Treasured

by Candace Camp

  “Was there so much war?”

  “Och, you need to be reading more histories in Baillannan’s library if you can ask that question. The Norse raided the coast.” She pointed toward the horizon. “And of course behind us, there were all the other Scots. We did not have the border raids that went on between the Lowlands and the English, but there were ample reasons for protection here, too. Blood feuds between clans; reivers after one’s cattle; or maybe just someone who envied your lands.”

  “What’s that?” He pointed at the area on their left, where a haphazard jumble of stones led toward a wide hole in the ground, with a partial wall beyond it. A frayed and sagging rope marked it off from the rest of the ruins.

  “It’s not safe. You must not go beyond that old rope. You can see where the floor fell into the cellars below, and it can crumble around the edges. Over here though, it’s solid rock beneath. We can walk out to the side along the sea.” She turned to go back down the steps.

  “Here. It’s shorter this way, surely.” He pointed to the short drop below the steps to the ground.

  “Yes, but rather a long step,” Isobel retorted.

  He jumped lithely down and turned to her. “Come. I’ll catch you.”

  Isobel hesitated, but his hands were already at her waist, lifting her down, and she had little choice but to go with him. She put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself, and when he set her on her feet, she was mere inches away from him. His hands lingered for an instant, then slid down to her hips as he released her.

  Jack turned and strolled toward the seaward side of the ruins, maddeningly calm and unconcerned. How could the mere brush of his fingers through layers of clothing make her feel so jittery and uncertain? And how could it not cause him any bother at all?

  She remembered the feel of Jack’s body against hers a few minutes earlier, the sudden surge of heat in his skin, the quickened breath. He had felt something. She suspected that she could make him change in those ways again. Perhaps she could even wipe the smug calm from his face. Last night when she pulled away from him, his face had been stark and taut, the sharp ridges of his cheekbones lined with red. How would he look if she went into his arms right now? If she touched him? Kissed him?

  Isobel shook her head, irritated with herself, and started after him. When she reached him, he was standing on the grass beyond the outside wall of the house. A few feet from him, the land dropped down to the gray expanse of the North Sea. Below them the ocean surged and foamed around the rocks.

  “You are right. It was certainly inaccessible by sea.” He glanced at her. “It’s a bleak place.”

  “The tide is in now. But when it is out, there is a sandy beach below us. It is sheer right here, but there is a path that takes one down to the shore. We used to play there as children. Climb the rocks and explore the caves—though we knew better than to go far. You can get trapped by the tide if you are not careful.”

  “You and Sir Andrew?”

  “Yes, he and Gregory came with us when they were a little older. Before that, it was just Meg and Coll and I.” She turned to face him. “My mother died giving birth to Andrew. Janet Munro was Andrew’s nurse, and she moved into Baillannan with her children, Meg and Coll. They were raised with us. We did everything together. My governess taught them as well, and outside of the schoolroom, we were always in each other’s company.”

  “I see.” Jack studied her. “And that is why you are . . . unusually close to Munro.”

  “Yes. I know it may appear odd to an outsider. Cousin Robert thought it was deplorable and used to lecture my father on the inappropriateness of our growing up with the Munro children. Not, of course, that that stopped him from leaving his wife and child with us while he was off in the military. My father did not stand on formalities as many do. Janet was a healer, and my father respected that, just as he accepted the fact that the Munro women have always been a law unto themselves. Aunt Elizabeth did, too.” Isobel smiled faintly. “A number of people will tell you that the Roses are a mite odd.”

  “I would say more that they are charming.”

  “And you are very adept at compliments,” Isobel retorted. “I thought you should know why I speak as I do to Coll. I am fond of him, just as I am fond of Meg. But Coll is like a brother to me. Indeed, I know him better than my own brother. I dearly love Andrew, but he is five years younger. And since he went off to school as the boys in our family do, I actually spent more time with the Munros than with Andrew. Coll enjoys reading, as I do, and we talk about books. He carves lovely things out of wood—furniture and figures and such—and we talk about that. About the estate.” She shrugged. “We are friends.”

  “You may have a sisterly feeling toward Munro. That doesn’t mean his feelings for you are the same.”

  “You think Coll is romantically inclined?” Isobel laughed. “He is more likely to scold me like a big brother than wax lover-like. The day you came, he had heard about your arrival, and he was worried you were taking advantage of me. The other day I happened to run into him when I was going to Meg’s for my aunt’s remedy. He was going there, too, to do some chores for his sister, so he rowed me across the loch. That is why we were walking up from the dinghy together. I assure you, it was neither planned nor illicit.”

  “And I am sorry to have misjudged you.” Jack took her hand in his. “I hope you will forgive me. Remember, I am only a blundering Sassenach.”

  Isobel chuckled at his mangling of the word. “Then I suppose I shall have to.” She tried to pull her hand from his grasp, but he retained his hold on it, his thumb stroking lightly over the back of her hand.

  “Are books the way to your heart, then?” he asked, moving closer, his voice warm and rich. It seemed to wrap around her, holding her as surely as his hand.

  “I do not know why you would care about the way to my heart.” She hoped she sounded tart but uneasily suspected that she sounded more flirtatious than anything else. She went on in a brisker tone, “There is no need to woo me. We have already agreed to marry. I have assured you I will not besmirch your name when you leave. What more do you need?”

  “Oh, I need a good deal more.” His lips curved in a slow, seductive way, and Isobel was shocked to realize that she wanted to trace her finger over them.

  “Stop.” Isobel jerked away.

  “Why?” He followed her, still moving in that lazy fashion that seemed casual and unthreatening but gave her no room to think or gather her resolve. His fingers drifted lightly down her arm. “I enjoy touching you. I think you do as well.” His other hand slipped between the sides of her cloak again and moved across her collarbone, slowly pushing the garment back until it fell behind her.

  Jack pressed his lips to the crook of her neck. She sucked in her breath at the velvet-soft touch of his mouth on her skin. He followed the path his fingers had taken along the bony ridge to her shoulder, moving with infinite slowness, setting her flesh afire. When he teased his tongue along her collarbone, she shuddered, bright shards of pleasure shooting through her.

  Straightening, Jack gazed down at her, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. He trailed his forefinger down her chest, following its movement with his eyes. When he reached the neckline of her dress, he traced along it.

  “Jack, please,” she whispered, unable to articulate her rapidly scattering thoughts.

  “That is what I am trying to do.” He leaned down until his forehead rested against hers. “Please you.” He hooked two fingers inside the neckline, smoothing them across the soft swell of her breasts. “If I am not, you must tell me what you want me to do.” He pressed his lips softly to her forehead as his fingers inched downward.

  “Stop.” Her breath caught as a bright frisson of pleasure shot through her, and she sank her teeth into her lower lip to steady herself.

  “Ah, that I cannot do.” His finger reached her nipple and dragged across it. “But if you mislike this, I can move.” He pulled his teasing fingers out of her dress and cupped her breast thr
ough the material. “Perhaps this would suit you more.” His thumb stroked across her breast, finding the button of her nipple through the cloth and circling it. “Or this.” He took the bud between his thumb and forefinger and gently squeezed.

  “Jack,” Isobel murmured, her eyes drifting closed. Her abdomen was bathed in heat, an aching emptiness between her legs.

  “Mayhap you prefer I went in a different direction.” He slid his hand down her body and between her legs, pressing upon the very spot that ached, and she knew then that the need that pulsed there, the piece that had been missing, was him.

  A small, choked noise escaped her, and Isobel felt her knees buckle. His other arm went around her securely, and it was suddenly so easy to lean against him, her head resting on his chest.

  “Yes, I think that is it.” His voice was rich with self-satisfaction as he stroked his fingers between her legs.

  The friction ignited her desire. Her breasts were ripe and aching, the nipples contracting tightly, and she knew she wanted to feel his hands there, as well. She wanted his hands all over her. Isobel turned her face into his coat, embarrassed at her thoughts. Moist heat blossomed between her legs, and she instinctively opened them to the rhythmic insistence of his hand. His fingers probed delicately, pressing and releasing, and she felt the liquid desire pooling there. She wondered if, humiliatingly, he could feel the moisture through her garments, tangible proof that she could not control her lust.

  He bent to nuzzle her neck, and his teeth nipped lightly at the cord of her throat. He moved his mouth up her neck, discovering her with lips and teeth and tongue. Finally his lips claimed hers. Isobel dug her hands into his coat, holding on as the taste and feel of him rocked her. She felt herself sliding down into the deep, dark well of pleasure.

  With a low cry, Isobel broke away from him, and whirling, she ran away home.

  It was best, Isobel decided, to spend as little time as possible in Jack’s company until the wedding. Once they were married, he would go back to London, and everything would return to normal. Until then, she could avoid scenes like today’s by simply avoiding Jack Kensington.

  She had to see him, of course, at supper and in the drawing room, but her aunt was there as a buffer, and Isobel kept the conversation running along the well-worn path of social niceties, maneuvering so as not to be seated beside him. Now and then she saw a glint in his eye that told her he knew exactly what she was doing and was amused by it.

  During the day, she escaped to the attic. It was not, she supposed, any longer necessary to sort through the piles of old possessions, but cleaning it gave her something to do away from Jack, which was reason enough at the moment.

  It occurred to her that Jack might follow her to the attic, as he had once before, so she took one of the maids with her to ensure she would not be alone. There was no sign of him, however, at least the first few days. When he did climb up to the attic one morning, Isobel was so accustomed to being undisturbed that she let out a yelp and whirled around when he spoke to her from the doorway.

  “Sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”

  “My mind was elsewhere.” Isobel got to her feet, feeling foolish and very aware of the maid watching them with unabashed interest. It took a conscious effort not to brush at her skirts or smooth her hair into place.

  “No doubt you are busy.” He, of course, looked impeccable. Even more irritating, he looked well rested. Obviously he did not spend his nights twisting and turning, his imagination running rampant.

  “Indeed.” She made a vague gesture around the huge room. “May I help you with something?”

  “No. Pray do not let me disturb you. I had meant to tell you at breakfast, but I did not see you.”

  “Yes. Um, I—I was not hungry.”

  “You must look to your health while I am gone. I should hate to return to a bride who is a mere shadow of herself.”

  “While you are gone?” Isobel’s eyes widened, alarm suddenly zinging along her nerves.

  “Yes, I came to bid you adieu.”

  Isobel’s heart sank. “You are leaving?”

  Isobel realized that she had sounded far too disappointed. She recovered hastily, saying, “You are returning to London, then?”

  “No.” He smiled in a teasing way as he walked over to her. “You will be relieved to know that you will not have to postpone the wedding. I am going only as far as Inverness.”

  “I see. But why?”

  “There are a few matters I must attend to. Nothing important.”

  “You are very adept at answering without actually saying anything.”

  “Well, there are some things a man must keep to himself, aren’t there?” He leaned in, giving her a wicked grin. “Tell me, my dear fiancée, will you miss me?”

  “I have quite enough work to keep me busy,” she retorted.

  “Well, that put me in my place.” His eyes glinted at her. He reached out, and Isobel tightened, sure he was about to touch her. Instead, he only touched the bow that decorated the high waistline of her dress, taking one long streamer of it between his fingers and slowly sliding them down the satin ribbon. “Have you any parting words for me?”

  His gesture sent a frisson of lust through her, as urgent and eager, she thought, as if he had actually touched her. She swallowed, hoping her face had not betrayed what she felt, and said calmly, “I wish you Godspeed.”

  “Thank you.” His face was wry as he released the ribbon. “I will not ask if you wish me a safe return.”

  “I would think that is understood. After all, I will lose Baillannan altogether if we do not marry.”

  He let out a little crack of laughter. “At least I need never wonder if you offer me blandishments and lies.” He bowed to her. “I shall take my leave of you, then. Is there any errand you wish from me? Something I could bring you from the town? Your aunt has already entrusted me with the purchase of various ribbons, laces, and buttons, though I suspect she harbors little hope of my returning with the proper items.”

  “Oh. No. I—” Her head was buzzing; the last thing she could think of right now was errands or purchases. “No.”

  He nodded and walked away. Isobel watched him go, then turned back to her task. But she was too restless to work, and she drifted aimlessly down the aisle until finally she wound up sitting on one of the trunks and staring into space, lost in her thoughts. Why was he traveling to Inverness? Why now? And why was he being so mysterious about it all? Did he really intend to return for the wedding? Or was he, in fact, just running away?

  The sound of steps on the stairs sometime later broke her reverie, and Isobel turned, rising. Perhaps Jack had returned. Or decided not to go. He would take her into his confidence and explain what was taking him to Inverness. Maybe he would even ask her to accompany him.

  Cousin Robert came through the doorway.

  Isobel sighed. “Cousin Robert. I am surprised to see you.”

  “I can’t think why. I told you I would help you sort out the attic.”

  “Yes, but, well . . .” She could hardly tell him she had not believed him. “I did not expect you so soon.”

  “Might as well get to it.” He cast a disparaging look around the dusty, dimly lit room. “Did no one ever toss anything out?”

  “I wondered that, as well.”

  “Elizabeth tells me the Englishman has run off.”

  “He has gone on a trip to Inverness,” Isobel replied stiffly. “That is not what I would call running away.”

  Robert shrugged. “If he comes back.”

  It was exactly what she feared, but Robert’s saying so irritated her. “I see no reason not to believe him.” She picked up the basket of items she had accumulated and carried it to the door.

  “I suppose at this point we have to hope he will,” her cousin replied darkly. “If he jilts you, it will be a terrible embarrassment for us all.”

  “Somewhat worse for me, I would think,” Isobel said drily.

  “And it would mean we l
ose all hope of Baillannan.”

  “We, Cousin?” She faced him, hand on hip. “I believe I am the only one marrying Mr. Kensington.”

  “You know what I mean.” Robert grimaced. “The Rose family. At least your children and their descendants will continue to rule Baillannan, even if it does mean that the bloodline’s been tainted by a common Englishman.”

  “I am surprised to hear that you are now in favor of the marriage.” Isobel’s stomach clenched at his mention of children. “Since only the other day you were storming about telling me I was disgracing the family by marrying him.”

  “It is still a disgrace. But I realized you were right,” he admitted grimly. “’Tis the only way a Rose can hold Baillannan. In the end, that is what’s important. The family. All we can do is hope that the Englishman has some sense of honor.”

  “He has a name, Cousin—Jack Kensington. Since he is about to be your relative, I think it would behoove you to use it.”

  “Yes, of course, of course.” The older man waved aside her words. “Enough of that. Let us get to work.”

  Robert’s version of work, apparently, was not to lift, stack, unpack, or organize, but to putter about, poking into this trunk and that corner until he found something he thought might have belonged to his father and then to order the maid to carry it out to his carriage. All the while, he favored Isobel with advice on a number of topics ranging from her attitude, which he sadly felt sometimes bordered on the disrespectful, to the Rose family’s lost position of power, to hints on how to run the estate much more efficiently.

  Isobel grew thoroughly tired of his presence and wished he would leave, but he clearly enjoyed having a captive audience, and even after he ceased working at all, he sat down on a nearby trunk and continued to lecture her. Finally her aunt stuck her head into the attic to tell them it was time for tea.

  Silently blessing her aunt, with great relief Isobel rose and brushed the dust from her hands. “Thank you for coming today, Cousin Robert. It was most generous of you. We accomplished so much, I think I am finished with the attic now.” She hoped that would ward off any more “helpful” visits from the man.