Treasured

by Candace Camp

  “Slowly,” added their leader.

  “Of course.” Jack lifted his hands, holding them up to show he held nothing, then reached down to pull out a small pouch of coins and toss it down in front of the lantern.

  “And that one.” The man nodded his head toward the pocket on the other side of Jack’s coat.

  “No.” Jack set his jaw, thinking of the things he had purchased in Inverness. “Take the money and go. I’ll say nothing. But you will not have aught else.”

  “You forget; we hae the gun.” The man in front of him planted his hands on his hips.

  “And as your friend pointed out, you will swing for it if you shoot me. A landowner. English. Think on that for a moment.” Jack turned and stared intently at the large man standing in the darkness. “If I die today, Miss Rose will lose Baillannan.”

  A long, tight silence stretched between them. Then the other man stepped back, jerking his head toward the others. “Let him pass.”

  Reluctantly the men moved aside, and Jack rode through them. The spot between his shoulder blades tingled all the while, but he kept his gaze leveled in front of him. He would not give them the satisfaction of casting an uneasy glance back. He rode on at an unhurried pace, turning his face toward home.

  Isobel was almost to the bottom of the stairs, her heart pounding in excitement, when the front door opened and Jack stepped inside. “Jack!”

  He glanced up, and a smile flashed across his face. “Isobel.”

  He strode forward, and in that instant Isobel launched herself down the last few steps and into his arms. He caught her, laughing, and his mouth found hers.

  She was lost in him, in the kiss, surrounded by his warmth and solidity, enclosed by his strength. His greatcoat was rough against the tender, bare skin of her arms, and her nostrils were filled with the scent of horse, damp wool, tobacco, and him. The taste of him, too, was familiar and yet excitingly new. He kissed her as if he could not get enough of her, and she matched his eagerness, overwhelmed by the sensations slamming through her.

  When at last their lips parted, she buried her face in his chest, her fingers clenched in his coat, struggling for some bit of composure. “You’re home,” she said, her voice muffled by his coat.

  “I am.” Amusement tinged his voice.

  A shoe scraped on the stone floor behind them, and a man cleared his throat. Isobel sprang out of Jack’s arms as if she’d been stung and turned to see Hamish standing a few feet down the hall.

  “Hello, Hamish,” Jack said drily, turning toward the servant and shrugging out of his coat.

  “Welcome back, sir.” The butler’s voice was starchy with disapproval despite his polite words. “We dinna know if something happened to you.” He reached down to swoop up Jack’s hat, which had been knocked to the floor by Isobel’s impetuous greeting.

  Isobel took another step backward, the heat of embarrassment flooding her cheeks. She had behaved like a complete romp. Jack would think her forward behavior sprang from delight at seeing him again, that she could not wait to kiss him and hold him, which was not at all true. Merely relief that the wedding would go through had sent her flying down the stairs to greet him.

  “I am surprised to hear that I caused you such worry. I do apologize,” Jack told the butler, his eyes dancing with amusement. He turned to Isobel, catching her hand, and said in a softer tone, “I am sorry indeed if I have caused you concern.”

  “Nonsense,” Isobel replied in an airy tone meant to convey how little she cared that he had not been there for a week. “I was quite sure you were not hurt.”

  “I intended to return earlier, but I ran into a delay.”

  Isobel frowned. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask whether the delay had been a blonde or a brunette, but she stopped herself. It was beneath her dignity.

  She tried to tug her hand from his grasp, but Jack stubbornly held on. He started up the stairs, and she had no choice but to go with him if she did not wish to tussle with him over possession of her fingers.

  “I hope you will forgive me,” he went on.

  “There is nothing to forgive.” Isobel held on to her light, remote tone. “Of course, one could not help but imagine that you had decided to return to London. That would have been a trifle awkward.”

  “You thought I had cried off?” he asked in surprise. “Do you think I am such a poor-spirited fellow as that?”

  “I am sure I don’t know what sort of fellow you are.” She turned to him with a determinedly expressionless face. “You are virtually a stranger, after all.”

  He let out a laugh, pulling her to a stop on the stairs, and leaned closer, murmuring, “And you kissed a stranger thus? Isobel, I am shocked.”

  Isobel glared at him. “I was . . . I was carried away.” It occurred to her that that did not sound as she wished. “I mean . . .”

  “I like it when you are carried away.” He lowered his forehead to hers, and his thumb traced a lazy circle on the back of her hand. “I hope you will be carried away more often.”

  She had forgotten how dark a blue his eyes were and how his voice could slide inside her, making her melt. She had told herself that her memory had made him more handsome than he was, that his flaring cheekbones did not stir her in some indefinable, illogical way, that the cut of his upper lip did not make her own lips long to press against his. But she knew now that she had been lying to herself.

  “Come, Isobel.” He kissed her lower lip, then the upper. “Do not deny us both.” He moved on, pressing the same light, teasing kisses on her cheeks, her chin, the tip of her nose. “Did you miss me?”

  “Of course not.” Her words came out too breathlessly to be believable.

  He chuckled. “I think you are telling me a clanker.” He nuzzled her neck.

  “Jack!” she hissed, glancing behind them down the stairs. “Someone will see.”

  “Then come.” He trotted up the last few steps, pulling her with him, and at the top he turned to take her in his arms and kiss her. He slid his hands around her waist and down over her buttocks, pulling her into him. “I think you can tell that I missed you.”

  She could feel the hard length of him pressing into her, and she was horrified to realize that she wanted to rub herself against him in response. Struggling to pull together the tattered pieces of her dignity, she turned away from him. “My aunt could come out at any moment.”

  He grinned down at her. “My room is right here.” He nodded his head toward his door. “There’s ample privacy in it.”

  Isobel let out a noise of exasperation and stalked down the hall to her bedroom. To her surprise, Jack followed her and closed the door behind him. She whirled around. “Jack!”

  “I like my name in your mouth.” He smiled and linked his hands behind her waist, holding her loosely. “You are right. It is much better in here.”

  “I did not mean—”

  He ignored her, dropping kisses across her face. “Is this proper enough? Secluded enough?” His voice thickened. “May I kiss my wife now?”

  “I am not your wife,” she replied shakily.

  “You will be soon enough.” But he left off kissing her, seemingly content for the moment just to gaze at her, his eyes taking her in from the top of her head to her feet in a slow sweep. “I like your hair like this. Loose and tumbled.” He combed his fingers through it. “Your attire.” His hand drifted down, skimming her shoulder and breast, the feather-light touch bringing her nipples to hardness. “You have a deplorable habit of running out in your nightdress.” A sensual smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I rather enjoy it.”

  He ran a finger lazily around the circle of her nipple, watching with heated eyes as it tightened at his touch, pressing against the thin material of her gown. Isobel felt as if she were turning to liquid inside, the ache between her legs growing.

  “I will like it even more,” he went on huskily, “when there is naught between us.” He hooked his finger into the neck of her gown, and the touch of h
is skin on her bare breast sent a quiver through her body. “I thought about you all the while I was gone.”

  His words touched upon a nerve in her, rubbed raw by a week of anxiety. Isobel let out a wordless noise of disbelief and turned away. “Words come very easily from you.”

  Jack quirked a brow. “Would you rather I were more inarticulate? I can bumble about with the best of them, if you wish.”

  “No, of course not,” she snapped. “All I want from you is the truth!”

  He went still. “I have not lied to you.”

  “You don’t need to since you tell me nothing.”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  “I’m not. At first I could not understand why you were so secretive about your trip, but then I realized: you are secretive about everything. I know nothing about you.”

  “And what is it that you would like to learn?” He folded his arms and gazed at her indulgently. “Come; ask your questions. What are these vital facts you need to know?”

  “Well . . .” Now that she was put on the spot, her mind went annoyingly blank. “Where are you from?”

  “London, but surely you are already aware of that.”

  “No, I mean, where were you born? Where did you grow up?”

  “All over.” He shrugged. “London, Liverpool, Bath. We moved whenever the mood struck us. Or perhaps I should say, whenever the constable was at our door. Really, Isobel, doesn’t this strike you as a foolish argument? What does it matter where I lived as a child? You are aware that I am not a gentleman. I did not attend Eton or Oxford.”

  “Yet you told my aunt you did.”

  “When— Oh.” His face cleared. “That was the day I arrived. I scarcely knew either of you then. It meant nothing.”

  “Then why did you say it? No doubt your tale about the contessa meant nothing, either, yet you told Cousin Robert that Banbury story.”

  “Are you still holding that against me?” He stared. “Your cousin is a pompous—”

  “This is not about him. It is about you. The fact that you do not like someone or that they are strangers to you does not make a lie into the truth.”

  “It was still inconsequential. I cannot understand why you are in such a dudgeon about it.”

  “It isn’t just that you lied a time or two about unimportant things. The fact is, you keep everything about you a secret.”

  “Very well,” he said, tight-lipped. “I am a gambler; I make my living by my wits. I did not have tutors or dance instructors; nor did I tour the Continent. I have no lineage, or at least none it’s advisable to know. I suspect more than one of my ancestors met his end swinging from the gallows. But you were aware of my lowly station when you suggested that we marry. If you want a man of high station, you should—”

  “That is not what I meant! I don’t care about your name, and you know it. You are twisting my words about. That is what you do when you cannot glide out of a question. You hide your real self from the world. From me. You are a man of wonderful manners, eternally glib, difficult to dislike. But I have no idea who you really are, what you really feel. Where is the person in you?”

  Jack stiffened and his eyes took on a frosty glitter. “I fear that what you see is who I am. No doubt it will become clear to you soon that I am not a man with depths.”

  “I did not mean—” Isobel felt a stab of remorse; clearly her words had wounded him.

  “Did you not?” He took a step closer, his eyes trained on hers. “You believe I have fashioned a man from whole cloth, made him up to play the role of gentleman. And you are right, of course. I carefully constructed me—the clothes, the air, the words, the manners. And that is all I am. I do not reveal what dwells inside because there is nothing there. I am surprised you have not realized it by now. Why else would I agree to this marriage?”

  Stung, Isobel lifted her chin. “Exactly. There is no need for you to try to beguile me. No reason for sweet words or kisses. Why pretend that our marriage is anything but a sham?”

  “Why indeed?” He sketched a bow, as rigid and correct as an automaton. “Good night, Miss Rose. I will see you at the ceremony.”

  The atmosphere the next few days was strained. Isobel regretted the words between them. She wanted to explain that her words had come out wrong, that she did not think him a shell of a man. Then he would smile at her in that devilish way and turn her apologies aside with a quip, and everything would be easy between them again. But something in the impassive lines of his face, in his careful, impersonal courtesies, made her timid and uncertain.

  The night before her wedding, Isobel climbed the stairs to her chamber, tired but certain that sleep would elude her tonight, as it had for so many days. She had barely stepped inside her room when an arm snaked around her waist and a voice whispered close to her ear, “I’ve come to abduct you.”

  “Meg!” Isobel whipped around, startled laughter bubbling up out of her. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  Meg chuckled at Isobel’s reaction. “I’ve come to whisk you out of the house. You did not have a réiteach, but surely you dinna think I would let you spend the night before your wedding alone, did you?”

  Meg reached out to take Isobel’s arm, but Isobel pulled back, saying suspiciously, “You’ll not be washing my feet.” That custom usually involved more blackening than washing, from the tales she had heard from the village.

  “Nae.” Meg laughed again. “I know you fine folk are different. We are just going over to the cottage to spend the night. You must have at least a little fun, and it’s been an age since we’ve had an all-night gossip and giggle.” Meg picked up Isobel’s cloak and held it out to her. “Come. We’ll row across.”

  “But my wedding dress—” Isobel hesitated.

  “Your aunt will send it round bright and early to the cottage, and I’ll help you dress. Coll will walk with you to the road to meet your cousins. He wanted to do that since it is Gregory’s and Mr. Rose’s place to take you to the kirk. I shall come back here so your aunt and I can escort Mr. Kensington. It will give her a chance to spread your wedding dress out to work on it without worrying you might catch sight of it.”

  Isobel rolled her eyes. “I am surprised she let me out of her sight lest I slip and bring bad luck down on my head.”

  Meg chuckled. “She trusts me because of my mother. She asked me what I saw ahead for you. I told her I did not have the sicht. None of us have since my grandma, and I’m not sure I believe she did, either.”

  “Just tell Aunt Elizabeth you saw a good omen. Tell her I put my right shoe on before my left.”

  “You will; I’ll see to that. We can count on there being a bird singing outside the window; they’re always about. Now if only the day dawns sunny, we will do fine.”

  Isobel laughed and looped her arm through Meg’s as they started down the stairs. “I don’t know why Auntie has become absolutely mad about all the superstitions.”

  “She wants very much for you to be happy.”

  “Ah, well. I will be happy to be at Baillannan.”

  Isobel felt her friend’s eyes on her, but Meg did not say anything as they left the house and moved quickly to the small dock, where Meg’s dory was waiting. They rowed across the water, taking turns, in the way they had done many times before. Pulling the boat up onto the opposite shore, they turned it over and walked up the hill to the cottage. The darkness closed around them beneath the trees, shutting out even the partial moon, but Meg moved as swiftly and surely as a cat along the familiar path.

  Meg had always been an outdoor creature, and the brae was as much her home as the cottage in which she lived. She had followed her mother from the time she was a baby, and by the time they came to live at Baillannan, Meg already knew the glen in a way Isobel never could. Baillannan might be hers, but the loch and all around it were Meg’s.

  Inside the house, Meg lit a lamp and added another block of peat to the fire. Isobel sat down on the hearth, and Meg joined her, holding out a bottle of golden-brown whi
skey, much the same shade as Meg’s eyes.

  “Now, as it’s the eve of your wedding, it’s only fitting that we have a wee dram, don’t you think?”

  “Of whiskey? Meg, you’ll have me reeling down the aisle.”

  Meg laughed. “Nae. ’Tis MacKenzie’s best, smooth as silk; he gave it to me for helping his wife with the birthing. The wee babe was the wrong way around, you ken, and I had to turn it. But the bairn came out with a lusty yell. A bonny thing, she was.” Meg handed Isobel a cup and began to pour. “We’ll have just a few sips. Remember when Coll slipped us that whiskey?”

  “Indeed.” Isobel grinned as she took a drink. The liquid slid down her throat like fire and burst in her stomach. “I remember your mother boxed our ears.”

  “Aye, well, Coll got the worst of it. He could not sit for three days afterwards.” Meg laughed, then sighed. “Everything is changing, isn’t it? So many people gone. Tomorrow you’ll be Mrs. Kensington.”

  “I will still be the same.”

  “You’ll be a married woman.”

  “It’s not a real marriage.”

  “It’s in the kirk.” Meg gave her an odd look. “That seems real enough to me. It isn’t a handfasting.”

  “No, it will be legal. I just meant . . .” Isobel shrugged. “We won’t really be husband and wife.”

  “Oh.” Meg’s eyes widened as she took in Isobel’s meaning. “Does Mr. Kensington know that?”

  Isobel laughed. “Yes. I made it clear. We have a . . . a practical arrangement. I will run Baillannan as I always have. And he will return to London and spend the money.”

  “I see.” Meg studied the whiskey in her glass, swirling it around. “Still . . . it does not seem to me most men would be content with that.”

  “I don’t know if content is the word. But he is not the sort of man who would”—a blush stained Isobel’s cheeks and she glanced away—“who would force me.” She took another drink, grimacing as the fire rolled down her throat.

  Meg poured again. The whiskey was going down more easily with each sip. Isobel was beginning to feel warm and peaceful, the twanging nerves that had plagued her for a week easing.