Treasured

by Candace Camp

  Isobel scrambled to her feet, her fists clenched. Jack followed quickly, reaching out to take her arms. “No! Never. I mean, not until a few minutes ago. You think I wanted to believe it? But you wrote me a note, asking me to meet you here. And there was your shawl, hanging there. I ran to the edge, thinking you had fallen in. I realized, too late, that this had been planned. It was your hand! I’ve just spent a hellish hour thinking you wanted me dead.”

  “It couldn’t have been my hand. I didn’t write you a note.”

  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, extending it to her.

  “Jack, your hands!” Isobel took his hands, turning them palms up. “They’re scraped raw.”

  “I’ve had time to pick out the splinters,” he said wryly. “I thought of wrapping my handkerchief around one, but I fear it is as dirty as the rest of me. Here, don’t cry again.”

  “I’m not crying,” she said disdainfully, then sniffed and wiped at her cheeks. “I am just so . . . so furious.”

  “I know.” He bent to press his lips against her forehead. “Read the note.”

  Isobel unfolded the paper and held it up to the narrow strand of light slanting in through the ruined ceiling. She scanned the words, her stomach turning to ice, and she sank to the floor, her knees suddenly too weak for her to stand. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It is very like my writing.”

  “I know. I’ve seen enough of your ledgers to recognize it.”

  “I did not write it.” She could not bear to say the rest of her thought—how few people would be able to copy her writing.

  “I know you did not.” Jack squatted down beside her, taking the note from her nerveless fingers and sticking it back into his pocket. “No doubt anyone with access to the house could have looked at your ledgers, too.”

  “No doubt. Oh, Jack!” She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest.

  “It’s all right. It’s over.” His arms were tight around her. “No need to worry now.”

  “There is a need. There is a need until you are safe.”

  Isobel clung to him, unable to utter the thoughts and fears tumbling about in her head, as the shadows gathered above them.

  Suddenly a voice sounded in the distance. “Isobel? Where are you?”

  Jack stiffened, but Isobel sprang to her feet. “Coll! We’re down here! Be careful! It caved in, but we are all right.”

  “You’re not hurt?” The voice sounded much closer now, and in a moment Coll peered over the side of the hole, haloed by light. When he saw them, he grinned and held the lantern out to illuminate the area beneath him. “You look like a couple of ghosts, all that white dust on you.”

  “I am sorry we are not presentable enough for you,” Isobel retorted tartly, and Coll chuckled. “Now, do you suppose you could get us out of here?”

  “I’d like to, but I came running when Hamish found me. I didn’t think to bring a rope. I’ll get one, and a lad or two to help pull you up. Here—just a minute.” He stood up and was gone for a few minutes, returning with a broken-off branch, from which most of the smaller stems had been stripped. Hooking the lantern over one remaining stem, he lowered it to them. “At least you’ll not be in the dark the whole time.” He stood up. “And, Izzy, try not to pull the rest of it down on your head while I’m gone.”

  Isobel muttered something beneath her breath and turned to Jack. He stood watching her, the lantern he had retrieved from Coll in his hand.

  “I think I am beginning to believe that Munro does think of you as a sister.” Jack smiled and took her hand. “I want to show you something. I’ve been poking around a bit.”

  “You decided to go exploring?” Isobel asked in astonishment as she followed him.

  “I didn’t see much point in sitting about waiting to starve to death. Or for someone to come put a bullet in me again. I hoped I might be able to find another way out. And I did find something. I think when the timbers and stones gave way beneath me, it knocked a hole through a wall behind them.”

  He held up the lantern, illuminating a partially collapsed wall. Behind it, crude stone steps stretched downward.

  “Another secret staircase?”

  “Your ancestors were obviously enamored of the idea. I don’t know if it was secret; there’s not enough wall left to be certain. The stairs were half hidden by timbers, but I shoved them aside enough to see down into it. There is a subcellar beneath this one.”

  “The dungeons?” Isobel’s eyes widened. “You’re thinking this is where the tunnel might have come out?”

  “You said yourself that the castle was as likely a destination as any. I would have explored it, but it was black as pitch down there.”

  “We have light now.”

  With a conspiratorial grin, Jack started down the steps. Uneven and rough, these stairs were little more than graduated blocks, with barely half a flight of them, ending in a long, narrow room. What had once been rows of large barrels lined one wall, a few still intact. At the far end of the room was a short wooden door.

  Jack tugged at the rusted iron ring halfway down the door. At first, the door would not budge, but then, with a loud scrape, it lurched open a few inches. Keeping a cautious eye on the wall and ceiling around it, Jack pulled at the ancient door until the space was wide enough to slide through.

  He almost stumbled, but recovered and went down the three steps onto the lower floor. They were now in a larger vaulted chamber, empty but for a few bits of wood, iron, and leather and a wheelbarrow with a cracked wheel that listed against one wall.

  “Well”—Jack surveyed the room—“no tunnel and no more doors.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Isobel pointed to a strip of decorative stone that ran at eye level across the opposite wall. Taking the lantern, she went to the strip and held the light up to it. Carved into the stone every few feet were rosettes. “Look.”

  “Roses. Just like the fireplace.” They paced beside the wall, peering at each stone flower, all thoughts of murder attempts and collapsing ceilings fleeing their heads.

  “Jack.” Isobel pointed to the small, cylindrical hole in the center of one of the flowers.

  He pulled out the watch key, inserted it into the hole, and began to turn. With a click and a thud, part of the wall separated a fraction of an inch. Digging their fingers into the crack, they tugged it open, releasing a scent of dank, dusty air. Jack held up the lantern, revealing the chamber inside. The room was simply but almost elegantly furnished, with tapestries and even a mirror hanging on the walls, giving it a cozy, lived-in appearance.

  The pleasant scene was spoiled, however, by the skeleton stretched out in the middle of the floor.

  He lay on his face, one arm stretched out and the other bent back to the scabbard at his waist. He was clad in the Rose tartan, buckled with an empty sword belt. And rising from his back, wedged between the ribs, was a long, thin dirk.

  Isobel sucked in her breath. “Oh, my God. Malcolm.”

  Are you certain?” Jack asked.

  “Look at the dirk in his scabbard. It has the Rose symbol on the hilt; Malcolm is wearing it in the portrait at Baillannan. You’ve seen it. Over there, leaning against the wall—I dare swear that is the same claymore he is holding in the picture. He is the right size and he’s wearing our tartan. Obviously he knew about this place and how to get in. We can take the ring on his finger and show it to Aunt Elizabeth to be certain. But I know it is he.”

  “So he never left Baillannan.”

  “No. The Redcoats must have seen him and followed him into the castle.”

  “Yes. Or perhaps common thieves.” Jack pointed to a small, ornate coffer sitting beside the bed, lid open and empty. “They stabbed him. Took the money from the chest and fled—odd that they did not take the ring as well.”

  “It would have implicated them in his murder if they were found with it,” Isobel pointed out.

  “Yes, perhaps that is it. Well . . . Andrew and Gregory
will be disappointed to find the treasure has been stolen.”

  “No doubt.” Isobel stepped into the room, feeling as if she were trespassing on sacred ground. “I suppose this was where he hid from the soldiers.” She walked over to the chest of drawers, where a washbowl and a pitcher stood. Beside them were two decorative combs such as women wore in their hair. “How sad. Perhaps this was their ‘spot,’ the one he mentioned in the letter to my grandmother.”

  “Then she knew about this room all along? About the key? Your aunt is right; the Rose family is indeed tight-mouthed if she never told her son or daughter.” Jack paused. “But if she came to meet him and found his body like this, surely she would not have left her husband lying there.”

  “It could have happened after she left.” Isobel frowned. “Though when he never showed up after that, one would think she would have come down here to see if she could find a clue, at least, of what had happened to him.”

  “He might have had the only key and she entered it only with him. But, no—any watch key this size would fit, as we’ve proved.”

  “I think he kept this secret from everyone. It would have been the best way to ensure his safety. Maybe these combs were gifts he had bought for Cordelia but he never got the chance to give them to her.” Isobel sighed. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

  “I would have thought this connected to our tunnel, but there’s no other door.”

  “Perhaps it’s hidden. Look at the inside of this door; it would look exactly like the wall when it was closed.”

  “Very tricky people, your ancestors.” Jack glanced speculatively around the room.

  At that moment, they heard the distant sound of a man shouting.

  “Coll!” Isobel exclaimed, starting toward the door. “He will wonder what has happened to us. We’d best go.”

  “Very well. We’ll come back another day and search for the tunnel.” Picking up the watch key and the ring, they left the room.

  “Oh!” Elizabeth drew in a quick breath as Jack extended his hand to her, the ring he had removed from the skeleton lying on his palm. She covered her mouth with her hand, tears springing into her eyes. “Papa’s ring!”

  “Then you recognize it? You know it was Malcolm’s.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Where did you find it?”

  “We found him, Auntie.” Isobel put her arm around her aunt’s shoulders and guided her to a chair to sit.

  “Found him? No, how could— Oh! You mean you found his body?”

  Isobel nodded. Jack went down on one knee beside the older woman and took her hand in his. “I am sorry, Aunt Elizabeth, but we came upon a hidden room in the cellars of the castle. He was there, along with this.” Jack held out the watch key to her.

  “Yes.” Elizabeth plucked the key from his hand. “This is the key to his pocket watch. He was killed, wasn’t he? I don’t know why I’m crying. I’ve always known he must have died or he would have returned to us. But it’s hard, thinking of him lying there all those years and us up here, never knowing it.” She took the ring and ran her thumb over it. “This was the crest of his mother’s family. She gave it to him. I should give it to Andrew. Where is the boy?”

  “Andrew went riding, Hamish said,” Isobel replied. “When I see him, I shall tell him you wish to talk to him.” She stood up. “If you will excuse me, I must go speak to . . . to Coll.”

  Jack looked at her curiously, but Isobel avoided his gaze as she slipped out the door. She did not go to find Coll as she had claimed, but strode down to the office and opened the strongbox, taking out a small purse of coins. Tucking them in her pocket, she made her way to the stables and, taking a seat on a bench, waited until her brother trotted into the yard.

  “Hallo, Isobel,” he said, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  Andrew dismounted, handing the reins to a groom, and they walked out into the yard. “What is it? Why do you look as if you have been rolling about in the dirt?”

  “Mayhap it is because I fell into the cellars at the castle.”

  “What!” Andrew gaped at her. Isobel grabbed him by the arm and pulled him over to a tree, away from the stables and the house.

  “Yes. Well you might stare. I got caught in your trap, as well. Did you not think of that or is it that you simply don’t care? How could you do such a thing? I have known you since you were a babe, but you are suddenly a stranger to me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Andrew shifted uneasily, and whatever doubt Isobel might have had evaporated. “Do what thing?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You wrote that note to Jack. Lured him to the ruins.”

  “I did not.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Andrew. Your face gives you away. I always thought it meant you were too honest, too good to lie convincingly, but now I realize I must have been fooling myself all these years.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “It was a terrible thing to do,” Isobel shot back. “Did you think I would not know? Who else but you could copy my hand that well?”

  “It was just a lark. A jest.”

  “A lark! To set a trap for a man! What about the other times? Were they just larks, too? Was it a jest when you sent the boulder down upon him? Or shot him?”

  “What! You’ve gone mad. I never did any of that.” He faced her indignantly.

  “I’ve gone mad! This isn’t a joke. It isn’t a lark. And you are not a child any longer. Don’t you realize that Jack could have been killed!”

  “That is all you care about!” Andrew’s face reddened. “He strips me of my inheritance and I come home and find that he has taken my sister from me as well! He has bewitched you. I understand that you had to marry him; I don’t blame you for that.”

  “Well, thank you.” Isobel’s voice dripped sarcasm.

  “But why did you slave away at his bedside when he was wounded? Why did you work so hard to nurse him back to health? Don’t you understand? Everything could return to normal if he was dead.”

  Isobel lashed out, her hand landing against his cheek with an audible crack. “Get out!”

  Andrew stared at her, openmouthed, the mark of her hand red against his skin.

  “I want you to leave this house! Now.”

  “My house?” he asked incredulously. “You are tossing me out of my own house?”

  “It is not yours. You have never loved Baillannan. You have not lived here since you were at university; the only reason you even visit is because you have spent all your money. You did not lose Baillannan. It was not taken from you. You threw it away with both hands because you were too foolish and irresponsible to be entrusted with it. Now go!”

  “Where will I go?” he asked blankly.

  “I don’t know. Go to Edinburgh. Go to London. It does not matter to me. But I want you to leave today. Now. You have an income from the Funds if you do not squander it away.”

  “But that is not enough to live on.”

  “It is enough to live, just not in the style you prefer. Do you not understand that Jack is bound to realize you are the one who tried to kill him? That the note must have been written by someone close enough to me to know my hand? Someone who could sneak my shawl out of the house and plant it there?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Stop! Just . . . stop.” She held up her hand. “I do not know what Jack would do to you, and I don’t want to find out. You are my brother, and God help me, I cannot see you wind up in gaol or transported. Here.” She thrust the coin purse into his hand. “This is all the gold I have in the strongbox. It will get you back to the city. Now go. I cannot bear to see you. Just go.”

  Isobel turned and fled back to the house, tears streaming down her face.

  If Jack found Andrew’s sudden disappearance from the house odd, he said nothing about it. For her part, Isobel avoided the topic assiduously. Even Aunt Elizabeth barely fretted about i
t, for she was much more interested in the discovery they had made in the ruins of the castle. Given her certainty that the bones they had found were those of her father, Jack had them brought up with all the dignity they could manage, and Malcolm was buried beside the kirk in the family plot.

  Jack and Coll spent most of the next few days deep in the task of shoring up the subcellar ruins to ensure safety when they started their search for the tunnel. Apparently the prospect of finding the ancient secret was enough to make them forget their disapproval of one another, and they spent most afternoons at the castle, digging in the dirt, as Isobel termed it.

  The matter of Andrew and his attempts on Jack’s life sat between him and Isobel. Though neither was eager to talk about it, their silence on the subject weighed upon them, bringing an unaccustomed constraint to their relationship. The night brought an end to all such awkwardness, and they came together in a passion so fervent it tasted of desperation. But come the morning, the lack of ease made its appearance again.

  Fretful and restless, Isobel tried to set herself once again to the task of going through the old papers, but she could not keep her mind on the task. Guilt pricked at her; if she had only acted on her worries earlier, Jack would not have been lured to the ruins. She should have told him what she suspected; she wanted to ask him if he blamed her for not revealing her suspicions; it ate at her that she could not summon the courage to talk to him about any of it. If she told him, if she brought the subject out in the open, she feared what might happen.

  However much he had let her see inside him the past few weeks, he did not like to reveal his pain. He was not one to invite discord into his life or to engage in drama. What if what she had done—or, rather, failed to do—turned him away from her? What if he decided the nights with her were not worth the turmoil?

  Jack might decide that he had had enough of this life, that his bargain did not require staying at Baillannan, that London would be a far more peaceful—and safer—place to live. Isobel did not know what she would do if that happened. Despite her best intentions, she had done what she had been determined not to—she had fallen in love with her husband. Now she was not sure she could face the price she would have to pay for that mistake.