Scotsman of My Dreams (5 page)

He bent his head until his face was only inches from hers.

“You smell of cinnamon,” he said. “Are you some sort of errant baker who breaks into homes to make biscuits and scones?”

The question summoned her smile.

“Unfortunately,” she said, “I've never had any talent in cooking. Even when I attempt to toast bread, I burn it.”

“If you aren't a thief, then who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

The surge of relief she felt was almost enough to knock her to her knees.

“You're the Earl of Rathsmere, then,” she said. “Just the man I want to see.”

“And you've come to see me at midnight?” His voice held a tinge of astonishment.

“Your secretary wouldn't let me see you.”

“At midnight?”

She truly couldn't blame him for being annoyed, but she'd been desperate.

“Where is my brother?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My brother, Neville Todd. He went with you to America, but he hasn't returned.”

“And you think I know where he is?”

She frowned at him. “Who better?”

To her surprise, he turned away from her.

“
Y
OU COULD
have injured me dreadfully with that pot,” she said.

“Next time you break into my house after midnight I'll have to remember that. Are you going to exit by the window or do you want me to escort you to the front door?”

“I want you to tell me where my brother is.”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” he said, making his way to the fireplace. To his relief, there was nothing in his way. He jerked on the bellpull before turning back in the woman's direction.

He could hear her moving toward him. He stretched out his hand to stop her and encountered a female arm. Instead of pulling back, he allowed his hand to trail up to her shoulder.

She didn't move. Was it pity that froze her in place? Had he fooled himself and there wasn't a Stygian darkness in the room?

He splayed his fingers, thumb touching her chin. Her skin was incredibly soft. He wanted to cup his hand over her cheek, keep her still to better measure the shape of her face. He wanted to stroke his fingers over her, marvel at the differences women offered from men. He wanted, in an odd and disturbing way, to tell her it had been a great many months since he'd touched anyone willingly, and never a woman in all that time.

“They depended on you to be their leader,” she said.

The words, said in a dark parlor in the middle of the night, held a tone he couldn't decipher. Perhaps it was condemnation. Or partly regret. Something lingered there, just below the surface, an emotion that warned him not to examine it too closely.

He finally pulled back his hand, wanted to apologize for his effrontery. Or question hers. Who was more at blame here? Her, for breaking into his house to demand answers? Or him, for daring to touch her?

“Aren't you going to light a lamp?”

“No, I'm not. Nor am I going to discuss America,” he said. Nor would he talk about Neville Todd.

“I don't give a flying fig for America. Or MacIain's Marauders or whatever you called ourselves. All I care about is my brother. Where is he?”

He should have expected the next question. In fact, it probably should've been the first one she asked.

“Is he dead?”

“I don't know,” he said, “but I sincerely hope he is.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your Lordship?”

He turned, grateful to hear Mrs. Thompson's voice.

“We have an unexpected guest,” he said to her. “Show her to the door. If you have any trouble, summon one of the stable boys.”

He retraced his steps with more speed than sense. Thankfully, he didn't encounter any wayward ottomans or misplaced chairs.

At the door, he stopped. “If you return, Miss Todd, I'll notify the authorities.”

“What do you mean, you hope Neville is dead?”

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

“And me, Rathsmere? Did you hear me?”

Mrs. Thompson said something calming, but he was already out the door and heading for the stairs, his whiskey be damned.

 

Chapter 6

D
alton was seated in his library, in front of the cold fireplace. He'd taken the right-­hand chair, leaving the other one vacant for his soon-­to-­be arriving guest. James Wilson would be the first person who saw him outside of his servants and medical attendees.

He had traveled from America with two ­people, Duane Abernathy and his wife, Constance. Expatriates, they had been convinced to return to Scotland by way of London first. Mrs. Abernathy had proved to be a skilled nurse, and her husband was a general oddsbody, a man of all work and a capable protector.

Once they brought him home, he had offered them both positions either in London or Gledfield. They had, to his surprise, refused, saying they were all for seeing their homeland again.

“If you change your mind,” he said, feeling a warmth for the ­couple who had made it possible for him to return to London, “the offer is always open.”

They had thanked him again, Mrs. Abernathy startling Dalton by kissing him on the cheek.

“And I can't think of anyone I would rather work for,” she said, further surprising him.

He was fortunate in his London servants as well.

Mrs. Thompson had been selected by his mother from a phalanx of candidates. She'd been more maternal toward him ever since he returned. No doubt it was his blindness that prompted her attitude. Howington had been with him for years before he left for America. The man had opted to stay behind in England to oversee his affairs. A good thing, as it turned out, since Arthur had gone and gotten himself killed. Between Howington and Arthur's staff, nothing had fallen by the wayside.

The MacIain fortune was well served and growing by the day, he was told. His solicitor, however, had been hinting that Dalton should be like his older brother, overseeing it all. Pulling strings here, opening a factory there, hiring and firing and being an observant puppet master.

He couldn't imagine a worse steward for the MacIain wealth. He'd never before been responsible for anything other than himself, and look how well he'd handled that task.

What would James Wilson think to see him? He'd never had to question whether his appearance scared another human being and it irked him to do so now.

Should he tell James the entire truth or hold back certain details of his expedition to America, the better to appear less of an idiot?

No, the whole truth must be told. Nothing less would suffice. And his full measure of arrogance must be revealed as well.

Howington announced his visitor in his usual abrupt manner. His secretary crept on soundless feet to the door, never even seeming to breathe to give his position away. Then, when Dalton was lulled into thinking he was alone, Howington burst into speech.

“Mr. Wilson is here, sir,” the secretary said in an unnecessarily loud voice.

He'd lost his sight, not his hearing.

A second later he felt Wilson's hand clamp down on the shoulder.

“James,” he said smiling. “I would say it was good to see you, but I can't quite manage that right now.”

“I hadn't heard, Dalton,” James said. “What the hell happened?”

He waved toward the chair then turned his head slightly, not having heard Howington leave the room. It was possible the man had slithered out as soundlessly as he entered.

Bells—­that was most definitely the answer. A necklace of bells if Howington refused to wear them on his shoes. Either that or the man had to be told to announce his arrivals and departures.

“We'll have refreshments now,” Dalton said, hoping the secretary hadn't left. Otherwise, he was going to look the fool.

“Very well, Your Lordship.”

Another thing about Howington. He didn't use that officious tone unless someone else was with him. When they were alone, his secretary behaved normally. Only when there were guests did he act as if Dalton were king.

Ever since returning from America, he'd been annoyed by his secretary, whereas before, the man had rarely disturbed him. Did the man miss the old Dalton?

His guest settled next to him.

James Wilson had been his roommate in school and was the fifth son of a duke. They had found in each other not kindred spirits as much as boys with similar backgrounds. He'd been a hell-­raiser even back then, while James always urged caution. He'd called James his conscience more than once.

But whenever he had succeeded in one of his routs, James was more than willing to share the proceeds, such as those times he'd raided the school's larder. Together, the two boys often shared a jar of brambleberry jelly slathered on a loaf of bread.

Dalton had always been hungry back then, and as he grew, his appetites hadn't diminished as much as changed direction. James had been as prudent and celibate as a monk.

They hadn't seen each other for a number of years and, in that time, James had acquired a reputation as an adept investigator, one with not only talent but tact. If a man suspected his wife was seeing another man, he went to James Wilson. If a member of the peerage was disturbed about his heir's habits, he too went to James. Whatever sin was unearthed was never spoken about or revealed to another soul.

Dalton had even recommended James to Arthur. His brother hadn't mentioned the subject of the investigation or pried, but Dalton had his suspicions. Alice, his sister-­in-­law, had defied society and remarried shortly after Arthur's death.

While James spent the intervening years adding to his good name, Dalton had done the opposite, a thought that kept him silent for a few moments.

Despite their differences, he and James had been true friends. When had friendship ceased to be important to him? He'd cultivated hangers-­on, boys turning to men, men with little to do but carouse and drink. None of them offered him anything in the way of intellectual challenge. Nor had their characters been such that he was compelled to emulate their better behavior. They were all like him, adrift in the world, with no greater thought than the next night's woman, drink, or bet.

Two years ago he'd been at the center of a popular group in society. They shocked, amused, horrified, and fascinated all of London. Yet not one person had called on him on his return. Not one of them sent him a note or letter. They vanished in a puff of smoke as if they'd only been figments of his drunken, hazy memories.

“I'm going to tell you a story,” he said now, before he lost his nerve. “I wish I could tell you it's all fiction, but unfortunately none of it is. I also wish I could tell you that it paints me in a good light, but almost none of it does.”

“I've heard tales of your exploits,” James said.

He wasn't the least surprised. “I'm sure you have,” he said.

He hesitated when Mrs. Thompson announced herself at the door. At least his housekeeper knew the proper way to comport herself around a blind man. Perhaps she could give lessons to Howington.

She bustled about, ensuring that James had tea, scones, and oatmeal biscuits.

“I've soaked the raisins in whiskey, sir,” she said.

To Dalton's surprise, she didn't urge him to partake. Maybe she knew how much he liked oatmeal biscuits, or perhaps she thought it was worthless to urge him to do anything he didn't want to do. Or perhaps she was trying to restrict his intake of whiskey.

He settled back on the chair, more than willing to wait until James had eaten his fill. Perhaps he would change his mind about revealing everything. They spoke for a few moments of the past, of the school they had attended, and of ­people they both knew, most of whom had gone on to marry and beget an impressive number of children.

“You're not married?” he asked James.

“I am,” his friend said, to his surprise. “Happily so, I might add, but we've no children yet.”

He hadn't heard and the oversight disturbed him. He'd have Howington send a belated wedding present.

They sat in silence for a few moments while Dalton ratcheted up his nerve again.

“In May of last year I left England with eleven friends,” he said. “Or perhaps the word ‘friends' isn't right. Call them acquaintances.” Probably even less than that. Parasites? Maybe a dozen different names, but not friends.

Not someone like James, who, despite the fact that he hadn't seen him in years, came when he needed him.

“Someone once called us Dalton's Dozen. MacIain's Marauders was the name that stuck. I wanted to go to war and maybe the others did, too. Or maybe they simply followed me because it was something they did.”

“MacIain's Marauders?” James said.

“I know. An idiotic name.” One so childish it might have dated back to his days at school.

Still, he had been their leader, their colonel, their general-­at-­war.
Follow me, boys, into the breech, and we'll show those damn Americans how a real man goes to war.

“We got to Washington in June. My first battle was in July.”

He reached over to the tray, picked up an oatmeal biscuit and held it lightly. He wasn't hungry as much as he was hesitating.

“Why, Dalton?”

The question was voiced with genuine curiosity. Because of that, he answered as honestly as he could.

“Boredom. Ennui. Stupidity. I lean toward the latter myself. War was an adventure, something none of us had ever experienced. We read about it in books; we heard tales, but we wanted to know what it was like firsthand. So we went off to war, the twelve of us.”

Thankfully, James didn't comment.

“Once in Washington, we flipped a coin to see on which side we would fight. I got the North along with four other men. The others got the South.”

To his credit, James still didn't say a word, but Dalton could imagine his friend's incredulous stare.

Within a week the peaceful serenity of the Virginia countryside was clawed open by screams and yells, the cloud of smoke from the rifles and cannon, and the shocking crimson of too much blood.

His first taste of war had been at Manassas, a battle the Union lost. They'd lost the second, too, at Big Bethel. They'd won a few skirmishes before the last battle he was in.

“Tom died in the second week. Lawrence in the third.”

By that time he was reevaluating his idiotic decision to come to America and was all for making for the British Legation in Washington.

“I realized that war wasn't a game or an adventure. It was bloody and smelly, terrifying and horrible. I hope never to see as many dead men in one place again.” He laughed mercilessly. “But I can't see at all, which is probably divine justice.”

“What happened to the men who fought for the South?”

“I don't know,” he said, the admission grating on him.

He'd written the families of the men who'd died, but he hadn't contacted them once he returned to London. He should have, though, to ensure they'd gotten word. Another regret for his pile.

Virginia was not unlike England in its topography and lush vegetation. The summer had been too damn hot, but he'd thought of it with fondness as they made their way through the bitterly cold November day. Sleet bit at his face with icy teeth.

On that gray day when the lowering sky masked any hint of sun and made it feel like nightfall at noon, he made the decision to return home. He'd been a damn fool to think war was a lark, that it would add meaning to the bland sameness of his life. Shame sat on his shoulders like one of the Union blankets he'd been issued, scratchy and irritating.

In the intervening months, he'd obeyed orders and given some. He'd kept the men with him safe while respecting General Patterson, the man under whose command he served. The Rake of London had transformed himself into a soldier, and the metamorphosis surprised even him.

“We were licking our wounds after the defeat at Leesburg and were headed toward Washington. I remember thinking how serene the terrain was. Not very far away thousands of men still lay on the ground, either dead or dying. All I could smell was the cold and a hint of snow, not blood and smoke.”

He reached toward the table to pour himself a cup of tea.

“Here,” James said grabbing his hand, then settling a saucer with a teacup on it.

He would much rather have had whiskey, but he would settle for tea until his friend left.

Never let it be said he wasn't aware of his vices. What he chose to do about them, however, was his business. He might not be a womanizer any longer. He might not stay out all night. He might not even smoke a cheroot.

Whiskey was still a friend, God help him.

“Then what happened?”

He almost smiled at James's curiosity. His friend had always been there at school, whispering cautions, then desperate to know, exactly, what he had done. As if there were two parts of James's character, the angel and the angel who wished he could be more devilish.

“There were still three of us left,” he said. “From the original five who went with the Union army. William Harris, Neville Todd, and me.”

A clearing to the left of the track they were following made him turn and direct his mount through the trees. Near a creek, the space was large enough for their encampment.

“I turned to call out to the other men and saw Neville raising his pistol and aiming at me.”

That moment was firmly fixed in his memory, replaying slowly every time he thought of it. He felt himself frown as he stared at Neville, then recalled starting to ask what he was doing. He saw the other man raise the pistol, aiming down the sight, and a puff of smoke as Neville pulled the trigger. Everything after that was black and red until he'd awakened in a hospital. Neville and William had both disappeared.

“I told myself I must have been mistaken. I couldn't have been right. I hadn't seen what I'd seen. After Neville disappeared, I didn't have any other choice but to think he'd tried to kill me.”

He took a sip of his tea, again wishing it were whiskey.