Twenty-four
CAPTAIN MACKENZIE WAS the antithesis of who Jamie imagined would come for Daria. He was a Lowlander and, Jamie suspected, something of a scoundrel. Nevertheless, Jamie liked him; he had a certain charm. Yet he did have one habit that Jamie found vexing, and that was his insistence on naming Daria’s highborn connections.
Jamie thought it entirely unnecessary, as Mackenzie had readily agreed the ransom ought to be paid and did not question the facts surrounding the kidnapping. He was a fellow Scotsman, after all. So why, then, did he feel compelled to present to Jamie that Daria was a “close and personal confidante” of Lord Eberlin of Tiber Park, as well as Lord Ashwood, and therefore, by extension, of the powerful Duke of Darlington?
Darlington was the only name familiar to Jamie in the list of lords who would, to hear Mackenzie tell it, take up arms against Dundavie if a Campbell so much as gazed in Daria’s general direction.
Jamie wasn’t intimidated by Mackenzie’s remarks; they amused him. “Do you honestly think your words strike fear in me, man?” he asked, after Mackenzie had talked about Darlington’s power in the House of Lords.
Mackenzie chuckled. “I had hoped,” he admitted. “In the event you have any thoughts of keeping her,” he added with a sly smile.
Jamie’s gut tightened and he looked down at his tot. “The lass will be free to leave Dundavie when her ransom is paid.”
“It will be paid,” Mackenzie said as he helped himself to another tot of whisky. “If her parents haven’t raised it, Miss Scott and I are prepared to remit.” He offered the decanter of whisky to Jamie, who shook his head. “But there is one condition,” Mackenzie said, returning the decanter to the table.
“Aye? And what is that?”
“I should like to accompany Miss Babcock to her grandmother’s house. To see with me own eyes that she is well.”
Jamie considered that. “My man will accompany you.”
“Aye, of course,” Mackenzie said with an easy smile. “But you need no’ waste a good man on us. I give you my word as a fellow Scot that she will be returned so that you may collect what is owed to your family.” He inclined his head as if he had just offered something very noble.
Jamie grinned. “Then you will understand, as a fellow Scot, that I donna trust you completely.”
Mackenzie laughed heartily and lifted his glass in a toast. “Aye, that I do.” He tossed the whisky back.
DUFF HAD SPENT the better part of the day finding the mysterious man Mrs. Moss had met in the glen.
“English,” Duff said, his distaste obvious.
“Another one.” Jamie sighed.
“Aye. Lives in the old MacKreegan fortress. I had thought it long abandoned, but he’s done a bit of repair to make it habitable.”
Jamie had thought the place long abandoned, too. Once a military outpost, it was far back in the hills. There was nothing else there, and the land was unsuitable even for cattle. “Anyone else?” he asked curiously.
“Didna see another.”
“How long has he been there?”
“That, he wouldna say. He was no’ the welcoming sort, aye?”
An Englishman who kept to himself. Jamie thought of Hamish and his claims of befriending an English earl. Was it possible? When his guests had left, he’d ride over and have a look himself.
“And what of the Brodies, lad? What do you intend to do about their offer?” Duff eyed Jamie closely as he awaited his answer.
But Jamie didn’t have an answer for him. He felt as if he’d left something unfinished in the hothouse today. It wasn’t the physical satisfaction, although he had felt that rather keenly. No, it was something else, and Jamie was at a loss to understand it. He looked away. “I’ll call on Isabella on the morrow, aye?”
That seemed to satisfy Duff.
It did not satisfy Jamie, however. He couldn’t shake the restlessness in him. Later, in the throne room, as he listened to the complaints of his clan, that feeling of something missing grew, pushing against his thoughts. As Gwain Campbell presented the latest complaint—his neighbor had stolen a goose—Jamie stared at the rafters, trying to find his bearings.
“Well then, Laird?” Gwain demanded. “What say you?”
The two men stood below him, waiting.
Jamie looked at the both of them. “I’ll tell you what I think. I think that this is an awful lot of bother for a goose.”
The two men exchanged a look of surprise.
“Let us delay judgment until next week, lads. I’ve no patience for it now.” He came off the laird’s seat and walked through the small crowd, ignoring their looks of astonishment.
He didn’t realize Geordie was hurrying after him until his brother caught him by the shoulder and forced him around. He held up his slate. Il?
“Ill? No,” Jamie said.
Geordie wiped the slate and wrote, Mad?
Everyone waited for his words, and yet Jamie couldn’t find them. He knew only that the words he needed to say, to hear, were missing.
IN HONOR OF the English guests—or, as Robbie said to Aileen, to keep an eye on them—supper was served in the formal dining room.
“I am waiting for King Arthur to sweep in with his mighty sword at any moment,” Charity said wryly. She and Daria, along with Mackenzie, were seated across from Robbie and Aileen Campbell and some other Campbells Daria had not met before tonight. Geordie, Hamish, and Duff flanked Jamie at the head of the table. The laird was looking a little glum, Daria thought.
“It’s positively medieval,” Charity muttered.
Daria made herself look away from Jamie and to the room. The people gathered to dine were laughing loudly, eating game, and drinking barley-bree and beer. “I find it interesting,” Daria said with a shrug. “It’s not as stuffy as a formal supper in England.”
Charity gave her a look. “It’s easy to see why you are an Original here. You are the most beautiful woman here.”
“No, m’annaschd, you are,” Mackenzie said. He leaned around Charity and smiled at Daria. “You, lass, are the only one who might compare,” he added smoothly.
Daria rolled her eyes at him. The gown Charity had brought her was stunning—a summer-green silk with an overlay of a sheer silver silk. When she walked, she looked as if she were moving in water.
“You should have seen the laird’s face when you walked in,” Charity whispered. “You could not see him, as every man in this room was standing before him, eyeing you like a sweetmeat.”
“They were eyeing you.” Charity was dressed in a simple white silk, but with diamonds glittering at her throat and her ears, she looked as elegant as a queen.
“No, you silly goose, it was you. Think of it, someday you will be seated in a grand ballroom—your own ballroom, darling—surrounded by fine things. You will think of this old castle in the wilds of Scotland and be thankful you escaped.”
“Will I?” Daria sighed. “I rather think I shall miss it.”
“At first you will,” Charity agreed. “But the memory will fade away once you are back where you belong. I know; I have experienced something quite similar.”
A young footman placed a large platter of fish and potatoes before them, then bowed low before hurrying off. Mackenzie graciously took Charity’s plate and filled it, then Daria’s.
“Look there, aye?” Mackenzie said, nodding up at the dais. Geordie was scribbling something on his slate, handing it to Jamie. “I saw him earlier today, scratching on that thing. Was he born mute?”
“No,” Daria said. “He was injured in a duel.”
Mackenzie’s eyes lit with interest. “Ach, if that’s what it is, I know a surgeon in Edinburra who might help him. One of me deckhands was hit right across the gullet by a rogue boom. Cut him deep, it did. Dr. Elgin gave him back his speech.” He suddenly put down his fork. “I’ll have a word,” he said, standing.
“Now?” Charity asked.
“What better time? We’re in Scotland, lass. We donna make much of social rules, aye?” He leaned down and said softly, “Tha gaol agam ort.”
Charity smiled as he sauntered off.
Daria tried to remember where she’d heard that phrase. It sounded rhapsodic to her. “What did he say?” she asked.
When Charity didn’t answer, Daria looked at her. The woman who could always be trusted to have the most inscrutable demeanor was suddenly blushing. “Charity! What did he say?”
A soft smile brightened Charity’s face. “He said, ‘I love you.’ ”
Daria gasped.
Charity’s blush deepened and she said, “Did you truly not suspect it? Yes, Daria, he loves me. And I love him.”
Of course Daria had suspected it, but that was not the reason for her gasp. It was because she had heard that phrase in the arms of Jamie Campbell. Jamie had said that to her.
Daria’s heart began to flutter. Her gaze flew to the dais, but Jamie was listening intently to what Mackenzie was telling him.
She drew a shallow breath. He’d said that he loved her. Not in English, the way she could understand it, but he had said it—and Daria allowed herself to believe that he did. Or hoped that he did. She hoped so fiercely that her head hurt.
“He was right glad for the information,” Mackenzie said when he returned. “He said he’d send his brother as soon as he was able, but that he had business with the Brodie clan on the morrow.”
Daria’s pulse began to pound. That was it, then. He would accept their terms. What other option did he have? Her heart ached. It was really no different here than in England—he loved her, but duty called. Duty always called.
She had no right to interfere in the course of his life, of this clan’s life. She had no right to try to persuade him to turn his back on Isabella for her. She had no business in Scotland, and once her parents arrived, she would be gone.
Charity was right—her future was in England. It was obvious.
So why did it hurt so badly?
THE EVENING HAD grown raucous, thanks in part to an endless supply of barley-bree, courtesy of Ian Campbell, who had made it his life’s work to perfect the brew. After supper they’d retired to the great hall, and Jamie’s injured leg was stretched out before him, aching a little, even after a few tots. He watched Daria across the room. She was with Geordie and her friend Miss Scott, the three of them engaged in some sort of diversion having to do with Geordie’s slate.
He’d hardly spoken a word to her this evening, other than to ask her how she enjoyed the meal. He was brooding, pondering what, if anything, he ought to do about her. But he’d come to the painful conclusion that he had no other option than to marry Isabella.
He could not marry Daria, as much as he desired to. The clan would not approve of his taking an English wife. And in truth, there were so many things to consider beyond that. She didn’t meet any requirement that had guided the matches of Campbell lairds for years. She couldn’t bring him wealth, or an alliance of any sort. She couldn’t stand in his stead should something happen to him, since she was English. And there was the matter of what her grandmother had done to Hamish.
Yet Daria brought him joy and happiness.
Wasn’t that what a man should desire? But he wasn’t free to follow his heart. He was laird. He was the sum of all the people gathered tonight. They owned him.
He stood. To hell with the clan.
He walked across the room to where Daria was writing on Geordie’s slate. “Miss Babcock, a word?” he asked.
She looked up with surprise. “Of course,” she said, and handed the slate to Geordie.
He offered his arm and led her away from the ears of the others. “I have news,” he said.
“Oh?” Her smile suddenly disappeared.
“We have found your grandmamma’s acquaintance. He is also English.”
“English!” she exclaimed, and smiled again. “What in heaven are so many English doing here, I wonder?”
Jamie couldn’t help but laugh. “If you determine what, you must promise to enlighten all of us poor Scots.”
She fixed her gaze on him and absently bit her bottom lip. “It appears I should have ample opportunity to survey all the English travelers. Charity says I shall be in high demand when I return home.”
“Will you?”
“Mmm,” she said. “I’ve had a very grand adventure, apparently, and everyone will want to hear about it.”
“Aha. Diah, leannan, where will you begin?”
“That is a very good question, sir,” she said with mock seriousness. “I rather doubt I will have the time I need to tell it all. I shall touch upon the highlights. An unconscious, naked man.” Her smile broadened. “The kidnapping, of course. That was dramatic at the time, but naturally I shall endeavor to make it seem very dramatic.”
“I think you must. Daggers drawn, that sort of thing.”
“Yes! Thank you!” She laughed. “I shall make myself appear brave and courageous.”
He covered her hand with his and squeezed it. “You should,” he agreed. “You were.”
Her eyes softened. For a moment, she looked sad.
He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, running over delicate bones and silken skin. Diah, how he would miss her. “I can well imagine your return to England with the tales of your great adventure. And before you know it, you will no longer lay claim to being the last debutante.”
Tears filled her eyes, but Daria smiled. “Do you know that I’ve not even thought of it recently? Things are so different here, Jamie. Things that I thought were of great importance now seem to have no importance at all.”
“Aye,” he said. “I’ve noticed the same.”
“I’m going home, aren’t I?” she whispered.
She was not asking if the ransom would be paid or if he would release her. She was asking if he would keep her. To love, to cherish.
Jamie swallowed down a lump of bitterness and looked at her hand.
She continued, “If I don’t have the opportunity to thank you before I go—not for kidnapping me; it seems rather ridiculous to thank someone for holding one for ransom. But for being so kind about it—well, I don’t really mean that, either,” she said, frowning. “I realize of course that things could have been much worse than they were, and for not making them worse, I thank you.”
He brought her hand to his lips before she could say anything else that would destroy him. “Perhaps it is best if you donna speak of it, aye?”
“Right you are,” she muttered. She pulled her hand free from his, as if she intended to walk away, but then suddenly poked him in the chest. “Promise me you will see to it that Peter has someone to talk to. And Duffson. You must keep an eye on him, for he is far too enamored with the young ladies at Dundavie.”
Jamie smiled.
“Well,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “I should get some rest. I suspect a visit to Mamie’s will be grueling. Good night, Jamie.”
“Good night, Daria.” He bowed low and watched her walk away.
She was far braver than he.
He was ready to quit this feast himself and turned about, almost colliding with Geordie.
Geordie held up his slate. Donna low drea go.
Jamie squinted at it, sounding it out. “Donna low drea go—” He suddenly looked up at his brother. “Donna allow Daria to go,” he said.
Geordie nodded.
But Geordie knew as well as he did that he had no choice.