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

by Nichole Van

  And, most importantly, whatwasshetodo!

  If she turned around, they would clearly see her and, more to the point, recognize her if they encountered one another again. Any hope she had of this not making its way to Hadley’s ears, at the very least, was rapidly evaporating.

  Her best hope was to send them on their way without turning around herself.

  A rustle sounded behind her. “Here, let’s lend ye a hand—”

  “I’m quite all right,” Jane snapped, head turning slightly. “Leave me be. Go on your way.”

  The noises stopped, the men hesitating.

  And then . . . “Are ye quite sure?”

  “Aye,” the first voice joined in. “I ken that maybe ye need—”

  “As I said, I am quite fine,” Jane interrupted, tone as frosty as possible. “I do not need help from the likes of you. Carry on your way.”

  She flipped a dismissive hand over her shoulder, waiting for the men to take themselves off. She couldn’t very well hike her skirts up to her hips and clamber up onto the bridge with Scots behind her.

  Unfortunately, she did not hear sounds of the men leaving.

  “Do ye think she means it?” the second Scot asked, voice low.

  “I ken she might,” the first replied. “I dinnae know why she would refuse our kindly offered help. She cannae get out of the burn alone. The banks appear too steep and the bridge too high.”

  Of all the idiotic . . . !

  Her rational mind knew it wasn’t their fault. They had simply heard a noise and come to offer help.

  But that didn’t stop a fiery flash of anger. Their presence here practically ensured endless humiliation and complications for her. If they were gentlemen at all, they would be sensitive to this fact.

  But of course they were not gentlemen.

  They were Scots.

  “Aye, and her swearing and screaming sounded a wee bit distressed. I didnae ken ladies knew how tae swear like that, tae be honest.”

  “Maybe they learn it in finishing-school nowadays? They hold swearing class right after embroidery lessons but before bonnet trimming?”

  “If so, they’re doing a bang-up job of it. It was bloody brilliant.”

  Jane gritted her teeth, that same blush flaring back to life, righteous indignation bristling. The men’s blatant disregard for decorum only underscored the chasm between English and Scottish behavior.

  A slew of angry words choked her, desperate to escape her mouth. She swallowed them back. Yelling at the men like a fishwife would not help the situation. That messy little girl might still be inside her, but Jane did not have to be that little girl.

  Never again.

  There was no helping it. The men clearly were going to require a firmer hand. They would see her face. Perhaps she could request they not report this incident to Hadley.

  Poise and grace. Deep breaths

  Sucking in a fortifying breath, Jane slowly pivoted around.

  She had to blink several times.

  Two men sat on horseback on the riverbank, frankly observing her. That she had expected.

  Their clothing, however, was an affront to the senses. A cacophony of pattern and color.

  Her eyes instantly locked on the man to her right, his horse prancing sideways before he easily pulled the animal to a standstill. He sported red-and-blue plaid trousers and more red tartan wrapped around his chest in a broad sash. A jaunty bonnet sat on his head, cheerful feathers matching the dark blonde of his hair. Everything about him shouted a loud declaration of Highland patriotism; a Sir Walter Scott novel come to life.

  But it was his amused, smiling eyes that held her attention—a blue gaze that reflected the color of the summer sky and danced just as merrily.

  Here was a man who did not take himself or life too seriously. Someone who clearly reveled in his inner wild-child, never bothering to tame his baser impulses.

  Jane felt her lips tense into a straight line.

  Granted, his companion was not much better. Swathed in green-and-yellow tartan, his pale blue eyes smirked at her.

  Oof! This whole situation was simply unsupportable.

  “We cannae leave you like this, lass,” the first Scot said, those laughing eyes never leaving hers. She mentally categorized him as Red Scot based on the colors of his tartan. He motioned toward her sodden state, standing knee-deep in the stream. “Wet clothing might be all the rage in London this Season, but we cannae, in good conscience, hurry off without—”

  “As I keep saying, I do not require your assistance.” She nodded her head with regal precision. “I order you to carry on your way.”

  “Order us? Ye cannae be serious?” the second man asked, shifting his green tartan. Jane dubbed him Green Scot.

  “Aye,” said Red Scot, “how will ye clamber out of the wee burn there—”

  “With my fully-functional limbs, I am sure. Off with you both.” She made a flapping motion with her hand and clucked her tongue, much as one would shoo away an overeager dog.

  Red Scot merely blinked at her actions and tone. Did nothing get through to the man?

  He loomed on his horse, broad-shouldered and strong-jawed, those blue eyes drilling into her. The weight of his gaze squeezed her lungs and hiccupped her breathing. If the man had to be Scottish, must he be so large about it, as well?

  “I fear she’s serious,” Green Scot said conversationally to his friend. “She has to be chilled, wet to the bone.”

  “Maybe it’s the latest fashion?” Red Scot removed his eyes from her—thank goodness!—turning in his saddle. He appeared to be the leader between the two. “I’ve heard tell some ladies dampen their petticoats.”

  “Aye, it was only a matter of time before they moved on tae wetting down the whole skirt.”

  “Perhaps we should mention it in Edinburgh? See if we cannae start the trend up there?”

  “It wouldnae work.” Green Scot pursed his lips. “The lasses are far too smart to wear wet clothing on a dreich Scottish day. Catch their deaths.”

  “Aye,” Red Scot said mournfully. “’Tis such a pity.” He shot her an appraising glance.

  Heat washed through Jane, as scalding as it was unwelcome.

  Even without the peacock-like display of his Highland origins, Red Scot would have stood apart from English gentlemen. Something unbroken and untamed lurked in his eyes. Perhaps the same Scottish spirit that a thousand years of English influence had never managed to quash.

  Jane literally felt the wildness of him. A lone wolf howling at the full moon, beckoning others of its kind to respond.

  Her wild self perked up, peering out at him.

  Oh! Hello, you . . .

  His gaze tangled something in her stomach and rendered her very skin so achingly alive. Acute physical awareness washed in behind—

  No!

  Jane viciously squelched that skitter of attraction, mentally pressing it under her foot as she would a spider. Her base self would not have the upper hand with this. That part of her had already caused enough trouble today.

  A true lady would never harbor such feelings toward one of the lower classes. And a Scot, no less.

  This encounter proved worse and worse.

  “We cannae leave her like this,” Red Scot said to his companion, still not speaking to her directly.

  “Aye. We must provide assistance.”

  Jane barely stopped an outraged gasp. The last thing she wanted was either of these ruffians touching her. Just the thought of Red Scot wrapping his strong hand around hers sent heat chasing her spine again; gooseflesh pebbled her arms.

  “As I keep saying, I do not need assistance, particularly from a . . . a person, such as yourself.” Jane used her ducal tone, the one that helped others understand their place in relation to her. She might also have imbued the word ‘person’ with a scathing bite of contempt.

  She was a duke’s daughter, for heaven’s sake. When those of the lower classes spoke to her, it was usually accompanied by bowing and f
awning.

  Society functioned as it did because Englishmen followed the rules. Even the lowest chimney sweep knew to show deference in the presence of a lady. There was a harmony and structure to things.

  She might have an inner wild self, but Jane deeply cherished the English sense of order. She had a distinct fondness for a crisply laundered chemise, glowing white and neatly ironed. She insisted on her dresses being sorted according to color, descending through the clothes press like a rainbow. Such structure, like organizing minerals in a cabinet, offered comfort and stability in a chaotic world—a soothing pattern supporting the lattice-work of society.

  Without it, they were all little more than savages.

  Scotland had never been adept at obeying England’s rules.

  Obviously.

  Jane felt as if this entire conversation distilled a thousand years of English/Scottish relations into a solitary exchange.

  England: Behave! Stop being uncivilized animals!

  Scotland: Och! We cannae be bothered tae change.

  England: We mean it! We will not tolerate such outrageous behavior.

  Scotland, laughing: Haud yer wheesht. Could someone pass me a wee dram o’ whisky?

  What was she to do? As the current roof over Jane’s head existed courtesy of Lord Hadley, was she expected to treat his impertinent servants—attendants? henchmen? minions?—with respect?

  Even when they showed her none?

  And based on their behavior, how would the earl himself be?

  Andrew studied the drenched lass staring daggers at him, her auburn hair hanging loose, gray eyes snapping.

  She was, in a word, stunning.

  Lithe and long-limbed—he refused to allow his eyes to dip lower to the skirts clinging to her legs—she vibrated with an energy as fiery as her hair. For sure, her tone was chilly and moderate, but the air around her nearly crackled with suppressed emotion.

  Her haughty tones and the expensive cut of her spencer (despite being dripping wet), clearly proclaimed her to be a lady of means. Was she the daughter or sister of a local lord? Would he meet with her again? And if her haughty behavior was indicative of all his neighbors, Andrew was going to find his time at Hadley Park even more trying than he had first supposed.

  That said, he couldn’t, in good conscience, leave a gentlewoman standing knee-deep in a stream, no matter how condescending and rude her attitude.

  Slowly, Andrew dismounted. Kieran followed, gathering both sets of reins and looping them over a low-hanging branch.

  Andrew took a step in her direction.

  The woman’s eyes widened, her nostrils flaring wide.

  He stopped.

  If she had seemed afraid, Andrew might have reacted differently. But nothing about this woman spoke of fear. Instead, she bristled with hostile outrage.

  How to diffuse the situation?

  “Perhaps before we help ye out of the burn, we should make some introductions,” he said.

  Kieran brightened. “A right proper introduction would be appreciated—”

  “No, I will not be introducing myself,” she quickly replied, those same arctic tones in her cultured voice. “Your behavior is already far too brazen. I have not sought, nor do I wish to have, your acquaintance.”

  “Och, that’s no’ verra nice.” Kieran frowned.

  “Aye, perhaps ye meant to say kinder words—”

  “I assure you my vocabulary is exact in its precision,” she said. “Moreover, it is far clearer than that butchery you lot pass off as the English language.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows flew upward. She was insulting their speech now?

  Well, if she expected her acerbic answer to quell them, she was instantly mistaken.

  Andrew and Kieran both roared with laughter, heads back, teeth flashing.

  “Och, we cannae help it,” Andrew spoke first. “Yous English taught us yer Sassenach language in the Middle Ages and then up and changed the bloody thing without informing us.”

  “Aye. You’ve only yerself to blame.” Kieran grinned.

  “Yous English are terrible teachers.”

  The woman sniffed and lifted her chin, her fists clenched. “You poor victims,” she deadpanned. “It’s no wonder we ceased our aid, if this is what passes for gentlemanly behavior in Scotland.”

  Andrew blinked at her stinging remark but refused to allow his smile to slip. They were trying to help her. It wasn’t their fault she had more spines than a hedgehog.

  He took a few steps onto the bridge, approaching her slowly, like one might stalk a Highland deer. He wanted her to clearly understand they only meant to help.

  The pony, who had been standing patiently on the bridge, decided he did not like the sight of a burly Scot advancing toward him. The animal whinnied and took two steps forward.

  “Thunder, no!” The lady whipped her head in the pony’s direction. “Stay.”

  The pony’s ears pricked at hearing his name, obediently stopping.

  Andrew couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Thunder, eh? That’s an ambitious name for such a wee fella.”

  “Do ye suppose he has a companion named Lightning?” Kieran came past Andrew and caught Thunder’s harness, making soothing noises.

  Andrew reached the lady, surveying her in the water.

  She frowned in return. “I am quite through with this conversation. My feet have gone numb—”

  That was all she got out. Andrew reached both hands down, wrapped them around her upper arms, and—unceremoniously, without warning—hoisted her straight out of the water, depositing her on the bridge like so much baggage.

  She barely had time to eke out a high-pitched squeak. She wobbled as her feet hit the bridge but managed to keep upright.

  Unhelpfully, his brain pointed out that this unknown lady had a darling wee nose and very fine eyes—gray irises surrounded by thick brown lashes. Those lashes caught the color of the freckles dusting her porcelain skin. She likely detested her freckles, but Andrew found them amusing. They were rebellious wee interlopers dotting her cheeks.

  She blinked up at him, as if unsure whether to offer thanks or reprimand him for so casually touching her person.

  He took both options away from her.

  “Yer welcome.” He grinned, saluting her with two fingers. “Would ye like us to accompany ye tae your destination?”

  “Gracious, no.” She sniffed, that wee nose of hers rising in the air. “I have had my fill of your company.”

  Andrew might have been insulted by it, but as she was muddy, disheveled, and wet—decidedly resembling a half-drowned kitten, spitting in outrage—it was difficult to take offense.

  “If you will excuse me.” She stepped past Andrew and primly lifted herself the short distance into her low phaeton. Her skirts slopped onto the seat with a sodden thwump. She took the reins Kieran handed to her and, clucking poor Thunder into a walk, rolled away.

  She did not look back.

  Andrew and Kieran watched her drive off with matching bemused expressions, waiting until the carriage disappeared, turning down a side lane.

  “Well, now, that was enlightening.” Kieran clapped his hands together.

  “Aye. She was verra high-handed. We simply wanted tae help.”

  “I ken that.” Kieran chuckled. “If those are the manners of a lofty lady needing help, imagine how entertaining it will be tae tease yer relatives. Come along yer fancy lordship—” He motioned Andrew forward. “—we have more English to horrify afore the day is over.”

  5

  Andrew hadn’t given much thought as to what Hadley Park would look like. If he had pondered it at all, he would have imagined a building somewhat similar to his own Muirford House in Scotland—a majestic property built in the last fifty years.

  But as he and Kieran crested a hill and looked over the green valley to the great house nestled in the trees, Andrew realized his error.

  Hadley Park was less harmonious lines and more the awkward love child of the Tudors and the
Stuarts. Not that Andrew intended to make the house itself an emblem of problematic English-Scottish relations, but there was no other way to describe it. One half of the building featured the red brick and expansive mullioned windows of earlier English Tudor kings, while the other half displayed the honey stone, pedimented windows, and harmonious architecture of later Scottish Stuart monarchs.

  Ironically, it was the Stuart half that was structured and elegant. Andrew was quite sure his English relatives would not see the humor in that observation.

  “Are ye sure they’re expecting us?” Kieran motioned toward the lawn laid before the house. “The place is fair humming with activity.”

  A line of gardeners swung scythes in a synchronized motion, methodically cutting and tidying the grass. Other workers busily trimmed hedges along one side of the house, while a team of maids snipped spent flowers.

  Mmmmm.

  The scene was decidedly industrious. A prepping, planning sort of industriousness.

  “I had my man-of-affairs write ahead,” Andrew said. “Though tae be honest, I cannae rightly remember which day I was tae arrive, today or tomorrow.”

  Travel and weather being what it was in Scotland, arrival dates were always loose estimates at best.

  “I dinnae think they’re expecting us today, yer lordship,” Kieran grinned. “It’s like ma day just keeps getting better and better.”

  “At least one of us is enjoying this.”

  Kieran, the eejit, laughed merrily at Andrew’s sardonic tone.

  They followed the worn carriage lane, winding their way toward the main house, pausing at every vista and picturesque bend in the road. Heads turned as they passed, workers stopping to stare, some even raising a hand in greeting. Eventually the lane passed through an impressively-decorative gatehouse before ending in front of what had to be the main entrance—an enormous oak door topped by an imposing archway.

  On the Tudor side of the house, naturally.

  Andrew didn’t dwell too long on the symbolism.

  A groom did come forward to take the reins of their horses as they dismounted. But that was the extent of it.

  No one else greeted them or seemed to notice their arrival. When Andrew traveled to Muirford House, the butler would set a stable-boy to watch the main road, ensuring the entire staff was neatly assembled on the steps to greet him.