Page 5 of The Last Debutante
Daria saw it then—a path no wider than a rabbit trail.
“You can’t possibly mean there is a house onthatpath.”
“Ach, lass, walk up the road, then. Ye’ll find it well enough.” He reached for her smaller portmanteau and placed it on top of her trunk.
“But what of my things?” Daria asked, panicking now. “Is there no footman? No conveyance? Am I expected to walk through those woods in these shoes and carry my own things?”
“Brodie lads will come round and bring the trunk, miss. No time to dawdle, now—I’m to have the ladies to Piper-hill Inn by nightfall, and we’re a wee bit behind schedule.” He walked to the head of the coach.
“Good day, Miss Babcock!” Mrs. Gant called, sticking her silver head out the coach door. “Our regards to your grandmother!”
“But...”
Mrs. Bretton gave her a cheery wave as they rolled away.
That was how Daria had come to be utterly alone on the side of the road, thinking unkind thoughts about Mr. Brodie and Scotland.
“Quite a deep pit of muck you’ve walked into, Daria,” she sniffed. She glanced at the rabbit trail that passed for a road here. She’d never believed herself one to wilt at the first sign of trouble, but she felt on the verge of doing just that. She reminded herself that if Mamie—elegant, sophisticated Mamie—had come to Scotland and managed, then so could she. She had only to decide whether she would remain seated on the road waiting for marauders and murderers to come along or do as Mr. Brodie suggested and walk up that tiny, overgrown trail.
She stood up and looked at the dog. “Do you intend to accompany me? Or will you sleep the day away?”
The dog sat up, his tail wagging.
“Very well. But you must be responsible for yourself. I am not a nursemaid,” she warned him, and picked up her portmanteau. She took a deep breath, muttered a small prayer, and stepped onto the rabbit trail, almost toppling over when the dog rushed past her in order to be first on the path.
Two
AREDDISH MISTclouded Jamie’s vision. Pain burned in full conflagration at his ribs, then down his left side to his toes. He was lying on his back, and when he tried to lift his head, searing pain blinded him. Feeling the back of his head for the source of the pain, he found a thick bandage. Along with the scent of witch hazel, commonly used to dress wounds, there was a sweet, cloying smell that he didn’t recognize.
He struggled to remember what had happened, where he was.
“You’re awake!”
The moment he heard the Sassenach’s voice, everything came flooding back. The old woman. The blunderbuss. Uncle Hamish. He tried to focus on her, but the haze in his vision was too dense.
“For heaven’s sake. She told me the valerian would keep you sleeping for hours!” She made a clucking, impatient sound. “One should not call oneself a healer if one cannot concoct a proper sedative. You mustn’t worry, Mr. Campbell. I shall give you more.”
The woman suddenly loomed over him, giving his heart a start. She was smiling like a kindly grandmamma, with her hair knotted atop her head and her apple cheeks. “Feeling improved?” she asked hopefully. “I’ve some laudanum if the pain is too deep.”
Valerian and laudanum. Was she trying to kill him?
“Stay right where you are. I have a broth.” She disappeared from his sight as suddenly as she’d appeared.
She was barmy, this Sassenach. Jamie had to think his way out of this, but the fog in his brain and the pain in his side were making that impossible.
The woman appeared again. She was humming a jaunty little tune as she sat on the bed beside him, holding a wooden bowl, the contents of which smelled quite foul. She smiled as she leaned over once more, and a spoon began to dance before Jamie’s face.
Jamie pressed away from her, biting back the pain that ripped through him as he turned his head.
“Oh dear, you shouldn’t resist me, Mr. Campbell. How shall you ever regain your strength?” She grabbed his chin with her hand. Jamie tried to push her off, but the pain was so intense he began to see spots before his eyes. He must have opened his mouth to gasp as well, for the next moment the bitter broth was sliding down his throat.
“A few spoons more and you will rest peacefully.”
Peacefully in his grave.How was it that an old Englishwoman was holding him, the Laird of Dundavie, prisoner? What feat of magic was this?
The woman smiled and held up another spoonful. Jamie jerked his head away and felt a wave of nausea at the pain.“Tha thu as do chiall,”he gasped, telling her she was mad.
“I think you should try not to speak, Mr. Campbell,” she said brightly. “Firstly, I don’t speak your language. Secondly, you should allow your body to rest and heal.” She bounced the spoon against his gritted teeth. Jamie sealed his lips against the assault of her spoon. When he refused to open, she sighed and pinched his nose shut. “I’ve reared children, Mr. Campbell. You cannot win in this.”
