The Last Debutante (15 page)

The children did want to learn an English song. So as the teacher stood by, looking confused and suspicious, Daria taught them one. Not the one about a devilish Scottish sailor who left his love behind, which was the first one to come to mind, but a jaunty tune about maypoles and spring.

The children liked it. They particularly liked dancing around a pretend maypole.

As Daria’s path became more familiar to her, she worked harder in her attempts to curry favor with anyone who might be inclined to help her—maids, footmen. The butler, whose name was Young John, to distinguish him from Old John, who was at least ten years younger than Young John. Young John wasn’t shy about showing his vexation
with her, shooing her away with some cryptic mention that the laird needed this or that, and then speaking more strongly to Duffson in their language. He seemed to take great umbrage when Daria rearranged some vases of hothouse flowers in the great hall one afternoon.

And then there was Geordie Campbell, whose handsome countenance was marred by his perpetual scowl. She’d felt sorry for his muteness and wanted to help him, to be a friend. But he’d made it quite clear that he was determined
not
to be her friend, given the injustice done to his uncle Hamish. Or at least that was Daria’s interpretation of the things he’d scrawled on that wretched slate of his, things that she thought any self-respecting Englishwoman should find insulting. However, she could not be entirely certain, as the man’s spelling bordered on indecipherable.

Daria had found no one who was even remotely inclined to indulge her, save a young deaf boy with an impish smile, who couldn’t hear her when she complained that she’d been unfairly imprisoned. Apparently he was the only one who hadn’t heard about her. His name was Peter, Dougal said, and he’d been the only sunshine in her week. They’d begun communicating slowly using hand signals. Peter’s mother, who had tried very hard to keep from befriending her, began to soften as her son seemed to open up to Daria.

After several days in captivity, as thick clouds rolled in over Dundavie, Daria was delighted to notice Duffson chatting up some girl with a basket of bread braced against her hip. Daria stepped out of sight as he preened for the young girl, then hurried down a narrow mews, looking for someplace to hide before Duffson discovered he’d lost her
in the one moment all week he’d been careless enough to turn his back.

She heard Duffson’s shout a moment later and opened the first door she came to, jumping inside and whirling about to pull the door shut. She stood a moment with her heart racing, listening for any sign that Duffson had found her. But the voices seemed to be moving away.
Good
.

With a sigh of relief, she turned around to see where she was and started. The laird was standing in the middle of the room, in a shaft of gray light from a row of low windows. He was dressed like a gentleman, in a coat of blue superfine and a dark brown waistcoat. His neckcloth was tied to perfection, and his hair was combed back, brushing against his shoulders. He looked fully . . . recovered.

Daria’s heart scudded across her chest, slammed into her ribs, and squeezed the breath from her. She had to remember to smile, and for heaven’s sake, to stop gaping. But how could she? If she hadn’t known what had happened to him, she would never suspect he’d been shot in the last fortnight. The only evidence of it was a cane he gripped in one hand. He looked every inch a lord. Every blessed inch. But an unrefined lord, and that, more than anything, Daria breathlessly realized, was dangerously exciting.

“Miss Babcock,” he said, as if he were expecting her.

“I beg your pardon!” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t know anyone was within.”

“Obviously.”

She noticed then that he was standing between two long wooden benches filled with plants in various stages of growth.

“And why are you here?” he asked. “Seeking an escape, perhaps?”

She laughed. “No, of course not. I was having a bit of fun with Duffson.”

“Who?”

“Duff’s son,” she clarified. “I don’t know his real name, as he has declined to acknowledge he is shadowing me, or even give me his name.”

He nodded as if that somehow made sense. “Why do you feel the need to escape him?” he asked as he moved forward, his cane before him.

“I meant only to . . . to divert myself.” Another inward wince for sounding childish.

“Mmm,” he said, still moving forward with one deliberate step after the other. “You will no’ be surprised that I donna believe you are merely seeking a diversion, will you?”

“My lord! Do you truly think I would attempt to
escape
?”

“Laird,” he said, so close now that she could see the twinkle of the gem on his lapel pin.

“Laird,”
she said with exasperation. “I was not attempting to escape! How could I possibly?”

“I donna think you can,” he said with a shrug. “But I understand you are a frequent visitor to the front gates.”

“Not true! I’ve walked by there a time or two, but only because I am out of my mind with tedium, and I should like to see the village.”

“Is that why you asked the milkmaid how far it is to the main road to Edinburra, then?”

Well. The Campbells didn’t miss a thing, did they?
And she’d thought the girl so kind and trustworthy. “I was curious.”

He smiled wryly. He was now so close that she had to tilt her head back to look up into his hazel eyes, which, she had to admit, were very alluring. “Miss Babcock, did I no’ explain what would happen if you tried to escape Dundavie?” His gaze fell to her mouth.

She wished he wouldn’t look at her like a lion admiring the little lamb he would devour for his supper! Because, Daria was vaguely aware, she would like to be that lamb. Her pulse began to race. “Dogs would tear me limb from limb,” she said, and paused to catch her breath. “Or some such nonsense.”

His gaze lifted to hers. There was a different look in his eyes, a deeply stirring, intent look. “Is that all?”

“No,” she said softly. She looked at his mouth, unable to look anywhere else. “I told you I was not afraid of you.” Though her knees at that moment would indicate otherwise.

He smiled provocatively. “You
should
be afraid of me. I’m no’ a particularly kind man.” He leaned closer, bracing his hand against the door, which, Daria realized, she was flat against. “No’ at all. I take what I want,” he said low, pausing to flick his gaze over her body, “and discard what I donna need.”

Take what you want,
a tiny voice whispered. “Do you mean to intimidate me?”

“No,
leannan
. I think it would be far too difficult to intimidate you. I am telling you who I am and warning you no’ to toy with me.”

He was going to kiss her, Daria thought, her heart racing.
It was outrageous, scandalous, and disrespectful—but God help her, she hoped he
would
kiss her. Kiss her like he had when he was out of his mind. Just . . .
kiss
her. And when she thought he would, she heard the click of the door handle.

He was opening the door at her back. “Go now, before I do something I might regret, aye?” he murmured, his gaze on her mouth.

In a moment of insanity, Daria said, “I want to see my grandmother.”

That earned a smile of surprise from him, and one brow arched above the other. “Will you make demands now?”

“I am worried about her. I believe there is something terribly wrong with her, and I need to see her.”

“You will see her—”

“When?”

“Ach, lass, donna push. You will see her, I give you my word.” He pushed the door slightly open; she felt a slight rush of air on her back.

“And I want to dine with you,” she added recklessly.

His smile deepened. “Now you are being bloody unreasonable. You are the enemy of this Campbell clan.”

“But I am not a prisoner. You assured me I am not.” Daria tried not to think about how badly she desired to touch the stubble on his chin. “Yet I am treated as one, forced to dine alone.”

“You’ll no’ be welcome at our table.”

“I’ve endured many difficult tables, I assure you.”

“Rather confident, you are. Some might even say brazen.”

“I’m not the least bit brazen. But I will own to being rather stubborn.”

He suddenly laughed, the sound of it startlingly warm. His gaze swept down her body as he leaned in. “And what shall I ask in return for granting favors to the clan’s biggest enemy?” he mused. His arm brushed against her waist. He pushed the door open wider and leaned back. “I shall consider your request. Now, go and find Duffson, and for God’s sake, be a good lass.” He put his hand on her elbow and wheeled her about, giving her a gentle push out the door.

When Daria turned back, he was pulling the door shut. “There is your keeper, Miss Babcock. Good day.”

She whirled around, almost colliding with a red-faced Duffson.

I
T WAS THE
pianoforte that swayed Jamie to invite Daria to dine.

Of course he’d thought of that moment in the hothouse. He’d thought of it as he’d lain in bed; thought of her lips, lush and moist, her bewitchingly sunny smile and glittering eyes.

But it was the pianoforte that decided him.

When morning came round, his mind was filled with the usual business and headaches of managing the holdings of Dundavie. His headaches were made worse by the fact that Hamish had been lost again and found several hours after he’d gone missing, wandering about the woods and talking about his friend, an imaginary English earl.

As if that weren’t bad enough, a letter had come from Malcolm Brodie, Isabella’s father. He wrote that in spite of everything that had occurred between their families, wiser heads had prevailed, and they believed now that Isabella
had cried off too quickly. Malcolm wrote that it was Isabella’s wish that he write to propose a reconciliation.

“Then why did she no’ write it?” Jamie asked, tossing it onto his desk.

“We should use the opportunity to negotiate a better dowry, aye?” Duff suggested.

Jamie rubbed his forehead. Duff was right—they had the upper hand now; they could seek better terms. “I’ll think on it.”

Duff cocked a brow. “What is it, lad? Pride?”

Jamie slanted him a look, but he did not answer. He didn’t really know what made him reluctant.

It was as he was debating what to do about Isabella that he’d heard the music. He’d not heard the pianoforte played since his sister, Laurna, had died giving birth to her first child only two years past. Laurna had been the musician in the family. Trained in Paris, she had played beautifully, and the notes that came from her pianoforte would echo up and down the ancient flues of Dundavie like a melody from the beyond.

Laurna’s passing was hard enough on the clan, and on Jamie in particular, as she and Geordie had been his closest confidants. But the injury to his soul was made worse when she took the music with her. Mr. Bristol, who lived down glen, could be pressed to play the fiddle on occasion, but no one knew how to play the pianoforte, and the clan had resorted to singing in a horrible mismatch of keys and tempos.

There was such a dearth of entertainment, of art, in fact, that Robbie and Jamie had debated hiring a clan musician until one of their own could be properly trained.

They all mourned the music.

So when Jamie heard music creeping in through the vents as he worked one morning, for a few mad moments he thought he was hearing Laurna’s ghost. But then the music stopped and started once more, and he knew it was real.

And he knew it was her, the English rose.

He’d walked down the hallway toward the music room, standing just outside to hear her play. Though she was not as talented as Laurna had been, she played well nonetheless, and frankly, it sounded as sweet as anything he’d ever heard.

That was it, then—the thing about her that might appease his family.

Jamie told them that night that he intended to invite her to dine with them.

“With us!” Aileen, Robbie’s wife, said, her brown eyes wide with shock.

“With us,” Jamie confirmed.

Geordie had picked up his slate and scrawled across it,
Donna keep with inimie,
thrusting it at Jamie.

“She is not our enemy. She is collateral for a debt,” Jamie calmly reminded him.

That viewpoint was not held by anyone but him and did not garner any support. Rather, it only served to make everyone more cross. Save Hamish, who seemed quite happy with his meal. “Quite like goose,” he said, even though they were dining on salmon.

But in true Campbell fashion, the rest of them flailed their arms and spoke over each other as they voiced their opinions that Miss Babcock was not suitable to sit at their
table, that her grandmother had treated Hamish so ill that she ought to be drawn and quartered in the bailey—

“What do you mean?” Hamish demanded. “No one’s treated
me
ill. I’m a Campbell, and besides, I’ve no’ left Dundavie in an age!” Forgetting, of course, that he’d been found only a day or two ago wandering about lost in the woods.

The debate continued as port was served: was she or was she not a friend of the Brodie clan, that sorry lot of dung-eating, swill-drinking, grave-robbing cretins who lived on the other side of the hills?

“You all seem to have forgotten that I was only recently engaged to be wed to a Brodie,” Jamie reminded them. “As I recall, you all thought Isabella quite bonny, aye?”

“We’ve no’ forgotten it, Jamie,” Aileen huffed. “But we’ve forgiven it.”

“I would hope so, as our situation is such that she and I might be engaged to be wed again,” he’d said crossly.

Geordie gestured to the pinkish scar across his throat and scribbled,
Tuk me hed.

“Your head is still firmly attached to your shoulders, lad. And the loss of your voice lies with you alone.”

Geordie had taken issue with that, slamming his slate onto the table and scribbling so tragically illegibly that even the butler was moved to try to decipher it as he dripped gravy onto the floor at his feet. Alas, he could not, and Geordie did not seem inclined to scrawl again.