by Candace Camp
“I did not say that no woman should ever marry. You know we Munro women are not the marrying sort. I have no need for a husband and no wish to have a man tell me what to do. I own my cottage, and I can make my own way. People will always want my potions and poultices. Nor do I have an aunt to look after.”
“And what about love? You have no need for that?”
“Ah, well . . .” Meg cast her long lashes down demurely. “I did not say I would not ever love a man. I just will not marry one.”
Isobel rolled her eyes. “Bold words for someone who has not even let any man court her.”
“I may be brazen, as people say, but that doesn’t mean I am not particular.”
Isobel laughed, but shook her head. “I cannot marry a man to get a roof over my head.”
“It is what most women do, wealthy or poor.”
“And you think I should as well?”
“I don’t think you should. But you may have to. There are not many choices left.”
“Aside from the fact that no one has shown the slightest interest in marrying me—”
“They may not have been brave enough to approach you, but I assure you, you have no dearth of admirers. All you would have to do is give them the slightest bit of encouragement.”
“And who should I choose for this honor? Maybe Dougall MacKenzie; he still has some of his teeth and I hear he’s looking for a new wife since his died after thirty years. Or perhaps the parson; he might enjoy guiding a wife along the narrow path of righteousness. Or maybe Donald MacRae.”
“The earl’s steward?” Meg made a sign as if warding off evil. “You might as well choose the devil. But I hear Mardoun himself is now a widower.”
“Speaking of the devil,” Isobel snorted inelegantly. “Anyway, the earl hasn’t visited Duncally in twenty years. I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Nor I. But still, he would probably be preferable to Dougall MacKenzie.” Meg laughed.
“It is no use.” Isobel shook her head. “There are no eligible men but my cousin and your brother. That is the hope Cousin Robert cherishes, that Gregory and I will marry, which is another thing that makes the thought of living on his charity so unappealing. Robert would press me about the matter constantly, I know.”
“Coll would marry you, you know that.”
“Perhaps, to rescue me from sleeping under the hedges. But I would never ask him to sacrifice his life like that.”
“I don’t think he would consider it a sacrifice.”
“But it would be. Coll deserves a woman who loves him passionately, not someone he grew up with like a sister.”
“And he would say you should not marry beneath you,” Meg admitted.
“Coll is not ‘beneath’ me or anyone else.”
“I agree. But Coll would not stand for anything that would set tongues wagging about you.” Meg shrugged. “So, clearly, we must find some other way. Perhaps you should visit your aunt in Edinburgh. You would be much more likely to meet eligible men there. You could go alone so you would not have to be looking after Auntie all the time. She can stay here, if not with your cousins, then with me. She knows me, and she would be in a familiar place. I think the two of us could get on fairly well, and if you did find a husband, she could move in with you.”
“That is very good of you.” Isobel reached out and took her friend’s hand. “But I could not ask you to take on such a burden. Besides, I fear Coll may soon need your hospitality as well. I doubt that Mr. Kensington will keep on a gamekeeper. Anyway, I would feel wicked to try to lure some man into marrying me, to pretend that I care when all I want is a house.”
“Then I see nothing for it but to convince Mr. Kensington to keep Baillannan and allow you to remain there.”
“And how am I to do that?”
“So you think you could not talk to him? Is he disagreeable? Unpleasant?”
“Oh, no.” Isobel shook her head. “Quite the opposite. He is charming. Agreeable. I have enjoyed his company.” She thought of how enjoyable she had found the kiss he had given her yesterday—but that was something better not thought of. “It is just that he was so adamant about selling the house. He has made up his mind, and I don’t know how to change him.”
“You said he listened to logic and self-interest. Appeal to that.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps . . .” An idea struck Isobel, so absurd that she immediately dismissed it. However, her thoughts kept coming back to the matter even after Coll came inside and they sat down to tea. Isobel contributed little to the conversation, her thoughts churning, and she was quiet throughout the ride home across the loch.
Back at Baillannan, she walked slowly through her house, studying the faded, old tapestries and the familiar portraits of her ancestors that lined the long hallway. Halfway up the stairs, she turned and looked down at the entryway—the thick, carved wooden door, the stone floors, the fan of swords that decorated the wall. Her life was bound up in this house; she could not bear to think of leaving it. But did she have the strength to hold on to Baillannan? To save herself and her aunt as well?
At the top of the stairs, she paused under the portrait of Malcolm Rose. The grandfather she had never known gazed out at the world, confident, even arrogant, wrapped in his tartan, one hand resting on the hilt of his claymore. A dirk was thrust into a scabbard on the other side of his wide leather belt, its curved hilt engraved with the rose pattern that was the emblem of their family. A brooch with the same design fastened the tartan at his shoulder.
The Laird of Baillannan.
Isobel stared into his face for a long moment. She shared his coloring, the thick, dark blond hair and gray eyes. Once, when she was young, her grandmother had found Isobel staring at the huge painting, and Lady Cordelia had said, her voice threaded with sorrow, “Malcolm was iron at the core. There’ll not be his like again.”
Isobel turned, her decision made, and marched back down the stairs. She found Jack Kensington, sitting in the office, her office, the accounts book open on the desk before him.
He looked up when she came in and rose smoothly to his feet. “Miss Rose. You have arrived in time to save me from a vast array of numbers. I must confess that I am unaccustomed to studying accounts.”
“If you wish, I can go over the figures with you and explain them.”
“Ah, then you do understand them?”
“I entered them, so, yes, I do. I have been running Baillannan for my brother for many years now.”
“I see.” His brows rose a little. “I will be happy to take you up on your offer. But no doubt something else brought you here. Did you wish to speak to me?”
“I did.” Isobel squared her shoulders. “I have come to offer you a proposition.”
“Indeed? Intriguing. What is your proposition?”
“That you marry me.”
Kensington stared at her for a long moment before saying lightly, “Miss Rose, this is so sudden.”
“Allow me to explain.”
“Please do.” He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “I believe this is a conversation best held sitting down.”
“Of course.” Isobel clutched her skirt in her hands to hide their tremor. Her stomach was like ice. But she could not back down now. She sat on the edge of the chair, back straight, hands clasped primly together, resting on her knees, and fixed an unwavering gaze on him. “You said the other day that you were not married and that you were not ‘romantically inclined.’ You told me that you did not believe in love.”
“And this made you decide I would wish to marry you?”
“No, of course not.” Annoyance flared in Isobel and somehow that steadied her. “It made me decide that you might be amenable to a marriage based on business considerations.”
“Ah. A marriage of convenience.”
“Yes.”
“I can see that it would be convenient for you to remain in your home,” Kensington replied affably. “But where exactly is the convenience for
me?”
The tension inside Isobel eased a bit. At least he had not dismissed the notion out of hand. “You could return to London and resume the life you prefer while I manage Baillannan and send you the income.”
“You will run the estate?” His brows rose in disbelief. “Or an estate manager whom you choose? Perhaps that fellow Munro?”
“Coll?” Isobel was surprised that Kensington knew his name. He had seemed to have no interest in those who worked here. “No. Coll is the gamekeeper. He helps me now and then, but I run Baillannan and have done so for many years.”
Kensington studied her for a moment, idly toying with a letter opener. “That is most admirable, I am sure, but as we discussed before, I intend to sell the land, which will bring me a good deal more money than whatever its income is.”
“Immediately, yes, but not over the course of many years. If you like, I can show you the account books. The income is ample to live on; you may have seen that Andrew has lived well enough off it. If one was not foolish with money, it would be more than enough, and the rest could be invested. The important thing is that you would still have the land, which, as you know, is valuable.”
“I could accomplish the same thing if I had an estate agent.”
“You would have to pay him, and you told me you were reluctant to take that path because you did not know if you could trust an agent. I would hope you would feel more inclined to trust your wife.”
“An estate agent might be more trustworthy than some wives.” Amusement lifted the corner of his mouth.
“You are joking, I presume.” It irritated Isobel that he always seemed to be amused at her expense. Did he think she was simple? “I assure you that you may rely upon my character. You have only to ask anyone around here.”
“My dear Miss Rose, who am I, a mere gambler, to question your character? I am quite certain that it is of the most sterling quality.”
“In any case,” she added pragmatically, “you will have the figures from the past years; it would be apparent if I held more back from you. And since I would be your wife, even if I did steal from you, my money would still be yours, so what would be the point in it?”
“There is that.”
“No manager whom you could hire would do as well as I. Not only am I competent, but I am a Rose of Baillannan. The people here are loyal to me.”
“That sounds precariously close to a threat, Miss Rose.”
“I do not mean it to be. It is simply the truth. The crofters trust me; they deal honestly with me. An estate manager will always be an outsider. You will always be an outsider.”
“Unless, of course, I married you.”
“You would still be an outsider.” Isobel’s expression softened into a smile as she went on in a Scottish burr, “But you wouldna be so far an ootsider.”
“Appealing as it is to be only somewhat despised by all, it does not seem worth shackling oneself for life.”
“But you would not be shackling yourself to me.” Isobel’s hope rose more and more the longer they talked. He seemed to actually be considering the idea. “You will live in London and I, here. You could have all the freedom you would have if you were not married. I would not know what you did, nor care. You would not have to endure any of the normal ties. And since you have no affinity for the married state, there would be no chance of later regretting the decision because you wish to marry someone else.”
“No, there is little chance of that.” He studied her for a moment, tapping his forefinger against his lips. “So you would be a complaisant wife? It would not matter if I kept a mistress?”
“It would not matter to me if you kept ten mistresses.”
“That might prove to be a trifle tiring.” His smile was slow and intimate, and the meaning of his words sent heat flooding up into Isobel’s face.
But she refused to let him divert her from her purpose. She leaned forward, her voice crisp. “Mr. Kensington, I will not mince words. We both know you are not a gentleman. But since you make your living gambling with wealthy young aristocrats, it is useful to present yourself as such. One of the ton. Someone who belongs. Think how much more believable your pretense would be if you owned an estate.”
“You do not mince words, indeed.” His eyes, laughing before, were cool and flat now.
“I do not have the time for courtesy; my situation calls for immediate action. In the future, as you sit around the card table with Lord This and the Duke of That, you could casually mention your land in Scotland. Or you might bring a group of your ‘friends’ back to your country house for a few weeks of card play and shooting grouse.”
“I do not need a wife for that.”
“But you do need me as your wife for you to say, ‘Baillannan has been in the family for generations.’ Marrying me lends you immediate respectability. It gives you importance and a family. I know you do not care what the people here think of you. But it is important what the sheep you shear in London think of you. More than that, I think you have an ambition to be the gentleman they think you are.” A flicker in his usually unreadable eyes told her she had guessed successfully.
“You think I should be other than who I am?” His voice was silkily dangerous.
“It does not matter what I think.” Isobel stood up, her face lit with triumph. “The fact is that you wish it. Why else would you try so hard to seem a gentleman? It may make it easier to gather your prey, but the truth is that you could fleece foolish young men in any gambling den in London without adopting their manners or speech. Why did you accept my brother’s offer of his house as a bet? And why did you ride all the way up here in the rain to look at Baillannan? You want something more than the price of it.”
“And you believe that something is you?” He rose to face her.
“I believe that I am a means to the end you seek.”
“What am I a means to?” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk. “Are you so desperate for a roof over your head that allying yourself to someone like me is worth it?”
“Baillannan is worth it.”
He stared at her narrowly for a moment, then dropped back into his chair, the careless, faintly ironic manner once again in place. “When shall we announce our impending nuptials?”
“What?” The blood rushed from her head, and Isobel’s knees gave way. She grabbed for the corner of the desk, and in an instant he was beside her, his hand under her arm, propelling her back into her chair.
“That is the first time I have made a maiden swoon,” he said as he put his hand on the back of her neck, lightly pushing her head toward her knees. “Lean over. Not as ladylike as smelling salts, but effective, I’ve found.”
The touch of his fingers against the sensitive skin of her neck sent a shiver through her. She lifted her head, embarrassed. “I am sorry. I’m fine. Really. I was just . . . surprised.”
“Why? Did you think I was so dense I would pass up such an opportunity?” He settled on the edge of the desk, watching her.
“It seemed to me you disapproved of the idea.”
“You are, as you said, a Rose of Baillannan.” He shrugged. “I am merely Jack Kensington. If you are willing to sacrifice yourself for these people and this pile of stones, who am I to turn down the chance to perfect my disguise as a gentleman?”
She had prepared herself for the worst, the humiliation of his rejection, the pain of losing her only chance at her home. But she had not prepared herself for achieving her goal. Isobel pressed her fingers to her mouth, afraid she might suddenly start to cry.
“Here, now.” His voice was surprisingly gentle as he tipped up her chin to look at her. “Don’t tell me you are already regretting your proposal. It wouldn’t be the thing to cry off, you know.”
“No. Of course not. I am . . . a trifle stunned, I think.”
“Your hands are like ice.” He took her hands in his, warming them. He was so close it was unsettling, and she could not help but remember the afternoon in the attic when he had pul
led her to him and kissed her, his warmth and strength enveloping her, his scent filling her nostrils, the taste of him on her lips.
She tried to tug her hands from his, glancing toward the door. He chuckled, holding on a moment longer before letting her go. “’Tis acceptable now, you know, to be caught like this; we are betrothed.”
Isobel felt herself blushing, and inwardly she cursed her fair skin. She stood up, ignoring his comment. “I must tell Aunt Elizabeth.”
“She will not object. Against all reason, she seems to like me.”
“Her mind is slipping,” Isobel retorted, then let out a little gasp, her hand flying to her lips.
To her surprise, Jack laughed. “Well, that should put me in my place.”
“I don’t know what is the matter with me. Truly, that was rude, and I apologize. I am most grateful.”
“Don’t be,” he said shortly. “I don’t want your gratitude.” She looked at him, surprised, and he gave a careless shrug. “It is an arrangement suitable to each of us. There is no need for thanks or tears or worrying that you may tread upon my sensitive feelings. Anyone would tell you that I have few of them, sensitive or otherwise. The last thing I want is for you to hide your sense of humor. It is as much a part of you as your blond hair.” Smiling, he reached out to brush back a lock of hair from her forehead. “Or your bonny gray eyes.” He brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone. “I have that right, don’t I? Bonny?”
“Bonny?” Isobel was a little surprised she could get out the word, for her throat had gone dry and her brain blank. The promise in his eyes, the timbre of his voice, the feel of his skin against hers, stirred a heat deep inside her. “Aye. Bonny is ‘pretty.’ ”
“Then it definitely suits you.” He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.
She could not disguise the shiver that ran through her at the touch of his lips upon her flesh, soft and velvety, and she snatched her hand away, backing up a step. “Mr. Kensington! I think you mistake. Ours is not that sort of marriage.”
“And what sort is that?” His smile was slow and teasing.