The Last Debutante (22 page)

It certainly had nothing to do with her not sleeping well that night. She tossed and turned, feeling every lump in her mattress. She was disappointed that she had been so caught up in a silly little fantasy. She was far too experienced to have her head turned by a mere kiss. Knowing that Jamie would marry Isabella Brodie was exactly what
she needed to step back and think clearly. She was a captive here. She couldn’t speak the language; no one liked her—
You are a fool!

She had thought herself fairly awake but was startled half out of her wits by someone shaking her in the middle of the night. Daria came up with a cry of alarm until she saw Jamie standing there, holding a candle aloft. Her heart began to beat wildly. Several highly improper thoughts scattered across her mind. “What in heaven are you doing?”

“Get up,” he said, and tossed something on the foot of her bed.

Daria’s skin tingled with foreboding. She looked to the window—it was black as ink out there. “What time is it?”

“It’s four o’clock. Don these clothes and meet me in the foyer, aye?”

He set the candle down on the basin. “I’ll expect you in a quarter of an hour,” he said and walked away, disappearing into the shadows. She heard the door pull shut.

She picked up the first thing she could reach from the items he’d put at the end of the bed: a pair of buckskin pantaloons? What was this? His nocturnal intrusion was scandalous, unacceptable, and possibly even law-breaking in England. Any proper young English debutante would denounce a gentleman who presented himself in such a manner.

But she was not in England. She was in Scotland. And none of the English gentlemen had roused such a heartbeat in her as Jamie had. So she pushed the loose hair from her face, climbed out of bed, and pulled on the pantaloons.

They were short, reaching just above her ankles, and a little snug, but Daria felt delicious wearing them, as if she
were doing something almost indecent. He’d also left her a woolen shirt and a coat, and a pair of boy’s boots. The shirt, which she pulled on over a chemise, was quite long, with far too much fabric to tuck into the pantaloons, so she tied the ends at her waist. The coat almost swallowed her whole, but it was warm and smelled slightly of horses. She braided her hair and pulled on the boots. They were a little large, but they would do. Daria picked up the candelabra and made her way down to the foyer.

Jamie was waiting, his feet braced apart, his hands clasped at his back. He was dressed in the plaid, its end draped over his shirt and shoulders and belted at his waist. Daria was so taken up with his appearance that she scarcely noticed how his gaze raked over
her
. “You did as I asked,” he said approvingly. “I’d thought there’d be some resistance.”

“There was,” she said, and smiled. “You might at least explain why I must parade about as a man.”

He grinned. “There is no’ a person on earth who would ever mistake you for a man,
leannan
. But you canna ride over the hills on an English sidesaddle, aye? The paths are too treacherous; you must ride astride. I thought you’d be more comfortable dressed in this manner.”

Daria perked up. “Over the hills?”

“To call on your wretched grandmother, aye.”

She beamed at him. “I am in your debt, kind sir. But why on earth must we go in the middle of the night?”

“There is something we must do before we visit your grandmamma.”

“What is that?”

“You’ll see soon enough, aye?” He took her by the elbow, steering her outside.

Young John was in the bailey, looking a bit bleary-eyed. He handed Jamie a cloth bundle, and the two of them spoke briefly before Jamie continued on, taking Daria with him. In the bailey it was still quite dark, and only one rush torch had been lit. She could see two horses, one gold, one black. Daria glanced around them. “Where is Duff?”

“Sleeping, I would guess,” Jamie said. “Did they teach you how to sit a horse in England? Or were you pulled about in wee carriages by wee ponies?”

She snorted. “Every proper debutante has riding lessons, I’ll have you know. I am no novice.” That was a bit misleading. She was not a novice, but she was not a very good rider, either. Daria had found her dashing riding instructor to be far more interesting than the horse, but she wasn’t foolish enough to tell Jamie that. She walked up to the light-colored horse and stroked his neck.

She felt Jamie’s hands land on her shoulders. He turned her toward the black horse, giving her a gentle push. “That one,” he said, and went about lashing the cloth bundle to the back of his saddle.

Daria eyed the black horse. He eyed her right back, his nostrils flaring as he caught her scent. He was shorter than English horses, which gave her a tiny bit of confidence. She lifted her leg, trying to reach the stirrup, but it was too high. She debated asking for help—she very much desired to do it herself—but before she could speak, Jamie’s hands grabbed her waist. He lifted her up and set her on the saddle. The horse danced to one side when he felt her weight, and Daria shrieked as she grasped the pommel of the saddle.

“
Uist, leannan,
you’ll wake the dead.” He took the reins, gave them a slight tug, then handed them to Daria and eyed her curiously. “You
can
ride, aye?”

Daria clucked her tongue at him as she took the reins.
“Yes.”

He gave her a charmingly lopsided, blatantly skeptical smile, but returned to his mount. He swung up with ease and took the reins from the stable boy, then gave her a wink. “Are you ready, then?”

No, she was not, particularly as they’d be riding into the dark. “Quite.”

He smiled, then gave a low whistle. On cue, Anlan and Aedus came racing around a corner, as eager as if they’d been waiting for this moment all night.
“Coisich,”
he said, and the dogs put their noses to the ground and began to trot toward the entrance.

As they rode through the gates and onto the winding village road, Daria gripped the reins with all her might, afraid of falling in the dark. Her feet barely reached the stirrups; she couldn’t see more than a few feet by the light of the moon.

Jamie pulled up as they came to the edge of the village. As they moved into the fields beyond, he was somewhere beside Daria, but she dared not look away from the horse or the path. Yet she could feel him near, could hear his horse snorting into the darkness.

“Ease up on the reins,” he said, his voice coming from just behind her. “He canna see where he is going with his nose up in the air, aye?”

Daria gave the reins some slack and could feel the horse relax beneath her. They headed toward the forest, Daria’s
heartbeat rising along with the elevation. The dogs raced ahead, disappearing into the trees. Jamie pushed his horse to a trot, pulling ahead of Daria, and followed the dogs into the forest as if the bloody sun were shining overhead. Daria’s horse undoubtedly feared he would be left behind with her, for he quickened his pace and followed without hesitation.

The forest was as dark as a grave, and she couldn’t make Jamie out. “I can’t see,” she called to him.

“Your horse will follow along,” he said.

It was so still, so quiet. Daria was reminded of some of the things Bethia had said that she’d deemed nonsensical. Now, she couldn’t quite dismiss the tales of faeries and witches roaming about the woods, and a shiver snaked down her spine. She would be more comfortable if she heard Jamie speak. “How is it that your horse can make his way?”

“He has walked along this path many times. He knows where he goes.”

“I suppose the dogs know, too?” she asked into the dark, and got no response. A movement to her left—a rustle of leaves—made her heart skip. She pulled her coat closer about her. “They must be clairvoyant, to see anything in these woods.” Her horse jerked his head, giving it a shake, and Daria gasped. “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked breathlessly as her thoughts began to slip, unguarded, off her tongue. “I knew a girl once who was quite keen to tell ghost tales.”

“I suppose she told one or two that took place in dark woods, aye?”

Daria shivered and looked up at the scrap of sky she could see over the treetops. “Bethia says there are faeries and witches in these woods. I don’t believe in witches and faeries.” At least, she hadn’t before she had come to Scotland. “Do you?”

“I’d no’ be surprised by anything in these woods.”

That gave her no comfort at all. “Dear God,” she muttered. She swore she heard Jamie’s low chuckle.

They moved steadily upward until at last they cleared the trees and the dark shadows. Daria was pleased to see the sky was beginning to pinken; there was a soft glow behind the hills to the east. She saw a crumbling cairn, the sort that popped up around the rural English countryside. Jamie turned west at the cairn and they began to go down. In the distance, Daria could see the glint of a river. As the sun rose, they rode beneath limbs of junipers and firs, past stands of yew so thick she couldn’t see through them. Daria felt foolish for being so fearful. She felt even more foolish for not having appreciated the beauty of the land when she’d first come to Scotland. For finding everything unrefined and coarse by English standards. This was not unrefined or coarse. This was undiluted beauty.

They reached the path that ran parallel to the river. Fresh prints indicated deer had recently wandered through. The dogs had disappeared; she heard Anlan’s bark and guessed that he had chased after a hare. The path bent around an outcropping of rock and when they rounded it, the river was there before them, the sound of it soothing in the morning mist.

At the water’s edge, Jamie leapt off his horse quite agilely for a man shot only a short time ago. He helped Daria down, then slapped the rump of her horse, sending him down to the river’s edge to drink.

Daria took a moment to shake out her legs, which were a bit numb from riding astride. She put her hands on her back to stretch it and looked around her. “It’s indescribably lovely,” she said, lifting her face to the morning sun, which was beginning to break through the veil of mist that blanketed the trees.

“Aye,” Jamie agreed. He walked down a footpath and disappeared into the trees; a moment later, he emerged carrying a fishing pole and a small, enclosed basket.

“What is that?” Daria asked.

“A fishing pole.”

“Yes, but . . . where did you find it? Why do you have it?”

He chuckled as he reached into his pocket and withdrew something that looked like feathers. “Because I am going to fish.” He walked to his horse and opened one of his saddlebags.

“Here? Now?” Daria exclaimed. “But I thought we were going to Mamie’s!”

“
Diah,
we are, in time.” From the bag he withdrew a pair of boot coverings that Daria had seen men in England wear when they went hunting or fishing. He eased himself down onto a rock and put them on as Daria stared at him in disbelief.

He smiled. “You will allow me this pleasure, aye? Duff doesna care for it and has the vexing habit of hurrying me along.”

“What am I to do while you fish?”

“You have a peculiar habit of inquiring what you ought to be about.” He stood up, hoisted the basket over one shoulder, and grinned at her. “Do whatever you like.” With that, he started down to the water’s edge, wading out until he was standing knee-deep. The bottom of his kilt floated around him as he fit the feather on the end of the fishing line. He then unreeled the line and cast it before him in one fluid motion.

Daria sat on a flat rock beside the river and pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, watching as he slowly reeled the line in and cast it again. She scarcely knew a thing about fishing, but he made it look artful. He cast the line as if he were painting, then adjusted his hold of the rod to fit the flow of the river. He looked strong and full of vitality, reeling in one fish, then another, putting them in the basket on his back.

It was a peaceful, blissful morning. Daria could imagine herself here, on this rock, painting or reading. She could imagine sun-filled days watching Jamie fish and feeling the warmth of the rising sun on her face and shoulders.

Then she imagined him here with Isabella sitting on that very rock. A slight shudder of revulsion went through her.
He loves her,
she reminded herself.

She pushed it out of her mind and looked up. There was something magical about the Highlands that she was beginning to appreciate. Not in the way Bethia explained it, but in the sense that it felt good in her soul. Why would anyone leave it if they were born and reared here? “Why are Scotsmen leaving the hills?” she abruptly asked.

Jamie did not take his gaze from the river. “It’s complicated.”

“Contrary to what you and Lady Ann seem to believe, I am not incapable of understanding complicated matters.”

He glanced at her with a smile. “Aye, that I know, lass. Here it is: In the last decades, the Highlanders’ livelihood has been cattle and what few crops we might grow, aye? But times have been hard, so land has been sold to enterprising men who put sheep on the land. Sheep need quite a lot of room for grazing and encroach on the land available to cattle. But it’s more than that: they encroach on the Highland way of living.

“Some lairds have recognized the opportunity for becoming rich, and have forced their people off their lands against their will so that they might profit from the sheep. Englishmen—lords and rich traders—pay for land, too. The old ways are disappearing, along with families. And there are new opportunities in Glasgow and Edinburra and America, opportunities for work that is easier than working the land. Work that feeds a family. So, many Highlanders have taken those opportunities.”

“That’s what is happening with the Campbells?”

He cast his line again. “For some. I’ve done my best to give the clan a livelihood, yet some have sold to Murchison. Most of our people want to stay, and they will if I can find a way to keep them. It is a fact that the less land we have to produce a livelihood, the less we have in our coffers.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “The money your grandmamma took was to ensure there is food on their tables and roofs over their heads for as long as possible.”