by Candace Camp
“You were mistaken,” Robert insisted. “It is bound to be a forgery.”
“I have known my brother for some years now,” Isobel replied, holding on to her temper with difficulty. Her father’s cousin never failed to raise her hackles. “I know Andrew’s handwriting.”
“Andrew would never—” Robert began, but his son interrupted him.
“No, Father. I fear it is exactly the sort of thing Andrew might do. You have not seen him when the gambling fever has him in its grip.” Gregory squeezed Isobel’s arm gently. “I am so sorry, Izzy.”
“One cannot crumble at the first wave of attack, Gregory.” Robert scowled at his son. “If it does turn out that Andrew lost the estate to him, I am quite certain that the fellow used sharp practices. The man is clearly a charlatan.”
“You could tell his nature just from being introduced to him?” Isobel shot back
“One has only to look at him. He is too polished, too smooth. I seriously doubt that is really his last name, either. It is exactly the sort of thing one would make up.”
“So he is a villain because he has excellent manners? Because he shares a last name with a royal palace? There are people named Kensington, I imagine.”
“That does not make him one of them,” Robert snorted. “Good gad, Isobel, are you defending the scoundrel? I have no doubt that he has cozened Elizabeth, but I thought you, at least, were too reasonable to fall under his spell.”
“I have not ‘fallen’ under anyone’s spell,” Isobel said tightly. “But I know nothing to make me believe he is anything but what he appears.” That was a bit of a bouncer, given that Jack had admitted to her that he was no gentleman but a man who made his living at the card tables. However, she was too irritated by her cousin’s overbearing attitude to care.
“I cannot imagine why you think he is not a gentleman, Robert,” Aunt Elizabeth spoke up. “Mr. Kensington is charming, and quite refined. Why, he recognized a piece I played yesterday as Mozart.”
“Lord save me.” Robert sent a quelling look at Elizabeth. “Just because a man makes an elegant leg or knows a bit of music does not make him respectable. Who is he? Where does he come from?”
“Why, London, Cousin, I told you,” Elizabeth said, puzzled.
“One doesn’t ‘come from’ London. Where did he grow up? What school did he attend? Who is his family?” When no one answered him, Robert went on triumphantly, “Hah! You see? You know nothing of importance about his background.”
“Well, no, I do not think he has mentioned any of those things.” Elizabeth turned to Isobel, her brow creased. “Has he, dear?”
“No. I did not interrogate the man.”
“You should not have to. If he weren’t smoky, he would have told you those things. It is what one does.”
Robert was right; she didn’t know anything about Mr. Kensington. She had nothing to prove he had not cheated Andrew out of the estate, only his word for it. She had believed him; she had seen the truth, she thought, in his eyes, heard it in his tone. But then, would not an accomplished liar be equally convincing?
Still, she had believed him, and she felt her instincts were good. There was an equal lack of proof that he had lied to her. Cousin Robert’s suspicions had even less basis than her own judgment. And in any case, she was not about to admit any doubts to Robert.
Apparently Robert needed no response from her, for he heaved a deep sigh and went on, “I don’t know what else one could expect from Andrew, though. He has always been a wastrel. I tried to talk some sense into him, but clearly my efforts were in vain.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I told you not to spoil the boy so. It’s no wonder he grew up wild.”
“Andrew’s mistakes are not Aunt Elizabeth’s fault,” Isobel protested.
“No, dear, perhaps he is right.” Tears sparkled in her aunt’s eyes. “I was lax with the boy; I felt sorry for him, his mother dying when he was born.”
“We all did,” Robert agreed. “John never paid enough attention to the boy.”
“John was grief stricken when Barbara died,” Elizabeth flared. It was just like her, Isobel thought fondly, to defend her brother from their cousin’s accusations, but not herself. “He loved his wife dearly; he was devastated.”
“Doesn’t excuse him from acting like a father.” Robert waved away her words. “One has to set an example, after all. When Gregory’s mother died, you did not see me falling apart. I had my command to think of. And Gregory, of course. Worse, John hired that woman to look after Andrew and even let her bring her own brood into the house. Raised them with his own children. It was disgraceful. No wonder the boy ran wild.”
“Janet was an excellent nurse.” Isobel set her jaw. “None of us were any the worse from being around Meg and Coll. Quite the opposite.”
“Of course you would say that. She was far too close to all of you. There was talk,” Robert said flatly. “The Baillannan’s children growing up with the servants—it was not right. Those too are far too familiar with you even now. John should have had more care. It gave rise to gossip. There are still those who whisper—” He broke off hastily.
“What?” Isobel’s eyes flashed. “That Coll and Meg are our half siblings? That is nonsense, and you know it. There was nothing between my father and Janet. It is the people who whisper about it who are wicked.”
“Of course it was nonsense; anyone can see Coll is the image of that feckless Alan McGee. That is not the point. There was bound to be talk. Everyone knows what the Munro women are like. The way they always have been. Living out in the woods by themselves, making Lord only knows what kind of concoctions with their plants, refusing to marry. Taking up with whatever man they choose, with no regard to morality. It’s no wonder they were burned as witches two hundred years ago.”
“Father—” Gregory said warningly, wrapping his hand around Isobel’s arm, as if to hold her down.
“Yes, of course, you are right—it’s not a fit topic for ladies’ ears.”
Isobel simmered with anger. She was tempted to point out that after Gregory’s mother died, Robert, off with the army, had dropped his own son here at Baillannan, and Gregory had been raised by the same woman Robert so disdained. However, one look at her aunt’s distraught face kept her from saying it. Instead, she turned to Gregory. “Come. Let us talk about something more pleasant. Tell us about Edinburgh, Cousin. Did you enjoy your trip?”
“Indeed.” Gregory’s face lit up, and he began to talk about his visit. Unlike Isobel, he had never been content in Kinclannoch, and he traveled to Edinburgh whenever he could. His enthusiasm kept the conversation on a pleasant path until it came time for him and his father to leave. As they stood up to say their good-byes, Isobel remembered the things from the attic that she had set aside for her cousins.
“Before you go, Cousin Robert—as I was cleaning out the attic, I ran across a trunk and some items that seemed to belong to your father. There was a book with Fergus Rose written on the inside cover and a leather case with documents also bearing his name. I thought you might want to have them.” Robert looked at her blankly, and she explained, “I have to do something with the family items in the house. Elizabeth and I cannot take them with us, and Mr. Kensington will not wish to keep them.”
Robert’s expression hardened, but he said only, “Of course. Gregory, see to putting them in the carriage.”
“I’ll show you where they are,” Aunt Elizabeth offered quickly, clearly wanting to escape the room.
As they left, Robert turned back to Isobel. “I am not giving up. I intend to talk to a solicitor.”
“If you wish. But I fear you will find that we have lost Baillannan.”
“You will live with us, of course.”
“I am not sure. I must think of Aunt Elizabeth.”
“What is there to think about? Where else are you to go? You haven’t enough income to set up a household, just the two of you. And before long, Elizabeth will be too much for you to manage on your own.”
&
nbsp; “What do you mean ‘manage’?” Isobel bristled.
“Her mind is failing her daily. You know that, even if you will not admit it. Look at what she said today about that Englishman. She has no understanding of what is happening.”
“She does.” At the older man’s skeptical look, Isobel admitted, “Yes, very well, sometimes she is unclear about it, but she understands that we will have to leave. She just took Gregory to get the trunks.”
“Because she wanted to get away from me,” he snorted.
“Don’t you see? That is precisely the problem—the two of you do not get along. It would not make for a happy situation.”
“I am not talking about happiness. I am talking about family. You have to go somewhere, and soon. The man is a brute to toss you out, of course, but—”
“Mr. Kensington is not tossing me out. Indeed, he very kindly offered for us to stay as long as we needed. He is giving me an opportunity to decide what to do with everything.”
“Why do you keep defending the man? It’s not appropriate for you to stay here with a man, a young, unmarried woman such as yourself.”
“My aunt is here; surely that is ample chaperonage.”
“Elizabeth is hardly any sort of protection.”
“I don’t need protection, and even if I did, there are the servants. Mr. Kensington is not going to ravish me.” Isobel thought of the kiss in the attic, and she began to blush. She looked down, hoping her cousin had not noticed.
“Isobel, really! You must not say such things. I fail to understand why you seem so determined to stay here. You and Gregory have always enjoyed each other’s company. Indeed, there have been times when I have hoped . . .”
“Cousin Robert . . .” Isobel suppressed a sigh. “We discussed this before; it’s impossible.”
“So you think—and of course I would never urge you to do anything against your conscience—but Gregory is only your second cousin. It is not too close a blood tie.”
“It isn’t that. You know how I feel about Gregory. I love him, but he is like a brother to me, and I am sure he feels the same.”
“You are both too young to understand how you feel. But, no—” Robert held up his hands. “I will not press you. Certainly that is not why I offer you our hospitality. It is where you and Elizabeth belong. Give it some thought, you will see that I am right.”
“I will think about it. I promise.”
She braced herself for more argument, but to her relief, Robert just nodded and walked to the waiting carriage. Gregory, having helped Hamish fasten the trunks on the back of the vehicle, returned to Isobel.
“Father likes to fuss,” he told her. “But please don’t let his manner keep you from coming to us. I promise he will not spend his time correcting you—I provide him with ample object for his criticism.”
“I will think about it,” Isobel promised with a smile.
Elizabeth came to stand beside Isobel, waving at the carriage as it pulled away. “Do not distress yourself over Cousin Robert, dear.” She linked her arm through Isobel’s. “He was always a prig, even when we were children. I cannot tell you how many times he ran with tales about John and me to our mother. Fortunately, we did not have to see him often; Mother did not care overmuch for his father. Or for Robert, either, for that matter.”
“I can understand why if he was like Robert.”
“Oh, no.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Uncle Fergus was nothing like Robert. He was a bitter man; I don’t think he ever got over losing so much in the Uprising. Not just the land and the power, but my father’s disappearance as well. We all knew Papa must be dead, else he would have returned. Mother was devastated, too, but she carried on for John and me. I rather pitied Robby when we were children, even if he was a little beast. Uncle Fergus could be cutting, even cruel. No doubt that is why Robert looks on the dark side of any situation. You must not let him worry you. I am sure everything will work out well. Andrew’s friend seems like a nice young man, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. But, Aunt Elizabeth, you understand that Mr. Kensington means to sell the land? We cannot live here anymore. He owns it now.”
“Of course, dear. I’m not in my dotage, you know. I realize we may have to live with Robert and Gregory. You needn’t fret; Robert and I will manage to get along. He is brusque, but I am used to him.” Elizabeth glanced around. “And really, this house is much too large for the two of us, isn’t it?”
“No doubt.” Isobel swallowed against the emotion clogging her throat. She hated the quiet resignation on her aunt’s face. She turned away. “I am going to see Meg.”
“Didn’t you go there just yesterday?” Her aunt frowned. “Or perhaps it was the day before. Have I forgotten?”
“No. I did set out for her house the other day, but I ran into Coll and never made it to the loch. But I should pick up your tonic. She said she had improved upon it.”
“Of course, dear. Run along.” Elizabeth smiled and patted Isobel’s arm. “Say hello to Meg for me.”
Jack rode out of the stable yard, turning Pharaoh’s head toward the distant, barren hills. He had no aim, no destination. He had left the house to give Isobel and her aunt privacy in their talk with their cousins, but he found he had an itching need to get away from the great gray confines of the manor house, as well.
As he rode, his thoughts turned to Isobel. He could scarcely believe he had blurted out those damning truths about himself to her yesterday. The shock he had seen in her eyes, the disdain when she asked him if he made his living by gambling, had stung, and, perversely, he had felt impelled to throw the disreputable truth of his life at her, wielding it as if it were a weapon.
The whole thing had been most unlike him. He never let anyone’s opinion nettle him; giving in to one’s emotions was a quick path to losing. Nor did he reveal that he made his living by his wits, that he was not a gentleman. There was no advantage to anyone knowing him.
However much Jack despised the man who was his father, Sutton Kensington had taught his lessons well. Whether it was picking pockets or conducting a swindle or setting a fellow cardplayer at ease, the trick was to blend in. To appear to belong while staying apart. “To be anybody, you have to be nobody.”
Bloody hell! Now he was thinking about that blasted man. Jack let out a growl of irritation and dug in his heels, sending Pharaoh into a gallop.
He had let Isobel Rose get under his skin. That was his mistake.
There was no reason for him to feel a pang of remorse at the thought of turning her out of her home. She was not his responsibility. It did not matter that he enjoyed the sound of her voice or that her laughter danced across his skin. It was absurd to search for a quip or a tale to tell her in order to see that smile break across her face—not broad, not flashing, but slow and secret, as if they shared something delightful, with a burst of sunshine at the end that lit up her eyes.
And the only thing more pointless than pondering Isobel Rose’s future was mooning about like a calfling over the thought of her smile. Obviously, she was a pretty girl—yes, admittedly, more than just pretty—and it was pleasant to pass the time by flirting with her, just as it was sweet to imagine the taste of her lips or the smoothness of her skin.
However, it would be beyond foolish to give in to those urges. Miss Rose was a lady, not some tavern wench with whom one could spend an entertaining night. Jack had no time, no interest in ladies. They had to be courted; they had to be wooed and won with sweet words and reassuring lies of love. Ladies wanted, in short, much more than he was willing to spend.
Yet when he had gone up to the attic to apologize to her, trying to smooth over his earlier mistake, he had wound up kissing her. Desire had slammed through him, shaking him with its intensity. He had wanted to pull her down right there and then to the old dusty floor of the attic, to cover her body with his and sink into her softness. It was a wonder he had retained enough sanity to rein in the need thrumming through him. Even now, his body flooded with heat as h
e thought of the velvet softness of her lips, the warmth of her mouth, the way she had yielded to him, her head falling back and her body melting into his.
Jack drew in a deep breath, trying to banish the image from his mind, and for the first time, he took note of his surroundings. He realized with a start that he had no idea where he was. Pulling up, he gazed all around. There was no sign of the walls of Baillannan . . . or the loch or the castle ruins or the road or, indeed, anything that was even slightly familiar.
Pharaoh had followed his own whims while Jack was lost in thought, and they were now on a path leading down a rock-strewn hillside—a brae, they called it here. Looking down, Jack saw a tiny thatch-roofed cottage in the valley below. As he watched, a figure emerged from the hut and peered up at him, shading his eyes.
Jack lifted his hand in greeting and urged his horse down the path. The man below continued to watch him for a moment, then turned and went back inside. As Jack reached the cottage, the fellow emerged once again. He was old, his face creased with lines and his dark, curly hair liberally streaked with gray. But his small frame was straight as an arrow and the blue eyes that peered out from beneath the bushy eyebrows were bright.
And in his hand he carried a musket, which he raised and pointed at Jack. “Gaun, noo. Get oot a’ here.”
“I should have known.” Jack sighed and held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Good afternoon, sir. I intend you no harm, I assure you. My name is Jack Kensington.”
“Aye, I ken who ye are. The ootlander.”
“Yes.” Remarkably, he was beginning to understand what these people said—at least enough to get the gist of it. “And you are . . .”
The old man regarded him suspiciously but replied, “Angus McKay.”
“Well, Mr. McKay, I fear I am lost. If you could but tell me the way to Baillannan, I would—”
McKay let out a cackle. “Ye dinna ken the way to yer ain hoose?”