by Candace Camp
“Hamish.” She stopped and turned to her butler. “Where is Mr. Kensington’s room? These are all untouched.”
“Down the hall.” He jerked his head toward the back of the house.
Her eyes widened. “You don’t mean the old wing, do you?”
“He isna the laird. It isna right to put him in the master’s room.”
“Hamish!” Isobel was tempted to laugh—given Mr. Kensington’s words this morning, it seemed exactly what he deserved. But she could not let Hamish ruin himself with the man. She crossed her arms and regarded him sternly. “This must stop.”
“I dinna know what you mean, miss.”
“Don’t give me that innocent look. I saw Mr. Kensington’s breakfast this morning, and the meal last night was horrid. I put it down to Cook’s being upset, but I can see now that you are waging a war against him.”
“He doesna belong here.”
“No, he does not, but nevertheless he owns this house. You must not place yourself in opposition to him. If you continue this way, he will let you go.”
“Aye, we may be tossed out, just like you.” His jaw set stubbornly. “You canna think we will stand for him coming in here and throwing the laird’s own daughter out of Baillannan.”
“Do you think it will make me feel better knowing that all of you are homeless as well?” Tears welled in Isobel’s eyes, and she hugged the old man. “You are the most loyal of people. I could not bear it if you lost your home because you are trying to defend my aunt and me.”
“It isna right.”
“You are a Scot, Hamish. You know as well as I that ‘what is right’ isn’t the same as ‘what is.’ ” She fixed him with as stern a look as she could muster for a man who had known her since infancy. “Put Mr. Kensington in the master’s chamber. Tell Cook to prepare something decent to eat. And please cease whatever other little miseries you have dreamed up.”
He let out a sigh, but said, “Aye, miss. I’ll do it. But only because you say so.”
“Thank you. While you do that, I shall start on the attic. I will save my grandmother’s and Andrew’s rooms till last. It will be easier for Aunt Elizabeth.”
“I’ll send up one of the girls to help you.”
“Send her up later. Right now, they need to put Mr. Kensington’s room in order.”
Isobel left Hamish behind, looking disgruntled but hopefully about to do as she asked, and went up to the attic. Low windows provided the only light other than the lamp in her hand, leaving pools of shadows across the huge room. Her heart sank as she surveyed the long stretch of floor, dusty and stacked with trunks, boxes, furniture, and an assortment of odds and ends left by two hundred years of the Rose family. Indeed, no doubt some of it belonged to an even earlier era and had been brought over from the old castle.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to the nearest trunk. It was filled with children’s clothes, both hers and Andrew’s. For a short time she allowed herself to be distracted by memories, and her progress was slow, but she soon picked up her pace, steeling her heart against nostalgia. She made her way down the central aisle, sorting things into separate piles as best she could. The attic had seemed drafty when she first came in, but she was soon perspiring, and she began to wish that she had not told Hamish to wait until later to send a servant to help her. It was with great relief that she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
“Thank goodness!” She was bent over a large, humpbacked trunk, trying to retrieve a stack of letters that had fallen behind it, and she did not bother to turn around. “There are several trunks I need moved.”
“Certainly. Where shall I start?”
Isobel let out a little squeak of dismay and whirled around to see Jack Kensington standing in the doorway.
Jack leaned against the doorjamb, looking amused. Isobel stared at him in horror, thinking of the distinctly unladylike image she must have presented, bent over the trunk. Immediately on the heels of that came the realization that she was liberally streaked with dust from her head to the hem of her skirt, one of her ruffles had caught on a nail and ripped half off, trailing behind her on the floor, and bits of her hair had come loose and straggled around her face. She must look like an absolute slattern. Her face, already pink from exertion, flooded red with humiliation.
“You!” she gasped.
“Yes. I.” He smiled faintly and walked toward her.
“What are you doing here?” Isobel stepped back quickly, knocking into the wobbly stack beside the trunk and sending still more letters cascading down. “Blast!”
He chuckled and reached past her, scooping up the letters from the floor and extending them to her. “Your aunt told me where you were, and I came to apologize. I fear I was rude earlier. I spoke too harshly. It was wrong of me, especially given how kind you had been in showing me about the place.”
“No. I mean . . .” Isobel grabbed the envelopes, feeling annoyingly flustered. “I should not have expected you to . . . I had no right . . . I am sorry.”
“You had every right. You are a compassionate woman who was concerned for the people who have depended on you. I, on the other hand, was a coldhearted wretch.” His eyes glinted at her, lightening his critical words. “Do say you will forgive me?”
“Yes, of course I forgive you.” She realized, astonished, that she meant it; the resentment and anger she had felt toward him had somehow evaporated. “I was upset because I cannot help them, more than anything else.”
He studied her for a long moment. “I believe you mean that.”
“Of course.” She looked at him oddly. “Why else would I say it?”
He smiled instead of answering and changed the subject. “Now, what is it you need moved?” He glanced around them at the multitude of boxes.
“Nothing. That is, I did not mean for you to move it. I thought you were one of the servants. Hamish was going to send someone to help me.”
“I will do, I hope, until more expert help can arrive.”
“Oh, well . . .” She turned and pointed down the aisle she had cleared. “That trunk needs to be moved to the door.”
“Very well.” He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a wobbly coatrack, then picked up the trunk and carried it to the spot she indicated. “You are rearranging the attic, I take it?”
Isobel realized that she was watching, fascinated, the way his muscles bulged beneath his shirt. She flushed and said firmly, “I am clearing it out. The things by the door are for the servants to take downstairs.”
“I think that I shall leave that for the servants.” He set down the chest and turned to her. “What next?”
“You are very kind, but surely you cannot wish to haul boxes and trunks about.”
“I am not suited to be a man of leisure, I find. I am accustomed to more activity.”
“Well, I can certainly provide you with plenty of that,” Isobel said drily.
“I am sure you can.” Something about the look in his eyes and the smile playing across his lips invested his words with an undercurrent of meaning.
Isobel was suddenly tongue-tied. She told herself that he had not intended any double entendre. Nothing in the way his mouth softened was untoward; the look in his eyes was merely amusement. Indeed, it more likely indicated something wicked in her that made her skin tingle and her insides grow strangely warm and achy. She turned away, gesturing vaguely across the aisle.
“The, um, things over there seem useful enough to be given away. And here”—she gestured to the trunk at her feet—“I am putting aside things Cousin Robert might want to have—this trunk seems to have belonged to his father, Fergus. He was Malcolm’s younger brother. Fergus, I mean, not Cousin Robert . . .” She trailed off, appalled at the way she was blathering on about nothing.
“And what of the things you want to keep?” Jack stepped closer to Isobel, and she shifted uncomfortably.
“I—we cannot take much, of course. There will not be room at my cousin’s or my aunt’s, reall
y.”
“Isobel . . .”
She glanced up, startled by his calling her by her first name; it sounded somehow intimate on his tongue. From the faintly surprised look in his eyes, perhaps he had startled himself, as well.
“I am sorry. I have no desire to turn you out of your home.”
“I know.” It made her feel unsettled to look into his eyes, so she half turned away. “I do not blame you. I just—” She did not want anyone, least of all him, to know how frightened she was, how filled with pain.
“I wish everything was different.” He hooked his finger beneath her chin, gently turning her face toward him. A frown pinched the space between his brows as he brushed his thumb over her cheek, catching the tear that had spilled over. “I wish . . .”
She wanted to turn away from him, but she could not. She was transfixed by the feel of his hand on her skin, caught by his eyes, so dark a blue they were bottomless pools, shadowed and dangerous. Her breath came shallowly in her throat, her heart suddenly drumming, as he bent toward her.
His lips touched hers, soft and warm, and a shiver ran through her. His warmth, his scent, the velvet feel of his mouth upon hers, drove all thoughts from her head, filling her senses. His kiss was beyond her realm of experience; no man had ever given her more than a friendly peck on the cheek—save for one fellow at a dance who had had far too much whiskey. And this kiss was a far cry from that.
Jack raised his head, gazing down into her face. Isobel was too stunned to speak; indeed, she could not even think, only feel a thrumming, eager heat all through her, an urgent need to kiss him again.
“I hate to see you cry,” he murmured.
She realized that while desire had shimmered through her, all he felt for her was pity. Isobel whirled away, horrified by what he might have seen in her face. That he was sorry for her was galling enough, but the knowledge that her whole body had sprung to life at the touch of his mouth humiliated her.
“What I feel doesn’t concern you.” She pushed the words out, harsh and hoarse.
“You’re right.” Jack’s voice was clipped, as if her words nettled him, and heat flared across his angular cheekbones. “It doesn’t. I cannot imagine why I bothered.”
“You needn’t have.” Isobel crossed her arms, glaring back at him. The air crackled between them, and Isobel waited, a little breathless, unsure what he was about to do and strangely eager to find out.
“Oh, the devil with it!” he snapped. He pulled back, an icy reserve settling over his features and cooling his voice. “I beg your pardon for intruding on you. No doubt you will be more comfortable without my presence.”
He strode away. Isobel wished he had slammed the door so that she could throw something against it. Instead she kicked the closest thing, the humpbacked trunk. Strangely, she rather welcomed the pain. It gave her something to think about other than the way her body had thrummed when Jack Kensington kissed her.
The mood that night at the supper table was strained. Her aunt’s presence ensured that nothing would be said about the scene in the attic today, but every time Isobel thought of the episode, she was flooded anew with humiliation—and she was finding it amazingly difficult not to think about it. She did her best to avoid glancing at Jack, afraid he would see the tumult inside her.
When she and her aunt rose at the end of the meal, Kensington took a step after Isobel, saying, “Miss Rose, if I could speak to you for a moment . . .”
“Yes, of course.” Isobel turned back, her stomach clenching.
“I understand that I have you to thank for my new accommodations.”
“What?” His words were so far from what she had expected that it took her a moment to understand. “Oh.” She shook her head. “It was nothing. Hamish should have put you into the master bedchamber from the beginning. I hope you will not—”
“Blame him,” he finished for her, and a hint of a smile touched his lips. How, she wondered, could he speak to her so normally when her own nerves danced inside her just looking at him? Doubtless he had a great deal more experience in such things than she did. “You are very protective of everyone here. The servants. The tenant farmers.”
“No doubt it seems quaint to you, even peculiar, but things are different here. I am a Rose of Baillannan. These are my people.”
“I can see that.” He studied her for a moment. “I admire loyalty even when it is at my expense. I have no intention of sacking the servants as long as the situation improves. I had a brief chat with the butler, and I believe we arrived at a truce.”
“Thank you.”
“I made it clear to him, and I hope it is to you as well, that my leniency is due entirely to my respect for you. I hope that you will accept it as an apology for my, um, untoward behavior this afternoon.”
“But you have already apolo— Oh.” Isobel stopped short, and her cheeks flooded with color. “That.”
“Yes, that.”
“It was not your—that is, um, I have not been quite myself.” She looked away.
“I wanted you to know you need not worry about a repetition of the scene. I have not been quite myself, either.”
Isobel glanced up to see the gleam of warmth and humor in his dark blue eyes. She had the strangest impulse to lay her hand against his face, to glide her thumb along a high, flaring cheekbone, to see his sharply defined lips curve into a smile. She pulled her hands behind her back, interlacing her fingers tightly, and backed up a step. “Yes. I mean . . .” She had no idea what she meant. “Good night.”
“Good night, Miss Rose.”
Isobel spent the following day working in the attic, taking two of the servants with her this time. Kensington did not appear in the doorway—not, of course, that she expected him to. Certainly she was not waiting for him. Late in the afternoon, one of the maids climbed the stairs to inform her that her cousins had come to call and were waiting downstairs in the drawing room.
Sighing inwardly, Isobel left the attic. No doubt Gregory and his father had heard the news of Mr. Kensington’s arrival. She had little desire to face Cousin Robert, but she could not leave her aunt alone to deal with him. She stopped first in her room to tidy her hair and clothes before she continued to the drawing room. Aunt Elizabeth was seated on the sofa with Cousin Gregory, laughing. Gregory’s father, Robert, sat in the chair across from them, looking unamused. Robert, of an age with Elizabeth and Isobel’s late father, was a short, wiry man whose posture and stern demeanor bespoke his past military career. He approached life solemnly and regarded his lighthearted son with disapproval. Today, however, the chief object of his scowl seemed to be Jack Kensington. Jack lounged beside the fireplace, his elbow propped on the mantel, and gazed coolly back at Robert, a faint smile on his face, which Isobel was sure maddened her cousin beyond measure.
“Cousin Robert,” she said with more pleasure than she felt. “How nice to see you. Please accept my apologies for the delay. I was in the attic.” She went forward to give him her hand in greeting, then turned to his son, smiling with more heartfelt delight. “Gregory! I did not know you were home from Edinburgh. I am so glad you are here.”
“I arrived in Kinclannoch last week.” Gregory, a tall, slender man with strawberry-blond hair and merry blue eyes, got up and stepped forward to take Isobel’s outstretched hands in his and kiss her on the cheek.
“And you are just now coming to see us? I trust Aunt Elizabeth gave you a proper scold for that.” Isobel linked her arm through his as she turned to her aunt.
“You know I did not.” Aunt Elizabeth waved away the suggestion. “I have never been able to be cross with Gregory. He would know I did not mean it, anyway.” She beamed at the young man.
“It was not from a lack of desire to visit, I assure you. Father has been keeping me busy since my return.”
“Then I suppose I must excuse you.” Turning politely to Jack, Isobel said, “I am sure Aunt Elizabeth introduced my cousins to you, Mr. Kensington?”
“Yes, indeed. We were di
scussing the Highland weather.” She saw the light of laughter in his eyes, and she was tempted to smile. She could well imagine the stilted conversation that had preceded her arrival in the drawing room.
“It is a never-ending source of conversation,” she replied.
“I am sure you would like to visit with your family, Miss Rose, so pray excuse me.” Kensington sketched a bow to her and bent over her aunt’s hand gallantly, which made Elizabeth dimple and blush. With a cool nod to the two men, he left the room.
Robert popped out of his seat as soon as Mr. Kensington walked out. “The nerve of that man!”
“Isobel, are you all right?” Gregory asked, ignoring his father.
“I am fine. Doubtless you have heard the news.”
“Of course.” Gregory smiled down at her. “You know how it is; the entire glen knew within hours.”
“You should have sent for me,” Robert told Isobel sternly. “I would have tossed the man out.”
“I don’t think there was any question of tossing him out. He owns Baillannan.”
“I cannot think why you dislike Mr. Kensington so, Cousin,” Elizabeth said, taking up her embroidery hoop. “He is a delightful young man. It is so rare for one of Andrew’s friends to come visit.”
“You would think so, of course.” Robert rolled his eyes at Elizabeth’s words. “And he is not one of Andrew’s friends. Honestly, Eliza, you might think once in a while.”
Seeing Isobel’s eyes light up pugnaciously at his father’s insult, Gregory took her arm, saying, “I am sure this is all a hum.”
“Of course it is,” Robert declared. “The man is clearly an adventurer. He is trying to swindle you. I will talk to a solicitor for you.”
“That is very kind of you, Cousin, but you need not trouble yourself,” Isobel said. “I have already written to Father’s solicitor about the matter. Anyway, I do not think Mr. Kensington is lying. I saw Andrew’s marker; it was clearly his hand.”