The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  Be calm, she anxiously told herself. Be rational. She did the only thing she could do in the circumstance—she lifted her chin and employed the aloofness young women were taught when entering the ballroom for the first time.

  The road curved up to the open gates of the castle, which were held back by thick iron chains. As they neared the gates, Campbell lifted himself off Daria’s back, as if he’d found a renewed strength. He was sitting taller, his grip around her tightening. More shouting brought more people running. As the group rode through the gates people began to emerge from the buildings, all speaking the language Daria could never hope to understand.

  There was quite a lot of commotion as the horses halted in the bailey. Duff shouted, coming off his horse with surprising grace as he pointed to Daria. Two men hurried forward. Before she realized what was happening, one had grabbed her by the waist and pulled her off the horse; the other helped Campbell down. Everyone was talking wildly, their voices rising, crowding in around Campbell until Duff bellowed above them all. In a moment, everyone had quieted.

  He spoke again, his voice calmer but firm. And then, as if the Red Sea had parted once more, all heads swiveled in Daria’s direction. The crowd began to step back, clearing a path to the keep. Campbell, whose face bore the deep etchings of his pain, stepped up beside Daria. “Come then,” he said, his voice low.

  “Come where?” she whimpered.

  He grabbed her wrist in his viselike grip and began to limp toward the keep. When Daria didn’t move right away, Duff gave her a rough nudge that caused her to stumble forward. She glanced uneasily about her at the angry faces, the dark eyes boring through her, and wrapped her robe even more tightly around her. Her hair obscured her vision somewhat, and for that she was thankful. She imagined a sea of angry Scotsmen, all demanding her head.

  Daria considered her options, found them wanting, and moved hesitantly alongside the laird. From the corner of her eye, she saw Robbie and another man dip down and pick up her battered trunk. They fell in behind her.

  A movement to her right startled Daria badly—she expected to be struck—but she released her pent-up breath of anxiety when she realized it was the dog. He nudged her hand with his snout, his tail wagging, before loping off to greet a larger dog with coarse brown fur. They excitedly sniffed about one another as if they were well-known to each other.

  “Walk on,” Duff said.

  Daria put one foot before the other and fixed her gaze on the castle’s keep. Sitting high on the top of the keep was a row of blackbirds, their heads cocked to peer down at her, too. She tamped down the alarm building in her and glanced at her captor. His face was a sickly shade of gray, and when she averted her gaze, she noticed a dark red stain on the plaid at his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

  He did not answer.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked, waiting for the word “dungeon” to drop from his lips. She could picture it—iron bars, a room devoid of light. Rodents. Alarm began to choke her again; she glanced over her shoulder at the unwelcoming crowd—lest they were following with a length of rope for her neck—and noticed, for the first time, the stain of his blood on her clothing, a dark red patch that spread down her side. His blood, soaked into her nightclothes. Given the amount, Campbell’s stride was surprisingly strong.

  As they reached the threshold, Campbell paused to speak to a man with bushy brows that matched the untamed nest of hair on his head. He then forced Daria ahead of him into a narrow passageway. She kept moving until she reached a large entrance hall where a row of windows above the passageway door streamed sunlight in, adding to the light cast by candles in a half dozen wall sconces. On the wall overhead, swords were mounted artistically around elaborate body shields. Interspersed between them were portraits of stately men clad in plaid cloths.

  “Suithad,” said the man with the bushy brows, and pointed to a staircase to Daria’s right that marched up alongside more battle armaments mounted on the wall. She glanced around and saw Campbell walking in the opposite direction, his hand pressed to his side as if to stanch the flow of blood, a pair of men flanking him.

  “Wait!”

  Campbell kept walking. “Campbell, wait,” Daria cried, and pushed past the bushy brows. She heard the laird sigh wearily as he turned, with some effort, back to her.

  Her heart was pounding; she felt nauseated with fear—he was leaving her with men she did not know. “Am I to be held prisoner here?”

  Campbell muttered under his breath. “We are not heathens, Miss Babcock. You are free to roam anywhere you fancy in the confines of Dundavie, aye? But you may no’ leave the curtain walls.”

  Free to roam? This castle was so big, with so many places one might get lost. Or escape . . .

  “And if you think to escape,” he added, startling her, “you willna get far. Do you understand?” He moved toward her, his eyes hard. Daria hadn’t realized she’d stepped back until she bumped into a stone wall. “If you think to escape,” he said, so close now that she could see the hot glint of pain in his eyes, “you’d best hope I find you first.” His gaze drifted down to her mouth. “For if the dogs find you . . .” He shrugged, then slowly lifted his gaze to hers again, pinning her with it. “Do I make myself clear, then, leannan?”

  All eyes turned to her, waiting for her answer. Daria swallowed. “Exceedingly.”

  Satisfied, Campbell looked at Duff and said something in their tongue. Then he turned away.

  “But I think you should know that I am not afraid of you.”

  Why she said it, Daria could not say. The words had fallen from her mouth without thought. Inexplicably, it seemed of the utmost importance to let him know that she’d not given up. He stood quite still for a moment, then turned his head to look at her. His eyes were burning. With fever, with anger, with lust—she was too confused to know. His gaze fell to her mouth once more, and he clenched his jaw—in pain? Or restraint? “Are you certain?” he asked, his voice silky and low, tickling her spine like a feather.

  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 t
o 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.

  Ten

  RORY CAMPBELL, DUNDAVIE’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?”