by Nichole Van
It was simultaneously shockingly indecent and unnervingly virile and sent that same heat rocketing through her body—
No!
Again, she brutally squelched that skittering physical awareness, grinding it under her mental foot.
You. Do. Not. Find. Him. (Or his knees.) Attractive!
A woman was in dire straits indeed if she found a man’s kneecaps fetching.
Jane ground her teeth. Curling her fingers into tight balls, she punched her fingernails into her palms, pressing hard.
And as for his reference to the “River Incident” . . .
“I understand the general direction of your conversation, Lord Hadley—” she began.
“I ken ye do.”
“—and I have appreciated that you have not, until now, brought up our unconventional first meeting—”
“It was verra memorable.”
“—but I would be grateful if you would never refer to the incident again.”
A moment of silence.
Master MacTavish, thank goodness, had stepped aside to chat with one of the undergardeners about the sheep near the ha-ha across the lawn.
Hadley, for his part, scrunched his brow, as if her words simply didn’t compute.
“I cannae think why I would wish tae forget such a scene. Ye were a wee drowned kitten—”
“Lord Hadley—”
“—spittin’ fire and ragin’. It was verra comical.”
“My lord, you must cease—”
“Have ye considered the stage? Ye have a flare for it . . . the comedy. Yer quite a natural.”
Jane, quite literally, spluttered. Jaw flapping open, breath gasping for words. Her nostrils flared. She closed her eyes and methodically counted to ten, continuing to press half-moons into her palms.
She was quite sure even a duke’s daughter would not be excused for murdering an earl of the peerage.
No matter how provoked.
Jane waited until she had wrested her temper and clamoring inner-self into submission.
She opened her eyes. Hadley was still smirking at her.
The beast.
She took a deep breath. “A gentleman—” Jane paused, allowing the word to sink in. “—such as all would assume the Earl of Hadley to be—would pretend the incident had never occurred.”
Hadley seemed to consider her words.
More silence.
“Are ye wanting me to act the gentleman, then?” he finally asked, tone full of scorn.
Oh!
“You could at least aspire to the title,” she managed to say, voice so very strained.
He pondered that for a moment.
“If being a gentleman means I can no’ have a sense of humor, I dinnae ken I’m interested.”
“My lord—”
“I’m the Earl of Hadley, Lady Jane.” He said the words with wry humor, but a bite simmered underneath. “An’ I’ll still be earl no matter how I behave.”
“Be that as it may, my lord, but Polite Society and the ton—”
“—can go hang itself, for naught I care. The ton is no’ ma concern. I will not contort myself into a popinjay so’s tae blend in with other popinjays. I prefer the life of a lone hawk.” He snapped his teeth at her.
Snapped. His. Teeth.
Oh, good heavens.
A host of emotions swept through Jane’s midriff. Horror. Outrage. Shock. Anger.
She should have ignored them all, but her inner-self was lunging at its tether.
So Jane compromised and sorted through them, landing on anger as the one she wished to court.
“Somewhere between behaving as a proper gentleman and devolving into an uncouth savage”—she leaned on the word with a nice, sibilant hiss—“I would think you could, at the very least, temper your manners into something more hospitable.”
“Why should I?”
Jane clenched her hands so tightly she popped a knuckle.
Hadley looked down at her balled fists and lifted his gaze back to hers, eyebrow raising.
“Need I remind you, my lord, that you are now a Peer of the Realm, not some barbarous Highlander prowling for English cattle to raid—”
“Och! Cattle-raiding is ma favorite hobby.” Hadley threw up his arms. “I cannae be fussed with this conversation. Kieran!” He called to Master MacTavish. “Let’s go see what other Scottish finds Tam MacDonald has for us. Perhaps we can dredge up some whisky and drink a dram tae the Bard.”
Jane snorted.
Unladylike and undignified, but ten minutes in Lord Hadley’s company and pieces of that wild girl were set loose.
It was as if his feral nature called to hers, forcing it out of hiding. Like wild animals seeking their own kind.
It was not a pleasant image.
But she had spent years waging war on her own inner animalistic nature. She was a battle-hardened general, not a squeamish green recruit.
And so Jane rallied, stiffening her spine as he turned back to her.
“The Bard?” she asked, voice cold and cutting. “I find it hard to believe you know a single line of Shakespeare.”
A pause.
Hadley blinked at her.
“Who?” he said, face confused.
Oh, for the love of—!
“William Shakespeare. Famous English playwright. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?” Her voice rivaled the Sahara for dryness. “He wrote a play about a wretched Scottish earl who murdered his king—”
“Och! Ye mean Macbeth?” Master MacTavish said, joining Hadley. “The play with the blood-thirsty lady?”
“Aye,” Hadley turned to his friend. “I ken so.”
“‘Out, damned spot,’” Master MacTavish quoted. “That lady?”
“The verra one.” Hadley’s expression turned thoughtful. “She curses, too . . . Lady Macbeth.”
They both looked at Jane.
A pause.
They turned back to each other.
“Must be a ladyish thing,” Master MacTavish said, shrugging.
“Aye. For the blood-thirsty ones, at least,” Hadley replied, tone far too cheerful.
Jane almost pitied Lady Macbeth in that moment. The poor woman had to deal with unruly Scots at every turn. No wonder she had gone mad in the end.
“Yes. Macbeth.” Jane closed her eyes, struggling, yet again, to rein in her temper. “Shakespeare—the Bard—wrote it.”
“Ah. I ken.” Hadley nodded. “Shakespeare may be the English Bard, but there is only one Bard to a Scot—Robert Burns.”
“Robert Burns?” Now it was Jane’s turn to blink.
“Aye,” Master MacTavish said, hand over his heart. “Rabbie Burns. The Bard of Scotland.”
“Ye’ve got the right of it, Kieran.” Hadley slapped his friend on the back. “Can ye still recite ‘Address to a Haggis’?”
“I ken I can.” Master MacTavish began to declaim, “‘Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face. Great chieftain o’ the puddin’-race! . . .’”
“I leave ye to yer haivering, Lady Jane. We’re off to find Tam.”
Hadley sketched a bow in her direction and then took a step closer, leaning down to murmur more softly.
“And I willnae say anything about yer wee tumble into the burn.” His warm breath tickled her ear, sending gooseflesh scattering down her arms. “No’ because ye ken me a gentleman but because I’m a decent human being. Mayhap someday ye’ll care tae see that.”
Hadley winked at her before turning around.
Jane watched him walk away, kilt swishing with each step—left, right, left, right.
She pressed her nails into her palms again.
I’m a decent human being.
Jane nearly snorted.
This from a man who had just called her a blood-thirsty lady.
Hadley had no idea of what she was capable.
10
Lady Jane, fiery or not, was a force to be reckoned with.
Andrew came to this conclusion fairly quickly the next morning.
<
br /> Other than the bagpipe interlude and his resulting teasing of Lady Jane, he had spent most of the day closeted with his land steward going over estate records. As Andrew’s grandfather had been ill for several years before his death, the steward had been overseeing the extensive property with only the occasional helping hand from Peter. Fortunately, his grandfather had hired an intelligent, competent man. Andrew had no complaints with the steward’s method; he had been doing the best he could with the resources at hand.
But the state of affairs was grim. Hadley Park would require a shocking influx of cash to both modernize farming methods and address much-needed repairs. His grandfather’s poor investments—the Caribbean Affair being only one of several—had depleted resources. The estate had been limping along for years.
Andrew arrived at breakfast—great kilt and all—ready for another day with his steward. He had risen early and had already spent several hours going over expenditures and, after a late breakfast, he hoped to ride out and inspect some of the tenants’ farms directly. Kieran had taken off earlier in order to deliver business letters and procure a few of their items from Andrew’s valet and other staff in the neighboring town.
Andrew helped himself to some eggs and several rashers of bacon from the warming dishes on the sideboard before sitting down at the table. A hovering footman poured him a cup of coffee. Andrew murmured his thanks.
He was halfway through his eggs when Lady Jane arrived. She stopped abruptly in the doorway, skirts swinging, clearly not expecting him.
Andrew rose slowly to his feet.
To her credit, she didn’t pause long.
“Lord Hadley.” She nodded, expression distant and emotionless.
Ah. He wasn’t to see Fiery Jane today. Just polite, chilly Prim Jane.
He refused to feel perplexed about the prospect. But it seemed some small part of him, tickling right beneath his sternum, did care—
“Lady Jane.” He gave her a partial bow.
He stood patiently, as a gentleman should—he was a gentleman to his core, despite Lady Jane’s withering comments—while she daintily dished plum cake and eggs onto her plate.
Lady Jane, he noted, was excessively particular about how her breakfast was to be arranged. She carefully ensured that not one particle of food touched another.
Andrew had a feeling that Lady Jane insisted every aspect of her life—emotions, clothing, unruly Scotsmen—should be similarly controlled and wrested into orderly submission. Though why she behaved like this was a puzzle. The spirited woman he had caught glimpses of was nothing like this cold, reserved facade.
Perhaps sensing his eyes drilling between her shoulder blades, Lady Jane slowed her already meticulous movements, taking an absurd amount of time to finish plating her breakfast, forcing Andrew to stand on his feet while his coffee cooled.
Was she making him wait on purpose?
He noted that her high-waisted morning dress was of the finest white muslin with small white flowers embroidered at regular intervals, creating a pristine, white-in-white look. Her long sleeves banded around her upper arm before stretching to her wrist. A lace fichu was carefully tucked into the low neckline of her gown. Both sleeves and fichu effectively hid much of her freckled skin.
All that white should have rendered her pale and colorless, but somehow it had the opposite effect and instead highlighted the staggering glory of Lady Jane’s auburn hair. Her curls were tied back with a loose bandeau, tendrils escaping here and there to glow like embers in the sunlight.
Finally, she turned around, her face a polite mask. In outward appearance, Lady Jane was every inch the wealthy, purebred aristocrat she professed to be.
But her glorious hair outed her.
She nodded in his direction, and in that glance, he saw the inner spirit her hair represented—fire in her icy gray eyes.
Despite her placid appearance, Lady Jane was fair to crackling with leashed energy.
More to the point . . .
That fire was a declaration of war. She wished to pester and harass him.
Of course, the Scot in him wanted to shake her awake, to convince her to show her vitality even more openly. If she wanted a war, he preferred she rage directly at him. But he was quite sure her English self could never be so gauche.
No, Lady Jane was an utter paradox.
Fire and ice.
Keeping an amused smile on his face, he solicitously held out a chair for her to sit down, knowing that the motion would irk her—that he could have good manners; he just chose not to exercise them.
He retook his seat, sipping at his rapidly cooling coffee.
Lady Jane took a small bite of her eggs.
“It appears that we’ll have bonnie weather again today,” Andrew said, forcing Lady Jane to chew and swallow before answering him.
Naturally, she took her time.
“Yes,” she finally replied, voice cool and cultured, eyes still snapping.
She said nothing more.
Instead, she rose from the table, forcing Andrew to scramble to his feet.
Again, a gentleman always rises for a lady.
She retrieved a freshly-ironed copy of a lady’s circular the butler had laid out on a side table.
She sat.
Andrew sat.
She continued to eat her eggs, now looking at the newspaper.
Andrew munched on a rasher of bacon, staring at her the whole time, catching the occasional flash of temper when she moved her head.
Lady Jane rose again.
Andrew lurched to his feet.
She poured herself a cup of tea from the insulated teapot on the sideboard.
Andrew’s eyes narrowed. The waiting footman should have done that for her.
She carried her tea back to the table, nodding at Andrew before sitting down again.
He sat.
His coffee was now cold.
He motioned for the footman to remove it and pour him a new, hot cup. Like Lady Jane should have done.
She continued to read her circular, as if completely unaware of his presence. Unfortunately, the tense set of her shoulders betrayed her.
He had not forgotten her sniffing disdain from the previous afternoon. He might prefer her fire, but she definitely found his behavior abhorrent. And now she was instigating a battle of her own.
He knew his own intentions, but what was her motivation for escalating this wee war? What did she hope to gain? Harass him? Prove that he was a barbarian?
If that were the case, he could happily oblige her.
With a dramatic flourish, he pulled his sgian-dubh from its sheath tucked into his right stocking garter. The abrupt appearance of the wicked knife immediately shattered the illusion that Lady Jane was not paying attention to him.
Her head snapped upright, eyes wide. She sat back in alarm, gaze fixated on the knife.
“Good heavens!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Do you often bring medieval weaponry to breakfast?”
Smiling at her—an expression Andrew was quite sure appeared more maniacal than friendly—he stabbed a rasher of bacon. He motioned toward her with the sgian-dubh, the bacon flopping on its tip.
“No proper Scot would be without his sgian-dubh,” was his reply.
“Skee-uhn doo?” she repeated, wrinkling her nose, as if the mere act of saying the Gaelic words pained her.
“Aye. Ye never know when ye might need a knife.”
He took an obscenely large bite of the bacon dangling from the knife tip, holding her gaze while he chewed.
She stared at him, light from the window washing her from right to left and catching the flecks of soft gold in her fine gray eyes. With her swanlike neck, porcelain skin, and lush auburn hair, she was abruptly stunningly beautiful.
A white-and-gold goddess, gleaming bright.
Awareness flooded him, scouring his blood and setting his heart to racing. She was so impossibly lovely, fire and ice—
Bloody hell!
Enough!
>
He did not wish to find Lady Jane attractive. He did not want to be contemplating cupping her cheek and running a thumb over those adorable freckles. He disliked pondering if her lips would be as pillowy as they looked.
The entire experience was monumentally annoying.
But Andrew was male and, like most men, capable of being attracted to a woman he had no intention of pursuing.
It was ironic, to say the least.
In Edinburgh, Andrew regularly received invitations and was often deliberately thrown into the path of eligible young ladies. He was wealthy and genteelly-born and consequently in demand. Many a matchmaking mother had sought to capture his fortune for her daughter.
But even without his exaggerated Scottishness, he was sure Lady Jane would consider herself too highly-born to associate with him. She would hand him his head on a platter should he even dare contemplate courting her.
He took another large bite of bacon.
Jaw tensing, Lady Jane stood.
Andrew set down his sgian-dubh with its dangling rasher and reluctantly rose to his feet.
Lady Jane’s fine, gray eyes danced with gloating glee. He could almost see the beginnings of a smile at the corner of her mouth. A decidedly triumphant, smug sort of smile, to be sure.
At least she was enjoying herself.
She took her plate and strode to the sideboard, adding a muffin.
She returned and sat.
Andrew sat.
He ate the last bit of bacon off his knife.
Lady Jane stood up.
Rolling his eyes, Andrew slowly rose to his feet.
She replaced her circular on the side table.
She sat back down.
Andrew slumped into his chair.
Lady Jane took another nibble of her eggs.
Oh yes, she was decidedly pleased with herself.
Bloody English.
Sighing, Andrew reached into his sporran, the pouch dangling from his belt. Pulling out a flask, he proceeded to pour whisky into his coffee.
Lady Jane paused, fork raised, watching him with those wide, gray eyes.
“Spirits?” she asked. “At this hour?”
“Oh aye, my lady. I have a feeling it will be verra much needed.” Shaking his head, he downed the cup in one gulp.
“So very kind of you, your ladyship.” Mrs. Jones curtsied, as she took the parcel of embroidery threads Jane had prepared for her.