On Tour with Prism Book Tours
Brotherhood of the Black Tartan series
By Nichole Van
Historical Romance
Paperback, E-book, & Audiobook
Apr 26, 2019 - Sept 8, 2021 by Fiorenza Publishing
From book 1, Suffering the Scot:
Lady Jane Everard cannot abide the new Earl of Hadley. The unmannered Scot is a menace to genteel ladies everywhere, what with his booming laugh and swishing kilt and endless supply of ‘ochs’ and ‘ayes.’ Jane wishes Lord Hadley would behave as an earl should and adhere to English rules of polite conduct.
Andrew Langston, the new Earl of Hadley, knows that the English aristocracy think poorly of his lowly Scottish upbringing. This is hardly new. History is littered with the English assuming the worst about Scotland. By living up to their lowest expectations, he is simply fulfilling his civic duty as a Scotsman.
Jane sees Andrew as an unmannered eejit. Andrew considers Jane to be a haughty English lady. But, as the saying goes, . . . opposites attract.
And what if beneath his boisterous behavior and her chilly reserve, Andrew and Jane are not nearly as different as they suppose? Can Scotland and England reach a harmonious union at last?
From Suffering the Scot, Brotherhood of the Black Tartan, book 1
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.
Excerpted from Suffering the Scot by Nichole Van, Copyright © 2021 by Nichole Van. Published by Fiorenza Publishing.
A Scot Reads an excerpt from Suffering the Scot by Nichole Van
A Scot Reads an Excerpt from Romancing the Rake by Nichole Van
About the Author
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Excerpt
From Suffering the Scot, Brotherhood of the Black Tartan, book 1
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.
Excerpted from Suffering the Scot by Nichole Van, Copyright © 2021 by Nichole Van. Published by Fiorenza Publishing.
A Scot Reads an Excerpt from Romancing the Rake by Nichole Van
About the Author
Nichole Van is a writer, photographer, designer and generally disorganized crazy person. Though originally from Utah, she currently lives on the coast of Scotland with three similarly crazy children and one sane, very patient husband who puts up with all of them. In her free time, she enjoys long walks along the Scottish lochs and braes. She does not, however, enjoy haggis.
One winner will receive a $75 (USD) Amazon E-Gift Card
Tour Schedule
(Posts go live on the day they're scheduled.)
(Posts go live on the day they're scheduled.)
December 7th: Launch
December 8th: Nancy Campbell Allen - The Matchmaker's Lonely Heart
December 9th: Rachael Anderson - Five Kisses
December 10th: Sarah M. Eden - The Merchant and the Rogue
December 11th: Arlem Hawks - Georgana's Secret
December 12th: Jess Heileman - The Nabob's Daughter
December 13th: Krista Jensen - Miracle Creek Christmas
December 14th: Jen Geigle Johnson - A Christmas Kiss
December 15th: Josi S. Kilpack - Love and Lavender
December 16th: Carla Laureano - Discovered by Love series
December 17th: Sarah L. McConkie - Meet Me Under the Kissing Bough
December 18th: Carol Ross - His Hometown Yuletide Vow
December 19th: Nichole Van - Brotherhood of the Black Tartan series
December 20th: Anneka R. Walker - Brides and Brothers
December 21st: Camron Wright - Christmas by Accident
December 22nd: Julie Wright - A Captain for Caroline Gray
December 23rd: Grand Finale
Tour Giveaway
One winner will receive a $75 (USD) Amazon E-Gift Card
Open internationally
Ends December 29, 2021
Ends December 29, 2021
The thing I like about Van's writing is that she builds up the love between hero and heroine in plausible increments. I think that's why I always end up reading her novels in one sitting until the early morning hours; I know that in the NEXT scene the characters are going to finally realize their love. But then you get to the next scene and you simply want more and more. And I mean that in the best possible way.
I’ve always thought Italian cities are like guys I knew in college:
Rome—the hot frat boy I was dying to go out with (and I did, and it was awesome). But, turns out, everyone dated Rome.
Naples—Rome’s frat house roommate. The guy on no sleep and his tenth can of Red Bull. No one messed with him cause he knew people who knew people . . . catch my drift . . .
Venice—the dreamily gorgeous philosophy major. Brilliantly eccentric but exotic enough that no one quite knew what to make of him.
Milan—the second-year MBA student who was big on power-ties and power-lunches. Basically, the organized guy who held everyone else together.
And then there was Florence.
Firenze, to those who knew him.
Quiet and unassuming. When we first met, I wondered what all the fuss was about.
But Firenze . . . he was a subtle seducer. If I asked, he could talk for hours about art and history. But, generally, Firenze simply listened. Peaceful. Steady. Ready to shoulder my sorrows.
Firenze is the guy I never got out of my system.
I hit the ground floor and took two steps toward the large wooden front door.
How would the next few weeks play out? Like being a contestant on Survivor? The Great Race?
A male voice stopped me. “Just the person I was waiting for.”
I closed my eyes.
Nope. Things were shaping up to be The Bachelorette.
Honestly.
Pasting on my polite grin, which truthfully was more of a grimace by this point, I turned around.
“Mr. D’Angelo.”
“Dante, please.” He stepped out of the shadows at the base of the stairs. A window in the stairwell illuminated half of him. Even that half was huge.
Whereas I looked down on Pierce and was eye-level with the Colonel, I had to look up, up at Dante. At five ten myself, it takes a lot to make me feel short. But he somehow managed it. He had to be at least six four and linebacker-wide. Did he play football in high school?
His dark, wavy hair had been smoothly slicked back when he arrived earlier. But I had watched it creep forward as the morning went along until a section of it came loose, swinging down to kiss his jaw. My fingers itched to brush it back.
Dante was the type of man I had always had a sweet tooth for. Until I learned, oh-so-painfully, how bad for my health they could be.
Author Nichole Van
Nichole Van is a writer, photographer, designer and generally disorganized crazy person. Though originally from Utah, she currently lives on the coast of Scotland with three similarly crazy children and one sane, very patient husband who puts up with all of them. In her free time, she enjoys long walks along the Scottish lochs and braes. She does not, however, enjoy haggis.
Giveaway Details
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Ends 3/9/18
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