by Candace Camp
“Of course, dear. Mr. Kensington, do come sit here by me.” Elizabeth gave the bellpull a tug and came over to link her arm through Jack’s, steering him toward the sofa. “I have been intending to show you Barbara’s ring.”
“Barbara’s ring?” Robert grumbled, taking a seat at some distance from Jack. “What are you on about now?”
“It is the wedding ring John gave Isobel’s mother,” Elizabeth explained, pulling it off her finger. She twinkled up at Jack as she handed it over to him. “I put it on this morning so I would not forget it again.”
“It is lovely.” Kensington took it and studied it. “I am honored, ma’am.”
“The man cannot even provide his own wedding band?” Robert turned his glare on Isobel. “There! You see? I told you he was an adventurer. What kind of man asks a woman to marry him and then tells her she must provide the ring?”
“The kind who came to Scotland not knowing he would find his future wife there,” Jack responded before Isobel could say anything. “I do not casually carry about family heirlooms on my person, Mr. Rose,” Jack said disdainfully. “I will, of course, send for the contessa’s ring; it is worn by all the Kensington brides. But in the meantime, I fear I must borrow from Aunt Elizabeth.”
“The contessa! Hah! As if you were heir to an earldom.”
“Oh, no, not the heir,” Jack demurred modestly. “The contessa’s title was Italian, in any case. She brought the ring with her as part of her dowry.”
“The contessa,” Aunt Elizabeth said, enraptured. “How romantic. You see, Robert?” She shot her cousin a triumphant look. “I told you your worries were nonsensical. You are far too suspicious.”
Seeing Robert’s face flush beet red, Isobel jumped into the conversation before he could find his tongue. “Speaking of keepsakes—I have a few more things from the attic, if you would like to have any of them, Cousin Robert.”
“What?” He blinked at her, caught off guard. “Do you mean you are still tossing out the family’s possessions?”
“It isn’t as if I am throwing away heirlooms.” Isobel kept her voice mild. “However, the attic could use some clearing out. I have found a great deal there that does not need to be kept. Perhaps you might want to help sort through things.”
“Yes, of course, I shall,” he replied, glowering.
Isobel suspected Robert was not likely to come help in such a dusty and mundane task, but her words had accomplished her goal of getting him off the subject. “Cousin Robert . . . I meant to ask you if you remembered anything about Sir Malcolm’s watch?”
“What? Sir Malcolm’s watch? What are you talking about?”
“The one he gave Aunt Elizabeth the night he came back to Baillannan. She showed it to us the other day.” Isobel related the story her aunt had told them, ending, “I think that proves that Sir Malcolm did return from France.”
“Then there really was a treasure?” Gregory’s eyes lit up. “Remember how we used to hunt for that treasure every summer?” He grinned at Isobel.
“I remember how you and Andrew used to look for it every summer.”
“I like that!” Gregory laughed. “Don’t pretend you and Meg and Coll didn’t come with us.”
“Someone had to look after you younger ones,” Isobel retorted primly, then laughed.
“You’re daft, the lot of you.” Robert shook his head. “There is no treasure. Sir Malcolm never came back.”
“He did. I saw him,” Elizabeth contested hotly. “Mr. Kensington, show him the watch.”
Jack pulled the watch from an inner pocket of his jacket, walking over to where Robert sat, and dangled it in front of the other man.
“What are you doing with Uncle Malcolm’s watch?” Robert narrowed his eyes.
“I gave it to him,” Elizabeth explained. “As a wedding present.”
“You gave Sir Malcolm’s watch to this foreigner?” Robert glared at his cousin. “Have you no sense of family? Andrew should have it. Or Gregory.”
“It is mine; he gave it to me,” Elizabeth retorted. “I can do what I please with it, and I think it’s fitting that Jack should have it. He is the master of Baillannan now.”
“So you are giving him everything else of the family’s as well?”
Isobel sighed. It seemed to be a losing battle to try to keep her aunt and her cousin from bickering, but she made another attempt to pull the subject back to a civil topic. “Do you remember the watch, Cousin Robert?”
“No.” He continued to glower at Elizabeth. “I never saw it before. I don’t recall Sir Malcolm wearing that watch.”
“Of course you do not. You were only a baby,” Elizabeth said in exasperation.
“And you claim you do?” Robert’s brows rose. “You were scarcely older than I.”
“I was almost six,” Elizabeth protested. “And I didn’t say I remembered seeing him wear it. I remember him giving it to me the night he returned.”
“Pah!” Robert shook his head in disgust.
“We think he may have bought it in France.” Jack opened the watch to show the trademark of the French watchmaker on the works.
“That doesn’t mean he got it on that trip. He might have gone to France years before that. He might have bought it from someone else. Or perhaps he ordered it from Paris.”
“Possibly so. But it was still his watch, no matter when he bought it. And he gave it to me,” Elizabeth insisted.
“That doesn’t prove anything. If, in fact, he gave it to you, ’tis more likely he did it before he left for France. You got the two times mixed up.”
“If he gave it to me! Are you saying I lied?”
“No, of course not. But you know how you have been the past year. You get confused. You remember things wrong or don’t remember them at all. What’s to say that you don’t also remember things that did not happen? Or you dreamed it, and after a while you thought it was real. Maybe it was a nice story you made up, like all those other tales you were always on about—the First Baillannan and the ghost of Annie MacAuley and whatnot—and you told the story so many times, you decided it was real.”
“It was Annie MacLeod, not MacAuley, and it’s not the same at all. That was an old tale. This is the truth.”
“Well, it is the first time I have heard about it. If it really happened, why did you not tell us before?”
“Robert Douglas Rose!” Elizabeth surged to her feet, bright red spots of anger glowing on her cheeks. “I cannot imagine why you think I would tell you anything! You were a disagreeable little boy, and you are a disagreeable man.”
“Elizabeth . . .” Robert rolled his eyes. “For pity’s sake, do not be this way.”
“I saw Papa that night. He told me he had come back from France. He gave me this watch and told me to keep it for him till he came back. It was our secret, and I kept it. Papa gave me the watch and he winked in that way of his, then he kissed my forehead and told me to go back to sleep. I could not, of course, so I followed him. I watched him walk down the hall to the sitting room, and he went into the fireplace, and he was gone.”
She stopped, suddenly aware of what she had said. The room around her was frozen in silence. Elizabeth blinked, her eyes suddenly uncertain, and she seemed to shrink before them. “I saw him,” she repeated softly, then whipped around and hurried from the room.
“Why are you looking at me?” Robert asked, throwing up his hands as the others turned to him accusingly. “I’m not the one who is losing his mind.”
“You are the one who keeps jabbing at her,” Isobel retorted hotly. “And she is not losing her mind!”
“Och. I’m beginning to think you are as mad as she is. Why will you not admit she is slipping?”
“She is better when we are alone. And Meg’s tonic has helped her.”
“Pffft. Magic potions.”
“It is medicine, not magic.”
“Father,” Gregory said wearily. “I think it’s time we left.”
“Yes.” Robert pushed to his f
eet. “Isobel, I wish you luck. Good afternoon.” He gave her a brisk nod and favored Kensington with a sour look before walking out of the room.
Gregory let out a sigh. “Cousin, I wish you great happiness.” He bowed over Isobel’s hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Kensington. I am sure you realize how well loved Miss Rose is by everyone in Kinclannoch.”
“Indeed.” Neither man offered to shake hands. Jack watched Gregory leave, then swung back to Isobel. “You are, it seems, watched over by all.”
“Including you!” Isobel grimaced at him. “There was no need for you to get into an argument with Cousin Robert. I would have handled it. I have been dealing with him all my life.”
“I can hardly allow someone to annoy my wife. After all, that is a husband’s prerogative.” Jack smiled.
“We are not wed yet.”
“We will be soon enough. I think I can enjoy some of a husband’s pleasures.” He moved closer to her, and Isobel’s eyes flew to his face warily.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” He reached out, idly twining one of her curls around his finger.
Isobel glanced away. It was disconcerting to feel as she did, so aware of her own body, so sensitive to every sensation. She felt the touch of the air on her skin, the pulse of blood through her veins, the rush of breath in her throat. He was tall and solid beside her, and it would be easy to lean against him, to rest her cheek upon his chest. She imagined his arms curving around her as they had the other day when he kissed her, encircling her with his warmth.
She stepped back quickly, drawing a shaky breath. He made no move to stop her, his hand sliding from her hair, and Isobel was aware of a strange sense of disappointment. It would be weak, she reminded herself, to lean on him. Jack would soon be gone. Relying on him would only lead to disappointment, and it would be even more foolish to allow herself to feel anything for him.
She turned away, crossing her arms as if suddenly cold. “Why did you tell Cousin Robert that story? ‘The contessa’s ring’—really, Jack . . .”
“You think that was doing it too brown? It may have been,” he mused. “But in my defense, I hadn’t any time to prepare.”
“It isn’t funny.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. You act as if everything is so light . . . so comical, as if life is just an amusement for you.”
“I find it’s preferable to living in gloom.”
“But some things are serious. Not everything can be reduced to a jest.”
“Perhaps not everything.” He shrugged. “But your cousin Robert, now . . .”
“Yes, all right, he is pompous and rude and he thinks it is his duty to favor everyone from the butcher to the dustman with advice on how to live their lives. But he was not the only one to whom you told that bouncer. My aunt was there, too, and she will believe it, however suspicious Robert may be. She already has enough uncertainty about what is real and what is not. It is cruel to lead her to believe a lie.”
He raised his brows. “I assure you, I had no intention of deceiving your aunt.”
“Perhaps not. But now she will tell everyone about your ancestor the Italian contessa, and people will think her even more foolish.” Isobel’s shoulders sagged, her irritation draining out of her. “Oh, Jack, what if Cousin Robert is right? I feel disloyal to even wonder. But what Auntie said tonight, about her father walking into the fireplace, did not make any sense. Maybe it was just a dream.”
“What does it matter whether she remembers it correctly?” Jack took Isobel’s hands in his. “Whether your grandfather came here or not is of little import today. You do not believe there is a treasure hidden here?”
“No.”
“In any case, hunting for buried treasure is a child’s game. A bit of fun and adventure, but the odds of finding it are astronomical. Trust me, I deal in calculating the odds.”
“I don’t care about the treasure. It matters because I do not want her to be wrong!” Isobel’s voice ended in almost a cry, and tears sprang into her eyes. “I love her, and I fear she is slipping away. Not in body but in mind . . . and spirit . . . in the things that make Aunt Elizabeth herself.”
“She has her moments.” His voice hardened slightly as he went on, “But she does not lie.”
“Of course not.” Isobel bristled.
“She does not live in a constant fog. And she is here with you.”
“Yes. I should count myself lucky. It is just—she was always so intelligent. She loves a good story, and she could tell them in a way that had us round-eyed with suspense. But she also had a boundless curiosity about things. Janet taught us about the plants and trees, the flowers; we used to roam the braes and burns with her. But it was Aunt Elizabeth who taught us how things worked, how things lived and died, what our past was. You have seen the library downstairs.”
“Yes, and it is an impressive one. That is where I have spent my hours while you have been laboring in the attic.”
“You are interested in books?”
He laughed, widening his eyes in gentle mockery. “You needn’t look so stunned. I do not spend my entire life in gambling dens. I have never been a great reader, I admit. But I am curious.”
“It is no wonder, then, that Aunt Elizabeth likes you. You are two of a kind.”
“I doubt that.” He smiled faintly. “Your aunt has a gentle soul. I simply want to understand things. She is a wealth of information. We have talked many an afternoon, and she has directed me to books on various subjects.”
“She bought most of the books in the library—or, rather, persuaded my father to buy them. But she does not read so much anymore.”
“People get old. It is a hard fact. I doubt that she walks as fast as she used to or climbs the stairs as easily. It is not any more unusual, surely, for her brain to slow down, as well.”
“No, you are right.” Isobel smiled. “Thank you.”
“I have done nothing but tell you what you already know.”
“Still, it helps to hear it.” She paused, then went on a little stiffly, “I think that you have helped my aunt as well.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Hard, I know, to believe.”
“Harder still to say so.”
“No doubt. I have detected a mite of stubbornness in the Scots’ nature.”
Isobel let out a soft laugh. “You could be right. But ’tis hard to admit that a stranger helped her where her kin cannot.”
“Kin, I find, are more likely to make things worse.”
“What a thing to say! Surely you do not believe that.”
“Don’t I? Look at the effect her cousin has upon Miss Rose.”
“Cousin Robert has a bad effect on a number of people, kin or not,” Isobel retorted. “Come now. You must have family upon whom you rely. A father. A brother. A cousin.”
“I rely on myself,” he replied shortly, his face closing down. “I would think your experience with your brother would have taught you the same thing.”
Isobel blinked, rebuffed by the change in his manner. She felt vaguely embarrassed, as if she had overstepped the boundaries of their relationship. “Yes, no doubt it should have. Pray excuse me. I should go see to my aunt. Good afternoon, Mr. Kensington.”
As she walked out, she heard him let out a soft curse and take a step after her, but she continued without pause, and he did not follow.
Jack gazed out his bedroom window into the night. There was little to see; the pale wash of moonlight barely outlined the darker clumps of trees and the edges of outbuildings, and in the distance the loch was boundlessly black. He had been amazed at the absolute darkness of the night here, accustomed as he was to the city.
He thought of going downstairs and taking a turn about the yard, perhaps smoke a cigar. He wasn’t sure why; it was not the sort of thing he did, and he could not imagine that it would be pleasant to be out in the cold and misty air. He supposed it was the same strange kind of impulse that had motivated him to sea
rch the library for books on the flora and fauna of the Highlands and accounts of its bloody history. He had even taken up a book about farming methods that he’d found on the desk in the study. While it was true that he liked knowledge and enjoyed acquiring it, as he had told Isobel this afternoon, he had never before strayed so far from his interests. No doubt it was simply that this place was so different, so unknown, that it roused his curiosity.
A flicker of light on the loch drew his attention, but it vanished immediately in the strands of fog drifting over the water. He remembered Isobel’s tales of mysterious lights and noises on the island in the loch, and he smiled to himself. Perhaps the ghosts were busy tonight.
The idea of taking a walk tugged at him more insistently. He could stroll toward the dock he had seen the other day, when he had caught sight of Isobel returning with Coll. Now, as then, the incident pricked his curiosity. Where had the two of them been? His thoughts had flown immediately to the idea that they had sneaked away for a tryst. It was the second time he had seen the two of them together in a way that bespoke great familiarity.
Jack had made a point of meeting Coll Munro after the first time he saw him with Isobel, and he had taken an instant dislike to the man. Though the Scotsman had said nothing overtly insulting, Munro had spoken the fewest words necessary to answer Jack’s questions, his demeanor surly, even antagonistic. It was, of course, the attitude of most of the people Jack had had the misfortune to meet at Baillannan—though at least since his engagement to Isobel, the servants had settled into a carefully neutral pose rather than one of complete hostility. But in Coll Munro, the attitude bothered him more. The reason was not hard to figure out, if he was being honest. He disliked the man because Isobel favored him.
Thinking of Isobel, he grimaced. He had taken a misstep there. She had been warm, even friendly—until he had recoiled from her mention of his family. He never talked about them—least of all to her—but he should have deflected the subject with humor, as he usually did. He had been clumsy.