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

by Nichole Van

  He paused, eyes going unfocused, thoughts far away. Lost in the horror of memory.

  Finally, he stirred.

  “I only learned later everything that had happened that night. Despite the fire, the villagers were safe, more or less. Kieran and Jamie had warned them in time,” he murmured. “But in the process, Captain Cuthie captured Kieran and Jamie and had them chained in the hold of the ship. I believe Cuthie’s intention was tae force Kieran to navigate the ship out of the treacherous waters of the South Pacific, using Jamie’s safety as motivation. Cuthie didn’t know enough himself tae steer the ship through all the hazards.

  “But Jamie picked the lock on Kieran’s chains, and Kieran was then able to free them both. The problem was getting off the ship. They fought their way tae the top deck. Their plan was tae jump overboard and swim for shore. But at the last second, Kieran was apprehended by the first mate while protecting Jamie. Jamie stabbed the first mate and pushed Kieran overboard, out of harm’s way.”

  Silence descended.

  The fire popped into the quiet.

  “What happened to Jamie?” She had to ask it.

  “I don’t kno—” Hadley’s voice broke at the end. He swallowed once . . . twice . . . and then continued. “I don’t know. Jamie . . . remained on the ship. Without our protection. Without us. Worse, Jamie was guilty of stabbing a crew member and disobeying the captain, both hangable offenses.

  “Kieran knew all this, but he was injured and couldn’t overpower the entire crew himself. So he swam for shore, rushing to recruit Alex, Ewan, and some villagers tae help rescue Jamie. But the ship sailed before they could return, marooning us five on the island.”

  He ran a shaking hand over his face. “I was near death for weeks, a fever having set in after my beating. Just as I was slowly mending, a Portuguese whaling ship anchored in the village harbor. They told tale of sailing through the remains of a merchant ship, dashed tae pieces on a hidden reef in the open ocean, bodies floating in the wreckage. The launch skiffs were bobbing and empty. They found no survivors, but they did find a piece of wood with the letters ‘ERVA’ on it.”

  “The Minerva?”

  “Aye.”

  “And Jamie?”

  Hadley shook his head. “There was no way Jamie could have survived it. So many innocent lives lost. But Jamie . . . to die such a death, after sacrificing—” Hadley swallowed again, sucking in a deep breath. “The guilt and grief of it shook us all. But Kieran . . . Kieran was almost incapacitated by it. The pain—”

  “Master MacTavish shouldn’t blame himself. None of you should,” Jane interrupted. “The situation was intolerable. You all did the best you could, given the circumstances.”

  “Aye, but Jamie’s death still hurts. It’s an open wound that never heals. I feel as if I have blood on my own hands. The guilt haunts me. And so, we have this tartan.” He tugged at the sash. “Black for grief, red for our guilt and the innocent blood spilled, green for hope—”

  “—white for the purity of your hearts,” she finished.

  “Perhaps,” he snorted. “Or maybe it’s the hope of forgiveness.”

  “What did you do when you returned home? Surely Madsen must have been brought to justice for what he had done? Ordering Captain Cuthie to take on slaves must have consequences, right?”

  “Mayhap, but we need tae find Madsen afore any justice can be meted out.”

  “Find Madsen?”

  “Aye. Word must have reached him that his plans had gone awry. He had disappeared by the time we arrived back in Edinburgh. He had an enormous head start, of that I am sure—”

  “Running is the surest sign of a guilty conscience, I think.”

  “I could not agree more. But I had a letter from Kieran today. He believes he finally found Madsen.”

  “Truly?”

  “Aye. Rafe and I are headed for Sheerness tomorrow. We hope tae find Madsen there.”

  “I pray you find him.” Jane spoke with dramatic fervor, her words ringing with outrage. “I hope you make him pay for his actions.”

  “Bloodthirsty,” Hadley winked. “I like that in a lass.”

  Jane froze, momentarily taken aback. And then she grinned.

  He smiled in return, reaching for the decanter. He poured himself another finger of whisky. Jane held out her empty glass. Raising his eyebrows, Hadley obliged and poured her a shot.

  His story had been illuminating, in many ways. Perhaps more than he intended.

  “So . . . you never answered my question from earlier,” she said, “about your haggis-stabbing, kilt swishing behavior.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “No, you did not—why do you sometimes play the unmannered Scot when you are clearly a gentleman?”

  His eyebrows shot up. She had struck true.

  She replied to his unasked question. “I’ve long sensed that it was an act.”

  “You have?”

  “Ayyyyye.” She drew out the word, giving it a strongly Scottish flare.

  He sipped his whisky, gaze pensive. Would he answer her?

  Firelight skimmed his face, catching the golden highlights in his sandy hair and dancing along the hard planes of his face. Evening whiskers stubbled his chin. He was askew and rumpled, and she found him nearly unbearably handsome.

  Finally, he grimaced. “I ken that being Scottish comes with a whole host of preconceptions, and I even admit that I fit those notions in many ways. But I am still a person, unique and individual. However, sometimes others don’t want the individual.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the tumbler held between his hands. “Often, it is easier tae meet someone’s low expectations than tae change their prejudiced assumptions.”

  His voice hovered in the dark night, silken and knowing.

  It is easier tae meet someone’s low expectations than tae change their prejudiced assumptions.

  Jane’s throat tightened. His words . . . it was like hearing her soul made physical.

  For the thousandth time, she pondered on the irony of this man being the one to inspire such kinship. They should be utterly opposite in every way. And yet . . .

  He saw.

  He understood.

  He knew.

  “An individual is a mess of contradictions that requires subtlety and observation to understand,” she nearly whispered. “A caricature is easier to mentally assimilate.”

  “Aye.”

  He lifted his head. Their eyes tangled, entwining. That feeling rose again, fluttery and fluffing outward, choking in its force.

  Jane bit her lip and blinked back the swelling emotion, swallowing hard.

  His gaze softened, as if he too recognized her.

  “I propose a toast.” Hadley held his glass aloft. “Tae life. And, more importantly, tae choosing our own path through it.”

  Trust Hadley to go straight to the heart of the matter.

  Could she turn away from her Fate and choose her own path?

  Jane said nothing, but she did lift her glass and sip.

  I am still a person, unique and individual.

  She pressed her fingernails into her palm, marveling at the half-moon shape.

  She could feel Hadley’s eyes studying her.

  Still seeing too much, blast him.

  Seeing more than an aristocratic lady in an expensive dress—a pretty bauble to be purchased . . . both the dress and the woman.

  He was so unlike Wanleigh, who had stared at her as if she were his property for the taking. As if he already owned her.

  “I am not a possession,” she said aloud, whisky readily knocking thoughts loose.

  She pressed her nails again. Always a half-moon they made, never a full one. And even at that, it was only an imprint. She could only imitate a tiny sliver of heaven, forever relegated to imagining the moon but never able to hold it. Most certainly never achieving the entire thing.

  Hadley grunted, settling further into his chair, mumbling something.

  Jane paused. Surely he hadn
’t just said, I wouldnae mind being your possession.

  She met his gaze, his eyes dark and heated.

  Oh my.

  Perhaps he had.

  20

  Andrew didn’t mean to tell Jane quite so much about his trip to the South Pacific. But as he took another sip of whisky, he understood why. The quiet of the evening, the popping fire, the smoky alcohol warming his blood, the intensity of her gray eyes, even now, seated across from him . . .

  It all simply slipped out.

  Fire scorching the ground.

  The searing pain of a cudgel to his jaw.

  Kieran screaming into the night, fist shaking at the moonlit sails on the ocean. “Ye’ll not get away with this. I’ll hunt ye tae the ends of the earth, Cuthie!”

  They hadn’t needed to wait long for the Captain to be brought to justice.

  As for the other men involved in financing the journey . . .

  Madsen had set it all in motion.

  The other investors hadn’t known of the arrangement with Cuthie and were, to a man, appalled.

  Andrew had bought them all out just the same.

  Just Madsen remained.

  For the thousandth time, Andrew wondered why Madsen had done it. He had considered Madsen a friend. The man knew Andrew’s feelings on slavery. He knew that Andrew and the others would fight tooth-and-nail to prevent innocent villagers from being taken against their will.

  Why give Captain Cuthie a task that would surely end in bloodshed?

  Madsen had nothing to gain from it. The money involved with transporting slaves was not enough to justify the risk.

  It made no sense.

  Andrew shook his head.

  They would have answers soon enough.

  But for the here and now . . .

  I am not a possession, she had said.

  He may have muttered something about her possessing him.

  He surveyed his tumbler. Whisky was dangerous. It had a frustrating tendency to jostle things loose, like top hats or hairpins or truths.

  “I dislike feeling like a possession.” She didn’t raise her head to meet his eyes. “But everyone perceives me to be a commodity. A thing to be bought and sold.”

  Jane was digging her fingernails into her palm. He had noticed the habit before. Anytime a conversation became tense or difficult, she clenched her fists too tight.

  She was doing it now.

  “I dinnae think of ye as a commodity,” he said, his voice taking on a husky edge. As usual, his Scottishness became more apparent the more he drank.

  She downed a healthy swallow of whisky in one hand and methodically pressed her nails into her palm with the other.

  The lass could hold her drink, he would give her that. Better than her brother snoring in the corner.

  Andrew paused, wondering if he should take her thought further.

  He threw caution to the wind.

  She had called him on his pretenses; now, he returned the favor.

  “You’re a brave lass who hides her fire behind a shield of decorum.”

  Jane’s head snapped upright, a low hiss escaping her.

  He had struck dead true.

  “Why do ye do it?” He pressed further.

  Silence.

  If she weren’t so ladylike, she would be squirming, he was sure of it.

  And yet, she did not reply.

  Andrew tried a different question. “Why let your mother dictate who your suitors are? Ye be old enough tae no’ need their approval.”

  She pressed her fingers again. Andrew longed to snatch her hand back, to sooth the agitation that caused her to clench her fists so hard.

  Finally, she said, “I know I don’t need her approval. It is Montacute who controls my movements.”

  “Montacute? Yer half-brother?” Andrew frowned, his whisky-addled wits trying to catch up. “But ye are well of age. Montacute cannae control where ye marry.”

  “No, he cannot. I am my own woman, in that regard. But Montacute holds my purse strings. If I disobey him, I lose my allowance. If I marry outside of his wishes, I do not receive my dowry. I would find myself cut off, both financially and socially.” She paused briefly, as if this information were important somehow. “My mother had no marriage settlement with my father—as he married her for her beauty, not her money and connections—and my father tied my dowry and allowance to my brother’s approval.”

  Again, she seemed to think this knowledge would be of significance to him, beyond simply answering his question.

  “Of course,” he replied, trying to puzzle out her tone. “It’s a wise way tae prevent fortune-hunters.”

  “Precisely. If I marry without Montacute’s blessing, I receive nothing from my late father’s estate. He keeps me on a short tether. Without his support, I have no real options. Few men have the ready cash to marry a woman who brings no money and the censure of a powerful duke to their union.”

  Her tone still confused him. “And why should ye care about that? Not every man needs tae marry an heiress.”

  Jane lifted a skeptical eyebrow, as if she found him adorable in his confusion. “You do realize that is somewhat hypocritical, correct? Everyone says you need to marry an heiress.”

  Andrew paused. Was that the cause of her tone then?

  He supposed he understood why people would think that. Very few knew that Andrew Langston, Earl of Hadley, and Andrew Mackenzie, wealthy Scottish Vulcan, were the same man.

  A gentleman shouldn’t boast about his wealth—and Andrew had no intention of doing so—but Jane needed to know that a gentleman could pursue her for herself alone.

  I wouldnae mind being your possession.

  He settled for saying, “I don’t need tae marry an heiress. The gossips have it wrong.”

  She frowned, clearly not believing him. “So all those men who arrived with Lord Rafe—the clerks and valet and such—those are your men? Not his?”

  “Aye. Those are my own people. That’s the absolute truth, Jane,” he continued in the face of her skepticism. “There are many gentlemen who dinnae need a wealthy wife. So ye marry without Montacute’s consent and a few sticklers give ye the cold shoulder at a ball—”

  “It’s more than that.” Jane squirmed in her chair. “Montacute is one of the most powerful lords in Parliament. If my half-brother chose, he could ensure that my husband was thoroughly black-balled. No one would extend us credit. If my husband had a seat in the House of Lords, no one would support his bills. My children would be denied entrance to Eton and Cambridge. The list goes on and on. Montacute is just spiteful enough to ensure that I become a pariah. If I cannot be a jewel in his crown, then I must be cast out altogether. There is no in-between.”

  “And ye truly believe that Montacute would be so dastardly? He’s your brother. Why disgrace his own sister? It seems like a mountain of effort, tae be honest.”

  Jane laughed. It was not an amused sound. “You clearly do not know Montacute. He would control heaven and earth itself, if he could. If I misstep in any way, he will cut me off. And we all know that a lady without funds and connections, no matter how highly-born, has very few options.”

  “I know yer mother’s finances are tight, but surely there would be a relative who would take ye in—”

  “And incur Montacute’s wrath? Never.” She gave that same bitter laugh again. “Despite the apparent privilege of my life, I am caught in a cage I cannot escape.”

  Andrew allowed her words to sink deep.

  I am caught in a cage I cannot escape.

  How could she be the daughter of a duke and still have so few choices over her life?

  And yet . . .

  The evidence was copious.

  Andrew was slow to anger. Anyone who knew him would describe him as level-headed and fair-minded.

  But . . .

  How could Jane’s brother be so callous of her feelings? How could he consider his reputation more important than his sister’s lifelong happiness?

  The cru
el selfishness of it boggled his mind.

  “Your life is worth more than bowing to Montacute’s wishes,” he finally said. “You shouldn’t have tae marry a man like Wanleigh unless you wish it.”

  He couldn’t see her eyes, but the slight flinch of her shoulders told him his words had struck true. Her hand clenched again.

  “I know,” she whispered, “and, yet, there are few options available to me.”

  “You’ve never longed for a man who did not suit then?”

  “No. I’ve been an obedient daughter, for all the good it has done me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Here I am. Nearly twenty-five years of age, sipping whisky into the night, and complaining of my bitter loneliness.”

  He smiled. “I can drink to that. I’m quite sure it was what whisky was made for.”

  He saluted her with his glass. She managed a wan smile back.

  Andrew’s heart gave a lurching thump.

  How could Montacute and her mother squelch Jane’s light like this? She should be blazing through the sky, illuminating them all with her vivacity.

  Abruptly, he desperately wanted that for her.

  No. That wasn’t quite right.

  The weeks of watching her, trading barbs and witticisms, learning and knowing, the endless pull of her beauty . . .

  Ah.

  He was such an eejit.

  I wouldnae mind being your possession.

  He had meant every word of that.

  Jane.

  His Jane.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, staring into the fire. How had he ever thought her arrogant? She was kindness and light. The goodness in her only matched by the steel of her resolve. Here was a woman who would take on the world for a cause she believed in.

  How dare Montacute render her helpless.

  He wanted to trounce something or chop wood to exhaustion or knock some sense into a specific haughty English duke.

  Maybe this was why his Scottish forebears chose to toss heavy stones and logs around. With no English around to pummel, they resorted to whatever they had on hand.

  He would take on Hell itself for her, he realized. An arrogant, English duke would be child’s play.