Suffering the Scot (Brotherhood of the Black Tartan, #1)

by Nichole Van

Though Lady Hadley declared herself a devout Anglican, Jane believed her mother’s true religion was a fervent belief in her exalted station in life.

all Polite Society knew the word Scot already encompassed impoverished and coarse.

Ladies never indulge in broad emotions, Jane, Lady Hadley would say. Emotion, if it must be shown, should be conveyed through a raised eyebrow or slight tonal inflection. Nothing more.

Unladylike behavior and rowdy thoughts lurked just beneath her polished veneer, defaults she constantly strove to quash.

But Peter’s actions showed louder than anything that he understood, that he knew her. And Jane adored being known. Being known meant she was loved, accepted just as she was.

But then . . . some things were not to be overcome, simply borne and woven into the fabric of the soul.

“I say ye revel in yer Scottishness, ensure they’re just as uncomfortable as you.” Kieran pressed a hand to his chest. “Honestly, it’s practically yer civic duty tae live up tae their lowest expectations.”

If the man had to be Scottish, must he be so large about it, as well?

No, that wasn’t quite right. Red Scot did more than merely stand. He loomed. He hulked. He menaced.

A woman was in dire straits indeed if she found a man’s kneecaps fetching.

But Andrew was male and, like most men, capable of being attracted to a woman he had no intention of pursuing.

Finally, Jane retreated to the library and her mineral collection before she did something ill-advised. Like scream in frustration or beat a pillow or, heaven forbid, roll her eyes in her mother’s presence.

How could the man be so vulgar and free-mannered and yet so annoyingly capable at the same time? The sheer audacity of it infuriated her.

Often, when we take a dislike to someone, it is because we see our own failings in them. We hate these faults in ourselves, and so we abhor them in others. We detest seeing our own flaws reflected back at us.

Of course, Hadley would balance trees on end and parade them around the estate. It seemed as logical as everything else he did.

“Do Scots habitually throw large things?” “Oh, aye.” Hadley’s grin was ridiculous. “B-but why?” Jane deeply resented that his absurd behavior had reduced her to stuttering. “Why?” He smiled wider, teeth flashing in his tanned face. “Why tae make the lasses stop and stare, o’ course.” “What lass would ever find such a thing as that”—she flapped a hand toward the caber, now being hefted by one of the under-gardeners—“attractive?” Even Jane marveled at her baffled tone. Hadley glanced behind at the men and then turned back to her. “Well, you stopped, did ye not?” He clucked Thunder to walk on.

“Will ye please show me your collection, Lady Jane?” His eyes met hers again. “I would very much like tae understand it better. It seems like it might be full of surprises.” And suddenly he wasn’t just talking about a mineral collection. I want to understand you better, his look seemed to say.

Swooning

“None of us are what we seem, Lady Jane,” came his reply, still low and gruff. “I think ye ken that better than most.”

unhappiness can be measured by the distance between reality and our expectations of reality.”

Whisky was dangerous. It had a frustrating tendency to jostle things loose, like top hats or hairpins or truths.

The Duke of Montacute was an unbearable ass. Andrew did not describe a man thus lightly. But there was no other word that so perfectly encompassed the sheer pompous self-importance that clung to Jane’s older half-brother.

“Justice cannot save those who d-died.” She hiccupped. “But m-mercy . . . mercy can save the living.”

You have this wretchedly-annoying habit of being almost unbearably likable.”

He was like to go mad from the silence. Finally, he had resorted to letting out his aggression in time-honored Scottish fashion— Throwing absurdly-heavy things.