Treasured

by Candace Camp

  “What about her brother? Was Andrew there?”

  She furrowed her brow, thinking. “No, I don’t believe so. You know, I don’t think he has even been by to see how you are, which is most unlike him. He is usually so courteous.” She narrowed her eyes. “Jack, these are very peculiar questions. What are you thinking?”

  “Cui bono.”

  “What? You know I don’t like it when you use those legal words. There are times when you are very like my father.”

  “Who benefits,” he explained.

  “Who ben—” She stared at him. “You think it was someone here who shot at you? Somebody in this house? No. Don’t be silly. It was a poacher, that’s all. An accident.”

  “That seems to be the popular explanation.”

  “You cannot suspect Isobel!”

  “No, no, of course not.” His mind skittered away from the thought.

  “She has been at your side the whole time. She’s barely slept or eaten. She wouldn’t even let me in the room at first, and I am your mother.” Millicent added with a touch of resentment, “I must say, Isobel is a bit of a martinet, though you would not think it to look at her. Do you know, she had a maid pour out that little bottle of my cordial, which was a gift, you know, from Sir Andrew, and purely medicinal, besides. She doesn’t serve wine at the table now, either, which seems a bit rude when one thinks about it.”

  “Did she really?” Jack’s mouth quirked up on one side. “She is something of a manager.”

  “I suppose it’s the money. Well, you know how the Scots are.”

  Jack laughed. “No, Mother, I have found I don’t know how the Scots are at all.”

  “But I don’t think they would try to murder you. It’s clear that Isobel loves you madly.”

  “Is it? You see romances everywhere, Mother.”

  “That is because I look instead of ignoring them. You might try it sometime.”

  “What about Andrew? Where was he?”

  “I don’t know, dear. He was not with me, but then a young man is not likely to be sitting about with two old ladies, is he? Oh! I believe that was the day he went to stay with Gregory, so you see, it couldn’t have been him.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “I cannot imagine Sir Andrew would try to harm you. He is a gentleman through and through—such address, such courtesy.”

  “It would be rather impolite to shoot one’s host.”

  “It’s the fever.” Millicent nodded. “I am sure that is why you are thinking such morbid thoughts. But don’t worry. I won’t let on that you suspected Isobel and Andrew.”

  That, Jack thought with an inward groan, undoubtedly ensured that she would tell everyone.

  Millicent leaned in toward him. “This is so nice, isn’t it? Talking together like this. It is just as it used to be. Remember when you were little? I could talk to you about anything.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “You were a wonderful little boy. Such a support to me during all the bad times. You took good care of my Dolly. You loved her so.”

  “I did.”

  “Don’t be sad, dearest.” Millicent patted Jack’s arm consolingly. “She is in a better place, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, I am sure she is.”

  “Ah, there, I’ve made you tired. I can see it in your face. Isobel will be quite out of humor with me. I told her I would not stay long. You should sleep.” She stood up and bent to kiss his cheek. “Shall I help you lie back down?”

  “No. I prefer this.” He watched her leave, letting his head sink back into the pillows. He felt weary to the center of his bones. She was right; he should sleep. But though he closed his eyes, he could not stop the thoughts drifting through his head.

  Isobel would not have tried to kill him. But . . . if he died, she would have her beloved Baillannan back. He had made a new will leaving the estate to her; that was another of the tasks he had performed in Inverness. Jack thought of Isobel’s eyes, her smile, her mouth soft on his. It could not be her. Much more likely her brother. Andrew could not get his estate back, but he would be able to live on Isobel’s largesse. Was he one of the young gentlemen who visited Manton’s shooting club? It was possible, and killing someone from a distance would suit his nature.

  Or Coll—though he seemed more the sort to attack close up and straight on. Jack was sure it was Coll who had spared his life that night with the highwaymen. And Coll had also brought Jack back to the house. But perhaps Coll was certain Jack would soon die and thought to make himself look more innocent by pretending to save him. Love could drive a man to do strange things. Despite Isobel’s protestations, Jack found it hard to believe that the man didn’t harbor a desire for her. How could he not?

  Or perhaps it was one of the crofters who had decided to relieve Isobel of the burden of Jack. One of the other highwaymen might have decided on his own to rid the world of another landlord.

  But not Isobel. It could not be Isobel.

  Jack slept for most of the first day or two of his convalescence, but Isobel soon discovered that he was not the easiest of patients. He grumbled at the broth she put before him and even more so at the oatmeal porridge. He was restless and hated lying in bed all the time, yet he perversely disdained her efforts to help him sit up or get out of bed, so that she hovered at his side, terrified he was about to topple over. At times Isobel was positive he wished her gone, yet if she was absent for more than twenty minutes, he grew fretful.

  He wanted to sit up, leave his sickbed, walk about, even dress himself although he could not raise one arm. The sling she fashioned for his arm was uncomfortable. His beard itched but he would not allow her or a servant to attempt to shave him, insisting on standing in front of the washstand to do it himself.

  She tried to keep him occupied by reading to him or playing games with him, but he declared her so poor a cardplayer it was not any fun to win a game from her. Finally, one afternoon, in the midst of an especially exasperating argument over which of three books he wished her to read to him, Isobel snapped, “You are the most irksome man alive. ’Tis no wonder someone shot you!”

  Her eyes flew wide in horror as she realized what she had said, but Jack burst into laughter and reached up, clenching his fingers in the front of her dress and pulling her down to kiss her. “I am sorry, love. I know I’m a perfect bear.”

  “You are,” she retorted. “But I did not mean that. You know I did not mean that.”

  “Yes, I know.” He kissed her again lightly. “You would have bashed me over the head twice already today if you were the sort to murder someone.”

  “More times than that.” She smiled as she reached out to stroke her hand across his hair.

  “I am bored to tears, and I hate that it taxes my strength to walk across the floor and sit by the window.”

  “But you are already stronger than you were two days ago.”

  “I want to get out of the house. I’m tired of looking out that same window.”

  “Then tomorrow, we’ll go to the sitting room and visit with Aunt Elizabeth and your mother.”

  “Now I am certain you’re trying to kill me.”

  “Jack, don’t even joke about that.”

  “I miss looking at . . . the land.” He started to shrug, then winced. “Truth is, I think I miss talking to your crofters.”

  “Many of them have come to ask about you.” Isobel was unable to completely mask the surprise in her voice. “I think they are perhaps more your crofters than you realize.”

  “My dear girl, I am not the Rose of Baillannan.”

  “But you are no longer the ‘damned Sassenach.’ ”

  “I suppose that is progress.” Jack trailed his fingers along her arm. “You know, there is something else that would relieve my boredom more than anything.” He looked up at her, his eyes glinting.

  “What?” Isobel drew her head back suspiciously.

  He slid his fingers higher up her arm, slipping them beneath the short sleeve of her dress. “C
limb into bed and I’ll show you.” He tugged her down onto the bed beside him.

  “Jack! You can’t mean it?”

  “I can.” He roamed up her front, cupping her breast in his hand. “I do. I am shot, not dead.” He caressed her languidly, his thumb teasing at her nipple. “In fact, I can feel my strength returning as we speak.”

  Isobel laughed a little breathlessly. “Are you certain that is your strength we’re talking about?”

  He grinned, curving his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her down to kiss her with a thoroughness that left no doubt of his intentions. “You are the best restorative, my love. If you but take off that dress, I can show you how much health I’ve regained.”

  Isobel kissed his forehead, luxuriating in the touch of his hand upon her. “But your shoulder, Jack . . . you could not.”

  “I could . . . as long as you did all the work.” His hand crept up her leg, finding the hot center of her. “Ah, there you are.” He took her mouth again as his fingers stroked her, sending desire flooding between her legs. “Hot.” He kissed her in brief, hungry bites between his words. “And wet. And ready for me.”

  Isobel let out a soft moan and cupped his face in her hands, holding him in place for a long, deep kiss. At last she lifted her head, peering deep into his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “What do you think?” he asked hoarsely, taking her hand and pulling it beneath the sheets.

  “Ah. I see.” Isobel’s lips curved up in a provocative smile as she began to take the pins from her hair. “I might be able to provide you with a bit of . . . entertainment.”

  “I am sure you can.” He curved his uninjured arm behind his head, settling in to watch Isobel as she shook out her hair, combing her fingers through it and letting it flow like liquid gold over her shoulders and down her breasts.

  Reaching up to the top button of her dress, Isobel unfastened it slowly, moving without haste to the one below. Jack’s eyes darkened as they followed the achingly languid movement of her fingers.

  “You’re taking a damnably long time about this,” he murmured.

  “I’m sorry.” Isobel widened her eyes innocently. “Am I doing it wrong? Perhaps I should stop.”

  He let out a breathy little laugh. “Don’t you dare.”

  “If you’re sure . . .” She undid another button, and now only the sash of her gown held the bodice together. The two sides gaped open, revealing a V-shaped swath of the feminine material beneath. With a tug, she pulled the wide scoop neckline of her dress down over her shoulders.

  Jack’s eyes were fastened avidly on the material as it continued to sag farther down her arms, his breath coming in short, sharp pulls. Isobel smiled a trifle smugly as she grasped the ribbon fastening her chemise and slowly pulled one end until the bow popped undone and the chemise sagged open, exposing the inner curves of her breasts. Taking the sides in her fingers, she started to pull them apart, but stopped.

  “No, wait. Perhaps I should not.” Isobel studied him with a considering pout of her lips. “You look much too feverish. And I believe you’re panting.” She leaned over him, laying her palm upon his forehead. “Yes, you are very warm.”

  “Isobel . . .” he grated out. “You’re being a bloody tease.”

  “I know.” She laughed, her eyes dancing. “But you did say you were bored.”

  “Not anymore,” he growled, and grabbed the end of her sash.

  “No, no, now. You mustn’t exert yourself.” Isobel straightened up. “You must let me do all the work for you.” Her eyes were intent on his as she stepped backward, letting her momentum pull against the sash, so that it untied slowly in his hand and slipped from her dress. Her gown opened, and she shrugged it off. “You just think of how it would feel if it were your hands undressing me.”

  “I am.” Jack’s voice was uneven.

  “Imagine your fingers sliding through my hair.” She fitted her actions to her words, sinking her fingers into the thick amber mass and letting it slip through them. “I believe that is something you like to do.”

  “I do.” The light in his eyes could have sparked tinder into a flame.

  Isobel continued to undress, reaching down and drawing her petticoats up to her knees, showing her shapely calves. “Your hands sliding beneath my underskirts . . . to pull off my garters, first one, then the other.” She eased off the garters and tossed them onto the bed.

  Jack grabbed the lacy bands in midair, crushing them in his hand as he asked hoarsely, “Then what would I do?”

  “This, I think.” Isobel perched on the end of the bed, beyond his reach, and removed her slippers. She hooked her thumbs in her stockings, working them down her legs. “You’d slide down my stockings, moving over my skin in a long, slow caress.”

  “I would. Your skin is like silk.”

  The low throb of hunger in his voice melted her, but Isobel held herself in check, standing up to continue her disrobing. She peeled off her garments bit by bit, her voice low and lingering over the description of each delicious step of the process. He watched her with hungry eyes, anticipation heightening the fierce pleasure of Isobel’s seduction.

  When at last she was naked, Isobel walked toward him slowly, letting his gaze drink her in. As she climbed onto the bed, his hand went to the sheet covering him, shoving it downward, but she reached out and stayed his hand.

  “No. Not yet. I’m not finished.” She leaned down and kissed his lips. “Let me make love to you.” He made an inarticulate noise as her lips moved across his face. “Have I told you what I felt when I first looked at you?” She smiled down into his eyes as she skimmed her thumb along the flaring line of cheekbone. “I wanted to touch you like this. To kiss you.” She pressed her lips softly to the skin she had just touched. “To feel you—to know you in all sorts of ways that a lady should not want, though I was too unknowing at the time to even realize what my desire was.”

  “Sweet heaven. Isobel . . .” he said thickly, but she stopped his words with another kiss.

  She kissed his cheeks, his chin, his forehead, with featherlight touches, nuzzling into his neck, taking his earlobe between her teeth to worry it gently, pulling a sharp hiss of pleasure from him. His hands moved restlessly on her, stroking her legs and hips, roaming upward to cup and caress her breasts, his hands so hot they seared her flesh.

  Isobel slid downward, her mouth exploring his chest as her hand roamed lower, moving between his legs to cup and stroke. Jack moaned her name, digging his hands into her hair. Pushing the covers aside, she straddled him and sank down upon him. His hands went to her hips as she began to move, hurtling them both ever deeper into the spiraling grip of passion. Jack gazed up at her, his face sharp with need, his eyes hazed and dark with desire. She saw it in his face as the pleasure took him, and his response sparked the explosion of her own passion.

  She gripped the headboard under the force of the cataclysm roaring through her, and when it was done, leaving her limp and trembling, she sank down onto the bed beside Jack. He curled his arm around her and pulled her to his side.

  “Jack, no, be careful.”

  “I don’t give a damn.” His arm was like iron around her, and he buried his face in her hair. “I want to hold you.”

  And since that was what she wanted, too, Isobel gave in. She pressed herself against his side, her arm looping over his waist, and they clung together, spent and fulfilled.

  To occupy Jack’s restless mind as he convalesced, Isobel offered to show him the accounts of the estate. To her surprise, he took to the idea, so she brought up the account books, explaining to him all the different aspects. Exploring the business of the estate clearly held Jack’s interest more than any book or game had done.

  Isobel could not suppress the small spark of hope in her heart. Surely his interest in the numbers, his enjoyment of his rides about the estate and his talking to the crofters, were proof that he was happy here. Surely that meant he might not want to leave Baillannan. She knew she should not coun
t on his staying. It would be foolish beyond measure to fall in love with this man. Love, after all, was not part of their bargain. However, their “bargain” mattered less and less to Isobel with each day that passed, and she was discovering that wisdom had little to do with love.

  Isobel stepped out of Jack’s room, closing the door softly behind her. The sound of voices rose from a room down the hall; one voice, rising above the other two, was clearly that of Jack’s mother. Frowning, Isobel turned toward Millicent’s bedroom.

  “But Jack would not mind!” Millicent cried, the rest of her words drowned out by the other agitated feminine voices.

  “Shhh!” Isobel rushed into the room. “What in the world is going on in here? I just convinced Jack to lie down for a nap.”

  The three women went silent and turned to face Isobel. Jack’s mother sat clutching a bottle filled with a dark amber liquid. A maid beside her was wringing her hands, and Aunt Elizabeth faced Millicent, hands on hips, her eyes flashing fire.

  “Isobel!” Elizabeth turned, relief mingling with guilt. “I am sorry.”

  “They are trying to take my little restorative away.” Millicent appealed to Isobel. “I cannot imagine why. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” The picture she presented would have been more convincing if her words had not been slurred and her face flushed, with her hair straggling down on one side.

  “I feel wretched.” Elizabeth came forward. “It was that vexatious old Angus McKay. He brought some of his whiskey to Jack the other day—as if that lethal brew of his would revive an invalid. More likely to put one in a grave, I’d think! Foolishly I set the bottle down in the office. I thought Jack would be pleased to know that Angus was concerned about his health. It never occurred to me that Millicent might go in there and find it.” She cast an accusing glance at the other woman.

  “She hid it from me!” Millicent started to rise, then sat back down with a plop.

  The maid reached for the open bottle tilting precariously in the woman’s lap, but Millicent grabbed it with both hands. “You leave that alone! It is mine. Jack would not mind.”