Suffering The Scot (Brotherhood 0f The Black Tartan Book 1)

by Nichole Van

  Become a lady . . . no one will want you otherwise.

  Even her hair had finally acquiesced to the demands to be more contained, darkening from fire-red to a more sedate auburn, though her fair skin—more fickle—still freckled at the slightest ray of sunshine. It was as if her very hair and skin had conspired to be emblems of her outward and inward nature.

  Jane clucked at Thunder, keeping the pony on the road. He was small, even for a pony, but generally well-behaved and liked to please. Though on occasion, he displayed a distressing tendency toward independent thought. He needed to have his wayward impulses checked, as well.

  For her part, Jane did not know how to be warm and vibrant in moderation. She had silenced the girl she was at Rosehearth so thoroughly, sometimes it felt as if she had no personality left to offer. She worried that any glimpse of that wild, hoydenish Jane would cause her entire facade to crumble.

  And so she remained Lady Jane—distant and chilly . . . as a lady should be.

  She considered herself none of those things.

  For example, Jane was passionate about the importance of caring for the poor on the estates that she inhabited. She always longed to run through a summer rain storm and had a decided taste for strong drink (though only Peter knew that vice). She secretly wanted to dig in the dirt and wade in streams to find minerals and other interesting stones.

  As if proving her point, the phaeton rolled into a large clearing, skirting the edge of an abandoned, medieval quarry. The quarry cut into the hillside, creating a distinct horseshoe shape and exposing layers of stone. She studied the rocks as she passed.

  It was her one indulgence. Jane supposed it was no surprise that she found stones so fascinating—minerals were simply another manifestation of imposing order on something seemingly chaotic. They were endowed with everything she enjoyed. Unmoving and unchangeable. Pretty to look at. Sometimes valuable. And offering endless ways to be organized: color, hardness, material, gemstone inclusion, and so forth.

  She had drawers of her finds in the library at Hadley Park, all tucked into specially-designed cabinets. Periodically, she would rearrange them according to her whim.

  Peter said she did it most when she was feeling alone and “sedimental.”

  He was excessively proud of the pun.

  So she scoured the layers of stone as her phaeton slowly crept past, but she didn’t see anything worth stopping for.

  Or it could simply be that her heart wasn’t in it.

  Chaos awaited her at Hadley Park.

  Lord Hadley arrived tomorrow.

  The staff were aflutter with nerves and worry. What changes would the new Lord Hadley make? How could an uneducated Scot understand the complexities and tradition of running a large English estate?

  All this worry naturally communicated itself to Jane’s mother. Lady Hadley had become more waspish and authoritarian with each passing day until even Peter had closeted himself in the billiards room, only emerging for meals.

  This left Jane to fend for herself against her mother. After a few days, her palms had been nearly reduced to half-moon ripples.

  Her life, as she knew it, was about to change.

  And likely not for the better.

  “Ma trews itch.” Kieran shifted in his saddle.

  “No true Scotsman would say such a thing.” Andrew shook his head.

  “I’m going tae pretend I didnae hear yous just now.” Kieran gasped, mock hurt. “I’m merely stating a fact.” He squirmed again. “They itch.”

  Mmmm.

  Andrew rocked in his saddle. Kieran wasn’t wrong; the trews did itch something fierce. Not that Andrew would give Kieran the satisfaction of admitting as much. His friend was whining only to annoy him.

  “Quit your whinging,” Andrew said, sliding into the deep Scottish brogue he would be using for the rest of the day. “Ye’re the one who wanted tae wear them, no’ me. ‘We need tae be exceptionally Scottish today,’ ye said. As I asked earlier, what demented ancient Highlander decided that leather-and-tartan pantaloons were a wise fashion choice?” Andrew stared down at his red-and-blue tartan trousers.

  Kieran snorted, tugging on the length of green-and-yellow tartan he had slung over his left shoulder. The sash wrapped around his chest, matching the tartan of his trews. “Scotland isnae supposed to be comfortable, I suppose.”

  “Aye,” Andrew agreed. “It’s our national pastime. It’s how we keep the English from overrunning the place . . . convincing the Sassenach that they dinnae want it. I only wear trews when I’m hunting deer or grouse in the Cairngorms. Then it’s too wet and damp to wear anything but trews—”

  “I’m no’ finding fault with yer argument, Andrew—”

  “I’m just saying trews are unnecessary in Sussex.” Andrew waved a hand, indicating the lush green forest and dappled sunlight surrounding them. “I’m still puzzled why ye wanted tae wear them today.”

  “Spoken like a true English lordling.” Kieran’s grin was absolutely unrepentant.

  Andrew ignored the jab. “I suggested kilts. Why didnae we wear kilts today? Kilts itch less.”

  “Trews are better on horseback.”

  “We could have taken ma carriage.”

  “No. That wouldnae do. Yer relatives expect a proper Highlander. We’re no’ about to disappoint them.” His friend shook his head. “Highlanders wear trews.”

  “But we’re no’ proper Highlanders.” Andrew had to say it. “I’m a Fifer.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “What? You hail from Dumbarton. Dumbarton isnae the Highlands either.”

  “Ma maither was from Inverness and my faither from Wester Ross—”

  “Fine, then—”

  “—but, regardless, the English dinnae understand the subtleties of Scottish origins. A Scot is a Scot to them. So . . . we wear trews.”

  “Now, Kieran—”

  “Enough! I think yer a bit nervous, yer lofty lordship, and it’s making ye tetchy.”

  Andrew held his tongue.

  Kieran was likely right.

  The latest round of letters with the Committee on Privilege had been arduous. The members of the committee—all peers in the House of Lords—were requesting more documentation of Andrew’s birth from the parish records, further proof of his parent’s kirk marriage, and the most galling of all, affidavits attesting to his character. An English-born heir could drink, carouse, and gamble away his inheritance and still be welcomed into Lords with smiles and hearty back-slaps. Whereas Andrew—who never caroused and rarely gambled, though he admitted to being fond of a wee dram, at times—found himself not only temporarily barred from taking up his seat in Parliament, but literally black-balled.

  He had requested a membership at White’s—the exclusive gentleman’s club in London—thinking that acceptance there might help push his suit with the Committee on Privilege. But when the lid was lifted on the voting box, there had been three black balls nestled in the midst of the white ones, officially barring him from entry.

  Before ascending to the earldom, Andrew had been generally ambivalent toward the English aristocracy. He hadn’t had much interaction with its members, and so the entirety of the English government existed as a distant hum beyond his everyday life.

  But after six months of dealing with English prejudices and cruel assumptions . . .

  Who were these faceless English lords to unilaterally decide he was unwelcome in their ranks? And, worse, attack his good mother and his own character in the process? It was clear there was a faction within Lords who wished to teach him a lesson, make sure he understood his lowly place before taking his seat and discourage him attempting to help govern.

  After all, Andrew would win the battle and be issued a Writ of Summons from Chancery. He had law and precedent on his side. It was only a matter of time.

  Bloody English.

  Andrew and Kieran rode in silence for moment. A gentle breeze rustled through the trees. It was only early April, but already England
was in full bloom. Scotland wouldn’t leaf out for another month, at the soonest. In a cold year, trees could remain bare until June.

  Spring always came late in the far north.

  Traveling south from Edinburgh had been like watching Spring arrive in a rush. Every mile closer to the south had been a smidge greener. Flowers had moved from snowdrops to crocuses through to daffodils before finally arriving at a few overly-eager bluebells already making an appearance in Sussex.

  Andrew had never been to Sussex. He had rarely stepped foot in London, for that matter. He and his late grandfather had a delicate, unspoken truce. His grandfather allowed Andrew to live in peace and, in return, Andrew could inhabit every corner of the world save London and Sussex.

  The planet was large enough for the two of them to coexist in their own spheres without overlapping.

  But now . . . being here . . .

  Sussex was as gentle a place as Andrew had ever been.

  He would know; he had been most everywhere.

  He had sailed the world. Climbed a mountain in Rio de Janeiro simply to see the view from the top. Dined in Sydney, Australia with Governor Macquarie. Explored the dense forests of the Kingdom of Hawaii.

  Sussex certainly wasn’t the greenest or most dramatic or most awe-inspiring place he had been.

  But it was the gentlest. The sun shone with just the right amount of warmth. The wind lacked the biting edge always present in Scotland. The Sussex Downs were hilly enough to be beautiful, but not so hilly as to render riding through them a chore.

  Sussex, Andrew decided, was the pastoral equivalent of a wool blanket—comforting at the outset, but guaranteed to make one itch for a change after too much time spent wrapped in it.

  Or maybe he simply had itching on the brain.

  Kieran wasn’t wrong; he was tetchy.

  They were nearly to Hadley Park. Today he would meet his father’s relations for the first time. Given the letters he had already received from Lady Hadley, he anticipated his relatives icing him with glacial English condescension. Were they also part of the plot to ostracize him in Lords?

  Asserting his Scottishness seemed the only defense. A way of thumbing his nose at their haughty presumption. Though why, when someone expected him to behave poorly, did Andrew insist on meeting their poor expectations?

  It was a character flaw he chose not to examine too closely.

  As per Kieran’s plan, the two of them would arrive in full Highland kit, Andrew employing his strongest brogue, both playing unruly Scots to the hilt for an afternoon.

  Once they had a bit of fun and Andrew had called his haughty relatives on their preposterous assumptions—Scots were always civilized and mannerly; they simply didn’t take themselves as seriously as the English—Andrew would send for his retinue who were happily biding their time in an inn a few towns over. Not only had Andrew brought his valet, coach, coachman, and two grooms, but also three secretaries, his man-of-affairs, and an experienced land steward. The needs of his financial and landed empire never ceased.

  After his staff arrived, he would trade his itchy trews for more civilized trousers and a starched cravat. Then he would get down to business, assessing what needed to be done with the estate.

  The road wound through the forest. Fortunately, after taking a wrong turn at the crossroads, a kindly farmer had pointed out a narrow country lane that would lead them through to Hadley Park. The lane was strait and rutted in places but in otherwise decent repair.

  They passed by a defunct quarry with some interesting rock striations. Sussex was well-known for its mineral wealth, particularly the fossil-rich layers in its chalk beds. His scientific brain perked up at the thought of doing a wee bit of mineralogy hunting while in the area.

  Ahead, Andrew could hear the gurgle of water. A stream, most likely.

  His thighs pricked where the wool clung to his legs.

  He shifted again in his saddle, adjusting his tartan sash. All the heavy wool swaddling his body made the day feel a touch too warm.

  Kieran chuckled at his unease. The fiend.

  “Devil take ye,” Andrew muttered.

  “I cannae think why—”

  A crash rent the air, coming from the road ahead.

  A terrified feminine shriek and loud splash followed.

  Both men had kicked their horses into a gallop before the sounds faded.

  4

  Jane staggered upright in the stream, gasping for breath, water sluicing off her body.

  Her pony danced forward, pulling the wheel of the phaeton back onto the bridge.

  “Don’t you dare continue on, Thunder!” she ordered. Thunder darted her a sheepish look at the sound of his name and thankfully stopped in place.

  Wretched animal, acting on independent thought!

  Ugh!

  Shaking her head, Jane looked down at her dripping spencer and sodden, clinging skirts. She shook the water draining off her fingers.

  Now what was she to do?

  Her drive home had been uneventful. But while crossing a bridge over the river, Jane had pulled Thunder to a stop, as she always did, to study the quartz vein in the riverbed. She had spotted what looked like topaz glimmering in a newly-turned rock and bent over the side of her phaeton for a closer look.

  That had been her undoing.

  Thunder had decided he did not wish to linger on the bridge, so he had suddenly lurched forward. This, in turn, had sent a wheel partially over the edge—as there was no railing to stop it—tilting the carriage slightly, and pitching Jane headfirst into the water.

  She was lucky to have not broken her neck.

  But now she was wet.

  And . . . muddy.

  And . . . disheveled.

  Jane wasn’t sure which of those three adjectives horrified her more. She stringently avoided being any one of the three and to be them all at once—

  Bloody hell! What if someone saw her like this?!

  She simply stood and breathed for a second, the motion loud in her ears.

  It did not escape her notice that she was only yards away from the same spot where Montacute had caught her swimming all those years ago.

  Was this her doom then? To be soaked and dripping in this dratted river?

  Would her base inner-self never be fully tamed?

  More to the point, how was she to sneak back to Hadley Park without her mother or Peter catching wind of it?

  Her mother would blister her ears with a scathing lecture on decorum—threatening to tell Montacute and pack her off to London—all of which would end with the same refrain that Jane was twenty-four years old, still unmarried, and could she please stop behaving as a recalcitrant child?

  If Peter were to learn of this, she would have years of his teasing comments to deflect. She loved Peter. She did. But sometimes he failed to see the stinging barbs embedded in his words.

  Brothers.

  Thank goodness Lord Hadley didn’t arrive until tomorrow.

  She pulled her sodden bonnet off her head, tossing it up onto the carriage floor of the phaeton. Her hair dripped into her eyes, determined to underscore the horror of her current state.

  Argh!

  That wild little girl fumed and seethed inside her, battering her cage, rattling the bars, seeking to burst forth—

  No!

  Jane swallowed, taking in gulping breaths.

  All was not lost. Surely if she found a sunny field, she could dry out her skirts. Anything to hide the worst of the damage.

  She pulled her skirts forward, trying to see if there was mud on the back of her dress.

  There was. A prodigious amount.

  Too much to hide.

  Grrrrrrr.

  Everything piled on at once.

  The ceaseless pressure from Montacute. Become a lady . . . no one will want you otherwise.

  The fear of not knowing what the new Lord Hadley would do.

  The frustration of being unable to completely mold herself into what others expected—
>
  ENOUGH!

  “Bloody, bloody hell!” Jane screamed, the tether on her messy inner-self abruptly snapping.

  She tossed her arms in the air, raging at the sky, allowing that long-lost, emotionally-honest girl to soar free.

  The loud sound startled several ravens in a nearby tree, nearly scaring her half-to-death and causing her to stumble sideways. They cawed their displeasure, fluttering away.

  Argh! Could her day get any worse?

  It was at that point that she realized . . .

  . . . why, yes, her day could in fact become much, much worse.

  “Och, lass, it’s no’ bad as that.” A very Scottish, very male voice said behind her. “I’m sure the mud will launder out. No harm done.”

  Oh, no.

  Please no.

  “Aye.” A second voice joined the first. “We can set ye to rights in no time.” This voice was also Scottish, also male, gratingly cheerful.

  Oh no. NO!

  Bloody, bloody hell!

  Her heart sank through to join the rocks underneath her feet. She prayed for a tidal wave to sweep down the river and wash her away. Or, at the very least, another dunking to cool the fiery blush currently scouring her body.

  This was her fate, was it not? The last time she had been wet and muddy in this river, an unwanted man had found her.

  Foolish her to think this instance would go any differently.

  Would this be the final nail in the coffin then? The thing that saw her packed off to Montacute in humiliated shame? Was there any way to prevent her mother from learning of it?

  Her extensive etiquette training had never covered this particular scenario:

  When a young lady of excellent breeding finds herself tumbled into a muddy stream and cursing like a sailor before a group of Scotsmen . . .

  The men behind her must be part of Lord Hadley’s retinue. The coincidence was too great. But as the earl wasn’t set to arrive until tomorrow, why were they here? Were they the advance scout party? The earl wanted to take the lay of the land, as it were?