by Julia London
Jamie stalked out of the room with as small a limp as he could manage.
Eleven
A MOUNTAIN OF paper was waiting for Jamie in his study, as well as a list of clan members who required an audience. In his absence, two more clansmen had sold their parcels of Campbell land to Lord Murchison. Their reasoning, Robbie explained, was that they could no longer make a living on the wee bit of arable land. They were bound, as so many Campbells seemed to be bound these days, for Glasgow. If not there, then Edinburgh. Or America. It was conceivable, Jamie thought morosely, that the once mighty clan might be left with nothing at all.
He worked until his eyes blurred and his leg ached fiercely. He stood to stretch it, cursing it under his breath. It had stiffened on him, and he walked to the window with deliberation, willing the injury to heal, to stop distracting him.
It was a fine day from the look of it, and he cranked open one of the rusty mullioned windows to let fresh air in. He was turning back to his work when the sounds of a very odd laugh and a barking dog caught his attention.
Jamie stilled, listening to the laugh, and turned back, bracing his hands against the cool stone, leaning out the narrow casing to have a look.
He saw the splash of blue muslin in the middle of the bailey, the glint of the sun on honey-gold hair. A boy kicked a ball about the lawn, and Daria chased after it. His dogs were with her, Aedus chasing after the soiled hem of her gown, barking. Anlan, who had left Jamie’s side somewhere between the first and second stack of petitions, was curled up in the shade of the wall, watching passively, his tongue hanging from his muzzle.
Daria kicked the ball back to the lad, but it veered off course. He laughed again, and Jamie realized then who the boy was, for it was the sound of a child who cannot hear himself: Peader Campbell, his cousin’s son, six or seven years of age, born without the ability to hear. In his short life, Peader had been, to Jamie’s mind, shunted off to the side and isolated by his lack of hearing. How had Daria Babcock found him? How had she known how to make the poor lad laugh?
Jamie returned to his desk, the image of her chasing after a ball invading his thoughts. He was grateful that someone had given Peader a wee bit of attention, but what vexed him was that he did not understand her scheme. He had no doubt that befriending the boy gave her some perceived advantage . . . but what? Did she think that by befriending the weak at Dundavie she might somehow sway him to give her freedom? Was she as cunning as that?
Jamie stared at the pages before him, rereading the same words over again. He was surprisingly, and a wee bit alarmingly, plagued with thoughts of a hazy kiss that lived on in his memory, the silky feel of golden hair, of eyes sparkling with ire. He was not thinking of her, his adversary for all intents and purposes, in that way, was he? In the way a man might think of an intriguing woman?
“No,” he said firmly. It was the pain in his leg, the mountain of work before him. It was a moment of procrastination, nothing more. For Jamie was a very practical man. He did not think of foolish English debutantes in that way. Give him a hearty Scottish lass, not some delicate English rose who took issue with the location of Dundavie’s extensive library . . .
Even if he might credit her with saving his life. One could make the argument that had it not been for Miss Babcock’s arrival, the old witch might very well have succeeded in killing him. But that only meant he might one day thank her. When his money was returned to him. Nothing more.
For he was the Laird of Dundavie.
DOUGAL CAMPBELL PROVED no challenge at all for Daria. She’d rather hoped that he might, just for the opportunity to while away a few hours, but when she’d asked him if he was of a mind to marry, he’d said with a shrug and a sigh, “Aye. I suppose I ought.”
“Mr. Campbell! If we all did what we ought, life would be so tedious and dull! What do you think, Duffson?” she called out to the young man lurking outside the smithy’s covered work area. He had shadowed her every move since her arrival. Daria had deduced, given his large build and heavy brow, that he was the son of Duff, sent to guard her. Like his father, he refused to engage in conversation, or even own to the fact that he was following her. So she had named him Duffson, which had at least caused one caterpillar of an eyebrow to rise.
“Well?” she demanded of him, and Duffson ducked his head and moved out of her sight.
“Do you see my point, Mr. Campbell?”
Dougal Campbell, who likewise was as tall as a tree, with a thick crop of auburn hair, rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin, clearly perplexed by her observation. He dusted the soot from his leather apron with his bare hand and examined the small clasp of Daria’s bracelet, which he’d spent the past half hour working to repair.
Daria was seated on a table, where Dougal had made a space by moving aside the tools of his trade. Her feet were crossed at the ankles, swinging over Aedus’s head. The dog had become her regular companion in the past few days, particularly when she was restlessly wandering about.
“Have you anyone in mind to wed?” she asked the blacksmith.
“No one in particular, no, miss.” He peeked up at her shyly. “But I’d like a bonny one, aye?” He handed her the bracelet.
Daria examined it. “Oh, how lovely, Mr. Campbell! You are quite skilled, are you not?”
He smiled sheepishly at her praise. “Mind the spring,” he said anxiously as she donned the bracelet. When she had fastened it, she held out her arm for him to see, earning a big smile from the man.
“Thank you, Mr. Campbell. Now then, to you—a bonny wife is all you desire? Shouldn’t you like someone who shares your interests, as well?”
“Aye,” he said, nodding. “But me mum, she saw a faerie when I was born.”
Daria blinked. “I fail to see the significance of . . . that.”
“That means I shall marry a fair woman.”
“Mr. Campbell, there is far too much credence given to superstitions and faeries here. There are really no such things as faeries—”
“Ach, lass, there are,” he said gruffly.
“Well. Perhaps,” Daria said, a tad bit dismissively, as she admired her bracelet. “But can we not agree that whether or not your mother saw a faerie has no bearing on which young lady you might like to extend an offer of marriage to?”
“But it does matter. She ought to be bonny, aye?”
Daria sighed to the exposed rafters. “Very well. Tell me who you think is bonny.”
He’d named three young women, all of whom worked within the walls of Dundavie. Daria then set out with Aedus beside her and Duffson trailing behind to pay them each a short visit. Anlan preferred to remain behind and nap in the shade of a cart full of hay.
After introducing herself to the first two—although Daria had already learned that she needed no introduction, as she was notoriously known as “the Ransom”—she learned that both young women had understandings with other gentlemen.
That left Catriona Campbell. Catriona was a kitchen maid, and she bustled about preparing the midday meal as Daria presented the possibility of Dougal as a husband.
“Dougal Campbell, the blacksmith?” Catriona asked, as she chopped onion with rapid-fire precision.
“Yes, him.”
She shrugged. “I suppose he’ll do as good as any, won’t he?”
Daria reached across the scarred wooden table and helped herself to a muffin. The cook had cheerfully pointed them out to her after Daria had cheerfully fawned over her bannock cakes. “Miss Campbell!” Daria cried through a bite of muffin, and quickly swallowed. “Is that how you will choose the man with whom you will spend the rest of your life? Wouldn’t you at least like to know a little something about him? Aren’t you even curious whether you have anything in common with this man?”
“I’ve something in common with him, aye, miss. We’re both Campbells. One will do as well as the next.”
“These muffins are divine,” Daria said. “I shall leave Dundavie as fat as a pig. As for you, Miss Campbell, that is p
ositively uncivilized. In England, we engage in a period of courting so we might determine compatibility between a man and a woman. A lifetime is a very long time if one is not compatible with one’s husband.”
“Must have a lot of time for sitting about, then,” Catriona said. “In Scotland, we’ve too much work to be done to determine . . . what was it you said, then?”
“Compatibility.”
“Compatibility.”
“Interesting perspective,” Daria said with a slight shrug. “Well then, it seems that my task here is done. I shall relay to Mr. Campbell that you would welcome his offer, and he may thank the laird for it. Will that suit?”
Catriona smiled. “Suits me well enough, aye.”
“Just remember,” Daria said as she slid off the stool where she was seated, half a muffin between her fingers, “you’ve no one to blame but yourself if he proves an unfit husband. I have no reason to believe he will be, as he seems rather amiable, but one never knows, does one?”
“I donna rightly know, miss,” Catriona said distractedly as she dug through a barrel of potatoes.
As her one task was completed, Daria continued wandering about Dundavie. If she ventured too close to the gates, Duffson wordlessly shepherded her back into the bailey, ignoring her argument that it was preposterous to think that she might run into the woods in a gown and slippers, and besides, there was an entire village of Campbells waiting to tackle her if she tried to do so.
It was preposterous. What would she do if she managed to escape the walls and the village? Wander the woods? No, her escape would have to be more ingenious than that. She would have to persuade someone to aid her. The only problem with that idea was that the Campbells were an unreasonably close and wordless lot. She never knew what they were thinking!
Her attempts to see the laird were expertly thwarted by Duff. “He’s got the business of the clan,” he said brusquely when she asked why she couldn’t speak to him.
“But my grandmother is undoubtedly sick with worry. And I should very much like to know if my letters were delivered to Edinburgh and my grandmother’s house.”
“Aye, they were.”
“Did you speak with my grandmother? Is she well?”
“I did no’ take it, lass. But your grandmamma is fine. The letter was delivered two days past and tacked to her door.”
“Tacked to her door! Why did you not just hand it to her?”
“Because she wasna within, lass,” Duff said impatiently. “But the letter was delivered, aye?”
Daria didn’t know what more to say, so she continued on. She walked the small rose garden, visited a schoolroom where a few children were learning their Gaelic letters and clearly understood when the instructor pointed out who she was, since the five students all turned their little heads and stared at her as if she were the devil himself.
“That’s right,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m English. Would you like to learn an English song?”
The children did want to learn an English song. So as the teacher stood by, looking confused and suspicious, Daria taught them one. Not the one about a devilish Scottish sailor who left his love behind, which was the first one to come to mind, but a jaunty tune about maypoles and spring.
The children liked it. They particularly liked dancing around a pretend maypole.
As Daria’s path became more familiar to her, she worked harder in her attempts to curry favor with anyone who might be inclined to help her—maids, footmen. The butler, whose name was Young John, to distinguish him from Old John, who was at least ten years younger than Young John. Young John wasn’t shy about showing his vexation with her, shooing her away with some cryptic mention that the laird needed this or that, and then speaking more strongly to Duffson in their language. He seemed to take great umbrage when Daria rearranged some vases of hothouse flowers in the great hall one afternoon.
And then there was Geordie Campbell, whose handsome countenance was marred by his perpetual scowl. She’d felt sorry for his muteness and wanted to help him, to be a friend. But he’d made it quite clear that he was determined not to be her friend, given the injustice done to his uncle Hamish. Or at least that was Daria’s interpretation of the things he’d scrawled on that wretched slate of his, things that she thought any self-respecting Englishwoman should find insulting. However, she could not be entirely certain, as the man’s spelling bordered on indecipherable.
Daria had found no one who was even remotely inclined to indulge her, save a young deaf boy with an impish smile, who couldn’t hear her when she complained that she’d been unfairly imprisoned. Apparently he was the only one who hadn’t heard about her. His name was Peter, Dougal said, and he’d been the only sunshine in her week. They’d begun communicating slowly using hand signals. Peter’s mother, who had tried very hard to keep from befriending her, began to soften as her son seemed to open up to Daria.
After several days in captivity, as thick clouds rolled in over Dundavie, Daria was delighted to notice Duffson chatting up some girl with a basket of bread braced against her hip. Daria stepped out of sight as he preened for the young girl, then hurried down a narrow mews, looking for someplace to hide before Duffson discovered he’d lost her in the one moment all week he’d been careless enough to turn his back.
She heard Duffson’s shout a moment later and opened the first door she came to, jumping inside and whirling about to pull the door shut. She stood a moment with her heart racing, listening for any sign that Duffson had found her. But the voices seemed to be moving away. Good.
With a sigh of relief, she turned around to see where she was and started. The laird was standing in the middle of the room, in a shaft of gray light from a row of low windows. He was dressed like a gentleman, in a coat of blue superfine and a dark brown waistcoat. His neckcloth was tied to perfection, and his hair was combed back, brushing against his shoulders. He looked fully . . . recovered.
Daria’s heart scudded across her chest, slammed into her ribs, and squeezed the breath from her. She had to remember to smile, and for heaven’s sake, to stop gaping. But how could she? If she hadn’t known what had happened to him, she would never suspect he’d been shot in the last fortnight. The only evidence of it was a cane he gripped in one hand. He looked every inch a lord. Every blessed inch. But an unrefined lord, and that, more than anything, Daria breathlessly realized, was dangerously exciting.
“Miss Babcock,” he said, as if he were expecting her.
“I beg your pardon!” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t know anyone was within.”
“Obviously.”
She noticed then that he was standing between two long wooden benches filled with plants in various stages of growth.
“And why are you here?” he asked. “Seeking an escape, perhaps?”
She laughed. “No, of course not. I was having a bit of fun with Duffson.”
“Who?”
“Duff’s son,” she clarified. “I don’t know his real name, as he has declined to acknowledge he is shadowing me, or even give me his name.”
He nodded as if that somehow made sense. “Why do you feel the need to escape him?” he asked as he moved forward, his cane before him.
“I meant only to . . . to divert myself.” Another inward wince for sounding childish.
“Mmm,” he said, still moving forward with one deliberate step after the other. “You will no’ be surprised that I donna believe you are merely seeking a diversion, will you?”
“My lord! Do you truly think I would attempt to escape?”
“Laird,” he said, so close now that she could see the twinkle of the gem on his lapel pin.
“Laird,” she said with exasperation. “I was not attempting to escape! How could I possibly?”
“I donna think you can,” he said with a shrug. “But I understand you are a frequent visitor to the front gates.”
“Not true! I’ve walked by there a time or two, but only because I am out of my mind with tedium, and I should like
to see the village.”
“Is that why you asked the milkmaid how far it is to the main road to Edinburra, then?”
Well. The Campbells didn’t miss a thing, did they? And she’d thought the girl so kind and trustworthy. “I was curious.”
He smiled wryly. He was now so close that she had to tilt her head back to look up into his hazel eyes, which, she had to admit, were very alluring. “Miss Babcock, did I no’ explain what would happen if you tried to escape Dundavie?” His gaze fell to her mouth.
She wished he wouldn’t look at her like a lion admiring the little lamb he would devour for his supper! Because, Daria was vaguely aware, she would like to be that lamb. Her pulse began to race. “Dogs would tear me limb from limb,” she said, and paused to catch her breath. “Or some such nonsense.”
His gaze lifted to hers. There was a different look in his eyes, a deeply stirring, intent look. “Is that all?”
“No,” she said softly. She looked at his mouth, unable to look anywhere else. “I told you I was not afraid of you.” Though her knees at that moment would indicate otherwise.
He smiled provocatively. “You should be afraid of me. I’m no’ a particularly kind man.” He leaned closer, bracing his hand against the door, which, Daria realized, she was flat against. “No’ at all. I take what I want,” he said low, pausing to flick his gaze over her body, “and discard what I donna need.”
Take what you want, a tiny voice whispered. “Do you mean to intimidate me?”
“No, leannan. I think it would be far too difficult to intimidate you. I am telling you who I am and warning you no’ to toy with me.”
He was going to kiss her, Daria thought, her heart racing. It was outrageous, scandalous, and disrespectful—but God help her, she hoped he would kiss her. Kiss her like he had when he was out of his mind. Just . . . kiss her. And when she thought he would, she heard the click of the door handle.
He was opening the door at her back. “Go now, before I do something I might regret, aye?” he murmured, his gaze on her mouth.