by Nichole Van
“You acquitted yourself well, Peter, as usual,” Lady Hadley smoothed her lavender skirts, before turning to Jane. “You were far too quiet, however, Jane. You need to speak more.”
“Of course, Mother.” Jane gave her reply automatically. If she had said more to their visitors, her mother would reprimand her for speaking too often.
Jane pressed her fingernail into her palm. Half-moons, she thought. Concentrate on making half-moons.
“Why are you harping on about Jane’s manners, Mother?” Peter rolled his eyes and snorted, sarcasm dripping. “The new Lord Hadley will not notice one way or another.”
He pronounced Lord Hadley with a hostile wince, as if saying the man’s very name hurt his mouth.
Jane shot Peter a grateful look. She could see them both reflected in the mirror above the mantel, their heads nearly touching, Peter’s tousled blond overlapping her brassier auburn. Symbolically always beside her.
“Hadley . . . perhaps not.” Lady Hadley glanced her way. “But I’ve had another letter from Montacute, Jane, and your brother is hinting, again, at you joining him and his duchess in London for the Season. If that happens, we must focus on perfecting your behavior.”
Jane narrowly avoided a wince herself. Only the biting pain of her nail into her palm stopped her reaction.
Her other half-brother, the current Duke of Montacute, had exacting expectations of her. Words from his latest letter rattled through her skull:
You must ever be mindful, sister, of the honor your name does you. You are the daughter and sister of Montacute. Your every breath should reflect the exalted circumstances of your birth.
Nearly twenty years her senior, Montacute had always been a menacing figure, more stern father than brother, truth be told. Jane revolted at the thought of living with him and his duchess in London, forced to interact daily with their caustic selves. Worse, it would separate her from Peter.
Her mother continued, motioning toward Jane with a languid hand, “Montacute has increased your pin money since the old earl’s death, Jane, but with the earldom on the brink of bankruptcy, I do not know how much longer you will have a home here. It all depends on what the new earl decides when he arrives. Unmarried, you are simply a drain upon both Hadley and Montacute.”
As was proper, Montacute had assumed financial responsibility for Jane since her stepfather’s death and provided her with a monthly allowance. But her mother’s words were true—unmarried, Jane was nothing more than dross.
Peter moved to sit, sprawling in the chair opposite, shooting her an understanding look. While neither of them was enthusiastic about having to tolerate the new Scottish earl himself, they genuinely dreaded the consequences of his choices.
“Well, we are all drains on Hadley now, Mother,” Peter said, again distracting Lady Hadley’s attention. “He holds our purse strings, such as they are. We are all reliant on his good-will for our every need. I consider it prudent to politely avoid the man as much as possible.”
Given that Peter could scarcely say the man’s name without grimacing in distaste, her brother was far more troubled than he let on. He was justifiably angry that Hadley—uncouth, unrefined, and currently unknown—now held Peter’s future in his hands. The hurt of being abandoned so thoroughly by his sire ran deep. Peter had been cut adrift, floating away from her, and Jane felt powerless to bring him back to shore.
Jane sat straighter in her chair.
“I agree with Peter,” she said. “We shall simply endure Hadley’s coming the way all English have faced Scots over the centuries—with impeccable manners, reserved politeness, and sardonic verve.”
Peter grimaced and saluted her with a raised eyebrow. His expression mirroring her own sense of impending doom.
2
His friends were arguing again.
Andrew Mackenzie would never tire of it.
The sound of their bickering was home and camaraderie all mixed into a male-acceptable tonic—endless, pitiless teasing.
“Ye cannae eat haggis without a dram or two of good whisky, that’s alls I’m sayin’.” Master Kieran MacTavish angled his tumbler toward Dr. Alexander Whitaker sitting across the table.
“Too much strong drink is bad for the body,” Alex countered, tilting his own water glass in response.
“Aye.” Andrew nodded, joining in. “Whisky is the enemy, Kieran.” He winked and then took a healthy swig of his own dark ale.
“Och, away wi’ ye both. The Good Book says I’m tae love my enemies, aye?” Kieran lifted his glass and sipped before placing his free hand over his heart. “An’ I’ve always been a devout follower of the Good Book—”
The door cracked open, bringing a rush of voices from the taproom and a blast of smells: alcohol, leather, horse. Two more men followed swiftly behind—Lord Rafe Gilbert and Ewan Campbell.
The men stood, exchanging greetings and hearty back-slaps before settling around the central table, all five of them.
The group of friends were gathered in the private dining room of the Black Bull Inn, midway along the road between Edinburgh and Falkirk.
A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows along the wood paneling on the walls. The ceiling timbers creaked from footsteps above. The noise of the taproom beyond the closed door was a distant murmur broken occasionally by a boistrous laugh.
This evening, the nineteenth of March, marked the second anniversary of their gathering, the third year since the fateful events which changed all of their lives.
Andrew nursed his ale, watching his friends laugh and continue their good-natured ribbing of Kieran. The men were much the same as they had always been.
Lord Rafe was quick to deflect a personal question and even quicker to flirt with a beautiful lass.
Alex was their moral compass, a physician who could be relied on to keep a steady head, regardless of the situation.
Ewan was quiet and watchful, thoughts and words carefully considered, as if he were determined to commit them all to one of his canvases.
Kieran’s pale eyes still hung with dark shadows. His easy laughter hid the grief and guilt Andrew knew ate at his friend’s soul.
Andrew, as ever, felt the weight of their lives on his shoulders.
The innkeeper bustled into the room with more ale and a bottle of whisky for the table, promising to return shortly with haggis and neeps ‘n’ tatties.
Silence descended as the door clicked behind the man.
“I’m right glad tae see ye all tonight,” Andrew said. As the one who had brought them together in the first place, he continued to act as their leader.
Facts which made his task tonight even more difficult.
He had to tell them. It was far past time. He should have told them years ago. Tonight, he would correct that.
But first, there was a weightier matter to address.
Andrew cleared his throat. “We journeyed tae the far corners of the world together and returned changed men. We were strangers tae one another before we left, but now we are brothers in every way that matters except blood.”
“Aye,” Alex murmured, “though we have shed enough of our blood together tae be counted as blood brothers in truth.”
Rafe smiled, the motion pulling at the white scar which ran from his right temple to his cheekbone.
Silently, Andrew took the bottle of whisky and poured a single finger in each glass.
Raising his own cup, he said, “A toast to Jamie and all those who did not return home with us. We drink tae their memory, tae the secrets we keep, and tae the justice we seek.”
“To Jamie,” the others chorused, clinking their glasses.
Five years ago, Andrew had decided to fulfill a lifelong dream—to embark on a voyage of scientific discovery. The four men in the room had responded to his entreaties to join him.
Andrew had met Lord Rafe while studying at St. Andrews. Both of them shared a passion for the natural sciences, though Andrew preferred mineralogy to Rafe’s botany.
Al
ex and Ewan had replied to Andrew’s advertisement for a physician and artist, respectively.
Kieran had been master to their ship, The Minerva.
Their voyage had been pleasant enough for the first six months, but then—
“I cannae believe it’s been three years since that day,” Ewan said. “My memories are still so vivid.”
“Aye . . . Jamie’s death haunts us all,” Andrew said.
None of them looked at Kieran.
As master of The Minerva, Kieran had been given charge of the ship’s navigation, as well as ensuring she was outfitted and in ship-shape condition at all times. Though not the captain—that honor belonged to Captain Martin Cuthie—Kieran had been the ship’s second. If Captain Cuthie was the ship’s father, Master Kieran MacTavish was her mother.
Jamie Fyffe had come aboard as the carpenter’s mate. Jamie’s father, Mr. Charles Fyffe, had been Kieran’s mentor and friend.
Jamie had been new to life at sea, but charismatic and clever, drawing all their attention. The five of them—Andrew, Rafe, Ewan, Alex, and Kieran—had each taken an interest in Jamie’s well-being. It was as if their affection for Jamie was the initial bond that had brought them together as friends. Jamie, of course, had returned their friendship ten-fold.
When events had turned deadly on that night three years ago, Jamie had defied Captain Cuthie and saved their lives. But the youth had paid the ultimate price as a result.
Unbidden, memory washed over Andrew.
Blinding pain smashed into the side of his face. He struggled to stay upright, but an agonizing slash cut across his legs. He collapsed in agony.
Kieran bellowed into the night, an inferno of flames rising behind him, 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!”
To say they mourned Jamie’s death would be an understatement. The heavy guilt and nauseating grief felt endless at times. The youth had relied on them for protection, and they had failed.
But then . . . some things were not to be overcome, simply borne and woven into the fabric of the soul.
Along with that—
“I have something for you tae see.” Andrew slid back his chair and snagged a paper parcel he had set with his hat on a small desk in the corner.
Untying the string, he opened the package. A length of dark wool tartan tumbled onto the table, a cross-hatch pattern of red, green, yellow, and white on a black ground—the colors all the more vivid for the dark background.
“What’s the point of this?” Kieran reached out a hand, gently rubbing the wool between his fingers.
Obviously, the length of tartan seemed to be a non sequitur.
But . . .
“I had the manager of my woolen factory outside Perth weave this for me,” Andrew replied. “It’s merely a sample, mind ye.”
“I don’t recognize the pattern.” Rafe took the fabric from Kieran’s hands. “It’s quite dark for a clan tartan.”
“Aye,” Andrew said. “You wouldn’t recognize it because I created the pattern myself. I call it ‘Jamie’s Tartan.’”
Silence descended.
Andrew cleared his throat. “I ken that we named ourselves the Brotherhood of the Tartan tae honor our joint Scottish heritage and the trials we faced together. But I liked the thought of having an actual tartan as a symbol.”
Andrew reached down and spread a hand across the wool, flattening a section on the tabletop. He tapped the dark ground.
“Black for grief and anger.” He traced a wide, cherry-red band. “Red for our guilt over innocent blood spilt. A little gold for hope, a wee bit of green for growth.” He drew a nail along the last color. “White for the purity of our hearts and goals.”
He cleared his throat, tone abruptly gruff. “I wanted something more tangible tae remember Jamie. I thought I’d see if ye would be interested in each having a length of plaid for a sash or great kilt. Or both.” A pause. “If ye like the thought, I’ll instruct my manager tae make multiple lengths of the tartan.”
Alex slid the cloth toward him, staring at it. “That is a beautiful idea, Andrew.”
“Aye,” Ewan all but whispered. “Jamie needs tae be honored and remembered.”
Kieran bolted another shot of whisky before nodding his head.
“Nothing about that dark night should be forgotten,” Rafe added, the scar on his cheek flashing in the firelight. “Shall we rename ourselves the Brotherhood of the Black Tartan then?”
A moment of silence greeted Rafe’s question.
“Aye,” Andrew’s voice had gone hoarse. Given the similar ‘ayes’ from his friends, he was not alone. “We’ll be the Brotherhood of the Black Tartan.”
“We will have justice for Jamie,” Ewan whispered.
Silence hung for a moment, as they each wrenched emotions into submission.
“Any luck trackin’ down the bastard responsible?” Kieran asked. His words were casual, but Andrew didn’t miss the venom laced through them.
Revenge and justice had been Kieran’s lodestar for nearly three years. They were the only emotions strong enough to keep him from succumbing to the morass of his grief and guilt.
“Nothing solid yet, but we’re making progress,” Andrew replied. “Last month, I employed the most celebrated Runner from Bow Street to find him. I’m hoping this Runner can succeed where others have failed.”
They knew the man responsible for the events that led to Jamie’s death—Andrew’s one-time business partner, Thomas Madsen. The man who had betrayed them and left them for dead, marooned in the South Pacific.
The problem? They couldn’t locate Madsen. They had returned to Edinburgh to find the man had cleaned his accounts of money and utterly disappeared. Andrew had employed men to find Madsen over the past year, but only recently had he hired the-best-of-the-best from Bow Street. Hopefully, the Runner would produce results.
“Madsen may be dead,” Rafe said.
“I hope he isnae,” Kieran replied. “I want ma pound of flesh.”
“Blood thirsty.” Rafe shook his head, clicking his tongue.
“I’m Scottish,” was Kieran’s shrugging reply.
A polite rap on the door stopped the conversation. Two barmaids entered, each balancing a laden tray. They set down plates and cutlery before placing a trencher of browned haggis in the center of the table. The haggis rolled slightly, steam escaping from a slit in the sheep’s stomach that encased the ground meat. The smell of black pepper and sausage filled the room. Bowls of mashed neeps ‘n’ tatties followed.
Ewan was the first to heap food on his plate. Alex continued to study Jamie’s tartan and ask questions about Andrew’s weaving processes. Rafe flirted with both the lasses until they were giggling and blushing. Kieran rolled his eyes. Andrew lifted a finger to request more bread and whisky.
Basically, everyone precisely as they should be.
Their conversation wandered as they ate, Kieran describing a recent galley fire aboard his ship, and Alex recounting a horse race in Leith. Andrew dug into his haggis while listening to his friends bandy insults back and forth, trying to decide when to tell them his other news.
Somewhere in their years together, particularly after being marooned and nearly dying on a small island in the South Pacific, Andrew should have told them.
And yet . . . he hadn’t.
Mostly because he never thought about it. His father’s past had never defined Andrew’s own future. But, as often happened, the past had caught up with him just the same.
They had all pushed back from the table, Ewan still picking at the leftovers, when the topic moved on to Rafe’s recent trip to London, dancing attendance on his father.
As the younger son of an English duke, Lord Rafe was the least Scottish of them all. But his mother hailed from Ayrshire, south of Glasgow—she even professed to have met the celebrated poet, Robert Burns—and Rafe attended the university in St. Andrews in eastern Fife, so he identified stro
ngly with his maternal Scottish heritage.
“I’m surprised your father allows ye tae spend time with us at all,” Alex snorted.
“Aye, well, most English think of Scots as unruly louts,” Rafe chuckled. “Scotland has been bandied about London drawing rooms even more the past couple months. Do you all recall the Earldom of Hadley?”
“The title created for that English bastard who vowed tae exterminate every last Scot at Culloden in ‘46?” Alex asked.
“The very same.” Rafe nodded. “Though I think the situation is rapidly proving that God has a sense of humor. The old earl passed away a few months ago, and his grandson, the new Earl of Hadley, is a Scot.”
Kieran and Alex let loose loud guffaws.
“A Scot?” Ewan raised his eyebrows.
Andrew pursed his lips. Now would likely be a good time to say something.
He cleared his throat.
“Aye,” Rafe talked over the noise. “The old earl’s heir married a lowly-born Scottish woman—”
“That old earl received his just desserts in the end, aye,” Kieran grinned.
“Perhaps,” Rafe said, “but, of course, now Parliament is stalling over granting the new earl his Writ of Summons. There are concerns, as my father put it. Was the heir tricked into marrying a woman of questionable morality? Were the new earl’s parents properly married in a church? Is a lowly Scot even fit to lead an English earldom?”
Kieran growled. Andrew joined him.
A woman of questionable morality? Truly?
He cleared his throat louder.
Four heads turned his way.
Right.
“Och, she wasn’t a woman of questionable morality and the marriage was absolutely proper.” Andrew drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Bunch of bloody English gossips.”
His friends stared, one-by-one their eyes widening with realization. He met their gazes, wincing slightly.
Guilty conscience and all that.
Andrew let the silence proclaim his truth.
