Scotsman of My Dreams (25 page)

Someone pulled his walking stick away from him and grabbed his arm. Maybe he should have made Daniels accompany him.

The room felt suffocatingly small. He enlarged it in his imagination, had the Covington sisters looking somewhere else other than at him. But he didn't doubt they were staring directly at him, probably measuring every twitch and muscle flex.

“This is my sister Gladys,” Abigail Covington said. “And my sister Helen. This is the Earl of Rathsmere,” she continued, obviously addressing them. “The man Minerva's been going to see each day.”

“Do you have a spy in Miss Todd's household?” he asked.

“A spy?”

A different voice spoke, one without the sweetness, but with a more acerbic tone. He didn't know if it was Helen or Gladys.

“That makes us sound very nefarious.”

“Instead of simply interested. It's Minerva, after all.”

“We knew her mother and father.”

“And Neville as well.”

Instead of three women, he felt like he was surrounded by thirty.

Abigail—­at least he thought it was Abigail—­directed him to a chair. He sank down into it gratefully.

“Here's your walking stick, Your Lordship,” one of the sisters said. Helen?

“Of course,” Abigail said, “we are very close friends with Mrs. Beauchamp.”

“Mrs. Beauchamp?”

“Minerva's housekeeper. The most sturdy and reliable woman that ever was. Why, she could give lessons to our own housekeeper.”

“And has, on many occasions,” one of the other sisters said.

“Very generous in her training.”

And her information, evidently.

“What's this about danger?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back on course.

“Because of Hugh, of course.”

“We tried to tell her—­through Mrs. Beauchamp, of course—­that it was not the proper thing to do.”

“Gladys has made pumpkin bread, Your Lordship. Would you like some? I'd be more than happy to feed you.”

Good God, no.

“Thank you, Miss Covington, but that's not necessary.”

“But you will partake, won't you? Gladys will be offended if you don't.”

The Covington sisters were gentle tyrants. He didn't want anything to eat or drink. He was here because Abigail had whispered of danger to him.

He put a polite smile on his face, one that reminded him of his childhood and lessons in manners. Arthur was much better at events like this, always knowing when to say the proper thing.

“Here's your tea, then, Your Lordship,” Abigail said with a hint of disapproval in her voice.

If she was annoyed at him, she wasn't going to share what she knew.

“I do apologize, Miss Covington,” he said. “I'd love some pumpkin bread.”

He took the plate she gave him and wondered if he could get away with simply holding it.

“You were mentioning danger?”

He was having a difficult time wading through this marsh of words, a clear sign that he'd been a recluse for too long. Strange, that he didn't have any difficulty verbally sparring with Minerva.

“Why ever would she go to Scotland alone with only her driver?” one of the women asked.

“I believe Miss Todd has an interest in archaeology,” he said, wondering if he was giving away any secrets. If so, Minerva would not be pleased with him.

“Of course she does. But are there not enough places in England to interest her?”

Dear God, had he found himself in a nest of anti-­Scottish women? Perhaps he should tell them his family name, and inform them he was descended from Highlanders, Scottish Highlanders.

“Is there nothing you can do, Your Lordship?”

“What would you have me do, Miss Covington?”

“Go after her, Your Lordship. Keep her in England where she belongs.”

“She is not my ward, Miss Covington. She merely acts as my secretary from time to time.” He had planned on asking her to perform the task full-­time, at least until he replaced Howington.

“Is there nothing that can be done to protect her reputation, Your Lordship?”

The irony of someone asking the former Rake of London how to protect a woman's reputation was not lost on him. Especially since he'd done everything he could to ruin her himself. Granted, he had not instigated the affair, but he hadn't gently guided Minerva back home when she'd come to him, either. Instead, he'd taken advantage of the situation—­and her.

“Minerva is a force to herself,” one of the Covington sisters said. “She is the epitome of a modern woman, an example for any young woman to follow. Why, her escapades keep us entertained for hours at a time.”

“You admire her, Miss Covington?”

“Indeed, Your Lordship. She is someone to emulate for her fashion sense alone.”

“Her fashion sense?”

Was he stuck with asking questions?

“She wears trousers, Your Lordship. I'm not sure if you were aware.”

“Yes, Miss Todd informed me.”

“See? Does that not explain how courageous she is?”

He couldn't wait to tell Minerva that the Covington sisters were fascinated by her, that they weren't nosy as much as filled with admiration.

“But we know full well that while we might be forward thinking women, the rest of the world is not so forgiving. Why, ­people might even think things about Minerva's work for you each day. But to go off with only her driver to Scotland, to an abandoned castle, well that's just asking rumors to fly, don't you think?”

Evidently, they thought so.

“Someone will believe the worst.”

“That she's involved with her driver.”

“He is a magnificent specimen of man.”

“Like the prince of Persia in that new novel.”

“Or the count of Montrose.”

He was adrift in a sea of words. Or imaginations.

“I'll go to Scotland,” he said, forcing himself to take a bite of bread. The second bite was easier, since the bread was more a pastry and delicious.

“Is that entirely necessary, Your Lordship?”

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I don't understand. Don't you wish for me to rescue Miss Todd?”

“Of course, Your Lordship, but Minerva's taken the train, and we know for a fact that it doesn't leave for another two hours.”

“The Caledonian Railway,” another of the sisters said.

He was beginning to tell them apart. The acerbic one was Helen, while the one with the sweet voice and the cooking skills was Gladys.

“Quite a marvelous thing. Did you know that you could travel to Scotland without stopping?”

He held out his plate, and thankfully one of the sisters took it.

“If you'll excuse me, then, ladies, I will be about the business of rescuing Miss Todd.”

He heard whispering.

“We most definitely approve,” Abigail Covington said.

Did they realize that he didn't give a flying farthing for their approval? Evidently not. Besides, he had an excuse for plucking Minerva from the train: Neville's whereabouts.

A much better reason than the truth:
I missed you. I thought of you endlessly. You can't leave me.

 

Chapter 29

K
ing's Cross Station was only ten years old and awe-­inspiring in size with its two arched roofs. No doubt the design of the building was responsible for the noise: echoes of clicking machinery, the hiss of steam, and the humming drone of conversation.

Minerva sat on a bench not far from the departure platform, wishing Hugh wasn't pacing a few feet away.

The journey to Glasgow took nearly thirteen hours, and she was prepared to nap during some of it. However, waiting for the train was always the most onerous part of the entire trip.

She couldn't wait to get to Scotland. She liked everything about the Scots: their language, their way of speaking, their hospitality, and their humor. Most of all, she admired their independence.

How strange that Dalton MacIain's heritage was Scottish.

Three times she'd gone to Partage Castle, and each time Lady Terry had invited her to stay in the house she'd built not far from the ruins.

The stately manor house with its white brick and blue painted shutters would have been at home in any English county, but in that area of Scotland it looked too large, too square, and too, well, foreign. In addition, the trees planted on either side of the drive from the white stone gate were too manicured. The rest of the land around the castle was wild, untamed, and more Scottish.

She preferred to remain at the site in order to begin work at dawn, but she would stay with Lady Terry this time to assuage Mrs. Beauchamp's concerns. Besides, she really didn't want to be alone with a sullen Hugh.

She had begun the journey this morning attired in a proper dark blue dress with white cuffs and collar. She couldn't wait to change into her trousers skirt and a dark blouse and begin work.

By tomorrow she'd be at Partage Castle.

The rain, now beating on the arched roof above, added to the cacophony around her.

Hugh refused to share her first-­class accommodations, insisting on riding in the second class compartment. She'd given up arguing with him; during their expeditions to Scotland, he wasn't just her carriage driver. He was her assistant. She couldn't do what she did without his help.

What did he mean, she wore on a man? She was most definitely not a moth.

Dalton MacIain was not her flame. No, it was better if she didn't think about the man. Easier said than done, however.

He had proven surprisingly intelligent and thoughtful. She didn't know who he'd been before his experiences in America, but from the rumors, she suspected she wouldn't have liked him very much. But this man? This man with his black eye patch and his defiance toward the world held too much fascination.

How was he doing without her?

Did he miss her?

She should have sent him a note that said more than it had, but she couldn't bear the idea of Howington reading it to him. Or even sweet Mrs. Thompson. Besides, what could she have said?

That night was a terrible mistake.

I'm too attracted to you. If you crooked your finger, I'd bound across the room like a faithful puppy to be at your side. I think about you entirely too much. I have even dreamed about you, isn't that the most foolish thing? Dreaming of a Scotsman who was an English earl.

I can't see you anymore. I can't be with you. I can't bear it. You're tearing me in two, making me think that Neville might have done something monstrous and then kissing and loving me.

No, she was simply not going to allow herself to think about the man. He was a danger, an attraction she couldn't afford, and an addiction she didn't want.

She was not going to think of how he held her and kissed every inch of her skin. She was not going to remember the bliss she'd felt. But most of all, she wasn't going to remember holding him in her arms when he trembled.

She would think of Partage instead.

Dark and brooding on the landscape, the castle sat black against the sky. The Clyde ran swift beneath the cliff, while long grasses flourished in the ruins, waving at her in greeting.

Sometimes, she felt like she could hear the past if she stood still long enough. If she did, the voices of those who lived there four hundred years ago might speak to a curious English woman.

Lady Terry had shared with her information that Partage was supposed to have been the site of the castle of the Bishops of Glasgow. She hadn't discovered any evidence that such a site existed, but then, she wasn't in Scotland more than a month at a time. Perhaps she should spend more time there.

Anywhere but in London where a certain earl lived.

T
HANK
P
ROVIDENCE
and all the angels that there was only one departure platform at King's Cross. The station was located at the northern edge of central London, a half hour from Minerva's home.

Daniels was a good enough driver that he navigated the rainy London traffic with ease.

“I'm not supposed to leave the carriage, Your Lordship,” Daniels said once they were at the station.

“Bugger the carriage,” he said. “I don't care if the damn thing's nicked.” He pulled some money from his pocket and stretched out his hand. “Give it to someone to watch the carriage, then.”

Daniels took a few bills, then pressed the rest back into his hand. “That's enough, sir.”

“Then let's be off,” Dalton said. On a quest to rescue a woman from her own folly. To protect Minerva Todd, not that she would thank him for it.

She was too opinionated, too stubborn, too much an individual. She pushed against the mold of society, bent its restraints, and was in the process of making herself a source of endless gossip.

His need to protect her startled him. She was, on the face of it, not the type of woman who engendered protective impulses. But that was the problem, wasn't it? ­People didn't see the true Minerva. They didn't realize her loneliness or that she was easily wounded despite her crusty exterior. They didn't know her capacity for affection or her sense of loyalty and duty.

She wasn't plain; she was beautiful in a way that was completely Minerva's.

He loved her voice, loved her way of speaking. Loved her mind and her wit. He might be coming too damn close to loving her, a frightening enough thought that it occupied him as they entered King's Cross Station.

S
H
E LOOKED
up to find Hugh approaching her.

“I've been thinking, Minerva,” he abruptly said. “I think it would be a good idea if I started looking for another position.”

She didn't know what to say. He was right. She had bent the boundaries of propriety with Hugh and he was the one to have suffered for it. She expected him to go back to the role he had maintained for years and that was impossible.

“If you think that's wise, Hugh.”

He nodded.

“It is, what with you being involved with the earl and all.”

She was certainly not going to justify her relationship with Dalton. Not when she was certain she'd made another mistake there, too.

“You're in love with him, aren't you?”

Oh, good heavens, no. She could not be in love with the Earl of Rathsmere. What a ridiculous idea that would be, feeling something for the Rake of London.

No, she was not that foolish.

She was most definitely not in love with him.

“Of course not,” she said. “Nor am I a moth, Hugh.”

“He'll hurt you, Minerva. Men like that do. He'll toss you aside like yesterday's handkerchief. I'd be surprised if he remembered your name the same time next year.”

She felt each word like it was an arrow tipped in poison. Hugh might be right about everything. Just one reason why she was leaving for Scotland and not sitting in the Earl of Rathmere's library.

“Speaking of the earl,” Hugh said, staring behind her.

She turned and looked.

The Earl of Rathsmere was headed toward her, his hand on Daniels's arm.

Dalton's mouth was thinned. His jaw was hardened and he was frowning. He hated to be the object of attention and he was most definitely that. The sight of a devastatingly handsome man in an eye patch striding through the station was enough to capture anyone's notice.

Whatever was he doing here? For that matter, what was her heart doing jumping up and down in her chest?

S
HE WAS
on her way to Scotland to escape him. He wasn't that much of a fool. He knew only too well that she was going to Scotland rather than coming to grips with what she'd—­what they'd—­done.

She was entirely too bohemian, shocking, unafraid to bend rules or ignore them altogether. She startled him continuously, amused him endlessly, forced him to reassess himself, and made him want to be a better man.

No woman should have that power.

The noise of the station was overwhelming, like a wave of sound coming toward him. He'd never felt as isolated as he did in that moment.

Or as afraid.

How idiotic. He'd faced fear in America as he stood there outflanked by the enemy. One day, all he'd seen was a continuous line of gray soldiers with guns pointed in his direction. He'd thought, at the time, that they looked like a monstrous porcupine, one with death on its mind. If he could force himself to remain calm then, a little noise in a cavernous station wasn't going to make him turn tail and run.

The urge was there, though, to find a quiet place, a small and cozy corner where he could identify by touch everything around him.

He was here to find Minerva. Pushing his discomfort to the back of his mind, he strode forward with his driver as his companion.

“Do you see her, Daniels?”

“Not yet, sir, but we aren't at the departures platform yet.”

He nodded, damning his need to be guided like an infant in a pram.

Daniels suddenly said, “Good afternoon, Miss Todd.”

“Is she there?” he asked.

“She is,” Minerva said. “And she would appreciate being addressed correctly. What are you doing here?”

“I've come to save you,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Covington sisters sent me. They fear you will destroy your reputation if you continue on to Scotland with only your driver in attendance.”

“Oh, bother, you have to be jesting.”

“I assure you, Miss Todd, that I am not. I spent a good thirty minutes being utterly confused in their company. All I am certain of is one thing: they fear for your reputation. Evidently, they have doubts about Hugh's honor.”

“And you're better? They evidently don't know to whom they entrusted my virtue.”

No one could infuse a statement with as much disgust as Minerva Todd.

“I've given my word to rescue you.”

He dropped his hand from Daniels's arm and strode forward, reaching the bench where she sat.

“Dalton,” she said softly, “can you see me?”

“Only light and shadow, Minerva. I guessed that the shadow in blue was you.”

“I'm going to Scotland, Your Lordship. Nothing will stop me.”

“I have news of Neville,” he said.

“What?”

He turned and walked back in Daniels's direction, hoping his driver had the sense to catch him if he strayed too far. Bless the man, he reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

“You can't mean to keep the information to yourself,” she called after him.

He glanced back in her direction. “You can't mean to travel to Scotland with only your driver as a companion.”

“I've already given notice,” Hugh said.

He didn't give a flying farthing if Hugh quit on the spot. He didn't like the man very much at the moment, if ever. Not only had Hugh abetted Minerva in her idiotic choices: the night she broke into his home and the day she'd invaded his garden. Hugh was also Minerva's first lover, and there was no way he was going to forget that.

“How convenient. Are you going to leave Miss Todd's employ after the expedition to Scotland or now?”

“Afterward,” she said. “Not that it's any of your concern. Where's Neville?”

“I'm not going to tell you here, Minerva.”

“I do not like you very much at the moment, Your Lordship.”

“That's not a matter of importance. If you want to know what I know, you'll come with me.”

“I can't,” she said. “All of my equipment and my trunks are loaded on the train. I can't do without them. Not my journals or my aprons, my pens, my notes.”

“Send Hugh to retrieve them. Have him take the trunks back to your house.”

“Tell me where my brother is, Dalton.”

How sweet her voice could seem sometimes. How seductive.

“No,” he said.

“Hugh, will you get our trunks?”

The words were tantamount to a capitulation, but he knew he'd only won the first round.

Perhaps it was a good thing he was blind. He didn't doubt they were the object of speculation from dozens of ­people. A Punch and Judy show at King's Cross. One thing about rumors, though, he'd learned in the last year. You had to know ­people to hear them. Minerva didn't talk about other ­people and neither did his staff. If he was the stuff of rumors, he was blissfully unaware.

“Tell me where he is,” she said, once they were in Dalton's carriage.

“Once we're home.”

“I won't go back to your house.”

“I'll send for Mrs. Thompson. You'll have a chaperone, which is a damn sight better than you'd have in Scotland.”

“You can be the most arrogant, autocratic, rude creature it has ever been my experience to meet.”

“While you, on the other hand, are impulsive, rash, and given to outlandish behavior with no thought to the consequences.”

“You drove me to it.”

He inclined his head in her direction.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Never mind.”