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

by Nichole Van

Andrew lifted an eyebrow at his friend.

  “Such brooding,” Rafe laughed. “I can’t think that I’ve ever seen you like this over a woman. You are well on your way to being truly smitten.”

  “Haud yer wheesht,” Andrew muttered.

  Rafe laughed harder, the eejit. “For what it’s worth, I think you and Jane are good for each other.”

  Andrew snorted. “Keep your matchmaking ways tae yourself, Rafe. Don’t ye have your own wife tae find?”

  “Och, don’t remind me,” Rafe groaned. “My own search is abysmal, as ever. My father holds my purse-strings tight. I cannot marry without his blessing if I wish to have an income at all. And his choices and my wishes do not align.”

  Andrew grunted, knowing full-well Rafe’s tumultuous history with his domineering, ducal father.

  They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

  “Do ye think that Kieran will ever heal?” Rafe asked. “Will he ever release his guilt and grief over Jamie’s death?”

  More silence.

  “Nae,” Andrew whispered. “Some cuts slice too deep and no amount of grieving can ever heal them.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  The next morning Andrew sent for his retinue: secretaries, valet, groomsmen, and baggage. He hadn’t been lying when he said he was tired of pretending.

  So his English relatives would think poorly of him regardless? What did it signify? He could do nothing more or less than simply be himself.

  Naturally, Lady Hadley was overjoyed to have Lord Rafe in residence.

  For the first time in over a week, Lady Hadley had tea sent to the drawing room, encouraging Rafe—and by extension, Andrew—to join her and her children.

  Andrew arrived a few minutes late, as his valet had felt the need to meticulously brush his superfine coat.

  He strode into the blue drawing room, nodding at the footman who opened the door for him. Lady Hadley and Lady Jane sat before the fire, chatting amiably with Rafe. Peter stood near the mantel.

  Every head swung his way.

  Dead silence descended.

  Lady Jane, in particular, sat taller, eyes widening. Not that Andrew noticed . . . too much.

  Lady Hadley surveyed Andrew—turned out as any proper English lord in fawn unmentionables, silk embroidered waistcoat, blue tailcoat, and polished Hessian boots—with an approving nod.

  “I must say, Hadley,” she said, “Lord Rafe has done you a service in assisting you with your wardrobe. I understand he has seen to providing you with a proper valet, as well.” She smiled—a brittle, condescending thing—and then poured tea.

  Andrew met Rafe’s eye as Lady Hadley spoke, a grin tugging at his lips.

  Andrew sat and then listened as Lady Hadley cooed and fawned over Rafe, leaving Andrew torn between bemusement at the difference in her behavior and commiserating with Rafe over the depth of her attention.

  Lady Jane sat beside her mother, every last ounce of the fire from the night before gone, doused and utterly stamped out.

  Lady Hadley poured some tea, dropped in two lumps of sugar, and motioned for Lady Jane to hand it across to Andrew. Lady Jane obligingly took the cup and saucer, but she clinked the edge on the tea tray in the process, sending a wee bit of tea sloshing over the edge onto the saucer.

  “Heavens, Jane, have a care.” Lady Hadley’s nostrils flared, glancing down at the cup. “You are fortunate Lord Hadley is not so much a gentleman that he cares about a little spilled tea.”

  Lady Jane made no reply. She merely smiled tightly and handed the cup and saucer across to Andrew.

  Andrew felt his ire rising. Why did Lady Hadley endlessly scold Jane?

  Was Jane’s placid demeanor her mother’s doing then? And to what end? To help Jane secure a husband?

  A thinking man did not want a pale milksop as a bride. Such women appealed to men who preferred subservience.

  But Lady Jane struck him as far too intelligent to seek such a marriage. And her mother held no real sway over Jane—not monetarily or physically, at least. Nor did she and her mother appear emotionally close.

  So why did Lady Jane work so diligently to hide herself? And why did Andrew, more and more, feel like he needed to do something about it?

  He worried that Rafe might have the right of it—perhaps he was well on his way to being truly smitten.

  Over the next several days, no matter how many times he told himself it was none of his concern, his mind insisted on returning to the puzzle of Lady Jane again and again. It was a conundrum that he couldn’t solve.

  Worse, this meant Jane had claimed a place firmly in his thoughts, chasing away nearly every other concern.

  Curse Rafe for placing the idea in the first place.

  It was maddening.

  Andrew did not brood over a lady.

  And yet . . . he was quite sure he was brooding.

  Employing some logical gymnastics, he determined the only way to resolve this problem—and, by extension, achieve some mental peace—was to spend more time with Lady Jane.

  Perhaps if he got to know her better, he would be able to puzzle out why she hid her spirited self and put this perplexing obsessiveness behind him.

  However, every time he sought Lady Jane out, she was busy consulting with the housekeeper or off calling on ailing tenants.

  After several days, Andrew feared she was avoiding him.

  It shouldn’t have annoyed him.

  He should have brushed it off and thought nothing more of it.

  And yet . . .

  . . . he brooded.

  How dare Lady Jane simply decide that he wasn’t worth knowing? How dare she decide that she wasn’t worth knowing? It was as if, in her attempts to negate him, she was negating herself. He wanted to shake her, to force her to act and live.

  In an effort to tame his wayward thoughts, Andrew took to the library one rainy afternoon. He had spent days with his steward and secretaries, going over the estate and addressing needs. The moody clouds begged him to relax and simply be.

  He had made a happy discovery the previous day. The cabinets in the middle of the library held an impressive collection of minerals—rocks and stones from all over the world, all meticulously presented.

  However, someone had organized them oddly. As best he could understand, the collection was arranged according to color, the stones extending through the cabinets like a rainbow. For example, red sedimentary sandstone was nestled next to pink crystalline quartz, even though the rocks were utterly opposite in nearly every other way.

  It made absolutely no sense.

  Shaking his head, Andrew took it upon himself to re-categorize everything into a more logical strata of crystalline stones moving through to granular. It would take forever, as he would have to carefully examine each rock, but at least future mineral enthusiasts would be able to find things more easily.

  Pushing back the sofa and chairs, he had two footmen lay down several white sheets. From there, he took all the minerals out of the cabinet and spread them on the floor, hundreds of small rocks dotting the white linen, all begging to be examined and reassigned a place in the collection.

  Andrew rubbed his hands together, excited about the prospect. Categorizing minerals was always an enjoyable task.

  An hour later, he had a magnifying glass pressed to his eye—examining the smoky quartz crystal in a piece of Cairngorm granite—when a loud gasp sounded.

  Andrew lifted his head to see Lady Jane standing in the open doorway, a hand to her mouth, horror in her eyes. As usual, she was immaculately dressed in a sage green morning dress, a white lace fichu tucked demurely into her bodice. The green highlighted the red in her auburn hair, turning the curls into liquid amber.

  Once again, his irrational brain unhelpfully noted that she was a remarkably lovely.

  He scrambled to his feet, setting down the magnifying glass and stone. “Lady Jane,” he bowed, acutely remembering the last time they had been together in the library.

  Th
ings had not gone well for him.

  And by the dismayed set of her mouth and the wideness of her eyes, Andrew had a sinking suspicion that this current encounter would go no better than his last.

  Though she was not entirely tucked into Prim Jane, so he supposed the situation wasn’t an utter loss. That said, she was not quite Fiery Jane either.

  “May I help ye?” he asked, tone mild.

  Lady Jane said nothing but instead advanced into the room, her eyes scouring the minerals spread everywhere.

  Andrew immediately saw the room through her eyes. Stones and rocks scattered about. Her tidy self was likely appalled at the mess.

  “I am simply organizing the stones.” He gestured around. “They were a bit of a mess, tae be honest. I will ensure that everything is neat—”

  He stopped. This was his house, blast it. He could make all the messes he wanted. He was hardly some recalcitrant boy. He would not apologize.

  “What are you doing?!” she hissed, advancing more quickly now.

  Andrew blinked, her tone catching him like cold water in the face. “Organizing the stones, as I said.”

  “Organizing them?!” She rotated in a circle, chest heaving, eyes still wide.

  “Yes. You see—”

  “How dare you?!” She whirled back to him.

  It was Andrew’s turn to look perplexed.

  Could he have an interaction with this woman that wasn’t contentious?

  “Pardon?” He pressed a hand to his chest, forcing himself to keep his voice low and steady. “I discovered a mineral collection in my library and decided to investigate it.”

  His words only served to upset her further. She stopped inches from his chest, poking a finger at him.

  “Not your minerals!” She emphasized each word with a jab to his shoulder. For a lass, she certainly packed a punch. The pressure of her finger was a searing stab of heat.

  He didn’t know what surprised him more. The idea that the minerals were not his, or the fact that she was voluntarily standing so close and touching him, eyes blazing.

  Regardless of the answer . . .

  . . . he had drawn out Fiery Jane.

  Hallelujah!

  Heavens but she was magnificent when fire lit within her. Her gray eyes snapped and pink touched her cheeks.

  He couldn’t resist a grin.

  Given her immediate and dramatic frown, grinning was not an appropriate reaction.

  “The minerals are not mine?” he asked.

  “No!” Jab.

  “They do not belong to the estate?”

  “No. They do not!” Jab, jab, jab.

  Andrew grinned wider.

  “Cease this!” Lady Jane stamped her foot before giving him one last jab. “How dare you come into this house with your Scottish accent and passion pleats and kilt swish and whisky and your big, bloody lummox of a body and then d-drag my m-minerals out of my c-cabinet and . . . and . . .”

  Lady Jane’s eyes had grown glossier and glossier as she spoke, emotion clogging her voice. She turned away from him, but not before Andrew saw her swipe at her cheek with a trembling hand.

  He had rarely felt more of an ass.

  He had wanted to crack her reserve.

  So . . . mission accomplished.

  But at what cost?

  15

  Jane crossed the library to the window overlooking the back lawn, desperately trying to wrangle her emotions into submission.

  Her tears were horrifyingly humiliating.

  She never cried.

  Rationally, she knew that Lord Hadley didn’t know the minerals were hers. He had simply found the minerals in his library and assumed they belonged to him. It was not an erroneous assumption. Nearly everything else in Hadley Park belonged to him.

  But her minerals did not.

  She did not.

  She clenched her fists, pushing her nails into her palms, focusing on the pain.

  You do not cry over minerals. Even if Hadley did just upend weeks of work.

  Why would he have understood how she had them organized?

  It didn’t help that Hadley had lost his more obnoxiously Scottish ways. Lord Rafe certainly had a civilizing effect on his friend. Or, as Jane suspected, Hadley had never been so uncivilized in the first place.

  Several men-of-business had arrived right behind Lord Rafe and were now firmly entrenched with the steward. Her mother assumed the men had accompanied Lord Rafe, but Jane was not quite so sure.

  Hadley’s accent was now only a trace of brogue. And his clothing . . .

  Jane swallowed.

  He had been potent in a kilt. But somehow seeing him tucked and tamed into a London Corinthian—knowing the rough Scotsman that lurked beneath the surface—was even more appealing.

  Maintaining her distance had been easier before Lord Rafe’s arrival. Jane had been able to convince herself that Hadley was unfit for polite society, despite his rank.

  But Lord Rafe’s easy friendship with him belied that idea. Lord Rafe’s manners were so impeccable that even the highest stickler in the ton could find no fault.

  And Rafe considered Hadley a peer.

  She felt helpless to stop her attraction to Hadley.

  But she needed to remain vigilant. What would happen if Montacute learned of this? Would he remove her from Peter?

  All of which, she assumed, explained the tears pricking her eyes.

  She felt more than heard him cross to stand behind her. A heavy sigh escaped him.

  “I fear I have offended ye, Lady Jane.” Scotland slipped more and more into his words as he spoke. “I didnae mean to cause offense. The minerals were sadly needing categorizing.”

  Jane shook her head. The idiot.

  “They were categorized,” she all but hissed, refusing to turn around, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how his actions had overset her.

  “They were?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose the minerals were verra pretty in the cabinets . . . with all the colors and such.” He shifted behind her. “I can appreciate the appeal.”

  Jane surveyed the scattered stones. She had kept written records, thank goodness, but this would take days to re-sort.

  “The colors are not just pretty, my lord.” Jane bit her cheek, pressing nails harder into her palm. “They are the most significant finding of my categorization. An unexpected ancillary effect.” Giving her cheeks one last swipe, she turned around. “For the last while, I have been reviewing my field notes and meticulously organizing my entire collection according to the location where they were found—”

  “Location? Why would you organize minerals by location?” he asked, his tone stating his low opinion of her intellectual capabilities.

  Grrrr.

  “It was not as foolish as it sounds, my lord.” Unbidden, Jane felt her own temper rising again. “Surprising as it may be, there is more than fan etiquette and forms of address between my ears.”

  He blinked, nonplussed.

  Jane did not back down. She waved a hand over her scattered work. “I was merely testing a theory. But I quickly realized that color can be a function of location.”

  Hadley studied her with what could only be described as befuddled confusion.

  “Color is a function of location?”

  “Yes. For example, that piece of prehnite there—” She pointed to a pale, translucent green stone near her foot. “—and that chunk of sandstone with the strip of glauconite in it—” She pointed to a larger sedimentary rock sporting a wide, green streak in its layers. “—were found near one another.”

  He looked at the rocks indicated, brows drawing down. His hands went up on his hips, a finger tapping as if thinking.

  “The crystalline prehnite was found near the granular glauconite? And both with the same coloration, despite being entirely different types of rock?” he finally asked. “Was there any moss agate in the area?”

  It was Jane’s turn to blink.

  No on
e ever asked a follow-up question.

  No one ever asked her about her mineral fascination—full stop.

  It was an embarrassing peccadillo to be kept secret, not something to be celebrated. Peter occasionally teased her about it, but that was it.

  Jane swallowed. How was she to manage this?

  It was one thing to consider Hadley an attractive brute.

  It was something else altogether to see him as a clever intellectual, a kindred soul.

  “Uhmm, I would need to check my field notes,” she replied, voice softer. “There were more green crystalline rocks than granular in that particular location, but notably, all the rocks were green, regardless of type. Even the marble had green inclusions.”

  “That is fascinating.” Hadley nodded, still contemplating the rocks, still tapping that finger. “I think I read a paper hinting at that very thing just last month—”

  “Mr. Johnson’s work on Bavarian mineralogy?”

  Hadley lifted his head, meeting her eyes directly. His blue gaze plumbed hers, sparking with intelligence.

  Something breathless passed between them. A nearly living thing with fluffing feathers, puffing outward and fluttering with excitement.

  Hadley swallowed.

  Jane bit her lower lip.

  His eyes followed the motion and then immediately rose back to her gaze. But even that small movement sent heat climbing up her neck.

  Oh, heavens.

  “Aye,” he finally replied. Was his voice suddenly hoarse?

  “I quite enjoyed the article,” she continued. “It’s what prompted me to examine my own collection—”

  “Your collection?” He spread his hands wide.

  “Yes.”

  A long pause.

  His eyes found hers again. They stared and stared, the silence lingering and stretching.

  Hadley’s chest rose and fell, reminding Jane that why, yes, she needed to breathe, too.

  They both took a perfectly synchronized breath.

  One. Two. In. Out.

  “You like tae study and collect rocks and minerals?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Like an amateur mineralogist?” His voice had definitely gone gruff.

  “I’d like to think that I’m a bit more advanced in my understanding than an amateur.”