Fifteen
NOTHING IN DARIA’S previous experience matched a man like Jamie Campbell. Nothing.
She’d never felt anything as fervently as she’d felt his kiss, had never felt such a burning, untenable desire to press her flesh to a man’s flesh—but Lord help her, she’d felt it in every bit of her skin . . . all in the space of a single kiss.
A delicious little shiver shimmied down her spine as she recalled the way he’d kissed her. Like a man who would possess a woman completely, who would lay her down and take her with a lover’s determination.
She lay on the bed in the dark cloak of night, her fingers tracing down her abdomen and back up, over and over again. She stared at the crack in the drapery, the soft glow of moonlight spilling into her room, and imagined him, big and bold above her, his hair framing his face, his body, his muscles—all of him sliding into her, filling her.
Lord. She rolled onto her side and buried her face in the pillow. What was this she was feeling? Lust for her captor? She was mad, quite mad, to think in such a way! She was not naïve. Jamie Campbell would use her ill and then happily collect his one thousand pounds. But then, had she not used him? Had she not allowed that splendid, truly spectacular kiss so that she might get what she wanted?
Daria opened her eyes. There it was. They would each use the other to gain what they wanted. That was the way things were done—in an English ballroom or an old Scottish castle.
How very cynical you’ve become, she chastised herself. Now you will invent an entirely new societal rule to excuse being moved by a brazen, unrefined Scottish laird?
She was far too reckless! What of the damage to her marriage potential? She was being held for ransom, for God’s sake—that alone would ruin her chances for a match with a good title. If rumors that she had done something inappropriate with the laird were to reach England, it would destroy any hope of gaining a husband with even the lowest of titles.
It would prevent her from ever getting married at all. Would she risk everything for physical pleasure?
She couldn’t bear to become a spinster, spending all her days in her parents’ house. Oh, she was playing with fire! She’d walked into the open flame with the ridiculous belief that she’d not be burned. But she had, and it had seeped into her blood and spread indescribable torment through her.
With a sigh, Daria rolled onto her back and stared blankly up at the canopy. She had very few options, really. She needed Jamie Campbell to protect her grandmother. Yet she needed to keep him at arm’s length for the sake of her reputation. She must tread carefully, avoiding him where she could, ignoring the way he made her skin tingle and the way her heart beat faster when he was near. Yes, Daria told herself as she closed her eyes, that’s what you must do.
So, given her very firm talk with herself, Daria had absolutely no excuse the next day when she devised a plan after hearing Young John say that the laird was at work in the hothouse.
She gathered up a basket Catriona had loaned her and marched outside. She’d walked past the small garden in the bailey a dozen times, and this time she paused there, turned about to Duffson, and said, “I feel ill.”
He blinked and looked nervously about.
“It is a woman’s curse,” she added, and watched the color rise high in his cheeks. “Would you be so kind as to fetch me some water? I shall be in the garden.”
Duffson swallowed so hard she could see his Adam’s apple bob. Yet he seemed reluctant to leave her, so Daria put her hand low on her belly and winced. “I can scarcely run, sir. I’ve such a pain.”
The poor young man whirled about and scurried for the main keep.
With a smile, Daria glanced down at Anlan and Aedus. “Stand guard, you beasts.” She pushed Aedus’s rump away from her knee as she squatted down and pulled several faded spring flowers from Dundavie’s ridiculously small garden. Some of them were so rooted that she had to pull with both hands, but she managed to fill her small basket.
Then she hurried to the mews that led to the small hothouse before Duffson could return, the dogs loping alongside her.
“Ridiculous,” she whispered as she paused at the weathered wooden door. It was insanity to do what she was about to do, but she very much desired to be kissed again. Who knew whether she would ever have another opportunity? She pulled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and put her hand on the knob.
A rush of fetid air hit Daria as she stepped across the threshold. It overwhelmed her, causing her to sneeze so mightily that some of her pilfered flowers spilled onto the path between the wooden benches. Clay pots were crammed beside one another on those benches, some of them containing shoots, others empty. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, but she saw a movement at the far end of the little hothouse and said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize anyone was within.” She smiled brightly.
Whoever responded to her in rapid Gaelic was not Jamie. She squinted and saw a small, wizened man with a scruffy beard, wearing a stained apron. Disappointed, she forgot her basket and dropped her arm. All the flowers spilled out onto the ground. Daria groaned just as the man raised his voice and began to jabber at her in Gaelic, his hands slicing through the air to emphasize whatever it was he was saying.
“Yes, all right, I will go,” she said, backing up. “I didn’t mean to be a bother.” She bumped into the bench and sent two pots tumbling. “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered as she righted them. “You do realize, sir, that I haven’t the slightest notion what you are saying, don’t you?” she called out over his blathering as she dipped down to pick up the flowers. “It seems you all believe that if you simply talk louder, somehow I will understand it.” She stuffed the flowers into the basket and stood up, dusting off the knees of her gown. “Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as that. I wish that I could understand it, for the loudness is very unkind to one’s ears.”
Satisfied that she had removed as much of the dirt as was possible, she folded her arms into the basket handle and looked at the man. She realized then that he had stopped speaking. “There, you see? No harm done,” she said, gesturing to the ground. “Good day.” She turned about—and collided with Jamie Campbell.
He was standing with his arms folded across his rather broad chest, and while his expression was impossible to interpret, Daria was fairly certain he was not pleased to see her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his gaze falling to her basket of mangled flowers. “Where is your keeper?”
“Duffson?”
Jamie waited impassively for her answer.
What had she thought, that he would greet her with open arms? “In truth, I ducked away. I was looking for . . . some shears,” she said, relieved to have landed on a plausible explanation.
“Shears,” he repeated skeptically.
“For the flowers.” She gestured at her basket.
“You might have asked Young John or Duffson for shears, aye?”
“Right you are. But, ah . . . they were occupied.”
He arched his brow dubiously. “It must be a busy day indeed at Dundavie.”
She would ignore the sarcasm and instead admire the way his voice dripped over her like honey. “This must be where you practice your botany,” she said, and averted her gaze from the hazel eyes full of suspicion. “Where is your wheat?”
“Can you no’ see it, then, what with your vast knowledge of botany and plant grafting?”
He had her there. “See it? But it’s so awfully dim.”
“Oh, aye, quite dim,” he agreed, glancing up at the noonday sunlight that was streaming in from the windows overhead. “Then allow me to show you.” He said something to the old man, put his hand on Daria’s back as if he’d done so a thousand times before, and nudged her down the path.
She was aware of him close behind her, aware of the hard length of him, the breadth of him. Warmth began to rise in her. She thought of the previous night, of the way he had so easily stretched her across his lap. She imagined his hand circling her waist now, drawing her back to his chest, his mouth on her neck.
At the end of the row she stopped walking. He leaned over her shoulder. “There you are, then,” he said, nodding to the pots on the table.
Daria looked at them and spotted two green shoots with ragged edges in a single pot. “Aha, I see.”
“Well? What do you make of it?”
“Looks to be doing very well,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Impressive.”
“Thank you,” he said, and leaned closer to her, his mouth at her ear. “But what do you think, Daria? How shall I improve it?”
She loved the way her name sounded when he said it. She smiled, cocked her head to one side as she pretended to consider the little shoots. It was difficult to concentrate with him so near, his cologne clouding her thoughts. “You might use more soil,” she suggested. It seemed like her parents were forever speaking of new soil mixes.
“More soil! Aye, that ought to make this little weed grow tall.”
Weed? Daria hoped that something had been lost in translation, but when she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, he was grinning. Smirking, really, his eyes shining with amusement.
“For heaven’s sake!” She was annoyed with herself for being foolish enough to pretend she knew the slightest thing about botany.
He laughed outright. “You’ve been quite helpful, leannan. Now that Fingal and I know that weeds will grow taller with a wee bit more soil, we might leave him to his work, aye?” He put his hand possessively on the small of her back and began to usher her to the front of the little hothouse.
“You can’t blame me for at least attempting to be useful,” she groused.
“I donna blame you for wanting to be useful, but for dissembling. A wee bit more soil, you say?” He laughed again, opened the door, and stepped through with her into the sunlight. The dogs quickly leapt to their feet, their tails wagging madly. “Come along then, Miss Babcock. I suspect Duffson is quite frantic at having lost you once more.”
She snorted.
“I would have thought that the tongue-lashing his father gave him last time would have made for a keener eye. How did you manage it?” He took her basket of mangled flowers, peering at them curiously as they began to walk through the mews.
Daria glanced away. “I suggested that I had a . . . female illness,” she said as they stepped into the bailey.
Jamie laughed so loudly that it startled her. “You must no’ frighten the lad, leannan. I am losing men to Glasgow every day. I donna need to encourage any more of them to flee. Now then, what are you trying to hide?”
“Hide? Nothing! Why must you assume the worst?”
“Ach, I was right, then,” he said, winking down at her. He folded his arms across his chest, the basket dangling from his elbow. “You are about mischief.”
“I am not.”
“Then what is in the hothouse that you wanted so much that you would send the poor lad on a fool’s errand?”
Daria gazed up into his handsome face and sighed with great exasperation. “I wanted . . .”
“Aye?” he asked, leaning forward as if she were on the verge of admitting an earth-shattering secret.
“I wanted to see you,” she said haughtily. “There you are, Jamie Campbell, you’ve forced me to confess. Are you happy?”
He leaned back. And then a smile slowly curved over his mouth. “My, my, Miss Babcock,” he murmured. “Might I take from this confession that you find me bonny?”
“No.” She wasn’t particularly convincing, if his overly broad and self-satisfied grin was any indication.
“Aye, I think you do.”
“No,” she said more emphatically, shaking her head. “At least you speak English. And I am interested in botany—”
“I quite like to see you flustered, for I find the blush in your cheeks very appealing.”
“I am not flustered.”
“It’s quite all right, leannan,” he said, dipping his head to look her directly in the eye. “I understand, for I’ve rather enjoyed our kisses as well.”
Daria wished for a chaise where she might collapse with the last bit of dignity she had left to her. Her gaze had drifted to his mouth, and she was debating what to say, how to prolong this ridiculous conversation so that she might ask for one more kiss, when Aedus and Anlan’s sudden barking startled her out of her wits.
“Diah,” Jamie muttered, and followed that with a string of Gaelic as two riders thundered into the bailey ahead of a carriage.
“I see you have visitors,” Daria said, grateful for the opportunity for a clean escape. “I’ll take my leave—”
“No,” he said, and caught her elbow in his hand.
The first rider slid off his horse and, with a grand flourish, doffed his hat and bowed deeply at the waist. He was an inch or two shorter than Daria and twice her width. He looked to be considerably older, as well. Behind him, a slender young woman with fair blonde hair dismounted gracefully and moved to stand beside him, her riding crop firmly in her hand. Daria had the sense that the woman would not be shy to use the crop at a moment’s notice. She did not bow nor curtsy, and seemed entirely too occupied in staring at Daria.
“Good afternoon, Laird Campbell!” the portly man said. He was English, and Daria felt a moment of panic. How would he regard her being held for ransom?
“My lord,” Jamie said gruffly. “We were no’ expecting your call.”
“I can see that,” he said jovially, his gaze raking over Daria. “I beg your pardon for the interruption,” he said to Daria, “but we were showing some friends about the lovely countryside and I had in mind to slay two birds with one stone, as it were. I had heard of your unfortunate accident, Laird, and came to express my hopes for your speedy recovery. And I thought the ladies should like to see an estate as old and authentic as Dundavie.”
A coachman opened the carriage door and lowered the step, and Daria heard quite a lot of nattering. She knew instantly who it was and watched as Mrs. Gant emerged first from the carriage, followed closely by Mrs. Bretton. “Oh no,” she murmured, earning a look from Jamie.
“Might we be introduced to your fair companion, Laird?” the fat man asked, eyeing Daria with delight, as one might eye a piece of cake.
Jamie reluctantly said, “Miss Daria Babcock, may I present Lord Murchison and his daughter, Lady Ann Murchison.”
“How do you do?” Daria automatically slid into a curtsy. She racked her brain for any knowledge of them, but concluded she had never heard of the lord or his daughter.
“Look here, Mrs. Gant, it’s our little companion!” Mrs. Bretton trilled as the two women bustled forward. “Miss Haddock!”
“Babcock,” Daria softly reminded her, extending her hand.
“Yes, yes, of course, Babcock. You must forgive me; I have a terrible memory for names. My dear, what are you doing here? Does your grandmother live here, in this castle? I understood from Mr. Brodie that her abode was quite plain.”
“No, she doesn’t live here,” Daria said, and panicked as she glanced at Jamie. What was she to say? An opportunity to escape had presented itself on a silver platter, and yet she felt an absurd moment of hesitation.
“She can tell us all about her visit and her grandmother over tea,” Lord Murchison said, and smiled broadly at Jamie. “The laird will want to impress our guests with that fine Scottish hospitality he’s so generously shown me. And besides, I have a small proposition for you, Laird.”
“Have you,” Jamie drawled, his eyes narrowing.
Lord Murchison laughed. “There’s no call to look so stern,” he said, reaching up to clap Jamie’s shoulder. “A conversation between men, that’s all. Ann, my dear, you must engage Miss Babcock and learn all about her visit to Scotland.”
“I’ll do no such thing,” Lady Ann said, and followed her father as he began to walk toward the keep as if he’d been invited in.
Daria did not like Lord Murchison. She’d known a handful of men like him, overreaching lords full of their own self-importance. Nevertheless, he was her way out of Dundavie, and she had to decide what she must do.
“Doesn’t this look imposing?” Mrs. Bretton said, looking up at the keep. “Shall we go in for tea, Miss Haddock?”
“Babcock, my dear,” Mrs. Gant said. “Miss Babcock. Haddock is a fish,” she explained as the two women walked toward the entrance, leaving Daria behind with the dogs.