The Last Debutante (12 page)

Daria didn’t answer. She couldn’t find her voice to answer. She was suddenly very uncertain about every blessed thing in her life.

A tiny, almost imperceptible hint of a smile turned up the corner of his mouth, and he turned away, his walk halting, his hand pressed to his side.

Daria watched him; her breath was short, her palms strangely damp.

“Suithad,”
the man with the bushy brows said to her, capturing Daria’s attention again. She glanced up the stairwell, then back toward Jamie Campbell, but he had already disappeared into the dark corridor.

There was nothing to be done but follow this man up, with Robbie and her battered trunk trailing behind her. As they ascended, the stairwell narrowed; the walls were damp and cool. The only light came from narrow rectangular windows. She was reminded of the stories Mamie used to tell her when she was a child, of ghosts who would appear in dark and narrow hallways when there was no possibility that the heroine might escape.

They came to a thick wooden door. The bushy-browed man opened it and walked inside.

The room was surprisingly and pleasingly bright, far nicer than anything Daria had imagined or even hoped for. Three small windows of mullioned glass curved around on one wall, and she realized that they were in one of the four anchoring towers. The man opened one of the windows and a cool breeze swept in, ruffling the embroidered canopy over the bed. The smell of summer came with it—freshly mowed hay, the scent of coming rain. There was a cold hearth, a pair of rugs, and a small table with two chairs, as well as a pair of doors on either side of the room that led, she guessed, to dressing and bathing rooms. Against the wall stood a basin and a vanity—everything a woman might need. Daria was so relieved, she wanted to collapse facedown onto the bed and sob.

Robbie and another man entered behind her carrying her trunk, scraping it against the door frame as they maneuvered it inside. They deposited the trunk in the middle of the room, which Bushy Brows did not care for, as he spoke sharply to them. Robbie apparently didn’t care for his tone, and they exchanged a few heated words before Robbie and his companion picked the trunk up once more and placed it next to the vanity, then huffed out of the room.

That left Daria alone with Bushy Brows.

“A lass comes,” he said cryptically.

“A lass?” she tried, but he apparently wanted no discussion; he was already walking out of the room.

When he’d gone, Daria whirled around, fell to her knees before her trunk, and opened it.

The contents had been jostled and tossed about in their
journey to the ends of the earth, but everything was there and intact. Even her bottles of perfume were still in the wooden box where she’d packed them. Daria began to sort through her clothing—silks and fine muslins that seemed almost frivolous in these hills—shaking them out, frowning at the deep wrinkles that had set into the fabrics after a fortnight in the trunk. They smelled a bit musty, a bit briny, and, she thought with a pang of homesickness, a bit like England.

She had most of the contents spread across the bed when a girl appeared at the threshold. She was a tiny thing and eyed Daria suspiciously, toying with the end of her black braid. Her vest, laced up over a white lawn shirt, looked worn, and her black skirt too short—the tops of her boots were showing. She wore a lace cap that reminded Daria of the old women in Hadley Green who refused to acknowledge that caps had gone out of fashion at the turn of the century.

The girl looked as if she were no more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. She did not speak, but took Daria in, from head to foot.

“Ah . . . good afternoon,” Daria said uncertainly. “Do you speak English?”

The girl gave her a slight roll of her eyes. “Aye.”

Daria folded her arms across her body, feeling rather exposed. “Have you a name?”

“Aye, everyone has a name. Bethia Campbell.”

Good Lord, was everyone in Scotland a bloody Campbell? “Are you . . . have you been sent to attend me?” Daria asked. Surely she’d not been sent to stare so disdainfully at her as she was now.

Bethia snorted and folded her arms across her small, thin body. “
Aye,
obviously I have.”

“It’s not entirely obvious,” Daria muttered. She was appalled; an English maid would never act like this. Still, Daria was grateful for any help. “Would it be possible to have a bath drawn?”

“Course,” Bethia said. “Everything is possible at Dundavie.”

Not
everything
was possible at Dundavie; in particular, her freedom did not seem possible at present.

Bethia yanked on a bellpull three times. She moved to the sideboard and removed the top from a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid.

“What is that?” Daria asked.

“Barley-bree.”

“Barley-bree?”

“Aye. To soothe,” Bethia added tersely.

Daria picked up the decanter and sniffed. Whisky.

“It’s made at Dundavie,” Bethia said, a hint of pride in her voice.

“I might develop a taste for it,” Daria said wryly. She looked at Bethia. The two of them stood there awkwardly a moment. “I’d like these gowns to be hung,” Daria suggested, gesturing to her gowns on the bed.

“Then hang them,” Bethia said.

Daria blinked with surprise. “I thought you were sent to attend me.”

“I’ve been sent, aye. I didna want to come, no’ after what you’ve done, but Duff, he said I should try.” She picked up one of Daria’s chemises from the bed and studied it, running her fingers over the lace.

It had been a long day, a long
week,
and the edges of Daria’s patience were fraying. This was all difficult enough without everyone treating her as if
she’d
done something wrong. After what she’d endured, it infuriated her somewhere in the fog of her exhaustion. “In England, when a maid is assigned to a lady—”

“I’m no English maid,” Bethia said sharply. “And you’re no’ a princess. You canna demand this or that.”

Daria was shocked. “Haven’t you the least bit of empathy for a woman who comes to you, dressed in her
nightclothes
of all things—which, I might point out, are now soaked in blood—with her hair a mess? Are you not the least bit curious as to why that is?” she demanded.

“No,” Bethia said.

“Now you are trying to vex me!” Daria said.

“I donna need to inquire, as I know who you are,” Bethia said with a toss of her head.

“Do you really?” Daria said coolly. “Then just who am I, Bethia?”

“You’re the woman who stole our money from Hamish, that’s who.”

“I didn’t!” Daria cried.

“And you very nearly killed our laird.”

“I did
no
such thing—”

“That’s what is said of you, and everyone at Dundavie knows it now. I suppose you think I ought to take the word of an Englishwoman over that of a Campbell, aye?”

“I think you ought to give me the benefit of the doubt,” Daria said irritably. “I’d do the same for you.”

Bethia shrugged. She looked at Daria’s clothing, strewn
about the bed. She picked up a gown, holding it up with two hands, examining it with a critical eye.

Daria sighed. “If it brings you the slightest bit of comfort, please know that I intend to leave this . . . place,” she said, refraining from calling it a pile of stones, “as soon as possible.”

For some strange reason, Bethia actually chuckled at that. “Oh, you’ll no’ leave, miss.”

“The bloody hell I won’t,” Daria muttered, earning an arched brow of surprise from Bethia. “I will leave here, mark me. Once this matter is settled to Mr. Campbell’s satisfaction, I shall be gone from this godforsaken place and return to the civilization of England, where ladies are not abducted and held for ransom and maids hang gowns.”

“You’ll no’ leave.” Bethia smiled coldly at her. “I’ve the second sight, aye? You’ll no’ leave Dundavie.”

Daria snorted. “If you had second sight, then you would know it was not me who shot Mr. Campbell.”

“Laird.”

“Laird, then.”

“It may as well have been you, aye? It was your family after all. That’s the way it is here.”

Too exhausted to argue, Daria just waved her hand at the girl.

Bethia smoothed one gown, then picked it up and disappeared into the adjoining dressing room. She returned a moment later without it, and Daria hoped that she’d hung it in a wardrobe, and not tossed it into a hearth or out a window.

She was in quite a spot, one worthy of legends, wasn’t
she? It was so fantastic that it bordered on unbelievable. Somehow, someway, she would figure out how she would navigate this predicament. She’d never known anyone quite as difficult as Bethia—

Ah, but she
did
know someone as difficult as Bethia. Mrs. Ogle of Hadley Green could be very obstinate and contrary when she was of a mind—and she was frequently of a mind. Daria had learned how to navigate around women like Mrs. Ogle. She’d learned how to negotiate her way through treacherous ballrooms, too, with people who were far more sophisticated and sly in their loathing of others than this girl. Had Daria met Bethia Campbell in a ballroom . . .

That was it! Daria suddenly realized how she might preserve her head and her sanity. She suddenly sat heavily on a chair. “You’re right, you know,” she said morosely.

Surprised, Bethia looked at her.

“I’ll confess something to you, Bethia. I feel quite lost,” she said plaintively. “I came to Scotland only to see my grandmamma, for I have missed her so.” She looked at Bethia through her lashes and said tearfully, “She is the one who may have taken Mr. Campbell’s money, and I was as shocked to hear it as you all must have been. Can you imagine? My grandmamma!

“But she is no longer the woman I so fondly remember. She is much changed, and oh, how I tried to help her, to shield her from the consequence of what she’d done! But it was no use, of course, for she’d done such a terrible thing—and now I fear there is no return from it.”

She buried her face in her hands and waited, hoping Bethia would soften. But a moment passed, and another,
and still Bethia had not spoken. Daria resisted a long sigh—she would have to try another tack. She had no idea what that might be, but hopefully a bath and clean clothing would help her think.

And then, Bethia said very quietly, “Aye, it must have come as quite a shock.”

Daria nodded and slowly lifted her head. “Quite,” she agreed, and with a weary sigh, she stood and prepared to begin the delicate dance of survival. She moved to the bed, picked up one of her gowns, and carried it to the wardrobe in the dressing room as she began to relate the tale of how she’d come to be in Scotland.

R
ORY
C
AMPBELL
, D
UNDAVIE’S
doctor, had made Jamie drink something far more foul smelling than what the witch had forced on him, and then had put a salve that burned in his open wounds when they were cleaned. Jamie slept the first night with his dogs, Aedus and Anlan, their backs pressed against the full length of him, Anlan’s head resting on his ankle. He slept as soundly as he ever had in his life, his dreams filled with honey-colored hair and golden-brown eyes. Of a quick, bright smile and a quicker frown.

In fact, Jamie slept through most of the next two days, rousing only to eat and to ask a few questions of Duff about matters pertaining to the clan and Dundavie. During one of his waking hours, when he asked Duff if their collateral for ransom was cooperating, Duff frowned down at his large hand. “Aye. She’s put her nose into everything, she has.”

“What do you mean?” Jamie asked as he slurped down his broth.

“Wandering about the bailey, asking questions.”

“About?”

“About?” Duff said, waving his hand. “What they do. Their names, their children’s names.” He shook his head. “Geordie’s been at sixes and sevens since she’s come.” He lifted his gaze to Jamie’s. “She’s attempted to befriend him.”

Jamie paused in the drinking of his broth to peer at Duff.
“Why?”

“ ’Tis indeed a mystery to us all, Laird.”

Jamie had no interest in the mystery, however. He was too focused on his own troubles.

When he awoke the next morning, his dogs were gone. He drank more of the liquid, had more of the salve applied to his wounds, and slept again. He was awakened later by Geordie pacing about his room, his slate in one hand. The moment he noticed Jamie awake, he thrust the slate at him.
She go.

Jamie gingerly eased himself up. “Go where?”

Hel.

“I grant you it’s tempting, but she’s our guarantee against the thousand pounds we’ve lost.”

Geordie’s face darkened. He walked in a circle, dragging his fingers through his dark brown hair before writing on his slate, underscoring it several times over—Jamie had learned to recognize when that was happening—and then thrust the slate at Jamie again.
Vxen.

“Aye, I am well aware how vexing the situation is,” Jamie said. “Avoid her, Geordie. It’s the only way.”

When he awoke the day after that, his stomach was growling fiercely; his head was heavy, but from too much sleep. He sat up and saw Duff sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed, reading.

Jamie looked about, blinking, mentally taking stock. For the first time since being shot, he felt his old self. The pain had receded, and in its place was a dull ache. Dull enough that he wanted out of his infernal bed.

“Back to the land of the living, eh?” Duff said without looking up from his book.

“Aye,” Jamie said. “What the devil has happened to my dogs?”

Duff snorted and closed his books. “Donna concern yourself with them, Laird. Two more traitorous hounds I’ve no’ met.”

“Traitorous?”

“Never mind them. There’s much that needs your attention. Shall I fetch Rory?”

“No,” Jamie said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Bring me Young John,” he said, referring to his butler.

“Aye,” Young John said, appearing from the adjoining dressing room. He held a stack of lawn shirts in his hand.

“Give a hand, then. I want out of this bloody bed.”