Treasured (5 page)

“I wanted to ask you,” she began at last. “That is, when you said that you were returning to London, do you not mean to live at Baillannan?”

“No.” He looked at her as if she had suggested he might live on the moon. “Of course not. I merely wanted—well, I’m not sure what. To see the place, I suppose.”

“Then you will need someone to manage the estate for you, as I have the past several years for Andrew. Someone experienced and trustworthy.” She laid the groundwork for her appeal, knowing how difficult it would be to convince him that a woman could do the job.

“No, wait.” Kensington held out his hand as if to stop her. “If you are leading up to suggesting a man you think would suit the position, I must tell you that I won’t need a manager. I intend to sell Baillannan.”

“Oh.” Her stomach dropped. “I see.”

“I am a city dweller, Miss Rose. And I find the trip a trifle long to visit with any frequency.”

“I see.” It was hopeless, obviously, but she made another push. “If you kept Baillannan, the estate would provide you with income.”

“Scarcely as much as one would receive in a sale. And
while I am sure that this friend of yours is an admirable person, there is the uncertainty that comes with letting another handle one’s accounts.”

“Of course.” Isobel nodded, the brief spark of hope extinguished. She took a breath and began again. “I wanted to ask you . . . if you would be so kind . . . that is, I must make arrangements for my aunt and me to move. And the house is so, well, there are so many family things that I am sure you would wish me to remove. I fear it will take me a few days to get it all in order. I hoped— I would ask you the favor of remaining here until I have it settled.”

“Naturally. Please, take as much time as you need.” He took a step toward her, then stopped and, with an awkwardness she had not seen before in him, said, “Miss Rose . . . I assure you, I did not know—that is, it was never my intent to turn you out of your home. I am truly sorry.”

“Yes.” Isobel forced a smile. “So am I.”

J
ack Kensington stared down at
the meal laid out before him. The gray porridge in the large bowl was so thick he was sure it could have been used for glue. The plate beside it was loaded with several meats and two fried eggs, leaking their yellow yolks in an unappetizing way. The meats were fried, as well. One he recognized as the kind of indigestible-looking dark wedge he had avoided at supper the evening before—indeed, it could have been the same one, for all he knew. The other meat was in the shape of a sausage and had the color and consistency of a piece of charcoal. A smaller plate held a flat, roundish bread product.

He had better leave here soon or he might starve to death. Deciding that the bread appeared the only thing remotely palatable, he tore off a piece and found that it snapped in his hand like wood. Putting it in his mouth, he tentatively began to chew. Somewhat to his surprise, the thing did not crack a tooth, but it was bland and unsweetened and seemed
to grow larger as he chewed it. He swallowed and washed the lump down with a sip of the bitterly dark tea.

The breakfast matched the rest of his stay so far. The mattress had been thin and the sheets cold, the servants clearly being strangers to a warming pan. The raucous cry of a rooster had jerked him awake, and the twitter of birds combined with the chill had chased away any possibility of further sleep. The maid who had come in to clean out the ashes and start the fire had been as dull witted as the others, and her brogue was equally thick. It had taken her a great deal of time to understand his request for a pitcher of water for the washstand, and when it arrived, it had been as cold as the cup of tea he was now holding.

He saw clearly why Sir Andrew spent all his time in London—although Jack did think it cruel of the man to leave his sister marooned here. The thought of Andrew’s sister was the pleasantest one he had had today, so his mind lingered on her as he forced down more bread and tea.

Her control had slipped for a few minutes yesterday afternoon, and he had rather liked watching the light flare in her eyes and her cheeks bloom with angry color—even if she was accusing him of taking advantage of her brother. Last night at the supper table she had regained her calm. She’d been nervous; he could see that in her eyes and the restless movement of her hands as she touched her glass and utensils, but she had been in command of her tongue. With a little effort on his part, she had even smiled, and seeing that had been even more enjoyable than her little spark of anger.

If Isobel’s lithe form was clad in a fashionable gown and her rich blond hair done up in a more modern style, she would have ample suitors in the city. Indeed, he would not
mind in the least showing her some of the amusements London had to offer . . . and other, more basic, joys as well. It was easy to envision a little dalliance with the lovely Miss Rose to enliven his time in this grim place—though, since she considered him a thorough villain, it would require his best efforts of persuasion. But he enjoyed a challenge.

Less enjoyably, his inner vision of Isobel Rose turned to her face last night, her great gray eyes filled with sadness and loss, and he felt once again a pang of remorse. What had happened to her was not his fault, but he could not but regret that he was the one who had delivered her fate to her.

At that moment, almost as if he had conjured her up, Isobel walked through the door. Jack jumped to his feet, aware of a distinct lift in his spirits. Relief, no doubt, at the prospect of company other than the glowering presence of the butler beside the door.

“Miss Rose.” He managed to pull out her chair before Hamish could get there, which gave him a doubtlessly childish pleasure. “How lovely you look.” Because his mind had been on it, he continued, “You should come to London with your brother. The gentlemen of the city would be at your feet.”

“No doubt—as long as all the gentlemen of the city are as egregious flatterers as you,” Isobel retorted, but she gave him an unforced smile, which pleased him far more than seemed reasonable. Her smile was swift and devoid of artifice, and the small flaw of one slightly crooked eyetooth somehow only lent it even more charm.

Hamish left the room and was back almost immediately with a pot of tea—this one steaming, Jack noted—which he poured into Isobel’s cup. Hamish also set down before her a silver tray containing a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar.

“Hamish.” Jack tapped his cup. “You may pour me a fresh cup as well.”

The old man lowered his head in a courteous nod—as if he hadn’t been glaring at Jack the past ten minutes, the old charlatan—and refilled Jack’s cup. This cup of tea was a far cry from the original, confirming Jack’s suspicions that the servants were waging a subtle war against him.

“I see you are an early riser, Miss Rose,” Jack said conversationally.

“As are you.”

“Not normally.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I fear I am unused to the noise in the country.”

“The noise? I would have thought it just the opposite, that Baillannan would be much more peaceful.”

“Mm. Until the birds began their cacophony outside my window at dawn.” He was pleased to see that his wry words brought a chuckle out of Isobel this time. And since she was the only person here with whom he could converse, her smile would enliven his days.

“I am unused to greeting the dawn,” he went on. “However, it will give us ample time for our tour this morning.”

“You want to see Baillannan?” Her eyebrows rose. “I presumed you were merely being polite.”

“I was. Still, it seems a wise thing to do. And since there is actually a sun in the sky this morning, I thought we should not waste the opportunity.”

“Indeed not. I can see you are already learning the ways of the Highlands.”

“Of course, you will wish to eat your, um, breakfast first.” He cast a look down at his plate.

“Mm.” Isobel followed his gaze, then said to Hamish,
hovering at her elbow, “I believe I’ll just have the porridge and an oatcake.”

“Of course, miss.” He returned quickly with a bowl of oatmeal, which appeared faintly less like gray sludge than Jack’s, and a tray containing pots of preserves and pale butter.

Isobel began to eat with what seemed to Jack an astonishing lack of repulsion. He toyed with his fork, pushing the food around on his plate.

“What
is
this thing?” he asked at last, poking at the wedge of dark matter.

“It’s haggis.” When he lifted his brows, she explained, “It’s made of bits of various meats and . . . other things. My father took his with a bit of whiskey poured over it.”

“I feel sure it would improve it.”

“I believe that it’s an acquired taste.” Her eyes danced with amusement.

“One wonders why one would wish to acquire it. What of this . . . sausage?”

“Blood pudding.”

“That requires no explanation. And this bit of paving tile?” He lifted the hard bread.

“That’s oatcake.” She laughed, a bright, infectious sound that made him smile in return. “Try spreading butter and jam on it. The oatmeal is better with cream.”

“Does all the food here need to be disguised?” But he did as she suggested and slathered the cake with butter and preserves. He would, he thought, need to be far hungrier to take on the porridge, even with cream and sugar added.

“We Scots are a plain folk.” Isobel pulled a sober face. “We like plain food.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“I will admit that the meal looks a mite . . . um . . .”

“Burned?”

“Except where it’s underdone.” An impish look brightened her eyes again. “I fear Cook is in a mood.”

“Does she have them often? Or only when I appear?”

“’Tis the first I’ve seen,” Isobel admitted. “Come. Shall we start our walk? I think I am done with breakfast.”

“Indeed, I was done with it ten minutes ago.”

They left the house, Isobel wrapped in her cloak, though Jack left his greatcoat and hat behind. The coat was still damp from yesterday’s drenching and smelled of wet wool. The hat, bought only a fortnight ago at Lock’s, was a complete loss. But the sun had burned off much of the damp cold, and he scarcely felt the chill.

He could see the loch, a long, gray strip of water. One path ran down to the water and the thick growth of trees beside it. The other path went up the incline of rocky ground, and Isobel took this one.

“I hope you will not hold it against them,” she said as they walked.

“Hold what against whom?”

“The unpalatable food. Hamish’s glares. I know it is not pleasant, but they are good, loyal people. I would ask you to give them time to get used to the change. That you will not turn them out. Baillannan is their home as much as it is mine. I have known them since I was a child, and their resentment is all on my behalf.”

“I can hardly blame them; I would choose you over a usurper, as well.” He cast her a sideways grin. “In any case, I shall not be here long enough to warrant any change in staff. I cannot, however, speak for whoever buys the estate.”

“No. Of course not.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice, and the sound tugged at him.

Last night she had obviously hoped he would set someone to manage the place—perhaps the man with whom he had seen her talking yesterday afternoon. He wondered again what the fellow was to her. Maybe she planned to marry the man and she hoped to hold on to her home at least that much. Perhaps that was the purpose of this little jaunt, to win him over, manipulate him into doing as she wanted.

Irritated at the thought, he looked away. They had reached the crest of the ridge, and spread before them was the wide panorama of the entire loch and the rolling land beyond, the muted colors of green and blue and brown all washed in pale golden sunlight. He drew in a sharp, unconscious breath.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Isobel murmured.

“I am afraid I’ve never waxed nostalgic for the rural pleasures. Still, it does have a certain . . . stark appeal.”

“It’s strong and it’s harsh, and there’s beauty in that. But when the heather blooms and the earth is a blanket of purple, it’s glorious. And sometimes, when the mist hangs over the loch and crystal drops of water are clinging to every twig and leaf, you can almost see the fey folk dancing in the glen.”

“The fey folk?” he repeated skeptically.

“Aye.” She cast him a twinkling glance, her voice tinged with the burr of the Highlands. “ ‘The ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties.’ They say at evening time, in the gloaming, if you’re quiet and careful, you may see the selkies gliding out of the sea, shedding their skin, and walking abroad in the guise of mortal men.”

He stared at her. “Do you mean to tell me you believe in such things?”

Isobel chuckled. “Legends are at the heart of a Scot. When you sit by the fire on a long winter evening and your aunt tells you about the red man, who comes in the winter and knocks at your door, begging you to let him in, it is hard
not
to believe.”

“What happens if you do not answer the door?”

“You see? You cannot resist the tales either. The story goes, if you do not offer him hospitality, woe betide you, for he’ll play wicked pranks on you. But if you do let him in, you must take care, for if you linger with him too long by the fire, listening to him talk and talk, you will never leave there.”