Scotsman of My Dreams Read Free

with him. Lewis had been right; they’d spent a good deal of time hiding from him or making his life miserable.
    Hidden from view in the painting were the stables, his favorite place at Gledfield. He could ride almost before he could walk. He and Arthur challenged each other on a daily basis. Who could take the fence higher and faster? Who could race from Gledfield to the village and back? The prize was never anything important. The one and only time he’d lost to his older brother, he’d had to muck out the bay where Arthur’s horse was stabled.
    Arthur’s forfeits weren’t physical. No, he insisted Arthur memorize one of Burns’s poems when he lost. Arthur didn’t prize their Scottish heritage as much as he did. Lewis was the same. They considered themselves English first and foremost, while something in the Scottish spirit called to Dalton. He’d relished the idea that their ancestors had been Highlanders and wanted to emulate their daring and courage.
    Wind rattled the window panes as the storm grew. The floorboards trembled with the grumbling thunder.
    He returned to his task of pouring himself a glass of whiskey. What a pity his ancestors hadn’t invested in the whiskey trade. No, they’d chosen coal instead, thanks to the Welsh heiress his great-­grandfather had married.
    Cautious not to fill the glass to the top, he carried it carefully back to his desk, one he’d had especially built for him to resemble his great-­grandfather’s at the family home in London. This was his house, bought with his inheritance, filled with his choice of furniture. A home he’d packed with his friends, sounds of merriment, and parties to all hours of the night.
    Arthur wasn’t here and neither was his father. They were gone, packed tightly away in the mausoleum at Gledfield.
    He took a sip of whiskey, anticipating the first sting in his throat.
    Thunder rumbled again and he held out his glass in salute to nature itself.
    I’m not afraid.
    He wasn’t foolish enough to say the words out loud. If he had, Howington would have come to the door, knocked softly, and called out, “Is anything wrong, Your Lordship?”
    Then he would be forced to clear his throat, put some modicum of humor into his voice, and answer with a lie. “Nothing’s wrong, Howington.”
    He wondered if his secretary had gotten rid of the woman yet. Better for Howington that he be occupied with the visitor than with him. Regardless of how long it took, when it was done, Howington would come to the door to inquire as to his health, mentally or physically.
    When would this damnable storm be over?
    His imagination made it sound like warfare, he knew that. That wasn’t the only reaction to his environment lately. When anything fell to the floor, he jerked, startled. And the nightmares? He didn’t even want to consider the nightmares.
    He placed the glass on the surface of the desk and forced himself to lean back against the chair. All he needed was enough time. Or maybe time would be his worst enemy. Perhaps after a few more months of this, he would grow so tired of pretending that nothing was wrong that he’d do something dishonorable, something to stain the MacIain name forever.
    He could just imagine the conversations now.
    Did you hear about Rathsmere?
    Damnable thing, wasn’t it?
    Expected it ever since he went off to war. Damn fool.
    He always was rash like that. Strange thing for him to come into the title, though. Don’t imagine he expected it.
    If he’d known, he would probably have remained in America.
    No, he damn well wouldn’t have.
    Just as he expected, Howington knocked on the door.
    â€œIs there anything I can get for you, Your Lordship?”
    A little less toadying, but he didn’t make that remark. Howington was immersed in a bubble of propriety. God forbid should he try to burst it.
    His mother had hired Howington for him, back in his