Loving a Lady (Brotherhood of the Black Tartan Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  Ewan was still light-headed from it thirty minutes later.

  How was he to behave around her now? How was he to keep his adoration from shining through every look, every word?

  Worse, was he going to have to thank Andrew and Rafe for their high-handed interference? What had they said to convince Violet to encourage his affections?

  The four of them sat around the breakfast room table in Kilmeny Hall. A quick query from Violet had uncovered that neither Andrew or Rafe had eaten since breakfast. Ewan, as ever, was more than ready to eat yet another meal. Violet had ordered a cold luncheon to be sent up from the kitchen.

  So now they were helping themselves to generous slices of cured ham and beef, salty cheese, and fresh bread. Ewan piled his plate high and listened as his friends and Violet chatted.

  Ewan adored her like this, eyes bright with interest. He also appreciated how charming she was to his friends, despite the fact that they had surely quizzed her about him.

  “I admit to being decidedly curious as to how you three formed a friendship.” Violet pointed at the sash around Andrew’s chest. “Does it have something to do with this same dark tartan you are each wearing? Is it a secret sign of your brotherhood?”

  Andrew shot Ewan a look.

  Ewan shrugged, as if to say: My lass is a clever one.

  “Something of the like, my lady.” Andrew replied.

  “We all met on a voyage of scientific discovery,” Rafe explained.

  Andrew tossed his thumb in Ewan’s direction. “We were extremely fortunate to convince Ewan to join us.”

  “Aye,” Rafe agreed, reaching for some crumbly, aged cheddar. “Cataloging botanical finds requires a dab hand at drawing. Had such a thing been left tae me, the voyage would have been doomed from the outset.”

  “Scientific discovery?” Violet sat back, eyes darting to Ewan’s. “Why have you said nothing of this? That sounds . . . remarkable. Where did you go?”

  Ewan shrugged. “Where didnae we go? Sydney, Australia, the New Hebrides—”

  “Santiago in Chile, Rio de Janeiro in Brazil,” Rafe chimed in.

  “Why that is . . .” Violet paused and then shook her head. “Truthfully, why have I not read of your exploits. That sounds . . . phenomenal.”

  Andrew sighed and sat back in his chair.

  “We were on The Minerva,” he said.

  Violet lifted her chin, as if absorbing the information.

  “Ah. The ship that wrecked in the South Pacific?” she frowned. “I read something in the broadsheets about it just yesterday. A description of what transpired. Though it seemed . . . fanciful.”

  Rafe winced.

  Andrew groaned.

  Ewan paused, a piece of ham halfway to his mouth.

  “There was another notice in the papers?” he asked, looking between his friends. “But I thought ye said nothing happened?”

  “It isn’t much, tae be honest.” Andrew drummed his fingers on the table. “Some journalist caught wind of the magistrate’s interest in The Minerva and published a rather lurid account of the whole affair.”

  “A truthful account?” Ewan set down his ham.

  “Nae.” Rafe pushed back his plate and folded his arms, leaning on the table. “It had only the barest traces of fact. This version had a lot more blood, mayhem, and even the advent of some scurvy pirates.”

  “I managed to keep our names out of it, for now. We were simply referred to as a ‘group of gentlemen,’ but . . .” Andrew trailed off.

  It was only a matter of time.

  “So . . . what happened?” Violet canted forward, eyes lit with curiosity. “You do realize that you cannot entice me with a story such as this and not relate the whole of it, correct?”

  Between the three of them, they outlined the details of their voyage for her, from the formation of their brotherhood, through all their trials aboard ship and Jamie’s death, the plaid they had adopted to honor Jamie’s life, ending with their recent trip to Aberdeen and interview with Mrs. Massey about her husband.

  “What will you do if the magistrate moves to reopen a formal inquisition into the ship’s sinking?” she asked.

  “We cannot rightly say,” Andrew replied. “We will simply continue tae look for answers and hope that the full truth will come to light.”

  “But . . .” Violet paused. “What about . . . Jamie? Could he have lived?”

  Ewan met Andrew’s gaze, their thoughts clearly on the same page.

  “We reckon it unlikely,” Ewan answered her question. “Jamie was a rather . . . fierce sort of person. A strong personality.”

  Rafe snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Aye,” Andrew nodded, gaze withdrawn. “Jamie would have found a way tae contact us.”

  “Kieran, in particular, as they were the best of friends,” Rafe said. “He is still taking Jamie’s death to be hard.”

  Ewan resisted the urge to fidget, the discomfort of the secret he held weighing on his chest.

  “That is the problem, is it not?” Andrew agreed. “There is no possible chance that Jamie would be alive somewhere and choose not tae contact Kieran. And yet, Kieran clings tae hope.”

  “Aye,” Ewan said, seizing the reins of the conversation, desperate to change the subject. Keeping Kieran’s secrets was already hard enough with his friends. But if Violet turned her keen mind to the problem, it would likely not take much for Ewan to spill what he knew.

  And it truthfully was not his secret to tell.

  Besides, discussions of Jamie were always painful, and sometimes in the face of tragedy, there was nothing to do but press onward.

  Ewan should know.

  The conversation wandered from there.

  Andrew and Ewan devolved into talking about Jane, Andrew’s wife, and the prospect of Ewan completing another portrait for them later in the year.

  Occasionally, Ewan caught snippets of Violet’s conversation with Rafe. They had begun by speaking of common acquaintances, but they soon diverged onto Rafe’s love of his estate west of Perth.

  “Half of the land is excellent for oats and potatoes, but I’ve begun to explore putting cattle on the northern fields. There’s an MP in South Aberdeenshire who is experimenting with breeding the Angus doddy into a more hearty, usable cow—”

  “Och! You’re not on about the coos again, are ye, Rafe?” Andrew groaned. “Don’t listen tae him, my lady. He has been talking about nothing but cows these past two weeks, and it’s liable tae drive a man mad.”

  “Ye said ye were interested in the coos yerself!” Rafe spread his arms wide.

  “Lady Kildrum isn’t going tae be fascinated by your sorry bovine—”

  “Actually, I am very interested in the cows,” Violet interjected.

  That had the effect of silencing the men.

  They all turned to stare at her.

  “And elms,” she continued.

  “Elms?” Rafe asked, brow furrowed.

  “Why, yes. I manage some of my own lands, you see. And I was reading in A Country-man’s Rudiments—”

  “The chapter about sowing elms?!” Rafe snapped his fingers. “That was fascinating reading—”

  “Elms? Fascinating?” Andrew scoffed and sent his eyes ceiling-ward.

  Ewan snagged Violet’s gaze, grinning over his friends’ banter. She pressed her lips together, stifling a returning smile.

  “Elms are no laughing matter, your lofty lordship,” Rafe said. “We don’t all have armies of stewards tae oversee our lands—”

  “Och! Ye have got to cease with this ‘lofty lordship’ nonsense. ’Tis bad enough when Kieran does it—”

  “When Kieran does what now?” a new voice said from the open doorway.

  They all turned toward the sound.

  “Kieran!” Ewan broke into a smile.

  Kieran stood in the door, a rather harried-looking Irvine at his heels.

  Ewan leaped from his chair, crossing to their friend.

  His artist’s
eye instantly noted the slightly askew nature of Kieran’s appearance. His kilt pinned a wee bit sloppily. His sporran not quite level. The wrinkles in his coat beneath the great kilt.

  Ewan enveloped Kieran, surprised as usual at how much smaller the ship’s master was than himself. Kieran’s out-sized personality always made him seem larger-than-life, so it was disorienting to remember that Kieran was actually average in something.

  Kieran thumped Ewan on the back and then turned to give Rafe and Andrew similarly bracing hugs. He greeted Violet, bowing prettily over her hand. Violet motioned for a footman to bring another plate for their guest.

  Kieran did seem a bit better, as Alex said. He seemed his normal, ebullient self in manner, at least at first. But there was a strain to him—as evidenced by his clothing—a sense that he was pulled taut and the slightest jolt could shatter him completely.

  Kieran’s eyes appeared nearly feverishly bright and his face was thinner. Had he been eating enough while staying with Alex?

  And why was Kieran here now? What had prompted him to travel to Kilmeny Hall?

  “Are ye well, Kieran?” Ewan asked as they all retook their seats. “Alex had said ye were feeling a wee bit poorly.”

  “Well enough, I suppose,” he said, reaching for some roast beef and cheese.

  But Kieran avoided Ewan’s gaze. And his hands shook as he filled his plate.

  Ewan’s heart clenched.

  The depth of Kieran’s grief felt simply . . . insurmountable.

  Ewan swallowed and turned back to his own plate, his eye catching Violet’s in the process.

  Her lovely eyes held concern. Clever lass that she was, she had not missed the undercurrents here.

  “So what brings you to Kilmeny Hall, Master MacTavish?” Violet asked.

  “Well,” Kieran said slowly, piling his meat atop a slice of crusty bread, “I heard word that three of my closest friends decided tae investigate something in Aberdeen that they know matters more than anything else tae me.” He paused to fix them all with a hard look. “And I tracked them down tae demand why they would betray our friendship in such a manner.”

  19

  Violet barely avoided flinching at Master MacTavish’s bristling words.

  To Ewan’s credit, he didn’t react defensively to the accusation.

  “I reckon I owe ye an apology,” he said, tone sincere. “We should have sent word to Edinburgh and let ye know.”

  “Aye, Kieran,” Lord Hadley chimed in. “We made a mistake.”

  Violet continued to listen in surprise as Ewan, Lord Hadley, and Sir Rafe apologized. They acknowledged that they had been wrong to keep their trip from their friend.

  It was astonishing to witness three grown gentlemen behave, well, like . . . gentle men.

  It rather illuminated the sad lack of such humility in other men of Violet’s acquaintance.

  They did not, however, tell Master MacTavish the information they had found in Aberdeen. And because they did not, Master MacTavish seemed to assume they had not found anything of merit and let the matter go.

  But his pale eyes held a deadness, a clinging sense of despair.

  Was this the grief the others had mentioned? The pain over Jamie’s death that the discovery of survivors had reopened?

  Violet’s curiosity ran rampant. She longed to understand the undercurrents in the room.

  Given that Violet’s father and sisters were away, asking the gentlemen to spend the night at Kilmeny Hall was not possible.

  But Violet insisted that they could stay with Sir Joshua in Old Kilmeny Castle. Ewan immediately seconded the idea.

  This naturally led to them fetching Sir Joshua, who heartily agreed to the scheme as the castle had ample bedrooms and, as Sir Joshua put it, “The local inn is scarcely fit for human habitation.”

  The gentlemen did accept an invitation to dine at Kilmeny Hall.

  After a lively dinner—well, more a dinner where everyone attempted to pull Master MacTavish from his doldrums—Violet donned her cloak and joined the men on their walk back down to Old Kilmeny Castle.

  The rain and clouds of the past week had given way to warm sun, and as they were into May, daylight lingered well into the evening hours. Moreover, as cheery days were rare in Scotland, it felt criminal to let sunshine go begging.

  Once they arrived at the castle, Lord Hadley made the surprising announcement that he and his wife were expecting a child sometime in the late autumn. So, of course, Sir Joshua ordered up bottles of whisky and French wine to celebrate.

  Which is how Violet found herself with a glass of French wine, sitting before a roaring fire in the great hall of Old Kilmeny Castle, toasting to the health of Lord Hadley’s wife and child. After a hearty round of congratulations, they all settled in for a long blether.

  The evening sky had sunk through a pink sunset and settled into an inky-blue dusk. The fire kept away the slight chill and three candelabra ensured the room felt cheery, despite the clutter of the artists’ studio around them.

  Faces and scenes peeked out from Uncle’s paintings leaning against the wall, but Ewan’s distinctive style appeared as well. She had heard Ewan’s tale of the leak in the greenhouse which had forced him to move his studio indoors.

  Two easels with canvases on them faced the wall to the right of the fireplace. Ewan and Uncle’s current work in progress, she supposed.

  Her fingers itched to turn around Ewan’s easel and see the work upon it. Was he still painting that mysterious dark-haired woman? Or the blackhouse on the cliff? Or had he begun her portrait in earnest?

  The gentlemen drank whisky and spoke of this and that. Lord Hadley was regaling her uncle with a summary of their travels aboard The Minerva. Ewan and Master MacTavish were exchanging quiet words, though it appeared to Violet that Master MacTavish was sipping his whisky more quickly than the others, his joy over Lord Hadley’s impending fatherhood decidedly strained.

  Violet and Sir Rafe, seated beside one another, continued their earlier discussion of agriculture. They had moved from elms to cattle breeds to drainage issues. She found it rather endearing to see the formerly rakish Lord Rafe expounding upon the merits of potash versus coprolite for soil fertilizer while extolling the intelligence of his wife, Lady Sophronia Gordon, at the same time.

  “Sophie has had brilliant suggestions for ways to utilize barn cats to control gopher populations, as well.”

  “Gophers?”

  “Aye. She is convinced that some drainage issues relate to the damage gophers do as they burrow through fields.”

  Sir Rafe continued on, describing the problem in detail.

  His ideas were fascinating. But just as interesting was the way he interjected his wife’s opinion at regular intervals.

  Sophie was brilliant in her understanding of animal behavior.

  Sophie had the cleverest suggestion for planting rotations.

  With each mention, his eyes would light with pride.

  This, Violet thought. I want this.

  A husband who will talk to a stranger about me with pride and adoration in his eyes.

  The sheer force of the longing shocked her.

  Partly because she seemed incapable of deciding anything, and yet this was crystalline in her mind.

  Partly because she had never conceived of a marriage where husband and wife worked closely together toward a common goal.

  Marriages, in her experience, were more an uneasy alliance where husbands and wives lived separate lives that only periodically connected. A marriage like the one Lord Graham offered, she supposed.

  But listening to Sir Rafe was a bit akin to stepping out of a shadowy cave to find an entirely different landscape of possibility before her.

  A breathtaking view of what marriage could be.

  “Ye’re keeping information from me, Ewan. I can sense it.” Master MacTavish’s raised voice broke through the chatter of the room.

  All heads turned in his direction.

  “Youse all found someth
ing in Aberdeen,” he continued, downing the last of his whisky in one bracing bolt. “I know it. It’s why ye deliberately went without me. It’s why you’re still dodging the question.”

  Master MacTavish looked worse for wear, Violet realized. His eyes were becoming more and more bloodshot, the gaunt hollows in his cheeks more pronounced.

  Even Violet knew what the gentlemen had found in Aberdeen. So why keep the information from Master MacTavish? Did it have to do with what they had said about Jamie? That Master MacTavish and Jamie were close friends? But if so, how deep was Master MacTavish’s grief that he would be so upset over a friend’s death several years on? Or was it merely the thought that perhaps Jamie might still live?

  “Now, Kieran,” Lord Hadley held out a placating hand, “I fear you’re getting a wee bit into your cups. We’ll tell ye in the morning after ye’ve slept this off—”

  “Who did ye find? Ye found something because you’re avoiding the question.”

  “We didnae see anyone, Kieran,” Ewan said, shooting a side-eye at Lord Hadley, “and we havenae lied tae ye.”

  “Let it be for tonight, Kieran,” Sir Rafe pleaded.

  “Aye,” Lord Hadley agreed. “There will be enough time on the morrow to discuss it. Then we won’t be bothering Lady Kildrum with our wee problems.”

  Violet smiled. She did not find their discussion onerous in the slightest, but she recognized an excuse when she saw one.

  “Yes,” she said brightly, jumping on the chance to divert the conversation as a good hostess should. “I, for one, would be delighted to hear what Mr. Campbell and Uncle Joshua are working on at the moment.” She darted her eyes toward the canvases on the easels.

  Uncle Joshua laughed. “Now, now, Violet, you know only too well that I will not show a work while it is in its initial stages.”

  “Yes, to the public at large, perhaps, but what about me?” Violet teased. “Why won’t you show your favorite niece?”

  She shot a quick glance at Ewan, hoping to draw him into the conversation, as well. He met her gaze but said nothing.

  “Your father and sister were down here earlier in the week trying to cajole me into showing them.” Sir Joshua wagged his finger at her. “But you, of all people, know perfectly well why I am reticent, you minx.”