The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  Daria blinked. “Ah . . . English, please?”

  One wildly thick, dark brow arched high above the other. “Good morning, then,” he said in heavily accented English. She slowly lowered the linen sheet she was holding and glanced at the cottage again, assessing how quickly she could run inside and bar the door. Where were Mamie and that enormous gun? Daria would very much like to see her with it at present. She thought of screaming, but then worried that Mamie might do something rash and put herself in harm’s way. So Daria stood rooted to the ground, the linen clutched tightly in her hand.

  “Perhaps you might help me, aye? I’m in search of a man who’s gone missing nigh on two days.”

  Daria’s heart suddenly leapt. What if this was the man who had shot the stranger inside? “I cannot help you,” she said quickly. “I am here alone with my grandmother.” She realized the moment she said it that it was not a wise thing to say. If he was a robber, she’d just opened up to him the possibility of robbing this cottage.

  In fact, his gaze narrowed, as if he were assessing the feasibility of it. He shifted slightly in his saddle, the leather creaking and moaning under his weight, and glanced back at the cottage.

  “We cannot help you.”

  He took her in once more, from her braided hair to her soiled hem. “He’s a tall man, the one I want. Long in the hair,” he said, gesturing to his shoulder. “Broad in the chest. Eyes the color of acorns.”

  “No.” Daria shook her head. “No one like that.” She could feel the beat of her heart ratcheting up, making her breathless. She was teetering between confessing he was inside and praying for mercy, and running for her life and praying for deliverance.

  He studied her closely.

  Daria’s heart was nearly pounding out of her chest. This bear of a man could crush her with one of his giant paws, if he were of a mind. “No one but us and the Brodie lads,” she blurted, summoning up the mysterious young men Mamie had referenced. “Three of them.” She smiled. Nervously, uncertainly, but she smiled.

  The man’s jaw clenched. He looked her up and down once more, muttering something in his language. “Aye, then.” He made a clicking sound, and the horse ambled on.

  Paralyzed with fear, Daria stood watching until he’d turned down the path that led to the main road, not daring to run and give herself away until he was gone. Until she realized he would find her trunk on the road. Lord knew what he would believe then. She balled the linen into the basket, picked it up, and fled inside the cottage.

  Mamie was there, waiting. She latched the door behind Daria and gave her a grim look as she wrapped her arms tightly around her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m all right,” Daria said, in spite of her racing heart. “I’ve never seen a man as big as that. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know,” Mamie said, and dropped her arms from around Daria. “Oh, my darling, that must have been such a fright! One must have a care in these Highlands. There are scofflaws and bandits roaming about.”

  Daria’s panic ratcheted up even more.

  “What did he want?”

  “Him!” Daria cried, pointing to the hall. “He was looking for him, Mamie. I told him that we’d seen no one but the Brodie lads.”

  “Which way did he go?” she asked anxiously.

  “Down the path to the main road,” Daria said, gesturing wildly. “Where, I might add, my trunk still sits. I hope it sits there. He will see it, and he will know it belongs to us. He will know something is not right, for who leaves a trunk on the road? And if there are Brodie lads, as you say, why have they not carried it up? What if he comes back, Mamie? What if he is the one who shot him? What if he comes back for him and shoots us?”

  Before they could answer, they were both startled by a shout of the unintelligible language from the back room.

  Mamie quickly dug the bandages out of the basket, pressed them into Daria’s hands, then hurried into the kitchen and picked up a bowl from the table. The bowl contained a dark liquid that smelled like burnt wood. “You’ll have to do it, Daria,” she said gravely.

  “What? What am I to do?”

  “Dress his wounds.”

  Daria gasped. She shoved the bandages back at her grandmother. “Mamie, no! I cannot—”

  “You can, and must! His bandages must be changed and I . . . I agree, I must seek help.”

  “You agree now? You agree to go for help and leave me to change his bandages while a man the size of a beast roams about outside? No, Mamie, I will not!”

  But Mamie wasn’t listening. She had already removed her apron and was reaching for her cloak. “You have argued that I should go to the authorities, and now I am going to go. It is imperative! But we cannot in good conscience leave his wounds to fester—”

  “Don’t leave me alone, Mamie. Please,” Daria pleaded.

  It was too late. Mamie was already at the door. “You’ll do very well, my love. Spread the salve on his wounds and wrap clean bandages about them. Lock the door behind me, Daria, and open it only to me.”

  More shouting from the back made Daria jump what felt like a foot off the ground. “Mamie!”

  Mamie suddenly grabbed Daria’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “Please, for God’s sake, do as I ask! I will be back before nightfall, I swear to you. But we cannot let his wounds fester—he could lose a limb!” She let go of Daria’s hands, picked up the big blunderbuss that was leaning up against the door, and slid the bolt open. “Lock the door,” she warned Daria, and slipped out.

  Daria gaped at the closed door. Her grandmother had just left her alone to clean the wounds of a strange man while another one roamed about outside.

  “The bolt!” she heard her grandmother call.

  Daria scurried forward to slide the bolt and lock the door, then dashed to one of the small windows to look out. Her grandmother was marching toward the path that led to the road, the gun on her shoulder, the dog trotting behind her. “Mad,” Daria muttered. “She’s gone quite mad.”

  The man shouted again, causing Daria to jump again. She tried to breathe deeply to calm her racing heart, but it was no use.

  “Bloody hell, where have you gone?” the man bellowed in English.

  Daria whirled around and looked at the closed bedroom door. All right, then. There was no use crying over it. She squared her shoulders, then picked up the bandages and the bowl.

  How was she to do it? How could she remove the bandages from his naked body, touch his flesh, and then wrap the bandages around him again? It was beyond anything she knew. She was quite happy to be courted and wooed by men, but she realized that she didn’t really know men. Lord Horncastle had kissed her once and left her feeling cold. Mr. Reston, who had come down last summer, had courted her intently and had kissed her more than once, his hands wandering her body in a rather pleasant interlude. But Daria had felt nothing but his arms and shoulders beneath his proper shirt and coat. She had never, in all her life, touched a strange man’s skin. The memory of that stranger’s kiss, that mad, drugged kiss, slipped down her like warm milk.

  Another string of the Scottish language shook her; Daria paused to grab a cleaving knife from the shelf and tucked it up under her arm. Her hands were shaking, she noticed with chagrin. So she drew another breath to steady herself and marched down the hall.

  Six

  JAMIE HAD RALLIED enough that he could feel his fury beginning to strengthen him. He shouted once more in Gaelic, since ladies shouldn’t hear what invective he said, even if they were evil.

  At last he heard footsteps coming down the hall, and he could tell from the delicate tread that it was the younger one. Daria. Seated upright with his back to the stone wall, he watched the door slowly open, creaking loudly on its hinges.

  A head of honey-gold appeared. Her gaze met his, and her eyes widened slightly.

  Jamie did not speak; he could not trust himself to speak civilly.

  “Ahem.” She stepped into the room. Her eyes skated over his bare chest an
d arms and his hair, which had felt matted and rough when he’d touched his head earlier. She was holding a bowl and some rags, both of which shook. And tucked up under one arm was a rather large knife.

  He smirked at that, which seemed to unnerve her; she suddenly moved and put everything down on a small table, then grasped the knife, holding it down by her side, her fingers curling around the hilt. “I have come to change your bandages,” she announced grandly.

  Jamie couldn’t help a small smile or the cock of his brow.

  She lifted her chin. “And I will not tolerate any foolishness.”

  An interesting thing to say, given that he was the one who had suffered all the foolishness in this house.

  She stood as if she were expecting him to agree to her terms, and when he did not, her grip on the knife tightened. “Why do you not speak?”

  Jamie could see every frayed nerve in her, every quiver, every shortened breath. He looked pointedly at her knife, then lifted his gaze to hers again. “Do you fear me, then, lass?” he asked quietly.

  Color began to seep from her cheeks. “It’s rather a big knife,” she said, as if he hadn’t noticed. “Should you not fear me?”

  Foolish chit. If Jamie ever had a daughter—and God help him if he did, for he found females to be the most exasperating and confusing creatures on earth—he would explain in no uncertain terms that if a man wishes to subdue a woman, he will. There is nothing—no knife, no club—that will stop him. Not even a one-legged man with a hole in his side and a wee bit of renewed strength could be stopped from subduing her if necessary.

  “I mean only to change your bandages,” she added, as if he might believe she was accosting him. “The wounds must be kept clean.”

  Jamie shrugged. “Then change them.”

  The chit pressed her lips together and frowned at his bandages. The witch had wrapped them around his torso and his thigh, knotting the ends together. This one would have to crawl onto the bed to change them, since he was sitting up. He could see that she’d worked that out for herself, and he almost chuckled at her expression. An English rose, as fresh as the morning dew, unhinged by the sight of a man. “I’ll no’ bite, if that’s what gives you pause.”

  Her gaze flew up to his; her cheeks were stained an appealing shade of pink.

  “Come, then. Have done before I expire.”

  She drew a breath so great that her shoulders lifted with it. She moved hesitantly to the edge of the bed and stood, clearly expecting him to move, to put his legs over the side and give her room to work. But Jamie was in no mood to help her. To her credit, she did not demand it. She put the knife on a pillow—just beyond his reach but well within hers—then hiked up the hem of her gown to give her a bit of leg room and put one knee on the bed. Then the other. She still wasn’t close enough—she tried to lean over and untie the ends of the cloth, but she couldn’t leverage her body at that distance. She sat back on her heels, her hands on her knees, examining the situation.

  Jamie smiled.

  “Don’t you dare smile at me as if this is some sort of game,” she said, her voice low and full of warning. She shifted closer, studiously avoiding his gaze as she gingerly worked the ends of the bandage free.

  Jamie couldn’t take his eyes from her. Her skin was remarkably smooth, unmarked by the effects of childhood illness or even a single freckle. Her wine-colored lips looked especially full against her pale skin, and Jamie felt a faint stirring deep in his groin. He thought of Isabella, and wondered if he’d ever seen her as clearly as he was seeing this English rose.

  His gaze fixed on her lips. He remembered that hazy kiss, the plump, firm flesh of her lips, the moist warmth against his mouth. She was now biting one of those lips in concentration. He scarcely noticed what she was doing to his body; he only knew that the moment she lifted her gaze to his, triumph shone in her eyes at having untied the bandages. Eyes that, under the right circumstance, could be a man’s undoing.

  The right circumstance. That was laughable, for he wasn’t entirely certain that she wouldn’t try to kill him, too.

  When she saw him looking at her as he was—a man taken with feminine beauty—she froze. Their faces were only inches apart, and her golden-brown eyes—flecked with a silvery blue, he noted—locked on his. “What are you doing here, so far from home?” he murmured, and casually lifted his hand to touch her cheek.

  Her eyes widened. But she didn’t pull away; she held his gaze. “How do you know that I am far from home?”

  “You speak like a Sassenach.”

  Her lashes fluttered uncertainly.

  He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. Smooth. Silk and cream. “And you’re no’ sturdy enough to survive life in the Highlands . . . your knife notwithstanding.”

  Her brows dipped. “I’m sturdy—”

  “No,” Jamie said, shaking his head. “You wish you were in England, with your tea and your feathers—”

  “Feathers?”

  He gestured to her head. “For the hats.” He’d never seen such ridiculous millinery as he had in London.

  The color in her cheeks deepened. “I am sturdy enough, I assure you, if one considers that I came to see my grandmother and discovered that not only has she lost her mind, but there is a strange and completely incapacitated man in her house. And now, I am tending to his wounds. Wounds which he has no memory of receiving,” she added suspiciously. “I rather think no one can fault me for being a bit hesitant, but I assure you, I am sturdy.”

  He gave her a lopsided smile. “Aye, no one can fault an English rose for changing a poor man’s bandages.” He let his hand drop, brazenly brushing her décolletage as he did.

  Her blush deepened and she leaned back on her heels. “Please sit up a bit so that I might . . .” She made a circling gesture with her hand. “Unwrap them.”

  “Why is it you, then, and no’ the old woman to tend me?”

  She did not answer. Jamie did not take his eyes from her as he put his hand on her shoulder. He felt her flinch, heard her sharp intake of breath, and gave her a slight smile as he used her as an anchor to pull up and away from the wall, clenching his jaw against the pain this caused him.

  She had to reach around him to unwind the bandage on his torso, giving him a lovely view of a flawless décolletage and the creamy mounds of flesh that rose out of her bodice. At any other time, in any other place, he would have persuaded her to allow him to touch her breasts, to bury his face in them. Jamie was not unsuccessful in wooing women to do as he pleased. But at that moment, he was far more concerned with personal survival and escaping this bloody cottage, and he contented himself with merely looking. Openly and admiringly.

  “I believe your wounds have impaired your sense of propriety, sir,” she said with a pointed look.

  Jamie smiled. “Perhaps a wee bit,” he conceded. “I heard a man outside, aye?”

  She did not respond except to frown, then leaned into him once more to unwrap the bandage.

  “Who was it, then?”

  “No one.”

  “No one,” he repeated.

  “A passerby,” she said, leaning in to reach around him once more.

  “Aye, and what did the passerby want?” he asked as he breathed in the scent of rosewater.

  She hesitated in her work, then said softly, “You.”

  Duff. Duff had found him, he was certain of it. And if he had, he’d be back, for Duff was the canniest, most perceptive man Jamie had ever known.

  “Are you surprised?” she asked, peeking up at him. “Does it not give you cause for concern?”

  “What concern should I have, lass?”

  “What if he is the man who shot you? What if he would like to finish what he failed to do the first time?”

  Jamie smiled a little. “I suppose, then, that you’d have to protect me from him, aye?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why are you trying to save me now? Why have you no’ summoned someone to come for me?”

  S
he dropped her gaze again. “I don’t rightly know, to be quite honest.” She pulled the bandage completely free of his body, then her face fell. “Dear God.”

  Jamie bent his head to see the wound the old woman had inflicted upon him. He probed it gingerly, wincing in pain.

  She gasped. “Don’t touch it!”

  “It’s no’ as bad as I feared,” he said with some relief. “The lead went through.”

  It hurt like hell, but at least it didn’t burn like fire any longer.

  “Leave it be, please,” she begged, and scooted off the bed, fetching the bowl and the clean bandages. “I am to apply this liberally to your wound,” she said apologetically.

  “What is it?”

  She looked down at the bowl. “I am not certain, in truth. I only know that she scoured the woods looking for the right plants to make the salve.”

  “The right plants,” he scoffed. “There are plants that grow in these hills that are poisonous.”

  “She’s been working very hard to save your life since she found you in the woods.”

  Surely the chit did not believe the old woman had found him in the woods! “I wonder,” he said casually, “how she managed to bring me here.”

  “The Brodie lads helped her,” the English rose said as she dabbed a cloth into the bowl.

  “Ah, of course. One wonders why the Brodie lads have no’ come round to find out why I’ve been shot, aye?” Or to complete the killing the old woman had botched. He could well imagine there would be any number of Brodies queuing to have a go at that.

  Her gaze met his for a moment before she turned her attention to the wound, applying a salve that smelled foul and stung like nettles.

  “Were I your . . . Mamie,” Jamie continued, “I’d seek help. For all she knows, I am the one who shot first, aye?”

  That brought her head up. “Did you?”

  “I donna know,” he said, steadily returning her gaze.

  She flushed, dipped the cloth into the bowl, then dabbed it on the wound. Jamie tensed, his jaw clenched against the burn.

  She put the bowl aside and picked up the new bandage. “It would be helpful if you could remember what happened.”