Treasured

by Candace Camp

  “That could be,” Isobel admitted with a sigh. “She also said she remembered him walking into the fireplace, so I don’t know how much her memory can be trusted. Grandmother could have told her a bedtime story about it, to comfort her, and over time Aunt Elizabeth came to believe it was her own memory. But at least it proves she was right. Malcolm didn’t flee to the colonies at the news of Culloden. He returned to Scotland.”

  “True.” Jack nodded. “What I wonder is, does this mean there really was a treasure?”

  The answer to that was a hearty yes, at least in the minds of the people gathered at the dinner table, in particular Andrew and Gregory. When Isobel announced she had proof that Malcolm had returned from France, they all stared at her in a stunned silence. With a triumphant smile, she spread the letter out on the table before Elizabeth, and her aunt’s eyes widened.

  “Isobel, where did you find this?” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. “That is Papa’s hand.”

  “It was in Grandmother’s old prayer book,” Isobel explained, glossing over the impetus for their search. “The binding, um, came loose, and this was inside it. He wrote her after he returned to Kinclannoch.”

  Andrew and Gregory immediately crowded around Elizabeth’s chair, craning their necks to read the missive. Andrew’s jaw dropped. “Is this really our grandfather’s letter? He did return from France?”

  “I’ve always told you so, Andrew,” his aunt reminded him.

  “Yes, but this means—”

  “Treasure!” Gregory let out a whoop. “It means there really was a treasure hidden here. I knew it! Remember how we used to search for it, Andy?”

  “Of course.” Andrew lost his usual air of sangfroid, his eyes sparkling like a boy’s. “We should go exploring.”

  “I remember your explorations, too,” Isobel said warningly, “and you had best not dig holes all about again.”

  Gregory laughed. “We would be much more scientific about it now, wouldn’t we?”

  “The letter won’t help you find it,” Isobel pointed out. “In fact, it doesn’t even prove there is a treasure. It says nothing about that.”

  “Well, of course he wouldn’t be blabbing about that in a note to your grandmother,” Gregory replied scornfully. “But he went to France to get money, so odds are he had it with him when he returned.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jack’s mother put in, her eyes round with interest. “What treasure?”

  Gregory was happy to tell the story of the Laird of Baillannan and his lost treasure, spinning it out dramatically. Mrs. Kensington’s response was all he could wish for, as she gasped and exclaimed and put her hand to her chest.

  “My! And the laird actually came into your room, Elizabeth?” Millicent turned to Isobel’s aunt.

  “He did, and he gave me his watch, just as Gregory said. Show your mother, Jack.”

  Obediently, Jack unfastened his watch from its chain and handed it to Millicent.

  “Aunt Elizabeth!” Andrew stared at her. “I never knew you had Grandfather’s watch.”

  “Oh, yes.” Elizabeth nodded.

  “Why did you not tell us?” Andrew turned to Isobel, frowning. “Is it only I who does not know? Apparently Greg knew all about it.”

  “No, none of us knew until recently, Andy,” Isobel hastened to assure him, seeing the suddenly mulish set of his jaw. “Auntie told us just a few weeks ago.”

  “But why does he have it?” Andrew looked toward Jack.

  “Your aunt gave it to me.” Jack gazed back at him levelly.

  “Yes. It was a wedding present,” Aunt Elizabeth explained.

  “And such a lovely one,” Millicent put in, smiling at Elizabeth. “You are so thoughtful.”

  “Yes, isn’t she,” Andrew bit out.

  “Andrew,” Isobel said, hastening to change the course of the conversation, “do you and Gregory truly mean to hunt for lost treasure?”

  She thought he was about to ignore her diversion, but then her brother smiled tightly. “Yes, why not? Or is our grandfather’s gold Jack’s, as well?”

  “I would guess our grandfather’s gold was long since spent,” Isobel replied lightly, shooting her brother a warning look. “If there ever was any.”

  “Don’t be a spoilsport, Izzy,” Gregory took up Isobel’s conversational gambit. “How can you believe there is no treasure?”

  “I don’t know that there isn’t. I just think it’s unlikely. In that letter he said he was going to do what duty demanded, and I would assume that meant he went to find the prince. Surely he took the money to him. But if he left it here, he would have put it in Grandmother’s keeping, and she would have spent it in the lean years following the Uprising.”

  “A mystery!” Millicent clasped her hands together, starry-eyed. “How exciting! I know exactly what your father would have done, Jack.” She nodded at her son. “He would have been out there hunting for it.”

  “No doubt,” Jack retorted drily. “I believe that I shall refrain. Baillannan’s a rather large piece of land to search.”

  “We shan’t scattershot as we did when we were little,” Gregory said. “When you think about it, how likely is it that he just dug a hole randomly on his land and buried it? It’s clear from this note that he was hiding out somewhere, and that is likely where the treasure is. It probably isn’t even on Baillannan. My first guess would be the caves. Or maybe the old castle.”

  “Gregory . . .” Isobel looked alarmed. “Promise me you two won’t go poking about in the ruins. You know how unstable they are. You could injure yourselves.”

  “Always the big sister.” Gregory grinned. “Very well. We’ll steer clear of the ruins, so you need not worry. My money is on the caves near the sea, anyway. That would have been where he landed, and what better place to hide from the soldiers?”

  “Careful, Gregory, or she will be warning us not to get lost in the caves,” Andrew joked, putting aside his flash of ill humor, though the smile he gave Isobel was a little strained.

  True to their words, the next day Gregory and Andrew plunged into a treasure hunt. They determined that it would be easier to start from Baillannan, so Gregory moved into the house, taking the old room next door to Andrew’s that had been Gregory’s as a child. The two of them set out each morning, returning at teatime to regale the ladies with stories of their adventures.

  Isobel, well acquainted with them, took their tales with more than a grain of salt, but Millicent and Elizabeth were a much better audience, appropriately impressed with the distance they had gone into the caves or the depth of a pit they came upon there or the risk of getting trapped by high tide.

  Isobel busied herself with the task of setting Lady Cordelia’s room to rights. She was working her way through the wardrobe one afternoon when she heard her aunt cry out, followed an instant later by Millicent’s voice rising in alarm: “Jack, what happened to you? Why are you bleeding?”

  Isobel shot to her feet and ran out of the room and down the stairs. Jack stood in the entry, facing his mother and Elizabeth. His hair and clothing were covered in dust, as well as a few twigs and leaves. A large tear went down the front of his shirt, revealing a long scratch. One cheek was marred by a vivid spot of red, raw skin, and his hair was matted with blood.

  “Jack! Are you all right? What happened?” Isobel took his chin in her hand and went on tiptoe to inspect his face.

  He shook his head. “It’s naught, really. It looks much worse than it is. Head wounds always bleed like mad.”

  “But how—what—”

  “I got caught in a rockslide. I was riding down the path when I heard a tremendous clatter, and I looked up to see a great rock tumbling down the hillside.”

  Isobel sucked in her breath, her hand clutching his arm. “Jack, you could have been killed!”

  His mother let out a high-pitched moan and swayed. Elizabeth took the woman’s arm and supported her to a seat on a nearby bench. Isobel had no eyes for anyone but Jack.

 
“Mm,” he responded mildly. “Fortunately, my horse’s reactions are swifter than mine, and at the first sound, Pharaoh bolted down the path. Rather less fortunately, he slammed me into a tree and I went tumbling.” Jack looked down at his left leg, and Isobel saw a slash across one leg of his breeches, as well as a large scrape on the side of his elegant riding boot. Ruefully he went on, “I fear my best pair of Hoby’s is ruined.”

  “For pity’s sake,” Isobel said, fear and relief making her voice tart, “who cares about your boot? You are lucky to have escaped. Here.” She slid her arm around his waist and led him toward the stairs. “Let’s get you cleaned up and put something on those cuts. You shouldn’t have gone riding alone. Take a groom with you next time,” she scolded him as they climbed the steps to his room. “I didn’t think to warn you about the rocks. Sometimes they fall, especially when it has been raining a great deal.”

  “Which would be always, I assume.”

  “Don’t be pert. I am serious.” She steered him to the bed. “Take off your coat.” She reached up and gingerly began to pull the coat from his shoulders.

  “You need not be so careful. Nothing is broken.”

  “Yes, it’s a good thing it was only your head. Now, hush. Sit down.” She pushed him back onto the bed and knelt to remove his boots. When she looked up, she found him studying her as he untied his cravat, his eyes dark. He looked, she realized, as he did sometimes when he lounged in his chair, watching her, and those occasions almost invariably ended with his whisking her to bed.

  Heat flooded her face, and she realized that for the past few minutes they had been just as they were before Mrs. Kensington came, the constraint of the past few days forgotten in Isobel’s concern for him. Suddenly she was very aware of the sexual undertones of their positions. She stood up abruptly, breaking the moment, and went to the washstand to wet a rag.

  Cupping his chin in one hand, she washed the blood and dirt from his face, dabbing carefully at the matted blood near his hairline. “It isn’t as bad as it looked.”

  “I told you. Head wounds bleed all out of proportion.” He winced. “Ow. Have a care.”

  “I have to clean it. You deserve worse for being so careless.” She stopped, looking into his eyes. “Promise me you will be more careful.”

  “I shall be the most timid creature alive. Like a rabbit, I will pop up my head and look in all directions.”

  “Don’t joke.” She scowled. “You could have been killed.”

  His eyes were suddenly hot and intent upon hers. “Would you have cared?”

  “What?” Isobel stepped back. “Of course I would care. How can you ask such a thing?”

  “’Tis a little hard to tell these days.” Jack stood up and began to unbutton his shirt. “You’d best go now,” he said dismissively as he turned away. “I am about to undress, and I wouldn’t want to offend you.”

  “You think that is the reason I left your bed? Because I cared so little?”

  “What other reason is there?” His voice was cold as frost. “You realized what I am and what you were doing—sullying the Rose name. The daughter of the laird should not climb in bed with a peasant.”

  “You are a fool!” Isobel slammed the rag back into the washbowl and stalked to the door. She turned back, her body rigid, fury shooting from her like sparks. “I did not go because I didn’t care. I left because I cared too much!”

  “Isobel—” He took a step toward her.

  “No!” Isobel raised her hand. “Stop. Stay away from me.”

  “I don’t even know what you want from me,” he ground out, his face a study in frustration.

  “I know.” Suddenly her anger drained, leaving a bitter sorrow in its wake. “And that is what breaks my heart.”

  She turned and walked out the door.

  Isobel was late going down to supper that evening. She dreaded the thought of facing Jack after the scene that afternoon. But when she stepped into the anteroom where the others had gathered, she saw that Jack was not there. The atmosphere was convivial, with Gregory holding forth and Mrs. Kensington tittering and blushing at his overblown compliments while Elizabeth and Andrew looked on, smiling. Isobel joined in as best she could, though she could not keep her mind on their frivolities.

  “Jack, love!” Millicent cried. “There you are. I feared you were hurt too badly to join us.”

  Isobel turned, her heart racing, doing her best to keep her face from showing any of the turbulent emotions inside her.

  “I am fine.” Jack shrugged. He did not look at Isobel as he entered. “It was a trifling wound . . . nothing more. I hope I did not worry you overmuch.”

  “Of course, I was worried sick. That’s how it is with mothers.” Millicent patted the seat beside her. “Come, sit down, love. Mr. Rose has been telling us the most amusing stories.”

  “Gregory, ma’am,” Isobel’s cousin said. “You must call me Gregory. After all, we are related now, aren’t we?” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Though to save me, I could not tell you exactly what that relation is called. Cousin-in-law, perhaps? But to what degree?”

  “Don’t ask me, young man. I have never had a head for figures. No doubt Jack could tell us. He was always so sharp with numbers. His father used to say he was the cleverest of anyone when it came to numbers. He could remember every card—”

  “Mother, please, you will make me blush,” Jack interrupted coolly.

  “Mrs. Kensington, I see your glass is empty. Shall I get you another sherry?” Andrew said politely, starting to rise from his chair.

  “Such a thoughtful young man.” Mrs. Kensington beamed at him. “You know, perhaps a spot more would be nice. I have become quite parched, I’ve talked so much.”

  Jack swooped up the glass before Andrew reached his feet. “No need, Sir Andrew. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Of course.” Andrew settled back in his chair with an easy smile.

  Isobel could not help but notice the interplay between the two men—nor how Jack, though he picked up the sherry glass, made no move to refill it. She stole a peek at her brother. She had been glad the past few days that Andrew and Gregory’s quest had kept Andrew out of the house, else he might have let his tongue get away from him.

  He was upset, she knew, about their father’s watch. Isobel could not blame him; she had at the time been surprised that Elizabeth had chosen a stranger to receive it rather than her nephew. Andrew’s resentment was not reasonable—he himself had, after all, gambled away his inheritance, and Elizabeth was free to give her possessions as she chose—but Isobel could not help but feel for her brother. But she dreaded being caught between her husband and her brother if their uneasy relationship exploded into an argument. She wished that Andrew would return to London, which made her feel guilty, as well.

  “Jack.” Millicent turned to her son, frowning. “My throat is quite parched.” Her querulous tone surprised Isobel, for however talkative and even silly Mrs. Kensington might be, she had never before seemed anything but adoring of Jack.

  Jack hesitated, looking down at her. “We will be repairing to the dining room in just a moment, I’m sure.”

  “That will scarcely help me now.”

  “Of course. Pardon me.” He acquiesced, bowing to her and crossing the room to pour a small amount of sherry in her glass. He had barely returned when Hamish entered the room to announce dinner. “Ah, there we are.” Jack set the glass down on the table beside Millicent and offered her his hand to rise.

  His mother picked up the glass and knocked back the drink in one quick gulp. “Ah, that is much better.” She rose and took Jack’s arm, smiling at him. “Such a dear boy. So like your father.”

  Millicent clung tightly to Jack’s arm as they took the brief trip down the corridor to the dining room. Jack’s mother, Isobel realized, was a trifle tipsy. Isobel looked down to hide a tiny smile. Millicent must be unused to alcohol, indeed, if those two little glasses of sherry had made her wobbly.

  Her amusement so
on faded, however, as Millicent drank down the glass of wine beside her plate before the first course was even done. Isobel saw that Hamish was starting toward Mrs. Kensington, no doubt to refill her glass. A trifle alarmed that the woman, in her inexperience with alcohol, might embarrass herself or even make herself ill, Isobel stopped the butler with a look. However, after a few minutes, Millicent began to look around impatiently, finally twisting in her seat and motioning to Hamish, then tapping the top of her wineglass. He glanced at Isobel, but she could do little without embarrassing Millicent, so Isobel merely smiled at him, and he poured the wine.

  As the supper progressed, Millicent continued to drink. She laughed too loudly and too long at Gregory’s witticisms, and she talked at length, now and then losing the thread of what she was saying. Sneaking a glance at Jack’s rigid face, Isobel realized that the problem was not that Millicent was a novice at drinking alcohol, but exactly the opposite.

  A murmured direction to Hamish kept the meal moving at a faster pace than normal, so much so that Andrew protested, “Wait, man, I have not finished. Are we in a race?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Andrew.” Isobel laughed. “You were ever the slowest at the dinner table.”

  Andrew began to deny it, but Gregory joined Isobel, saying, “It’s the truth, Andy. You cannot convince anyone otherwise.”

  “Jack never was.” Millicent spoke up, slurring her words a little. “Always in a hurry, that was my Jack. Just like his father, rush, rush, rush, all the time.” She lifted her glass, then set it down again as tears welled in her eyes. “I do miss him. Don’t you miss him, Jackie?” she appealed to her son.

  Jack’s face was like stone. “I think often of his absence, yes.”

  “There. I knew it. You cannot fool your mother, no matter what you say.” She turned to Isobel. “He was a wonderful man, you know. I wish, I just wish you could have met him. You would have liked him, too.”

  “I am sure I would have.”

  “A brave man, too. He died too young, but I knew . . .” Millicent’s breath hitched, and the tears swimming in her eyes spilled over. “I knew he died just as he would have wished. If it had not been for him, she would have died in the fire.”