Treasured (30 page)

“Well, now you have met my family.” His tone was light, but no spark of humor was in his eyes.

“Yes. I’m glad. Your mother is very nice.” Isobel crossed
the floor toward him, a host of questions bubbling up inside her. “But why did you not tell me about her?”

“I am sorry that you were caught unprepared,” he said formally. “I would have told you if I had realized that she might take it into her head to visit—or that your brother might put it there.” Now the bite of anger was in his voice. He faced her, resting the tip of the poker on the hearth, though his hand still gripped the handle as if it might run away from him. “I never thought you would meet her, given the sort of marriage we have.”

Isobel was brought up short. Of course. The sort of marriage that was not really a marriage. An experience so fleeting, of so little importance to him, that it did not warrant even telling her about his family. She had thought him guarded, but apparently he was simply uninterested. Her happiness of the past two weeks had been a fool’s dream. She blushed to think of her silly prattling to Meg this afternoon. The only intimacy she and Jack shared was physical.

“I see,” she said, pleased that she managed to sound as calm and detached as he. “Is there anyone else who may have slipped your mind? A father? A brother? Some mad uncle hidden away in an attic somewhere?”

“No.” His voice iced over. “I will have no more inconvenient relatives popping out of the woodwork, I assure you. I will remain the primary embarrassment to your reputation.”

“Don’t.” Fury swept up in Isobel. “Do not act as if I am the one being unreasonable. As if I have treated you or your mother with contempt. It was you who hid his past. You are the one who has lied—and do
not
say it was trivial or that you simply ‘forgot’ you had a mother or that an omission of the truth is not a lie. You
chose
not to tell me about her—or
anything else in your life. You did not want me to know. I am your wife, and you have treated me as if I were a casual acquaintance—or worse, someone who cannot be trusted, even with the merest facts of your existence.”

“Blast it!” He slammed the poker back in its stand with such force that it all went clattering to the floor. “Why do you care? Why is my history so important to you? Will you not rest until you have peered into every nook and cranny of my soul? You know me here and now. Isn’t that enough?”

“No!” Isobel was startled at her own vehemence. She realized that her fists were clenched by her sides, her body rigid, and she willed herself to relax. She took a step backward, saying in a tone devoid of feeling, “It’s not enough. Clearly our marriage was a mistake. All that binds us is that.” She pointed at the bed. “I am nothing but a doxy to you, and Baillannan is the coin in which you pay me.” She whirled and started for the door.

“Isobel . . .”

She paused, but did not turn around. “No. I shall see you at supper.”

Isobel continued through the door.

E
ither Cook was thrilled to
have Andrew home or she wanted to make sure Jack’s mother would not find her skill wanting, for at supper she laid out an array of food such as Isobel rarely saw. If her intent was to impress Mrs. Kensington, she succeeded, for the woman responded rapturously to each course. It was, Isobel was beginning to realize, Millicent Kensington’s response to most things. The trip had been “delightful,” the view “magnificent,” the loch “breathtaking,” Baillannan a “castle.”

“I am pleased you like it here,” Isobel told her, hoping her tone did not reflect the icy emptiness she felt inside. She and Jack had not spoken to one another except for a formal nod and greeting when they had gathered in the anteroom for a drink before supper. If he was distressed by that fact, it was impossible to tell.

“I adore it,” Millicent assured her.

“Mother adores a great many things,” Jack put in.

“Oh, you.” His mother patted his arm, beaming at him. “Jack has always been such a levelheaded boy. He thinks me fanciful, I’m afraid.”

“Then you will enjoy it here. We are quite fanciful in Kinclannoch.” Andrew smiled. “Ah, I see your glass is almost empty. Hamish, pour Mrs. Kensington some more wine.” Jack stirred in his seat at the head of the table, and Andrew glanced at him. “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I spoke out of place—force of habit, I’m afraid.”

“No offense, I assure you,” Jack replied silkily. “However, I suspect that my mother has had her fill of wine.”

“Yes, indeed,” Millicent Kensington agreed, nodding so that her multitude of curls bobbed. “Jack knows I am not accustomed to alcohol. Though this is so good, perhaps I shall just have a little bit more. We were never allowed to drink it in our home; Father was such a strict man. Not like my dear Sutton at all.” She sighed wistfully, then added in explanation, “Jack’s father, you know.”

“Oh. Yes,” Isobel responded. Of course, she did
not
know. She refrained from glancing at Jack.

“I don’t believe I know Sutton.” Sir Andrew took up the conversational slack.

“He is gone,” Jack said flatly.

“Yes. For many years now.” Mrs. Kensington’s voice was threaded with tears, and she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Poor Sutton. Not a day has gone by that I have not felt the loss. I try to take comfort in the fact that he saved that poor child’s life—he snatched him right out from beneath the wheels of the wagon, you see.”

“Oh, my!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

Millicent Kensington nodded. “Yes. But he was not lucky enough to escape himself. His last words, they said, were for me and Jack, but, alas, I was not there to hear them.”

“I am so sorry,” Aunt Elizabeth put in feelingly. “I had no idea.”

“No. Jack does not like to speak of it, naturally. He was barely more than a lad when his father was taken from us.”

Isobel sneaked a glance at Jack. He seemed to be inordinately interested in straightening the chain of his watch.

“It must have been very hard on you, raising a child on your own,” Elizabeth sympathized.

“It was. Indeed it was. But Jack was a tower of strength for me. He always has been.” Mrs. Kensington turned adoring eyes on her son. “He is so like his father. You have only to look at Jack to see Sutton. So tall, so handsome.”

A muscle jumped in Jack’s jaw. “Mother, please.”

“He does not like me to compliment him.” Mrs. Kensington chuckled. “I shall say no more. Except to tell you, Isobel.” She turned toward her in a confiding way. “You doubtless know exactly how I felt the moment I first set eyes on my Sutton.” She heaved a sigh, putting one hand over her heart. “When I saw him on that stage, I knew.”

“The stage?” Andrew asked, his voice amused. “Jack’s father was an actor?”

“One of the greatest that ever trod the boards.” Millicent beamed. “Such a voice. And so elegant. They were performing
Hamlet
when we met. He was Laertes, and I remember thinking that he should have played Hamlet, for he was much better suited to be a prince. We were in the box to the right of the stage, and when he walked over to our side, he
looked out right into my eyes. I knew—right then and there, I was certain that he was the man I would marry. My father was against it, of course.”

“Astonishing,” Andrew murmured, and Isobel shot him a quelling look.

“There was nothing for it but to run away.”

“Naturally,” Andrew agreed.

“My father was set on my marrying one of his clerks. Papa was a solicitor, you see; Arthur Benning was reading for the law under him and he was terribly bright. Papa wanted to make sure I was secure, he said, but all Mr. Benning could talk about was the law and the weather, and I could not love him. When I met Sutton, I knew he was the man I should marry.”

“Just like Weeping Annie,” Aunt Elizabeth said.

“Who?” Andrew looked confused. Jack was stone-faced.

“Weeping Annie,” Isobel repeated. “You remember, Andrew. The tale Auntie used to tell us about the mill.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth nodded. “It was one of Aunt Agnes’s stories, and it could fair gar your grue, I’ll tell you. Annie’s father wanted her to marry the laird, but he was a wicked man, so she ran off with the miller’s son, who was her true love. But it ended badly; the wicked laird cut off the lad’s head and Annie drowned herself there at the mill.”

“Oh, my,” Millicent said, her eyes wide. “She became a ghost, then?”

“Yes, indeed. She walks along the bank at night looking for the poor lad’s head and keening. If you get too close to the wheel, even in daylight, she will pull you into the water and keep you there with her.”

“I suspect, Mother,” Jack commented drily, “that you will enjoy a good many of Miss Rose’s Highland tales.”

“I will! I love a romantic story, even when they end sadly. Well, they so often do.”

“I always thought you told that story just to keep Gregory and me from hanging about the waterwheel,” Andrew said.

Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled. “It is a useful tale, as well.”

“On that note, ladies, I believe it is time we left the gentlemen to their port, don’t you?” Isobel said, not waiting for any replies before she stood.

There was the polite shuffle to stand and pull back the women’s chairs. Isobel cast a perfunctory smile toward her brother and Jack to acknowledge their bows before linking her arm through Mrs. Kensington’s and strolling toward the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack make a movement, and she thought he was about to come forward or speak to her, but he did not. Little as she wanted to face him, that he had not tried added to the spot of soreness deep within her chest.

Jack balefully watched the women exit the room. He wanted to stop Isobel, to pull her back and talk to her, to break through that chilly reserve. But that was impossible with all these people around them. It was impossible, anyway, to put things back the way they were before his mother and Andrew had come blundering in. He had known it would be as soon as his mother stepped into the house. He had just not counted on the ruination happening so quickly.

Like a fool, he had mishandled the situation, as he seemed to do so often with Isobel. His usual poise and ease
in talking—what Isobel called his glibness—had vanished. He hadn’t known what to say to her. It had been all he could do to hold his anger at her brother in check, to appear normal and unruffled despite the disaster he knew was coming.

Looking back on it, he supposed it did not matter what he said. Isobel’s fury was not something he could vanquish with a smile and a kiss. The look on her face had frozen him; her words pierced him through. Why was the woman so bloody determined to know every grimy detail of his life?

Jack swung back around to face the root of his troubles. Andrew was lounging in his chair, pushed back from the table, his legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, at ease in the house where he belonged. Jack waited for the twitch of irritation to subside before he spoke; the heat of anger usually resulted in mistakes.

The silence apparently worked on Andrew, for after a moment he shifted in his chair and offered, “No doubt you are wondering why I came here.”

“Oh, I understand exactly why you are here. I have little doubt that the river Tick was lapping at your door. One can, however, only wonder why you saw fit to drag a middle-aged woman along with you.”

Andrew’s eyes danced. “I could hardly come without bringing a wedding gift, now could I? I knew you must be eager for your mother to meet your new wife . . . and vice versa.”

“You might have shown your sister more consideration by giving her notice of your arrival so that she could have the rooms prepared.”

“I knew Isobel would handle it.” Andrew dismissed the matter with a flick of his wrist. “She is well accustomed to
my fits and starts. Besides, she never allows this house to fall out of order. Isobel loves Baillannan above all else—as I am sure you have discovered.”

“Indeed. It is fortunate someone valued it.” Jack gave his words a sardonic inflection, his eyes steady on the other man’s face.

A faint flush rose in Andrew’s cheeks, and he broke their gaze. “I was certain I was going to win that night.”

“Ah. The gambler’s motto.”