The Last Debutante

by Julia London

  “Of course not! My behavior is always above reproach.”

  “Ah, above reproach.” Now he was teasing her. “Perhaps that is what keeps you from an offer.”

  It was too tender a subject for Daria to jest about.

  When she didn’t speak, Jamie smiled. “There now, lass. I meant no harm. I am well acquainted with debutantes, and gaining an offer from a suitable purse is their one goal in life, aye? Donna deny it.”

  “I won’t deny it.” She wouldn’t try, because it was true. “What else is there for an unmarried woman?”

  “Daria, you are bonny. And clever. I’d expect you would have any number of offers for your hand. If you haven’t, then the English are even barmier than I’d imagined.”

  “I’ve not had any offers,” she admitted and tossed the wildflowers into the river. “I’ll tell you a secret: I am the last debutante in all of Hadley Green.”

  “The last?” he asked as he began to wade back to the shore.

  “Yes, the last,” she said. “Everyone else is married but me. There is no one left to offer.”

  He paused below her in the river, the water rushing around his calves. “Why did no one offer for you?”

  She would not confess her deeper, darker fears. The ones that whispered she wasn’t comely, or interesting, or was offensive to men in ways she couldn’t understand.

  “My friend Charity says I haven’t the right connections,” she said. “It’s all about that, you know—where you are seen and in whose company.” She couldn’t look him in the eye, as if he could see the real reason painted on her shirt. Or worse—he might point out another, even graver reason why. “Unfortunately, my parents are not willing to enter the fray of a London Season.”

  “No?”

  “It’s the botany,” she said, although she really didn’t believe that. She had tried to understand their reluctance to see her properly turned out, and had failed time and again. She’d had her debut, but even then, her Season in London had been cut painfully short by some emergency at home. “I think they are very pleased with their simple existence and they believe that I should be, too. But I can’t be pleased with it. I can’t live my whole life . . .”

  She let her voice trail away, unwilling to say out loud that she could not be a spinster her whole life with nothing more than her parents’ interest in orchids to divert her. No children! No family, no society.

  “It’s why I came to Scotland. I thought I would perish if I were forced to endure one more summer going from this tea to that ball and smiling for all the eligible men with the hope that one of them would offer. It made me feel useful to come and see about Mamie. It made me feel as if I had a purpose. As if my life had some meaning to someone.”

  “If you dislike your situation so,” he said, propping one foot on the rock where Daria was standing, “find another occupation.” He stepped up onto the rock, so close that they almost touched.

  She snorted at his suggestion. “I am not allowed to have an occupation, Jamie. I am to receive callers and take tea and dine when asked. What else could I possibly be?”

  “I donna know, leannan,” he said softly. “Whatever interests you. But I donna think life will come and rap on your door. You’d best go out and find it, aye?”

  “It’s not like that in England,” she said, her frustration rising along with her pulse. “That’s not what is expected.”

  “Expected by whom?” he asked, his gaze on her mouth.

  “Everyone!” she exclaimed, casting her arms wide.

  A smile softened his face. “What do you expect?”

  “Me?”

  “Aye, you,” he said, pushing her braid over her shoulder. “What do you expect for yourself?” He put his hand on the side of her face. “I’ve watched you befriend a boy who canna hear, a man who canna speak. You found a wife for Dougal, and you have endured captivity with grace and humor, insisting that you be allowed into our society. So why, in England, do you sit about and wait for a man to claim you? Make your own way, Daria.”

  Her heart whispered, Claim me, but she folded her arms. “What are you suggesting?” she asked quietly. “That I not marry?”

  “Ach, I didna say that, did I?” he asked with a grin. “But I would no’ care to see you wait like a lamb for someone, anyone, to find you and know what treasure he holds. Leap, lass. You’ll either fall or fly, but if you donna leap, you will waste your time on this earth. Be brave, Daria. Be courageous.”

  Be brave. It was what she longed to be, and in that moment, with his hazel gaze staring into hers, Daria took his advice to heart. She suddenly rose up and pressed her lips to his, shaping them around his, softly biting his bottom lip. She was brave. She was courageous! And when Jamie responded with what sounded like a growl, she was flying.

  He dropped his fishing rod and basket and grabbed her in a tight embrace, returning her kiss with an ardor that surprised and aroused her. A tide of scorching pleasure rose up in her; her mind suddenly flooded with images of him lying naked in her grandmother’s house, of that sultry, languid kiss when he’d been half out of his mind.

  She threw her arms around his neck and pushed her hands through his hair, causing his hat to fall. He eagerly delved into her mouth, his breath mingling with hers, sending fire racing through her veins. He cupped her face, angling it so that he could deepen the kiss, keeping her anchored to him and the evidence of his arousal.

  Daria pressed into him, her breasts against his chest. Jamie suddenly lifted her from her feet and whirled her around, putting her back against a tree and crushing into her, his hips moving seductively against her. She slid her hands down his hard chest, her hips pushing back against his hardness.

  She cared for nothing but the boundless pleasure of that kiss, that arousal of her senses to heights she had never before experienced. He dropped his hand to her waist, spanning her ribs, then sliding up to the soft mound of her breast that filled his palm. His fingers dipped into her shirt, grazing her nipples and sliding into the warmth of her cleavage a moment before he dragged his mouth from hers and dipped down. Swiftly undoing some buttons, he then pulled her breast into his mouth.

  Daria gasped at the extraordinary sensation, rising up, pushing into his mouth. He teased her rigid nipple with his tongue and his teeth, sucking and nipping at her as his hands slid down her body, between her legs, driving her past rational thought, past the point of actually breathing.

  Then a distant sound suddenly drew Daria back to the present. Voices. “Jamie,” she whispered, and pushed his head away from her breast. She could hardly hear through her labored breathing.

  “Wha—”

  Daria quickly pressed her hand to his mouth. Jamie let go of her then, turning to survey the area around them as she quickly straightened her clothing. She was aching for him, her body quivering with unholy desire . . . but also with fear. Someone or something was out there.

  She heard it again.

  So did he. Jamie held out his hand to her, indicating she should stay where she was, and moved quickly down the path.

  But Daria had no intention of being left behind for the faeries and witches to find her. She scurried after him.

  He’d climbed up to an outcrop and was lying on his belly. When Daria scrambled up beside him Jamie started and pulled her down, crushing her into his side, his hand over her mouth.

  “Uist,” he whispered. “No’ a word.”

  Daria nodded. He removed his hand from her mouth but kept his arm hooked around her.

  Below them was a gorge, and she saw a man on horseback and Mamie standing beside him. Mamie! Before Daria could gasp, Jamie quickly clamped his hand over her mouth again, drawing her even more tightly into his side.

  Mamie and the man were having an animated conversation, judging from the way her hands flew and the rise and fall of her voice. Daria couldn’t tell what she was saying. The well-fed man leaned over his saddle and said something that made Mamie drop her hands and glare at him. Mamie said somethin
g else and then whirled about, her cloak flying out behind her as she began to march down the rocky path to the river.

  The man watched her go, then slowly turned his horse about. As he did so, he suddenly looked up to where Daria and Jamie were hiding and paused. It seemed to Daria as if he were looking directly at them. Neither she nor Jamie moved.

  The tense moment passed. The man turned his attention to the path and spurred his horse, moving up the gorge and disappearing around a stand of trees.

  When he had gone, Jamie grabbed Daria’s hand and they flew down the hill and up the path. They reached the horses just as Mamie appeared on the path before them.

  Mamie cried out in fright, clamping her hand over her heart. “Who’s there?” Then she suddenly dropped her hand. “Daria?”

  Eighteen

  “MAMIE!” DARIA SAID breathlessly, stepping forward. “What are you doing here? We were just on our way to see you.”

  “I . . . I was having a walkabout,” the old woman said nervously as she eyed Jamie.

  “Mrs. Moss,” he said, giving her a curt nod.

  “You look to have recovered well,” she said, her gaze flicking over him.

  “Aye, I have. Surprised, are you?”

  “Mamie,” Daria said, moving between her and Jamie, “how do you fare? I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “Me? Oh, my darling, it is I who have worried for you. Have they treated you well? Have they fed you, given you a proper place to sleep?”

  A proper place? Jamie refrained from pointing out to the old witch that the accommodations at Dundavie were far superior to any she had offered.

  “Yes, I have been treated very well. Did you not receive my letter?”

  Mrs. Moss blinked. “I did!” she said, as if just remembering it. “Yes, yes I did.”

  Daria looked perplexed. “Then why did you not send a note in reply?”

  “That’s very simple, darling,” she said as she fidgeted with her cloak. “I haven’t pencil or paper. And I thought the money would come soon enough, and you’d be back. Why are you dressed in that fashion?”

  Daria glanced down, apparently having forgotten she was wearing pantaloons.

  The old woman glared at Jamie. “What have you done? Why is she made to go about in this manner?”

  “I am dressed this way for riding,” Daria said. “It’s a treacherous path over the hills and I couldn’t manage it sidesaddle.”

  But Mrs. Moss was still glaring at Jamie. He returned her look with an impatient one of his own. “Once again, Mrs. Moss, you seem to think I am the one who means harm, when all the evidence points to the contrary.”

  “Shall we go on to your cottage?” Daria said quickly. “The laird has brought you some fish.”

  Jamie jerked his gaze to Daria; she smiled at him, her hand subtly touching his. He could see what she was about—she would tread carefully to tease something out of the old bag of bones. But give away his fish? He looked at the basket he’d left on the river’s edge and sighed.

  “I don’t need fish,” Mrs. Moss said ungratefully. “I need flour. I’ve no money for flour.”

  “But . . . I brought you a banknote from my father,” Daria said.

  “Times are hard, Daria. A coin doesn’t go as far as it once did.”

  “Let us have some tea and talk a bit, shall we?” Daria gently suggested.

  “All right, I suppose.” Mrs. Moss ran a hand over her unruly hair. She sounded unhappy at the prospect of receiving them but walked on, her old boots striking loudly against the rocks on the path. Daria exchanged a look with Jamie as she gathered her horse’s reins and walked alongside her grandmother.

  Jamie returned the fishing gear to the clan’s hiding place, then whistled for Niall and followed behind them, his mood effectively darkened.

  AT FIRST GLANCE the cottage appeared just as it had the week he’d been practically entombed here. But as Jamie dipped his head to step inside, something felt different. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  Daria had removed her coat and was helping the witch put a pot over the fire, asking questions. The sight of her derriere in the pantaloons distracted Jamie so much, it was a feat of mental strength to keep his thoughts on Mrs. Moss and the strange goings-on.

  “Here, then, the water is hot,” Mrs. Moss said when the water had boiled. “Let’s drink up, shall we? I haven’t much time—I am to Nairn this afternoon.”

  “What?” Daria said, startled. “Why?”

  Mrs. Moss shrugged as she placed three biscuits on a chipped plate and set it in the middle of the table. “I have things to do.”

  “But . . .” Daria leaned across the table in an effort to meet her grandmother’s gaze. “But I was taken away from here a fortnight ago against my will, Mamie. I should think you would want to spend as much time in my company as possible.”

  “Well, I do, dearest, I do! But I assume he’ll want to take you back. Where is the fish?” she asked suddenly.

  “Outside,” Daria said.

  “I should clean it before I go,” Mrs. Moss said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  Daria stared at her grandmother. So did Jamie. The old woman was strangely distracted, even more anxious than before. And something kept her from looking her granddaughter in the eye.

  “I’ll get the fish,” Daria said, and stood from the table, her head down, her step heavy.

  In an effort to avoid conversation, Jamie looked away from Mrs. Moss, to the seating area adjoining the kitchen, and suddenly realized what was missing: the clock. That big, overdone, incessant tick-tock of a fancy cuckoo clock she had kept.

  Daria stepped back inside with the basket of fish. “The Brodie boys won’t bring the supplies you need?” she asked.

  “No. They are . . . engaged in other things. Busy, busy.” Mrs. Moss suddenly looked at Jamie. “I hope you have taken the precaution of having a proper chaperone while in my granddaughter’s company.”

  Jamie’s brows rose. “Do you think the presence of a chaperone will somehow mitigate the fact that she was carted out of here as ransom against the thousand pounds you stole, then?”

  “Mind you keep to yourself, Daria,” Mrs. Moss said, wagging a finger at her and ignoring Jamie’s valid point. “Do not befriend the Campbells. They would as soon hang you as feed you. Don’t forget it.”

  “That’s not true,” Daria said evenly.

  “They’ve convinced you, have they?” Mrs. Moss scoffed. “This is the Highlands, Daria. It’s naught but a lot of hills and rocks for savages to hide in.”

  Jamie felt his temper rising. He was trying to remain respectful of the woman, but she made it bloody difficult.

  “If that is what you believe, then why were you talking to the man on horseback, Mamie?” Daria blurted.

  The question startled the old woman badly; she turned abruptly and collided with the table, knocking a cup over and spilling tea across the surface. “Look what you have made me do!” she said angrily, and used the tip of her apron to clean the spill.

  But Daria reached across and caught her hand, forcing Mrs. Moss to look at her. “I am worried unto death about you, Mamie. You don’t seem yourself. You say things that make no sense. Your conversation with the man on horseback did not seem pleasant, and you are clearly distressed. How can I not be concerned for you?”

  “You have no idea what you are saying,” the woman said, jerking free of Daria’s grasp. “There is nothing wrong with me. And that man . . . he was—he was asking for directions—”

  “No more falsehoods, Mamie. He wasn’t asking for directions. You were arguing with him.”

  Mamie pressed her lips together for a long moment, then admitted, “All right. Yes, we were arguing.” She resumed mopping up the spill. “He is a stubborn old man. I’ve run across him before and he does not listen to reason.”

  “Why must you reason with him? Who is he? What is his name?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what his name is. He’s but ano
ther savage that lives in these hills,” she said with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

  The kitchen shelf, Jamie noticed, was also bare. There were no china plates, no crystal wineglasses. And on the mantel above the fireplace, no silver candlesticks. It looked as if she had packed away anything of value.

  “What happened to your clock?” he asked.

  Her back to him, Mrs. Moss stilled. “It broke.”

  “I’ve a man who might fix it. Ned Campbell is as good with his hands as anyone I’ve known—”

  “It is beyond repair,” she said shortly.

  “Allow me a wee peek—”

  “I sold it!” she snapped. “I sold it to a peddler for food! I don’t live in a castle, Mr. Campbell; I am forced to barter clocks for food!”

  “But, Mamie, Papa sent you ample—”

  Mrs. Moss suddenly whirled about and glared at both of them. “You obviously do not wish to have tea. I ask you, Campbell, do you intend to leave my granddaughter with me?”

  “No’ till the ransom is paid,” he said curtly.

  “Well, I don’t have it. And I should like to be on my way to Nairn, if you please, so if you don’t mind?”

  Daria looked shocked and wounded, and Jamie could scarcely blame her. He put his hand on her elbow, but Daria shook him off.

  “Mamie, please let me help you.”

  And just like that, Mrs. Moss suddenly softened. She smiled sadly and cupped Daria’s face in her hand. “My lovely girl,” she said fondly. “I do so want you home; you must know that I do. But what I need from you now is to keep yourself well and chaste until the ransom is come. I have every faith that your father will arrive shortly and we will end this ugly business, and perhaps then, perhaps . . . well. In the meantime, I will not have you fretting about your old grandmother. I am quite all right.” She smiled as she patted Daria’s cheek, then picked up a canvas bag.

  “That’s it?” Daria asked incredulously. “That’s all you will say?”

  “I’ve said all there is to say, darling.” Looking much older, Mrs. Moss smiled sadly at Daria and left the cottage.

  Daria was speechless. She stood staring at the open door. When she couldn’t see her grandmother anymore, she turned big brown eyes to Jamie, blinking back tears. It pained him to see her hurt, and he put his arm around her shoulders. “Donna cry.”