Scotsman of My Dreams (6 page)

“I wondered if he'd been a casualty of war, but I was assured that neither he nor William were on any of the lists. Then I thought they must have given me up for dead and come back to England.”

“Had they?”

He shook his head. The gesture always made him slightly dizzy. Another sign of the change in his life—­even simple movements had to be rethought.

“I don't know,” he said.

“And you want me to find him?”

“Yes,” he said, a decision only hours old.

He'd thought himself insulated and isolated in his London house. He'd spent his time recuperating, not worrying whether he was going to be a target again. Neville's sister had proved that he'd been foolish to forget. She'd broken into his house. Neville could do the same.

“I dislike the idea of being a target, especially since I don't know why the man tried to kill me.”

“I think I have a dual role, Dalton.”

He was grateful James didn't launch into that
Your Lordship
business. His friend's next words, however, weren't as welcome.

“I'll find him,” he said. “At the same time, I think you need a guard.”

“I don't need a nursemaid, James.”

“No, just another set of eyes.”

He was silenced by the other man's frankness.

“Your sight, is there nothing they can do?” James asked.

“I've been told that if I'm a good little boy, I might regain some sight in my left eye. Right now I can sometimes see a little light, but that's all. The right eye is completely gone, of course.”

“You're damn lucky. You could have died.”

He started to nod, stopped himself and said, “Yes, I could have.” He didn't mention that there were several days when he wished he had.

Life, however, had relentlessly dragged him upward from despair. He lived despite himself.

What the hell had he ever done to Todd to deserve the man shooting him?

When he first met Neville, he'd been amused by him. He was like a boy reveling in his freedom, testing his boundaries in a way that made Dalton feel avuncular toward him. Over the months, however, Neville's boyishness hadn't matured, but his ability to whine certainly had.

“Well, what do you think?”

He was dragged back to the question of a guard. “I don't like the idea, but I dislike the idea of Neville gunning for me even less.”

“You don't know why he tried to kill you?”

“Not one idea. I've spent hours trying to figure it out.”

“He might not be in London, but we won't know until I make inquiries.”

“His sister is here, so he'll probably return.”

What did she look like? Was she tall or short? Did she have blue eyes or brown? Was her hair blond or a darker shade? Or was she, perhaps, a redhead?

Last night she'd smelled of cinnamon. Why?

“I'll find him, Dalton, and keep you safe as well.”

He wasn't all that fond of the idea of having a shadow, but he didn't want to be murdered, either. His life might not be what it had been, but it was still his. Therefore, he claimed ownership of his present and his future, whatever that was.

 

Chapter 7

“Y
ou say there's a garden in the back of Rathsmere's house?” Minerva asked.

Hugh nodded. “I don't think you should go back there, Minerva.”

She really wished Hugh weren't so overprotective. Her driver remained standing at the door of the parlor. She'd given up trying to assure him that it was fine if he took a seat. Perhaps it was all well and good. Their relationship was not what it had once been and she didn't want to give him an indication it had changed.

She finished the rest of her tea and placed the cup back on the tray.

“I understand your reservations, Hugh,” she said. “Truly, I do.”

“If you did, you wouldn't insist on going back to the man's house. He could have called the authorities last night and what would you have done then?”

Without giving her a chance to respond, Hugh turned on his heel and left. She hoped he was going to ready the carriage.

She retreated to her bedroom, planning her strategy for today.

The earl had startled her the night before. She hadn't meant for their first meeting to go so badly. Of course he'd walked away. He'd just found her breaking into his house.

All she needed was a few minutes in his company. That's all. Enough time that she could convince him to tell her what he knew.

She would begin by apologizing for last night. Then he would tell her what he meant about hoping Neville was dead.

Today she was dressed in her ser­viceable blue again, this time without the cuffs and collar. Since she'd returned her new bonnets to the milliners, she was going to wear an older ser­viceable one. After pinning her brooch watch to the right side of her bodice, she surveyed herself in the pier glass.

Yes, she looked plain and unassuming. Her mother had always said she had strong bones, which meant she was built like her father with broad shoulders, long legs and arms, and wide hands. Her hands were tools and she used them in that fashion, to the extent she had calluses on her fingertips. Her palms, too, were hardened by years of digging in the dirt.

She looked as dependable and work worn as a scullery maid. If she fixed her hair in a different manner, would it make her more attractive? Her face was just her face. Perhaps there was something she could do there, too.

Reaching into the top drawer of her bureau, she moved aside the small jar of pomade she never used and grabbed the salve for her lips. The delicate pink shade made her mouth seem even larger. Rather than wiping it off, she did something she'd never done before and placed a little on her cheeks, surprised when the color made her brown eyes sparkle.

The earl was used to women who were known for their beauty and charm. She had little hope of impressing him with her appearance. No, she would have to marshal her arguments and appeal to his conscience.

If he had one.

Bidding Mrs. Beauchamp good-­bye at the door, she ignored the woman's look of interest—­surely wearing lip color was not such an egregious fault—­and pulled on her gloves.

This morning's rain had cleared the air, bringing the scent of summer to her in the form of heated, fragrant blossoms and wafts of odor from the Thames.

She descended the steps, heading toward the carriage, carefully not looking in the direction of the Covington home. She knew, even without seeing them, that all three sisters were watching her enter the vehicle.

As they pulled into the road behind the Earl of Rathsmere's house, birds roosting in the nearby trees greeted her arrival with alarm. She stepped out of the carriage before Hugh could dismount and walked to the driver's seat.

“I'll only be a little while.”

“I wish you wouldn't do this.”

He could be the most stubborn man sometimes, rivaling Neville in his obstinacy.

“I'll be fine.”

The wall enclosing Rathsmere's garden was built of the same red brick as the house. Every few feet there was a wide pillar topped with white stone and a curious winged creature made of black iron. She studied the statue for a moment before deciding it must be something mythical created by the MacIain family. Wide wings were tucked behind its body. Its talons gave the appearance of being dug into the white stone, while a beaklike protuberance looked down with a supercilious air. The breast of the bird—­or the eagle, if that's what it was—­was inscribed with a crest she couldn't read from there.

The stable was to her right, separated from the alley by a wide strip of grass. Several men were working there and more than one glanced in her direction. She ignored their looks as if she belonged in the lane.

At the gate, she hesitated, her hand on the latch. What would she do if it was locked?

To her relief, the gate swung open easily. She peered behind the wooden door to find herself in a lush overgrown English garden, complete with birdbaths, feeders, and hedges bordering the paths.

An assortment of trees, some of them large and leafy, shaded the area, giving her the impression of an isolated, almost secret, place. She took a few steps inside and slowly closed the gate, careful to make no noise. This enchanted garden looked to be the scene from a child's fairy tale, the home of fairies and woodland nymphs who rarely visited London.

She'd never had an interest in the names of foliage and flowers, but now she wished she had. She wanted to know what that orange and yellow striped blossom growing in the corner was, or the red and pink dotted flowers blooming in such abundance along the path. She bent to sniff one bright blossom, thinking the scent reminded her of her mother's perfume from Paris.

She appreciated nature; she just didn't revel in it. Here, however, she might change her mind. The gravel paths were wide, encouraging two ­people to stroll side by side, hands or arms interlocked. A stone bench sat at an angle to another grouping of flowers and was shaded by the branches of a tree. Was it an oak or an elm? She wasn't sure. She reached up and inspected a limb, studying a grouping of shiny light green leaves. She was no expert on trees, either.

“Who's there?”

She let go of the limb and it sprung back into place. Turning, she grabbed her skirts with both hands and stared.

A man sat on a stone bench with his back to her.

Even though he was attired only in a white linen shirt and black trousers, it had to be the earl. Who else would sit in a private garden, his posture ramrod straight as if he sat on a throne?

She took a few hesitant steps toward him. This meeting could not end like the night before.

“What are you doing here, Miss Todd?”

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, surprised.

“You smell of cinnamon.”

“I do?”

He nodded but didn't turn.

His right arm rose, fingers waving her toward the garden gate.

“Get out of my garden. Leave the same way you entered.”

She circled the bench, intent on addressing him.

And froze.

Taking a few steps back, she wrapped her arms around her waist and tried to understand exactly what she was seeing. From the rumors, Dalton MacIain was a handsome man. This man was still handsome, but a pink and white scar twisted from his temple across one eye to end above the bridge of his nose. White cloudy fluid filled his right eye, the lid half closed, while the other, a cerulean blue, stared at her in disdain.

The lower half of his face was untouched, his full mouth thinned in obvious irritation.

“Have you taken a backward step? Is your hand over your mouth to silence your shrieks of terror? Are you nauseated?”

She should turn around and follow the path back to the gate, leaving him in peace. But he was the only one who knew what had happened to Neville. The only one who could tell her where her brother was.

“What happened to you?”

He didn't stand and face her. He didn't frown. Instead, his expression froze and his shoulders stiffened as if he were turning to stone. He might have been a statue in the garden. An image of a Greek god slightly damaged by war.

“Get out,” he said, the words slowly enunciated.

She gathered her skirts in her hands, came and sat down at the end of the bench only a foot or so away from him.

“Are you completely blind?”

“Are you completely daft?” he asked.

“That means you are.”

“Miss Todd, if you do not leave my garden now, I will be forced to bodily remove you.”

“I doubt you'll do so,” she said, inclining her head to study him. “You'd have to call for someone to help you.”

He clenched his hand on the edge of the bench so tightly she could see his white knuckles. Did he wish to strike her? She had never heard ­people speak about his penchant for violence, but perhaps going to war had changed him.

“Have you always been so obnoxious? I don't remember Neville being the same. A good thing your brother didn't take after you.”

“If he had,” she said, “perhaps he could have protected himself a little better around you. He wouldn't have been led like a rat following the Pied Piper off to war. Who on earth goes to fight another country's battles? Only an arrogant fool.”

“They weren't rats, Miss Todd, but grown men.”

“Who saw you as their leader.”

“Are you done?”

“No,” she said. “I have no intention of leaving until I find out what happened to my brother. You can call the authorities. You can call Mr. Howington. You can summon your entire staff to carry me from this place, but I refuse to leave.”

“What do you look like?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you ugly? I found that women without an iota of appeal often appear strident. As if they think they need to face the world as a combatant. Are you ugly, Miss Todd?”

“I have never measured myself by my appearance.”

“That's a lie. Every woman has.”

“Perhaps women of your acquaintance. No doubt they've nothing better to do all day but stare into a mirror.”

“I would think that a woman as acerbic as you would defend her sex.”

“I doubt beautiful women require my defense,” she said.

“Which is an answer. So you aren't beautiful, Miss Todd. Are you acceptable looking? Or do you have a mole at the end of your nose? A squint, perhaps? Do you wear a lorgnette? Is your skin sallow? Is there gray in your hair? I seem to remember that you're much older than your brother. Are you aged?”

He really was the most terrible person.

“I'm only eight years older than Neville,” she said.

He smiled.

With her words, she'd fallen into his trap. What did she care what he thought of her?

“Should you care so much about the appearance of other ­people?” she asked. “Especially since your own appearance has been so grievously altered by your stupidity?”

“Get out of my garden.”

She studied him. At closer inspection, his scars weren't that onerous. The worst of the scarring was on his right temple, the bridge of his nose, and the damage to his right eye.

“What did you mean, you hope my brother is dead? Where is Neville?”

“I know why Neville came with me. To get away from you.”

“I don't like you very much,” she said.

“I find I don't care very much.”

“Where is Neville?” she asked.

“I don't know where your brother is.”

“He was in your charge.”

“He wasn't in nappies, Miss Todd. He's a grown man. A fact you evidently find difficult to accept.”

“Oh, Your Lordship, I didn't know you were having guests.”

Minerva turned her head to see a plump woman in a severe black dress approaching them. On her head was a poufy white ruffled cap edged in black. Her face was round yet lined with a web of delicate wrinkles, making Minerva wonder at her age. Her smile was as bright and charming as a child's, her round cheeks lightly dusted with pink. Eyes of sparkling blue gazed on them with a surprising look of delight.

He'd summoned his housekeeper to escort her to the front door last night, but Minerva had simply left the same way she arrived, by means of the window.

The tray the woman carried held a small white teapot, one cup, and a selection of pastries.

“She isn't staying, Mrs. Thompson. In fact, I would appreciate it if you would summon Mr. Howington and a few of the footmen as well. Someone to escort the woman from my garden.”

“Oh, sir, I couldn't do that, could I? Not without a cup of tea, surely.”

“Mrs. Thompson, she isn't a guest. She's an interloper.”

“I've never been called an interloper before,” Minerva said. “But he's quite right. I haven't been invited. But I have no intention of leaving until he tells me what he's done with my brother.”

“With your brother, miss?”

“He has absconded with him.”

“Surely he wouldn't do such a thing.” Mrs. Thompson glanced at the earl.

“She is looking at you chidingly,” Minerva said. “What a pity you can't see it.”

The housekeeper drew a breath in sharply.

Minerva glanced at the older woman. “I know, I should apologize for my rudeness. But the earl is sufficiently arrogant that I doubt anything I say to him would matter.”

“Then take yourself off, Miss Todd.”

“Not until you tell me exactly where my brother is and why you wish him dead.”

“Should I bring another cup, sir?” the housekeeper said, still standing there holding the tray. Minerva felt pity for the woman who had unconsciously walked into a war.

Standing, she took the tray from the housekeeper and put it on the bench between them.

She didn't have an iota of sympathy for the Earl of Rathsmere. The man positively oozed arrogance and wasn't pitiable in the least.

Instead, she was rather disconcerted to realize that he was still handsome. What did his looks matter, when it was clear his character was abominable?