The Last Debutante (5 page)

His complaint this day was something about sheep, but his gravelly voice was only a distant noise to Jamie, whose attention had wandered to the tapestry behind Gwain’s head. It had hung there forever, but until now he hadn’t really noticed the pale white unicorn with the flowing mane. Or that it romped in a field of yellow spring flowers. Today, the flowers were moving. They were swaying left and right on a slight breeze that he could feel slip down his body. He could hear the trees rustling overhead, could smell the sweet scent of the flowers.

Something about those flowers stirred Jamie deep within—they were too close, the color of their petals too deep. He turned his head from the tapestry and a sharp pain shot through him. The crack in the leather seemed to have deepened, growing rough as stone on one side. His head was foggy and it seemed as if everything around him was just beneath the surface of water, shadowy figures. He saw something move above him.
A unicorn
. No, not a unicorn.
A woman
. A woman with a long tail of hair that brushed against his cheek. Isabella?
Ah, Issy . . .
He lifted his hand to her nape, stroked her earlobe with his thumb. She smelled sweet, so sweet.
“Leannan,”
he whispered.

Isabella whispered to him, but Jamie couldn’t make out her words. His hand was drifting down, brushing against the swell of her bosom, and he was pleasantly, warmly, reminded of how it was to hold her, to kiss her, to feel her. An overpowering need to fill her now began to pulse in him, and Jamie pulled her down to him, whispering, “
Leannan
,” before he kissed her.

The kiss sent a shiver through him. It was so delicate, so reverent. He shaped his lips around hers, and warmth filled him, sliding out to his limbs, swirling around his wounds. The sensation was so light that it seemed almost a dream, as if he were drifting on a cloud. Maybe this was an angel’s kiss for a dying man.

He felt pressure against his shoulder. She was pushing against him. He felt her knee move against his hand and knock into his side, causing fire to streak down his leg. Jamie groaned and opened his eyes; his gaze was blurred, but he was aware that weak light was filtering in from someplace above him. It slowly began to dawn on him: he was not at Dundavie.

He was in the Sassenach’s cottage.

A small hatch of a window above his head was open to allow a soft breeze and what seemed like morning light. His finger was between the bed and a rough stone wall. Jamie slowly turned his head, saw the vase of wildflowers beside him. He blinked, his vision coming into focus. He moved his head again. The pain was bearable; he glanced down the length of his body and his gaze fell on a young woman.

She was sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed, a plaid around her shoulders. Her knees were tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her shins. And her hair, tied into one long tail, hung over her shoulder.
Honey,
he thought. The color of her hair made him think of warm honey.

He remembered her—he’d seen her before.

She blinked. “Sir?”

Sir?
No one called him sir. They called him laird.

“Are you awake?”

English.
It was coming back to him. He vaguely recalled her standing rigidly, gaping at him. Aye, now he remembered—she’d been staring at his cock. Who was this English female, and why did it suddenly seem as if the Highlands were teeming with them? Was this the woman he’d kissed, or had he dreamed it?

“You’ve been asleep for two days, I think,” she said. “Or rather, two days that I know of.”

Two days?

She inched to the edge of her chair. “Do you speak English?” She stood up, warily coming closer, as if she expected him to suddenly snatch her like a corpse rising from his grave. She glanced nervously at the door and shifted even closer, hesitantly reaching out her hand. Long, elegant fingers. Jamie realized she meant to touch him and reacted unthinkingly, jerking his head away. He instantly felt the throb of pain in the back of his head and was momentarily stunned by it, at which point she pressed the flat of her palm lightly against his forehead.

Jamie grabbed her wrist and pulled her down so that he might see her in the fog that surrounded his brain and his vision. Her face was close to his, a young, beautiful face. His gaze roamed over her features, trying to understand. Deep golden-brown eyes, dark brows, a slender nose, and full lips. “Who are you, kitten?” he asked in Gaelic. “The devil in disguise?” His mouth was dry; he licked his cracked lips. Her gaze fell to his mouth. Jamie tightened his grip, felt the small, slender bones of her wrist, the way she strained against him.

“I think your fever has broken,” she murmured, and
tugged at her arm. Jamie let it go, and she slipped away from him like a whisper of silk. “Thank the Lord for it; I’ve feared for your health.” She knelt down beside the bed, just beyond his reach. Her eyes, Jamie noticed, were only slightly darker than her hair. “Why are you here?” she asked softly. “What happened to you? Who shot you?”

How could she not know who had shot him? Was he not lying in the bed of his enemy? Surely she’d seen his horse—where
was
his horse? If the witch had done something to Niall, he would hang her from the highest wiggen tree—

“I want to help you,” she said earnestly. “But I cannot help you if I don’t know who you are and why someone would shoot you.”

She wasn’t making sense. Where was the old woman? The thought of that old witch made him eager to move. He tested the leg that didn’t burn, moving it under the coverlet. He had one good leg, then. With effort, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, testing his arms.

“No, no, you mustn’t!” the woman said frantically. “My grandmother will be quite upset, for you are too badly wounded—”

The sound of a door closing somewhere in the house made her gasp; she scrambled to her feet as determined footsteps moved down the hall toward them. She cast about the room as if she were seeking a place to hide and looked frantically at him just as the door swung open and the Witch of Clan Brodie entered the room.

“Daria! What in heaven’s name are you doing in here?” she whispered loudly, and then looked at the bed. She was clearly quite surprised to see Jamie propped up on his elbows. “Oh!”

Jamie steadily returned her gaze.

The old woman’s breath hitched. She nervously smoothed the lap of her apron and tried to force a smile. “Has the pain awakened you, sir? I shall fetch some medicine—”

“No,” he said quickly, his voice scratchy and low. He knew her medicine and suspected she’d been trying to kill him with it.

“His fever has broken, Mamie,” the young woman said, her voice hopeful.

“Has it?” The old woman did not sound terribly excited by the news. “Then . . . I should have a look at his wounds.”

“No,”
Jamie growled. He’d fight her if necessary—he wasn’t yet dead.

“I really think I ought,” she said. “We cannot risk them turning septic, can we?”

“No,”
he said again.

“Mamie, he does not want it,” the young woman said pleadingly.

Mary, Queen of Scots, what in blazes was going on here? Jamie looked at the two women. He could see a resemblance: full bottom lips, light brown eyes, and even in the old woman strands of golden hair peeked out from amid the gray.

“I was hoping he would help us determine what has happened to him, but I think he does not have a basic command of the English language,” the young woman said.

Diah.
He had been educated at Oxford. “I understand,” he said gruffly. “I understand everything you’ve said.”

The moment he spoke, Mamie—as the younger woman had referred to the older—seemed on the verge of bursting
with trepidation. He could see it in her eyes, in the set of her mouth and the nervous fluttering of her fingers on one hand.

But the younger one was clearly relieved. “You speak English! Can you help us, then, sir? Can you say who might have shot you?”

“Daria!” Mamie said quickly. “The poor man has only just awakened! He needs a pillow. Let me put a pillow—”

Jamie threw up his hand, stopping her as she took a step toward him. Grimacing, he eased himself up, propping himself against the wall behind his head.

“Oh! Splendid!” the younger one said, clasping her hands together in such an enthusiastic manner that Jamie thought she was restraining herself from applauding outright. “He’s much improved, Mamie!”

“For heaven’s sake, Daria, let the poor soul rest—”

“But if he knows who might have done this, we can help him!”

They were speaking to each other as if he were dumb and could not hear them. Jamie looked at the younger one.
Daria.
He liked that. It sounded lyrical. Independent. She seemed hopeful and earnest, and, he thought in that foggy moment as he took in the thick tail of hair, she truly did not seem to know that this old woman was determined to kill him.

“Do you know who has harmed you?” she asked, stepping closer. Her gaze was on his mouth, as if she expected to see the words as they emerged from his lips. Behind her, the one called Mamie looked as if she might faint.

Jamie could not begin to guess what was happening with these two Englishwomen on Brodie lands. Were they
in bed with the Brodies? But as he could scarcely move, he decided in that moment to play dumb until he could at least stand. “I donna recall,” he said simply.

Daria’s shoulders sagged; she looked entirely deflated. But behind her, Mamie puffed up with relief that her secret was intact. “There, you see?” she said brightly. “We should allow him to rest now—”

“Do you know your name?” Daria asked, ignoring the old woman. She was a determined young thing, which Jamie found a wee bit incongruent with her age and the fact that she was English. He’d always found Englishwomen a bit spineless. They were not the hardy women of the Highlands, to be sure.

At the moment, however, her determined questions were complicating things. He couldn’t think clearly and was fearful of revealing too much before he knew how he might need to defend himself. “No,” he said simply.

Mamie’s breath caught; she quickly turned away, no doubt to hide her great surprise.

“No?” Daria repeated disappointedly. “Not even your given name?”

He merely looked at her.

Daria frowned uncertainly. “You should rest. In the meantime, we will summon the authorities.”

“What?”
Mamie very nearly shouted. “No!”

Daria looked back at the older woman. “Whyever not?” she asked. “Surely someone around here knows him and can vouch for his identity.”

“No!” Mamie said. “Oh no, I cannot think that is a good idea at all!”

“No,” Jamie hoarsely agreed. The last thing he needed
was Brodie men finding him incapacitated before his own men did. They’d make quick work of him after what his brother had done to Cormag.

Daria looked between the two of them. “Why
not
?”

“Suppose he is wanted,” Mamie said. She was rubbing her forehead with her fingers, as if she were trying to tease out her thoughts. “What if he has done something quite wrong?”

“Diabhal,”
Jamie muttered under his breath—
devil
. Aye, she was the devil, this one. Now she would paint the picture as if
he
had done something wrong?

“Him?” Daria asked. “But he’s the one who’s been shot—”

“Yes, but someone obviously had cause to shoot him, don’t you see?”

Daria seemed to consider that.

“I didna deserve to be shot,” Jamie said, his gaze fixed on the old woman.

That drew a curious look from Daria, but Mamie said impatiently, “Daria, you do not understand how things are done here. Scotland is not the least bit like England. People here tend to take matters into their own hands. They don’t live by the strict rule of law as we do.”

What were the Scots, then? A lot of savages gallivanting across the Highlands?

“But if he is a criminal, then should we not bring the authorities to our aid?” Daria asked.

That gave the old woman pause. She swallowed and glanced nervously at Jamie. “Let’s discuss this in another room so the poor man might rest. Come along, Daria,” she said primly, and ushered the younger woman out before her.

Daria reluctantly allowed it, but she was staring at Jamie over her shoulder as she went, her expression skeptical.

Mamie, on the other hand, could scarcely bring herself to look at him at all.

When they’d gone, Jamie moved gingerly, painfully, onto his side. The scent of wildflowers washed over him again; he sighed and closed his eyes.
Duff, for God’s sake, where are you?

Bloody hell, he’d have to break free of this cottage by himself, then. Just wait until the other Campbells heard that he’d been held captive by a grandmother. There’d be no end to it.

With a groan, Jamie forced himself to move his good leg, testing its strength.

H
AD SHE TRULY
left England for this? Daria was accustomed to dining on fine china, at a set hour, in an actual dining room. She was accustomed to spending her days calling on friends and receiving callers, to servants and carriages and footmen and fine linens.

She was most certainly not accustomed to preparing food and sweeping floors and hunting in the woods for “healing plants.” She’d ruined her best shoes and the hems of her gowns, and worse, and no one had brought her trunk up from the road. It had probably been eaten by bears. Or worse.

Neither was she accustomed to being so tenderly kissed by wild, muscular men. The memory of it made her shiver. It had happened so quickly! She couldn’t stop him from pulling her down . . . Well, perhaps she might have stopped him if she’d tried. But his touch was so moving, and his mouth so warm, so soft. She’d felt a
thousand tiny sparks of light flare in her the moment his mouth had met hers.

It was almost as surprising as finding Mamie in the state she had.
What in blazes had happened to her grandmother?
Daria could see no reason for her to remain in Scotland. The standard of living here was agrarian, beneath what Mamie had known all her life. There was no society, nothing to keep her—it made no sense. Daria recalled a sophisticated woman who smelled of lavender and slipped her sweetmeats and told her fantastic stories of princesses and princes. After her husband had died, the widowers in and around Hadley Green had courted Mamie, and she’d seemed happy to entertain their attentions. She’d gone on picnics, she’d dined at important tables, she’d hosted society teas. She had been, to Daria’s young eyes, quite lovely.