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

by Nichole Van

No. Not fetching. Andrew searched for the word he wanted.

  . . .

  . . .

  Mussable.

  Hah!

  That was it. Lady Jane looked like she needed to be rumpled and tousled and thoroughly kissed—

  Whoa.

  Andrew swayed again on his feet, blinking to clear his thoughts. They had gone sideways far too quickly.

  Yes, he found Lady Jane attractive.

  Yes, he had wondered more than once how it would feel to hold her tall, lithe body in his arms, to run his fingers through the silk of her auburn hair.

  Yes, she was spirited and fiercely intelligent and he admired those things.

  But that was all he would ever do—admire.

  Admire from a distance. A goodly distance.

  A very, very far, distant, goodly . . . distance.

  Andrew still had no intention of pursuing her.

  “Ye’ve caught us celebrating, I’m afraid.” Grinning far too broadly, he winked at Lady Jane.

  Her eyebrows inched farther down.

  He considered it a glorious victory.

  Kieran lifted his glass toward Peter. “Peter is going tae assist on the estate.”

  “Yesh, I am.” Peter nodded emphatically, leaning precariously again. Andrew kept a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “How lovely,” she replied, tone dry. “However, if you must celebrate, why ply my brother with your . . . your . . .”

  “Whisky?” Kieran supplied before belching loudly.

  Peter’s eyes widened and then he giggled.

  “Whisky? I thought only the Irish called it whisky.” Jane’s frown deepened even further. “Isn’t it scotch?”

  “Scotch?!” Andrew said the word as if it were particularly repugnant. “Nae. Only a Sassenach would call it scotch.”

  “Aye,” Kieran nodded emphatically. “Any proper Scotsman knows its uisge-beatha—”

  “Uisge-beatha!” Andrew repeated.

  “Ushkah-bayah,” Peter hiccupped, trying to copy the Gaelic enunciation.

  “The verra breath of life,” Kieran said the words in the hushed, reverent tone one might reserve for the archbishop or a particularly beautiful woman. Of course, his loud hiccupping-burp at the end spoiled the effect.

  Jane gritted her teeth. “Why must you drink whisky at all?”

  “Well . . . the whisky willnae drink itself,” Andrew said.

  “Aye.” Kieran belched again. “It’s no’ self-drinking whisky.”

  That caused Peter to lean forward, trying to get a better look at Andrew’s glass. “Is anything shelf-drinking?”

  “I dinnae think so.” Andrew shrugged. “Personally, I’d love a self-driving carriage.”

  He beat back the thought that wondered if whisky—self-drinking or not—would perhaps assist in mussing Lady Jane a wee bit.

  “A self-driving boat. That’s a thing.” Kieran pointed a finger at him. “I took the steamboat service up the River Clyde last June. Ran from Greenock right into the center of Glasgow.”

  Andrew perked up. “I didnae know that. Mr. Bell’s service, aye? The Comet, was it?”

  “Aye. The verra same.”

  “How was that?”

  “Bonnie, I must say.”

  Andrew picked up his glass and swirled the tumbler, the amber liquid glinting in the sun washing the room. His mind unhelpfully noted that the whisky was the same color as Lady Jane’s magnificent hair—

  A man was in a sad state when his thoughts ran to poetry.

  For her part, Lady Jane appeared to be chewing on the inside of her cheek. Perhaps to keep from screaming at them?

  “Shall I shing for my shishter?” Peter asked Kieran, swaying precariously before pulling himself upright.

  “Aye, by all means.” Kieran saluted him with his tumbler. “Yer proving a proper drinking companion, ye are, Peter.”

  “Aye,” Andrew said, “I’m sure Lady Jane cannae wait to hear what befalls poor Peggy.” He winked.

  Andrew wasn’t quite sure what he had expected Lady Jane to do, but he was definitely disappointed when she ground her teeth, turned around, and left the room without another word.

  Though he took comfort in the fact that she likely stomped her foot.

  She definitely slammed the door.

  Andrew grinned.

  12

  Jane shuffled into the library.

  No. She did not shuffle. A lady never shuffled.

  She merely walked with a somewhat tired slide in her step.

  Oh, bother.

  Even if she did shuffle, no one would blame her.

  Hadley’s whisky-laden revelry had lasted well into the evening. Lord Hadley and Master MacTavish had managed to drag themselves off to bed, leaning heavily on each other and singing loudly. Peter had been found snoring under the billiards table. It took two footmen to haul him to his chambers, Peter slung between them like a sack of grain.

  Jane had spent the better part of the morning dealing with the aftermath of their merrymaking.

  Worse, she had tried to reign in her jealousy over it. She regretted having ever voiced that thought. But once out of its cage, the idea would not be silenced.

  How unfair that the men were allowed to drink and make merry? When she must deny herself every ounce of enjoyment?

  If she could not drink, then they should not either, right?

  Her impulsive self had whole-heartedly agreed, suggesting ways Jane could help temper the men’s drinking in the future.

  It was for everyone’s good, after all.

  Once she had tamped her jealousy down to a low simmer, Jane had finally admitted to herself that she was pleased Peter had accepted Hadley’s offer.

  That did not mean, however, that her brother needed to adopt all of Hadley’s unsavory ways. She would definitely be having a word with Peter once he emerged from his bedroom. Though given what was surely a monumental hangover, she did not anticipate seeing him anytime soon.

  In the meantime, she would take solace in the library and her minerals. She had nearly completed her most recent method of organization, but there were a few questions that needed answering.

  To that end, she paused before the bookshelf which held all her books on mineralogy. Hutton’s Theory of the Earth had been helpful, but she needed even more theoretical background. She had read nearly every work published on geology and mineralogy, and yet it never seemed enough. She pulled Robert Jameson’s A System of Mineralogy from the shelf before turning to the row of cabinets standing in the middle of the room.

  The results of her re-categorization had been utterly fascinating. In her proudest moments, she even considered writing a treatise on it. Not that anyone would read it. She was a woman, after all.

  But the thought remained.

  Jane set her book down on top of the cabinet and opened the first drawer with a loud snick.

  “Ughhhh,” a low moan sounded from the fireplace.

  Jumping around, Jane barely stifled a startled squeak.

  Good heavens!

  “Ughhhh,” the fireplace moaned again. Or, more specifically, the sofa before the fireplace.

  Puzzled, Jane walked slowly over to the sofa and peered over its back.

  Lord Hadley was stretched out on its length, an arm over his eyes, the rest of him unmoving.

  Surprisingly, he was not wearing a kilt, nor tartan of any sort. Instead, he had on snug-fitting pantaloons in worn, fawn kerseymere, the foot-straps unbuttoned and dangling, his stockinged feet hanging over the end of the sofa, a pair of black shoes sitting on the floor where he had kicked them off.

  Of course, he wore no coat. Why would he? He was only an earl, after all. Jane mentally rolled her eyes.

  But his shirt was of the finest linen and well-cut. His pantaloons were definitely of the latest fashion. And though his waistcoat was unadorned, it was made of beautiful ivory silk with silver buttons.

  Where did a poor Scotsman acquire such a waistcoat? Had he raided some Corinthian’s
wardrobe? Or had he finally visited a tailor and rid himself of his ridiculous Scottish garments?

  That would be too much to hope.

  Regardless, Jane pursed her lips.

  “Are you quite all right, my lord?” she asked.

  He answered with a moan, tried to shake his head, stopped, and then moaned again.

  “Please do not shout, Lady Jane.” His voice was the barest whisper.

  Silence.

  “I am hardly shouting, my lord,” Jane said in a perfectly normal tone.

  Fine. Perhaps she was speaking a tad loudly. However . . .

  “A lady never needs to shout,” she added.

  Hadley replied with another moan.

  Jane took perverse pleasure in his obvious discomfort. Perhaps she wasn’t so jealous, after all.

  “Have you had a nice morning, my lord?” Her voice was sugary sweet.

  “My morning”—Hadley shifted his arm, further blocking the light—“would be decidedly improved if ye could manage tae speak in softer tones, my lady.”

  Jane blinked. And then frowned.

  Hadley’s horrendous accent seemed to have miraculously softened overnight. Scotland was still present in his rolled ‘r’s and expansive vowels, but his usual mangling of the English language was remarkably absent.

  It was as if his missing Scottish clothing had walked off with his thick brogue, too.

  Jane would have thought that too much strong drink and the subsequent hangover would have had the opposite effect—exacerbating his Scottishness, rather than minimizing it.

  It was . . . odd.

  The scientist in her felt obliged to study this phenomenon further. To that end, she walked around and sat in a chair facing the sofa.

  “Is this tone better?” she asked, lowering her voice the smallest degree.

  Hadley managed a nod and then promptly groaned.

  Jane contemplated torturing him further, perhaps with a cheery regaling of current lace trends, but she decided to be a decent human being first.

  Assuage her conscience. Then torture the unruly Scot.

  “Shall I have Cook send up something to ease your headache?” she asked. “Perhaps some willow bark tea?”

  He grunted.

  Jane took that as an affirmative answer.

  She stood and pulled on the bell rope next to the fireplace.

  Hadley’s voice rose from behind her. “I should also tell ye that I’ve had a letter from a friend. He will be joining us in three days’ time.”

  It was eerie how much Hadley’s accent had shifted. He sounded almost . . . aristocratic.

  How was he suddenly less Scottish today? She had often thought his Scottishness a caricature. Was that truly the case then?

  Or . . . perhaps the time he had spent with Peter had not been entirely without benefit?

  Jane sat back down. “Thank you for letting me know. I will ensure that the housekeeper is informed.”

  Hadley gave no response.

  Of course not.

  Replying would have been far too gentlemanly a thing to do.

  Jane’s modicum of goodwill rapidly evaporated.

  Hadley remained motionless, his enormous form stretched out and loose.

  Must he be such a finely proportioned man? His large body filled a room to such a degree that he seemed positively elemental. As much a force of nature as those that had formed the rocks and stones in her mineral cabinets.

  Of a surety, his broad shoulders and long legs dwarfed the sofa. A sudden move would likely send him tumbling off the thing altogether. She was half tempted to clap her hands and see if that were truly the result.

  A polite scratching at the open door caught her attention.

  “Come,” Jane said.

  Hadley grunted at the noise.

  A maid entered and Jane gave instructions for willow bark tea and a light repast to be brought up for his lordship.

  Jane delighted in the loud cheerfulness of the girl’s voice.

  Hadley simply groaned again.

  Jane was feeling positively ebullient as the girl left, shutting the door with a harsh clack.

  “The sunshine is quite lovely outside today, do you not think?” she asked Hadley. “Perhaps I should see if Tam would be willing to play the bagpipes for us?”

  No response.

  “After all,” she continued, “someone told me recently that only a laze-a-bed would be bothered by such noise at this time of day.”

  That got to him. “You are a cruel, cruel woman.”

  She pinched her lips, barely stopping a giggle.

  “Come now.” Jane rose, walking forward. “At least let me open the window. Fresh air will do you good. The birds are chirping away, and the new lambs are bleating—”

  “No.” Hadley managed to croak, his hand reaching out to snare her skirts as she passed.

  Jane froze, partly from shock that he would dare to touch her in any way, and partly out of surprise at the searing heat of his hand so close to her knee.

  “Leave the windows.” He shifted the arm over his face slightly, revealing one bleary, blood-shot eyeball looking up at her. It was a handsome shade of blue, that eyeball. The soft gray-blue of the ocean on a cloudy day. A dusky sort of blue.

  “But the weather is so lovely.” Jane arched an eyebrow down at him. “Why don’t you wish to enjoy it?”

  Hadley’s eye narrowed at her daft question. “I’m enjoying the closed window just fine from this sofa.”

  “I do not believe that you are.”

  “I am.”

  “No, you are not. You are lying down and not even facing toward the window.”

  He groaned, licking his lips. “Please don’t shout,” he whispered, tugging on her skirts.

  Jane’s lips twitched. She desperately wanted to smile in triumph. After days of watching him charm the tenants and flout the rules of propriety, it was glorious to have the upper hand.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t drink so much,” she countered.

  “Perhaps ye should simply cease talking.” His plaintive tone removed any sting from his words.

  He released her skirts with a huff. And then promptly moaned at the pain the movement must have caused him.

  Jane smiled in truth.

  “Allow me to keep you company then. I shall tell you all about the latest bonnet I am contemplating.”

  That got a reaction.

  Finally.

  Hadley removed his arm entirely from his face and stared at her. “Ye cannot be in earnest,” he whispered.

  “I am absolutely in earnest, my lord.”

  Hadley blinked. “I am sure ye feel I deserve this torture.”

  Jane intended to simply sniff and look away, but she couldn’t help the enormous grin that stretched across her face.

  He shook his head ever so slightly, eyes locked with hers.

  “Fiery Jane,” he whispered. “I do not think I can tolerate Fiery Jane at the moment.”

  Which, as a response, made no sense.

  With a grunt, Hadley pushed himself upright, stockinged feet hitting the floor. He sank his head into his hands.

  Jane wanted to dance a jig. At last! She had brought the mighty Scot to his knees—

  Well.

  The whisky had probably helped, too.

  With another groan, Hadley heaved himself to his feet, flinching as the bright sunlight hit his face. His enormous body loomed over Jane. She took a step back, but before she could feel alarmed, he shuffled toward a cabinet sitting beside the fireplace.

  “The maid should be back shortly with your tea,” she informed his back.

  “I need more than tea at this point,” he replied.

  Opening the cabinet, he uncorked a decanter and poured two fingers of amber liquid into a tumbler.

  “Whisky? For your whisky hangover?” Jane asked. “That cannot be wise.” For quite a few reasons.

  Hadley turned around to her, lifting his glass in a salute, eyes squinting against the light.
“Sometimes it’s the only answer.”

  Jane was unsure what precisely the question had been to necessitate such an answer, but she held her tongue, eyeing the amber liquid sloshing in his glass.

  It truly did look exactly like whisky. She would likely live to regret listening to her impulsive, wild self, but in the moment, she was nearly gleeful. She pinched back a giggle.

  The next five minutes would not go well, she was quite sure.

  Hadley tossed back the liquid.

  Jane was already moving for the door before he finishing swallowing.

  His bellow reached her in the hallway, followed by the sound of the window being thrown open and violent retching.

  Jane knew she should feel at least a smidgen of guilt. A twinge of remorse.

  But instead she ran up the grand staircase with a broad smile on her face.

  Andrew wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, hand shaking violently.

  Chamomile.

  Lady Jane had emptied the decanter of his fine Glenturret whisky and replaced it with cold, unsweetened, chamomile tea.

  Bloody chamomile tea.

  Just the mere thought of it caused nausea to crawl up the back of his throat, gagging him.

  He wiped his mouth again.

  The damn woman had smiled at him like a cat in the cream, eyes lit and merry. Fiery Jane at last. It had been the loveliest sight—

  And then . . . chamomile tea.

  That was it.

  No English—man or woman—had the right to meddle with proper Scottish whisky. It was sacrilege. Desecration.

  A man had his limits.

  This was war and Lady Jane had won yet another skirmish.

  The gloves were off now.

  He would draw Fiery Jane out of her shell.

  Preferably kicking and screaming.

  13

  Andrew and Lady Jane tiptoed around one another over the following days.

  Naturally, Kieran had roared with laughter when Andrew informed him what had happened. Worse, Andrew’s evenings had been filled with Kieran asking if he’d like ‘a wee dram of chamomile’ and offering to serve him ‘tea’ before bedtime.

  Andrew was quite sure that twenty years from now, Kieran would still bring up the Whisky-Chamomile Affair, as he now dubbed it.

  It only took an hour for Barnsley to empty all the decanters of chamomile and replenish the whisky, but Andrew struggled to move past the episode. Over and over, he relived Lady Jane’s smiling face, gloating and triumphant above him. In that moment, she had been incandescent.