The Last Debutante (24 page)

“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.

A
T 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 another 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.”

She sagged into his side, burying her face in his chest. “She’s lost her mind, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Aye, she has,” he agreed. “Or she is trying very hard to hide something. Here now,” he said, slipping two fingers
under her chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Let her go to Nairn, and let us think on how we might discover what she is hiding.”

She nodded, then stepped back and wiped her eyes. “I
will
discover what she is about,” she said determinedly. Then she peeked up at him. “How will I do that?”

Jamie smiled. “First, I’ll have a man watch her, aye? Second, I’ll have another man find the gentleman she spoke to this morn. Perhaps he might shed some light.”

“Yes. Thank you, Jamie,” Daria said. “That was no casual encounter. Did you recognize him?”

“No.” It surprised him. He knew most men around here, and if he didn’t know them, he could identify them by their plaids. But that man was not wearing a plaid. “I’ll find him, Daria. And I will see that your grandmamma doesna come to harm.”

She smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

He offered his hand to her. “Come, lass.”

She slipped her hand into his, allowing him to lead her out of the cottage.

S
OMEWHERE ON THE
road to Dundavie, the dogs disappeared, racing into the forest after prey only they could smell. Their progress was slow, and Jamie had to turn about from time to time to reassure himself that Daria followed. The young woman who had nattered on this morning was silent, lost in thought this afternoon.

At the top of the hill, near the cairn, he drew Niall to a halt and dismounted. Only then did Daria seem to notice him. “I am famished,” he said, and took the bundle Young John had given him from the back of his horse. “Are you hungry?”

“A little,” she agreed, and slid off her horse.

She followed him up the hill to a flat, grassy hollow between two large, rocky knolls. A lone rowan tree provided a bit of shade, and Jamie spread the cloth open there to find cheese, dried meats, bread, and berries that had stained the cloth blue.

Daria stood looking out over the hills below them. Tendrils of rich gold hair danced around her face on the afternoon breeze. He could picture her looking out over this vista every day, taking stock of the changing landscape. The thought startled him—he’d not thought of her at all past the ransom.

“I think you are right,” she said, as if they had been talking. “She is hiding something.”

“Aye.”

“I am determined not to mope, Jamie. My parents will soon arrive, and together, we will discover what it is she hides.” She dropped her arms and looked at him as if she expected him to argue.

He did not. “Come and eat something.”

Daria walked over, then knelt to examine the contents of the cloth. “Is it a picnic?” she asked, and made a sound of delight. “Berries!” She popped one in her mouth.

Jamie stretched out on his good side and propped himself up on one elbow. He opened the collar of his shirt, then helped himself to some dried meat. “I’d wager you’ve no’ picnicked like this before, aye?” he asked, glad to change the mood.

“Never.” She reached for some cheese. “In England, if one attends a picnic, there are servants to put up the tents and tables and to serve.” She laughed softly and put another couple berries into her mouth. “It seems so pretentious now. I think all of England should be made to picnic precisely like this, out in the open, without tent or servant or even utensil to help them.”

“Perhaps you will be the one to introduce all of England to the Highland picnic when you return.”

“I shall be in high demand, I’m sure.” Daria laughed again, then eased down on her side, facing him. “Perhaps you might try the English way of picnicking,” she suggested, smiling impishly. “One never knows—it might improve
your
chance of matrimony,” she added coyly, and popped another berry into her mouth. “Ah, but yours is all but finalized.”

He smiled at her blatant attempt to ask him.

Daria examined the dried meat. “Do you miss your fiancée?” she asked casually.

“Isabella?” He thought about her. Or rather, he thought about the recent blows to the Campbell coffers. There was no denying that a union between them was the easiest way to keep intact the little corner of the world they’d inhabited for more than two hundred years.

But surely it meant more to him than that—he’d been set to marry her, by God. He’d been genuinely fond of Isabella, had he not? Did he not miss her company, if only a little, even now? “A wee bit, aye,” he admitted.

Daria dropped her gaze. “What is she like?”

He found the question strangely discomforting. Isabella was everything a man in his position might have hoped for. She was beautiful. She was charming and clever and knew how to manage a very large house. She was the daughter of the Brodie laird, the equivalent of a Scottish princess. She had seemed to care for him—and yet, there was something about Isabella that seemed to pale compared to Daria. She didn’t have that same quality of being that Daria seemed to possess—a lightness about her, an ability to greet any situation with charm and grace. Daria was like summer: light, air, warmth.

He could not say the same for Isabella.

That he was even thinking such things about the wee English rose was most disconcerting. It was imprudent, dangerous, and unwise. His fate, his destiny, was Dundavie, and he had a duty to maintain the clan. A dalliance with an English rose would be nothing short of disastrous. Yet he could not seem to think of anything else. She was here before him, her countenance bright and warm, her body a man’s fantasy.

“Hmm. You hesitate,” Daria said lightly. “I think you do not care to tell me that she has a wart on the end of her nose and eats puppies in her soup.”

He grinned. “No warts, no, but I canna vouch for the puppies.”

Daria laughed.

Jamie sobered. “In truth, Isabella is bonny and kind.”

“Ooh,
bonny
and
kind,
” Daria said with mock gravitas. “It is a wonder that an entire continent of gentlemen have not offered for her.”