by Nichole Van
Kieran chuckled as he sat back down, popping one of the sandwiches into his mouth, chewing appreciatively. “I ken her ladyship is off tae have a good haiver with the housekeeper. Leave us tae cool our heels for a wee while longer afore returning.”
“Aye. I dinnae doubt it.” Andrew had no hope that Lady Hadley’s son, Peter, would be any better than his mother.
Against his better judgment, Andrew felt his temperature rise again. First, the haughty lady in the stream and now Lady Hadley. This was why his father had never spoken of his English family, why he had shrugged off their refusal to associate with Andrew and his Scottish mother.
Andrew dearly loved his mother. She lived with his dey at Muirford House, running the estate and overseeing the house for them both. His father had died from a lung ailment nearly ten years ago now, but his mother said she would never remarry.
Lady Hadley was as different a person from his gentle mother as could possibly be.
Fifteen minutes later, he and Kieran had devoured the meager contents of the tea tray. Ten minutes after that, the door cracked open, sending Andrew and Kieran to their feet.
Lady Hadley returned. A younger, blonde man accompanied her, his expression tense. The expensive cut of his superfine coat and the glossy shine on his Hessian boots—not to mention his identical look of disdain—loudly proclaimed him to be Lady Hadley’s son, Peter Langston.
Andrew’s half-uncle and heir.
Mr. Langston was considerably younger than Andrew had supposed. The man couldn’t be much over twenty.
Lady Hadley made introductions.
Mr. Langston bowed with exquisite precision. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord.” His clipped tone and clenched jaw indicated it was anything but a pleasure.
Clearly, Langston resented him. The lad likely saw Andrew’s arrival as the end of his wastrel existence. The younger man had no funds, after all, and was now beholden to Andrew for every pence.
Langston raked Andrew up and down, taking in his trews and sash, nostrils flaring. “You are . . . fond of tartan, it seems?”
“Aye, I’m verra fond of ma tartan.” Andrew raised his eyebrow. “However, I’m no’ so fond of puppies who disparage it.”
Langston, at least, had the decency to flush and squirm under Andrew’s steady gaze. The younger man looked away, swallowing hard.
The door snicked a third time. Everyone turned.
Andrew expected to see a footman or the butler.
Instead, the high-and-mighty lady from the stream walked into the room.
Andrew’s aggravation melted into surprise and then devolved further into mischievous delight.
Hah. This should prove interesting.
She was just as pretty when clean, primped, and neat-as-a-pin. Not a speck of mud in sight. The combination of her auburn hair, pale skin, and wide gray eyes momentarily snagged his breath.
Had she been so tall earlier? She was nearly the height of the footman opening the door. So tall that Andrew could look her in the eye himself without having to bend his head more than an inch. The height suited her.
Unlike the version of herself in the stream, this lady held her head with aloof precision, expression remote, every last ounce of her outraged fire tucked away.
More’s the pity. Andrew had preferred her spirit.
Their eyes met.
Andrew grinned. It was a slow grin, spreading like honey.
The unknown lady blanched.
Oh, aye. This was going to be fun.
7
Shock jolted Jane in place.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Red Scot was here.
Jane was quite sure every last ounce of color had fled her face.
Now she simply needed to hold back the vivid blush that threatened. Flushing crimson would do nothing to stem the tide of her mother’s curiosity.
Red Scot surveyed her, standing loose-limbed.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Red Scot did more than merely stand.
He loomed. He hulked.
He menaced.
His very presence somehow reduced the air in the room, leaving her lungs gasping.
Her mother vibrated with aristocratic outrage.
Jane was torn between hysterical laughter and joining her mother’s horror.
Oh, who was she fooling? Hysteria was utterly out of the question; horror was her only option.
Unconsciously, Jane pressed a fingernail into her palm, pushing until she felt the bite of pain.
Lady Hadley motioned toward her. Her mother’s pressed lips and stern eyes promised a scold later for being so late to the drawing room. Of course.
Her mother half turned toward Red Scot. “Lord Hadley, may I present my daughter, Lady Jane Everard.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
Red Scot was Lord Hadley.
Lord Hadley was Red Scot.
Jane’s surprise over seeing Red Scot had slowed her wits. All the evidence was there; she had simply neglected to make the connection.
Jane blinked, trying to rally her sluggish thoughts.
Lord Hadley was the same Red Scot who, less than three hours ago, had commented on her unladylike language and then lifted her from the river . . . muddy, disheveled, and utterly disgraced.
Now what was she to do?
Hadley knew.
More to the point, would it be too much to hope that he would say nothing to her mother of her mishap? And which was worse? Her mother knowing or Lord Hadley’s impertinence?
Despite the gossip surrounding him, she had assumed that Hadley would be less . . . garishly Scottish. Or, at the very least, have a modicum of shame.
Red Scot exhibited neither.
And this was the man who held Peter’s future in his hands?
Dimly, she registered her mother’s continued explanation. “Lady Jane is the daughter of my first husband, His Grace, The Duke of Montacute.”
Reflexive muscle memory jarred Jane to life. She dipped into a polite curtsy, her limbs strangely disconnected from her body, as if they belonged to an intricate automaton from a toy shop in Mayfair.
“Lady Jane.” Hadley bowed, hand over the red tartan sash which crossed his shoulder and chest. His bow, at least, was proper and polite; she would give him that.
He raised his head and met her gaze, eyes smirking. Her words from earlier rose between them.
I have not sought, nor do I wish to have, your acquaintance.
Hadley’s grin widened. She could practically see him weighing whether or not to accept an acquaintanceship with her. Would he dare to be so rude?
He shot a side glance at her mother.
Oh!
The wretch!
He must sense that she didn’t want her mother to know what had occurred. And now he was teasing her in a most abominable fashion.
The Scot was clearly no gentleman. But then that had been well-known before this moment.
What to do? This was what came of her inner-self slipping her tether. This was why she had to be ever-diligent in keeping her baser instincts silent.
She pressed her fingernail into her hand again. Twice. Three times. Her palms would be fish scales before the hour was through.
Hadley’s eyes came back to hers.
Finally, after a lengthy pause, he said, “Pleased tae make yer acquaintance, Lady Jane.”
His delay had not gone unnoticed. Peter raised his eyebrows. Even her mother’s brow dented in a faint frown.
Heaven help her.
And then, simply to bring home the discomfort of her situation, Hadley motioned to Green Scot.
“May I present ma companion, Master Kieran MacTavish?”
Master MacTavish bowed. Jane curtsied.
Her mother motioned to the footmen to refresh the tea service with hot water and replenish the biscuits.
They all sat down again, Jane wisely choosing a seat beside Peter. She exchanged a weighted glance with her brother, commun
icating her horror. Peter faintly rolled his eyes before turning his head back to Hadley.
A horrible tense silence descended, as the footmen busied themselves.
Her brother lounged in his chair, waves of aristocratic indifference floating off of him. But Jane knew frustration and anger seethed just below the surface.
Peter wore the uncertainty well. He was immaculately turned out in a dark-red, clawhammer coat, a finely-embroidered silk waistcoat underneath. His valet spent no less than fifteen minutes every day ensuring that Peter’s blond hair had just the right amount of devil-may-care swagger.
Her brother’s refined appearance stood in contrast to that of Lord Hadley and Master MacTavish. Their colorful tartan trousers and matching sashes clashed garishly with the English elegance of the drawing room, a sharp discordant note in an otherwise harmonious melody.
Hadley met Jane’s gaze again, likely enjoying watching her squirm, wondering if and when he would say something.
The silence stretched from tense to faintly hostile as the footmen exited the room.
Lady Hadley rallied, determined to behave with impeccable breeding, regardless of how vexing she found Lord Hadley’s behavior.
“How do you take your tea, my lord?” she asked Hadley.
He murmured his response, his rough Scottish brogue rolling over Jane. Something about the deep rumble of his voice . . . the timbre of it . . . called to mind the library at Rosehearth, cuddled into a soft blanket, the fire roaring in the hearth, snow falling outside—
Jane nearly shook her head.
What an utterly . . . bizarre thought. Perhaps she had taken a knock to the head earlier after all.
There was nothing comforting about Hadley.
If anything, the Scot should remind her of a pagan Viking, raising a hammered goblet in his Great Hall like Odin in Valhalla.
After all, like the Vikings of old, he was a harbinger of doom.
Jane was quite sure Hadley’s Scottish ancestors had wielded swords and conquered castles and generally harried her own English forebears at every turn. That was why her pulse sped up, rendering her breathless in his presence.
Ancestral fear. Nothing more.
The lumbering Scottish Viking accepted her mother’s teacup and saucer with passable manners—the dainty cup absurdly small in his large hands—but he then ruined the effect by sipping loudly.
Her mother barely avoided flinching.
“That’s verra nice tea, Lady Hadley,” the new earl proclaimed, setting down his teacup with a harsh clink.
Jane dug her fingernail into her palm again.
Half-moons. Focus on half-moons.
How could this vulgar lummox of a man be the new earl?
Jane could not envision him taking up his seat in Parliament or attending a ball with the haut ton. She could barely imagine him wearing less flamboyantly Scottish clothing.
Peter snorted softly. “Rag-mannered idiot,” he whispered in her ear.
Jane stilled, refusing to react.
“Pardon?” Hadley turned to look at her brother. “What did ye say?”
Please don’t antagonize him, Peter, she mentally pleaded. Don’t give him a reason to expose me. Don’t give him an excuse to cut you off.
“Ah, ’twas nothing,” Peter spluttered. “I was merely remarking to my sister—”
“He called ye a ‘rag-mannered idiot,’” Master MacTavish cheerfully supplied, taking a long, gusty sip of his own tea.
A pause.
Peter blanched, meeting Hadley’s raised eyebrow.
Jane’s mother looked faint.
Please stop, Peter, Jane prayed. I know you are angry over this man’s existence, but please say nothing further.
Only Master MacTavish appeared unaffected. He helped himself to a biscuit.
“And I couldnae agree more, yer lordship,” MacTavish continued nodding to his friend before biting into the biscuit and sending crumbs flying. “Yer a right glaikit oaf. Mayhap yer English relatives here could knock some fine manners into ye.”
MacTavish grinned at his friend, brazenly unrepentant.
Hadley met his friend’s gaze, eyes unreadable.
MacTavish dunked his biscuit into his tea.
The men’s behavior managed to break through even Lady Hadley’s stalwart reserve. Jane’s mother closed her eyes, likely praying to some long-forgotten saint for forbearance.
Hadley set his teacup down and fixed Peter with what could only charitably be called a flinty gaze. “Ye’ve a lot of cheek for a man who’s relying on ma pocketbook.”
Peter swallowed, but a sharp look from Jane silenced him. He focused his gaze on a point above Hadley’s head, nostrils flaring.
One did not discuss money matters so openly and never in front of a lady. A lady may have years of experience in managing household accounts, but such matters were kept private.
The entire exchange was unbearably gauche.
Lady Hadley pressed a distressed hand to her bosom.
Jane punched a few more half-moons into her palm. When would Hadley turn that look on her and expose her exploits? She was an aristo sent to the guillotine, waiting for the blade to drop.
His gaze flicked over her again. And yet, he said nothing.
Mmmm.
What was his game? Perhaps he did not fully understand the power he held over her at this moment? His life, poor and unknown in rural Scotland, had likely not prepared him for interacting in society such as this.
Regardless, this was why young, respectable maidens were always admonished to behave properly. That way ruffians would have no say over them.
Jane needed to keep that thought firm.
She feared she would need it.
Andrew adjusted his sporran and straightened the brooch holding his great kilt together over his shoulder, studying himself in the mirror.
He met Kieran’s eyes behind him. “I’m just saying, we drop the act tomorrow morning, that’s all. Playing the rough Highlander has been entertaining, but enough is enough, aye?”
“Your relatives are verra high and mighty. I’m no’ sure that they would even ken a difference. So why try?” Kieran shrugged, motioning Andrew out of the way so he could tie his own neckcloth before wrapping the ends of his great kilt around his shoulder, securing it with a brooch.
Andrew grimaced, suspecting that Kieran had the right of it. But Andrew would have to interact with Lady Hadley and her children on a regular basis. Did he truly want to keep playing the unruly Scot?
“I’ll think upon it,” he replied.
The men were in the master’s bedchamber dressing for dinner. After their welcome in the blue drawing room, Lady Hadley had not-so-discreetly ushered the men into the breakfast room, leaving them to their small repast. From there, Andrew and Kieran had been shown to their rooms.
Andrew’s bedchamber had windows on two sides with sweeping views across the gardens and countryside. A large tester bed dominated the space with fussy furniture against the walls. On one side, an open door led to a dressing room. A small sitting room was reached through another door.
Kieran had joined him, acting as valet, not that Andrew necessarily needed the help, but he didn’t mind the camaraderie. In keeping with their Highland theme, both men were wearing great kilts. The bottom half of the great kilt wrapped around the waist and was secured with a belt, while the top half crossed over the left shoulder and was secured with a brooch. Andrew wore the traditional blue tartan shot with the red stripes that hailed from the county of Angus where his estate, Muirford House, was located.
Kieran had opted for the green-and-blue tartan of Argyll, just north of Dumbarton where he was born. Tartans tended to be regional in Scotland, their colors based on the dyes locally available in each area. Or so Andrew’s dey was fond of telling him.
Aside from his kilt with its sporran—a fur pouch which hung from his belt in front—Andrew had donned a more English neckcloth, waistcoat, and tailored superfine jacket, though the back of
the coat lacked tails in order to accommodate the fabric from his great kilt crisscrossing his upper body.
Andrew shook his head. “I’ll likely send a note tae the inn and fetch the coach and the rest of my men in the morning.”
Kieran shrugged. “If you’d like tae, yer lordship.”
Andrew turned from the mirror and took up the stack of letters sitting on the bedside table. He had arranged to have his correspondence sent ahead to Hadley Park, so it was no surprise that items were waiting for him.
He had already read the correspondence, but he rummaged through it again, sorting the letters into quick piles—two from managers about business matters, four letters from friends, three from various solicitors inquiring after investment opportunities—
Hah! He finally found the one he had been looking for—a missive from the Bow Street Runner Andrew had hired to find his duplicitous business partner. He scanned its contents again. The Runner had found Madsen’s trail and was now trying to track down his present whereabouts.
“Regardless—” Andrew tossed the letter back on the table. “—if my Runner finds more information, I might be off to London sooner rather than later.”
Kieran, as ever, stiffened at the news. Andrew knew the man still grieved Jamie’s death; they all did. None of them would ever lose the guilt of it.
But Kieran, in particular, had felt a keen sense of responsibility toward Jamie.
Andrew distinctly remembered the first time he had seen Kieran. The man had been standing on the deck of The Minerva, talking intently with one of the ship’s officers. Kieran had a relentless energy about him, as if the entire earth were a wind-tossed boat, and he was constantly braced to take on a heavy swell.
His friend had been practically raised at sea. As a child, Kieran had found a mentor in Charles Fyffe, who had taken the lad under his wing. But an accident had ended Charles’ seafaring career early, and unable to work, the Fyffe family had fallen on hard times. Kieran had lost touch with them.
Then one day, Jamie had shown up with a letter from Charles, asking Kieran to help his child. Kieran had hired Jamie on the spot to be the carpenter’s mate. Jamie had become his responsibility, his charge, more family than friend.
