Treasured (16 page)

A flicker of light on the loch drew his attention, but it vanished immediately in the strands of fog drifting over the water. He remembered Isobel’s tales of mysterious lights and noises on the island in the loch, and he smiled to himself. Perhaps the ghosts were busy tonight.

The idea of taking a walk tugged at him more insistently. He could stroll toward the dock he had seen the other day, when he had caught sight of Isobel returning with Coll. Now, as then, the incident pricked his curiosity. Where had the two of them been? His thoughts had flown immediately to the idea that they had sneaked away for a tryst. It was the second time he had seen the two of them together in a way that bespoke great familiarity.

Jack had made a point of meeting Coll Munro after the first time he saw him with Isobel, and he had taken an instant dislike to the man. Though the Scotsman had said nothing overtly insulting, Munro had spoken the fewest words necessary to answer Jack’s questions, his demeanor surly, even antagonistic. It was, of course, the attitude of most of the people Jack had had the misfortune to meet at Baillannan—though at least since his engagement to Isobel, the servants had settled into a carefully neutral pose rather than one of complete hostility. But in Coll Munro, the attitude
bothered him more. The reason was not hard to figure out, if he was being honest. He disliked the man because Isobel favored him.

Thinking of Isobel, he grimaced. He had taken a misstep there. She had been warm, even friendly—until he had recoiled from her mention of his family. He never talked about them—least of all to her—but he should have deflected the subject with humor, as he usually did. He had been clumsy.

People were his area of expertise, the knowledge he used—their tics and oddities, weaknesses and vulnerabilities, the mannerisms and tones and expressions that would tell him how to win their money. He knew how to charm, how to smooth the way, what to say, what to do, to achieve his purpose. But since arriving at Baillannan, he found himself thrown off-kilter. Isobel intrigued him and caught him off guard. All too often he responded impulsively.

Not that it mattered what Isobel thought of him. He would be gone before long and would rarely, if ever, see her again. He had accepted her offer of marriage because it made sense—and if that marriage involved a few weeks of pleasure with an attractive woman, that had sweetened the pot. Yes, he found his thoughts straying to her lissome form and imagining how it would feel to have those long legs wrapped around him, and sometimes he daydreamed about taking down her neatly pinned blond hair and letting it flow through his fingers, as thick and rich as the dark honey its color resembled. But the low tickle of desire he felt whenever she entered a room had not been his reason for agreeing to marry her.

If she piqued his interest, if he found her intriguing for the odd mixture of qualities she possessed—the courtesy
coupled with the forthrightness of her proposal, the practicality of proposing their marriage that contradicted her love of fantastical stories, the strength that underlay her pliable nature—well, that merely made it more agreeable to pass the time until he returned to London.

Jack was accustomed to making quick decisions that seemed instinctive, even impulsive, but which were firmly based on logic and observation. He had done the same thing here. Isobel’s arguments had made sense: He would have an asset as well as income, all without effort on his part if Isobel’s claim of running the estate successfully was true. It would make it far easier to establish a rapport with the gentlemen of the
ton
if he could casually refer to his “house in Scotland.”

And, yes, he would admit, as she had surmised, he would find some satisfaction in being a man of property, with an aristocratic wife waiting for him in the country. A man, moreover, whose heirs would carry his blood, mingled with that of a family who could trace its lineage back hundreds of years. His mind lingered for a moment on the thought of Isobel carrying his child, and the image was strangely pleasing.

None of that depended on her viewing him with favor. She would still marry him. And he suspected that when it came down to it, she would not deny him access to her bed, despite her protest the other day. She was the sort of woman who did her duty. So it did not matter that Isobel had pulled away from him at his curt reply.

Still, it bothered him that he had misplayed his hand. Isobel was the one thing that made staying in this cold, unfriendly spot bearable. Nor was he a man who desired to bed
a woman who did not want him. The next few weeks would be slow and tedious if Isobel retreated behind a wall of remote courtesy. Clearly he had to win her over.

Turning from the window, he picked up his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged it on, not bothering with the sartorial niceties of a cravat or waistcoat. A spot of brisk evening air might be just the thing for thinking.

Jack started toward the door, but he stopped abruptly at the muffled but distinct sound of a metallic screech coming from almost directly beneath him. He returned to the window and looked out. The wisps of fog had grown thicker and more numerous, creeping in from the loch, but the yard directly below him was clear enough that he could see a dark form beneath his window.

He shoved up the window, barking, “Who’s there! What are—”

The dark figure below jumped as if shot and took off into the night. With a shout, Jack whirled and ran after him.

I
sobel awoke with a start.
She sat up, vaguely aware that a noise had disturbed her sleep. Pushing the heavy fall of her hair back from her face, she slid out of bed and stepped into her slippers. As she was lighting a candle, she heard Jack’s shout, and an instant later, a door down the hall slammed back against the wall.

She ran to her own door and stuck her head out just in time to see Jack disappearing down the stairs. Without thinking, she followed the thunder of his footsteps, shielding the flickering light of her candle with one hand. Sconces burned low along the stone corridor, making it easier to see her way, and she broke into a trot. She could not see Jack, but just before she reached the library, she heard the long, piercing shriek that she recognized instantly as the scrape of the side door against the stone floor as it opened. She turned down the short side hall and saw that the outside door stood ajar.

She slipped through the narrow space of the open door into the side garden and saw Jack disappearing down the garden path into the fingers of fog. There was no sign of whatever he was chasing. Isobel, more familiar with the area than he, stopped to light the twin globes beside the door, casting light onto the path, before she started after him.

“Jack!” He stood at the end of the path where the walled garden gave way to the open yard, fog eerily creeping across his feet and calves.

He turned, startled, and walked back toward her. “Isobel! What are you doing out here? Did you hear it as well?”

“I heard you pounding down the hall like a madman. What happened?”

“I heard a noise below my window—that door, as it turned out.” Jack gestured toward the side door.

He stopped a few feet from her, and his eyes drifted down her, the lines of his face shifting subtly. Isobel’s heart began to thump in her chest; it occurred to her that she had not thrown on her dressing gown over her nightdress before she pursued Jack down the stairs. In the next instant, she realized that the light burning in the lamps behind her must shine right through her white cotton nightgown, illuminating the curves of her body.

A shiver ran through her, though she was not sure whether it was caused by the chill of the night air or the look on Jack’s face. He moved closer, his eyes drawn to her nipples, prickling in the cold and pressing against the cloth of her nightgown. Isobel drew in a shaky breath, her mind a jumble. A strangely pleasurable ache started between her legs, and she was suddenly aware of the soft touch of the nightgown against her skin, the brush of mist upon her
cheek. She wanted to turn and run; she wanted to go to him; she wanted, shockingly, to feel his mouth on hers and his arms closing around her, pulling her into his body.

Jack stopped only inches from her. Isobel could feel the heat of his body, see the heat in his eyes. He reached out and put his hands on her arms, sliding his fingers up and awakening every nerve in her body. She trembled, waiting, certain that he was about to kiss her.

“You’re cold.” His voice was low and hoarse. He pulled off his jacket.

Disappointment shot through her, and Isobel struggled to keep it from showing in her face as he draped the jacket around her shoulders. Gripping the lapels, he drew his hands slowly downward, pulling the sides together. She could feel his fingers through the cloth, his knuckles grazing her breasts and making her nipples tighten even more. Her eyes flew up to his, and he smiled, the movement slow and evocative of languid pleasure.

“My dear Isobel, you are a most tantalizing woman.”

Isobel was lost for words, aware of nothing but his nearness and her raging pulse. Her mouth was dry as dust, and unconsciously she wet her lips. His eyes leapt with light and his fingers clenched the cloth of his coat, pulling her infinitesimally forward.

“You—you should not,” Isobel stammered. “Your jacket—I mean, surely you will be cold without your jacket.”

“I think I am quite warm enough. And it is, after all, a husband’s right, is it not, to see to his wife’s comfort?”

He bent his head toward her, and Isobel raised her hands between them, with some vague thought of warding off his embrace, but then her hands spread out on his chest, his heat
pouring through the thin lawn of his shirt and into her flesh. She could feel the contour of his muscles, imagine the texture of his skin. His face came nearer, and her eyes fluttered closed.

“What happened?” a voice called, accompanied by the crunch of footsteps on the gravel.

Isobel sprang backward, and Jack let out a low curse. They turned to see Coll Munro striding toward them out of the fog, lit by the yellow glow of the lantern he carried.

“Oh!” Coll stopped, his brows shooting up. “Isobel. I . . . I did not see you.”

“Hello, Coll.” Isobel hoped her voice did not come out as shaky as she felt.

“Is something wrong?” Coll started forward again, his brows drawing together. “Isobel?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. Jack—that is, Mr. Kensington—heard something.”

“Heard something?” The faintest trace of skepticism was in Coll’s voice as he joined them.

“Yes.” Jack returned Munro’s gaze coolly. “I heard the side door opening.”

“This late at night?” Coll’s eyes flickered from Kensington’s shirtsleeves to Isobel in her nightgown, Kensington’s jacket wrapped around her.

“I was asleep,” Isobel explained, shifting beneath Coll’s stare. She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks. “I heard Jack shout, and I, um, came out to see what had happened.”

Jack moved to stand beside Isobel, curling an arm around her shoulders. “In my experience, intruders rarely break in during the day.”

“No doubt you would know more about that,” Coll replied. “But how do you know it was an intruder? We don’t
have many of those here. Dinna you think it was just the wind slamming the door shut?”

“The wind?” Jack cast an expressive glance at a nearby bush, its leaves unmoving. “And that door?”

Isobel could not deny that Jack’s arm about her was warm and even pleasantly protective, but she was uncomfortable under Coll’s gaze. She turned away and pointed back toward the side door. “It’s the door that catches on the floor, Coll. No doubt that’s why he heard it.”

“I know it was an intruder,” Jack said with some impatience. “I looked out my window, and I saw a man.”

“A man.” Coll straightened. “Who?”

“I would scarcely know him,” Jack retorted caustically. “Anyway, I could not see his face. It was dark, and I saw only a hat and coat. When I shouted at him, he ran away. I went after him, but I lost him in the fog.”

He gestured toward the end of the garden. Isobel, following his gaze, saw that the fog, though thick in some areas, was now beginning to feather out nearer the loch. A light moved on the island, disappearing into the mist.

Isobel cast a sharp glance at Coll. The whole incident had confused her until this moment. She was unsure why someone had opened the side door of their house, but now she uneasily suspected it had something to do with the light on the island—and, in all probability, the men who had been fighting the Clearances of the Earl of Mardoun’s lands. And that, she feared, meant Coll might be involved.

Jack glanced over, following her gaze, and Isobel quickly put a hand on his arm to bring his attention back to her, sliding over a step so that he had to turn his back to the island to face her. “Are you sure it was a man?”

Jack’s eyes went to her hand, then up to her face. Isobel hastily dropped her hand from his arm. “I don’t know. I just assumed . . .” He paused, considering the idea. “I think so. It seemed rather large for a woman. And why would a woman be trying to break into the house?”

“Why would a man do so?” Isobel countered. “Perhaps it was someone leaving the house, not entering.”