by Candace Camp
A hunt through the Scottish Highlands for a hidden cache of gold draws in three passionate couples—who discover that love is the greatest treasure of all—in the thrilling new trilogy from New York Times bestselling author
CANDACE CAMP
Secrets of the Loch
Praise for Book Two
Pleasured
“Once again, Camp populates a romance with interesting characters . . . [in this] steamy Scottish historical.”
—Booklist
“Candace Camp never disappoints and only gets better with each story.”
—Single Titles
Praise for Book One
Treasured
“Sweet . . . Entertaining . . . A Highlands version of small-town charm.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Treasured demonstrates Candace Camp’s ability to draw her readers in with strong, well-drawn characters. A legend of hidden treasure, a man who hides behind many façades, and a woman who fights for her birthright form the tapestry of this poignant, sensual, and emotion-packed romance.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)
And praise for Candace Camp’s acclaimed trilogy Legend of St. Dwynwen
The Marrying Season
A Summer Seduction
A Winter Scandal
“Sensuality, intrigue, and Camp’s trademark romantic sparring . . . Delightful.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A charming courtship . . . Readers will be captivated.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Sexy and sweet! Beautifully written, with just the right touch of mystery and a generous helping of a scandalous romance.”
—Coffee Time Romance
Be sure to read Candace Camp’s dazzling Willowmere novels. . . . Critics adore this breathtaking Regency trilogy of the unforgettable Bascombe sisters!
An Affair Without End
“Delightful romantic mystery . . . With clever and witty banter, sharp attention to detail, and utterly likable characters, Camp is at the top of her game.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Sprightly dialogue . . . [and] a simmering sensuality that adds just enough spice to this fast-paced, well-rendered love story.”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)
A Gentleman Always Remembers
“Intensely passionate and sexually charged . . . A well-crafted, delightful read.”
—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“A delightful romp . . . Camp has a way with truly likable characters who become like friends.”
—Romance Junkies
“Where the Bascombe sisters go, things are never dull. Candace Camp delivers another witty, heartwarming, and fast-paced novel.”
—A Romance Review
A Lady Never Tells
“This steamy romp . . . will entertain readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Well-crafted and enchanting.”
—Romantic Times (41/2 stars)
“Superbly written and well paced, A Lady Never Tells thoroughly entertains as it follows the escapades of the Bascombe ‘bouquet’ of Marigold, Rose, Camellia, and Lily in the endeavor to make their way in upper-crust London Society.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“One of those rare finds you don’t want to put down . . . Candace Camp brings a refreshing voice to the romance genre.”
—Winter Haven News Chief
“Filled with humor and charm . . . Fine writing.”
—A Romance Review (4 roses)
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For Barbara and Sharon, the best sisters ever.
Acknowledgments
Thanks once again to the wonderful team at Pocket, especially my super-editor, Abby, whose patience and advice are invaluable through my periods of indecision. Also, I am in awe of the art department and their beautiful cover. You guys knocked it out of the ballpark.
I couldn’t do any of this without Maria Carvainis and her crew at the Maria Carvainis Agency.
Thanks most of all to Pete and Stacy. You’re always there for me.
Prologue
Faye. Mo cuishle.”
Faye heard his voice, soft and insistent, and joy leapt in her. “Malcolm?”
Her mother bent over her bedside, her forehead creased in worry. “What? Faye? Did you say aught?”
“Nae. Nothing.” Tears shimmered in Faye’s golden eyes. She had only imagined his voice. Malcolm was gone. She knew it, had known it deep inside a long time. She would soon be gone as well. “I’m sae tired.”
Nan Munro wiped Faye’s face with a cool rag. “It was a lang, hard birth.”
Birth. “The bairn?”
“Aye, love.” Nan smiled, though tears were in her eyes as well. “She’s a bonny lass. A guid set of lungs, too. Hear her?” Nan cocked her head at the sound of the baby’s cry across the room.
“Aye.” Faye stirred. A sharp pain was between her legs, a soreness all through her abdomen. Her breasts were full and aching. It was nothing like the ache she felt when Malcolm touched her, the yearning for his touch. “It hurts.”
“You lost a lot of blood, lass.” Nan frowned. “The bairn is hungry. You maun feed her. Can you hold her?”
Faye nodded, eagerness and yearning rising in her. “Aye. Gie her to me.”
Her mother laid the baby in the crook of Faye’s arm. A small, red-faced scrap of a thing, wrapped around with a blanket, howled, her feet and hands flailing. Her eyes were scrunched closed, and her chin wobbled piteously. Her hair was plastered wetly to her head.
“She’s beautiful,” Faye whispered, and tears slid from her eyes.
“There, there. Dinna cry, Faye love. She is beautiful. And you maun feed the wee thing.”
Faye bared her breast and lifted the baby to it. The child instinctively nuzzled into her and began to suckle. A wondrous peace and joy twined through Faye. She stroked her finger across the baby’s wondrously soft cheek. Her daughter. Their daughter. But Malcolm would never see her.
“I will name her Janet.”
When the babe fell asleep, satiated, Faye’s mother came to take her. Faye tightened her arms around Janet for an instant, then let her go.
“I’ve made you some broth.”
“Nae, I canna.” Faye turned her head away.
Nan grimaced. “That boy David’s outside, asking to see you.”
“He’s not the one, Ma. Dinna blame Davey.”
“Och, I know that.” Nan stroked a hand over her daughter’s. “Is there anyone you want to see? Is he . . .”
“Nae. He is no’ here; he never will be. Let Davey in.”
Her mother sighed. “He canna stay lang, you ken. You maun rest.”
David came to the side of the bed. His face was drawn, his eyes swimming with tears. He knows, she thought, that I am not here for long.
“Davey.”
“Faye.” His smile was almost as wobbly as the bairn’s chin. “How are you?”
“No’ good.”
“Nae, dinna say that. You’ll be fine. A few days. You’ll see.”
“Will you do something for me?”
“Anything. You know that.”
“Reach here.” She patted the edge of the bed. “Beneath the mattress.”
He looked puzzled but bent down and reached tentatively under the mattress. His face changed. “I found something.” He pulled it out and stared at it. “A book.”
“Aye
, it’s for my bairn. What she needs to know. Take it and gie it tae her when she’s auld enough. Will you do that for me, Davey? Will you keep it safe for me?”
“Aye, of course.” Tears shone in his eyes. “But you willna die. I’ll gie it back when you’re well again.”
“Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”
“Always, Faye.”
After Davey left, she dreamed of Malcolm. He was with her, his big hand wrapped around hers, telling her to be patient. “Soon,” he said. She heard the rumble of his voice in his chest, as she used to when she lay with him. She felt his warmth encircling her.
Then her mother was at the bed again, pulling back the covers to change the folded pad beneath Faye. “You maun stop,” she heard Nan say, her voice shaking. “You canna lose more blood.”
Faye wanted to open her eyes and tell her mother not to cry. It was hard to leave the bairn, but she welcomed the peace.
Later still, her mother put the baby in her arms again, and Janet began to suckle. Faye opened her eyes at the sweet sensation and gazed down at her daughter. The wee thing had red hair. Not her own black nor Malcolm’s blond. No one would guess, and that was good. Her mother took away the bairn, and Faye’s arms were empty without her.
She had no sense of time any longer. Malcolm was there in front of her, smiling. The edges of her vision were growing dark; only he was in the light. Faye wanted to tell him that she had done as he asked. She had hidden what he’d entrusted to her where none could find it save her child, the one who would carry their legacy, their duty.
But of course he already knew. He was waiting for her. Soon the pain would be gone. She would rest in his arms again.
“Malcolm.” Her lips moved, the sound that floated out on her last breath too soft to hear. Mo cuishle.
1
October 20, 1807
The coach lurched through another rut. Violet grabbed the leather strap above her head, hanging on grimly. She was beginning to think this journey through Scotland would never end. She tucked her hands back inside her fur muff, deciding that sliding about on the seat was preferable to frozen fingers.
Thank heavens for the muff, a remnant of her life in her father’s house. After all these years, it was a mite bedraggled, but it still kept her hands toasty. Her practical flannel petticoats and woolen carriage dress were warm as well. She wished she could say the same for her ice-cold feet. It was not that she was unused to difficult weather or rough travel; she had accompanied Lionel to other sites throughout Britain, subjecting herself to every extreme of cold, heat, and rain. But she had not been prepared for how cold it was in late October in the Highlands of Scotland.
Still, she had been right to come early, instead of waiting for spring as Uncle Lionel would have done if he were still alive. Her situation was entirely different now. Violet swallowed hard at the thought of her mentor. She would not cry. Lionel himself would have pointed out that it was ineffective and unnecessary. Her tears would not bring him back, and she must not arrive at her future patron’s home looking woebegone and red-eyed. She had to be firm, strong, and professional if she hoped to convince the earl that she was the person most fit to take her uncle’s place.
It was vital that she seize this opportunity before other antiquarians heard of it. Before the Earl of Mardoun learned of her uncle’s death and offered the ruins to someone he deemed more worthy—in short, to a man.
Violet suppressed a sigh. It was no use thinking of the inequities of life. She was accustomed to the ways of the world. She had long since learned that she must struggle for everything she accomplished. Only Lionel had accepted her abilities.
At a muffled shout, the carriage halted abruptly, sending Violet sliding from her seat and onto the floor of the post chaise. She sat up, a trifle stunned, hearing more voices, followed by a loud crack. Was that a gun? Violet jumped to her feet and flung open the door.
“What in the—” She stopped, her mouth dropping open at the scene before her.
It was dark, for evening fell early here, and the scene was illuminated by only the lantern in the postboy’s trembling hand. The lad was huddled on the lead horse, bundled up against the cold till only his reddened nose and wide, frightened eyes were visible above the woolen scarf. Two men blocked the narrow roadway, facing the post chaise, four others to the side of the road. They were attired in similar bulky clothing, hats pulled low on their heads and thick woolen scarves wrapped around their necks and lower faces, making it almost impossible to discern their features in the poor light. It was easy to see, however, that one of them held a musket trained on the postboy, and two more carried pistols.
Anger surged in Violet. “What do you think you’re doing? Stand aside and let us pass.”
“Och! A wee Sassenach,” one of the men cried gleefully, his words muffled by the scarf.
Between his thick accent and the cloth covering his mouth, Violet could make little sense of what he said, but she understood the word wee well enough, and it added fuel to the fire of her anger.
“Get out of my way.” Violet’s eyes flashed. “I do not think the Earl of Mardoun will be pleased that you detained his guest.” Guest, of course, was stretching the truth since Mardoun had no idea she was coming, but the principle was the same.
“Oooh, the Earl of Mardoun, is it? Noo I’m shaking in my boots.” He laughed, and the men around him joined in. “Throw doon your jewels, lassie, and your purse, too. Then we’ll let you gae on your way . . . if you ask nicely.”
“I haven’t any jewels.” Her chin jutted stubbornly. She had precious little money in her reticule either after paying the expenses of this journey. If she gave it up, she would be utterly penniless.
“What’s those bobs in your ears, then!” He gestured at her with his pistol.
Violet’s hands flew up to her ears, knocking her bonnet back. “My grandmother’s drops! No! Absolutely not.”
The man’s jaw dropped in surprise at her defiance and so did his pistol hand, so that for an instant Violet thought she might have won the day, but then he scowled and started toward her. “Maybe you’re wanting to pay me some ither way.”
Violet knew that her fury and, yes, fear had carried her too far, but though her stomach clenched with dread, she reached back inside the carriage and grabbed her umbrella, turning to face her opponent. Again the man halted in astonishment. One of the men let out a hoot, and everyone laughed.
Her enemy’s face darkened, and he rushed forward. Violet swung with all her might, and the umbrella whacked into the side of his head. He let out a screech and stumbled back. But her umbrella had snapped beneath the blow. Violet had no idea what she would do now. She braced herself.
Suddenly, with a shout, a large man hurtled out of the darkness into the circle of light cast by the postboy’s lantern. He charged straight toward Violet.
Startled, Violet swept down the umbrella as hard as she could, though its being broken rendered the blow feeble. In the next instant, she realized that the newcomer had grabbed not her, but the fellow who had accosted her.
Her apparent rescuer turned to her in astonishment, still holding the front of her attacker’s jacket with one hand, and reached up with the other to yank the umbrella from her hand. “What is the matter with you? I’m trying to help you!” He tossed the umbrella onto the carriage floor behind her and turned back to the man he still held in place with one huge fist. Digging his hands into her attacker’s jacket, he lifted him up so that only his toes touched the ground. “What the bloody hell are you doing, Will?”
For once bereft of words, Violet could only stare at her rescuer. He was a behemoth, towering over everyone else. His wide shoulders owed little to the heavy jacket he wore, and his broad, long-fingered hands held the other man up as if he weighed no more than a child. Seemingly impervious to the elements, he wore no muffler or cap, and his jacket hung open down the front. His thick, tousled hair glowed golden in the light of the lantern.
He shoved the man
he called Will to the other side of the road, saying disgustedly, “Is this what you’ve come to?” He moved his scornful gaze over the row of men. “Preying on travelers like a band of reivers! Robbing innocent women! I’m ashamed to call you Highlanders. Look at her.” He swung his hand toward Violet. “She’s just a wee lassie! Hardly bigger than a child.”
“Wee!” Violet bristled at his description of her.
He swung around and glared. “Aye, wee. And apparently mad as a hatter as well. Canna you see I’m trying to help you? What the devil is your husband thinking, letting you jaunt about the countryside alone at night? The man should have better sense.”
“Let me? Let me?” Violet stiffened. “Fortunately, I am not married, so I need no man’s permission to go where I please and do what I want. I make my own decisions about my life. And I may be ‘wee,’ but I am no child. Just because I’m not . . . a . . . a giant doesn’t mean I’m not capable of taking care of myself.”
He swept his eyes down her in one swift, encompassing glance. At some other time, Violet might have found his strong features handsome, but at the moment, she saw nothing except the scorn in his eyes. His mouth quirked up on one side. “Oh, aye, I can see that you are doing splendidly. No doubt your broken umbrella would hold off any number of men.”
“I don’t need you.” Violet knew her words were untrue, even silly, but she was too angry to be reasonable. Primed as she was for battle and with a lifetime of male belittling to fuel her wrath, this huge, supremely confident man’s dismissal of her sparked her fury. Her hands clenched. She had a strong desire to hit him.
“Do you not?” His eyes widened, something between heat and challenge flashing in them before he drew his brows together in a scowl. “I dinna ken whether you’re blind or silly, but there is only one of you—one small one—and you wouldna have won this fight.”
“I did not ask for your help.”
One of the men chuckled, spurring her aggravation.
“Nae, you dinna,” her rescuer shot back. “And I am beginning to regret offering it. Now would you cease this jabbering and get back in your carriage and let me handle this?” He swung around, effectively dismissing her, and addressed the other men again. “Give up this idiocy before the lot of you wind up with your necks in a noose.” He gestured toward the men blocking the carriage’s way, and they dropped their gazes, shuffling over to the side of the road. “Rob Grant, what would your gran say if she knew you were out frightening young lassies like this?” One of the robbers turned his head away, easing back behind the others. “And Dennis MacLeod. You should be ashamed of yourself. You’ve a wife and bairns at home.”
