Treasured by Candace Camp Read Free Book Online Page A

their form to look human, then disappear when the morning arrives, leaving the woman not knowing who he was.”
    “Sounds very convenient.”
    “A kelpie, though, is an entirely different thing, for they are water horses and they do not change. They lie in the river, their heads barely above water, and if you come too close, they seize you and drag you under. They’re powerful and cruel, black in color, and water streams from their bodies, their manes tangled with river weeds. Then there’s the washerwoman at the ford who stands by the water’s edge and washes the grave clothes of those who are about to die. She keens in sorrow for the victim, a harsh, terrible cry.”
    “A pleasant tale for children, I must say. I am surprised you ever went near the water.”
    “That may have been the point,” Isobel admitted. “But there are nicer spirits as well. Ghille Dhu is a shy and gentle sort. He lives in the forests and his attire is made of moss and leaves.” She paused. “Of course, I’ve also heard he was really a code name for the Pretender.”
    “To the throne? You mean James?”
    Isobel nodded. “Or his son Prince Charlie. That may have been my aunt’s meaning. She was always more interested in stories of people than ones of spirits. Aunt Elizabeth loved the legends of the family. She was the one who told us all about the Lady of Loch Baille, a guardian spirit who loved the first Baillannan.”
    “The house?”
    “No. The first laird—the heroic one who did marvelous deeds and battled fearsome creatures.”
    “Ah, I see—the fictitious Laird of Baillannan.”
    “Such cynicism.” Isobel pulled a face. “There might have been . . . some slight exaggeration.”
    “Such as being loved by a magical spirit?”
    “She was not a spirit when she fell in love with the Baillannan, just a maiden who lived by the loch and was beautiful and kind and loved by all.”
    “Of course.”
    “I can see you are not moved by romantic tales.”
    “No. I am not a man who believes in love. I find reality more useful than pretty pictures.” He softened his words with a smile. It was a pleasure watching her face as she talked, and the way the breeze from the loch molded her clothes against her body. He did not want her to stop. “But you tell a good story. Go on.”
    “The Baillannan was charmed by her, too, so he stayed with her by the loch, but he had a wife, and after a time he returned to her. The maiden fell into a sadness from which she could not recover. Mad with her sorrow, she threw herself into the loch, intending to end her life, and she cried such tears that it turned the water salty, and so it has remained to this day. The earth took pity on her, and though death took her breath, she lived on in the loch, guarding and protecting it and keeping watch over Baillannan.” Isobel paused, then added pragmatically, “Loch Baille is a sea loch, not a freshwater one; at its narrowest point, it connects to the North Sea.”
    “A far less romantic reason for its salinity.”
    “True,” she sighed.
    “Which do you believe? The romantic tale or the reality?”
    She cocked her head, considering. “I know Baille is a sea loch, but I also hold the world richer for the story of the maiden’s tears. A person can believe in both, can they not?”
    “Perhaps.” He shrugged. “I have found that fantasy usually tends to overcome reason.”
    “On a morning like this, it might.” Isobel smiled and turned her face up to the sky, closing her eyes and soaking in the warmth. The look of sensual enjoyment stirred him, calling up a hunger to see that sensuality deepen. His hand itched to caress her cheek, to trail down her neck and onto her shoulder. He wanted, suddenly and fiercely, to kiss her.
    His mouth went dry, and he turned hastily away, startled by the suddenness and intensity of longing that had run through him. He determinedly studied the loch. It was larger than he had assumed, long but rather narrow, and it curved