Treasured (23 page)

“Aye, well, Coll got the worst of it. He could not sit for three days afterwards.” Meg laughed, then sighed. “Everything is changing, isn’t it? So many people gone. Tomorrow you’ll be Mrs. Kensington.”

“I will still be the same.”

“You’ll be a married woman.”

“It’s not a real marriage.”

“It’s in the kirk.” Meg gave her an odd look. “That seems real enough to me. It isn’t a handfasting.”

“No, it will be legal. I just meant . . .” Isobel shrugged. “We won’t really be husband and wife.”

“Oh.” Meg’s eyes widened as she took in Isobel’s meaning. “Does Mr. Kensington know that?”

Isobel laughed. “Yes. I made it clear. We have a . . . a practical arrangement. I will run Baillannan as I always have. And he will return to London and spend the money.”

“I see.” Meg studied the whiskey in her glass, swirling it around. “Still . . . it does not seem to me most men would be content with that.”

“I don’t know if
content
is the word. But he is not the sort of man who would”—a blush stained Isobel’s cheeks and she glanced away—“who would force me.” She took another drink, grimacing as the fire rolled down her throat.

Meg poured again. The whiskey was going down more
easily with each sip. Isobel was beginning to feel warm and peaceful, the twanging nerves that had plagued her for a week easing.

“Of course, that does not mean Jack will not try to persuade me,” Isobel added. Her eyes widened, and she let out a little giggle as she realized what had slipped out of her mouth.

“Aye, well, he is a man. The question is, do you want to be persuaded?”

“No.” Isobel’s voice was firm despite the wistful look in her eyes. “But he is very good at persuasion.”

Meg laughed.

Isobel joined her and raised her hands to her heated cheeks. “I think I am a wicked woman deep down. I scarcely know the man. I dinna even know if I like him.” Her voice slipped deeper into the Highlands accent as her inhibitions loosened. “I mean, I
do
like him, but I am not sure if the man I like is who he really is. He is handsome and clever and kind. And,
oh
, I like his laugh. I truly do. He doesn’t look like anyone I know; his eyes are such an odd blue, and when he is teasing me, this light comes into them . . .” She shook her head. “I think I could never tire of looking at him. But I know that looks are scarcely the measure of a man. Neither is a silver tongue, which he has aplenty. I don’t know what he really thinks. What he feels. Do you know, he’s never said a word about his family?”

“I would not think his family is so important. You’ll likely not see them, will you?” Meg dimpled. “And you never cared that Coll and I are not fine folk.”

“I don’t care about his lineage, and you are right, I’ll not see them, anyway. But it is odd, don’t you think? He never
mentions his parents. He does not talk about his friends or where he has lived or—or anything like that. I don’t even know if he has a brother or sister. He’s—he’s closed, like a sheep cote. He makes his living playing cards with young gentlemen, outwitting them.”

“That would not be difficult, judging by Andrew’s friends.”

“No.” Isobel laughed. “Do you remember that boy named Stickham, the one who turned brick red whenever you came around?”

“The one with eyes like a sheep? Oh, yes. But he was not as bad as the blond lad who kept trying to pull me behind a door and kiss me.”

“Jeremy Latham? No! Did he really?”

“Oh, aye, more than once, until I jabbed one of your aunt’s knitting needles into his arm.”

“I didn’t know that! Why didn’t you tell me? He never tried anything with me.” Isobel tilted her head consideringly. “Should I be offended, do you think?”

“Och, he was English.” Meg dismissed him with a snort. “I wasn’t blue-blooded, so he dinna think he had to be polite.” She waved her hand. “That does not matter. Why does Kensington’s playing cards matter?”

“It doesn’t really. But Andrew and the other young gentlemen play cards with him because Jack draws them in by appearing to be one of them, ‘bang up to the mark.’ When you look at his face, you don’t know what he thinks. I don’t know what he truly feels. He never gets angry.”

“That sounds like a pleasant difference in a man.” Meg grinned.

“Well, yes, but it’s not natural, is it? He cannot be so even
tempered. I think he keeps it all hidden inside him. Hamish was dreadful when Jack arrived; they all were. Cold food, a room in the old wing, no warming pan for his bed, accents so thick even I could hardly understand them. You would think he would have raged, wouldn’t you? Yet he turned it all aside with a quip.”

“You want him to storm about?”

“No, of course not.”

“I don’t know—I like a bit of temper in a man, I think,” Meg mused.

“Well, he’s angry with me now, but it’s all cold. As if he drew farther back into himself.” Isobel shrugged. “I probably needn’t worry about him trying to entice me into his bed, as remote as he has been the last few days.”

“Dead polite is the worst. I hate it when Coll freezes up; it’s easier if he yells.” Meg paused. “Why is he angry? Because he hasn’t been able to ‘persuade’ you into his bed?”

“No, it’s not that. Well, mayhap it started like that. But then, well, I was unkind. I think—I think perhaps I wounded him. But he would not say so.” She sighed. “It is just as well he’ll be leaving soon.”

“Then everything can go back to the way it was.”

Isobel nodded. It was absurd that the thought should make her throat ache. “It’s just that— Oh, Meg, when he touches me, it is so sweet I can hardly bear it. He kisses me and—” She blushed and looked down at her skirt, picking at a nonexistent flaw. “Have you—have you ever—you know?”

“No, I haven’t, no matter what people say about the Munro women.”

“I’ve never even been kissed before. When Jack kissed me, it was . . . it’s like this whiskey. It sweeps through me, so fiery and
fast.” Isobel’s blush grew and she concentrated even harder on the spot on her skirt. “It’s like nothing I’ve known. It makes me want—well, I’m not sure what. It makes me want to do whatever he wants.”

“Would it be so bad a thing, then?” Meg asked gently. “You will be married, after all.”

“It would be legal, yes. I would not have to fear the gossip. Even the kirk approves—though, I must say, it feels much too good, I think, not to be a sin. But it’s not those things that hold me back.” Isobel raised her head and looked at Meg, her eyes stark. “In a few days, Jack will go back to London. And I will be left here at Baillannan. I will not do that, Meg. I cannot.”

Jack stared balefully out the window. The sky was beginning to lighten, though the sun had not yet broken above the horizon. His wedding day was dawning.

He drew in a sharp breath and turned away. He had slept in fitful starts throughout the night; no doubt any further efforts in that regard would prove equally futile. However, it was too early for breakfast, even here. He picked up his watch from the top of the dresser and opened it, then set it down with a sigh. Turning to the wardrobe, he pulled out the jacket he would wear to the church later and slid his hand into the inside pocket to check that the ring he had purchased in Inverness was still there. So too were the other small boxes he had brought back from Inverness. He rubbed his thumb over them idly, a now familiar prickle of unease teasing at his chest.

After another glance at his pocket watch, he began to roam restlessly around the room. The fourth time he checked the time, he let out an oath and swung away to pull on trousers and a shirt. Not bothering to tuck in his shirt or put on a neckcloth or jacket, he crammed his feet into his boots and left the house.

He stood for a moment on the front steps, pulling in a deep lungful of air. It was easier to breathe out here. The morning mist was lifting and that odd, indefinable scent that was Baillannan hung in the air. He turned and started toward the loch. As he neared the water, he glimpsed a form on the dock, half-hidden by the fog. With a few more steps, the figure resolved into a small man with a fishing rod in his hand. The man turned at the sound of his approach and Jack took in the weathered face and the burst of graying hair.

“You!” Jack stared.

“Aye.” The old fellow lifted his chin pugnaciously. “Me.”

“Angus McKay.” A smile touched the corner of Jack’s mouth. “I believe it is you who are intruding on my place now.”

“Loch Baille belongs to no man,” McKay retorted.

“Ah, but the dock is mine,” Jack tossed back. “And you are occupied in what is usually termed poaching.”

“Miss Isobel disnae mind.”

“No. She would not. And since
I
am not carrying a firearm, you are safe from me as well.”

The old man’s only answer was a snort. He eyed Jack up and down. “Ye dinna look ready for the kirk. Is it running that’s on your mind, then?”

“Running?” Jack stiffened. “From the wedding? Of course not.”

“Guid.” The old man nodded. “Folks widnae take to that. They’re richt fond of Miss Isobel here.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Jack said drily. He joined the other man on the dock and gazed out across the water.

“Fog’s lifting,” McKay said after a moment, and Jack glanced at him, surprised. Was the belligerent old man actually offering a pleasantry? “Guid day for the wedding.”

“Miss Elizabeth will be pleased,” Jack agreed. “She has been watching for omens.”

“Aye.”

“Will you be attending?” Jack asked after a moment.

“At the kirk?” McKay lifted his brows skeptically. “Nae. But afterward, aye.” He jerked his head back toward Baillannan. “Why else am I oot here? I hae to bring something to the party, now, don’t I?’ ”

“So you are poaching fish from our lake to bring as a present to our wedding celebration?” Jack let out a laugh.

“Och, I told ye, lad, Loch Baille belongs to no man. Least of all a Sassenach,” he added darkly.

“I thought the Lady of Loch Baille gave it to the first laird,” Jack countered.

“The Lady of the Loch!” Angus cast a startled look at him. “What do ye ken of the lady?”

“Very little,” Jack admitted.

The old man let out an odd, strangled sound, and it took Jack a moment to realize that Angus McKay was laughing. “Ye’ll get over the nerves.”

“Nerves? I beg your pardon.” Jack glanced at him. “I am not nervous.”

“Oh, aye. Must be something else sends ye oot to the loch at dawn on your wedding day, then.”

“Yes, well . . . it isn’t nerves. Precisely.” Jack crossed his arms. “I have wagered thousands of pounds on the play of a card and never turned a hair. Ask anyone; they’ll tell you.”

“Ice water in your veins, eh?”

“Exactly. ’Twas the one thing my father admired in me.”

“It’s just the lassie, then, that makes ye jittery?”

“Of course not. I’m not jittery. It’s just—what am I doing?” Jack burst out. “I have no idea why I even came to this place. Now I am marrying someone I don’t know. I should have given her the wedding present I got her in Inverness, but I could not seem to find the right time or place or the words to do it. Me! Why is it so bloody difficult to talk to her?”

“Och, weel. Women . . .”

“You don’t understand. I am a man who can talk to women. To anyone. I am glib; she is right in accusing me of that. But with her—I’ve been tiptoeing around her for days now, unable to explain. To set it right.”

“Set what richt?”

“I don’t know! That’s just it.” Jack turned to McKay. He knew it was ludicrous to be pouring out his thoughts like this to a man whom he had not even met until a few weeks ago—a man, moreover, who had greeted him with a musket. But he could not seem to stop. The words rushed up out of him, like water gushing from a breached dam. “What does it matter if I have brothers or sisters? Or if I told her about my mother and father? Why should she care where I lived? What use is it to talk about everything I’ve ever done?”

“Och, weel. Women . . .” McKay said again, shaking his head.

“I thought she was glad to see me when I returned. I
know
she was glad. Then she changed. Turned to frost in an instant. And she called me—” He stopped abruptly, clamping his lips together.

“A sharp?” McKay offered. “An ivory-turner? A rum ’un?”

“No!” Jack glared at him, and the old man shrugged, turning back to his task. “I am
not
a sharp.” He let out a long breath. “She accused me of being a sham. She said there was nothing inside me.”

“Whisht . . .” McKay let out one of the odd noises Scots seemed so fond of. “Ye look real enough to me. Are ye nae standing richt here? Same insides as the rest of us, I’d guess.”

Jack let out a chuckle, his muscles relaxing. “True enough.”

“The lasses’ll drive ye mad. Best not to marry, I say.” McKay cast a measuring look at Jack. “But I wager you’ll gang your own gate. Lads always do.” He shrugged, then nodded at him sharply. “Now, I’d say ye’d best get back and make yourself respectable. Ye canna marry Miss Isobel looking like ye just fell oot of bed.”

“Yes. No doubt you’re right.” Jack sketched a bow to the old man. “Good day, Mr. McKay. I shall see you later at the feast.”

“Aye.” As Jack started away, McKay added, “Ye could coom up to the hoose sometime. When ye need to get awa’. We’ll go doon to the river to fish. Calms the nerves, fishing.”