Treasured (2 page)

“Miss Isobel!” The girl’s face was flushed and her voice trembled with excitement. “Hamish says come quick. There’s a man here, claiming Baillannan is his!”

“What?” Isobel stared at the girl. Her words were so absurd that Isobel thought she must not have heard the maid correctly.

“A man, miss, at the door. An Englishman. He says he owns Baillannan. Then Hamish says he maun be daft, but the man says, ‘Nae, it’s mine,’ and shows him a paper, and Hamish sends me to fetch you.”

“Isobel . . .” Aunt Elizabeth turned toward her, frowning.
“I don’t understand. An Englishman, here? Who is he? What does he mean?”

“I have no idea. It’s nonsense, of course.” Isobel started toward the hall. “Don’t worry, Auntie, I will straighten it out.”

At the foot of the staircase Isobel was met by the sight of Hamish, the man who had been the Rose family butler all her life, standing, arms crossed, as if he would bar the man from the stairs physically. His weathered face, usually set in stoic, even grim, lines, was red as a beet, bushy brows drawn together, dark eyes glittering with dislike.

Opposite him stood a stranger, tall and dark-haired, his face creased in frustration. He would have been a handsome man, she thought, if he had not been soaked to the skin, his cravat a soggy lump around his neck, starched collar points utterly wilted, and his fine wool jacket stretched out of shape by the weight of the water it had absorbed. He held a waterlogged hat in one hand and a many-caped, gray greatcoat hung over the same arm, both of them puddling water on the stone floor beneath him. His boots were caked with mud, and between the sides of his open jacket, his wet shirt clung to his chest. It was made of fine lawn and the water had turned it almost transparent, so that she could see every line and curve of his chest and stomach. As she watched, he reached up and shoved the mop of hair back from his face, stripping water from it. His hair was thick, and slicked back as it now was, it left his face in sharp relief, emphasizing the square set of his jaw and the high slant of his cheekbones. An errant drop of water trickled from his temple, sliding down his cheek and curving over his jaw to disappear in the cloth of his cravat.

Isobel realized that she was staring, and she quickly
averted her eyes, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. “Hamish? Is there a problem?”

The stranger looked up at her, relief flooding his face, and burst out, “Ma’am! Thank heavens, you speak English.”

Isobel raised her brows, her voice faintly amused. “I do indeed, sir. I believe you will find that most of us do.”

“Not so I could tell,” he responded with a dark look at the butler.

“I canna help it if you dinna understand clear speech.” Hamish set his jaw mulishly.

The stranger ignored his retort, addressing his words to Isobel. “If I might be so bold as to introduce myself, I am Jack Kensington, ma’am, at your service.” He swept her a polite bow, elegant in spite of his drenched condition.

He was clearly a gentleman, his speech and manners as refined as those of her brother or cousin—perhaps more so—and she suspected that his clothes were equally sophisticated when not soaked by the rain.

Isobel was as intrigued as she was puzzled, and she came down the last few steps and held out her hand to him. “I am Isobel Rose, sir. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Mr. Kensington looked taken aback, but he recovered quickly and took her hand, bending over it politely. “Mrs. Rose. An apt name for such a lovely woman.”

“Miss Rose,” Isobel corrected him, pulling her hand back. His words were too forward and no doubt meaningless flattery, but she could not deny the lift of pleasure at his compliment.

“Dinna trust him, Miss Isobel,” the butler warned, taking a step toward her protectively. “This Englishman is trying to swick you. Or he’s daft. He says he owns Baillannan.”

“I’m sure his intent is not to swindle us,” Isobel replied. “Perhaps he has been misled.” She turned to Kensington. “I am sorry, sir, but you are mistaken. Baillannan belongs to the Rose family.”

“It did,” Kensington responded tersely, his courteous manner giving way to irritation. “But it is mine now. I have it from Sir Andrew Rose.”

“No!” Isobel stared at him in astonishment. “Andrew would never have sold Baillannan.”

“He did not sell it, ma’am. He wagered it on a game of whist. And lost.”

“No,” she repeated, but the blood drained from her face, and for an instant she thought she might faint. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then believe this.” He shoved a piece of paper into her hand. “It is Sir Andrew’s chit.”

Isobel stared at the familiar writing, the bold swoop of the
A
, and this time she did have to reach for the newel to stay upright.

“Miss Isobel?” Hamish stepped forward anxiously and took her arm to support her. “What is it? The young laird never—”

“Yes.” Isobel kept her gaze on the words, now swimming before her eyes. “I fear he did. ’Tis Andrew’s hand. He wagered Baillannan,” she finished bitterly.

“I have the deed, as well,” the Englishman added mildly.

“No doubt.” Her stomach was roiling. She wanted to scream and shred the note, to toss it back in the stranger’s face and tell her men to toss
him
back out into the rain. But she was a Rose, and so she must put iron into her spine. Isobel blinked back her tears—she refused to let him see her cry.

He was holding out the deed to her, and she took it, running her eyes down it as if she were reading it, when in truth she could not take in any of the words, her mind overwhelmed by something close to terror. She had no idea what to do, so she clung to the behavior that one expected from the lady of Baillannan, a stoicism that hid the turmoil inside.

“Welcome to Baillannan, Mr. Kensington,” she said tightly as she handed him back the papers, though she could not manage to look him in the face. “Hamish, show Mr. Kensington to a room. I am sure he would like to get dry. And no doubt he would appreciate a cup of tea, as well.”

“Miss Izzy!” Hamish went an even deeper shade of red, and his eyes bulged. “You canna mean to give him your home! Your father . . . your grandfather . . .”

“Hamish,” Isobel said firmly. “I cannot undo what Andrew has done. Baillannan apparently belongs to Mr. Kensington now.”

Hamish set his face mutinously, but finally he bobbed his head. “Aye, miss.”

He seized Kensington’s coat and hat, grabbed up the satchel at his feet, then went to speak to the servants, shooing them toward the kitchen.

Isobel turned back to their visitor in awkward silence, then rushed to speak. “I apologize that your room is not ready.”

“No, no need to apologize. Indeed, I should do so for the shock I have given you. I thought Sir Andrew would have written, but no doubt his letter has not had time to reach you.”

“No doubt. If you will excuse me . . .” She gave him as close to a smile as she could muster and turned away.

“No, wait.” He followed her to the foot of the staircase. “Please.”

Isobel stopped on the stairs and turned reluctantly to face him. He was a step below her, so that his head was level with hers, only inches away. His eyes, she realized, were not black or brown as she had thought, but a dark blue, shadowed by thick black lashes. The odd color, combined with the high slash of his cheekbones, gave his face a faintly exotic look. She found it unsettling.

“Are you—I’m not entirely sure I understood what that fellow said, but it seemed—are you related in some way to Sir Andrew?”

“I am his sister.”

“His sister!” His eyes widened. “I’m sorry. Sir Andrew never mentioned . . . I didn’t know . . .”

“There is no reason you should.” This time she could not manage even an attempt at a smile. Whirling, she ran up the stairs.

“Isobel?” Her aunt stood outside the door of the sitting room, looking a trifle lost.

Isobel pulled up short, barely suppressing a groan. Aunt Elizabeth’s memory had been growing hazier the last few months, and Isobel had found that any unexpected occurrence tended to make her condition worse. But Isobel was not sure she could explain the situation calmly when she felt as if she might shatter into a storm of tears herself.

“Isobel, who was that man? Was he talking about Andrew?” Her aunt’s face brightened. “Is Andrew here?”

“No. Andrew is in London. Or at least I suppose he is, since he has not bothered to write.”

“He is so careless that way.” Aunt Elizabeth smiled
indulgently. “Of course, young men have better things to do than write home.”

“He might have thought of something besides himself for once.”

“Isobel? Are you angry with Andrew?”

“Yes, I am.” She added, softening her tone, “A bit.” She couldn’t give in to her feelings in front of Elizabeth.

“But why was Hamish upset? Who is that man?”

“He knows Andrew. I—he is staying here for a time.”

“Oh. How nice—a visitor. He was quite a handsome young man, I thought.” Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed speculatively, and for a moment she seemed like her old self. “It will be good for you to have someone your own age here.”

“Don’t.” Isobel felt as if she might choke. “Please, don’t try to matchmake. It’s impossible.”

“Nonsense. Now come in and sit down and tell me all about him.”

“I cannot.” Isobel pulled away, ignoring the faint hurt in her aunt’s eyes. “I will come back later and tell you everything I know. But right now I must go. I—I have to fetch something. From Meg.”

Her aunt frowned. “Meg?”

“Meg Munro, Auntie; you know Meg. Coll’s sister. Their mother Janet was Andy’s wet nurse.”

“Of course I know Meg.”

The vagueness in Elizabeth’s gray eyes made Isobel doubt her aunt’s words. I cannot bear it, she thought.

“I must go,” she repeated, and fled down the hall without looking back.

Inside her bedroom, Isobel closed the door and sagged against it. She wasn’t sure how she had gotten through it
without breaking down. Her knees were jelly, her hands trembling. She heard the sound of footsteps and voices in the hall outside her door as Hamish and the Englishman walked past, a bitter reminder that her home was gone.

Not just the house she had grown up in, but the loch, the earth, the rocks and caves, every inch of this land and its wild, harsh beauty. Her very life was tumbling down around her, ripped away by her young brother’s folly. Even her beloved aunt was being taken from her bit by bit each day, her mind retreating.

She could not hold back a sob. Grabbing up her cloak, she ran from the room, tearing down the stairs and out into the yard as if pursued by devils.

J
ack looked around the unprepossessing
bedchamber. The room to which Hamish had led him was large, he would give it that—large and cold and sparsely furnished. At the far end was an unlit fireplace. A massive wardrobe loomed against the wall opposite, its dark walnut and plain lines at odds with the decoratively carved oaken bed’s delicate—indeed, one could call them spindly—posts. A few more lumps of furniture were hidden under covers, and a faint but distinctly unpleasant odor hung in the air.

Hamish dropped Jack’s bag unceremoniously on the floor beside the bed, muttering something beneath his breath. Could this growling gnome of a man really be the butler? Jack did not expect a butler to be friendly, for they could be chilling in their courtesy, but he had never encountered another so surly or so lacking in dignity.

“I take it this room has not been occupied in a while,” Jack commented, and the butler cast an unfriendly glance his way.

“We wurnae expecting ye.” Hamish’s accent, if possible, seemed even thicker than it had before.

Jack peeled off his sodden jacket and began to unknot his equally wet neckcloth. He wondered if the estate was in as bad a shape as the state of this room suggested. He did not know Sir Andrew well, but the lad had always sported plenty of blunt, a bird of paradise on his arm, the wine flowing freely, as he gambled away the night.

Hamish ripped the covers from the one set of windows, sending dust flying and revealing velvet curtains that might once have been dark green or blue or perhaps even red. Their nap was worn so thin that in spots the afternoon light, weak as it was, glowed through the material. Hamish shoved the draperies open, alleviating the gloom somewhat, then clumped about the room, yanking off the rest of the covers.

“Will ye be wanting anything else?” The butler gave Jack a look that was more challenge than inquiry.

“I believe a fire in the grate might be appropriate,” Jack snapped, nettled. “And what the devil is that smell?”

“Smell?” The butler gazed at him blankly. “I widna know, sir. The sheuch, mebbe, below.”

Jack felt sure his own expression was now as lacking in comprehension as the other man’s. Did these people not speak English? “The what?”

“The sheuch.” The butler made a careless gesture toward the window. “A lass will be in to licht the fire for ye. Dinner’s at acht.”

Jack was unsure whether all Scots were this unintelligible or Hamish was simply determined to be difficult, but in either case Jack was not about to give the butler the satisfaction
of asking for clarification. Jack nodded briefly in dismissal, ignoring the glint of animosity in the man’s eyes.