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

by Nichole Van

  Ewan was looking at the Menace as Lord Graham spoke, so he saw the point recognition set in.

  The moment that the Menace realized who stood before him.

  “You!” the man pointed a finger at Ewan. An astonished, marveling sort of wonder bloomed on his face. “The Red Renegade! As I live and breathe!” The man nearly vibrated with excitement, his sentences coming in fragmented bursts. “I was there! I was there, you see! Outside Warwick. It was the most marvelous! There was the hit and— Oh! Then you vanished into thin air. Poof! Never heard nor seen again. They said that you were perhaps a phantom, but I said no! That couldn’t be!” The Menace became more and more animated as he spoke, taking on the look of an eager puppy. In other words, utterly un-menacing. “Please allow me the honor of shaking your hand!”

  A murmur ran through the gathered crowd.

  Ewan managed a weak smile and shook the other man’s outstretched palm.

  Lord Graham had been brewing a small thundercloud of outrage as Mr. ‘The Menace’ Smith enthused.

  “What is all this?” he said, tone clipped.

  “He’s the Red Renegade, my lord.” Mr. Smith tossed his thumb toward Ewan, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m sure you read about it in Boxiana. The fight between the Red Renegade and the Hammer? ’Twas all they wrote about for months. The Hammer was supposed to win by a large margin. Said he would take the heavyweight title for all of Britain at Five Courts, they did. And then the Red Renegade showed up and flattened the Hammer in the seventh round. Boom! Out cold!” Mr. Smith mimed a powerful uppercut to the jaw. “I could scarcely believe my eyes. The Red Renegade was astonishing—lightning fast, powerful blows, weaving and darting.” Mr. Smith was now dancing around Lord Graham, throwing pretend punches. “Incredible, I tell you! The Hammer went on to win the heavyweight title the next year. But they’ve always said that the Red Renegade should be the true title holder.” He stopped and faced Ewan, his expression the very definition of wonder. “And here you are!”

  “Is this true?” Sir Joshua asked, eyes wide.

  Ewan felt the blush creeping up his cheeks.

  “Aye,” he nodded.

  “Why . . . I am astonished!” Sir Joshua laughed, as if this were an absolute lark. “A brilliant painter and a celebrated prizefighter, to boot. Is there anything you can’t do, lad?!”

  Experience public scrutiny without blushing, was the first suggestion that winged through Ewan’s head.

  Marry the lass I adore more than any other, was the second.

  Lord Graham’s expression could best be described as thunderous.

  “Well, if this is true,” his lordship said, “then a bout with Mr. Smith here should perhaps be more interesting—”

  “Whoa, now!” Mr. Smith interrupted, hands upright with a self-deprecating laugh. “I won’t be fighting the Red Renegade. A man knows when he’s well and licked.”

  Lord Graham turned his angry eyes on the prizefighter. “Mr. Smith, I specifically have asked you—”

  “I know that you have, your lordship, but you haven’t seen the Red Renegade here in a fight. The man is a legend for good reason. A prizefighter that wishes to have a long and healthy career needs to know when to bow out.” He tapped his skull. “I prefer to keep my wits in my head, thank you very much.”

  Lord Graham continued with his taunting for a few more minutes, but Mr. Smith stood his ground.

  “You can lead a horse to water and all that, Lord Graham,” Mr. Smith finally said. “But I’m not foolish enough to step into the ring with Mr. Campbell.”

  It made Ewan respect the man even more.

  Lord Graham turned back to Ewan, raking him up and down.

  “Fine,” he said, doffing his hat and beginning to shrug out of his coat. “I will fight Mr. Campbell myself to prove that you are a coward, Mr. Smith.”

  Several men hooted their approval, pushing tables back, eagerly clearing a space.

  This was the best entertainment they had seen in months.

  Mr. Smith’s eyes bulged out. “I fear you’re acting a bit mad, your lordship!”

  “Yes,” Sir Joshua joined in. “I don’t know what good a fight will serve.”

  Their reservations only stiffened Lord Graham’s resolve.

  “Mr. Campbell claims to be this Red Renegade fellow.” Lord Graham tugged at his cravat. “I am simply calling his bluff. ’Twill be easy to determine if he truly has the skills he claims—”

  “I willnae fight ye,” Ewan said, voice rumbling through the crowd.

  The last thing he needed—that Violet needed—was for Ewan to end up pummeling Lord Graham in a tavern brawl.

  Besides, fighting the man would be akin to whipping a dog.

  Lord Graham strutted into the makeshift ring.

  Ewan didn’t move a muscle.

  “Come along now, Mr. Campbell.” Lord Graham taunted. “Afraid?”

  “Not sure you’re going to be able to get out of this one, my friend,” Sir Joshua murmured in Ewan’s ear. “Just try not to permanently damage his lordship, though I can appreciate the temptation.”

  Two day-laborers grabbed Ewan by an arm and pulled him into the space, facing Lord Graham.

  Ewan still did nothing.

  What good would fighting this eejit serve?

  “Hands up!” Lord Graham danced in front of him, his fists in a typical milling stance. The man’s form was not entirely appalling, but the slowness of his movements would be no match for Ewan’s reflexes.

  Ewan noted all this with a sort of casual interest. As ever, when he fought, his mind instantly transformed into line and shape. It was odd to think that there were similarities between fighting and painting, but they were linked.

  Prizefighting was merely painting in a three-dimensional space. Lines created trajectories that intersected with others, all dancing around one another. His mind’s eye laid it all out like a map, charting paths and projecting movements.

  Case in point, Lord Graham shifted his weight backward. Ewan knew that the man would throw a punch high and right a full second before the fist landed.

  Or rather, attempted to land.

  Ewan blocked it with his forearm, swatting Lord Graham’s arm away.

  Lord Graham hissed.

  The crowd of men hooted and hollered.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ewan could see bets being exchanged, money wagered on his body, his reflexes.

  Old memories surfaced.

  He hated this.

  He hated the smell of dirt and blood and sweat.

  He hated the cheers of gathered men, savoring the violence and brutality.

  Lord Graham continued to throw punches. Ewan either darted away from his lordship’s fists or blocked them with his arm. At one point, he simply grabbed Lord Graham’s hand in his own and pushed the man back.

  The more Ewan refused to engage, the more incensed Lord Graham became, taking wild swings.

  “Fight me!” Lord Graham ran at him, throwing a flurry of fists. “Stop dancing away like a coward.”

  Ewan snatched the man’s hands out of mid-air, clamping down on them, holding him tightly.

  “Highland bastard! You were born vermin and you will die vermin.” Lord Graham snarled, low enough that only Ewan could hear him. “But until then, learn your place and stop sullying that which you have no right to touch.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You disgrace her with your affection. Did you think I would not hear? Her father and my mother have ensured I thoroughly understand the nature of your relationship with her ladyship. Lady Kildrum will forever bear the mark of your foul touch.”

  Ewan considered himself a man slow to anger.

  But this . . .

  Abruptly, he remembered why he had fought in the first place. The motivator that had driven him into the boxing ring.

  To fight for a woman.

  To give Mhairi choices.

  And now . . . to defend Violet.

  She would always be wo
rth fighting for.

  He shoved Lord Graham off him, finally engaging his full strength, sending the smaller man sprawling.

  “Fine.” Ewan arched his neck, cracking his joints. “Ye want a fight? Let’s have a fight. But I want everyone here to acknowledge that ye’ve been warned. That I tried tae avoid this. Because now . . . I willnae show mercy.”

  The crowd hooted and laughed their approval.

  Lord Graham snarled, scrambling to his feet. “I will not need mercy from an upstart like yourself.”

  It was not much of a fight, in the end, to the disappointment of onlookers.

  Lord Graham came at Ewan, swinging wildly.

  Ewan ducked, darted to the right, and threw one single punch.

  His intent was only to rattle Lord Graham’s brain cage, show the man what he was truly up against.

  But even that mild hit was too much.

  Lord Graham collapsed, out cold.

  Mr. Smith was in high alt, all but dancing around Ewan and begging to buy him a pint.

  Ewan declined, choosing instead to return to Old Kilmeny Castle with Sir Joshua.

  He shook out his fist as he walked.

  “That did not go as I planned,” Sir Joshua sighed as they walked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I had hoped to lure you from your doldrums, not mire you further.”

  “Ye had no way of knowing Lord Graham would appear and make an arse of himself,” Ewan muttered, still massaging his bruised knuckles. “I had forgotten how hard a man’s head can be.”

  “Lord Graham’s, in particular,” Sir Joshua snorted. “You acquitted yourself well back there. No one will fault you. You were only defending yourself. Lord Graham had it coming to him.”

  “Aye.”

  But that knowledge did not loosen the knot in Ewan’s chest.

  The problem?

  There had been a good deal of truth in Lord Graham’s words:

  Lady Kildrum will forever bear the mark of your foul touch.

  Ewan had been so ready to use his fists to defend her honor, but what if standing beside her in life was the true offense?

  Violet would be sullied by associating with him. That was how society functioned. And as Mr. Kerr had said, she would disgrace her sisters along with herself. They would suffer.

  Besides, how would Violet pay off the loan? How many would endure hardship for that, too?

  Sometimes . . . love simply wasn’t enough.

  Ewan became lost in morose thoughts.

  How could he remain here with Violet, knowing the pain it would eventually cause her and her family?

  But how could he leave? The thought of never seeing her again gripped his chest like a vise.

  Both he and Sir Joshua were so distracted, they were cresting the final bluff to the castle before Ewan finally noticed it:

  A plume of smoke and flame rising into the golden sun.

  25

  Ewan sprinted toward the castle.

  At first, he feared the entire structure was aflame.

  But coming closer, he realized the truth.

  It was not the castle.

  His greenhouse studio was on fire, flames licking toward the sky.

  No!

  His painting!

  As he stared at the blaze reaching skyward, a slashing streak of burnt orange and sienna smoke, all he could think was:

  It is over.

  That is my future burning.

  Again.

  The bitter, bitter irony.

  What was to become of Violet and himself now?

  Later . . . later he would come to grips with the reality that his painting for the Royal Academy Exhibition had been destroyed.

  But for now, he pushed his leaden limbs to stumble down the hill.

  Just like that night so long ago, witnessing the family house burn, he forced himself to keep going. To keep moving forward, despite watching his future vanish in a billow of smoke.

  He joined the army of servants and laborers racing from the fields round about to form a bucket brigade. They tossed pail after pail of water on the fire, dowsing it before the flames spread to the castle.

  Only then did they piece together the tragedy—how could a building of stone and glass burn?

  Ewan briefly wondered if Mr. Kerr or Lord Graham had set the blaze intentionally, determined to undermine his bid for Violet’s hand.

  But it was Sir Joshua who pointed out the pile of ashy rags in one corner and quickly deduced that refracted light through the windows had set the oily, highly-flammable rags afire.

  As for the painting . . .

  It was a charred husk.

  The painting of the fire that had destroyed his past, the masterpiece that was to have secured his future . . .

  . . . crumbling into a plume of smoke and flame just as inexplicably cruel as that first fire so long ago.

  As Sir Joshua thanked the gathered crowd for their help, all Ewan could do was stare at the smoking embers in shock.

  The past rolled over him in disorienting waves.

  The scent of smoke searing his lungs.

  Care for Mhairi. Keep her safe.

  The clamor of people calling and yelling.

  His mother’s tortured screams.

  Mhairi tugging on his hand, sobbing, “Mama, Mama!”

  The past surged up and over, a consuming tidal wave of grief and horror and never-ending anguish. A slashing blow, tearing the wound anew.

  Was this to be his life? The past never truly reclaimed or redeemed? Was he doomed to relive it, again and again?

  The first fire had sent him on the path of duty, to care for Mhairi. And she had then figuratively burned down his sense of duty when she married McDoughal and forcibly cast Ewan out.

  Since then, Ewan had been racing away from that past, desperate to extinguish the pain of Mhairi’s actions. But somewhere along the way, he had become so lost in his desires to become a famous artist, that he had neglected the duty he still owed his sister. The occasional half-hearted letter to the vicar was all but giving up the fight.

  The flames of that first fire still licked at his heels.

  He realized that now.

  How could he have allowed his anger to drive such distance between Mhairi and himself? How could he continue to wallow like a petulant child in the cesspool of his hurt at her betrayal?

  Just because Mhairi had declined to choose him, he had not needed to return the sentiment—to reject her just as cruelly as she had rejected him.

  Staring at the smoldering ashes of his greenhouse studio, his hand opened and closed, as if searching for Mhairi’s wee fingers pressed into his palm.

  How could he have left his sister so alone?

  Violet found Ewan hours later, sitting alone atop the cliffs, facing the sea with sightless eyes.

  She had panicked when she first saw the pillar of black smoke extended toward the sky. Was the castle on fire? Were Ewan and Sir Joshua inside?

  The inhabitants had emptied out of Kilmeny Hall at a run.

  Violet had ascertained soon enough the truth of what had happened.

  She offered a prayer of thanks that Ewan was physically unharmed.

  As for the emotional consequences—

  She scanned Ewan’s face as she approached. He was tucked against that same rock where she had nearly tripped all those months ago.

  His face was a blank, as if he sketched the pain of his memories on a canvas only he could see.

  He had yet to change his clothing. She did not know where his coat had gone. His kilt was streaked with soot, his shirt torn on one arm.

  The agonizing ache that had taken root behind her heart surged upward, as if desperate to reach him, to offer comfort.

  He did not move as she sat beside him, tucking her skirts around her ankles and reaching for his hand.

  He was silent, but he did lace his fingers with hers.

  “I am so sorry, Ewan,” she murmured.

  He didn’t pretend to not und
erstand.

  “I will repaint it,” he replied. “Eventually, that is.”

  He could repaint. And he likely would.

  But not before submissions to the Royal Academy’s Exhibition. The deadline was too close.

  She did not add that bit.

  “I have known loss,” he continued. “Fires that consume one’s future. I will find a way onward. I always do.”

  The unspoken anguish in his voice set her eyes to stinging.

  She had heard what happened at the inn in the village. Lord Graham’s relentless taunting. Ewan’s gentlemanly conduct in return. Ewan’s eventual capitulation and the subsequent pummeling of his lordship. The petty part of Violet hoped Lord Graham nursed a black eye for weeks to come.

  Her father had made his opinion crystal clear.

  Cast him off, Violet, he had warned. Cast Mr. Campbell off before the damage is too great, before everyone sees how derelict you are in your duty to family and title. You threaten all our futures with this willfully selfish behavior.

  Part of her still considered her father’s anger an overreaction.

  But the incident with Lord Graham was telling of the opinions of those of her social class.

  Was it a portent of things to come?

  Would this be their life together? Ewan, fighting noblemen who took exception to his audacity to marry one of their own? Violet, enduring endless snubs and the thousand little cuts that other women inflicted with biting words?

  For herself, she would tolerate it all. A life with Ewan was worth it.

  But could she make that choice for him?

  “It was meant for us,” he finally said. “The painting was our future, ye see. A way for me tae perhaps . . . bridge . . . the social chasm between us. But now . . .”

  Oh, Ewan. “You know I do not care about that—”

  “Aye, lass, I ken that ye dinnae care.” He paused and sucked in a slow breath, drawing their clasped hands to his chest. “But I care.” He turned to her then, defeat nearly visibly draped across his shoulders. “I care that I cannae meet ye as an equal in at least some capacity—”

  “You are my equal, Ewan!” She shook their joined hands. “You are my soul’s other half. How can I make you see that?”

  “How can I be enough when I cannae offer ye anything other than my hard-working hands and my tattered heart?”