by Karen Ranney
“I sincerely hope not,” he said. “If so, we’ve certainly given the servants enough fodder for gossip. And my father and sister.”
Oh good heavens, she’d forgotten they’d returned. Sitting up, she stretched out her arm and grabbed her shoe.
“It’s all your fault,” she said. “You seduced me.”
“Or you seduced me.”
“Perhaps we seduced each other,” she countered. “Mr. and Mrs. Cameron frolicking in the garden as we were once accused of doing. Adam and Eve cavorting among the flowers and the vegetables.”
He laughed and she joined him.
If anyone saw them, she simply didn’t care.
“I love you,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him. “I love you so much, Lennox. I’ll love you forever.”
“And I love you, Glynis. With my whole heart. Byde weill, betyde weill.”
She smiled at the Scottish saying: everything comes to him who waits.
Tossing her shoe down, she leaned closer for another kiss.
Author’s Notes
If you’ve ever walked through Glasgow, you know the Glaswegian accent is difficult to decipher without practice.
Glasgow, the largest city in Scotland, is a wonderful place to explore. The Necropolis, begun around 1831, is the site of beautiful monuments by Scottish architects.
Scotland’s main contribution to the Industrial Revolution was the building of steel-hulled ships. By 1864 more than twenty shipyards existed along the Clyde and at least twenty thousand vessels were built there in the past two hundred years.
Few archival records remain relating to shipyard employment, so I took an educated guess at how many men might have been employed at Cameron and Company.
“Clyde built” has come to mean excellence and reliability. Cunard liners (such as the Queens) were Clyde-built ships. So, too, some of the paddle wheelers that traverse the Mississippi.
Something I never realized until my research on Clydeside shipyards: the Clydesdale horse was bred to haul lumber and various supplies along the Clyde.
William Cameron’s career was modeled after an amalgam of shipbuilders who had yards both in Russia and Scotland. Charles Mitchell, a Scottish shipbuilder, was decorated with the Imperial Order of St. Stanislaus, Second Class (awarded to foreign nationals) for his work in St. Petersburg.
Glasgow’s police force, sometimes described as the first municipal police force, did more than just policing. Like the older city watchmen, they also called the hours, swept the streets, and fought fires.
Continue reading for a sneak peek at New York Times bestselling author Karen Ranney’s breathtaking second installment in the MacIain series
Scotsman of My Dreams
Coming August 2015
Chapter 1
London
July, 1862
Three hours past noon on a muggy July day, Minerva Todd got into her carriage, jerked her gloves on, retied her bonnet ribbons, and stared straight ahead as if to speed the vehicle to its destination.
The day, although already well advanced, was shy on sunlight. Pewter-colored clouds moved in from the east, bringing with them a sodden breeze and the scent of rain.
She inserted a gloved finger between her cheek and the bonnet ribbon, wishing the fabric wasn’t irritating. Anything new was bound to chafe, at least until a certain familiarity had been achieved.
The dress was not new, however. Instead, she wore one of her serviceable dark-blue day dresses. She’d had half a dozen of the dresses made so she could detach the white collar and cuffs when she was working. Otherwise, she wore her most favorite garment, a divided skirt much like trousers.
Today she had to appear garbed like a proper woman of London, at least until this ghastly errand was finished.
As much as she would have liked to be on an expedition, the wet spring and early-summer weather had prevented it. Yet, even if she’d been blessed with sunshine in Scotland she wouldn’t have left London. Not until she had an answer about Neville.
Where was her brother?
The earl had not answered her five letters, the latest only three days ago.
She had no choice but to call on the man.
She’d heard stories about Dalton MacIain. The man had a foolish soubriquet—the Rake of London—and was rumored to have once had a royal lover, one of the cousins of the Queen herself.
The fact that he’d broken off the arrangement was scandalous enough, but he’d also recounted certain personal facts to a gathering of men no better than himself. Namely, that the woman in question liked the color red. To please her, he’d had his undergarments dyed crimson. He’d flaunted his Scottish heritage by parading around her rooms attired in nothing more than a swath of crimson and black tartan.
The Queen had not been pleased by the tales of her cousin’s licentiousness. The poor woman had been shipped off to Australia to tour sheep farms. No doubt she’d been told to mend her ways if she ever wanted to appear at court again.
Wayward women were never applauded in society.
The Rake of London, however, was a perennial darling. People laughed at his escapades. They excused his excesses. They allowed—no, encouraged—his complete disregard of the most basic tenets of civilization.
He was, in a word, a reprobate, a miscreant, and a libertine. And now he was an earl. A complete and total waste of a proper title.
When the carriage stopped in front of the large townhouse belonging to the man, she stared through the window at the broad steps, her eyes traveling upward to encompass the three stories of the structure. How like MacIain not to simply live in a fashionable square, but in a house that took up one whole corner of it. The structure seemed to proclaim itself a royal residence. At the very least, it was a home for someone filled with his own consequence.
From what she’d heard, the man was attractive. Looks faded. Intelligence didn’t. The earl was, from his actions, a very stupid man. What did she care how attractive the apple if the fruit within was rotten?
Besides, overuse of the sexual member prompted disease, a few of them quite ghastly. At their meeting she would keep her distance, check to see if his limbs trembled, or if he had a certain type of rash.
Had he been gentlemanly enough to respond to any of her letters, she would’ve opened each with great care. Perhaps she would have worn her gloves and spread the paper flat on some scrubbable surface. Once she had the information she needed, she would have transcribed everything and burned his original letter, the better to protect herself from any of his many contaminations.
She had quite a wealth of correspondence from various men across the continent. The topic had not been as important as her missives to the Earl of Rathsmere, but each man had been kind enough to answer her letters.
Yet the earl had not seen fit to respond to her inquiries, and he was the only one with the information she was desperate to obtain.
Her driver dismounted, came around and opened the door for her.
“Are you very certain you wish to do this, Minerva?”
She smiled at Hugh. He was the perfect example of attractiveness, intelligence, and character.
“I see no other recourse,” she said. “He hasn’t answered my letters. What else can I do?”
“He may refuse to see you.”
She nodded, placing her hand on Hugh’s arm, allowing him to assist her from the carriage.
“He may,” she said. “If he won’t see me today, he’ll see me tomorrow. If he won’t see me tomorrow, he’ll see me the day after. And a thousand days if necessary, Hugh.”
Hugh’s mouth was as expressive as words. Now it quirked in a smile.
Very well, perhaps she was a tiny bit stubborn in certain situations. She was a woman who toiled in a man’s world. She couldn’t afford to be perceived as soft and demure. That was for women who rarely left their parlors or used fans, for the love of all that was holy. She couldn’t imagine using a fan to flirt with a man. She’d feel like a fool.
Shaking he
r skirts free, she did a quick perusal of herself. Of course she looked nothing like the scores of women who’d probably made their way up these broad white steps.
She was simply Minerva Todd, whose assets were not those of figure or face.
At the top of the steps she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stared at the black painted door with its whimsical brass knocker. Why a mushroom, of all things?
She raised the knocker and let it fall, hearing the soft echo in the foyer. Her heart galloped in her chest, tightening her breath. Despite having donned her gloves, her fingertips were cold.
He must see her. He must tell her.
Even if it was the worst possible news, she must know.
When no one answered the door, she let the knocker fall twice more.
The front windows were clean and sparkling. The stoop had been swept. No debris of any sort was on the steps. Yet she had the feeling the house was deserted.
Taking a step back, she looked up at the windows on the second floor. All of them were shielded by curtains. No one stood there watching her.
She turned, calling out to Hugh standing beside the carriage.
“Would you go to the stables, Hugh? See if there’s a carriage there.”
If the earl wasn’t home, it would be the reason he hadn’t answered her. Did he have a country home? How would she find out where it was?
He nodded and began walking to the corner and around to the back of the townhouse.
Returning to the door, she felt the first droplets of rain. A moment later the heavens opened up and she was drenched, as if a bucket had been upended over her head.
The house had no place where a visitor might stand and be shielded from the elements. An oversight that felt almost as if the earl had designed it.
She let the knocker fall again.
The rain smelled of dust and the London streets. London seemed to be a city that contained odors, holding them in as if jealous they might escape. Now she picked out the scent of honeysuckle and roses, old buildings, manure, dust, and the ever-present and pungent smell of the Thames.
She was fortunate that her home, her parent’s house, was located on a square isolated from the foulest stench of sewage, as was this house.
The door opened so suddenly she nearly fell forward.
A tall, thin man greeted her. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, revealing muscular arms. His hair was brushed back from a face made stern by a prominent nose and pointed chin.
Sweat dotted his brow and above his lip.
His look of irritation was a little off-putting, but she ventured a smile anyway.
“Yes?”
She had the strangest urge to apologize. No, that would never do. She was here for a reason.
“I’m here to see the earl.”
“Are you?”
How very odd to be questioned by a major domo.
She pulled out her calling card and tried to hand it to him. Her hand was outstretched but he wasn’t taking it.
“I am. Will you tell him that Minerva Todd is here to see him, please, on account of her brother, Neville.”
“He isn’t receiving visitors.”
“Please tell the earl I shall not take up much of his time. I only have one question to ask.”
Had the major domo begun as a footman? His height was impressive. She truly disliked having to look up at him. The stony expression on his hawkish face would have been daunting if she weren’t determined to see the earl.
“That won’t be possible.”
He moved to stand half behind the door, edging it closed with his foot. Minerva deliberately inserted her leg in the opening. She wasn’t as tall as the major domo, but she was not excessively short either. She and Neville were of a height.
“Please, I really must see him.”
His brown eyes remained flat and unmoved.
“I regret, Miss Todd, that His Lordship is not receiving visitors,” he said.
“Can you take him a message, then? I need to know where my brother is. Neville hasn’t returned to London.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t.”
“I shall report you for insolence,” she said, annoyed beyond measure.
The man startled her by smiling, such a transformative expression that his entire face softened. The hooked nose lost prominence, the jutting chin didn’t seem as sharp. Even his brown eyes bore a twinkle.
“You do that, Miss Todd.”
“You’re a detestable major domo.”
“I’m the earl’s secretary, Miss Todd,” he said, making a small bow. “Stanley Howington. I suppose I act as major domo as well.”
“Do you have no other staff?”
“Is that any of your concern?”
“It is if you leave a visitor standing in the rain.”
“It’s the housekeeper’s half day off and the maids are engaged in other tasks, Miss Todd, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Did you go to America with the earl, Mr. Howington?”
He shook his head, placed his hand on the latch and started to slowly close the door again.
She waved her card at him and he reluctantly took it.
“Will you ask him about Neville?” she asked, putting her hand on the edge of the door. In order to completely close it, he was going to have to shove her out of the way.
Mr. Howington, for all his rudeness, didn’t look the type to brutalize a woman.
“Will you, sir?”
“His Lordship doesn’t like to discuss America, Miss Todd.”
She told herself that she could be excused her bad manners because of worry. A month of attempting to get the Earl of Rathsmere to answer her was frustrating to the extreme, and having Mr. Howington say he wouldn’t see her now was enough of an incitement for rudeness.
She grabbed the edge of the door and pushed it inward.
“I am not talking about America,” she said, her voice this side of a shout. “I am talking about my brother. Where is Neville?”
A gust of rain-soaked wind suddenly pushed her toward the railing. She lost her grip on the door and stared up at the secretary.
“I need to find my brother, Mr. Howington. He hasn’t returned from America.”
Since the door was advancing on her knuckles, and was already pressing against the toe of her shoe, she had every expectation that the Earl of Rathsmere’s secretary would toss her from the stoop. So much for not brutalizing a woman.
“Do not force me to be ungentlemanly, Miss Todd. You are getting drenched. Would it not be best for you to retreat to your carriage?”
“At least tell me you will ask the earl.”
He considered her for a moment. She had the feeling whatever he said next would be a lie, anything to get rid of her.
“Very well,” she said, taking a step back.
Sometimes it was necessary to retreat in order to fight again another day.
Rain had permeated the back of her dress until even her shift was wet. Droplets slid down her spine leaving an icy trail.
Her bonnet emitted a peculiar smell, something reminding her of their neighbor’s dog. Frederick loved water and sought it out at every opportunity. At the moment Frederick and her bonnet smelled the same.
She turned, grabbed the wrought-iron railing, descending the steps with hard-won dignity. Hugh stepped in front of her, his hair wetly plastered to his skull.
Nodding to him, she entered the carriage, knowing her errand had been futile but more determined than ever to succeed in her task.
She had to find Neville, and no secretary, diligent as he was, was going to stop her.
She would see the Earl of Rathsmere. She would.
About the Author
KAREN RANNEY wanted to be a writer from the time she was five years old and filled her Big Chief tablet with stories. People in stories did amazing things and she was too shy to do anything amazing. Years spent in Japan, Paris, and Italy, however, not only fueled her imagination but proved
she wasn't that shy after all.
Now a New York Times and USA Today bestseller, she prefers to keep her adventures between the covers of her books. Karen lives in San Antonio, Texas, and loves to hear from her readers at [email protected].
www.facebook.com/WriterKarenRanney
www.karenranney.com
www.avonromance.com
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Romances by Karen Ranney
IN YOUR WILDEST SCOTTISH DREAMS
RETURN TO CLAN SINCLAIR
THE VIRGIN OF CLAN SINCLAIR
THE WITCH OF CLAN SINCLAIR
THE DEVIL OF CLAN SINCLAIR
THE LASS WORE BLACK
A SCANDALOUS SCOT
A SCOTTISH LOVE
A BORROWED SCOT
A HIGHLAND DUCHESS
SOLD TO A LAIRD
A SCOTSMAN IN LOVE
THE DEVIL WEARS TARTAN
THE SCOTTISH COMPANION
AUTUMN IN SCOTLAND
AN UNLIKELY GOVERNESS
TILL NEXT WE MEET
SO IN LOVE
TO LOVE A SCOTTISH LORD
THE IRRESISTIBLE MACRAE
WHEN THE LAIRD RETURNS
ONE MAN’S LOVE
AFTER THE KISS
MY TRUE LOVE
MY BELOVED
UPON A WICKED TIME
MY WICKED FANTASY
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from Scotsman of My Dreams copyright © 2015 by Karen Ranney LLC.
IN YOUR WILDEST SCOTTISH DREAMS. Copyright © 2015 by Karen Ranney LLC. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.