The Last Debutante Page 6

  “Did you say, then, where the wi—your grandmamma has gone?”

  “I didn’t,” she said distrustfully. “As it happens, she has at last gone for help.”

  Ho now, here was an interesting turn. The old bat must believe that since he claimed not to remember, she might actually convince the authorities of her innocence.

  The English rose made quick work of the bandage and tied it off neatly, then stepped down off the bed to admire her handiwork.

  “Well done,” he said, a little breathlessly; his side throbbed painfully. “Are you a nurse, then?”

  “A nurse?” She smiled as if that amused her. “No.”

  “Then who are you, leannan? What is your name?”

  “You’d like a proper introduction?” She folded her arms across her middle. “Miss Daria Babcock of Hadley Green. It’s a village in West Sussex. Who are you?”

  He smiled. “I hope we will learn that together. Now then, what of the hole in my leg? Do you intend to change that bandage as well?”

  Daria Babcock of Hadley Green glanced at his leg. He was reminded of that hazy image of her standing in the middle of the room, gaping at his naked body when he’d been half-mad with the concoction the old woman had given him. He slowly, deliberately, pushed the bed linen from his wounded leg, revealing his bare thigh and leaving just enough to cover his groin.

  The English rose paled. Her gaze flicked to the bulge between his legs, still covered by the bedsheet, then back to the bandage. “Ah . . .”

  He bent his knee, bringing his thigh off the bed so that she could reach around it. “You look like a ghost, Miss Babcock.” He couldn’t help grinning.

  Her expression darkened. “You must think me very naïve, Mr. No Name.” She moved to the bed and began to tug at the knot in the bandage around his thigh. She made quick work of unwrapping it, grimacing when she saw the wound. This shot had not been so clean, and was made even uglier from the removal of the lead. It looked as if someone had dug with a shovel in his thigh. Miss Babcock was looking a little gray at the sight of it, and honestly, Jamie felt a little gray himself.

  He took the cloth from her hand, jabbed it into the bowl she held, and ignored her gasp as he dabbed the ghastly stuff onto the wound. He hissed at the burn, then did it again, putting a generous dollop into the cavity of the wound. He’d either die of gangrene or he’d heal, but in either case, he would move things along.

  The English rose was still gaping at his wound, so he grabbed up the fresh bandage and wrapped it around his leg himself, then tied it off. “There’s a good lass—fetch my plaid.”

  “What?”

  He nodded to the plaid, folded neatly and draped on the back of the chair.

  She did as he asked, fetching it from the chair and unfolding it, approaching him as if she meant to drape it over him like a blanket.

  “Lay it flat on the bed beside me,” he said, patting the bed. “Aye, that’s it. Now, please turn your back.”

  “Why?”

  “I intend to dress,” he said, and began to move the sheet from his body. “And I fear your tender nature will cause you to faint.”

  She whirled about so quickly that her braid swung out wide. “You mean to dress?”

  “To don clothing. But as the buckskins I was wearing seem to have disappeared, I shall dress in the traditional garb of the Highlanders. Is it no’ what the English tourists prefer from a Scot now? To see us clothed in the breacan feile?”

  “I don’t prefer anything from a Scot,” she said. “I am quite content with England, thank you.”

  Bloody good for her.

  “But you can’t dress. You can scarcely sit up in your bed.”

  “You don’t know the will of a Highlander,” he said, and clenched his jaw against the pain as he eased himself onto the plaid and wrapped it around his waist, rolling a bit to get it around him.

  “Perhaps not. But I am well acquainted with the stubborn nature of men in general,” she said pertly.

  Behind her, Jamie rolled his eyes. He grabbed up the soiled bandage she’d unwrapped from his leg and used that to belt the plaid to him. “All right then, give us a hand.”

  She glanced over her shoulder; Jamie was slowly inching his way to the edge of the bed. He beckoned her near, but the lass seemed dumbstruck. With a grunt, Jamie tried to stand. His injured leg buckled beneath him and a wave of dizziness came over him. She rushed to him then, and he quickly pulled her against his side with an arm draped heavily around her shoulders. Leaning against her, he tested his weight as she braced her hands on his back and abdomen, struggling to hold him upright.

  “Augh,” he uttered as he shifted forward, moving his injured leg.

  “I beg you not to do this! Please go back to your bed before you hurt yourself. It’s too soon!”

  “Never known a man to heal by lying about in his bed,” he muttered. Something wasn’t right. The far edges of his vision were beginning to swim. The salve. Jamie cursed in his native tongue. That witch—if she couldn’t force it down his throat, she would put it in his wound.

  “Oh dear, you don’t look well at all,” he heard the lass say, but her voice seemed disembodied. He looked down at her and watched her features melt just before he felt his legs give way beneath him.

  Seven

  WHEN THE MAN fell, he took Daria with him. She landed half on top of him, half off, and had to work her arm out from beneath his shoulder. She put her hand beneath his nose. She felt the warmth of his breath and a rush of relief went through her.

  She lay there for a moment or two, that sliver of a thought skipping through her mind of how—no, why—she was here. She’d scarcely gained her feet when she heard pounding on the cottage door. “Off with you, you mangy dog!” Mamie shouted. That was followed by the sound of more banging.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Daria whispered to the man lying on the floor.

  She hurried to the door and slid the bolt open. Mamie swept in, slamming the door shut on the dog. “Did you bandage him?”

  “I did—” Daria started, but Mamie was already striding to the back room. Daria ran to catch up.

  Mamie cried out when she saw the man on the floor. “What in heaven’s name has happened?” she demanded as Daria entered the room behind her.

  “He wanted to test the strength of his leg,” Daria said. “One moment he seemed fine, and the next, he . . . he just fell.”

  “Well, of course he did. The salve had something in it to help him sleep,” Mamie said, and knelt to press the back of her hand against the stubble on his cheek. “He’s not feverish.”

  Daria stared at Mamie. “You put something in the salve? That’s a rather dark shade of deceit, is it not?”

  Mamie clucked and gave Daria a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “Honestly, Mamie, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you put something in the salve because you know he doesn’t want it, and then gave it to me to administer so he’d not suspect it,” Daria said accusingly.

  “What an imagination you have!” Mamie said, but the color in her cheeks was rising. “Help me, darling. We must return him to his bed.”

  The man sprawled on the floor weighed fifteen stone if he weighed one. “We can’t possibly lift him. We’ll have to leave him on the floor until he comes to.”

  “We can’t very well leave him on the floor!”

  Daria stood up and stalked to the bed, grabbing up a pair of pillows. “Then perhaps the Brodie lads might finally appear to help you.”

  Mamie gave her a dark look but did not give her the satisfaction of a reply.

  Daria knelt down, lifted the man’s head, and slid the pillow underneath him. His head lolled to one side.

  “He’ll catch his death here,” Mamie said.

  The fleeting thought that if he were to die, then Mamie would have succeeded swept through Daria’s mind. She quickly forced it out. “Pray that he’ll not sleep as long as that,” she said crisply, and stood again to retrieve a blanket from
the bed, which she draped over his body.

  She paused, staring down at him. For a potential criminal, he looked handsome in his sleep, really. There was the dark growth of beard on his face, and his hair was matted from lying in bed, but there was a softness in his features that she did not see when he was awake. He didn’t look as hard or as angry.

  “Come, Daria,” Mamie said, and Daria reached down to help her as she clumsily gained her feet. Her grandmother paused, her hands to her back, bending backward, then walked out of the room.

  Daria followed her. “Did you find help?” she asked when they were in the kitchen.

  “Hmm?” Mamie said, as if she’d momentarily forgotten what she’d gone out to do. “Unfortunately, not as yet. The Brodie lads were not to be found.”

  The mysterious Brodie lads were never quite where anyone needed them, were they? But why in God’s name would Mamie lie about this? What possible reason could she have to keep this man sedated in her house?

  The question of what to do plagued Daria well into the night. She tossed and turned in the freezing third bedroom, wrapped in a wool shawl and huddled beneath the coverlet. There was no hearth in this room, and it was cold as ice. She burrowed down and closed her eyes, but could see only a pair of hazel eyes, a square chin covered with dark stubble, a jagged wound in a man’s thigh.

  She’d never been so challenged. A life of tea and dancing and gossip had left her woefully ill-prepared for these obstacles. But if Mamie would not seek help, Daria would have to. The only thing she knew to do was to walk the ten miles or so to Nairn.

  All right then, she would have to plan for it. First, there was the issue of shoes. Perhaps Mamie had some boots she might borrow. She would need to pack a bit of food, wouldn’t she? And then . . . then she would follow the road. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it? Follow the road to Nairn, where she would send a letter to Charity and ask her to come straightaway. And then she would prevail on any authority there to help her. All very easy!

  She had to believe it was easy because she had no other hope. If she was successful, Daria couldn’t even guess what it might mean for Mamie. She feared for her grandmother. But she feared more for the stranger’s life.

  Morning came quite early after such a sleepless night. Daria pulled on a woolen robe Mamie had given her and combed her hair, letting it fall loose down her back. She padded down the little hallway to the main living area. She could smell ham, and found the one Mamie had buried beneath the hot coals at the hearth last night. She dug it out and removed it from the covered cast iron skillet, placed it on a platter, and put that in the middle of the table. Funny, she thought sleepily, that after only a matter of days, she was quite comfortable pulling hams from glowing embers. As she stirred the embers she heard a door open. She expected to hear footsteps, but the heavy, lurching step and dragging foot were decidedly not Mamie’s.

  Daria quickly stood and wrapped the robe tightly around her. The stranger came into view, dragging his injured leg. He was wrapped in his plaid, belted precariously with a soiled bandage. His matted hair stood on end, his beard had thickened, and dear God, how his eyes were blazing. Not with fever. With anger. He glared at Daria as he wordlessly passed her and roughly pulled a wooden chair from the table, landing on it with a grunt and then laboriously arranging his leg beneath the table. He saw the ham and instantly leaned forward, his hand reaching—

  “I’ll carve some for you,” she said quickly, and picked up the knife that she’d used to protect herself from him the day before.

  He responded with a menacing look, but he shifted back, his hand sliding down the table and into his lap.

  She sliced off a thick slab of ham, put it on a plate along with some of Mamie’s bread, and slid it across the table to him.

  He ate as if he were starved. “More?” she asked when he’d devoured the food. He nodded curtly. Daria sliced off more of the ham and bread. He’d eaten almost all of it when Mamie scurried into their midst, coming to an abrupt halt when she saw him sitting there, eating ravenously. She was still clothed in the gown she’d worn yesterday, her graying hair half up on her head and half down. She looked exhausted and half-crazed. “Oh dear,” she said anxiously. “No, Daria, you shouldn’t give him so much food. I’ve made a broth—”

  “Enough of your broth,” he said through a mouthful of ham.

  Mamie pushed her hair back and looked wildly at Daria, then at him. “Please come back to your bed, sir. Allow yourself to heal properly—it’s been only three days.”

  “I’ll no’ return to that bloody bed,” he said firmly, and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “I only want to help you—”

  “You’ve a peculiar way of helping.”

  “Mamie,” Daria said, coming around to put her hand on her grandmother’s arm. “Sit, please. Clearly he prefers to recuperate on his own terms. And it would be in your best interests to find another occupation than nursemaid to a stranger, don’t you agree?”

  “Aye, she’s right.”

  Mamie cast him a glare that would have frozen the North Sea, which was met with an equally chilling look from him. The tension between them was palpable. Lord, there was so much unspoken in this room! Daria felt as if she were in the parlor at Rochfeld, the Horncastle estate, trying to sort out one of the infernal riddles Lord Horncastle was so fond of forcing onto everyone.

  “I’ve come to the end of my patience with the two of you,” she snapped. “It is quite obvious to me that we’d all benefit if one of you would kindly own to what has happened here!”

  “I don’t see how he can own to anything,” Mamie said pertly. “He can’t recall how he came to be here.” She stood abruptly before anyone might posit a different theory and went to the hearth to toss another log on the fire.

  “You, sir, know more about what happened to you than you have admitted,” Daria said, pointing at him. “And you, Mamie, can’t seem to find anyone in all of Scotland to help you! Yet you have a ham and chopped wood—someone has helped you.”

  “All from Nairn,” Mamie said with a flick of her wrist.

  “I find that impossible to believe. So please stop being untruthful about what happened here!”

  The stranger snorted as if that amused him.

  Daria’s anger soared just as high as if he had laughed outright at her. “And you, sir,” she said, turning on him. “You claim not to recall what happened to you, and yet you can recall what you were wearing at the time you were filled with lead. Furthermore, you were not the least bit surprised that someone was looking for you, which suggests to me that you know why you were shot. And I think you know your name!”

  His smile faded and he looked at Mamie. “Aye,” he said with a shrug.

  “Aye?” Daria echoed, surprised by his agreement.

  “Aye,” he repeated and turned his hazel eyes to Daria. “But I’ve no’ even a wee idea why I was shot.” He arched a dark brow in Mamie’s direction.

  Mamie clamped her mouth shut. She hung the kettle over the fire with such force that it swung and hit the stone wall at the back of the hearth.

  Daria didn’t relish the idea of walking to Nairn, but she was determined to find the answers to what had happened here if it killed her. “Very well,” she said irritably. “I should like to borrow some boots, Mamie. I am to Nairn.”

  The stranger’s brow arched high, and one corner of his mouth lifted as he took her in. “I canna have you walk to Nairn, lass. It’s too far for an English rose, aye? So I shall tell you the truth as I know it.”

  Mamie turned so quickly that she almost collided with Daria. “Don’t listen to anything he says. He knows nothing. How could he? He has been wounded in the head—he will remember nothing useful, I assure you.”

  Daria ignored her grandmother. She braced her hands against the table and leaned across, glaring at him. “Tell me.”

  A slight shadow of a smile lit his eyes as he shifted forward with some effort. “I am Jamie Campb
ell, Laird of Dundavie.”

  “As if that has any bearing on anything,” Mamie muttered.

  “What does ‘laird’ mean?” Daria asked, sinking into a chair beside him.

  “It is something akin to a lord,” Mamie sniffed. “But not a lord. A decided step down from that.”

  Daria waved her grandmother off. “Go on,” she urged him.

  “The truth, lass, is that your Mamie is the one who shot me.”

  Daria reared back and slapped a hand on the table. As opposed to his face, as was her instinct. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  A slow smile appeared on his lips, and he shook his head. “No’ even a wee bit, leannan.”

  The way he said that word, whatever it meant, sent a shiver down Daria’s spine. What wretched game was he playing with her? She looked to Mamie for help, but Mamie had sunk down onto a chair, looking suddenly much older than her sixty-some-odd years. And something in her expression made Daria’s belly knot.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Daria said angrily, appealing to her grandmother to correct the record, to offer a reasonable explanation, any explanation.

  But Mamie seemed only to sink lower into her chair, her lips pressed together into an intractable line.

  Daria’s belly began to churn and she pressed the flat of her hand to her abdomen. “Mamie, please, I am begging you—the truth.”

  Mamie sighed. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and lifted her gaze to Daria. “Is a woman not permitted to defend herself?”

  Daria’s heart sank as Jamie Campbell erupted.

  “Defend yourself! Madam, I was unarmed!”

  “I didn’t mean to shoot you,” Mamie said to him, and to Daria, “I had the gun for protection, naturally. I am here alone, and a strange man had come to my door. It . . . it went off—”

  “When my back was turned,” Mr. Campbell said. “Ach, woman, you dissemble yet!”

  “Did you announce yourself?” Daria demanded of him. “You must admit that you are intimidating in your appearance, especially to a woman who resides alone.”