without a word if they bothered one of them.” He moved his hand, flexing his fingers.

  “Am I not considered staff, then?”

  He smiled. “You’re speaking of the kiss? Shall I apologize?”

  “No, perhaps not. You don’t frighten me, either, Dalton,” she said.

  She didn’t stay to see the effect of her announcement or turn around after leaving, to look back. She walked down the corridor as she had for the last three weeks.

  If she turned right, she’d head toward the kitchen, where Mrs. Thompson would greet her, as would Daniels, waiting to take her home.

  The housekeeper always sent her on her way with some treat that annoyed Mrs. Beauchamp and made her frown. From the aroma in the air as she approached, it smelled like ginger biscuits.

  Today, however, before moving on to the kitchen she stepped into the parlor, went to the window on the far right, and opened the lock.

  Chapter 25

  If the Covington sisters could see her, she’d be ruined. The elderly ladies were harmless most of the time, but when they saw something that truly disturbed them, they could carry tales far and wide. She’d often told Neville that if he must come in at dawn, to do so in a way their neighbors couldn’t see.

  She had to admit, though, that Neville did have a great deal of charm. Perhaps that’s why the three sisters never gossiped about her brother, despite the fact that he sometimes staggered home at outrageous hours.

  Neville made a point of taking some of Cook’s pastries over to the sisters from time to time. He would sit and have tea with them, spending an hour or two at each session. No doubt he was the only male they allowed past the front door.

  Of course, they’d seen him grow up. They’d been younger then and walked the neighborhood each morning and each evening, the better to note any changes or deleterious behavior. When Neville decided to climb one of the trees in the park and found himself stuck, it was one of the Covington sisters who brought the news to her. When Neville rescued one of their cats from a chasing dog, they conveyed that information to her as well, along with their gushing praise.

  Neville had handled the Covington sisters a great deal better than she had. Perhaps she should have taken them some treat. Or commented about one of the kittens she’d seen sunning in the window. Something other than passively becoming the subject of their intense scrutiny.

  She often studied the shards of an ancient pot with the same fixed determination, as if it held a secret she could decipher if she looked hard enough. In the case of the pot, there were facts to be ascertained. She couldn’t say the same about her life.

  Until tonight.
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br />   Tonight, the Covington sisters would have had a great deal of gossip to spread if they saw her surreptitiously making her way to the stable after her own staff had retired for the night.

  She climbed the stairs to the room above the carriage bay where the stable boy slept. To her relief, Michael either wasn’t yet asleep or roused easily. When she asked him the most important question, he nodded enthusiastically.

  “Yes, Miss Minerva, I can drive the carriage,” he said.

  “Then you may drive me tonight on one condition.”

  He was still nodding.

  “You mustn’t tell Hugh, or anyone else for that matter. Do I have your word?”

  Ever since their relationship, Hugh no longer slept above the stable. Instead, he’d taken lodgings elsewhere. She didn’t think it was longing on his part as much as tact. If he wanted to bring another woman to his bed, she wouldn’t know about it.

  Nor, if the truth be told, would she care.

  She had enjoyed Hugh. She had learned a great deal from him. He had instructed her in the ways of passion so that she wouldn’t die a maiden. She would have at least known then the touch of a man and the joy that came from lovemaking.

  She’d been quite willing to live for the rest of her life without duplicating the experience. Hugh had left her with enough lovely memories that it simply wasn’t necessary.

  Until she met the Rake of London.

  She couldn’t get the memory of Dalton touching her face out of her mind. Then he’d kissed her. How was she supposed to forget that? Or the yearning she felt the minute the kiss ended?

  She wanted him. She wanted to touch Dalton the same way he’d touched her, stroking her hands and fingers over his skin, learning him so she could close her eyes and forever remember every contour of his body.

  His rakish smile made her pulse dance. Deep inside, she hurt. Not with pain but something else. An emptiness, a need she’d never before felt. A feeling she knew only he could ease.

  She most definitely did not consider him an ogre.

  Would he consider her a harlot?

  She tucked herself into the carriage, grateful that Michael hadn’t lit the lamp on the outside. He was, bless him, quiet as he led the horses out of the stable and down the alley.