Loving a Lady (Brotherhood of the Black Tartan Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  “Aye,” Lord Hadley agreed, expression solemn. “We are very worried about his safety.”

  Were they—

  Were these two gentlemen . . . serious?

  Wee Ewan?!

  Safety?!

  They had to be bamming her.

  She searched their faces for any hint of laughter.

  Had they come all this way to have a good laugh at her expense? Worse, were they going to subtly mock Ewan, as well?

  Indignation gathered in her chest, which had the unfortunate side-effect of sharpening her tongue.

  “I must meet your honesty with some of my own,” she replied, hands fisting in her lap. “I struggle to formulate a reply to your statements, gentlemen. You claim to be Mr. Campbell’s friends, and yet you insist that he is wee and in need of care. Have either of you actually met Mr. Campbell?”

  “Pardon?” Lord Hadley sat up straighter.

  “Mr. Campbell,” she continued, “is fully capable of defending himself.”

  “Yes,” Sir Rafe nodded, “we are well aware of Ewan’s physical size. In a bout of fisticuffs, he has no equal.”

  “Precisely. He is most capable and does not require hovering caretakers,” Violet said.

  “Mmmm. Hovering caretakers,” Lord Hadley repeated.

  Sir Rafe leaned toward his friend, murmuring sotto voce, but Violet heard nonetheless. “I like her.”

  “She certainly has fire,” Lord Hadley returned, equally quiet. “That’s a start, I suppose.”

  Sir Rafe lifted his eyes back to her. “Aside from his obvious size, what have been your impressions of Mr. Campbell thus far, Lady Kildrum?”

  “Pardon? Impressions?”

  “Of the more metaphorical variety.”

  Violet felt as if the conversation were careening rather drunkenly around the room. “Mr. Campbell is . . . as you said . . . a sensitive soul.”

  “And that is your only opinion of him?”

  Violet sat back, nonplussed. How was she to reply to that?

  Actually, your lordship, I find your friend rather delectable and have been having fantasies which would set a debutante’s cheeks aflame . . .

  She went with, “Mr. Campbell is one of the more remarkable gentlemen of my acquaintance.”

  True, but perhaps less ardently confessional.

  “A gentleman, you say,” Lord Hadley narrowed in on that one word. “You consider Mr. Campbell to be a gentleman, then?”

  “Birth alone does not render one a gentleman, in my opinion. Mr. Campbell is a gentle man in every sense.” Violet narrowed her eyes at Lord Hadley. “Furthermore, I must say I dislike the sense that you are simultaneously toying with me and insulting Mr. Campbell in the process.”

  A bemused sort of expression flitted across Lord Hadley’s face. He sat back in his chair.

  “Very well, my lady, permit us tae be a bit more blunt.” Lord Hadley laced his fingers across his stomach. “Our Ewan is a man of deep feeling. He would cut off his arm tae help someone else in need.”

  “Aye, he will not look after his own heart,” Sir Rafe chimed in. “That’s why we’re here, looking after it for him. As his dear friends, we dislike the thought that our Ewan is being manipulated or misused in some way.”

  “Aye,” Lord Hadley agreed. “We need tae ensure he is being cherished and appreciated properly.”

  Violet frowned. “This is somewhat absurd. Of course, we have treated Mr. Campbell with respect. We have been kind and accommodating to him—”

  “Yes, but what about yourself, in particular?” Sir Rafe interrupted.

  “Me?”

  “Aye. Despite not being born to it, Ewan is a gentleman, as you said. It says much about your ladyship that you would recognize that fact. Have you found the differences between your station and Mr. Campbell’s to be an impediment?”

  Violet reeled back, trying desperately to grasp the undercurrents of the conversation.

  “An impediment? An impediment to what?”

  Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe exchanged a long glance.

  Finally, Sir Rafe gave the smallest nod and turned back to her.

  “We fear we shall simply have to state the matter baldly.” He fixed her with a stern stare. “We are acquainted with the state of affairs between yourself and Mr. Ewan Campbell.”

  “In other words, Lady Kildrum,” Lord Hadley looked at his fingernails and then back up to Violet. “We wish to ensure that your intentions toward our Ewan are honorable.”

  His gaze was steady but intent. Sir Rafe, as well.

  The look of men who knew full well why she had jumped to Ewan’s defense.

  Oh!

  Have you found the differences between your station and Mr. Campbell’s to be an impediment . . . ?

  Wish to ensure your intentions are honorable . . .

  Were they saying—?!

  But . . . how would they know—?

  Yet if they were intimate friends with Ewan, then they might—?

  Oh, heavens!

  Violet felt the blush start at the back of her neck, creeping across her chest before scouring her cheeks. She was sure her entire face was impossibly strawberry red.

  Both Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe lounged comfortably in their chairs, looking on with a sort of hearty fascination.

  Sir Rafe turned to his friend.

  “She genuinely cares for him. I’m sure of it,” he whispered cheerfully, slapping his hands on his knees. “I’m giving them my blessing.”

  “I’m no’ so sure,” Lord Hadley replied. He spoke to Sir Rafe, but his eyes remained on her. It was clear his words were intended to reach her ears. A sort of oblique warning, as it were. “And even if she does care for him, it doesnae follow that she will be willing to buck all of society for him. I dinnae like the thought of a lady toying with Ewan’s tender heart. He deserves gentleness and honesty.”

  “Ohhhhhh!” Violet resorted to fanning her cheeks. Surely the heat of her blush threatened to catch her fichu on fire.

  “I like her,” Sir Rafe repeated, leaning toward Lord Hadley. “I kept telling ye the entire ride here, ‘Lady Kildrum is a decent lass. She wouldn’t deliberately trifle with a man.’ But no, ye kept insisting that wee Ewan was in some sort of mortal peril—”

  “She’s a countess, Rafe.” Lord Hadley waved a hand toward her, turning to speak with his friend as if Violet weren’t in the room. “Ewan deserves a woman who sees him for the remarkable human that he is, not merely a noblewoman who has a fancy for strapping lads.”

  “Yes, but she appears to have a rather forward-thinking view of our Ewan.”

  “That doesnae mean she sees him as marriage material.”

  Violet briefly wondered if a hell dimension had just opened and slipped her into some bizarre reality. The heat practically steaming from her skin supported this conclusion.

  Several facts presented themselves:

  One, Sir Rafe and Lord Hadley did indeed care deeply for Ewan.

  Two, neither gentleman seemed to take exception to Ewan and herself courting. In fact, they gave every appearance of welcoming such a match. (Not, of course, that she and wee Ewan were courting, per se, but the possibility of it . . .) Astonishingly, they appeared to be deciding if she were worthy of their friend, not the other way around.

  Three, what possible answer could she give?!

  I say, my lords, I give you my word as a gentlewoman that I shall not ravish your friend . . . no matter how thoroughly I am tempted.

  She pressed one final distressed hand to her cheeks and then gave a shaky laugh.

  “I assure you, gentleman, that any . . .” Violet floundered for the right word. “. . . intentions . . . I may harbor toward Mr. Campbell are entirely honorable.”

  “Well, that’s good enough for me.” Sir Rafe pressed his hands to his knees, as if he meant to rise.

  Lord Hadley placed a staying hand on his friend’s arm, holding him in place. The earl leaned forward, gaze intent.

  “Since we’re being h
onest here, Lady Kildrum, I need to say my piece.” Lord Hadley fixed her with an icy stare. “Ewan Campbell is the best of men. I count him a very dear friend. I will not see him trifled with or his affections abused. If I find out that ye have dealt falsely with him, there will be words between us . . . earl to earl, as it were—”

  Crack!

  The door to the drawing room crashed open, saving Violet from having to respond to Lord Hadley’s not-so-veiled threat.

  Ewan all but ran into the room, chest heaving, hair windswept, great kilt askew on his chest.

  Violet and her guests lurched to their feet.

  “Came as soon as I heard . . . footman . . . brought word,” Ewan gasped, panting to regain his breath. “What’s happened . . .”

  “Hallo there, Ewan.” Sir Rafe rocked back on his heels, voice aggravatingly cheerful. “Lovely of ye to join us—”

  “Aye,” Lord Hadley agreed, waving an arm far too expansively to be guiltless. “Nothing amiss here. Been having a wee chat with Lady Kildrum is all.”

  Sir Rafe and Lord Hadley were terrible liars.

  Ewan froze, lungs still working like a bellows, gaze darting between his friends and Violet. His eyes lingered on her, tracing her cheeks and collarbone, surely noting the telltale traces of her blush.

  Violet could practically see the cogs turning in his brain, connecting his friends’ overly-expressive bonhomie with the true intent of their visit.

  “Please tell me this isnae what it looks like,” Ewan ground out.

  Lord Hadley pasted on an innocent expression. “I cannot say what this looks like tae ye.”

  “I specifically asked youse not to meddle in my life,” Ewan replied.

  “Are we meddling?”

  Ewan groaned and rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Out!” he commanded, pointing toward the door.

  “Now, Ewan,” Lord Hadley began, walking toward his friend, “we were just on our way back from Fraserburgh and wanted to have a wee chat with her ladyship.”

  Seeing the two men side-by-side was telling, Violet decided. Lord Hadley was not a small man at over six-feet tall. But Ewan still had several inches on him.

  “Out!” Ewan repeated, jabbing his finger toward the door. “Rafe and yourself! Out!”

  Sir Rafe, at least, had the decency to appear ashamed, though the grin on his lips was a little telling.

  “Lady Kildrum.” He sketched a bow in her direction before heading for the door.

  “Ewan,” Lord Hadley began again, “ye know how deeply we care about ye—”

  “Out!” Ewan repeated. “Ye’ve overset her ladyship, Andrew. And I certainly dinnae need ye both clucking over me like a pair of mother hens—”

  Violet was torn between melting into an embarrassed puddle or laughing at their lordships’ sheepish expressions, hanging their heads like recalcitrant school boys.

  Though it was not lost on her that Ewan and Lord Hadley were on a first-name basis, indicating a very close friendship indeed.

  “Ewan—”

  “Nae, Andrew, I’m no’ hearing it!”

  Ewan actually moved behind Lord Hadley and pushed him toward the door where Sir Rafe already stood, laughing.

  Violet had to blink just to ensure she had not mistaken the absurdity of it all.

  Ewan behind Lord Hadley, pushing the man much as one might propel a wheelbarrow up a steep hill.

  Lord Hadley protesting his friend’s hold, to little avail.

  Ewan was an unstoppable force pressing his lordship closer and closer to the exit.

  “Ewan, we’re here because we care about ye!”

  “I dinnae need such caring. Ye should be at home, caring for yer Jane.”

  “Who do ye think sent me here?!”

  “Jane knows I can manage myself just fine!”

  Finally accepting he would lose this battle, Lord Hadley twisted in Ewan’s hold and fixed Violet with a steely gaze over Ewan’s massive shoulder. A look indicating that even though Ewan was tossing him out, Lord Hadley would still hold Violet to her word.

  Earl to earl, as it were.

  Ewan slammed the door behind his friends.

  He whirled to face her, hands on his hips, chest heaving once more. He scraped a shaking hand through his red hair in a futile attempt to tame the unruly mass.

  To Violet’s purview, he was almost unbearably attractive. This adorable hulk of a man who blushed at the slightest provocation and tossed earls out of her drawing room with outraged aplomb.

  That blush of his made a grand appearance, spreading across his cheeks. Rather belatedly, Violet noted that Ewan was wearing the same dark tartan that his friends had sported.

  He cleared his throat, his face growing redder by the second.

  “I sincerely apologize for my friends, my lady.” He waved a hand toward the door. “They mean well, but—”

  “I will not have you apologize for them,” Violet interrupted, taking a step closer to him. “It is clear they care deeply for you.”

  Ewan nodded glumly, his blush surely scorching. He refused to meet her gaze, instead staring at a point near her toes, as if the mortification of the moment were too great to actually process all at once and one had to do it in stages.

  But, a quiet part of her pointed out, he had only apologized for his friends’ behavior . . .

  He had not refuted the substance of their discussion or the reason for their visit.

  Ewan . . . admired her.

  She knew this, of course. But it was only now truly sinking in.

  He held her in regard and perhaps wished to court her.

  As for her . . .

  . . . she admired him, too.

  So. Much.

  But . . . a vast ocean of expectations and responsibilities threatened to drown her. And, as ever, the specter of reputation and her sisters’ future loomed.

  She should not even contemplate selfishly tossing such concerns aside, no matter how attractive and kind the man was. Such an idea was madness, was it not?

  What was she to do?

  And why, why, why was she doomed to spend her life never knowing what to do?!

  The silence between them grew, each tick of the clock only furthering to deepen the fierceness of Ewan’s blush.

  18

  Ewan was quite sure he was going to kill his friends.

  A nice slow death, of course. One that probably involved thumb screws and dangling over pits of hungry alligators.

  No, not alligators. That was too kind. Sharks, perhaps?

  Or perhaps he should employ wee, carnivorous hamsters who used their tiny prehensile hands to feed on the flesh of high-handed lords?

  Merely tossing Andrew and Rafe out of the drawing room had not been nearly satisfying enough.

  Ewan held himself at rigid attention in the center of the room, agonizingly aware of the loud gusts of air in and out of his lungs, the uncomfortable heat of the blush scouring his skin . . .

  . . . the quiet, heavy weight of Violet’s gaze.

  He could not bear to look at her. To see the pity and discomfort in her lovely aquamarine eyes.

  Yes, she likely considered Ewan a friend of sorts. But friendship did not immediately lead to a more romantic attachment.

  He waited for the painful words that would come. Something achingly polite but firm, explaining that his friends were mistaken as to the state of her affections and so forth.

  But she said nothing.

  Finally, he broke under the weight of the ponderous silence.

  “Well,” he said, voice nearly hoarse, “if you will not allow me to apologize for my glaikit friends, then please allow me to apologize if my own behavior has been untoward in any way—”

  “Ewan . . .”

  He gasped.

  Had she—?

  His Christian name—?

  His eyes snapped to hers.

  There was not a trace of pity in her gaze.

  Wariness? Yes.

  Hesitance? Decidedly.r />
  But pity? No.

  “Violet . . .” he breathed in reply.

  It seemed the only thing he could say. As if an entire world were hidden in her name.

  “I like your friends.” She smiled faintly. “They worry over you, and I am grateful that you have people in your life who care. You . . . merit . . . such care.” A pause. “Ewan.”

  His blood was a stampede of hoof beats in his chest. He reminded his wayward heart that such words were not a declaration of love. Or even a statement of intent.

  Violet had merely been expressing her opinion.

  And yet . . . the way his name lingered on her lips . . . the whole felt like a caress.

  Hope exploded in his chest, a dragon wrenching free from its chains and soaring into the dazzling sunlit sky.

  Dimly, he tried to remind himself that poor crofters did not marry countesses.

  That the chasm between them was too great to span.

  That the fall from this height would be soul-crushingly brutal.

  But in the moment, with Violet right in front of him, staring at him with such emotion in her beautiful eyes—

  He failed to keep any thought other than she is so glorious in his brain.

  His hands ached to hold her, to sweep her against him, to beg her to truly consider him.

  She appeared equally frozen, as if fighting the same hundred warring thoughts.

  Finally, she moved, stepping forward.

  He watched her draw closer and closer. His mouth went dry; his breathing hitched.

  She stopped toe-to-toe. Her skirts brushed his kilt, the scent of lavender engulfing him. She popped upward, pressing a hand to his chest for balance, her mouth close to his ear.

  “Furthermore . . . I have greatly enjoyed every minute of our acquaintance . . . Ewan.” She whispered the words into his ear, warm air blowing across his skin, sending gooseflesh flaring to attention down his spine. She sucked in a deep breath, her nose skimming the column of his throat—the barest feather-soft touch—as she stepped back.

  Her eyes met his.

  She gave him that same faint smile.

  And then she left the room.

  I have greatly enjoyed every minute of our acquaintance . . . Ewan.

  Violet’s words were a glove slap to his senses.