by Candace Camp
“Fire?” Elizabeth repeated, and Isobel saw the same confusion she felt reflected on her aunt’s face.
“My life has been filled with far too much sorrow.” Millicent dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “First Sutton was taken from me, and then my lamb.”
“Mother.” Jack’s voice was short. “You are upsetting yourself. Let us talk of something else.”
“He doesn’t like for me to talk about her, you see,” Millicent told Isobel. “My Dolly.” She turned to Jack, her eyes accusing. “You always try to hush me. I cannot bear it. I simply cannot bear it.”
“Mrs. Kensington . . .” Impulsively Isobel reached out and laid her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Please, don’t be distressed. I am sure Jack just hates to see you unhappy; that is all.”
“Him.” The older woman shot Jack a look so venomous it made Isobel’s eyes widen in surprise. “That’s not it. He thinks I’m to blame.” Millicent’s eyes flashed, and she whipped back to Isobel. “He hates me; you ask him. He thinks I’m to blame.” Millicent’s face crumpled, and she began to cry. “And he’s right. I am. I am.”
For an instant, Isobel simply froze. Down the table she could see her aunt staring, horrified, and Gregory, looking as if he wished he were anywhere but here. Jack, of course, looked as cold and distant as a marble statue, and Andrew . . . disdain was on his face but Isobel saw a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes, as well.
Anger surged through Isobel, releasing her from her inaction, and she jumped to her feet, going around the corner of the table to Jack’s mother. “Please, you will make yourself unwell,” she told Millicent gently, putting her hand under the woman’s arm and tugging her up. “Let me help you to your bed. You should lie down and rest a bit.”
“I don’t want to rest!” Millicent snapped, then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh! I am so sorry, dear. I didn’t say that—I mean, I mean I should not have. You are a dear, dear girl.” She reached out and folded Isobel into her boozy embrace. “I’m so sorry. I’m so glad he found you. So glad. I was terrible to say”—Millicent stepped back, scrubbing her tears from her cheeks like a child—“whatever I said.”
“Let me help you.”
“No, no.” Mrs. Kensington reeled away from Isobel. “I’ll go. I’ll go myself.” She bumped into the high back of her chair, and Isobel reached to steady her.
“Here. I have her.” Jack had reached them, and he put an arm firmly around his mother’s waist. “Come, Mother. I’ll take you upstairs.”
“Dear boy.” Millicent looked up at him with a watery smile. “I’m sorry.” Her tears began to flow again, and she leaned her head against his chest, crying into it. “I am a terrible mother. I know. Please forgive me. I’ve ruined it. Ruined it. I didn’t mean to.”
“No, of course you didn’t.” His voice was weary, but not unkind.
“You don’t hate me, do you? Please say you don’t hate me.”
“No, I don’t hate you.” He steered her out the door, bracing himself to steady her. Isobel could hear his voice, low and indistinct, as they moved down the hall.
Isobel turned back to the table, stunned and empty.
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Elizabeth said. “Poor woman.”
“I’m sorry, Iz,” Gregory said. “I wish we had not brought her back that blackberry cordial from Meg’s. She must have had a tipple before she came to supper. I didn’t know . . .”
“Oh, I think Andrew did.” Isobel stared levelly at her brother. “Didn’t you, Andrew? You brought her that cordial on purpose.”
Andrew lifted a shoulder negligently. “Can I help it if the old girl cannot hold her liquor?”
“Andrew, how could you! Is that why you came here? Why you brought her? To retaliate against Jack? To embarrass him?”
“I came here because I had no place else to go!” Andrew lashed out, rising to face her. “Am I to blame that Kensington hides away his raddled, old sot of a mum? That he hires a keeper for her? What did I do that was so horrid? It isn’t as if I killed someone. I gave her a bottle of cordial. I brought you your new mother-in-law so you could see just what you’d married into.”
“Then it was me you wanted to pay back for marrying Jack?” Isobel raised her brows.
“Don’t be nonsensical.” He dropped back into his chair and crossed his arms, muttering, “I didn’t pour it down her throat.”
“You knew what would happen. Oh, Andrew.” Isobel sighed and sat down, too. The heat had gone from her voice. “I understand that you are angry with Jack and even that you feel I’ve betrayed you by marrying him.”
“No, Isobel,” Gregory put in. “Andy knows you did it to save Baillannan. We all do. No one blames you. And Kensington doesn’t seem too bad a sort, really.”
“She did not have to like him,” Andrew shot back. Gregory snorted, and Isobel rolled her eyes.
“You are being childish, Andrew, and you know it. I realize that you love to play pranks, and I know that men have some very peculiar ideas about what is funny. But this is not merely a trick on Jack. You have humiliated that poor woman in front of her new family.”
“I’d say she humiliated herself. Why are you flying up in the boughs about it? Everyone has a few relatives that are drunk as a wheelbarrow half the time.”
“That’s true,” Gregory said encouragingly. “Just think of my uncle Murdoch.”
“It’s different. They aren’t ladies.”
“Well, neither is Mill—”
“Andrew!” Isobel’s eyes flashed. “Have a care what you say.”
Her brother subsided. Elizabeth glanced worriedly from Andrew to Isobel in the uncomfortable silence that followed. Finally she said, “I fear I got a trifle lost. Didn’t Millicent say the other day that her husband was killed in a carriage accident?”
“Yes. Apparently the manner of his death changes from time to time.” Andrew shot his sister a challenging look.
“I don’t know how he died, Aunt Elizabeth. I would not put much faith in anything Jack’s mother said tonight.”
“Perhaps I should go look in on her.” Elizabeth’s brows knitted worriedly.
“That’s very kind of you. But I am going up there now, so I will check on her. Perhaps you might look in on her before you retire.”
“Of course, dear.”
Isobel rose and left the table, not looking back at her brother. She went first to Jack’s room, but it was empty. A peek into his mother’s room showed he was not there, either, just Mrs. Kensington, fast asleep on the bed.
Isobel went back to her room and prowled about restlessly. She longed to go to Jack and hold him, to do what she could to ease his pain. She understood now why his mother’s arrival had upset him, even why he had been reluctant to talk about the matter, though it made her heart hurt that he would not entrust her with his innermost feelings. Obviously he was engaged on his usual solitary path, unwilling, perhaps unable, to seek any comfort from her. That hurt most of all.
She turned out her lamp so that she could see better into the dark of the night outside, and she was standing at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, when the door opened behind her. She whirled to see Jack standing in the doorway. His face was etched with pain, his usual composure vanished. Her throat closed up with emotion, and she could not speak.
“Isobel.” His voice was low and hoarse. He took another step forward, then stopped. “Please do not turn me away. I . . . I need you.”
Tears sprang into her eyes and she rushed forward, throwing her arms around him. His arms clamped around her like iron, and he buried his face in her hair, murmuring her name over and over. He kissed her until she was dizzy from it, and she clung to him, not wanting the kiss to end. His mouth was hard and greedy, his whole body aflame. He lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bed.
There was no gentleness in him, no finesse or teasing or tenderness, only a raw, driving hunger. His hands tore at the fastenings of her clothes, careless of ties snapped or bu
ttons popped as he exposed her breasts to his eager mouth. His lovemaking was fierce and desperate, unlike any other time they had come together, and it touched a match to the tinder of Isobel’s own desire.
She dug her fingers into his back, frustrated by the cloth of his shirt. He reared up, tearing off his shirt and flinging it aside, then returned to her. Isobel wrapped her arms around him, digging into his back with her nails as the ache swelled within her, hot and wet and trembling. Jack reached down and shoved her skirts up to her waist, hooking his hand in the last flimsy barrier between him and what he desired, and he ripped the cotton pantalets down. He groaned as his fingers found the center of her, pooling with moisture.
He fumbled impatiently at his own breeches, and then he was sliding into her. Isobel could not hold back a soft gasp as he filled her, satisfying her as nothing else did. He began to thrust within her, and Isobel locked her arms and legs around him, binding him to her. Mindlessly she rode the storm of his passion until it swept her up and over the edge, and they tumbled down into the deep, dark well of pleasure.
They lay together afterward, exhausted and replete. And finally, there in the dark, Jack began to talk.
“That is my mother. She drinks, and she lies, and she cares for no one but the blackguard she married and her own deluded self.”
“I’m sorry. I know it pains you.”
“No,” he said shortly, his bitter voice belying his words. “Not for many years. I removed myself from her sphere when I was sixteen. She went back to my father again after he had abandoned us, and I washed my hands of her. Her lying, her tears, her rages and accusations.”
Isobel did not know what to say, so she only held him closer.
“Her sorrow over my father is real enough. Though he did not die—least of all in some honorable way. Those are only the tales my mother dreams up to make her life more dramatic. More pleasing to her. Between drinking and lying, I wonder sometimes if she even knows the truth anymore.”
“Then he’s still alive?” Isobel asked, startled. “Do you see him? Is he—”
“No, you needn’t worry that he is going to pop up here one day as well. He is long gone. He left her; he left her frequently, left all of us whenever it suited him. Another woman, another opportunity, more excitement.” Jack shrugged. “The last time was for good; he sailed for America with a new benefactress. I had not seen him for years at the time; Mother, naturally, was crushed. She always took him back, certain that this time he would stay. Her liquor comforted her when he was gone, but that didn’t match her joy when he reappeared. She loved him above all else. Still does, though she has not seen him in nigh fifteen years. He was a—” Jack paused, then bit out his words in neat, precise cuts. “My father was a liar. A cheat. A swindler. His every thought was for himself and how he could wrangle some bit of gold out of any situation. I despise the fact that I look like him. That I am like him.”
“No, I don’t believe that.”
“No doubt you would not.” Jack smiled wryly. “But I deal in hard truths. I learned it all from him. He taught me how to play the part—the speech, the dress, the manners. Sutton Kensington was a talented actor—though I suspect that his name, my name, is a fabrication, as well. He trained me for far more than my role as a gentleman. He showed me how to work an audience, though they were only gathered for a game of chance. How to dress and play the beggar when he needed it. Or the poor lost child if that profited him. He taught me how to use my hands.” Jack held up his hands, wiggling his fingers. “I saw your face when I wrestled open the lock on that chest with your hairpin. You knew what that skill meant.
“I have a delicate touch. Even as a child my hands were quick and my legs even swifter. I was the best little cutpurse you ever saw. No one paid much attention when I loitered about while Sutton was playing cards. Mother was right; I was always good with numbers. I could lean against his shoulder as if I doted on him and whisper the cards that had been played all around the table. Nobody could catch me palming a card or switching a fulham for a good die in the midst of the play. And, God help me, I loved it when he praised me for my aptitude. Even more than I hated it when he boxed my ears for being clumsy.”
“A child is not a sinner for doing what his father commanded him,” Isobel countered.
Jack shrugged. “I did it on my own as well. I gave it up when I grew older, after I’d seen that I could make my living dealing honestly. I valued my neck too much to continue on that road.”
“Whatever you say, you have a good heart. I know it. Despite how you feel, despite what happened, you have taken care of your mother.”
He snorted. “I gave her money to ensure she left me alone. She came to me after he left her the last time, full of regret and promises. . . . I gave it to her every time she reappeared with her pockets to let and nowhere to go. I knew it was hopeless, and once I had enough blunt, I set her up in a house and I hired someone, ostensibly a companion, but in reality a guard. Mrs. Wheeler makes sure that she does not drink, and on the occasions when Mother outwits her and finds some liquor, Mrs. Wheeler keeps her from going out and doing some mad thing. She listens to her stories and puts her to bed and sits up with her to make sure she does not drown in—” He stopped abruptly. “But that is nothing fit for your ears.”
“I am sure you did everything you could.”
“Don’t paint me as a good son,” he rasped. “I pay for her; that is all. She bore me and she did not beat me, and for that I will continue to pay for her care. But I rarely visit; after an hour I am itching to be gone. I make no effort to pretend to believe her stories or placate her. I cannot love her. And I bloody well wish I could escape her altogether.”
“Oh, Jack . . .” Tears filled Isobel’s eyes at the anguish that lurked behind his harsh voice.
He blew out a breath, his muscles relaxing against her. “Ah, Isobel, forgive me. I did not mean to make you cry. Trust me, Millicent Kensington is not worth your tears.”
“I am not crying for her.” Isobel’s voice was clogged with emotion, and she dashed away her tears from her cheeks. “I am crying for you.”
“Isobel.” His arms tightened around her, and he kissed her hair, murmuring her name, his voice soft and tender.
They made love, not in the mad rush of earlier, pulsing with hunger and passion, but gently, lingering over sweet, slow kisses and tantalizing caresses. They joined together in a long, leisurely prelude, letting their hunger build and strengthen until finally passion broke over them in deep waves of pleasure and they slid gently over the edge into joy.
Isobel was not surprised to find that she, Jack, and Aunt Elizabeth were the only people at the breakfast table the next morning. Her brother and Gregory were never early risers, and she was sure Andrew had little desire to come face-to-face with Jack right now. She suspected that it would be some hours before Jack’s mother felt well enough to put in an appearance. Isobel was glad, for she wanted no shadow to cloud her happiness this morning.
She supposed she should feel a trifle guilty for feeling this way, given the unhappy events of the night before, but Jack, too, was relaxed and smiling now that the storm had passed. When he left on his morning ride, he pulled Isobel to him and kissed her even though they stood at the bottom of the stairs where anyone in the house could see them.
Shortly after Jack’s departure, Gregory trotted down the steps, confirming Isobel’s suspicion that he had been loitering upstairs waiting for Jack to leave. “Hallo, Cousin.”
“You’re in a cheerful mood,” Isobel remarked, following him into the dining room.
“You know me; I find it far more satisfying to be happy than to mope.”
“As opposed to my brother?”
Gregory shrugged a shoulder as he sat down at the table. “Andrew will be fine soon enough.” He grinned. “Once we find our fortune.”
“Do you really believe that?” Isobel asked, pouring them both a cup of tea.
“Of course. I also find it’s more fun to ant
icipate good fortune.” He took a swig of tea. “However, I have decided we need a change of direction. I am returning to Kinclannoch after I eat. Andrew, too.” He grinned. “No doubt that will come as a relief to you.”
“I won’t deny that life will run more smoothly here if Andrew and Jack do not have to be in the same room together. Thank you for that.”
“It’s no farther to the caves from town, anyway. Indeed, I imagine it is closer to some. Besides, little as I am given to organization, we need to move forward in a less slapdash manner. Map out the caves and explore them in an orderly way. We can pick my father’s brain a bit as well. I’ll warrant he may have a better idea what Malcolm might have done and where he went. For all we know, Malcolm could have hid out with my grandfather. It was after Culloden, so Fergus might very well have been here as well. They were brothers, after all; they probably banded together.”
“True enough.” Isobel saw no reason to point out her doubts that Cousin Robert, being three or four years old at the time, would have known anything of his uncle’s whereabouts—or remembered it. “I have never heard when Great-Uncle Fergus returned.”
“Everyone was hiding from the British then.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Hamish with a tray loaded with food, and Gregory tucked into the meal with gusto.
“Are you leaving as soon as you’ve eaten, then?” Isobel asked once his eating slowed.
“I am. Andrew was barely up when I looked in on him. And you know how he is. I have no desire to sit about cooling my heels all morning while he arranges his neckcloth to his satisfaction. He’ll ride over later.”
Andrew, however, was apparently more eager to leave Baillannan than his cousin realized, for Gregory had not been gone even an hour when Andrew appeared at the door to the sitting room. “I’ve come to take my leave,” he said, then spoiled his air of hauteur by adding petulantly, “No doubt you will be glad to see the back of me. I can return to London straight from Gregory’s house, if that is your desire.”