Two
A REDDISH MIST clouded 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.”
She was right. When at last he was forced to take a breath, she tossed more of the foul liquid down his throat.
“You’ll feel much recovered in no time, mark me,” she said soothingly, her words drifting somewhere high above him. He could feel himself sliding down the slope into oblivion, and his last conscious thought was that not only was he going to die in the hands of this madwoman, but he was going to die on Brodie land.
DARIA HADN’T TAKEN more than a few steps when a stone pierced the sole of her shoe. She uttered a mild curse beneath her breath and carried on, choosing her steps carefully. The shadows were much deeper in the forest, making it difficult to see. More than once, the dog had darted ahead and then suddenly reappeared before her, startling her. “Walk on, you ridiculous mongrel,” she chastised him.
Her arms began to burn with the weight of her portmanteau. She swore to herself that if vultures did not carry her off, she would never travel with so many items again. “One gown,” she said aloud, seeking company in the sound of her own voice. “One gown for evening, one for morning, and one for day. But no more than three gowns.” She shifted her portmanteau into the other hand. “And certainly no more than two pairs of shoes—”
The familiar smell of woodsmoke wafted to her now, bringing her to a halt. Where there was smoke, there was life, and hopefully that life was her grandmother. If not, well . . . Daria would face that conundrum if and when she met it. At that moment, she believed she could face any danger if it meant she could put down her portmanteau and take off her shoes.
She quickened her step, climbing up the path to the crest. There, on the edge of a green field where some cows were grazing and chickens were waddling about, was a cottage. And what a charming little cottage it was, with a thatched roof and blue flowers in the window boxes—the sort of cottage Mrs. Gant and Mrs. Bretton were determined to see on their tour.
“The peasants of Scotland take great pride in their cottages,” Mrs. Gant had told her with the authority of someone who had studied her guidebook carefully.
“Please, dear Lord, let it be Mamie taking pride in this one.” Daria sighed, adjusted her portmanteau, and began picking her way along the path as the dog raced after something that had caught his attention.
Daria arrived at the fence that surrounded the garden. The swing gate was unlatched, and inside the fence was a large patch of glorious color—yellow, blue, and pink flowers springing up, looking slightly untended. In the other half of the small garden were green plants that Daria assumed were root vegetables. This was where her grandmother lived? In a crofter’s cottage? Her elegant grandmother was a crofter? Daria pushed through the little gate and shooed a rogue chicken out of her path with her foot. “Mamie?” she called.
No answer.
Daria walked up to the rough-hewn door and hammered it with the flat of her hand. “Surprise, Mamie! It’s me, Daria!” She waited a moment, then added unnecessarily, “Your granddaughter!” She stepped back and stood with the portmanteau clasped in both hands, her smile deepening as she imagined Mamie’s great surprise and pleasure at finding her only granddaughter on her doorstep.
But Mamie didn’t open the door. No one opened the door. Was she mistaken? Was this not Mamie’s cottage after all? But Mr. Brodie had assured her that he knew precisely where it was. And he had seemed quite certain of himself when he’d deposited her on the side of the road.
Daria leaned forward and pressed her ear to the door, but she couldn’t hear anything. She debated for one long moment, then very gingerly and reluctantly put her hand on the latch. “Mamie?” she said again, and quietly, slowly, opened the door a tiny bit.
Through the crack she could see a wooden table with four wooden chairs around it. In the center was a porcelain bowl. On one end of the table was a black iron pot, covered with a lid. On the wall behind the table was a shelf with some books and a basket that held some balls of yarn and knitting needles, and dangling from a hook just below that was an apron. A stack of china plates and four crystal wineglasses looked vaguely familiar to her.
Daria pushed the door open a little wider and stuck her head in. Behind the door she could see that the kitchen was only one end of a much larger room. On the other end were a settee and two overstuffed chairs. A woolen rug covered the floor just before a stone hearth, in which a fire was cheerfully blazing. It looked as if someone had just stoked it. A pair of books was stacked neatly atop an end table, and next to that was Mamie’s favorite clock, the one Charity’s father had carved from cherrywood many years ago. On the mantel above the hearth were two silver candlesticks that Daria recognized as a gift her mother had given Mamie one year.
A rush of relief washed over her. This was Mamie’s cottage! She beamed now, proud of herself for having found it, for having braved her first solo journey. Eager to see her grandmother, she stepped inside, dropping her portmanteau on the floor. She removed her bonnet and tossed it on top of the portmanteau, then smoothed her hair as she walked into the room to look around.
“Mamie?” she called softly. Surely she was close by; the scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air.
There was a corridor before Daria with two doors on one side and another at the end. She unfastened her cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. Perhaps Mamie was sleeping. She moved quietly, pausing to look inside the first room. There was a feather bed with a satin coverlet, a pair of slippers beside the bed. This would be Mamie’s room, but Mamie was not within.
Daria walked into the room and glanced around. There was no water in the porcelain basin and the hearth was cold. The wildflowers in the crystal vase on the mantel had wilted and hung like ruined ribbons over the lip of the vase. There was no evidence of servants. Goodness, how did one live without at least one servant to help with things?
Daria moved on, past another sparsely furnished but tidy little bedroom. When she reached the closed door at the end of the hall, she knocked. Hearing nothing, she cautiously opened the door.
It was dark within, and the smell fetid. She pushed the door open wider and stepped just over the threshold, giving her sight time to adjust to the dim light. It was quite warm, and she glanced in the direction of another hearth, the fourth in the house, where embers still glowed. In a chair beside it was a heavy quilt of the plaid she’d seen a few men wearing in Nairn. Daria moved deeper into the room—and was brought to an abrupt halt by the sound of someone’s breath. The hair on the back of her neck rose; she whirled about, expecting to find something horrible behind her. What she saw caused her to clamp a hand over her mouth, capturing the shriek just before it left her.
A man was lying on a bed against the wall. A completely naked man. Bandages were wrapped around his torso and around one thigh, and another one around his head. But he was completely free of any covering. He lay motionless, his eyes closed, his chest slowly rising, then slowly falling.
Daria’s breath deserted her. She stood rooted to the floor, her gaze locked on him, a tremor of fear building in the pit of her belly. He was . . . a very big man. All of him was big. Daria had seen a little boy without his breeches, but she had never seen a fully grown man in all his splendor. She’d had no idea that boys turned into this.
Dark hair spilled onto the pillow around his head. His jaw was square, his chest corded with muscle, his shoulders broad, and his arms finely shaped by his strength. He was trim at the waist, and he looked quite . . . firm.
And then there was the rest of him.
The rest of him was, in a word, astonishing. Daria madly wished Charity were here to see this with her, to gaze in astonishment with her. To feel the heat of curiosity swirling in her cheeks, too, to feel her pulse begin to quicken—
“Cé tú féin?”
Daria gasped. She had been so intent on his body she hadn’t realized he’d awakened; he was staring at her with dark, glassy eyes.
He spoke again in the foreign language, his voice hoarse as if unused for a time. He pushed himself up on one elbow, grimacing with pain.
Awareness of him flooded Daria’s cheeks and neck with uncomfortable warmth. She tried to think of what to say, of how to extract herself, but before she could do it, the man glanced down at his body, then at her again. With his gaze locked on hers, he grabbed the end of a linen and slowly pulled it over his body, covering his groin. Only his groin. And then he spoke again, repeating the same strange words.
It flustered Daria even more. Was she in the wrong cottage? “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I don’t speak your language.” What a ridiculous thing to say, standing in this man’s bedchamber, having a good long look at him while he slept. “I did not mean to . . . to see.” She gestured vaguely at him. “It was an accident. I must have come to the wrong cottage.”
His gaze remained locked on hers, his expression inscrutable.
“I came in quite by mistake. Mr. Brodie said her cottage was here, but she’s not about. I . . . I entered without permission, but I had walked quite a long way, and the portmanteau was so heavy.” She was babbling now. He probably didn’t even understand her, but it didn’t stop her from trying to make a right from a very horrible wrong. “Yes, I must have the wrong cottage,” she said apologetically, as if it were perfectly natural to walk into someone’s home and into their bedchamber. She took a step back.
The man leaned forward a little. She thought he was going to speak. But instead, he fell forward with a grunt, his forehead striking the wooden frame of the bed. Daria cried out in alarm and stood paralyzed, waiting for him to move.
He did not move.
She leaned forward, her heart pounding. Had he died? A bubble of hysteria rose up; she could feel the scream about to leave her throat when he rolled onto his back with a grunt, his eyes closed, the grimace deeply etched into the skin around his eyes.
The bed linen, she could scarcely keep from noticing, had slipped from his body again.
“I’ll show myself out,” she whispered, feeling hot with embarrassment.
“Halt!”
The word was spoken soft and low, but Daria would have known Mamie’s voice anywhere. She whirled about—to look straight into the barrel of the large gun her grandmother held.