Scotsman of My Dreams (26 page)

“Are you blaming me for your sudden decision to leave for Scotland with only your driver in attendance? A man who was once your lover?”

“You needn't shout at me, Dalton.”

He hadn't realized he was yelling.

He'd never yelled at anyone in his entire life. He was the master of a look, a raised eyebrow, a sardonic quip.

Minerva Todd was making him insane.

 

Chapter 30

H
e thanked Daniels when the man stopped the carriage in front of his house. Holding his hand out for Minerva, he unerringly walked across the wet cobbles to the steps leading to his door. With a little more practice he wouldn't have any hesitation at all. Of course, it would be easier if he wasn't being pummeled by rain.

“I apologize for not having an umbrella,” he said, dropping her hand.

He reached for the banister with his right hand, his left clutching the top of his walking stick.

She didn't speak until they reached the top of the steps.

“Why do you have a mushroom as a door knocker?” she asked.

“A mushroom?” He tried to envision the door knocker, then smiled. “It's not a mushroom. It's a thistle. A reminder of my Scottish heritage.”

“When I think of you as Scottish,” she said, “I envision you as a Highlander. I understand they were arrogant, too.”

He glanced in her direction.

Despite the rain marring what had promised to be a bright, fair day, he could almost make out details of her shape as she stood beside him.

Perhaps he should make another appointment with that fool, Marshall.

The rain was coming in a torrent now. Both of them were getting soaked.

He wasn't surprised when the door was locked. James had instilled security in all his servants. He let the knocker fall twice, and when it was opened, Mrs. Thompson spoke.

“Oh, Your Lordship, I am sorry. Here I am making scones in the kitchen while you both are standing on the doorstep wet as two cats.”

“It's nothing, Mrs. Thompson. I assure you.”

“I'll go and get some towels for you.”

Her voice changed slightly. Dalton took that to mean she'd stepped aside. He motioned for Minerva to proceed him, and counted the steps once he entered his house. He reached out with a hand after he'd reached a dozen, turning toward his library.

“Are you going to tell me now, Dalton?”

How easily she vacillated between his given name and
Your Lordship
. She used
Your Lordship
when she was annoyed with him. He did the same when he called her Miss Todd.

In public, they were almost proper. Here in his home, they reverted to what they were: a man and a woman teetering on the brink of some kind of relationship. He wanted to be around her. He liked having her in his life. She challenged him.

No woman had ever challenged him before. No one—­save his mother—­had ever made him want to make her proud.

He stopped abruptly at the door to his library and turned to her.

“Will you be my friend, Minerva Todd?”

“Your friend?”

“I find I have a dearth of them lately. But I don't want just anyone as a friend. I've become rather selective. I want someone I can trust. Someone who will tell me the truth. Someone I genuinely like and admire.”

He turned and headed into his office.

She didn't speak. What the hell was she thinking?

“Should I rescind the invitation?” he said.

He went to stand in front of the cold fireplace. Again, he did so almost without thought. Familiarity made navigating easier. So, too, the fact that he could almost see the wall, the bookcases beyond, and the table between the two chairs.

Yes, he needed to make an appointment with the physician as soon as possible.

“You think all those things about me?”

“I'm not given to saying things I don't mean, Minerva.”

“I'm Neville's sister. How can you trust me?”

“I trust you because you're Minerva Todd. I don't care who you're related to.”

Mrs. Thompson bustled into the room.

“Here I am, Your Lordship, with your scones and tea and towels.”

She handed him a towel and he hoped she'd done the same for Minerva. He began to dry his face and hair. In a moment he'd excuse himself to change, an option Minerva didn't have.

“I'll just put the tray here, shall I?”

“That looks absolutely wonderful, Mrs. Thompson,” Minerva said. Her voice sounded thin, as if worry were eating away at it.

The best thing he could do for her was to tell her the news now.

“If you'll ring, Your Lordship, if you need anything else,” Mrs. Thompson was saying.

He nodded.

A moment later he heard the door softly close. Did his housekeeper think anything about leaving them alone together? Did she remember those years of licentiousness? Or did he simply pay her enough not to question what he did?

He stood beside the chair, wishing Minerva would sit first. He hadn't completely forgotten his manners. He heard a whoosh of fabric and then sat. He stretched out his hand toward the other chair, palm up. A moment later she placed her hand on it.

“I would be very honored to be your friend, Your Lordship.”

And now she called him
Your Lordship
in a soft and sweet tone, playing hell with his earlier assumption.

“I don't want to hurt you, Minerva.”

“Why would you say such a thing?”

He pulled out the letter he had tucked into his pocket.

“I've news of Neville from my cousin.”

“The one who'd been in the diplomatic corps,” she said.

He nodded.

“Neville is a prisoner of war,” he said. “They're not sure which prison he's at. They've narrowed it down to two.”

He handed her Glynis's letter.

He knew when she got to the part that would trouble her the most.

I'm hoping it's not Andersonville, Dalton, because I haven't heard good things about that place. If a man doesn't die of disease, there's every chance he will starve. I'll try to find out exactly where he is. I know that he's been transferred once, perhaps twice. As soon as I know, I'll write you.

He didn't tell her what he'd heard about those places. Both the Union and Confederate prisons were renowned for their hideous treatment of prisoners. He suspected more men died than were ever released.

Minerva didn't say anything. A moment later he heard the chink of china.

“Tea, Dalton?” she asked.

“Thank you. And a scone, if you don't mind.”

Sometimes, hearing bad news was like that. It hit you all at once, but you tucked it away to examine it in bits, later. A corner here, another bite there. Little by little, so it didn't destroy you.

He suddenly wanted to equalize their positions, give her a hint of the pain he felt so she would know she wasn't alone.

“Did I tell you about Arthur? How he died?”

“No.” Her voice was lifeless, empty of that certain spark that made her Minerva.

“He was killed in a hunting accident. Only he hadn't been hunting. I suspect that he was killed deliberately. I suspect that my brother, Lewis, killed him.”

Now that he said it aloud, it sounded even more terrible.

“What are you going to do?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” he said. He would tell her about James's idea later. For now, it was enough that he had shared the mystery of Arthur's death with her.

She startled him by beginning to cry.

He'd never known what to do when a woman cried, but this was different. This was Minerva.

He couldn't bear to hear her sudden soft weeping. He expected violence in her grief, but this restrained, almost ladylike sorrow was a knife through his chest.

“That's why I wanted to tell you here,” he said. “Not in public.”

Her weeping only increased.

“Minerva.” He reached out again, but this time she didn't put her hand in his.

He fumbled for the tray, returning his uneaten scone and full cup. Standing, he made his way to Minerva's side.

He reached down and pulled her up into his arms.

For a moment she resisted, then she stood, wrapped her arms around his waist and placed her cheek against his jacket.

Even preparing to travel on a train she hadn't worn a hoop. His smile was a rueful admission of her iconoclastic nature. Yet as singular as Minerva was, she was not unlike any other human being. She loved, and because of that love she was in pain.

“Minerva, please don't cry.”

Her crying terrified him. Not because he'd never seen a woman weep, but because he'd never been so affected by a woman's tears.

“I'll find him, Minerva. I promise. I've agreed to finance my cousin's trip to America,” he said. “He has this idea of becoming a blockade runner. He needs cotton for his mill.”

She didn't ask any questions and that surprised him. Minerva was invariably curious.

“He'll be heading for the southern states,” he said. “Once we find out where Neville is, I'll ask him to see what he can do. After all, Neville's a British citizen. He should be exchanged or released. Hell, if nothing else, Duncan can help him escape.”

“You would do that?” she asked, her voice laden with tears. “For Neville?”

Not for Neville, but for her.

He held her close, content to do so for as long as she needed to be comforted. Until after her tears had passed. Until the day turned to night. Until her heart was eased.

The feel of her in his arms was somehow reassuring. She was a warm, pliant woman, a female who encapsulated all that was right about this new sightless world of his. He was no longer trapped in a black bubble because of Minerva. She brought him light. She made it possible for him to view what he'd ignored for so many years: how he, accorded privilege and wealth, had chosen to waste his blessings.

Or had that been why he'd gone to America? To make something of himself? To have his life count for something more than being the Rake of London?

For whatever reason, he was no longer Dalton MacIain, who'd won the round for drinking the most whiskey in a quarter hour. Nor was he the man who had charmed the Ice Duchess into his bed. Or the host of countless parties where debauchery ruled and licentiousness was the behavior of the day.

He was simply himself, stripped of everything but the essential man, capable of experiencing uncertainty and tasting fear.

This mortal man, this newly made earl, was somehow a better man with all his failures than the one who had ridden high on the crest of rumor and gossip.

H
E WAS
holding her, and for the first time in a very long time she felt safe. What kind of woman was she to feel comforted by the Rake of London?

“You aren't who you're supposed to be,” she said, pulling back.

She needed to step away from him, but she didn't.

“What does that mean?”

“You're supposed to be a rakehell, a wastrel, a degenerate. Instead, you're kind and intelligent, caring and generous. Just when I think I've figured you out, you change.”

“You make me sound as boring as a minister.”

“You're not boring at all.”

He confused her, startled her, made her lose her thoughts, stumble through words, but he'd never bored her.

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. At first it was a simple gesture of thanks for being so kind when she was crying. Of acknowledgment that he'd thought of her feelings in telling her about Neville. All too soon the kiss changed character, became less friendly and more passionate.

Several minutes were lost to the kiss, and no time could have been better spent. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he broke off the kiss.

“I'm no saint, Minerva. Kissing you will lead to more.”

A warning, couched in a whisper.

She only reached up and kissed him again.

“I promised to seduce you,” she said a moment later. “I never got the chance.”

“And you would do so now? Here?”

She should ask him to take her home. She should retreat to her house, chastened by the Covington sisters and their fears for her reputation. She should do a great many things right at the moment.

Perhaps it was rebellion. Perhaps it was need. Perhaps it was simply that she wanted to touch him for however long she could.

“We need to get out of these wet clothes, Dalton.”

“Ah, that's the reason, then. You're concerned for our health,” he said, amusement coloring his words.

She couldn't help but smile. “Lock the door, Dalton.”

He released her, went to the door and did as she asked, then returned to her side on the carpet in front of the cold fireplace.

“Have you ever loved anyone in your library?” she asked, her voice sounding husky.

“Never,” he said, concentrating on the buttons of her dress.

“No dalliances with bored wives or expectant virgins here?”

He hesitated at the third button.

“No bored wives. I never sought out a wife for dalliance, Minerva. Nor encouraged a woman to break her marital vows.”

“But you never refused them, either. And expectant virgins?”

“Frankly, the idea of schooling a virgin in passion is, well, tedious.”

“Then you're glad I came to you experienced as I was?”

“You aren't all that experienced,” he said. “You have a great deal more to learn.”

“Do I?”

He nodded.

He bent and kissed the tip of one breast through her bodice.

“You're wearing a corset.”

“Loosely laced,” she said. “And a corset cover as well as a shift.”

“You're impenetrable. You're an ironclad vessel against which I'm a mere dinghy.”

She laughed, then reached out and unfastened his trousers with unerring fingers. When she placed her cool hand around him, he drew in a sharp breath.

“Does that hurt?”

“Good God, no.”

“Shall I remove my hand?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, bending to kiss her.

He trailed a hand around her waistband until he found the buttons.

“You don't smell of your perfume today.”

“What do I smell of?” she asked.