Scotsman of My Dreams Page 7

  “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?

  Chapter 8

  “Do you take sugar?” she asked, pouring the tea.

  When the earl didn’t answer, she dispensed with the sugar and held the cup up in front of him.

  “You need to reach up with your right hand,” she said. “I have no intention of feeding you. Quickly now. I’m not your nursemaid.”

  His look was no doubt designed to quell her. She had the feeling that he would like to throw the cup at her, but he took it, nonetheless.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. “That will be all.”

  “Would you like me to summon Mr. Howington?” she asked, looking from Minerva to the earl and back again.

  “Give us five minutes,” he said. “After that, if you would ask Mr. Howington to attend me.”

  She nodded, a gesture that sent her odd poufy cap bouncing on top of her head.

  Once the housekeeper left the garden, Minerva turned to the earl. “You can remove me bodily,” she said. “I’ll only return.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, only brought the cup to his lips, sipping from it.

  “I don’t doubt you will. What would it take for you to leave me alone?”

  “The truth. It’s all I want.”

  “I don’t know where Neville is. I’ve told you the truth. Here’s more truth for you, Miss Todd. I don’t care.”

  “That is only too obvious.”

  She stared at the tray that she’d placed on the space between them. What a pretty little teapot. Royal Dorchester, she thought. Her mother had a similar pattern in her best china. When was the last time she had used it? She didn’t entertain, especially since Neville had been gone. There were no friends of his to arrive at the house unexpectedly. No one to attend a dinner party. She had few friends, and those she might call more than acquaintances were involved in her work and as separated or aloof as she herself was.

  He took another sip of his tea, then placed the cup back on the saucer with a delicate chink of sound.

  “Did you ever think that your blindness is some kind of divine justice for what you’ve done?”

  “I doubt God gives a flying farthing for me, Miss Todd.”

  “Did you lose them all? Don’t you care what happened to them? Don’t you feel any sort of responsibility?”

  “I didn’t lose them on purpose, Miss Todd. We were separated because I was in the hospital for a number of weeks.”

  “And now? Do you feel nothing now? Or only pity for yourself? I can’t be the only relative who wonders, who waits. What do you say to the others?”

  “The others haven’t bothered me.”

  “No, no doubt they’re in awe of your consequence. The great Dalton MacIain. The powerful and wealthy Earl of Rathsmere, who can do anything he wishes without having to explain to a soul. Well, I want an explanation. I want to know how you can turn your back on men who looked up to you. Yo
u’re not only blind with your eyes, but with your soul.”

  “Are you finished castigating me now? Who the hell are you, Miss Todd, to come marching into my home and lecture me?”

  “Who the hell are you, to lose my brother and not be concerned about it?”

  She didn’t use profanity often but she found it was called for from time to time. This was one of those occasions.

  His brow furled and the corner of his lip twitched. Had she shocked him? Good. The Earl of Rathsmere needed a little shocking.

  “Where is my brother?”

  “Where are your manners?”

  “No doubt in the same place my brother is,” she said. “Where is he?”

  When he remained silent, she frowned at him.

  “I have every intention of finding my brother,” she said. “If you could just provide the information I need, I shan’t bother you again. What ship did you travel on?”

  He still didn’t speak, and she wondered if he was going to hold back all the details of his trip. How would she be able to find Neville if he did?

  “The Honoria,” he finally said. “I had a double cabin. Unfortunately, I was alone. I believe a companion of the female sort would have made the voyage more interesting.”

  She felt herself warm. Must he be licentious even now?

  “Where did you disembark?”

  “Maryland. Baltimore, to be exact.”

  She took a notebook and pencil from her pocket and made a notation.

  “I need the names of MacIain’s Marauders,” she said.

  “An idiotic name.”

  “I agree.”

  “So is this meeting, Miss Todd.”

  She looked over at him. His face was turned toward his house, presenting his left side.

  Her breath caught. How shallow was she to be caught up in a man’s appearance? Beauty was revealed in character, not in the symmetry of cheekbones and a chiseled jaw.

  How many women had stared at him in the past, more than content to simply look at him as if he were a work of art?

  “I’ve engaged an investigator. If your brother is hiding in London, James Wilson will find him.”

  She made a notation of the name, biting back the quick nausea at his announcement.

  “What are you going to do once you find him?”

  He smiled, and she felt her stomach flutter. Did snakes smile?

  “I’m going to attempt to have justice done.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Your brother tried to kill me, Miss Todd. He only managed to blind me.” He held up one hand, waving it in front of his face. “Yes, I got this in America, courtesy of your brother.”

  “I don’t believe you. You’re wrong.” She held both hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

  “Hardly something I would lie about, Miss Todd.”

  “However you arrived at that conclusion, it’s an incorrect one.”

  “Your brother leveled a pistol at me. He fired that pistol.”

  “You must be mistaken.”

  “Your inability to accept the truth doesn’t negate it. Are you one of those women given to hysteria and emotionality to the exclusion of all reason?”

  “You’re autocratic,” she said, knowing that as insults go, hers weren’t nearly as damaging as his. She would have to try harder. “You’re a self-­pitying twit.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, which made her wonder if she’d scored a direct hit.

  “You smell of whiskey,” she added. “It’s barely noon. Are you a drunkard, too?”

  “You’ve allowed your loyalty to blind you, Miss Todd.”

  His words were sharp, his voice soft. She had the sudden feeling that Dalton MacIain was at his most dangerous in moments like this. Another man might raise his voice or posture. The earl would be quiet, deadly, and determined.

  “He’s my brother,” she said.

  “Does that mean he’s incapable of wrongdoing? That he couldn’t possibly be homicidal?”

  “I’m his only relative,” she said.

  “So, in your eyes, he’s perfect, even when it’s obvious he’s not?”

  “You would have him hang, before giving him an opportunity to explain himself.”

  His laughter startled her.

  “There is no explanation that would induce me to forgive him.”

  “YOU’VE BROKEN into my house. And now my garden. Where can I expect you next, Miss Todd? If I swear on something holy that I don’t know where your brother is, will you be satisfied?”

  “No.”

  The stark answer didn’t surprise him. He had the feeling that she was abrupt at times but almost always direct.

  He could be as direct.

  “I think it’s time you left, don’t you? You’ve come to see the beast in his den. Now it’s time to go.”

  He tried to bank down his rage, but it was building. She wanted to know where Neville Todd was? With any luck, at the bottom of some deep ocean. Or buried in the fertile Virginia earth. Or in hell.

  She stood and walked away. A moment later the garden gate opened and she was gone. Either that or she was still there and being silent like Howington.

  Neville had a strong advocate, someone who evidently loved him enough to make a complete ass of herself.

  Now that his mother was dead, was there anyone else on the face of the earth who felt that way about him? An uncomfortable question and one he didn’t want to examine too much at the moment.

  He didn’t want to think about America. It had been a suicidal venture, one filled with hubris and arrogance. He’d been an idiot, an opinion Miss Todd shared.

  Why did he care what the woman thought? He’d lived his life remarkably free of caring about the opinions of others.

  The sun warmed his shoulders and back. The interlude in the garden had been a pleasant one before Miss Todd arrived.

  He wished he knew what the woman looked like. He could always ask Mrs. Thompson or Howington.

  How many years would it take before he accepted what had happened? He would never see again, no matter how much he wished and bargained and railed against his fate. He would never look at his own reflection, gauge the weather by scanning the clouds in the sky. He’d never ride again, never see a smile on his lover’s face.

  For that matter, what woman would want a blind man?

  A greedy one, who chose a fortune over affection.

  On that depressing thought he stood and slowly made his way into the house, both hands outstretched a little for balance. He’d never considered that blindness would make him feel wobbly. Perhaps he should acquire a walking stick or a paid companion whose only task would be to lead him from one place to another like a child in short pants.

  That image was enough for him to wish that Neville had been a better marksman.

  MINERVA STOMPED to her carriage, nodded at Hugh and said, “Let’s go home.”

  “Did you see him?”

  She nodded.

  Hugh didn’t approve of her actions. He hadn’t approved of Neville, either, taking issue with her brother’s demeanor and speech. She had listened to his comments because she had no other choice. Hugh was loquacious when he was annoyed.

  “After this, I hope we won’t come back here,” Hugh said now as he stood in the open door of the carriage.

  She didn’t answer.

  When one does something out of the norm, one must be prepared for all the ramifications. That was not a lesson she had learned at her mother’s knee, but from her own experience.

  She was paying for her mistake with Hugh now. He evidently felt he had the right to make comments about her behavior when she neither solicited nor appreciated his opinion.

  She must solve that situation somehow, as soon as she found Neville.


  Sitting back against the seat, she closed her eyes. She would not cry. Tears didn’t bring about any resolution of the problem and only made her eyes swell. She looked then like a rabbit with her pink nose and pink eyes.

  Perhaps if she’d been more understanding, Neville would never have left for America. If she had been gentle and sweet like their mother, he might have listened to her counsel once or twice.

  Neville had been going through some difficult times, learning who he was, how he fit into the world. He would have been better served by going into the family business, but he’d been led to believe that only the lower classes worked for a living—­another fault she lay at Dalton MacIain’s feet.

  But he wasn’t a murderer.

  How dare that irritating man say such a thing.

  She was not going to feel anything for him, and certainly not pity. The war had damaged him, but wars killed ­people. What had he expected, that he could blithely sail into battle without it affecting him in any way? Or did he think he would return to England with a rakish scar that would make women swoon at his feet?

  He was blind. That must ruin his plans for a hedonistic life. Yet his scars hadn’t altered his appearance all that much. The man was still a handsome devil, no doubt still capable of charm if he chose to exert it. Evidently, he hadn’t around her. Of course, she had trespassed in his garden. Nor was she his type. She possessed too much intelligence to be charmed by Rathsmere.

  She deliberately blocked out the memory of him sitting alone on the bench. She would feel nothing but irritation and annoyance for the man, which was all he deserved.

  How dare he imply that Neville tried to kill him?

  Once home, she dismounted from the carriage, escaping before Hugh could question her further.

  The fact that she felt so weepy was disturbing. So, too, that she recalled Dalton MacIain’s words too well. He’d as much as called her ugly.

  Who was the Rake of London to criticize her?

  As she walked from the stables to the back of her house, she saw a glint in one of the upper windows of the Covington house.

  For the last few years, armed with their nephew’s spyglass, the Covington sisters kept a lookout on all her activities, just like she was a ship at sea. She wouldn’t have been surprised if they knew when she left the house and when she returned, down to the exact minute.