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

by Nichole Van

“Regardless,” Ewan interrupted after a moment, “do either of youse know where my sister is now?”

  Mrs. Bruce blinked and then let loose a merry laugh. “Oh aye, lad, ye dinnae care how long it’s been, I reckon. Your Mhairi is there.” She pointed at a village barely visible on the opposite side of the wide loch. “She re-married the innkeep across the way in Plockton.”

  That is how, the next morning, Ewan found himself on a boat being ferried across Loch Carron to Plockton. He held Violet’s hand as the boat rocked.

  How this exquisite creature could love him was almost beyond his ken. That she was with him now, at this moment, when he confronted his past—

  Ewan swallowed back the tightness in his throat.

  His heart hammered the closer they drew to Plockton.

  Was Mhairi here? Would she welcome him? Or would she slam the door on him as she had eight years ago?

  They disembarked on a wee pier. Violet tucked her hand into his elbow, giving his arm a comforting squeeze. Undoubtedly, she could feel the jittery tension of his muscles.

  They climbed their way up a small rise toward a cluster of buildings.

  A woman stood beside one of the houses, emptying a bucket. She shaded her eyes, looking toward them. Surely visitors, particularly well-dressed ones, were an anomaly.

  Abruptly, the woman dropped her bucket, hiked up her skirts, and sprinted toward them. The motion dislodged her matron’s cap, sending a spill of bright red hair down her back.

  Finally, recognition sunk in.

  With a hoarse cry, Ewan dropped Violet’s hand and met the woman half-way, scooping her hysterical body into his arms.

  “You’re alive!” she sobbed in Gaelic, her face buried in his shoulder. “You’re alive! You’re alive! Ah, my darling Eòghann, you’re alive!”

  Ewan wanted to speak, but only a muffled cry emerged.

  He held her fast, not knowing where his trembling ended and hers began.

  “Mhairi,” he gasped. “Sweet Mhairi. I am so glad I’ve finally found ye.”

  He marveled at the slight weight of her. But that had always been Mhairi; her personality larger than her actual person.

  “You’re here! You’re here, at last,” she wept into his shoulder.

  Her body shook from the violence of her sobbing, great gusting cries.

  “Hush, Mhairi,” he crooned, just as he had when she was a wee bairn.

  “I’m so s-sorry,” she hiccupped. “I d-dinnae m-mean what I said.”

  “I should have come tae ye sooner. The fault in my own—”

  “I d-dinnae mean tae f-force ye away so thoroughly.”

  “All is forgiven, sister mine.”

  “Nae.” She shook her head, the motion rocking against his chest. “I’ll never forgive myself for it. I was young and foolish and so incredibly s-stupid—”

  She broke off with another soft cry.

  Ewan clutched her to him as they both released their grief and relief.

  Finally, he set her down, pushing her away enough that he could see all of her

  “Enough,” he said, still speaking in Gaelic. “Let us both admit tae being wrong and try to forge a better future.”

  She sniffed, “Very well.”

  “Let me look at ye properly.” He stepped back.

  “I’m a mess!” She pushed her hair out of her face, stopping to wipe her wet cheeks with the apron tied around her waist. “Can ye not see?”

  “I dinnae care,” he laughed. “Mhairi, my heart fair sings tae see ye.”

  “Ewan, ye must have come so very far—” She paused, finally noting his traveling companions.

  Ewan turned to see Violet wiping her own cheeks with a handkerchief. Even Sir Joshua appeared emotional.

  “Oh!” Mhairi blushed bright red. “Ye have fine guests, and here I am, a shambles. I cannae—”

  “Nae, Mhairi. They are as glad to see ye, as I am. I have tae know, are ye happy, sister? How I have worried about ye—”

  “Me?! Och, it all came aright with me. McDoughal died about two years into our marriage, may God rot his soul—”

  “Mhairi!”

  “’Tis the truth. He was a beast of a person, that man. But I found my Callum after that. Though Mr. Callum MacAlpin would say he found me,” Mhairi blushed again in earnest, her entire demeanor softening. “However it happened, I couldnae want for a better husband or father.”

  “Father?!”

  “Aye,” Mhairi laughed, a joyful peal of sound. “Ye’re an uncle, dinnae ye know it! I’ve a wee lass, Catriona, and a rowdy lad, Ian, and they both run me a merry dance.”

  “I cannae wait tae meet them.”

  “And ye shall. But what about you? Ye seem tae have landed on your feet. Are ye a famous painter yet?” She darted a shy glance at Violet and Sir Joshua behind him. “I would hope so, seeing these fine folk with ye.”

  Ewan laughed. “I do paint. I attended the Royal Academy and have been painting for several years now.” He turned to Violet and Sir Joshua, switching to English. “As ye have probably deduced, this is my sister. Lady Kildrum, may I present Mrs. Mhairi MacAlpin.”

  “Lady Kildrum.” Mhairi’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. She muttered to him in Gaelic. “Och, brother, I told ye tae make something of yourself, but I didnae expect ye tae reach so high. But then, ye’ve always been a wee bit of a show-off.”

  He pulled Mhairi close, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  “I’m just glad it all led me back tae you.”

  Much later that evening, Ewan relaxed before the fire in the dining room of Mhairi’s wee inn, Violet curled into his side.

  Sir Joshua sat at the only table, regaling Mhairi and Callum with the story of his and Violet’s journey to Loch Carron. Callum was a stocky fellow with a quick smile. Ewan’s niece, Catriona, was curled into her father’s shoulder, sound asleep, red curls plastered to her cheeks. Ian was playing with dogs at his mother’s feet.

  Ewan could practically see the bands of gold and silver weaving between them all, casting the scene in a warm, burnished light that spoke of deep-seated love and comfort.

  This. This very moment.

  All the hardships, all the grief . . . would this brief point in time be so extraordinarily sweet without the pain that had come before it?

  “You seem to be thinking quite hard there, Mr. Campbell,” Violet murmured against his chest.

  He smiled.

  Yes, it was scandalous to be holding her like this. But the tolerant eyes of Sir Joshua and his sister said they did not begrudge him this wee indulgence.

  Mhairi was happy. She was loved and cared for. Callum was indeed a good man. His eyes sang with devotion every time he looked at his lovely wife. Ewan could not have wanted better for his sister than this.

  And Violet was here.

  “Part of me still cannae believe that you’re here, mo chridhe.” He pressed a kiss to her head. “That even after seeing with your own eyes the abject poverty of my upbringing, the enormous differences between our stations—”

  “Ewan Campbell, I will chant this litany for years until you believe it. I adore seeing the land and people that formed you. I love seeing how much you were missed and treasured.”

  He held her close for a moment, struggling to help his Violet understand. He wanted a life with her, but he did not lie to himself that it would always be easy.

  “I love ye for it, lass,” he said, “but I suspect part of me will always wrestle with the unequal footing of our relationship. Of course, I will bear it. I love ye enough tae endure any hardship. But I worry that the weight of it will slowly erode the foundation of our love. That we are perhaps naive to think we can overcome it.”

  “Ah, my love, I think that you are not quite viewing the situation through the proper lens.” She nuzzled in closer. “Critics might see us as unequal in this moment, but you and I feel no true unevenness when we are together. And I would argue that this outside perception of inequality is a fleeting thing. You are ju
st embarking on what promises to be a spectacular artistic career—”

  “Which one bad injury could end tomorrow.”

  “Of course, it could. But it might not. Someday—and someday soon, I predict—I will be known as the wife of the famous artist, Ewan Campbell.”

  Ewan frowned. Hadn’t Sir Joshua said something similar just a few weeks ago? Perhaps it was time he more fully believed it.

  Violet continued, “Either of us could suffer some irreparable harm tomorrow, but it would not change the fundamental structure of my love for you. Do you not see? Our fortunes will surely ebb and flo. Our duties will change over the years. But our commitment to one another—our desire to forge a life together—will not. We must simply cling to the bedrock of our love.”

  “I ken that, but it feels like too much—”

  “Would it help if you were somewhat perturbed at me?”

  Ewan pulled back to look down at her.

  “Pardon?”

  “I may have done two things before I left Kilmeny Hall . . . well, myself and Uncle Joshua.” She bit her lip, her eyes darting away. “You may not like them. No. Scratch that. You likely will not like them.”

  Ewan’s smile grew. Her concern was adorable.

  “What did you do?” He jostled her with his shoulder.

  Violet sighed and pushed upright. “Well, as you surely know, Lord Hadley when he visited was very stern in his admonishments to me—”

  “Was Andrew rude to ye?” Ewan’s brows drew down.

  “No, no, nothing like that.” She placed a hand on his arm. “But he did tell me that I could ask for help from him, if needed. Earl-to-earl, to be exact.”

  Ewan grinned. That sounded like Andrew.

  “What did ye ask for?”

  Violet laced her fingers together. “I wrote him a letter and requested Lady Hadley’s help in sponsoring my sisters for a London Season next year—”

  “That is a brilliant suggestion!”

  “Do you truly think so?” She looked at him shyly.

  “Aye. Jane will happily take it on. I’m sure that Rafe’s wife, Lady Sophie, will help, too. Between the two of them, they are acquainted with half the ton and related to the other half, so it will go well for your sisters, I am sure. Ye were right clever tae think of it, Lady Kildrum.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Why did ye believe that would upset me?”

  “Well, I am taking liberties with your friends.”

  “As you know, any true friend of mine will be a true friend of yours, lass.”

  “I’m coming to understand that.”

  He leaned down and, darting a quick glance to verify that no one else was looking, pecked her lips.

  “What was the second thing?” he asked.

  Violet heaved a long sigh, pursing her mouth.

  “Violet?” He nudged her again. “What did ye do?”

  “Uncle showed me your painting, the one you did of me.”

  Ewan froze. Was that good?

  She smiled at him, a watery, trembling smile. “I adore it. It is luminous and perfect and so . . . me! I couldn’t allow it to languish, and so perhaps . . . uhm . . .”

  “Perhaps?”

  She closed her eyes and said the next words on a rush, “Uncle Joshua and I talked it over. In short, he sent the painting to London with his own to be submitted to the Royal Academy Exhibit.”

  Ewan barely stopped his gasp.

  “Ye did . . . what?”

  “We sent it to London.” She turned to him, eyes pleading. “It was too brilliant not to be sent. And Uncle Joshua made a compelling argument. He said that instead of being circumspect, we should be bold in declaring our love. The painting is a vivid advertisement, if you will, of how much you and I love one another. Uncle thinks it will sway popular opinion. I have no intention of hiding in the shadows, Ewan Campbell. I want the world to know.”

  “How much I love ye, lass?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, wiping a tear off her cheek. “I want everyone to know that we have chosen this happiness.”

  “Love is enough.”

  “Precisely,” she said. “And we shall live happily ever after to prove it.”

  And she emphasized her point with a very public, very loud kiss.

  Epilogue

  Hadley House

  London, England

  September 12, 1820

  Three months later

  You look exquisite tonight, wife,” Ewan murmured behind Violet, pressing a slow kiss into the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

  She shivered from the contact and then met his gaze in the looking glass before her.

  “As do you, husband,” she smiled.

  Ewan did appear equally striking, tall and imposing in his tight-fitting coat. He had foregone his usual kilt tonight in favor of more traditional evening clothes. But the slash of Jamie’s tartan across his chest loudly proclaimed his heritage.

  They stood in their assigned bed chamber at Hadley House. Violet’s maid had just put the finishing touches on her ladyship’s hair before curtsying and slipping out as Ewan stepped in, his eyes gleaming in appreciation when he saw her dress.

  She smoothed her hands down the layers of gauze and blue silk . . . the very dress he had painted.

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, and Violet turned in his embrace, arching up on tiptoe to place a lingering kiss on his lips.

  “Are ye sure we have to attend the ball this evening?” he asked.

  “Quite sure,” she replied on a sigh. “We are rather the entire point of the ball. It is a celebration of our wedding, after all.”

  Violet often laughed at the sheer wonder of her life. Every day, she gave thanks that she had not given up, that she and Ewan had found the courage to carve a life together.

  After discovering Mhairi and her family happy and whole on Loch Carron, Ewan had been reluctant to immediately leave. He wished to spend time with this sister and get to know his niece and nephew. Sir Joshua had been excited to linger, as he wished to paint the local scenery.

  And so Ewan and Violet had passed an absolutely idyllic pair of weeks with Ewan’s family. It had been everything she imagined leaping off a cliff would be—exhilarating, flying, freeing.

  She had fallen deeply in love with the place of Ewan’s birth. The shocking beauty of Loch Carron on a cloudless day. The dramatic rise of the Cuillin mountains on the Isle of Skye looming across the Inner Sound.

  She and Ewan took long walks, him showing her every nook and cranny of the land that had formed him. She would sit reading for hours—treatises on agriculture, as was now her bent—as he sketched and painted. It was on one those afternoons that Ewan sank to one knee and officially proposed marriage. She had joyously accepted.

  In the days before their departure, Ewan and Violet made an important decision. Knowing that Mhairi and Callum could not leave their wee inn to travel to Kilmeny Hall for the wedding—the distance was simply too great and the time required too long—they had asked Ewan’s family to join them for a handfasting ceremony.

  Violet would forever remember walking down the path to the beach, Uncle Joshua escorting her, a crown of heather on her head and a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand. A small crowd had awaited them. Mhairi and Callum, with wee Catriona and Ian. A few other villagers.

  And then Ewan, magnificent in his great kilt of russet and blue plaid, a matching sprig of heather tacked to the lapel of his coat. He had smiled to see her, the expression so achingly in love, Violet feared her heart would break from sheer happiness.

  The waves had lapped the rocks as she and Ewan plighted their troth to one another, declaring their love and life-long devotion. Mhairi acted as a witness, binding their hands with a length of silk cord, tying Ewan and Violet together both literally and symbolically.

  Violet cried. Ewan scrubbed his cheek with his knuckles. Even Sir Joshua had reached for his handkerchief.

  The tears and emotions of the moment had been echoed six weeks
later, when she and Ewan exchanged vows again, this time before God in the parish kirk near Kilmeny Hall. Her father and sisters were in attendance, and her father even mustered a wan smile and handshake for Ewan afterwards.

  Uncle Joshua had been able to help his brother see reason. Her uncle contended that reputation depended upon public opinion, and if family and close friends supported Violet’s marriage, many others would follow suit. By withholding his support, her father was ultimately doing more harm than good.

  Miraculously, her father had agreed, giving Violet and Ewan his blessing.

  And now, weeks later, they were in London, about to attend a wedding ball in their honor hosted by Lord and Lady Hadley. Parliament was still in session this year—there was much to do with a new king on the throne—and most of Polite Society remained in London. Lady Hadley said this would be the last engagement before her confinement.

  “Will we be snubbed tonight, do ye ken?” Ewan murmured.

  “Unlikely. Lady Hadley is well-liked, and it would be odd for members of the ton to accept her invitation just to publicly snub us. If anything, the ball tonight will be a crush. Everyone is eager to meet you.”

  “Me? Nae, lass, we’ve already been over this—”

  “I will hear no more dissembling, husband.” Violet leaned back in his arms, fixing him with an amused smile. “You are the talk of the Town, the latest sensation. Your painting—”

  “Your painting,” he clarified.

  “Very well. Your painting of me has become the highlight of the Royal Academy Exhibition, which to be honest, surprises me not at all.”

  That was the truth.

  The Academy had accepted the painting into the Exhibition and, yes, it had been hung ‘on the line’ in great prominence at Somerset House. And, as Uncle Joshua had predicted, the power of the work had sparked public sympathy for the more intimate relationship Violet shared with its creator, now her husband.

  One of the broadsheets had run a long, favorable article about it, describing in glowing terms how the painting was an allegory of marital adoration. The sentiment had caught the public imagination and had turned the young couple from outcasts to societal darlings almost overnight. Lord Hadley and Uncle Joshua had jointly hinted that they may have had a hand in the timing and placement of the newspaper article.