Treasured

by Candace Camp

  “I am pleased you like it here,” Isobel told her, hoping her tone did not reflect the icy emptiness she felt inside. She and Jack had not spoken to one another except for a formal nod and greeting when they had gathered in the anteroom for a drink before supper. If he was distressed by that fact, it was impossible to tell.

  “I adore it,” Millicent assured her.

  “Mother adores a great many things,” Jack put in.

  “Oh, you.” His mother patted his arm, beaming at him. “Jack has always been such a levelheaded boy. He thinks me fanciful, I’m afraid.”

  “Then you will enjoy it here. We are quite fanciful in Kinclannoch.” Andrew smiled. “Ah, I see your glass is almost empty. Hamish, pour Mrs. Kensington some more wine.” Jack stirred in his seat at the head of the table, and Andrew glanced at him. “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I spoke out of place—force of habit, I’m afraid.”

  “No offense, I assure you,” Jack replied silkily. “However, I suspect that my mother has had her fill of wine.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Millicent Kensington agreed, nodding so that her multitude of curls bobbed. “Jack knows I am not accustomed to alcohol. Though this is so good, perhaps I shall just have a little bit more. We were never allowed to drink it in our home; Father was such a strict man. Not like my dear Sutton at all.” She sighed wistfully, then added in explanation, “Jack’s father, you know.”

  “Oh. Yes,” Isobel responded. Of course, she did not know. She refrained from glancing at Jack.

  “I don’t believe I know Sutton.” Sir Andrew took up the conversational slack.

  “He is gone,” Jack said flatly.

  “Yes. For many years now.” Mrs. Kensington’s voice was threaded with tears, and she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Poor Sutton. Not a day has gone by that I have not felt the loss. I try to take comfort in the fact that he saved that poor child’s life—he snatched him right out from beneath the wheels of the wagon, you see.”

  “Oh, my!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  Millicent Kensington nodded. “Yes. But he was not lucky enough to escape himself. His last words, they said, were for me and Jack, but, alas, I was not there to hear them.”

  “I am so sorry,” Aunt Elizabeth put in feelingly. “I had no idea.”

  “No. Jack does not like to speak of it, naturally. He was barely more than a lad when his father was taken from us.”

  Isobel sneaked a glance at Jack. He seemed to be inordinately interested in straightening the chain of his watch.

  “It must have been very hard on you, raising a child on your own,” Elizabeth sympathized.

  “It was. Indeed it was. But Jack was a tower of strength for me. He always has been.” Mrs. Kensington turned adoring eyes on her son. “He is so like his father. You have only to look at Jack to see Sutton. So tall, so handsome.”

  A muscle jumped in Jack’s jaw. “Mother, please.”

  “He does not like me to compliment him.” Mrs. Kensington chuckled. “I shall say no more. Except to tell you, Isobel.” She turned toward her in a confiding way. “You doubtless know exactly how I felt the moment I first set eyes on my Sutton.” She heaved a sigh, putting one hand over her heart. “When I saw him on that stage, I knew.”

  “The stage?” Andrew asked, his voice amused. “Jack’s father was an actor?”

  “One of the greatest that ever trod the boards.” Millicent beamed. “Such a voice. And so elegant. They were performing Hamlet when we met. He was Laertes, and I remember thinking that he should have played Hamlet, for he was much better suited to be a prince. We were in the box to the right of the stage, and when he walked over to our side, he looked out right into my eyes. I knew—right then and there, I was certain that he was the man I would marry. My father was against it, of course.”

  “Astonishing,” Andrew murmured, and Isobel shot him a quelling look.

  “There was nothing for it but to run away.”

  “Naturally,” Andrew agreed.

  “My father was set on my marrying one of his clerks. Papa was a solicitor, you see; Arthur Benning was reading for the law under him and he was terribly bright. Papa wanted to make sure I was secure, he said, but all Mr. Benning could talk about was the law and the weather, and I could not love him. When I met Sutton, I knew he was the man I should marry.”

  “Just like Weeping Annie,” Aunt Elizabeth said.

  “Who?” Andrew looked confused. Jack was stone-faced.

  “Weeping Annie,” Isobel repeated. “You remember, Andrew. The tale Auntie used to tell us about the mill.”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth nodded. “It was one of Aunt Agnes’s stories, and it could fair gar your grue, I’ll tell you. Annie’s father wanted her to marry the laird, but he was a wicked man, so she ran off with the miller’s son, who was her true love. But it ended badly; the wicked laird cut off the lad’s head and Annie drowned herself there at the mill.”

  “Oh, my,” Millicent said, her eyes wide. “She became a ghost, then?”

  “Yes, indeed. She walks along the bank at night looking for the poor lad’s head and keening. If you get too close to the wheel, even in daylight, she will pull you into the water and keep you there with her.”

  “I suspect, Mother,” Jack commented drily, “that you will enjoy a good many of Miss Rose’s Highland tales.”

  “I will! I love a romantic story, even when they end sadly. Well, they so often do.”

  “I always thought you told that story just to keep Gregory and me from hanging about the waterwheel,” Andrew said.

  Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled. “It is a useful tale, as well.”

  “On that note, ladies, I believe it is time we left the gentlemen to their port, don’t you?” Isobel said, not waiting for any replies before she stood.

  There was the polite shuffle to stand and pull back the women’s chairs. Isobel cast a perfunctory smile toward her brother and Jack to acknowledge their bows before linking her arm through Mrs. Kensington’s and strolling toward the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack make a movement, and she thought he was about to come forward or speak to her, but he did not. Little as she wanted to face him, that he had not tried added to the spot of soreness deep within her chest.

  Jack balefully watched the women exit the room. He wanted to stop Isobel, to pull her back and talk to her, to break through that chilly reserve. But that was impossible with all these people around them. It was impossible, anyway, to put things back the way they were before his mother and Andrew had come blundering in. He had known it would be as soon as his mother stepped into the house. He had just not counted on the ruination happening so quickly.

  Like a fool, he had mishandled the situation, as he seemed to do so often with Isobel. His usual poise and ease in talking—what Isobel called his glibness—had vanished. He hadn’t known what to say to her. It had been all he could do to hold his anger at her brother in check, to appear normal and unruffled despite the disaster he knew was coming.

  Looking back on it, he supposed it did not matter what he said. Isobel’s fury was not something he could vanquish with a smile and a kiss. The look on her face had frozen him; her words pierced him through. Why was the woman so bloody determined to know every grimy detail of his life?

  Jack swung back around to face the root of his troubles. Andrew was lounging in his chair, pushed back from the table, his legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, at ease in the house where he belonged. Jack waited for the twitch of irritation to subside before he spoke; the heat of anger usually resulted in mistakes.

  The silence apparently worked on Andrew, for after a moment he shifted in his chair and offered, “No doubt you are wondering why I came here.”

  “Oh, I understand exactly why you are here. I have little doubt that the river Tick was lapping at your door. One can, however, only wonder why you saw fit to drag a middle-aged woman along with you.”

  Andrew’s eyes danced. “I could hardly come without bringing a wedding
gift, now could I? I knew you must be eager for your mother to meet your new wife . . . and vice versa.”

  “You might have shown your sister more consideration by giving her notice of your arrival so that she could have the rooms prepared.”

  “I knew Isobel would handle it.” Andrew dismissed the matter with a flick of his wrist. “She is well accustomed to my fits and starts. Besides, she never allows this house to fall out of order. Isobel loves Baillannan above all else—as I am sure you have discovered.”

  “Indeed. It is fortunate someone valued it.” Jack gave his words a sardonic inflection, his eyes steady on the other man’s face.

  A faint flush rose in Andrew’s cheeks, and he broke their gaze. “I was certain I was going to win that night.”

  “Ah. The gambler’s motto.”

  Andrew’s eyes lit with anger, but what he would have replied was lost as Hamish came bustling in with the tray of port. The butler set the tray down on the table, positioning it vaguely between the two men. “There you are, Master Andrew. Good to have you home again.”

  The young man grinned. “It’s good to be here. Nothing like the Highland air, is there?”

  “No, sir, there is not.” The dour butler beamed at him.

  “Tell your Nan hello for me.”

  “I will indeed.” He turned to Jack with a polite nod. “Sir?”

  “Thank you, Hamish. That will be all.”

  As the man left, closing the door behind him, Jack said, “Has the man ever breathed aught but Highland air?”

  Andrew chuckled. “No. I doubt he’s traveled as far as Inverness. But any Highlander knows that anything here is better than everything anywhere else.”

  Jack poured a generous glass of port for each of them, seizing the brief moment of geniality. “I do not want my wife upset. I know she loves you dearly, and for her sake, I suggest that we call a truce.”

  “A truce? I did not know we were at war.” Andrew took a sip of his drink, relaxing in his chair.

  “Then a treaty, shall we say? I do not know you well, so I am unsure what your aim was in bringing my mother to this house—though I must say that the initiative you showed in finding her raised you somewhat in my estimation.”

  “Are you saying you kept her hidden?”

  Jack leaned forward, quelling the urge to plant his fist in the young man’s smirking face. “What I am saying is that I own Baillannan, and I would suggest that you remember that fact. If I wish it, you will be out on your ear. No amount of childish pranks or verbal barbs will change that fact. You remain here solely out of my respect for Isobel, and that position will change if you push me too far. Am I clear?”

  “Perfectly.” Andrew’s face took on a petulant look. “You needn’t threaten me. I would not hurt Isobel.”

  Jack responded with only a raised eyebrow. He took another swig of his port. “Drink up. It’s time we joined the ladies.”

  Jack found little comfort there, however, for as soon as he stepped into the drawing room, he saw that Isobel was not there. She had, his mother explained, already retired, and Mrs. Kensington went on to worry at some length about the dear girl’s health. Though Elizabeth hastened to reassure her that Isobel was rarely ill, Mrs. Kensington could not help but recall numerous acquaintances and relatives or friends of acquaintances and relatives who had fallen ill suddenly. In all these instances, apparently, the result had been an untimely (and often unsightly) death.

  Jack stood up abruptly. “Mother, you have convinced me I should look in on Isobel. Pray excuse me. Ladies. Sir Andrew.” He nodded toward them and strode out of the room. His first instinct was to go straight upstairs to talk to Isobel, but he paused at the foot of the stairs. Plunging ill prepared into another conversation with his wife was undoubtedly the worst thing he could do. He had proved on more than one occasion that he was all too likely to make a mull of things with Isobel if he spoke in the heat of the moment. He needed to remove himself, take some time to think things through, prepare his campaign to woo her back.

  Turning, Jack walked out the front door and started around the house, the rough path familiar to him now. The cool night carried the familiar scent of trees and earth, threaded through with a trace of peat smoke, a far cry from London’s thick miasma from coal fires and sewage. He would miss the smell when he returned, he thought. The nighttime strolls as well. And Isobel.

  Jack stopped, jamming his hands into his pockets and staring sightlessly in front of him. What the devil was the matter with him? He had never felt this confused, this torn, this eager to get back into a woman’s good graces. He lived his life as he wished, without worry or regret, and had to please no one. It was a selfish life, he freely admitted that; it was also exactly the way he liked it. And he could return to it this very moment, if he chose.

  Yet here he was, suddenly, seemingly surrounded by people—he had a wife and in-laws and an odd assortment of people who were important in some way to Isobel, and beyond that this whole collection of crofters who Isobel insisted were dependent on him. All because by chance he had won a house. And the house had brought him a wife.

  He turned and gazed up at the long, gray line of the manor. He had come around to the opposite side and was standing now at the end of the walkway down which he had chased the intruder weeks ago. Looking up, he could see the window of his bedroom, light glowing behind the drapes. Isobel was still up. He could go to her, kiss her and caress her until she forgot all the wrongs she held against him and dissolved into pleasure in his arms. His loins tightened in anticipation at the thought.

  He wanted to be there with her, to be lost in the sensations, the heat, driving deep within her until the climax shattered him. It was ridiculous to be standing out here instead, sorry and stupid and cold. . . . But he had barely taken a step when the light in the window disappeared. She had gone to bed without him.

  It brought him up short, but a moment’s reflection reminded him that she could not be asleep yet, and even if she was, he could wake her in a most pleasurable way. It would be easier in the dark; it was always easier in the dark.

  He went in the side entrance, turning to squeeze through in the now-familiar way to avoid the screech of the door on the tile. His pulse picked up in anticipation as he climbed the stairs and eased into his room. He walked softly to the bed, dimly visible in the pale moonlight. And there he stopped, unable for a moment to take in what he saw.

  The bed was empty. He turned and glanced around, but there was no sign of Isobel. Frowning, he lit the lamp. Had she gone back downstairs? He turned and his eyes fell on the vanity table. Her brushes and bottles were gone. Jack’s heart began to pound, and he crossed to the dresser, opening first one drawer and then another. Empty. All empty. He went to the wardrobe, but he knew before he opened it that her clothes would not be there. She had taken her things and moved back into her bedroom. Isobel had left him.

  Isobel opened her eyes, disoriented and aware of a heavy ache in her chest. In the next instant she remembered the day before—Mrs. Kensington’s arrival, the bitter words Isobel had exchanged with Jack, and the cold, lonely minutes alone in Jack’s room when she had decided to move her things back into her old bedroom. She lay in her own bed, but now she felt like a stranger here.

  She turned over, burying her head in her pillow. She had heard Jack come up to his room not long after she’d moved out the last of her clothes. For a few minutes, she had stood still, waiting, her heart knocking in her chest, wondering if he would come to her door, if he would try to talk her out of her decision or even demand that she come back. But he had not, which she told herself had been a relief, and after a time she had gone to bed. And cried herself to sleep.

  Sighing, she sat up and jackknifed her legs, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her head atop them. Yesterday morning at this hour, she had been lying in bed with Jack, replete with satisfaction and desultorily talking about nothing in particular. Now she was alone and her heart felt swollen and bruised within her
chest. How could everything have gone so wrong in one day’s time?

  She did not know if she had made the right decision last night. Perhaps she had merely widened the gulf between them, and Jack would make no move to narrow it. But she had realized that she could not bear to sit there waiting for him to come back, much less sleep with him, live her life with him, all the while knowing how little of himself he was willing to share with her. How deeply he resented her questions, viewing them as intrusions on him.

  With a sigh, she shoved her gloomy thoughts aside. She had guests to see to, tasks that needed doing. She could not give in to her dark worries; she had a life to live regardless of the problems between her and Jack. Dressing and doing up her hair in a tidy coiled braid, she went downstairs. She found everyone, even her usually late-rising brother, there before her. Jack rose politely, and she nodded to him with equal formality. He was once again a stranger to her.

  “Jack was just telling us he will be riding out after breakfast,” Aunt Elizabeth said.

  “I can scarce believe how rural he has become.” Millicent smiled, leaning over to pat his hand. “Jack has always been one to like the city. More activity there.”

  “Yes. I fear he must find it a trifle dull here.” The words tasted like ashes in Isobel’s mouth, but she strove to keep her tone light.

  “Never dull,” Jack countered. “Angus McKay has promised to teach me to fish.”

  “Angus McKay?” Isobel stopped, her cup of tea halfway to her mouth.

  “Old Angus, down Corby Brae?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes. Is that so odd? I got thoroughly lost one day and wound up at his cottage.”