Scotsman of My Dreams (3 page)

Here was where she wrote letters to learned men all over the Continent, asking for them to expound on their discoveries or give her advice. None of them were shy about doing either. For some reason, men felt compelled to give her direction. Most of the time she just nodded, filed away the important bits mentally, and ignored the rest.

Her father had never felt the need to have a library. But then, he went off to work each day. Being wealthy was never an excuse for sloth, he would say. Her great-­grandfather had been a minority owner in one ship. He'd made his fortune by always reinvesting his wealth. By the time he died, he owned ten ships, a fleet her grandfather had only expanded. When her father died, the Todd family had either a minority interest in over a hundred ships or owned them outright.

She'd never felt wealthy, only because such an attitude would have been discouraged. Money was a subject rarely discussed in their house. But she'd never had to worry about the cost of things or her future. She was able to pursue any interest she wished. Nor did she have to marry in order to provide for herself.

What would her parents say to see her life now?

Her father would have been more direct than her mother. Her dearest papa would have put his arm around her shoulders, drawn her in, and smiled down at her.

“Minerva, my dear, I'm afraid you're becoming an independent woman. What some might call a spinster.”

She might be a spinster, but she wasn't a maiden, but of course she would have never made that confession to her father. Nor would it have been possible to discuss the matter with her mother, even in a roundabout way.

Nora Todd had been a sweet woman, one who gave the appearance of being too delicate for life. Things had to be polished and brushed and perfumed, tied up in a bow, before they were presented to her. Everyone around her mother seemed to accept her fragility and never tested the limits of her strength. Instead, all of them—­even the child Neville had been—­were more gentle with Nora than they were with anyone else.

Strange, how she had never been considered delicate like her mother. A good thing, as it turned out. Otherwise, she would have been unable to manage Neville. Or meet with their solicitors. Or endured this last year.

If she ever married, it would be because of her parents.

They had been a ­couple, partners in truth. Where one was, the other could be easily found. Even during the difficult birth of her brother, her father would not be relegated to another room, but insisted on sitting beside his wife's bed and holding her hand during the travail.

Minerva had been eight years old the day Neville was born. Eight years and two weeks. From that moment on, their birthdays were celebrated together. When she held him, Neville never fussed. Instead, he gnawed on one fist and looked up at her with bright blue eyes as if he trusted her completely.

Her heart was engaged from the first moment she saw him. What a darling little boy he'd been. What a precocious youngster and fine intelligent young man.

Until he'd met Rathsmere. Then Neville changed, had become someone she didn't know, couldn't understand, and didn't like all that much.

That was the worst of it, wasn't it? She wanted to like him. She loved him. She couldn't erase the love. Yet she found as time progressed she didn't admire the man he was becoming. Neville had no plans to work at the Todd Shipyards, preferring to let others run the company their great-­grandfather had founded. Nor was he using his fortune in a good way.

Was it because of her that he'd become so wild? That was a question she couldn't banish, especially at night when loneliness was her only companion.

Had she been responsible for Neville's descent into hedonism? Had he wanted to escape her—­or her rules—­to the extent that he'd done everything just the opposite? Or was it the money that altered him to such a degree?

From the rumors, Rathsmere was fantastically wealthy, but that didn't mean his hangers-­on were as well-­funded. Neville might be the only one who had any degree of income. Had the others depended on Rathsmere's largesse for their very existence?

She should've taken Neville with her on her last expedition, regardless of his reluctance. She should've found a way, somehow, to make him come with her to Scotland. If she had, she wouldn't have returned to London to discover he'd gone off to war. If she had, he wouldn't have written her the letter she retrieved from her desk now.

My dear sister,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and your expedition to Scotland pleasurable and worth your while.

Occasionally, I have envied you your single-­minded pursuit of history. I have often wondered why you pursue such a path. I have no interest in the subject myself.

She knew that. Neville had never expressed any curiosity about her expeditions to Scotland. She pushed that thought to the back of her mind and continued reading, even though she didn't need to. She knew the letter by heart. How many times had she read it? A hundred? Five times that? Each time, she was filled with shame.

Somehow, somehow, she should have been able to stop him.

You go to seek the remains of those who've passed, Minerva, while I seek to live in the present day. Perhaps one day ­people will look down on my grave with the same admiration you extend your long buried Scots and say, “Neville Todd, now there was a man of adventure.”

I have gone to America to fight in their war. I know my decision will not meet your approval. Sometimes women must simply accept a man's path in life. This is mine, to seek adventure where it is. To test my own mettle. To see if I am as brave as I think I am.

Yours in fondness, your brother, Neville

She didn't know what part of the letter made her angrier, the fact that he had gone off to see if he was brave, or his thought that women should simply agree to anything a man suggested.

What poppycock.

Sitting at her desk, she calmly folded the letter and held it against her chest.

She would not cry. Tears did nothing but make her eyes and nose red and congest her breathing. They didn't solve the situation. They didn't make her feel less guilty.

He had never mentioned America to her. What did he know about their war? Did he simply want to go into battle to see if he could survive it?

Dear God, had he survived it?

That was the one question no one could answer.

She replaced the letter in the drawer of her desk and sat quietly, thinking of her next move. If she wrote the earl again, he would probably ignore her, as he'd already done five times. If she returned to his house tomorrow, encountered his secretary again, and marshaled her arguments better, was there any guarantee Mr. Howington would listen?

She had only been jesting when she was talking to Mrs. Beauchamp, but perhaps she should engage in a little subterfuge. Every house needed servants, and the earl's large home must require quite a number of them in order to run smoothly.

The plan being born in her imagination died a swift death. Mr. Howington had seen her. Perhaps she could attempt to engage the housekeeper's help. Or bribe one of the servants to turn the other way when she gained entrance to the house.

She had to find a way in to see the Earl of Rathsmere. She had to find out what happened to Neville.

How could she live another day without knowing?

 

Chapter 4

D
alton dreamed he was standing on a hill above the battlefield, staring out at what had once been a field of corn. Now the crop was death, ready to be harvested, the sight of the sprawling bodies so hideous that his mind shied from it even in his dream. He stopped counting at thirty-­three. The death toll had to be in the thousands.

The question came from his left, uttered by a voice as booming as God's. He couldn't see the speaker. Perhaps it was the voice of his conscience or the whispers of his soul.

What was the reason for the slaughter of these men? Was it political necessity? Pride or arrogance? Had it all been a horrible mistake? What was won by the winning of this battle? What was lost, other than the lives of all these men?

He struggled to wake up, knowing it wasn't a dream but a memory. On that day, after that battle, he'd been staggered by the death toll, unable to answer the questions that still haunted him. Perhaps that was the beginning of his disillusionment. Or simply the day he grew up.

Coming awake, he blinked up at the ceiling, only to find himself swimming in a vast black pool.

He hated nights.

The pattern was relentless. He drank enough to ensure himself an easy descent into slumber. Two hours later with the precision of a timepiece, he woke. For those first few seconds, staring up at the ceiling, he was disoriented. He expected to see faint moonlight or the gradual graying of the sky through the open window. Ever since he was a boy he'd disliked sleeping with the curtains closed, but now it didn't matter.

First came the panic, then the realization that he couldn't see.

He sat up as he did every night, pushing the pillows around him, creating a cocoon of safety in his large bed.

His darkness then was absolute. Like being on the ocean on a moonless night, he was unable to tell what was water and what was sky. The sheer formlessness of night terrified him, but it was a confession he'd never made to another soul. Nor would he, as long as his courage lasted.

There were times when he wondered just how long that would be. Would he be like one of those poor men so traumatized by battle he could only sit in a corner at the hospital, back against the wall, rocking and staring out at the patients with terror in his eyes? Would he lose his senses one night? Would they find the new and reluctant Earl of Rathsmere running down the road stark naked, screaming wildly and pulling out his hair? Not that, then. He couldn't see the road, let alone run down it. He'd probably slam into a fence or a carriage.

Self-­pity was not one of his greater virtues. But then, the longer he endured being blind, the more he found himself saturated with it. Would he, as the years passed, become so disgusted by his own wallowing that he did himself in?

He rose from the bed, donned his robe, and moved to the sitting room. He found his way to a wing chair beside a round mahogany table and sat there, staring at a cold fireplace, hearing the wind whistle down the chimney until it sounded like a far off train.

At least, having acquired an earldom he didn't want, he hadn't had to move from his own home. Lewis was the only occupant of the MacIain family town house, located a half mile away. He would have to solve the problem of Lewis one day, but not tonight.

The silk robe was cool against Dalton's skin even though the night was muggy. He wished he'd had the foresight to bring the decanter of whiskey to his room. He would not ring for one of the servants. First of all, it was after midnight. Secondly, he didn't want one of the maids or, God forbid, Mrs. Thompson, wondering about his drinking habits.

On another night, before America, if he'd been alone and without companionship and unable to sleep, he would have read to pass the hours. He didn't even have that ability now.

To occupy himself, he conjured up the pattern of the upholstery, the exact hue of the mahogany table. He knew, unless it had been changed for some odd reason, that the bed coverings were made of a particular color of dark blue he liked, matching the curtains. The windows on both sides of the bed were tall, looking out over his garden.

Alexandra MacIain had been able to coax any growing thing into flourishing, even here in London. His mother had insisted on supervising the construction of his garden. If he opened the windows now, he would smell an assortment of blowzy flowers no doubt bobbing their heads listlessly in anticipation of her return.

The MacIain clan was decimated. First, his father of a stroke, and then his darling mother. He had heard more than one person at Gledfield say something to the extent that the countess simply didn't want to do without her husband.

He had never acknowledged hearing the remarks. Secretly, however, he wondered if they weren't correct.

His father and mother adored each other, a singular achievement in the society that was London. Maybe such affection was possible because they didn't spend much time in the city, choosing, instead, to live most of the year at Gledfield.

His father enjoyed serving in the House of Lords, a function Arthur had taken to as well. But then, Arthur was gone now, too, the victim of an idiotic hunting accident.

That left Lewis and him, the lesser of the MacIains, according to almost anyone.

He had spent most of his life enjoying himself, and it looked like Lewis was ably following in his footsteps.

Once more he pushed the problem of Lewis to the back of his mind, concentrating on his memories of his sitting room.

He knew the pattern of the carpet beneath his bare feet, could feel the worn parts directly in front of the chair. He hadn't often sat here in front of the fireplace in solitary contemplation. If anything, the chair had been the scene of a few trysts.

Without much difficulty, he could envision the last woman who'd occupied his bedroom. Cassandra, that was her name, the wife of a baronet. Her husband, she'd said, was supremely uninterested in her. She'd retaliated by bedding any man she could.

In the time before America, when he was adrift in hedonistic impulses, he told himself she was besotted with him. Cassandra would not have looked for another lover once she'd come to his bed. The truth, likely as not, the minute he was gone she'd found someone to take his place. And the other women? No doubt they'd done the same. Hadn't he?

Yet he'd been remarkably celibate since America. First of all, when you were fighting for your life, one of the last things you thought about was bed sport. Then there was the fact that he was surrounded by a sea of men but very few women. The few hardy feminine souls who appeared on the battlefield were either nurses or wives.

None of the females he'd known would be interested in coming to his bedroom now unless it was out of a misguided sense of pity or as a lark. Perhaps it might be considered something novel to bed a blind man.

He needed to become accustomed to this new way of life, this monastic existence. He didn't fool himself by thinking he offered anything to the opposite sex at the moment. Of course, there was the money. His family was wealthy, and according to his solicitor, under Arthur's able handling the estate had only grown in size.

Perhaps he should send out a notice that he was in the market for a female companion, one whose greed would have her overlook his damaged face and blindness.

He hadn't yet descended to that state. His pride dictated that he remain alone for the time being. Besides, as long as Lewis was alive and well, he saw no need to marry. He had his heir.

Who the hell cared if he remained a bachelor?

The idea of a wife, especially one who was solicitous, charming, and eternally underfoot, was hideous. He could barely tolerate his own pity, let alone that rendered by someone else.

Dalton placed his hands on the ends of the chair arms, feeling the edge of the upholstery and the piping there. He wondered what color the piping was and knew that before America he wouldn't have even noticed it.

Some poor benighted fool had told him that his other senses would be heightened because of the loss of his sight. On hearing that, he'd remained silent, finding a curious power in remaining mute. ­People couldn't argue with him if they didn't know what he thought. Nor could they seize on a certain sentence or a comment and recall it to death.

No, silence was the best recourse. Somehow, though, he had to find a way to endure these nights. He would bring the decanter of whiskey into his bedroom from now on.

He eased back against the chair, digging the balls of his feet into the carpet. The potpourri Mrs. Thompson distributed throughout the house was even more pungent here. Something citrusy with hints of flowers. She was not unlike his mother in her love of growing things, perfuming things, or in finding things about which to be joyous each and every day.

He should send her to Gledfield, like Samuels. The fewer servants around, the better. The fewer ­people to meet in the hall and have to greet. The fewer with which to pretend that all was well, that life was worth living, and weren't they all fortunate?

Bollocks.

He didn't hear any carriages, although they weren't forbidden in Tarkington Square after midnight. God knows he and his friends had made a racket often enough returning to his home. But it seemed as if he were the only rake living here. The others went to bed with the sun and no doubt rose with dawn, farmers in their blood.

A good thing he didn't need a light. Otherwise he might give the other residents something about which to be curious. What on earth was the Earl of Rathsmere doing up at this hour? Did his conscience bother him?

The silence was absolute, deep enough that he could hear the pounding of his heart. He was, despite his blindness, healthy and would no doubt live to an old age. Perhaps he would be known as the curmudgeonly earl.

Oh, him. He was a rake when he was younger. Cut a wide swath through London society. Was even reprimanded by the Queen. Then he went off to war. It's said it changed him. At least he needn't stand on a street corner with an outstretched cup. No, the MacIain wealth shelters that blind beggar.

He might unbend to be a doting uncle to Lewis's children when he had them. A little niece might clamber up onto his lap, requesting a horsey ride. A nephew might whisper questions about the war.

Did you kill anyone, Uncle Dalton?

What would he say to his imaginary nephew, born only in his imagination?

Would the child understand? Probably not, any more than anyone else.

Yes, but the whole experience was anticlimactic,
he might say.
I was surprised there weren't angels singing and trumpets bellowing. Just a look of surprise as a cloud of red bloomed on the man's chest. His legs crumpled beneath him and he rested on the cold ground, his eyes staring sightlessly at a gray sky.

No, that wasn't a tale he would tell any child. Or anyone else, for that matter. He would leave his confusion about war and death unvoiced.

A sound made him turn, staring at the door that led to the hall. Was one of the servants awake? Had he somehow alerted them to his sleeplessness? Was someone going to knock on his door and be solicitous?

No one in all of London had a more eager-­to-­please staff than he, and no one wanted it less.

He should banish them all to Gledfield and live here alone. That was an amusing idea, since he had no idea how to feed himself or even deal with the stove. Perhaps he could subsist on vegetables from the market, brought to him by some charitable soul and left on his doorstep each morning. Dammit all, he really liked beef from time to time. Or Cook's fish stew. No, perhaps he wouldn't banish Cook to Gledfield.

Maybe he should make the hallway outside his suite off limits. No one was to come and be kind. Only once a week, when he was in his library, could they enter to straighten up the room and change the sheets. But no trays and no midnight knocking on his door.

Leave him alone, dammit.

He wanted the whiskey even more now.

“
I
DON'T
think this is wise, Minerva.”

She didn't bother to look at Hugh. He'd said the same thing at least five times since they left the carriage behind the earl's town house.

“Perhaps you can visit your solicitor,” he said. “Apply to him. Perhaps the man has some ability to make the earl listen.”

She truly detested when someone suggested a man might be able to handle a situation better than she could. Granted, there were times when she needed a man's help. Although she was strong, for example, Hugh was stronger. But to imply that a man might have more persuasive powers—­especially when right was on her side—­was the most insulting thing Hugh could have said.

Therefore, when he reached out and grabbed her shoulder, she shook him off and strode on ahead.

If she hadn't been able to get past the Earl of Rathsmere's secretary, she was simply going to circumvent the man. If that required doing something shocking, she would do it.

If Hugh didn't want to participate, that was fine with her. She would prefer it, in fact.

She wasn't given to breaking the law. Perhaps there were times when she bent it a little. As for society's edicts, she didn't give a barleycorn for them.

Society said she should wear a cumbersome hoop and lace herself to within an inch of her life, thereby ensuring she could barely breathe. Clothes, according to society, were not for the purpose of shielding her nakedness, but to render her miserable.

Nor was she, according to society, to say anything remotely intelligent. She wasn't to venture her opinion, most especially in a group of men. She was to be demure and defer to their greater experience and wisdom.

What balderdash.

The earl's town house was on the end, at the south side of Tarkington Square. She squeezed between a line of healthy looking hedges and the wall, grateful that she'd worn her split skirt. The outfit was eminently practical, especially on an expedition. One had to look closely to ascertain that the garment was nothing more than a full set of trousers. However, the skirt was shocking enough that she normally didn't wear it in London. She eschewed society and most of its rules, but she wasn't altogether comfortable with the disapproving looks from the women who were her neighbors.