Treasured

by Candace Camp

  “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.

  Wait . . . 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.”

  “I apologize. I meant no slur on your aunt, I assure you. She is a lovely woman, and I very much enjoyed our conversation.”

  Isobel unbent a little. “I apologize, too. I should not have snapped. It is just that . . . well, some people are unkind. She’s not dottled.”

  “Who would say such a thing about her?”

  “Her cousin, for one.”

  “Well, I don’t know what dottled means exactly, but I am sure he is wrong.”

  Isobel smiled. It was difficult to resist Jack Kensington’s charm. She uncrossed her arms and started forward again. He fell in beside her.

  “Don’t fly up into the boughs,” he said after a moment. “I do not doubt your aunt. But why was she the only one who saw Malcolm Rose? What about his wife? A servant?”

  “I don’t know. That is one of the reasons people didn’t believe her. But Aunt Elizabeth was adamant that her father came into her bedroom in the middle of the night to tell her he was home. He said he was leaving again, but she must not worry; he would be back. She saw him only that once, and late as it was, there would not have been many about to see him. Perhaps my grandmother had reasons for not revealing that her husband returned. What if he had left the treasure with her? She would have needed it in those lean years after the Uprising. Even though they could not find Malcolm and hang him, the Butcher made sure the Roses were punished for their part in the rebellion.”

  “The
butcher?” He frowned in confusion. “What does a butcher have to do with it?”

  “The Duke of Cumberland.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Cumberland’s men took the Roses’ gold and burned the barn and fields, and the king gave a good chunk of their land to the Earl of Mardoun for his loyalty. Many of our men were missing—killed in battle or hanged. So Lady Cordelia, Malcolm’s wife, might well have worried that the English would take the treasure, as well, if they heard of it.”

  “You said that people looked for the treasure. There must have been others who believed your aunt’s story that Malcolm Rose returned. Why else would they be hunting for the money?”

  “I think the possibility of treasure was reason enough. It has not happened often recently. My aunt said when she was young, they frequently stumbled upon people searching the caves or digging holes or poking about the old castle. They seem to particularly suspect it’s on the island. No doubt that was the source of the noises and lights people have seen there.”

  “Why the island?”

  “Because it’s secluded, I suppose. Mysterious.”

  “Have you ever looked for the treasure?”

  “I was never so mad for a treasure hunt as Andrew and Cousin Gregory; they regularly would go about searching for it.” She chuckled. “I remember one summer they dug up Janet’s herb garden. She was livid; I don’t think either of them could sit for a week after that.”

  “Perhaps we should hunt for it. Just tell me where, and I shall roll up my sleeves and start digging.”

  “If it were that easy, I would have found it years ago. Baillannan is always cash strapped. I wouldn’t know where to begin looking. The truth is, I doubt it is here.”

  He raised his brows in mock amazement. “Miss Rose . . . I am shocked. I thought you believed the tale.”

  “I do. I believe the laird returned and left again to join the prince. It’s my opinion he was killed helping the prince escape. There were some, you know, who took on the prince’s clothes and style and went off in other directions, casting a false scent for the soldiers. From all I’ve heard of Malcolm, he was the sort to do that. Whatever he did, whether he found the prince or not, I am sure he died fighting and his body simply went unidentified. But the treasure . . .” She shrugged. “If he did indeed bring gold for the prince, isn’t it likely he took the money with him when he set out after Charlie? He was bringing it to him, after all. Whoever killed him took the treasure.”

  “True. But perhaps he wanted to prevent that very thing from happening, so he left the fortune here. A chest of gold is something of an encumbrance if one is sneaking about the countryside avoiding enemy soldiers.”

  Isobel looked at him askance. “Why, Mr. Kensington, one would almost think you believed the story. Surely you don’t give credence to such romantic tales?”

  “I find that the addition of a fortune to a story heightens my interest.”

  “I can see you are determined to be cynical.” Isobel shrugged. “You are right; my grandfather could have left the fortune behind. But surely in all the years since, someone would have stumbled upon it. There have been a great many searches in a small area.”

  “Perhaps someone found it and carried it off and no one knew.”

  “You don’t know Loch Baille; nothing happens here that everyone does not know about within a day. I think it is far more likely that there never was any treasure. My aunt remembers nothing about a chest or gold, and I don’t believe my grandmother did either, for she would have spent it. I imagine Malcolm wanted badly to rejoin the fight and he grew weary of the French putting him off, so he returned to Scotland without any funds.”

  Isobel did not add how very much she wished the story were true. If only she had Malcolm Rose’s treasure, she could save her home from this Englishman. Her mood suddenly deflated. Whatever was she doing, laughing and talking with the man who was about to force her from her home? How could she even think about folktales and legends when she should be back at the house, preparing to move?

  “But no doubt you have heard enough family stories.” Isobel stepped back and gave him a taut smile. “Would you like to meet some of your crofters now?”

  “My crofters?” He matched her shift in mood, his tone turning formal.

  “The people who live on your lands.”

  “I see. The tenants.” Jack shrugged. “There seems little point, since I have no plans to keep the estate.”

  “You might find that there is more to Baillannan than you assume.” His casual dismissal of everything she held dear stung. “Crofters are not merely tenants. Their families have lived on their crofts as long as anyone can remember. Even though they don’t own their land, they belong to it. They are clan folk, loyal and close to us.”

  “Not to me,” Jack replied mildly.

  “If you gave it a chance—if you talked to the crofters and walked over the lands—you could see the possibilities. You might find you enjoy owning an estate.” She heard the desperation in her voice, but she could not hold it back.

  “My dear Miss Rose, I am not suited for raising crops and sheep. Or for having tenants. I am not cut out to be a landowner.”

  “You cannot know that until you try it.” He started to speak, but she went on in a rush, “You don’t understand. If you sell, Baillannan will fall to someone who knows nothing of the land, cares nothing for it. The new owner will likely decide to raise sheep because they are more profitable, as so many are doing. They will clear out the crofters, turn them out of their homes. These are your people now. You have a duty, a commitment to—”

  “I am not the laird.” His voice was crisp and cool. “I fear you mistake me for a very different sort of man. I don’t know these people or have any feudal duty regarding them. I won a house in a card game. That is what I am. That is what I do. My living lies in London, and the only people I have any affinity for are the denizens of the clubs there.”

  “You mean—that is how you support yourself? You are a cardsharp?”

  “I am no sharp.” His mouth tightened, his deep blue eyes turning wintry. “I do not ensnare flats up from the country. I don’t use fulhams—indeed I don’t play dice at all, for that’s a fool’s game unless you load them. I frequent gambling clubs, not hells, where I match my skills against aristocrats, who generally have more gold than sense. I am no gentleman. And I intend to sell this house.” He stopped, pressing his lips together as if pulling himself up short.

  “I see. Perhaps we should return to the house now. I have preparations to make.” Without waiting for an answer, Isobel whirled and walked away. He stood for a moment, then followed, making no effort to catch up to her.

  Upon arriving home, Isobel launched herself into going through her family’s possessions. She went first to Sir Andrew’s bedroom. It was not the master’s bedroom, where her father had slept, for Andrew had been reluctant to move into it after their father’s death. Opening the door, Isobel glanced around. The shelves, the chests, the bed, all were much unchanged since Andrew had been a lad.

  “I wonder if there is anything from here Andrew would want, that we should ship to him in London.”

  She had spoken her words to Hamish, standing grimly beside the door, but it was her aunt who answered, “What do you mean? Why would you send Andy’s things to London? He would prefer to have them here, I imagine.”

  “Yes, of course,” Isobel agreed. She had done her best to persuade her aunt to stay in the sitting room with her needlework, but Elizabeth had thwarted all her efforts and insisted on helping. “Still, we should clean out the rooms, don’t you think? I am afraid I have let things accumulate sadly.”

  “But not Andrew’s, surely. Really, Isobel, I am not sure it is at all the thing to begin spring cleaning while we have a guest staying with us.”

  Isobel gritted her teeth. She could not tell if her aunt had forgotten they had lost their house or if she was simply ignoring the fact. Whichever it was, Isobel knew that she would be sorry
afterward if she snapped at Elizabeth.

  “Let’s leave Andrew’s room for the moment, then.” Isobel went across the hall to the room that had been her grandmother’s.

  Inside, all the furniture was laid with dustcovers, giving it an odd, almost ghostly appearance. Even after all this time, it still smelled of her perfume. Isobel could not repress a little shiver. She had been in awe of her grandmother, whose small frame had held an indomitable personality.

  “Isobel!” Elizabeth’s voice was shocked. “No. You cannot mean to change Mother’s room.”

  “Aunt Elizabeth . . . it has been years since Grandmother died.”

  “Yes, but . . . it doesn’t seem right to disturb her things.” Elizabeth gazed around the room with an expression so lost it made Isobel’s heart clench in her chest.

  “Of course. We shall leave it the way it is.” Isobel drew her aunt out of the room. “You know . . .” She was suddenly seized by inspiration. “You are right; we are being rude to Mr. Kensington. I must get to work, but it would help me a great deal if you would keep Mr. Kensington company. No doubt he is terribly bored.”

  Elizabeth brightened. “Are you sure? I hate to leave you with all the work. And no doubt he would rather spend time with a pretty young girl than with me.”

  “He enjoyed talking to you very much last night. He told me so. He is probably sick of my company, anyway; we took a long walk this morning. He might enjoy some music; you are a far better pianist than I.” Music was the one thing Elizabeth seemed not to have forgotten at all, and it always soothed her to play.

  “Perhaps I should go downstairs and see. Mozart improves everything.”

  Isobel watched her aunt leave, then returned to her inspection of the rooms. She opened door after door, wondering what she was to do with all this furniture. Most of it would simply have to be left here. She and her aunt would have little space for it wherever they went. Panic clutched at her insides, but Isobel shoved it aside. She could not allow herself to think about the uncertainty of her future. She must stick to the work at hand. Mr. Kensington—