Treasured (31 page)

Andrew’s eyes lit with anger, but what he would have replied was lost as Hamish came bustling in with the tray of port. The butler set the tray down on the table, positioning it vaguely between the two men. “There you are, Master Andrew. Good to have you home again.”

The young man grinned. “It’s good to be here. Nothing like the Highland air, is there?”

“No, sir, there is not.” The dour butler beamed at him.

“Tell your Nan hello for me.”

“I will indeed.” He turned to Jack with a polite nod. “Sir?”

“Thank you, Hamish. That will be all.”

As the man left, closing the door behind him, Jack said, “Has the man ever breathed aught but Highland air?”

Andrew chuckled. “No. I doubt he’s traveled as far as Inverness. But any Highlander knows that anything here is better than everything anywhere else.”

Jack poured a generous glass of port for each of them, seizing the brief moment of geniality. “I do not want my wife upset. I know she loves you dearly, and for her sake, I suggest that we call a truce.”

“A truce? I did not know we were at war.” Andrew took a sip of his drink, relaxing in his chair.

“Then a treaty, shall we say? I do not know you well, so I am unsure what your aim was in bringing my mother to this house—though I must say that the initiative you showed in finding her raised you somewhat in my estimation.”

“Are you saying you kept her hidden?”

Jack leaned forward, quelling the urge to plant his fist in the young man’s smirking face. “What I am saying is that I own Baillannan, and I would suggest that you remember that fact. If I wish it, you will be out on your ear. No amount of childish pranks or verbal barbs will change that fact. You remain here solely out of my respect for Isobel, and that position will change if you push me too far. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly.” Andrew’s face took on a petulant look. “You needn’t threaten me. I would not hurt Isobel.”

Jack responded with only a raised eyebrow. He took another swig of his port. “Drink up. It’s time we joined the ladies.”

Jack found little comfort there, however, for as soon as he stepped into the drawing room, he saw that Isobel was not there. She had, his mother explained, already retired, and Mrs. Kensington went on to worry at some length about the dear girl’s health. Though Elizabeth hastened to reassure her that Isobel was rarely ill, Mrs. Kensington could not help but recall numerous acquaintances and relatives or friends of acquaintances and relatives who had fallen ill suddenly. In all these instances, apparently, the result had been an untimely (and often unsightly) death.

Jack stood up abruptly. “Mother, you have convinced me I should look in on Isobel. Pray excuse me. Ladies. Sir Andrew.” He nodded toward them and strode out of the room. His first instinct was to go straight upstairs to talk to Isobel,
but he paused at the foot of the stairs. Plunging ill prepared into another conversation with his wife was undoubtedly the worst thing he could do. He had proved on more than one occasion that he was all too likely to make a mull of things with Isobel if he spoke in the heat of the moment. He needed to remove himself, take some time to think things through, prepare his campaign to woo her back.

Turning, Jack walked out the front door and started around the house, the rough path familiar to him now. The cool night carried the familiar scent of trees and earth, threaded through with a trace of peat smoke, a far cry from London’s thick miasma from coal fires and sewage. He would miss the smell when he returned, he thought. The nighttime strolls as well. And Isobel.

Jack stopped, jamming his hands into his pockets and staring sightlessly in front of him. What the devil was the matter with him? He had never felt this confused, this torn, this eager to get back into a woman’s good graces. He lived his life as he wished, without worry or regret, and had to please no one. It was a selfish life, he freely admitted that; it was also exactly the way he liked it. And he could return to it this very moment, if he chose.

Yet here he was, suddenly, seemingly surrounded by people—he had a wife and in-laws and an odd assortment of people who were important in some way to Isobel, and beyond that this whole collection of crofters who Isobel insisted were dependent on him. All because by chance he had won a house. And the house had brought him a wife.

He turned and gazed up at the long, gray line of the manor. He had come around to the opposite side and was standing now at the end of the walkway down which he had
chased the intruder weeks ago. Looking up, he could see the window of his bedroom, light glowing behind the drapes. Isobel was still up. He could go to her, kiss her and caress her until she forgot all the wrongs she held against him and dissolved into pleasure in his arms. His loins tightened in anticipation at the thought.

He wanted to be there with her, to be lost in the sensations, the heat, driving deep within her until the climax shattered him. It was ridiculous to be standing out here instead, sorry and stupid and cold. . . . But he had barely taken a step when the light in the window disappeared. She had gone to bed without him.

It brought him up short, but a moment’s reflection reminded him that she could not be asleep yet, and even if she was, he could wake her in a most pleasurable way. It would be easier in the dark; it was always easier in the dark.

He went in the side entrance, turning to squeeze through in the now-familiar way to avoid the screech of the door on the tile. His pulse picked up in anticipation as he climbed the stairs and eased into his room. He walked softly to the bed, dimly visible in the pale moonlight. And there he stopped, unable for a moment to take in what he saw.

The bed was empty. He turned and glanced around, but there was no sign of Isobel. Frowning, he lit the lamp. Had she gone back downstairs? He turned and his eyes fell on the vanity table. Her brushes and bottles were gone. Jack’s heart began to pound, and he crossed to the dresser, opening first one drawer and then another. Empty. All empty. He went to the wardrobe, but he knew before he opened it that her clothes would not be there. She had taken her things and moved back into her bedroom. Isobel had left him.

I
sobel opened her eyes, disoriented
and aware of a heavy ache in her chest. In the next instant she remembered the day before—Mrs. Kensington’s arrival, the bitter words Isobel had exchanged with Jack, and the cold, lonely minutes alone in Jack’s room when she had decided to move her things back into her old bedroom. She lay in her own bed, but now she felt like a stranger here.

She turned over, burying her head in her pillow. She had heard Jack come up to his room not long after she’d moved out the last of her clothes. For a few minutes, she had stood still, waiting, her heart knocking in her chest, wondering if he would come to her door, if he would try to talk her out of her decision or even demand that she come back. But he had not, which she told herself had been a relief, and after a time she had gone to bed. And cried herself to sleep.

Sighing, she sat up and jackknifed her legs, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her head atop them. Yesterday
morning at this hour, she had been lying in bed with Jack, replete with satisfaction and desultorily talking about nothing in particular. Now she was alone and her heart felt swollen and bruised within her chest. How could everything have gone so wrong in one day’s time?

She did not know if she had made the right decision last night. Perhaps she had merely widened the gulf between them, and Jack would make no move to narrow it. But she had realized that she could not bear to sit there waiting for him to come back, much less sleep with him, live her life with him, all the while knowing how little of himself he was willing to share with her. How deeply he resented her questions, viewing them as intrusions on him.

With a sigh, she shoved her gloomy thoughts aside. She had guests to see to, tasks that needed doing. She could not give in to her dark worries; she had a life to live regardless of the problems between her and Jack. Dressing and doing up her hair in a tidy coiled braid, she went downstairs. She found everyone, even her usually late-rising brother, there before her. Jack rose politely, and she nodded to him with equal formality. He was once again a stranger to her.

“Jack was just telling us he will be riding out after breakfast,” Aunt Elizabeth said.

“I can scarce believe how rural he has become.” Millicent smiled, leaning over to pat his hand. “Jack has always been one to like the city. More activity there.”

“Yes. I fear he must find it a trifle dull here.” The words tasted like ashes in Isobel’s mouth, but she strove to keep her tone light.

“Never dull,” Jack countered. “Angus McKay has promised to teach me to fish.”

“Angus McKay?” Isobel stopped, her cup of tea halfway to her mouth.

“Old Angus, down Corby Brae?” Andrew asked.

“Yes. Is that so odd? I got thoroughly lost one day and wound up at his cottage.”

“And he did not send you packing?”

“Of course he did. But only once. I think the old chap rather likes me.”

“Will wonders never cease?” Elizabeth laughed. “Old Angus likes no one that I have ever seen.”

Jack left soon after breakfast, and Andrew declared his intention of going to see Cousin Gregory. Isobel retired to the sitting room with her aunt and Mrs. Kensington, where she was soon awash in boredom as the other two women happily discussed needlework, which, it seemed, Jack’s mother enjoyed almost as much as Aunt Elizabeth did.

The days that followed fell into the same pattern. Jack spent most of his days out of the house, riding or walking or something—Isobel wasn’t sure what, for he and she barely spoke except in company with the others, and then it was in stilted, impersonal sentences. Isobel spent her days in a dreary monotony, tired and heavy-lidded from another night of sleeplessness.

She missed Jack, more than she had ever dreamed she could. Indeed, she ached for him, not only in her heart but in the depths of her body as well. All her life she had lived without a man’s touch, and she had not felt the lack. But now—now it seemed as though she could think of nothing, dream of nothing, be satisfied by nothing, but Jack’s touch, Jack’s mouth, Jack’s long, muscular body wrapped around her, plunging deep inside her.

Her mind drifted constantly to memories of their lovemaking, and she would feel the heat blossom between her legs, her breasts swelling and aching for his touch, even at the most inappropriate times. At night she would come awake with a start, her skin searing and bedewed by sweat, an insistent throbbing deep within her. She would lie there, hoping that Jack would come to her and take her into his arms, would somehow break through this barrier between them.

But he did not. Though many times she felt so desperate, so lonely, so yearning, she started to go to him, each time her nerve failed her. She could not bear it if she knocked on his door only to face the same aloof gaze with which he greeted her each day at the breakfast table. Even if he let her in, if he took her in his arms and satisfied the hunger in her, it would change nothing. The desire might lessen, but she would still feel empty inside.

Andrew stayed at Gregory’s for a few days, for which Isobel was grateful. She was sure the atmosphere would have been even more uneasy if Andrew had been there, making quips and barbs. Andrew had always had a ready tongue, but Isobel did not remember his humor being quite so biting in the past. She thought it must have grown more acidic in London—or perhaps she had simply overlooked it when he was younger. He now displayed several traits that it seemed she had not noticed.

In less than a week, however, Andrew returned to Baillannan, having had his fill of Cousin Robert’s lectures. Isobel tried to keep from looking dismayed at his arrival. At least Gregory had come with her brother, happy to escape his father’s strictures as well, and Gregory’s friendly good
humor would do much to ease the air; Isobel could always count on him to provide a bit of conversation if things turned grim.

With the young men there to keep Millicent and Elizabeth entertained, Isobel decided once more to start clearing out her grandmother’s room. If nothing else, it might take her mind off the soreness encircling her heart.

Isobel stepped into the dim room and shoved the heavy drapes aside to let in the sun, then turned to survey the room. Oddly, the dustcover on the dresser was hiked up on one side, and when she went closer, she saw that its corner had caught in one of the drawers. Isobel frowned, faintly uneasy. She pulled the cloth out from the drawer and peeled it off the mahogany top, tossing it onto the bed. Another of the drawers was open a fraction, a garment hanging out an inch, preventing it from closing.

Isobel opened the drawer and straightened the jumbled clothes. When she had worked in this room a few weeks ago, everything in the drawers had been tidily arranged. Feeling uneasy, she opened one drawer after another. None of them were in neatly folded order. Now that she looked at the dresser more closely, she saw that one side of the heavy piece of furniture stood out farther from the wall than the other end.