Treasured by Candace Camp Page A

you?”
    “Nothing I cannot handle.” Meg shook her head. “Now, don’t go worrying about me, as well. Truth is, I think MacRae’s a wee bit frightened of me.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
    “With good reason.” Isobel grinned at her friend. “You haven’t told Coll he’s bothered you, have you?”
    “Och, don’t be daft. Of course I haven’t. Enough of your worrying about Coll and me.” She gestured toward the table. “Come. We’ll drink a cup, and you can tell me what brought you here. You didna come for your aunt’s tonic. Coll could have brought you that.” Meg poured the tea and slid a cup over to Isobel.
    “No. I wanted to talk.”
    “Coll told me about the Englishman.” Meg’s face was warm with sympathy.
    Isobel took a sip of tea, letting its heat glide through her. No one else’s tea tasted as good as Meg’s. Isobel had long suspected that Meg must add some delicious herb to it, a mixture handed down to her from her mother (and her mother before that), for it tasted just like Janet’s brew, and it never failed to revive one’s spirits. “Witch’s tea,” she remembered her father calling it, his eyes twinkling.
    “What will you do?” As usual, Meg went right to the heart of the matter.
    “I don’t know. And it is driving me mad. Mr. Kensington is letting us stay there while I get everything in order. Packing Auntie’s possessions and mine are the least of it. There’s the schoolroom with all our old toys and books—I hate to throw them away, but I cannot take those things with me. There is my grandmother’s room, which Elizabeth has always left just as it was. And that barely scratches the surface. The attic is stuffed with old clothes and furniture and who knows what all. No one else would want them, least of all Jack Kensington.”
    “There’s your answer. Just spend the next few years clearing it away,” Meg said, a dimple appearing in her cheek as she grinned at Isobel.
    “I do not think Mr. Kensington’s patience will last long enough for that.” Isobel sighed and sat down again. “He plans to sell Baillannan.”
    “Ah, Izzy . . . I’m sorry.”
    “I suppose it makes no difference whether he leaves it in the hands of an estate agent or someone else buys it and leaves it in the hands of an estate agent. But I feel so . . . I know it will stand empty like the MacKenzie place, and they will bring in more and more sheep and send all the people off. And it won’t be mine anymore.” Tears brimmed in Isobel’s eyes.
    “I know.”
    Isobel knew that Meg did; if anyone understood how she loved every bit of her home—not just the house, but the rocks and the trees, the heather that blanketed the hillsides, the burns and braes, the very earth itself—it would be Meg. The land lived in Meg just as it did in Isobel, perhaps even more so; the Munro women had always been the wise women of the woods, attuned to the earth and its plants and creatures, as far back as anyone could remember.
    “Is there any way I can help you?” Meg asked.
    “Well, Hamish pointed out that the loch could hide a body for a long time.” Isobel gave her a wry look.
    “It is a time-honored Highland tradition.” Meg smiled faintly. “Though I’d suggest something more subtle myself.”
    “I tried to take him to meet some of the crofters, hoping he’d take an interest in the farms and families. But he would not do even that. I had the mad thought that he might return to London and let me manage the estate for him, but when I broached the subject, he assumed I was suggesting that he hire a man to be the estate agent. He would not tryeven that, so I can imagine how well he’d receive the idea of a woman running the place.”
    “You have managed the estate far better than Andrew ever would have. I’d like to see any man do better! No one loves it as much as you or knows it as well.”
    “Yes. But he is too distrustful . . . and too little interested in Baillannan. His decisions