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

by Nichole Van

  She fascinates you as no other woman ever has. You should marry her.

  The thought drifted through his head before he consciously thought it. He did crave her warm eyes and fiery spirit and sparkling intelligence.

  Yet . . . admiring a woman was not the same thing as deep love. He wasn’t quite sure he was ready to commit his life to hers.

  But . . .

  The thought would not be silenced either. The potential was there. He could no longer deny it. He could feel the emotion lurking in his soul, waiting to sweep his heart utterly away.

  She clenched that fist again.

  Abruptly, the distance between them felt intolerable.

  “Here now.” He set his tumbler down and moved across to her, the motion as natural as breathing.

  Her eyes met his, gaze confused.

  He hooked a footstool with his foot and dragged it in front of her chair, sitting himself down. Tugging the glass out of her hand, he set it on the small table beside them. His knees brushed against her skirts and legs tucked on the chair. Leaning forward, he took her clenched fist in both his hands.

  The silky warmth of her skin burned his fingers, shooting darts up his arm.

  She gasped at his touch, her body going impossibly still, as if those same darts had extended to her, too.

  Gently, he coaxed her fingers to relax, rubbing his thumbs along the base of her palms.

  Her fingers unfurled to reveal the arching imprint of her nails in her skin, just as he suspected.

  “Och, ye shouldnae do this,” he whispered, leaning forward. “Ye hurt yer fine skin.”

  He brushed a thumb across her palm.

  She shivered in response.

  Again, the motion sent a cascade of silvery chills chasing up his own arm. As if they were now bound by a single energy, arcing and sparking between them.

  His heart raced.

  “I can’t help it,” she murmured, her head bending down to his, her lips practically in his ear. The brush of her breath and subtle smell of violets swirled around him, a dizzying punch to his senses. “The pain distracts me from saying things I shouldn’t.”

  “But ye dinnae need tae do it with me. What cannae ye tell me?”

  She shook her head, ignoring his question. Instead, she lowered her head further, staring at her hand with him.

  “I can never get a full moon, do you see?” She pointed to her skin. “Only half-moons. Tiny slices of heaven.”

  “Slices of heaven?”

  “Yes. Just pieces of acceptance, bits of happiness. But ofttimes I feel greedy. I want all of heaven, not just a slice of it. I want to hold the moon, treasure it, not just create a partial, poor imitation.”

  “Ah.” A breath of sound. “What would be heaven to you?”

  He asked the question in the barest whisper. She lifted her head.

  Their bodies were so close now, he could count the eyelashes fanning across her cheeks. Her skin looked impossibly dewy and soft.

  Her eyes skimmed his mouth, staring intently.

  “I’ve never been kissed.” Her voice had a plaintive quality, as if the change in topic were perfectly logical.

  “Never?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “That’s a shame. Ye should do something about it.”

  “I tried. I kissed the back of my hand.” She lifted her other hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. She pulled her hand away, studying it. “I don’t think it’s quite the same, do you?”

  “Nae. I dinnae think it’s the same thing at all.”

  “No,” she pouted. The motion forced her plump lower lip to jut out further. Andrew found himself unable to look away.

  “You were made for kissing, Jane.”

  “I know.” She tilted her chin upward, nearly aligning their mouths. “I was made for kissing.”

  Andrew chuckled. That answer was so . . . her.

  Smiling, he cupped her head in his hand, fingers sliding into her thick, auburn hair. Her cheek fit into his hand like a glove, as if his palm had been formed simply as a cradle for her head.

  Bending down, his lips found hers.

  The first touch was the barest of whispers, a brushing hint of sensation.

  The second pass was firmer, a deeper press.

  Heaven help him. Had he ever kissed lips so soft?

  Andrew intended to pull back, to stop himself right there.

  But Jane had other ideas.

  Her hand wrapped around the back of his neck, tugging his mouth back to hers.

  Of course, Jane would be as high-handed in her kissing as everything else.

  She took what she saw as hers, thoroughly, utterly.

  He hadn’t been wrong. She possessed him.

  He vowed, then and there.

  Even if she bitterly regretted this kiss. Even if she decided to toss him aside, an unwanted toy.

  He would find a way to free her from Montacute’s machinations.

  His Jane warranted more than a mere slice of heaven.

  She merited having the entire universe at her feet.

  Jane knew she liked whisky for a reason. It softened the edges of reality, giving her the courage to grab what she wanted.

  Right now, she never wanted to stop kissing Andrew.

  He tasted of smoky liquor and stubborn man.

  Their lips warred for dominance, each giving and taking. He tried to pull back and she chased him with her mouth, taking more and more.

  “I wasn’t done,” she said, tone dangerously close to begging.

  “Ye’ve had a lot of whisky, Jane. I’ve already taken more advantage than I should.”

  “Pffft. You’ve had just as much liquid courage as I have,” she countered. “And I don’t think I’m taking advantage of you.”

  “Jane—”

  “You are an adult and if you dislike my kisses, you can say something.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you dislike my kisses?”

  Hadley growled. “Ye know I dinnae. Yer deliberately making this difficult for me.”

  Her smile grew wider. “I’m quite sure that’s part of my reason for existing, Andrew. To make life difficult for you.”

  “That . . . I dinnae doubt.”

  Hadley stood, pulling her with him, clasping her tightly against his chest, their bodies pressed together.

  His head bowed again to find her lips. Jane reveled in how their bodies aligned. Hadley was the perfect height. So tall she had to tip her head upward to meet his mouth. She felt dainty and protected in his embrace, his strong arms swallowing her.

  Heavens, why had she never kissed a man before this? The sensation was sublime. It rendered her loose-limbed and so utterly free.

  She realized it then . . .

  She wanted a man who tasted of whisky. Who was as bold and fierce and strong as the drink.

  She wanted a man who saw her, who didn’t shrink from her wild self.

  A man who would weep over a lad dying half a world away.

  A man with a heart so large, it enveloped whole villages.

  His words from the ball earlier drift upward.

  Ye deserve tae be free—

  Oh!

  Emotion hit her with blinding force, stinging her eyes.

  She had dared Andrew into the drawing room, convinced he would be repulsed by her wilder self.

  How wrong she had been.

  Andrew didn’t like her despite her fire.

  He liked her because of her fire.

  The thought trembled the foundations of her world.

  Andrew reveled in her wild self. He wanted to see more of the inner her, not less.

  What is it you want, Lady Jane?

  The answer rose from deep within.

  You.

  I want you, Andrew.

  She hurled the words back at him in her mind.

  I wouldn’t mind being your possession.

  Perilously close to weeping, she pressed even closer, demanding even more.

  Finally, it was Hadley
who stopped them. He pressed a kiss to her mouth and then stood back, hands grasping her upper arms, holding her away from him.

  Their loud breathing filled the room.

  Peter snorted and mumbled from his corner.

  Hadley darted one last tormented look at her mouth, bowed, and snatching his coat, practically ran from the room . . .

  . . . leaving Jane standing, reeling, trying to accommodate the enormity of it all.

  Heaven help her.

  Now what was she to do?

  21

  The prisoners worked in a long line, passing stones between each other to stack them into a wall which bordered the harbor. Three overseers watched the men work, long whips held loosely in their hands.

  “We’ll start by asking them.” Rafe gestured with his chin toward the uniformed overseers.

  “Aye,” Kieran murmured.

  Andrew nodded, stopping himself before nausea could crawl up his throat. The pounding of his head didn’t help matters either.

  He had definitely had too much to drink last night and not nearly enough sleep. He and Rafe had ridden at a brutal pace in order to meet Kieran at the appointed time.

  Memories of the night before with Jane kept darting through his mind.

  Jane open and teasing him, face illuminated in the firelight.

  Jane fully reveling in her fiery self, unguarded and utterly charming.

  Jane’s soft lips on his, the warmth of her breath.

  The plush give of her body wrapped in his arms.

  He had done it.

  He had gone and fallen hard for an English lass.

  The irony.

  You could marry her.

  The thought drifted through again.

  The more he pondered it, the more real it became.

  Jane as his . . . wife.

  His breath snagged at the thought.

  But . . .

  Without the influence of whisky, how would Jane feel about him in the harsh light of day? Would she still welcome his affection—most importantly, his kisses?

  He didn’t need or want her dowry; just her sweet self was sufficient. Though her warning about Montacute had not been unheeded—Montacute is just spiteful enough to ensure that I become a pariah.

  Would her brother truly do something so cruel if Jane chose to marry for love instead of power and social position? Andrew’s mind boggled at the thought. How could any man be so uncaring about his sister? Surely Jane had to be mistaken.

  And yet, he had felt firsthand the petty machinations of the peerage, so it was not entirely beyond the pale.

  Little that Andrew cared. Montacute would not stop him from marrying Jane. Let the arrogant duke do what he will. Andrew and Jane would fight him together.

  No, the more important question . . . would Jane accept Andrew as a suitor?

  Just because she didn’t want to marry Wanleigh, it did not follow that she would marry him. Lady Jane had remained unmarried for years.

  But that kiss . . .

  A woman didn’t kiss a man like that if she were indifferent, right? Even with whisky involved?

  Regardless, Andrew vowed anew, even if she rebuffed his suit, he would help her escape Montacute’s stratagems. Her brother threatened Jane with penury and abandonment if she disobeyed him.

  But Jane deserved more. She merited every happiness, every gift—

  Enough.

  Focus on the present.

  Andrew followed Rafe and Kieran on horseback as they rode down into the harbor. Houses clustered around the bay, edging the coastline like sheep huddled against a shelter. Wash hung on lines, sagging in the overcast light. Add in the line of prisoners, haggard in their issued uniforms, and the scene became one of poverty and desperation. Not even the stray ray of sunlight could alleviate the gloom.

  The overseers pointed them in the direction of two officers. The officers watched them approach with guarded expressions.

  “How may I help you gentlemen?” the taller of the two asked, his eyes quickly surveying their fine mounts and expensive dress. Only Kieran sported Jamie’s tartan wrapped across his chest. Andrew and Rafe had left off the tartan, knowing they were going to need to be their most English, lordly selves today.

  Rafe smiled, easy-going and polite. “We seek Thomas Madsen. We believe he is a prisoner aboard the Bellerophon.”

  The officers looked at each other.

  “Madsen is still abed, I believe,” one said.

  “Aye. Been ill this past week. Gaol fever,” the second man explained.

  Andrew’s stomach sank. Gaol fever ran rampant through British prisons, rendering even a short stay in gaol a near death sentence at times.

  “We would like to speak with him,” Rafe replied.

  “Of course, we would be happy to compensate ye for your effort,” Andrew said. “Rowing us out tae the Bellerophon would be no easy task.” He nodded toward the ship, bobbing at anchor only a hundred yards from shore. Rowing them out would be simple. The payment was merely a polite way of offering a bribe.

  The officers were not fools.

  “Madsen’s not likely to recover,” the first said, “so I expect there’s no harm in letting these men speak with him.”

  “Nay, no harm at all. Come then,” the second beckoned.

  Tossing a coin to a lad to watch their horses, Andrew, Kieran, and Rafe scrambled into a rowboat. The officer pulled at the oars.

  The Bellerophon bobbed up and down with the low harbor waves. The ship had clearly seen better days. No sails clung to her rigging and much of her top deck was covered in tarpaulin, the canvas pulled tight with rope. Paint curled and peeled from her side, and even at a distance, Andrew could hear the timbers creaking.

  Pulling alongside, Kieran hauled himself out first, scrambling up the ladder to the top deck. Once aboard, the smell of unwashed bodies nearly sent Andrew running for the ship’s railing. His stomach was not up to the challenge of this. Swallowing, he breathed through his mouth, and when that still set him to gagging, he pulled out his handkerchief, burying his nose in the lavender and cedar scent of it.

  The officer led them down a series of stairways, through the mess deck, and down to the prisoner deck. Hammocks slung from poles, stacked three high. The ceiling was so low, Andrew had to duck his head, even when standing between the roof beams.

  The officer directed them to a curtained off area where several men moaned and writhed in hammocks. He motioned toward a hammock in the corner, weak light from a lamp overhead illuminating the space.

  “Madsen should be there, if he still lives. I’ll be here waiting for ye.” The man pointed to where he stood, well back from the area of contagion.

  Nodding, Andrew walked forward. The scent of sick and death was stronger here, penetrating his handkerchief. The figure in the hammock didn’t look large enough to be Madsen. His former business partner had been a booming Highlander.

  But peering over the edge, Madsen’s face came into view. Haggard, gaunt, and a ghastly shade of gray.

  “Does he live?” Rafe murmured.

  “I can poke him until he squeals, if ye like,” Kieran offered.

  “Madsen,” Andrew said loudly, imbuing his tone with authority. “Thomas!”

  Kieran rocked the hammock.

  Madsen moaned, blearily opening his eyes, tongue licking out to cracked lips. He appeared disoriented, gaze unfocused.

  “Water,” he whispered.

  Unbidden, compassion stirred in Andrew’s chest even as he tightened his hold on the handkerchief over his mouth.

  Why would he now develop a conscience? This man had shown no such compassion for the scores of villagers who would have been sold into slavery, journeying aboard a ship in conditions worse than this.

  And yet . . .

  Sighing, Andrew stepped over to a water bucket in the corner and lifted the dipper out of it. Returning, he tilted a dribble into Madsen’s mouth. The man drank a wee bit before choking, ending in a coughing fit.

  Op
ening his eyes again, Madsen finally focused on Andrew’s face. His pupils widened.

  “Andrew Mackenzie,” he whispered, pulling back. He blinked.

  “Madsen,” Andrew replied, passing the dipper to Rafe.

  Madsen moaned. “Come tae send me off to Hell then?”

  Kieran snorted.

  “I’m quite sure ye will make it there all on your own, Madsen,” Andrew replied. “Ye have no need of my help.”

  Silence. The boat rocked. Timbers creaked. The lamp sputtered overhead.

  Madsen’s gaze moved between Rafe and Kieran, coming back to Andrew. Andrew didn’t expect Madsen to recognize his friends. Despite how thoroughly Madsen’s actions had changed their lives, Rafe and Kieran had only met Madsen once before embarking on their voyage.

  It felt nearly unreal, to finally be in this moment. So many years he had imagined confronting Madsen, but never like this. Never in these conditions, with Madsen clearly near to death.

  It was anticlimactic, to say the least.

  “Ye know why I’m here, Madsen,” Andrew said. “Why did ye sell out an entire village of people? How could ye be so callous?”

  Madsen swallowed, glancing at the ladle Rafe held. Obligingly, Rafe tipped a little more water into Madsen’s mouth.

  “I hadnae choice,” Madsen rasped, voice breathy.

  “A man always has choice,” Andrew growled. “We could have recovered the cost. There was no need tae enslave innocent people. What could ye have been thinking? We didn’t need the return on our investment that badly. Ye had tae know I would never have allowed the villagers tae be taken as slaves.”

  Madsen focused on him and then laughed, a weak, hollow sound.

  “Investment? Ye still think it all was about appeasing investors?” he gasped.

  Andrew stilled.

  Madsen’s breathing was labored; his eyes glazed with fever.

  “This was never about that,” Madsen continued. “I was well paid fer ma efforts.”

  A chill chased Andrew’s spine. “What do ye mean?”

  “I never had any money. It was never mine.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Yer being a bit daft, Mackenzie. I was hired tae be yer partner. Some other man wanted a piece of yer business but didnae want ye tae know. So, he set it all up with solicitors and the like, made it appear as if I was yer business partner, but I was never acting as my own man.”