Treasured (10 page)

“It isn’t that. You know how I feel about Gregory. I love him, but he is like a brother to me, and I am sure he feels the same.”

“You are both too young to understand how you feel.
But, no—” Robert held up his hands. “I will not press you. Certainly that is not why I offer you our hospitality. It is where you and Elizabeth belong. Give it some thought, you will see that I am right.”

“I will think about it. I promise.”

She braced herself for more argument, but to her relief, Robert just nodded and walked to the waiting carriage. Gregory, having helped Hamish fasten the trunks on the back of the vehicle, returned to Isobel.

“Father likes to fuss,” he told her. “But please don’t let his manner keep you from coming to us. I promise he will not spend his time correcting you—I provide him with ample object for his criticism.”

“I will think about it,” Isobel promised with a smile.

Elizabeth came to stand beside Isobel, waving at the carriage as it pulled away. “Do not distress yourself over Cousin Robert, dear.” She linked her arm through Isobel’s. “He was always a prig, even when we were children. I cannot tell you how many times he ran with tales about John and me to our mother. Fortunately, we did not have to see him often; Mother did not care overmuch for his father. Or for Robert, either, for that matter.”

“I can understand why if he was like Robert.”

“Oh, no.” Elizabeth shook her head. “Uncle Fergus was nothing like Robert. He was a bitter man; I don’t think he ever got over losing so much in the Uprising. Not just the land and the power, but my father’s disappearance as well. We all knew Papa must be dead, else he would have returned. Mother was devastated, too, but she carried on for John and me. I rather pitied Robby when we were children, even if he was a little beast. Uncle Fergus could be cutting,
even cruel. No doubt that is why Robert looks on the dark side of any situation. You must not let him worry you. I am sure everything will work out well. Andrew’s friend seems like a nice young man, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. But, Aunt Elizabeth, you understand that Mr. Kensington means to sell the land? We cannot live here anymore. He owns it now.”

“Of course, dear. I’m not in my dotage, you know. I realize we may have to live with Robert and Gregory. You needn’t fret; Robert and I will manage to get along. He is brusque, but I am used to him.” Elizabeth glanced around. “And really, this house is much too large for the two of us, isn’t it?”

“No doubt.” Isobel swallowed against the emotion clogging her throat. She hated the quiet resignation on her aunt’s face. She turned away. “I am going to see Meg.”

“Didn’t you go there just yesterday?” Her aunt frowned. “Or perhaps it was the day before. Have I forgotten?”

“No. I did set out for her house the other day, but I ran into Coll and never made it to the loch. But I should pick up your tonic. She said she had improved upon it.”

“Of course, dear. Run along.” Elizabeth smiled and patted Isobel’s arm. “Say hello to Meg for me.”

J
ack rode out of the
stable yard, turning Pharaoh’s head toward the distant, barren hills. He had no aim, no destination. He had left the house to give Isobel and her aunt privacy in their talk with their cousins, but he found he had an itching need to get away from the great gray confines of the manor house, as well.

As he rode, his thoughts turned to Isobel. He could scarcely believe he had blurted out those damning truths about himself to her yesterday. The shock he had seen in her eyes, the disdain when she asked him if he made his living by gambling, had stung, and, perversely, he had felt impelled to throw the disreputable truth of his life at her, wielding it as if it were a weapon.

The whole thing had been most unlike him. He never let anyone’s opinion nettle him; giving in to one’s emotions was a quick path to losing. Nor did he reveal that he made his
living by his wits, that he was not a gentleman. There was no advantage to anyone knowing him.

However much Jack despised the man who was his father, Sutton Kensington had taught his lessons well. Whether it was picking pockets or conducting a swindle or setting a fellow cardplayer at ease, the trick was to blend in. To appear to belong while staying apart. “To be anybody, you have to be nobody.”

Bloody hell! Now he was thinking about that blasted man. Jack let out a growl of irritation and dug in his heels, sending Pharaoh into a gallop.

He had let Isobel Rose get under his skin. That was his mistake.

There was no reason for him to feel a pang of remorse at the thought of turning her out of her home. She was not his responsibility. It did not matter that he enjoyed the sound of her voice or that her laughter danced across his skin. It was absurd to search for a quip or a tale to tell her in order to see that smile break across her face—not broad, not flashing, but slow and secret, as if they shared something delightful, with a burst of sunshine at the end that lit up her eyes.

And the only thing more pointless than pondering Isobel Rose’s future was mooning about like a calfling over the thought of her smile. Obviously, she was a pretty girl—yes, admittedly, more than just pretty—and it was pleasant to pass the time by flirting with her, just as it was sweet to imagine the taste of her lips or the smoothness of her skin.

However, it would be beyond foolish to give in to those urges. Miss Rose was a lady, not some tavern wench with whom one could spend an entertaining night. Jack had no time, no interest in ladies. They had to be courted; they had
to be wooed and won with sweet words and reassuring lies of love. Ladies wanted, in short, much more than he was willing to spend.

Yet when he had gone up to the attic to apologize to her, trying to smooth over his earlier mistake, he had wound up kissing her. Desire had slammed through him, shaking him with its intensity. He had wanted to pull her down right there and then to the old dusty floor of the attic, to cover her body with his and sink into her softness. It was a wonder he had retained enough sanity to rein in the need thrumming through him. Even now, his body flooded with heat as he thought of the velvet softness of her lips, the warmth of her mouth, the way she had yielded to him, her head falling back and her body melting into his.

Jack drew in a deep breath, trying to banish the image from his mind, and for the first time, he took note of his surroundings. He realized with a start that he had no idea where he was. Pulling up, he gazed all around. There was no sign of the walls of Baillannan . . . or the loch or the castle ruins or the road or, indeed, anything that was even slightly familiar.

Pharaoh had followed his own whims while Jack was lost in thought, and they were now on a path leading down a rock-strewn hillside—a
brae
, they called it here. Looking down, Jack saw a tiny thatch-roofed cottage in the valley below. As he watched, a figure emerged from the hut and peered up at him, shading his eyes.

Jack lifted his hand in greeting and urged his horse down the path. The man below continued to watch him for a moment, then turned and went back inside. As Jack reached the cottage, the fellow emerged once again. He was old, his face creased with lines and his dark, curly hair liberally streaked
with gray. But his small frame was straight as an arrow and the blue eyes that peered out from beneath the bushy eyebrows were bright.

And in his hand he carried a musket, which he raised and pointed at Jack. “Gaun, noo. Get oot a’ here.”

“I should have known.” Jack sighed and held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “Good afternoon, sir. I intend you no harm, I assure you. My name is Jack Kensington.”

“Aye, I ken who ye are. The ootlander.”

“Yes.” Remarkably, he was beginning to understand what these people said—at least enough to get the gist of it. “And you are . . .”

The old man regarded him suspiciously but replied, “Angus McKay.”

“Well, Mr. McKay, I fear I am lost. If you could but tell me the way to Baillannan, I would—”

McKay let out a cackle. “Ye dinna ken the way to yer ain hoose?”

“No,” Jack replied with some irritation. “Sadly, I do not. I am, as you said, an ‘ootlander.’ ”

Jack’s words seemed to delight the man even further, for McKay let out another hoot. “Aye, weel, maybe ye should na’ be here, grabbin’ other folks’ land, then.”

“Baillannan is
my
land now. We are standing on Baillannan land, are we not?”

“It’s Rose land, aye. And
ma’
croft.” McKay glared at him belligerently, then sighed and lowered the musket. “Och . . . Just gae back up the brae and gae richt.” He gestured up the hillside.

“Thank you.” Jack turned Pharaoh’s head and started up the path.

Behind him, the old man called, “Best if ye stay on the road, I say, and gae a’ the way back to England.”

“Exactly my thought,” Jack said under his breath as he nudged his horse forward.

Isobel was almost to the shore when she saw Coll tying up the dinghy at the small dock. He looked up and saw her, and surprise touched his features. He glanced toward the small island in the loch before turning back to her.

“Isobel. Where are you off to, then?”

“I might ask where you are coming from.” She looked past him across the loch. “Have you been to the island?”

“Aye.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I went to look about, make sure nothing needed doing there.”

Isobel’s eyes narrowed as she studied his innocent expression. “You’re a terrible liar, Coll.”

“I’m an excellent liar,” he protested. “Dinna I always talk us out of trouble with your aunt?”

“Hah. You open your eyes too wide and suddenly you sound more Scottish,” she retorted. “And it was Meg who talked us out of trouble, not you.”

“Och, well, that’s only right, as she was the one who talked us
into
trouble.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you did not answer my question.” Isobel crossed her arms and regarded him sternly.

“I know.” He grinned. “Where are you off to, then?”

“To Meg’s. To get Aunt Elizabeth’s medicine.”

“I’ll take you,” he offered, turning and walking with her toward the boat.

“I can row across the loch myself.”

“Can you now? When you did not even remember to wear your coat? Or your gloves? You’ll have blisters on your hands for certain.”

“I was in a hurry.” She sent him a dark look and he chuckled, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over her shoulders.

“Here. Meg will have my hide if I let you show up without a wrap. I need to go to Meg’s myself. She’ll be running low on firewood.”

Coll lived in the gamekeeper’s cottage on Baillannan land now, rather than in his mother’s cottage across the loch, where he had grown up and which now belonged to his sister, but he visited Meg frequently to take care of various tasks around the house—though both Meg and Isobel suspected that he did so more to make sure Meg was all right than because she needed his assistance.

“You’ll get cold without your jacket,” Isobel warned him, though she slid her arms inside the sleeves.

“Rowing will keep me warm.” He handed her into the dinghy and climbed in behind her, taking up the oars. They did not talk as they crossed the narrow loch. A wind was coming down from the ocean beyond the narrow mouth of the loch, and it took Isobel’s breath from her mouth. Coll seemed not to feel it, even though his sleeves were rolled up. Isobel watched the muscles bunch and relax in his arms as he rowed, and she wondered why the sight did not do the odd things to her stomach that looking at Jack Kensington had done.

When they’d tied up on the other side, they hiked into the trees, coming after a time to the small clearing where
Meg’s cottage lay. The trees curled around the small house, concealing it from three directions. Made from light brown stone, with ivy growing up one side onto the thatched roof and stretching around the corner to the front as well, the dwelling seemed to melt into its surroundings. In front was a small garden where Meg grew her herbs, with a larger strip to the side for vegetables.

Isobel thought of the many times she had climbed this slope to see Janet. It was a bittersweet memory, and when she glanced over at Coll, she saw on his face the same mixture of emotions.