Scotsman of My Dreams (17 page)

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.

He was a danger to Neville, but even more than that, she suspected he was a danger to her as well.

She had never been a romantic. She had never listened to music and allowed her heart to soar or her imagination to lead her to places where she could never go in reality. She had never read a novel and wished herself the heroine. Nor had she ever sighed over a handsome man.

For her, character was what counted above all, and it was all too obvious that Dalton MacIain was lacking in character. He had refused to listen to her about Neville. He adamantly refused to believe that Neville was innocent.

By coming here, by assisting the earl, she might be able to alter his behavior and his actions. She would certainly be in a better position to protect Neville than she would be if she sat at home.

That's what she told herself.

There was no need for her pulse to spike as she waited.
Really, Minerva, mind yourself around the man.

How, exactly, did she do that?

 

Chapter 19

“W
hat you want me to do?” Minerva asked.

“What are you doing right now?”

“I'm sitting in front of your desk, looking intently at you and smiling just a little.”

She amused him, and he realized he hadn't been amused for quite some time.

“I've been asked to make some decisions by my solicitor,” Dalton said. “Evidently, he sent a brief, describing each situation. I need to have you read those.”

“Very well,” she said. “I've been told I have a quite a good reading voice.”

“I enjoy listening to you speak,” he said.

“Oh. Is that why you asked me to help you?”

“You have a distinctive way of speaking. As if you weigh each word and give it extra solemnity.”

“I don't think I weigh my words, especially with you.”

“Actually, your voice is only part of the reason. I find myself annoyed at my secretary most of the time.”

“What has poor Howington done to deserve your annoyance?”

“Poor Howington? What has the man done to deserve your sympathy?”

“I can't imagine working for you is an easy occupation. No doubt you bark orders and expect ­people to do phenomenal things at all hours.”

“I do not,” he countered. “I barely ask Howington to do anything. And I never disturb him after hours.”

“Never?”

“No. He doesn't live here.”

“Ah,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you can't belabor him because he isn't here, not that you wouldn't.”

“Are you going to belabor me with all my imagined flaws and faults?”

“Imagined?” she said.

“Your voice is only one of the reasons why I asked you to help me,” he said.

Perhaps he was reverting to his Scottish heritage. Or becoming more like Minerva, with her startling frankness. He had the oddest sensation that he should tell her the truth.

What would he say?

I find I like being around you. There's something about you that's refreshing.

Instead, all he said was, “You're unlike any other woman I've ever known.”

“No doubt because other women fall at your feet in admiration, Your Lordship. I shall not be overcome.”

“That's reassuring.” He couldn't help his sarcastic tone, because he had no illusions as to his appearance. He might have once had some attraction for the opposite sex. Some of that might have been his physical appearance, his reputation, or his fortune. Now all he had was his fortune.

He reached down into the bottom drawer on the right-­hand side of the desk, pulling out a sheaf of papers. His solicitor had sent him five issues that needed to be resolved. With each one, Benny had sent a single sheet explaining the situation along with a packet of information for more in-­depth study.

“And I'd like it if you wouldn't ‘Your Lordship' me to death,” Dalton said. “Howington does that and it is grating to the extreme.”

“What would you like the poor man to call you? Your Excellency? O Exalted One?”

He smiled. “ ‘Sir' is just fine from Howington. You can call me Dalton.”

“Well that's only fair, isn't it? You already call me Minerva. Not that I gave you permission.”

“ ‘Miss Todd' seems extraordinarily proper, and I wouldn't exactly call our relationship proper, would you?”

“Do we have a relationship?”

They had something and he wasn't sure what he would call it.

“I think we have a truce,” Minerva said. “You're all for declaring my brother a murderer and I'm prepared to protect him.”

“So you enter the lion's den for the express purpose of taming the beast, is that it?”

“Can I? I've never thought of myself as a lion tamer.”

He pushed the first packet across the desk to her.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Begin with the summary sheet. Then, look in the packet and see if there's anything I need to know.”

She took the envelope from him.

After reading it, she said, “It seems your neighbor wants to use your water. It's a petition to utilize the sluice on Deton River feeding into Gledfield Lake. What is Gledfield?”

“Our country house,” he said. “It was where I was raised.”

“Not in London?”

“No. What about you? Were you raised in London?”

“I was, yes. We didn't have a country house. My parents loved the city.”

He sat back, placing his hands on the arms of his chair. “Do you feel the same?”

“I don't, actually. I prefer Scotland and the solitude of one of my expeditions. I have a sponsor, Lady Terry. Her husband, Sir Francis, was awarded a baronetcy for his copper mine in Portugal. The poor man died only months later. Five years ago she bought land in Scotland. There's a ruined castle on it. We've found quite a few things there.”

“So you're to the past what James Wilson is to the present?

She laughed, a surprisingly lighthearted sound that made him smile as well.

“So I'm an investigator? I suppose I am. I've always thought of myself as a caretaker. I very carefully unearth what I find, examine it, catalog it, and try to protect it as much as possible while I learn everything I can.”

“Have you ever worked in England? Or only Scotland?”

“There aren't that many female archaeologists,” she said. “I don't know if I can even call myself an archaeologist. I have the interest. I've taught myself everything I can, but I never had any formal training. Nor have I been able to join any of the scientific communities. Therefore, without a sponsor, it would be very unusual for me to be invited to a dig. That's why I'm incredibly grateful to Lady Terry.

“Will you allow them to use your water?” she asked, changing the subject so quickly that he was startled.

“What's it for? I don't mind diverting a little of the river if it's to irrigate crops or fields. But I don't think it would be a good idea if it's just to build an ornamental lake.”

“But it sounds as if you have an ornamental lake of your own.”

“Gledfield Lake is a natural phenomenon.”

He heard the sounds of the packet being opened.

“I have something that looks like drawings,” she said. “Plus a letter from your neighbor and a selection of other documents. Should I go through them one by one?”

“Please.”

For the next quarter hour, Minerva read, making few comments but asking a share of questions, all about Gledfield. He couldn't get the image of her out of his mind, waist deep in a hole in her trousers skirt, digging away with a shovel. Dirt smeared on her face and a bright smile indicated how happy she was.

What an astounding woman.

“Well?” she asked.

“Well, what?”

“Have you decided to give him the water? It's for his wife's garden. Evidently she has it in her mind to grow flowers. From what I can see of the plans, lots and lots of flowers.”

“What would you do?”

“I'd give him the water, but I would only make it for a certain period of time,” she said. “Perhaps a year. No more than that at first. Then, if there is no effect on Gledfield's lake or the rest of the river, perhaps you can negotiate for a longer time frame.”

“An excellent outcome,” he said. “Why don't you make a note to that effect on the summary sheet and we'll dispense of that one.”

The next case had to do with one of the farmers who worked a plot of land belonging to Gledfield. He needed a new plow and was insistent that the irrigation gates be replaced.

“There isn't a note from the farmer,” Minerva said. “But this doesn't appear to be in your solicitor's handwriting, either. Could it be your brother's?”

“Arthur?”

He stretched out his hand, not entirely certain what he wanted. When she handed him the note, he placed his right hand atop it, almost as if he wished to absorb some part of Arthur.

He handed it back to Minerva. “Do his
y
's have strange little tails?”

“Yes,” she said. “And his
j
's, too. He doesn't sign it, but he began a sentence with an
A
and it's larger than the rest of the words.”

“Then it is from Arthur. What does he say?”

“That Mr. Thornton has been at Gledfield for more than twenty years. He's never been known to be profligate and he's well-­versed in irrigation.”

“Tell Benny to advance him whatever funds he needs.”

“I quite like working with you,” she said, startling him. “It's almost as if you're the king and you have the power over all your subjects. Do you ever get to adjudicate morals, by any chance? Punish a man because he's unfaithful to his wife or admonish a maid because she made off with a silver fork?”

“Dear God, I hope not. I've never heard of any kind of moral court. I'd hardly be one to sit in judgment.”

“I wouldn't be so critical of yourself, Dalton. They say reformed rakes are the most steadfast of ­people.”

“Who says that? Besides, is there really such a thing as a reformed rake or just a rake who hasn't been, well, rakish lately?”

“What would you call yourself? A reformed rake? Or one who simply hasn't been naughty lately?”

Laughter burst out of him before he could hold it back. “I don't think I would call myself naughty, Minerva.”

“No, but you were thought of as wicked.” A more somber note crept into her voice. “Was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?”

“The shame you felt at your behavior.”

Did the woman have some kind of pathway into his brain?

“What about you, Minerva? What about your trouser skirts and your digging for artifacts? Did you never think ­people would call you wicked?”

“They would call me something,” she said, “but I doubt it would be wicked. Foolish, perhaps. Or loony. I've heard that once or twice. It's as if ­people need someone about whom to talk. They like having a scapegoat in their midst, someone who is odd enough to attract attention. If there isn't anyone like that in a group, sometimes ­people turn on themselves.”

“You're very wise for someone as young as you are.”

“I'm not that young,” she said. “I would dare say I'm the same age as you or thereabouts.”

“That old?”

“Old enough to be considered on the shelf and nearly at spinster stage.”

“Did you never want to marry?”

“I did, when I was younger. But then there was Neville to consider. Most of my energies went to raising him. Thankfully, there was no problem about money, so I didn't need an occupation in addition to being his sister and quasimother.”

“But as Neville grew? Surely he didn't require all your hours. Wasn't there time to go to a social or a dance or even a meeting where you might have met some acceptable young men?”

She hesitated for so long, he wondered if he'd offended her.

“That's the question, isn't it?” she finally said. “Acceptable. You see, I had become interested in archaeology by then and it became a consuming passion. I wanted to do things more than I wanted to be married. No one with whom I spoke was the least bit interested.”

“But you did have an offer or two, didn't you?” he asked, guessing. “Were the Covington sisters shocked when you turned down your suitors?”

“They approved of the first one. He was in banking and very respectable. Not so the second. He was one of Lady Terry's relatives who had developed a
tendre
for me on a dig. I'm afraid he wasn't suitable at all, according to them.”

“What about you? Did the banker or the relative tempt you to marriage? Just a little bit?”

She sighed heavily. “No. Isn't that a terrible thing to admit? Shall we go on to the next packet?”

He was strangely loath to do so. Instead he wanted to know more about her.

“Which one initiated you into womanhood?” he asked. “The banker or the relative?”

“Neither,” she said. “That was my driver.”

“
I
BEG
your pardon?”

She smiled, glad that he wasn't the only one who could be shocking. She had bent the rules of propriety as well. Perhaps not as publicly as he, but just as surely.

“I had reached a certain age,” she said, more than willing to explain the situation to him. She wasn't ashamed of her actions, after all. They had seemed rational and reasonable at the time. “I knew I wasn't going to marry. And I had already felt a stirring of emotions.”

“The need for release, I take it?”

Her smile broadened. “Exactly. I looked around, considered all my options, and selected Hugh. After all, he was the most attractive. He's very tall and he has broad shoulders and quite a handsome face.”

“Did you pay him?”

“Of course not. I only offered myself to him with no guarantees of affection or future between us. I laid out the situation systematically and asked if he might be interested.”

“I take it the man wasn't a fool and accepted your offer?”

“He did. It was quite enjoyable for a deflowering. Why ever do they call it that? I'm not a flower. I had the image of a bee buzzing around me, but of course, Hugh wasn't a bee.”

When he didn't say anything, she looked up from the paper. He was staring in the direction of the sideboard.

“Would you like a whiskey?”

“Yes,” he said. “More than anything in the world at the moment.”

She stood.

“But I'm not going to have one.”

She sat back down. “Why not?”

“Because whiskey has become my best friend of late. A crutch, if you will. I like how it feels when the world is a haze around me and I'm numb to my feelings. A warning, if nothing else, that it's a false friend or I'm on my way to becoming dependent on it. I credit my awakening to a certain woman of my acquaintance. She called me a drunkard, as I remember.”