Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  “What the hell?”

  Minerva blinked her eyes open, tried to focus, then wondered if she was hallucinating.

  Abigail Covington was standing there holding a lantern and a fireplace poker. Her sister, Gladys, the cook in the group, was pressing a long handled fork to Howington’s throat. Helen was, surprisingly, pointing a rifle at the head of the man who was dragging her.

  “Let her go,” Helen said. “I’m quite a good shot. I haven’t had any target practice in a while and I’m looking forward to it.”

  She was abruptly released and fell to the street.

  “Get over there with your friend,” Helen said, pointing to Howington.

  Abigail came to Minerva’s side, stretched out a hand and helped her to stand. Pulling the cloth from her mouth, she used it to stem the blood from Minerva’s nose.

  To her shock, Helen raised the rifle, pointed it skyward and shot. The explosion deafened her for a moment.

  “There, that should summon help, I think,” Helen said, then whipped out a pistol from the pocket of her skirt and kept it leveled on the two men.

  Every window on the street was lighting up. Soon the alley would be filled with neighbors, all wondering at the commotion and hungry for scandal.

  A man came running down the street, attired in a dark blue suit and looking as proper as a banker except for his mussed hair and sweaty face. A carriage entered the alley, blocked from pulling closer by the other vehicle. As she watched, Dalton and James emerged, each man looking capable of pummeling Howington and his companion. In fact, she didn’t doubt that those men were in grave danger right at the moment.

  She hugged Abigail, said a little prayer of thanks, and wished she could just slip away.

  Chapter 33

  The parlor was filled with ­people.

  The three Covington sisters sat on the settee. Mrs. Beauchamp had already served tea and refreshments to the women. She’d been startled when Helen Covington requested a shot of whiskey. Mrs. Beauchamp didn’t look the least perturbed, however, as she poured a measure into the woman’s cup.

  George, the man who had been assigned the duty of watching out for her by James Wilson, was seated on the chair at one end of the settee. He, too, was enjoying a bit of tea and a jot of whiskey.

  Minerva was sitting on the chair at the other end of the settee drinking tea. She could have done without the tea and taken the whiskey straight up.

  Mrs. Beauchamp had tsked over her in the kitchen while she placed a salve on her face and a plaster on her nose.

  “You’ll have black eyes in the morning,” Helen Covington announced, looking enormously pleased at the idea. “You acquitted yourself well, though, Minerva. He’ll need that hand of his looked after.”

  Her nose still hurt and her face felt like it was swelling, and she wanted to escape to her room. Her visitors, however, didn’t look like they were going anywhere without answers.

  Dalton was standing beside the fireplace, staring in her direction as if he could see her. James was beside him. She had the feeling that Dalton was angry at James, but he didn’t bother to convey that to her. In fact, he hadn’t said a word.

  Dalton and James had conferred for a few moments with the authorities before they’d taken Howington and his accomplice away. They hadn’t deigned to tell her what that was about, either, a fact that annoyed her the longer time passed.

  All she knew for certain was that the entire neighborhood was awake, the Covington sisters looked delighted to be in her mother’s parlor, and she was hurting, still wanting a good cry and then an opportunity to pummel something.

  “Why did you set a guard on me?” she asked, glancing from George to James.

  All three sisters looked at James.

  “He was quite noticeable,” Helen said. “We saw him right away.”

  It would have been nice if they had told her about George.

  James looked down at the floor. Dalton looked as if he wanted to hit something.

  Very well, she’d try another question.

  “Why did Howington want to kidnap me?”

  Helen and her two sisters nodded in approval.

  “To lure Dalton somewhere,” James said. “That’s only a guess, but an educated one.”

  “Why?”

  “To kill him,” James said. “Just like Arthur was killed. I expected him to act against Dalton directly. I didn’t think he would involve you.”

  “You let him know we were going to be married,” she said, speaking to Dalton.

  “The notice is in tonight’s paper, my dear, which is why we were awake, waiting to celebrate with you.”

  She glanced at Helen, Abigail, and Gladys. They looked so happy, their eyes sparkling, their cheeks pink with excitement.

  “I hate to disappoint you,” she said, “but it was all a ruse. He only pretended to want to marry me to set a trap.”

  “Is that what you think?” Dalton asked.

  “It’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t,” Dalton said. “James thought it would be a good way to force Lewis to act. If I announced I was getting married, possibly fathering a brood of children, there went the possibility of Lewis inheriting the earldom. I didn’t know that James had placed the announcement for tonight’s paper when I asked you to marry me.”

  She was not going to believe a word he said.

  “When I asked you to marry me it was because I wanted you to be my wife.”

  She could have slapped him silly. Didn’t he know the Covington sisters were sitting right there listening to every word? Didn’t he know that tomorrow the story would be all over London?

  “Will you marry me, Minerva?”

  She glared at him, but since he couldn’t see her, the expression was wasted.

  “I don’t really want to talk to you right now, Dalton.”

  “It’s the only thing to do,” he said. “Besides, there’s a possibility you may be with child.”

  All three Covington sisters opened their eyes wider. The pink of their cheeks deepened. James’s eyes were twinkling. George turned his head a little as if he wanted to escape the room as quickly as possible. Mrs. Beauchamp, bless her heart, turned bright red, said something about cinnamon scones and retreated in a flurry of petticoats.

  Minerva closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, exhaled, and finally opened her eyes again and looked at Dalton.

  “You think my brother is a would-­be murderer. What kind of family would that create?”

  “I know my brother is a murderer, so I would say a slightly abnormal one. I apologize for that. But I wouldn’t be a normal husband, either. You would have to be my guide from time to time, tell me if I’m presentable, and if I’ve cut myself shaving.”

  She was not going to allow her heart to melt. He hadn’t mentioned anything about affection. He wanted a friend and she wanted so much more. Granted, they were physically compatible, but they couldn’t spend their lives in a bed.

  Although it might be fun to try.

  “We aren’t suited,” she said, wishing it didn’t hurt to speak. “I don’t care a whit about being a countess.”

  “That just shows how well we’re suited,” he countered. “I don’t care a whit about being an earl.”

  She frowned at him.

  He still hadn’t said anything about his feelings. Was she supposed to marry the man just because he asked?

  “No,” she said.

  All three Covington sisters gasped.

  She glanced at them. Each woman had a look of incredulity on her face. She could read their thoughts well enough. Who was she, Minerva Todd, to deny the Earl of Rathsmere?

  “I don’t want a friend,” she said. “Yes, I wouldn’t mind being your friend, but I want more. Not in being an earl more, Dalton. But in emotions. Besides, I know quite we
ll why you want to marry me.”

  “Why is that?”

  The sisters turned their heads in an identical motion to stare at Dalton while she looked in the other direction.

  “You’re lonely and you think yourself ugly, and I’m the only woman you’ve been around for nearly a year.”

  “Are you insane, Minerva?”

  As a declaration of love, it was lacking something.

  “NOT INSANE, Dalton, merely truthful.”

  He advanced on her, hoping like hell there weren’t any cute footstools or ornamental ottomans in the way. Her parlor didn’t seem to be overly stuffed with furniture, as was the fashion.

  He heard something being moved.

  “There you go, Your Lordship,” Helen said.

  He smiled his thanks.

  “You’re not being truthful,” he said to Minerva. “You’re just being disparaging. It’s a common trait of yours when you’re feeling out of place.”

  “How did you come up with that idea?”

  “I’ve observed you, Minerva, in a manner of speaking.”

  He’d almost reached her. He could tell by the sound of her sigh. He stopped.

  “Am I in front of you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Close enough to shake you?”

  “Well, yes, if you want to. I must confess that I wouldn’t like being shaken.”

  “Then listen to me, Minerva Todd. I’ve never talked to another woman like I have you. I’ve never been amused by anyone as much or been skewered so well and so ably. I’ve never thought a woman’s intellect was fascinating. I’ve never damn well chased across London after a woman. I’ve never spent hours and hours remembering everything a woman said, or hearing the sound of her laughter in my head. I’ve never thought to myself, ‘What would Minerva say to this?’ I’ve not once, in all my days of drunken celebration, ever wanted to take a woman home to Gledfield and wish I could see her expression when she sees it for the first time. I hate my blindness because I can’t see you laugh, Minerva. Or your face after we’ve made love.”

  When she didn’t speak, he shook his head. “Say something.”

  “You really mean all those things?” she asked.

  Her voice didn’t sound normal, almost as if she were trying not to weep. Hell, he hadn’t meant to upset her.

  “I really mean all those things. Will you marry me?”

  “What happens when Neville comes home? What will you do, Dalton?”

  Because of her, because she was so certain that Neville would never have done what he’d witnessed Neville doing, he was willing to suspend his disbelief.

  “I won’t make any judgments until I talk to your brother.”

  “That’s fair enough, Dalton.” She sighed. “Once you hear Neville’s explanation, it will make sense, I know it.”

  Had he ever had anyone believe in him the way Minerva believed in Neville? His mother, perhaps. And Arthur, a point at the root of all the arguments between them. His older brother wanted more from him than the dissolute life he’d led. An irony, that Arthur’s death had been one of the components of his change.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t want my wealth. I doubt you want jewelry. You ignore my praise or appreciation. What can convince you to marry me?”

  “I need to go to Scotland,” she said.

  “Now?”

  “If not now, then quickly. Will we be married soon?”

  “Does that mean yes, you’ll marry me?” He didn’t give her a chance to decline. “As soon as I can arrange it, if that’s what you wish.” He spoke to the room. “I think Minerva means that it will be a small affair, but would you be our guests?”

  Helen spoke for the sisters. “We would be honored, Your Lordship. But that means you won’t be our neighbor, won’t it, Minerva?”

  “Unless there’s a nice house near where you live, Your Lordship.”

  He felt a frisson of panic. “We might be living in Scotland a good portion of the year,” he said.

  Suddenly, arms wrapped around his waist and Minerva kissed him softly. He cupped her face and felt her wince, wishing he’d been able to punch Howington before the man had been led away.

  He’d set the authorities on Lewis, and that situation would have to be addressed in a matter of hours. Minerva, however, was his first priority.

  “I realize I’m not that great a catch. I’ve gotten some of the sight back in my left eye, but I’ve no guarantee that it will get better.”

  “Oh, piffle, Dalton. I don’t care. You’re still the most astounding man I’ve ever met.”

  He felt something open up in his chest.

  “I adore you, Minerva.”

  “Oh, Dalton, I feel the same. I think I have from the very beginning.”

  He began to smile, remembering how she’d angrily skewered him to the spot in the garden.

  “Very well,” she said, rightly interpreting his smile, “maybe not from the beginning, but certainly now.”

  He would take now. Now was a very good place to start.

  He didn’t have any trouble finding her mouth. She was still talking when he kissed her.

  Epilogue

  January, 1863

  Dalton was seated at his office chair in front of the library window, enduring another examination.

  “How long has it been, Your Lordship,” the physician asked now, “since you noticed the new changes in your vision?”

  “About two weeks. I can see a little sharper in my left eye. Not to the point of being able to read, of course, but shapes seem to have more shape, if that makes any sense.”

  Dr. Marshall smelled of licorice. Did the man notice that his home was pleasantly scented with cinnamon? His cook had become an expert at making Minerva’s favorite scones in the last six months.

  The physician leaned so close that he could feel the other man’s breath on his face. Any second now Marshall would stick his nose in his eye and there would go any recovered vision he had.

  He was required to look into a bright mirror reflecting the sun, then another instrument that made his eye water.

  Finally, the physician reared back. “I’m holding up my hand, Your Lordship. How many fingers am I showing?”

  “I’m ecstatic to be able to see that it’s a hand, Dr. Marshall, but I have no idea how many fingers are showing.”

  “But at least you can tell it’s a hand, Your Lordship. That is an improvement.”

  “I can see my wife’s face,” he said. “I haven’t been able to do that before.”

  “Truly, Your Lordship?”

  There was a strange note in the physician’s voice, making Dalton wonder exactly what the man was thinking. That he was odd for marrying when he didn’t know what his wife looked like? Or that he was imagining things?

  This morning he’d awakened beside Minerva, the dawn light illuminating her face in that flash of a second. Sleeping, she’d been beautiful, even more arresting than James had said. In that next instant the image of her had blurred, as if Providence had granted him sight for only that perfect moment.

  He hadn’t said anything to anyone, but he’d called for the physician.

  “Will my vision get better?”

  “Only time will tell, Your Lordship. It’s conceivable. It’s a very good sign that you’ve improved and not gotten worse.”

  “Is that possible?” he asked. “That it would get worse?”

  The physician straightened. “If you’d asked me that question a few months ago, I would have had to prepare you for the fact that it would probably become much worse. But now?”

  “Yes? Now?”

  “Now I think we can safely say that you will continue to improve. Perhaps one day you might be able to read. But I do
want to be notified the minute anything changes.”

  “Of course.”

  Minerva would be the first one he told, and then Dr. Marshall.

  Even her name made him smile. Minerva Todd MacIain. It was fitting that a woman who was so interested in Scotland have a Scottish name.

  He would tell her what the physician said the minute they returned home. First, however, she was all for showing him a surprise at her old house.

  Minerva’s surprises came in many different styles. Like when she presented him with Florie, a mare new to the stables at Gledfield. She had a tender mouth and a gentle gallop, the perfect horse for a one-­eyed equestrian.

  Another surprise was the day she announced that Lady Terry had left her Partage Castle. The poor woman had died before Minerva could visit with her in Scotland, but she’d made Minerva an heiress.

  “Now you’re a countess with her own castle.”

  “I’ll gladly share it with you,” she said. “I’ll make you my assistant.”

  He smiled, remembering a few of their adventures in Scotland.

  But the greatest surprise Minerva Todd MacIain had given him was news only a month old.

  He was to be a father. She was to be a mother. The two of them were to be parents, a miracle that kept him awake some nights, worrying about whether he would be an acceptable father. He suspected their first child would be a girl. She was adamant it was a boy.

  Life was full and rich, in a way he’d never contemplated in his hedonistic days. He did things he’d never thought he’d do, silly things that would have garnered his disdain only years earlier. Last night, for example, he’d arranged for a dance in their garden.

  “Come,” he said to her. “It’s a romantic time of evening, Minerva. What the Scots call gloaming.”

  “It is,” she said. “There’s a haze in the air like Scotland, but I can still hear the carriages in the square.”

  “You can also smell the honeysuckle and the roses my mother planted. She would have liked you.”

  “Would she?”

  He nodded. “I think she would have heartily approved of you. In fact, I can almost hear her say, ‘Dalton, Minerva is just the woman for you.’ ”