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

by Nichole Van

  He ached to see Fiery Jane again.

  But Lady Jane had retreated back into her shell of Prim Jane, giving him monosyllabic answers and expressionless looks. But that didn’t stop him from noticing things.

  The way the Brady children prattled on about her, the glowing praise heaped on her from the vicar, the thoughtful touches in every tenant household that Lady Jane had provided. There was so much more to Lady Jane than even he had seen.

  Andrew wanted her to set her inner-self free. He had dug up nearly every ounce of his Scottishness over the previous week and had only managed to crack her composure now and again. There was only one thing left to do:

  Hold a Burns Supper.

  “Why should we hold a Burns Supper?” Kieran asked when Andrew mentioned it. “It’s not January.”

  Andrew raked a hand through his hair. Kieran was right. Traditionally, a Burns Supper was held on the twenty-fifth of January, the anniversary of Robert Burns’ birth. On Burns Night, Scots gathered to drink whisky, eat haggis, read Burns’ poetry, and generally make merry.

  “A Burns Night is verra Scottish,” Andrew explained.

  “That it is, yer lofty English lordship.”

  It was the most Scottish of Scottish things Andrew could think of to do. Most importantly, it might be the proverbial last straw for one proper, English lady.

  Kieran shot him a smug, knowing grin. “Ye realize ye can just pull Lady Jane’s hair. Or put a frog in her bed. It will have the same effect.”

  Andrew frowned, pretending to not understand.

  His friend continued to grin merrily. “Rafe should be arriving soon. We should wait for him.”

  “I’ve already ordered the haggis to be made. It cannae wait.”

  “That settles that, I suppose.” Kieran placed his fists on his waist, that smile stretching wider. “Haggis waits for no man.”

  Andrew glared at his friend. Kieran’s expression was far too innocent.

  “A Burns Supper is the perfect way to put a bonnie English lass in her place,” his friend continued.

  Andrew grunted. “I’m merely wishing to continue offending my verra offendable English relatives.”

  “Keep telling yerself that.” Kieran winked at him.

  “Devil take ye,” Andrew muttered and walked off to find the cook.

  There would indeed be a Burns Supper.

  Dinner that evening began with Andrew motioning to the footmen to pour a small amount of whisky in the tumbler beside each gentleman’s plate; the ladies received Madeira. As usual, it was the five of them for dinner: Andrew, Kieran, Peter, Lady Jane, and Lady Hadley. Candlelight flickered from the candelabra on the table and sconces along the walls. A fire in the large hearth kept the cool May evening at bay. Footmen moved around the table with decanters.

  Lady Hadley, at the foot of the table, raised her eyebrows.

  Peter eyed his glass, clearly unsure if he wanted to travel that path again.

  Lady Jane determinedly avoided Andrew’s gaze, Prim Jane being in full-force tonight.

  Kieran grinned widely.

  Andrew stood, shifting his great kilt firmly on his shoulder.

  “Tonight, we celebrate the life and works of Robert Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire.”

  “Hear, hear,” Kieran said.

  “I suppose that yous dinnae ken much about Rabbie Burns, so I’ve asked Master MacTavish to tell yous about him.” Andrew gestured toward Kieran.

  Kieran nodded and stood as Andrew sat back down.

  “Rabbie Burns was the Ploughman Poet, born in Ayrshire south of Glasgow about fifty years ago. He wrote poems about Scotland and what it means tae be a Scot. Every year, Scots gather tae celebrate his life and poetry. A Burns Night begins with the Selkirk Grace, if yous could all join me.”

  Kieran bowed his head. Smirking, Andrew followed suit.

  Kieran intoned:

  “Some hae meat and canna eat,

  And some wad eat that want it,

  But we hae meat and we can eat,

  Sae let the Lord be thankit.”

  Kieran finished and sat down.

  Before anyone could say anything, Andrew stood again.

  “Please stand,” he said, words solemn.

  Lady Jane and Peter looked at one another before gradually rising to their feet. Lady Hadley was even slower to stand.

  Andrew motioned toward the footmen at the door. One opened the door with a flourish.

  “Now we salute the haggis,” Andrew said.

  The low hum of bagpipes sounded in the corridor and then burst into song. Tam MacDonald strode through the doorway, himself in a kilt, the sounds of the pipe ringing through the room. Behind Tam, a footman carried a haggis on a silver platter. The humble meat had been stuffed into a sheep’s stomach and then cooked until golden brown. The footman held the haggis aloft, as if it were the king of foods.

  Which, to Andrew’s Scottish point of view, it was.

  Two more footmen followed behind.

  The men made a full circuit of the room, Tam playing—a Scottish Pied Piper.

  They finished by standing around Andrew’s chair, the first footman setting the haggis before Andrew with a flourish.

  When Tam had finished playing, Andrew motioned for the guests to be seated.

  “Now it is customary to recite ‘Address to a Haggis’.” Andrew cleared his throat. He had been up half the night properly memorizing the long poem. “Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!”

  Andrew went on, the poem describing the haggis’ humble origins, its place of pride at the Scottish table. As was customary, he drew his sgian-dubh as he recited the words,

  “An cut you up wi’ ready slight,

  Trenching your gushing entrails bright . . .”

  Andrew slashed into the haggis, causing the ground meat to spill dramatically onto the platter, spreading outward like, well, gushing entrails.

  Kieran cheered.

  Peter chuckled.

  Lady Jane startled.

  For her part, Lady Hadley looked faint, shot him a frozen smile, stood . . .

  . . . and left the room.

  Andrew glanced at Kieran. Kieran shrugged.

  Andrew then met Lady Jane’s gaze. She raised her chin, daring him to do his worst.

  Hallelujah, she was made of sterner stuff than her mother.

  He grinned and continued on reciting the poem, finally finishing with a flourish—

  “Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware . . .

  But, if ye wish her grateful prayer,

  Gie her a Haggis.”

  Kieran and Peter clapped enthusiastically.

  Lady Jane kept her own hands clasped in her lap.

  The meal continued on from there. Footmen served cock-a-leekie soup before heaping mounds of haggis and mashed turnips and potatoes—neeps ‘n’ tatties—onto everyone’s plate.

  Lady Jane looked at the haggis before her with dubious eyes. She tasted a small bit, mouth pursed. Her eyebrows raised as she chewed. She went back for a second bite. Andrew took it to mean that she didn’t find haggis repugnant. Haggis, Andrew felt, was one of the delights of life. It looked strange but was, for all intents and purposes, lamb sausage.

  And sausage, in his opinion, was never a bad thing.

  After the main course, Kieran stood and gave the Immortal Memory—a tribute to Rabbie Burns, describing his life of poverty and his love of the lasses, all liberally laced with toasts, forcing the diners to raise a glass over and over.

  Both Peter and Lady Jane sipped cautiously. Peter because he clearly did not wish another hangover. Lady Jane because, well, she was a lady after all.

  From there, it was on to cheese and dessert.

  As the dessert plates were being cleared away, Andrew rose once more.

  “Heavens, there is more to the evening?” Lady Jane asked. “Is it not time for the ladies to retire and leave you to your port or scotch or whisky or . . . whatever?”

  “Nae
. Now comes the most important part of the evening for the ladies present. Or, in our case, lady.” He motioned toward her.

  “Truly?”

  “Aye. ’Tis time for the Address to the Lasses.”

  “Address to the Lasses?” Lady Jane wrinkled her nose. “Why does that sound like something I will regret hearing?”

  Andrew laughed. She wasn’t far off the mark.

  “As Master MacTavish stated earlier, Rabbie Burns had a deep devotion tae women from all walks of life—”

  “Isn’t that a polite way of stating the man was a philandering rakehell?” Lady Jane crossed her arms.

  Andrew shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as an affectionate respect for a wide variety of womenfolk.”

  Lady Jane’s lips flattened into a straight line, clearly not rethinking her opinion.

  “Burns said, ‘What signifies the life o’ man, An’ ’twere nae for the lasses O’.” Andrew paused, giving Lady Jane a direct look.

  She replied by settling back farther in her chair and drawing her eyebrows down.

  Fine.

  Andrew cleared his throat and continued, “Rabbie felt life was quite meaningless without the lasses. He was devastated when the father of his beloved Jean wouldnae let his daughter marry a poor poet.”

  “That does happen. Was she too highly born then?” Lady Jane asked.

  “Nae. I ken Jean was a laborer’s daughter, like Rabbie himself.”

  Lady Jane blinked. “Why would her father deny his permission?”

  “Och, he should have granted his permission.” Andrew sighed. “Jean was in a family way, after all.”

  “Pardon?” Lady Jane shook her head, face confused.

  “Jean was with child,” Kieran helpfully clarified.

  “Yes, I understood that, but the child was—”

  “She had twins.”

  “Fine. Twins. And Burns was the father of her children?”

  “Aye.”

  “And yet her father refused to allow his daughter to marry Mr. Burns, who was her social equal?”

  “Aye.”

  Lady Jane laughed, an astounded gasp of sound.

  “Heavens. Allow me to clearly understand this situation.” She leaned forward, tapping a finger against the tabletop. “This poor woman, Jean, found herself with child by Robert Burns. Burns offered to make an honest woman of her—thus avoiding the censure of their neighbors, the village, and the church. However, her father refused, feeling that being known as a woman of loose morals and the mother of illegitimate children was preferable to being the wife of Robert Burns?!” She clucked her tongue. “And this is the poet you so admire? A man whose reputation and behavior were so appalling?”

  Well.

  When she put it that way . . .

  Andrew screwed up his mouth.

  Kieran scratched his head.

  Peter laughed. “Good one, Jane. I hadn’t thought of it like that. It doesn’t quite recommend this Burns fellow, does it?”

  Kieran sighed, “Rabbie couldnae help it that the lassies found him so irresistible.”

  “Aye.” Andrew spread his hands wide. “It’s a problem for all us Scottish men, tae be honest. Our cross tae bear.”

  Lady Jane opened her mouth. Shut it. And then shook her head. “I am sure you are both quite delusional.”

  “Nae, the lasses cannae help themselves,” Andrew said.

  “Aye. A man strolls by in a kilt, and the lasses go all shoogly in the legs.” Kieran sagged in his chair, mimicking the motion of a lady swooning.

  “That is simply ridiculous.” Lady Jane shook her head.

  “’Tis the Lord’s own truth, Lady Jane.” Andrew pressed a hand over his heart.

  “Aye,” Kieran chimed in. “They dinnae call a kilt the passion pleats for nothing.”

  “Passion pleats?!” Peter hooted, slapping his knee.

  “Dinnae mock a fine kilt, Peter. The kilt swish is no’ tae be underestimated.”

  “The kilt swish?” Lady Jane’s tone dripped with scorn.

  “It’s a well-known fact that the lasses appreciate watching a man’s passion pleats swish as he walks.”

  “Particularly from the backside,” Kieran helpfully clarified.

  “Aye, allow me to show ye.” Andrew stepped away from the table, walked to the door with extra swagger in his step, turned, and strode back to the table. His kilt swinging like a bell back and forth with every step.

  He spread his hands wide. See what I mean.

  She shook her head. I’m not convinced.

  Andrew motioned to Kieran. He stood with a grin.

  “Watch carefully,” Andrew said.

  Side-by-side, he and Kieran walked to the door, shoulders back, head high. Andrew’s kilt bumped his knees as it swung. He could practically feel the intensity of Lady Jane’s eyes drilling him between the shoulder blades.

  Turning around, Andrew held Lady Jane’s gaze as he walked back. She tried to maintain a demur posture, but Andrew knew she had been looking.

  Rare was the woman who could resist a braw Scot in a kilt.

  Lady Jane pressed her lips together, clearly not wishing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Andrew was having none of it.

  He wanted Fiery Jane.

  Folding his arms across his chest, he angled forward. “Now, I dinnae want to argue with ye, Lady Jane, but I have noticed ye eyeing the kilt swish a time or two. Not just tonight.”

  “I have done no such thing, Lord Hadley.” Lady Jane’s brows drew down, while a hot flush crept up her neck, challenging her denial. “Precisely how much whisky have you imbibed this evening?”

  “I willnae allow you tae change the subject, Lady Jane.”

  “I am hardly changing the subject.” Lady Jane surged to her feet. “I am merely pointing out that you are wrong, my lord—”

  “I’m no’ wrong.”

  “—and furthermore, calling a kilt the passion pleats is the most absurd phrase—”

  “Accurate. Ye mean the most accurate phrase.”

  “I most certainly do not!” Lady Jane hurled the words at him.

  As they spoke, Andrew found himself leaning toward her, fists pressed against the tabletop, his entire body angled. For her part, Lady Jane motioned widely, all pretense of decorum forgotten—gray eyes flashing, chest heaving, auburn curls framing her fine-boned face.

  Fiery Jane, at last! Utterly freed and snapping with life.

  She was magnificent.

  It had taken nearly ten days of constant harassment, but Andrew had finally broken through her reserve.

  He felt like crowing from the rooftops.

  Right after he throttled her.

  “Yer just a wee bit frustrated because ye like ma kilt swish.” He waggled his eyebrows at her, deliberately antagonizing.

  “You are clearly either drunk or addled in the head.”

  “I’m no’ wrong. And yer no’ denying it either.”

  “Oh!” Lady Jane stamped her foot, hands fisted at her side. “If I were a man—”

  “Uh-hum.” Someone loudly cleared their throat.

  The sound instantly froze Andrew and Lady Jane.

  Turning around, Andrew saw Lord Rafe standing in the doorway, a traveling greatcoat still around his shoulders, hat in his hand.

  “The butler announced me,” he said, “but I believe your argument was so intense, you did not hear.” His dark eyes darted between them all, amused and obviously missing nothing.

  Before Andrew could say a word, Lady Jane erupted behind him.

  “Lord Rafe!”

  Andrew watched as Lady Jane blossomed before his very eyes. Every last ounce of reserve and hauteur vanished, her anger and frustration melting away. A welcoming, warm smile stretched across her face, a nearly incandescent light shining in her gaze.

  Something panged in Andrew’s chest at the sight. It was shocking how much a person could alter in only a moment’s time.

  Prim Jane was a handsome woma
n. Fiery Jane was resplendent. But this open, warm Lady Jane?

  She was astonishingly, beautifully lovely.

  Abruptly, he was utterly tired of playing the Scottish fool, of pretending to be something he was not. He wanted to be his whole self.

  And, worst of all . . . if he was fully honest with himself . . .

  . . . he wanted Lady Jane to notice.

  Jane could have cried with relief.

  At last! An ally!

  “Lord Rafe, how wonderful to see you!” She instantly moved around the table.

  Lord Rafe was a cousin of sorts. Their grandmothers were sisters, and so she and Lord Rafe had a passing acquaintance. But as he had a reputation for being something of a rake, they did not move in the same circles and, therefore, rarely saw each other.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t delighted to see him. “I had no idea you would be arriving. Mother said nothing about you visiting.”

  “Ah, well—” he began.

  “It is of no concern, regardless.” Jane motioned for a footman to take his greatcoat and hat. “You are just in time to regale us with stories of London while you eat dinner.” She nodded at another footman, indicating that a plate was to be brought for Lord Rafe.

  Turning back to the room, she squared her shoulders. Heaven knew what Lord Rafe would make of Lord Hadley and Master MacTavish.

  She expected Lord Hadley to be scowling at his Burns Supper being interrupted, but instead he stood calmly, a bemused expression upon his face.

  Shaking his head, Hadley took three steps forward and caught Lord Rafe in a rough embrace, slapping his back heartily.

  “Thought ye were going tae abandon me, ye scapegrace,” he said.

  “I pondered it but decided someone needed to ensure you and Kieran weren’t destroying this corner of Sussex.”

  “Aye.” Master MacTavish joined Hadley in greeting Lord Rafe. “It’s been a near thing, I must say. Ye’ve joined us in time for a Burns Supper.”

  “A Burns Supper?” Lord Rafe looked around the room. “But it’s not January?”

  As the men talked, Jane noticed several disturbing facts all at once.