Scotsman of My Dreams Read online

He pulled his hands back and thought about the question.

  He wanted to say he blithely disregarded the opinions of others, that he hadn’t minded if he caused others to talk about him.

  But his actions had been designed to shock, hadn’t they?

  Riding a horse into Malverne House on the occasion of a ball marking the opening of Parliament was the action of a man wishing to incite conversation. So was taking the Duchess of Fernleigh to his bed. She had been fifteen years older and one of the wealthiest women in England, not to mention the bawdiest.

  He’d evidently wanted the attention of the very society he was about to claim to eschew.

  “I think,” he said, giving her the gift of the truth, “that I once cared too much about what ­people thought.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m no longer part of that world.”

  Only one person had breached the moat that separated him from the rest of the world, and she was sitting beside him.

  His hands returned to her face, his fingers splaying across her cheeks, thumbs resting below her lips. Her skin was soft and warm. Was Minerva blushing?

  His fingers stroked her eyebrows, then closed her lids to trace the fluttery length of her lashes.

  “I should scream,” she said softly. “Perhaps someone would come to my aid.”

  “I think a scream would no doubt enhance my reputation. ‘Look at MacIain, even blind he is able to capture a beauty in his carriage.’ ”

  “I’m not a beauty.”

  “Ah, I think you are, Minerva Todd, but you just don’t realize it.”

  “I think it’s been a very long time since you had release.”

  He choked back a laugh. “Release?”

  “A woman in your bed. Lovemaking. That kind of release. Women need it as well, you know.”

  “That’s right. You’re no virgin, are you? You seemed extraordinarily proud of that fact.”

  “I wasn’t proud,” she said, her voice taking on a harder tone again. “It’s just that I knew I would never marry. Why should I deny myself the pleasure of passion just because of that?”

  “Was it pleasurable?”

  “Exceedingly,” she said without a pause. “I liked it very much. I could see how one could grow accustomed to passion. Or even addicted.”

  “Do you?”

  “You’re annoyed,” she said.

  “Indeed I’m not.”

  She’d managed to surprise him again, however. Or perhaps the word was shock. He’d never met anyone who was so completely herself as Minerva Todd.

  “I’ve enjoyed your company today, Minerva.”

  “You haven’t been the worst of companions, Rathsmere. Even if you wouldn’t dance with me.”

  “I find that I am in need of a set of eyes, especially in view of my new role as the Earl of Rathsmere. Would you come and work for me?”

  “Don’t you have a secretary? A rather officious man, as I recall.”

  “Howington.”

  “If you already have a secretary, why do you need me?”

  “Howington is becoming an irritant,” he said, giving her the truth again. “My solicitor has just sent me a great many problems that need solving. I want someone who would be honest with me. You have always been honest, Minerva. Bluntly so at times.”

  “I see no reason to lie. But I can’t imagine why you would choose me. We’re almost always quarreling.”

  “Is that what you consider it?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  He considered it foreplay, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

  Chapter 18

  Dalton awoke early the next morning, took additional time shaving and dressing, and was in his library a good hour before he expected Minerva to arrive. He’d taken the precaution of sending Daniels for her. There was no need, he’d told her, to keep her driver waiting all day. What he didn’t tell her was that by sending his own carriage, she couldn’t suddenly announce that she changed her mind and leave precipitously.

  Even so, he half expected her to send him a note explaining that she’d reconsidered the matter and wouldn’t be arriving.

  If she did that, he’d be disappointed. No, the word wasn’t quite disappointed, but something more. She amused him, fascinated him, and interested him for hours. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had done that without being in his bed.

  When the time came for her to arrive, he sat like a puppy awaiting a treat or a child anticipating a toy.

  He had the sudden feeling he wasn’t alone. A moment passed, then another, but no one spoke.

  “Who is it?” he finally asked when his patience had expired.

  “Sir, you have a visitor,” Howington said.

  He bit back his impatience at Howington and moderated his tone. “Show her in.”

  “It’s not Miss Todd, sir. It’s a Scot. He says he’s your cousin. Duncan MacIain.”

  He had met his Scottish cousin twice in his life. Once when he was five and their Scottish relatives had visited at Gledfield. He had memories of running through the grounds merrily accompanying Duncan as they chased after one of the hunting hounds. On the second occasion, he’d been pulled into the family reunion when he was eleven, already deeming himself much too sophisticated for childish games. After all, he had been sent away to school by that time and thought he knew more than his parents or any Scottish relatives.

  Duncan, he recalled, had been as standoffish, as if they were fighting a war of independence between themselves. They were a few months apart in age, but where he had few responsibilities, Duncan was being trained to assume the role of the head of the MacIain Mill in Glasgow.

  The families, linked as they were to a common ancestor, were independent in every other way. The Scottish MacIains had become prosperous mill owners, while the English branch of the family was awarded an earldom and possessed a fortune that continued to grow.

  “Shall I show him in, sir?”

  A few weeks ago he would have sent Howington back to the door, explaining that he was too ill to see anyone. A lie to spare feelings wasn’t really a lie, was it? But whose feelings would he be sparing—­his or Duncan’s?

  “Yes,” he said, daring himself. “When Miss Todd arrives, tell her I’ve been delayed a while, but show her into the parlor and have Mrs. Thompson serve her refreshments.”

  Howington left. At least, he assumed the man left, because he didn’t speak again and there was a feeling a vacancy in the room. One of these days his secretary would learn that he couldn’t see him, so verbal cues were important. Or he would dismiss the man and hire someone else. He was leaning toward the latter.

  “Mr. MacIain, Your Lordship,” Howington announced.

  “I didn’t know you’d been injured,” Duncan said, coming toward him.

  The other man’s hand clamped him on the shoulder, startling him not because of the touch, but the matter-­of-­factness in Duncan’s voice. There wasn’t a shred of pity in his tone.

  “Damnable thing to have happened,” Duncan added. “Are both eyes affected?”

  “I can’t see anything in the right,” he said. “In the left only bright light.”

  “What a hell of a thing to be blind.”

  His Scottish cousin had more nerve than anyone he’d met since returning home, except, possibly, Minerva Todd.

  “I was sorry to hear about Arthur, too. Do you think the MacIains are just in for a run of bad luck?”

  “I don’t doubt the American side of the family would think that, being in the southern states, but is the Scottish side having troubles as well?”

  “The Americans’ Civil War has played hell with us,” Duncan said. “I’ve no cotton to loom and unless I get some soon, I’ll have to shut down the mill.”

  That was a piece of bad news, but it could be worse.
The mill closing could be fixed by money. If money could solve a problem, it wasn’t really a problem.

  He suspected his cousin hadn’t come to London to renew old acquaintances but to obtain a loan.

  “My mother had a fondness for your sister, I believe. How is Glynis?”

  “Recently returned to Glasgow,” Duncan said. “Her husband was with the British Legation in America. Unfortunately, she’s now a widow.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  There were thousands of widows in America, and unless the war ended soon, there would be thousands more.

  “I’ve recently returned from America myself.”

  “Were you wounded there?” Duncan asked, surprise lacing his voice.

  Dalton smiled. “I was. Although nothing as honorable as being wounded in battle, I’m afraid. It was an assassination attempt.”

  “Good God. Are you sure?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Who on earth would want to assassinate you? Not someone hoping to become the next earl?”

  “No,” he said. “Although I should make a point of remaining healthy. We don’t have an excess of MacIains to take on the title. There’s only my brother Lewis left. After that, no doubt the title would pass to the Scottish side of the family.”

  “Then I hope both you and Lewis remain healthy for a good number of years,” Duncan said. “I’ve no intention of being an English earl. Granted, the fortune would be nice. Which is why I’m here.”

  He liked this Scottish cousin of his. He was growing to appreciate frankness in ­people. Was that an offshoot of being around Minerva?

  “I’ve laid off a third of my workforce and I’m faced with closing the mill my great-­grandfather started if I can’t find a way to make it through.”

  “And you need a loan.”

  “Not a loan,” Duncan said, to his surprise. “An investor in an adventure.”

  Now he was intrigued.

  “What kind of adventure do you have in mind?”

  “I want you to finance a voyage to America. In exchange, I’ll give you fifty percent of the profits.”

  “Why the hell would you want to go to America?”

  “For cotton. It seems to me the only way to get any is to go after it myself.”

  So many emotions came rushing in that he didn’t know what to say first. He wanted to caution Duncan that his idea was foolhardy. But if someone had done that to him, would he have listened? Would he have allowed rational thought to prevail?

  “I’ve been in contact with our American cousins,” Duncan said.

  That was a surprise as well.

  “I had every intention of visiting them,” Dalton said. Two things had stopped him. The first, the fact that the American branch of the family was located in one of the southern states and he was fighting for the Union. Secondly, his injuries had put an end to anything but returning home.

  Yet he’d carried a copy of the letter his great-­great-­great—­and probably a few more greats—­grandmother had penned to her sons as way of introduction. He’d heard about the home the MacIains had created in America. He hadn’t had a chance to see it and now he never would.

  The idea interested him. Not the profit portion of it, which would be considerable if Duncan made it back alive with a ship’s hold filled with cotton. But the adventure angle, the idea that Duncan wasn’t just going to sit there and allow Fate to happen to him. He admired that. He understood it.

  God knows he had the funds to finance the voyage.

  “You know how dangerous it is, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  A simple answer on the face of it. He might’ve said the same.

  Dalton leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his desk. Duncan sat opposite him, swathed in blackness.

  He had to make his cousin understand.

  “I’m not just talking about the voyage, or even the blockade you have to run. You’re going to a country at war. They’re tearing themselves apart, Duncan, and they don’t care who gets in the way. They’ll kill you just like you’re the enemy.”

  He didn’t know if he could explain what war was like to someone who hadn’t experienced it, but he knew he had to try.

  “There isn’t one waking hour that you’re free of danger. There’s not one moment you feel safe. Sometimes, the enemy has a uniform on, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, an ally sounds like a southerner, or he might have the accent of a New Yorker. You can’t tell.”

  He took a deep breath, waiting for Duncan to interrupt him with a dozen reasons why he still had to go. When the other man didn’t say anything, Dalton continued.

  “There isn’t enough food to eat. There’s only the ground to sleep on. You drink some swill that you’ve heated over the fire so you don’t get dysentery from the river water. What you do manage to find to eat is jerky that’s a year old or hardtack that’s still managed to be riddled with bugs. You make friends only to see them die the next day. You get the smell of death in your nostrils and you know it will never leave you.”

  Sometimes at night, he woke to smell it again.

  He didn’t tell Duncan the most troubling aspect of war, that you make peace with the idea that you might die at any moment. You begin to almost welcome Death since you’ve been worried about it so long. Then you stop worrying about it. You know, with a deep and troubling certainty, that you will die, and it strangely doesn’t bother you.

  No, with any luck, his cousin wouldn’t have that experience.

  Duncan didn’t speak for a moment.

  “I don’t have a choice,” he finally said. “I have to try. I can’t let the mill fail.”

  Had he ever been as idealistic? Or driven by a goal? Even going to America to fight had been more a way to break the ennui of his life than any bone deep necessity.

  “I’ve more than five hundred ­people relying on me,” Duncan continued, as if Dalton’s silence weighed heavily on him.

  Not one person had ever depended on him. Not one soul had ever said: Your actions matter to my life.

  A curious feeling surfeited him then, one he couldn’t quite recognize. Not shame, although that was a part of it. Not regret, although some of that was also present. Envy? Did he envy his Scottish cousin?

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  “I’ll help you,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it.

  “I’M SORRY you have to wait, Miss Todd,” Mrs. Thompson said, entering the parlor. “His Lordship’s Scottish cousin appeared this morning, without a hint of notice. But I like surprises like that, don’t you?”

  She really didn’t know how to answer that question, so she nodded and smiled.

  “I do so love a Scottish brogue. There can’t be any more delightful a sound. And a man in a kilt is a sight to cause a woman’s heart to flutter.”

  “I travel to Scotland quite frequently,” she said.

  The older woman waved the maid off and set about preparing tea for Minerva.

  “Do you now? Now that is a wondrous thing, for a young woman such as yourself to be able to travel. What freedom. Do you often encounter men in kilts?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Oh, well, we can’t always have what we wish, can we?” She smiled at Minerva and brought her a cup of tea.

  She took it with thanks.

  “Like the earl. A shame what happened to him. I’ve been tending to things for His Lordship ever since he set up his own establishment. Of course, at the time, he wasn’t His Lordship, you know. He was simply Dalton MacIain. That’s who’s with him now, another MacIain. From Glasgow, he is.”

  She clucked her tongue. “And here I am, gossiping away. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Minerva said. “Besides, it’s not so much gossip
as it is simply information.”

  Mrs. Thompson beamed at her. “How understanding you are, my dear. How lovely that the earl has employed you to help him.”

  She wanted to explain that she wasn’t quite sure why the earl had employed her, but she was almost certain it wasn’t for her understanding nature. A strange employment, since they’d never agreed on duties or salary.

  “You’ll find he’s quite fair. He’s always been that way, ever since the very beginning. He’s never treated the staff with anything but respect and he’s never made untoward suggestions toward the maids. Nor has he ever asked any of us to do something we wouldn’t feel comfortable doing. I understand His Lordship’s reputation, but you mustn’t worry. He is not that way, not at home.”

  “Thank you,” she said, hoping it would be enough of a response.

  “I worry about him, I do. What with his sadness about his brother. And being blind and all. I say a prayer every day that he regains some of his sight, and if he doesn’t, that he comes to accept God’s will.”

  She couldn’t see the Earl of Rathsmere placidly accepting what God had in store for him, but she didn’t say that to the housekeeper.

  “He’s been such a recluse ever since he came home. Burying himself in his library. I think he considers himself grotesque, Miss Todd. Something that must be hidden away lest he frighten the children.”

  “Nonsense. Granted, he has a few scars, but the eye patch makes him look, well, rakish, if nothing else.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Thompson said, smiling. “Oh, I know you’re going to be good for him.”

  To that, she had absolutely no response at all, so she settled for a smile.

  She had no business helping the Earl of Rathsmere with his reading. The very idea of being here was somewhat shocking. Heaven knows what the Covington sisters would do if they learned about the situation.

  Even her mother might have looked askance at her.

  She could almost hear her mother’s question now. Dearest Minerva, are you sure this is wise?

  No, it wasn’t at all wise.

  Dalton MacIain was both autocratic and plebeian, enigmatic and too revealing. He was an object of compassion and, strangely enough, she was growing to admire him. If that wasn’t a sign of her insanity, she didn’t know what was.