Treasured (6 page)

“So you’re doomed either way.” He gazed down at her, enjoying the sparkle in her eyes and the smile in her voice. “Don’t tell me your sweet aunt told you such tales?”

“Indeed she did. Well, many of them we heard at the knee of Andrew’s nurse; Janet was . . . well, something of a woman of the forest. She knew the plants and their healing properties, and people came to her with their ailments. She also knew the old tales of selkies and kelpies and the Ghille Dhu.”

“And who are all these creatures?”

“The selkies are beings who come out of the water and appear as men. Some say they’re seals and shed their skin to become men. They are handsome and charming and lead many a lass astray, but at the end of the night, the selkie leaves his lover’s bed and returns to the water. If a woman looks to keep him, she must find his discarded skin and hide it away. Then he cannot leave her and must become a man always.” Isobel shrugged. “But others say they are spirits of
the water and change their form to look human, then disappear when the morning arrives, leaving the woman not knowing who he was.”

“Sounds very convenient.”

“A kelpie, though, is an entirely different thing, for they are water horses and they do not change. They lie in the river, their heads barely above water, and if you come too close, they seize you and drag you under. They’re powerful and cruel, black in color, and water streams from their bodies, their manes tangled with river weeds. Then there’s the washerwoman at the ford who stands by the water’s edge and washes the grave clothes of those who are about to die. She keens in sorrow for the victim, a harsh, terrible cry.”

“A pleasant tale for children, I must say. I am surprised you ever went near the water.”

“That may have been the point,” Isobel admitted. “But there are nicer spirits as well. Ghille Dhu is a shy and gentle sort. He lives in the forests and his attire is made of moss and leaves.” She paused. “Of course, I’ve also heard he was really a code name for the Pretender.”

“To the throne? You mean James?”

Isobel nodded. “Or his son Prince Charlie. That may have been my aunt’s meaning. She was always more interested in stories of people than ones of spirits. Aunt Elizabeth loved the legends of the family. She was the one who told us all about the Lady of Loch Baille, a guardian spirit who loved the first Baillannan.”

“The house?”

“No. The first laird—the heroic one who did marvelous deeds and battled fearsome creatures.”

“Ah, I see—the fictitious Laird of Baillannan.”

“Such cynicism.” Isobel pulled a face. “There might have been . . . some slight exaggeration.”

“Such as being loved by a magical spirit?”

“She was not a spirit when she fell in love with the Baillannan, just a maiden who lived by the loch and was beautiful and kind and loved by all.”

“Of course.”

“I can see you are not moved by romantic tales.”

“No. I am not a man who believes in love. I find reality more useful than pretty pictures.” He softened his words with a smile. It was a pleasure watching her face as she talked, and the way the breeze from the loch molded her clothes against her body. He did not want her to stop. “But you tell a good story. Go on.”

“The Baillannan was charmed by her, too, so he stayed with her by the loch, but he had a wife, and after a time he returned to her. The maiden fell into a sadness from which she could not recover. Mad with her sorrow, she threw herself into the loch, intending to end her life, and she cried such tears that it turned the water salty, and so it has remained to this day. The earth took pity on her, and though death took her breath, she lived on in the loch, guarding and protecting it and keeping watch over Baillannan.” Isobel paused, then added pragmatically, “Loch Baille is a sea loch, not a freshwater one; at its narrowest point, it connects to the North Sea.”

“A far less romantic reason for its salinity.”

“True,” she sighed.

“Which do you believe? The romantic tale or the reality?”

She cocked her head, considering. “I know Baille is a sea loch, but I also hold the world richer for the story of the maiden’s tears. A person can believe in both, can they not?”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “I have found that fantasy usually tends to overcome reason.”

“On a morning like this, it might.” Isobel smiled and turned her face up to the sky, closing her eyes and soaking in the warmth. The look of sensual enjoyment stirred him, calling up a hunger to see that sensuality deepen. His hand itched to caress her cheek, to trail down her neck and onto her shoulder. He wanted, suddenly and fiercely, to kiss her.

His mouth went dry, and he turned hastily away, startled by the suddenness and intensity of longing that had run through him. He determinedly studied the loch. It was larger than he had assumed, long but rather narrow, and it curved slightly. They stood gazing down at the center of the curve, the widest stretch of water, and before them, some distance from shore, was an island, thick with trees and shrubs. Trees lined the opposite shore, and nestled in them, he caught a glimpse of a cottage, almost completely hidden by the foliage. At the far end of the loch stood a magnificent house, at least three stories high and adorned with turrets and walls, layered down the side of a hill. At the opposite end of the loch, and much closer to them, rose jagged walls of stone, some tumbled down into piles of rubble.

“What is that?”

“Duncally?” Isobel opened her eyes and saw the direction in which he was looking. “Oh. That. The ruins?”

“Yes.” Something magnificent and poignant about the destroyed building pulled at him.

“That is the castle. The original Baillannan. That’s at the sea end, you see, and they needed a fortress to repel invaders. It was abandoned long ago, after the Vikings stopped coming,
and they built a more pleasant house, easier to heat and farther back from the cold winds off the sea.”

Jack’s mouth quirked at the notion of the cold gray-stone house being considered “more pleasant,” but he said only, “It looks as if the castle succumbed to the invaders. I am surprised they let it fall into such ruin.”

“The English taxes on property were based on the number of roofs.” A mischievous smile flashed as she looked up at him. “So they took off the roof when they left a house.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Unfortunately, it makes them deteriorate more rapidly. And over the years, people have taken stones from it to build other things.”

“It looks as if it might house a number of your ghosts and goblins.”

She laughed. “There are ample stories of them, you can be sure.” Isobel pointed toward the imposing house at the other end of the loch. “That’s Duncally, the home of the Earls of Mardoun. They never live there, of course; they are in London or at their English estate. The Mardoun line ended in Susanna, the Countess of Mardoun in her own right. She married an English lord, so it’s her descendant who’s the earl now, and more English than Scots. The present earl and his lady came one summer several years ago, but we never met them. They were not especially interested in the local society.”

“Ah, that sort. I have played cards with more than a few of them.” Jack grinned. “I generally win.”

“I am sure you do.” She turned, pointing to a spot across the loch. “That bit of rock you can see there is the top of the troth stone. The circle is just beyond it, but you cannot see them from here. Duncally looks down on it.”

“The circle?”

“Yes. The standing stones.”

“Like Stonehenge? There is the same sort of place here?”

Isobel nodded. “It isn’t as large a circle, of course, and some of them are missing. The troth stone is smaller than the others and stands a bit apart. There is a hole in it all the way through the rock. A couple who wished to marry would go to the troth stone and stand on either side. Each would put a hand into the hole and clasp the other’s hand, and they would swear to their betrothal. Not many people do it anymore, only some of the families that still cling to the old ways. We can go see it one day if you like.”

“It seems we have a great many sights left to see.” Jack grinned. “Perhaps we should take in that island in the loch, too. Does anyone live there?”

“No one
lives
there. Now, if you want a number of ghosts, that is the place.”

“Indeed. It looks a haunted spot.”

“Laugh all you want, but there are many who swear they’ve seen lights dancing on the island in the dead of the moon and heard strange noises—clanking and sobs and moans.”

“What is the story behind the noises? Jealousy? Murder?”

“There is none I’ve ever heard. No one remembers anyone ever living there. Personally, I suspect it’s simply someone looking for the treasure.”

“Treasure?” Jack’s brows shot up. “There’s also a treasure?”

“Of course.” Isobel’s eyes twinkled. “What would a good legend be without a treasure?”

She turned and sauntered away.

W
ait . . . Miss Rose . . .” Jack started
after Isobel.

Isobel smiled to herself. She had arisen reluctant to face a day spent in the gloom of making plans for departure, and it was a little astonishing to find herself actually enjoying the morning. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed sunshine sparkling on the loch or the beauty of the land . . . or, she had to admit, it might be the company she kept. Whatever the reason, against all logic, her spirits were suddenly floating. She swung back around to face Jack, putting on an expression of bland inquiry. “Yes?”

“You cannot leave it at that.” He caught up with her. “You cannot toss out
treasure
so blithely and stop.”

“I know you do not like such tales,” Isobel reminded him. “I would not want you to think I am being absurd. I thought we might look at more of the estate.”

“I yield, Miss Rose.” His eyes were bright with amusement, and Isobel realized, a little horrified, that her manner
had been perilously close to flirtatious. “You have outwitted me. Yes, by all means, let us see more of the place. But as we walk, I implore you, tell me the tale of the treasure.”

“Well . . .” Isobel paused dramatically. “Many years ago, before the Battle of Culloden, Malcolm Rose—my grandfather, Aunt Elizabeth’s father—was the Laird of Baillannan. He was a powerful man, with a great deal of land as well as gold and silver. He was an equal of the Earl of Mardoun, perhaps held in even higher esteem than the earl.”

“No doubt—after all, Mardoun was English.”

“Exactly. As you might expect, the earl took the side of the English when Prince Charlie raised the Highlanders and marched to London to take the throne for the Pretender. However, Malcolm Rose was a faithful ally to the Bonnie Prince, and he joined the Uprising. Before the prince and his troops moved south, Charles sent Malcolm to France, entrusting him with the task of obtaining money from the French king. It had been promised him, you see, but the French were slow to send the gold. Malcolm sailed to France, and there he beseeched the king every day for money for the rebellion. Finally the king realized that this man was a Scot through and through and would continue to bother him until the day he died, if need be. So he gave the laird a chest filled with gold, and Malcolm sailed for home again. But when he got back to Baillannan—”

“He found that Bonnie Prince Charlie’s army had been crushed at Culloden,” Kensington surmised.

“Exactly. I am impressed at your knowledge of Scottish history.”

“Well, ’tis English history, too,” he pointed out mildly.

“Yes, I suppose it is. So there Malcolm was: he had the
money, but no one knew where the prince was or where he would go. He and his followers were in headlong flight. The story goes that Malcolm hid the gold, meaning to return for it after he had located the prince. Then he went in search of Charlie. And that is the last anyone ever saw of Malcolm Rose.”

“What happened to him?”

“No one knows. Perhaps he was killed by English soldiers or taken prisoner and shipped to England to be hanged or transported to the colonies. There were men who swore they saw him in gaol in Liverpool, and others who were sure they had viewed his bloody body. Who is one to believe? None of the stories ever had any real proof. And . . .” she admitted, “there are many who say he never came back at all. That he stayed in France, hearing of the Scots’ defeat, or that he took the money and sailed for America and lived a long, grand life there.”

“But you don’t believe those versions,” he guessed.

“No. Malcolm Rose would not have run away; he would not have deserted his family or his country and prince.”

“But surely someone saw him when he returned home with the fortune; they could attest to that.”

“That is the problem.” She sighed. “No one saw him except his daughter, and she was just a child. They dismissed her story as a child’s fantasy or something she dreamed.”

“His daughter . . . you mean your aunt?”

“Yes. Aunt Elizabeth.” Isobel stopped and turned to face him, her face stony.

“Um . . . I like your aunt,” he began cautiously. “So pray do not take my meaning wrong, but she seemed last night to be, ah, a trifle uncertain.”

Isobel crossed her arms. “Aunt Elizabeth may be a ‘trifle uncertain’ about some things. Her memory is slipping a bit, I’ll admit, and when she is upset, she is apt to forget more. But she is as sane as you or I. She does not invent stories.” At his raised brows, Isobel said crossly, “Oh, yes, she told me legends and such, but those were different; they weren’t real, and we all knew it. She does not
lie
. The things she forgets are recent events. She is quite clear regarding the past.”