Scotsman of My Dreams Page 6

  “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.

  “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.”<
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  “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

  “You 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 wha
t 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.”