Treasured

by Candace Camp

  The jacket was causing her to be so warm, she told herself, and she started to shrug out of it, but stopped, remembering the way the soft cotton of the nightgown had revealed the curves of her body, barely shading the dark circles of her nipples. Jack’s eyes were already sliding down to the rise and fall of her bosom; it would be pure folly to remove the covering of his jacket. Isobel self-consciously grasped the lapels and pulled them together. He smiled faintly, and the heat in his eyes only deepened at her action. He leaned forward slightly.

  Isobel jerked her arm from his grasp. “What a charming opinion you have of your future wife. I can only wonder that you would consent to marry a woman you consider a trollop. Clearly the idea of our marriage was a mistake.”

  She whirled and started toward the stairs, but Jack grabbed her wrist and spun her back around. Her heart jolted as he seized her arms, his hands clamping firmly around them. “No. I don’t think it was a mistake at all.” Jack pulled her flush against his body, and his mouth came down on hers.

  He pinned her against the wall with his weight, bracing his forearms on either side of her head as he drank her in. She was trapped by his strength, permeated with his heat. And she had never felt so eager, so fierce, so consumed by need.

  Making a low animal noise she did not even recognize, she thrust her body up against him and wrapped her arms around his neck, taking his mouth as fervently as he took hers. Her breasts were pressed into his chest, blossoming with a sweet, harsh ache. She twisted a little against him, delighting in the friction of the cloth across her sensitive nipples, and wishing in a primitive, incoherent way that his jacket were not around her, blocking even closer contact.

  As if Jack had sensed her thoughts, he slipped his hands under the jacket, fingers spreading out over her waist. They moved slowly up her body, coming up at last to cup her breasts and send her heart into a frenzied beat. His mouth left hers and he kissed the curve of her jaw, moving down onto her neck. She would have protested the loss of his lips on hers had they not been igniting bright frissons of pleasure all through her body.

  He murmured her name against her skin, the touch of his breath, his lips, his tongue, all arousing her in a way she had never dreamed possible. His hands slid down over her hips and his fingers clenched in the cloth of her gown, gathering the material and dragging it upward. Air kissed her bare legs, and she shuddered, aware of an ache deep within her, growing, swelling into a hunger so profound and insistent it frightened her. In another moment, she thought, she would be lost, drowning and consumed.

  With a soft cry, she broke away. For an instant she stared at him. His face was flushed, the flesh drawn tautly across his sharp, high cheekbones. He radiated a power barely held in check, his eyes bright and fierce. He held her with his gaze, as tangible as a touch. She wanted to throw herself back into his arms.

  Instead, she turned and fled up the stairs to her room.

  Isobel awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and a deep realization that she had behaved in an appalling manner. After Jack had all but accused her of being a wanton, she had melted in his arms, no doubt confirming his suspicions. She could not imagine what had come over her. Isobel covered her face with her hands, letting out a groan, as she thought about facing Jack again. It would be humiliating. Worse than humiliating.

  How had everything veered so badly from her plan? She had not expected her engagement or marriage to be smooth, but she had imagined an entirely different set of hardships—giving up the hope of falling in love, letting go of the desire to have children, settling herself to the knowledge that she would grow old alone. It had not occurred to her that Jack would infuriate her as he had last night, that he would think such base and untrue things about her, or that she would let him kiss her and fondle her and, well, treat her like the doxy he presumed her to be. Far worse than that, she had enjoyed it. It made her blush to recall how passionately she had kissed him, how her flesh had quivered beneath his caresses.

  Jack would have realized how she had been consumed with lust; he had to, an experienced man such as he. He had been fully aware of how much he tempted and aroused her. And that was the most lowering thought of all.

  She could not bring herself to go down to breakfast and make polite conversation with Jack in front of the servants and her aunt. But she knew she had to deal with the matter. Midmorning, after she had taken her breakfast of tea and toast in her room, she picked up Jack’s jacket, folding it carefully over her arm, and went downstairs in search of him.

  Unfortunately she found him in the library with her aunt. Isobel paused at the doorway, tempted to beat a cowardly retreat, but Elizabeth caught sight of her.

  “Isobel! How are you, dear? I was afraid you might have taken ill when we did not see you at breakfast this morning.”

  “I am fine. I was just . . . I woke rather late.” Isobel steeled herself to look at Jack.

  “Good morning, Isobel,” he said, rising and coming forward. “I trust you had a restful night.” He smiled down at her, his eyes glinting.

  “Yes. I slept quite well.” She set her jaw.

  “I cannot see how you could,” Aunt Elizabeth put in. “The spirits were putting on a show last night.”

  “Excuse me?” Isobel looked at her aunt.

  Elizabeth chuckled. “The lights on the island, dear.”

  “Your aunt and I were discussing the unfortunate souls doomed to a restless afterlife on the island in the loch,” Jack put in.

  “There were noises, as well,” Elizabeth added. “I distinctly heard voices.”

  “Surely not.” Isobel struggled for a light tone. “The island is some distance.”

  “The voices were much closer than that. I was telling Mr. Kensington that the house has its share of ghosts. The laird who built it, you know, was said to have strangled his mistress and walled her up in the cellars as the house was being constructed.”

  “Aunt Elizabeth, you will have Mr. Kensington thinking we are a dastardly lot.”

  “On the contrary. I find the Roses fascinating. Especially the women of the family.”

  Isobel avoided looking at him, carefully picking an infinitesimal bit of lint from the dark blue jacket over her arm. It occurred to her that the coat was much the color of Jack’s eyes, which was a perfectly idiotic thing to be thinking about.

  “I am sure your ancestors were equally interesting, Mr. Kensington,” Elizabeth continued pleasantly.

  “I fear I haven’t the knowledge of my ancestors that you display, ma’am,” Jack responded politely.

  “Oh. Well, then, we must look into them sometime.” Elizabeth brightened, obviously intrigued by the idea. “We can start with what you do know, your parents and grandparents and so forth, and work backward. Local histories are often quite helpful. Where is your family’s home?”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan,” Jack replied. “I will look forward to it. Perhaps after the wedding. I know you are much too busy now with preparations for the ceremony.”

  Isobel noticed that he had not answered her aunt’s question, which was annoyingly typical of the man. But now was not the time to press him about the matter; she had more important things to discuss. “I am sorry to interrupt,” she said politely, turning to Jack, “but I wondered if I might have a word with you, Mr. Kensington.”

  “Of course. Run along.” Aunt Elizabeth beamed at them. “I am sure you two have many things to discuss.”

  No doubt her aunt imagined them exchanging sweet words and loving looks. Elizabeth would have been shocked down to her toes if she had witnessed the scene between them last night.

  “I have not yet seen the ruined castle up close,” Kensington said conversationally as he offered Isobel his arm. “Perhaps we could take a walk there.”

  “Now?” Isobel glanced at him in surprise. She could not imagine why he would want to set out on a long excursion to conduct what would surely be a brief conversation.

  “It seems an excellent time to me.”
>
  “Yes, dear, do take him to the castle,” Aunt Elizabeth chimed in from behind them. “I was showing Mr. Kensington the map of it just the other day. He was quite interested in its history.”

  “He was?” Isobel cast a doubtful glance at Jack.

  “Indeed.” Jack smiled blandly. “Though I fear I am not as excellent a pupil as Miss Rose is a teacher.” He turned his smile toward Aunt Elizabeth, who, predictably, beamed back at him.

  “Very well, the castle it is.” It occurred to Isobel that perhaps he preferred to hold this conversation outdoors, away from the curious ears of servants and her aunt, something she would prefer, as well.

  As they walked to the front door, she held out his jacket, saying awkwardly, “You will want this back. I—uh, thank you for lending it to me.”

  “Perhaps you should wear it on our walk. I am sure it is chilly outside.” He bent his head to her, murmuring, “I thought it looked quite fetching on you.”

  “My cloak will be adequate.” It was most annoying that the mere sound of his voice made her insides begin to melt. She shoved the jacket at him, leaving him little choice but to take it, which he did, albeit with a quirk of his lips that told her he knew he had ruffled her.

  Isobel set a brisk pace toward the castle, considering how best to broach the subject of the evening before. Jack strode along easily beside her, looking around at the landscape, not offering any conversation of his own. She envied him his lack of nerves.

  When their path emerged from the trees, revealing the barren slope crowned by the castle ruins, Isobel stopped and turned to Jack, squaring her shoulders. “I am sure you realize why I wished to speak with you.”

  “Then I fear I must disappoint you.” Jack’s voice was relaxed and maddeningly devoid of the emotion that threaded through hers. “I haven’t any idea. Though I am, of course, quite looking forward to hearing what you have to say.”

  “Our engagement.” Was the man trying to be obtuse? “I am sure you must regret our agreement.”

  “Must I?” His brows rose quizzically.

  “Do you have to make things so difficult?” Isobel snapped.

  “Apparently I do. I haven’t the slightest notion what you’re talking about.”

  “I am talking about last night,” she burst out. “You cannot still wish to marry me.”

  He took a step closer to her, his hand curving around her nape. He ran his thumb along the cord of her neck. “My dear girl, last night only made the arrangement more appealing.”

  Her eyes widened slightly as she took in his meaning, and she jerked away from him. “I did not mean that! Dallying is not marriage.”

  “No doubt you’re right about that. Still, it seems to me that dallying sweetens the bargain.”

  “Why are you being so frivolous? You cannot want to marry someone whom you hold in such . . . such low regard.” To her chagrin, her voice broke on the words, and she whirled, stalking away from him.

  “Low regard!” Jack followed her, taking her arm and planting himself in front of her so that she had to look at him. “I do not hold you in low regard. Quite the opposite. I have the utmost respect for you—your intelligence, your spirit, your love for your aunt, even your mad conviction that you have a duty to save Baillannan and its people.” At her startled expression, he went on, “Are you surprised I realize you aren’t marrying me just for your own survival? That you want to save the estate from being sold to some greedy soul who would toss your crofters off the land?”

  “I—well, yes, I am surprised.”

  “I am not entirely unthinking; you know I have ridden about the estate. I have even spoken to people and sometimes, amazingly, understood the gist of what they said in reply, despite their best efforts to be unintelligible. I know what the crofters think of you. And what they think of the earl and his steward . . . and of me,” he added wryly.

  “Oh. Well.” She raised her chin. “Still, I cannot imagine that you would want a wife whom you considered a wanton.”

  “What? I have never—”

  “You accused me of having an affair with Coll! Clearly you did not think me virtuous.”

  “I did not think about your virtue at all,” he shot back. “What I thought was that I do not want you in another man’s bed.” He stopped, looking a little startled at his own words. He turned aside, moving restlessly a few steps toward the ruins, then back. “Isobel . . . I spoke in haste, and I based my words not on any lack of esteem for you, but on the circumstances. Appearances. However, you made it clear that my suspicions were not true.”

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes. One thing I have acquired over the years is an ability to sniff out a liar, and you are not a liar.” He smiled faintly. “Or, at least, not a very good one. You were hiding something from me last night; I am fairly certain of that. But now I am inclined to believe your deceit had more to do with your aunt’s mysterious lights on the island than with any rendezvous with Munro.”

  Isobel stiffened, alarmed. “I am sure the lights were merely—”

  “No. Please.” He raised a hand. “There is no need for you to rack your imagination for an explanation. I suspect that it is better if I remain blissfully ignorant of whatever happens on that island. What I know, and what I want you to know, is that I do not hold—and never have held—you in ‘low regard.’ ”

  “Oh.” Everything she had expected had been turned upside down, and she was equally relieved and unsettled. Little as she had wanted to face a broken engagement, with all the public embarrassment and personal hardship it would cause, she should not be so elated at Jack Kensington’s words. What he thought of her should not matter, surely. “Then you, ah . . .” She cleared her throat, pulling her gaze from his, and took a step back. “You are still agreeable to our, um, arrangement?”

  “Yes.” He followed her, reaching down to take her hand in his. “I am still . . . most . . . agreeable.” He brought her hand up to his lips, punctuating each word with a soft kiss upon her fingers, her palm, the tender skin inside her wrists. “Unless you have changed your mind, of course.”

  “What?” Isobel looked at him distractedly. She knew he must feel the leap of her pulse beneath his mouth. “No. No, I have not changed my mind.”

  “Good.” He moved even closer, his hands sliding beneath her cloak and onto her waist. He bent so that his mouth was only inches from her ear as he murmured, “For I am looking forward to the wedding with great anticipation.”

  His thumbs circled over her waist in a hypnotic fashion, soothing and stirring, and he pulled her hips slowly forward until she was flush against his lower body. Isobel’s eyes widened and she drew in a sharp breath. He rubbed his cheek against her hair, and his sigh drifted over her ear, prickling her skin.

  Isobel felt herself warming, opening, that strange ache forming between her legs. She remembered the touch of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the warm, faintly musky scent of male and cologne, and her knees turned embarrassingly wobbly. His arms went around her, and he bent toward her.

  No!” Isobel stepped back from him, wrapping her cloak tightly around her though she was not cold, and held it that way, arms clasped at her waist. “It’s—it’s not that sort of marriage.”

  “All marriages are that sort.” His voice was husky, yet tinged with the hint of amusement that seemed always to cling to him. He reached out and ran his thumb along the line of her jaw. “I think you’ll find that is a great deal of what makes a marriage bearable.”

  “Bearable!” She stepped to the side, avoiding his hand. “You have an odd notion of marriage, I must say. I can only wonder that you would agree to marrying at all.”

  “Well, you made an appealing offer—near five hundred miles between us. Distinct and separate lives. Solitude. No tears or recriminations, no arguments, no pleading or justifications. No anger.”

  “I would think one could have all that simply by not marrying.”

  “True, but then one would not have the other benefits you
offered. You do remember those, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. But they did not include . . .” She rolled her hand vaguely, searching for some polite way to phrase it.

  He leaned forward a bit, as if sharing a secret. “The marital bed?”

  “Yes.” How had he managed to get so close to her again? How had she not noticed? “I mean, no. They did not include that.”

  “Pity.” He played with one of her curls. “You seemed to enjoy it last night.” He smiled slowly, a light flaring in his eyes.

  “I—you—surprised me.”

  His smile widened. “Is that what you do when you are surprised? I shall have to startle you more often.”

  Isobel let out a low noise of exasperation, then whipped around and started toward the ruins again, striding swiftly, as though she could outrun the turmoil inside her. Jack fell in beside her without comment, easily keeping up with her. She wished he would go away; she wished she could run from him. Indeed, she wished quite heartily that he was back in London instead of here, igniting all these dangerous feelings.

  Isobel stopped at the edge of the ruins, out of breath. She was not sure whether it was from the brisk uphill walk or her own thoughts. She gestured toward the line of stones sunk into the earth before them.

  “This was the outer wall, obviously. It’s been picked clean for building materials. It ran in an arc around the castle.” She swept her hand, indicated the curve of the line toward the edge where the land dropped away abruptly. “There was no outer wall on those two sides, as it’s a sheer cliff down to the loch on one side or the sea on the other.”

  She started forward, showing him around the partial walls and tumbled heaps of stones, pointing out where the gates had been and where the various outbuildings had lain. They climbed a few stone steps to a wide ledge, gaining a better perspective of the area.

  “This was the front door, and that was the great hall.” Isobel pointed in front of them.

  “Not as large as I would have thought.”

  “No. It was built for war, not comfort. There are none of your grand southern castles here, I’m afraid. We Highlanders tend to be a practical lot, and this was a fortress to guard the entrance to the loch.”