The lush Scottish Highlands are a tempting setting for seduction in New York Times bestselling author Julia London’s sparkling novel. Who is the captive and who is the captor? When a sexy laird holds a spirited English lady for ransom, she turns the tables and steals his heart. The last person Daria Babcock expects to find in her grandmother’s home is a brawny, naked Highlander. She doesn’t buy Mamie’s explanation about finding the poor man shot in the woods. Nor does she trust the gorgeous laird, who insists his own memory fails him. But Daria came to Scotland looking for adventure and romance, and after the intriguing stranger kidnaps her, she gets her wish—and so much more.... Julia London is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than forty romantic fiction novels. She is the recipient of the RT Book Reviews Award for Best Historical Romance and a six-time finalist for the prestigious RITA award for excellence in romantic fiction. She lives in Austin, Texas. The Last Debutante One DUNDAVIE, THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, 1811 JAMIE CAMPBELL WASN’T alarmed when the old woman pointed her gun at his head—he was galled. He’d ridden up to her fence and had just come off his saddle when the cottage door opened and she appeared with her blunderbuss. He’d suffered more than his fair share of vexations these last few weeks. Things had gone to hell when his brother, Geordie, had called out Cormag Brodie and very nearly killed him. Not unreasonably, that had prompted Cormag’s sister Isabella, who was Jamie’s fiancée, to cry off their engagement. That was almost enough to drive a man to the nearest bottle of barley-bree, but to finish off that spectacularly bad event, Jamie then discovered that his uncle Hamish, who was losing a wee bit of his mind every day, had given away the money Jamie had managed to save in the family coffers. That money was all Jamie had to help support his clan, who had seen their livelihoods erode with the encroachment of Lord Murchison’s sheep onto their small parcels of land, and many had left for better occupations in Glasgow and beyond. For the nine years Jamie had sat as laird of the Dundavie Campbells, he’d tried to lead them into the winds of change while holding on to as much of their way of life as possible. The Brodies were key to his plan, so it was all bloody well vexing—as was this woman and her gun. Jamie was descended from a long line of scrappy, argumentative Highland Campbells, men whose mettle had been tested at war, during famines, and in the throes of great change. They were not the sort of men to be put off by duels or broken engagements, or an old woman and her blunderbuss—which was shaking a little as she struggled to hold the thing up. “There’s no call for that now, aye?” he said, pausing outside the gate. He held up both hands to show he was unarmed. “As you are standing on my property, I’ll be the one to judge,” the woman retorted in a crisp English accent. Sassenach. Mary, Queen of Scots, another one. Jamie’s hackles rose. “What business have you here, sir?” What business had he here? He was born and reared here, in these very hills. He knew them all, every path, every stream, every tree. What the devil was she doing here? Ach, he shouldn’t have come. He didn’t generally act in haste; at the very least, he should have brought Duff, his cousin and right hand, along. But Old Willie had told him that the woman who lived in this cottage on Brodie lands was the one who had used Hamish so ill, and it had made Jamie feel a wee bit murderous. What sort of person took advantage of an old man who possessed only half his mind? Jamie was so intent on discovering the answer that he’d immediately ridden in the direction of the Brodie lands. He sighed and looked at the neat little thatched-roof cottage. It was set back against towering firs on the edge of a small field where chickens wandered about, pecking at the ground. The cottage had been whitewashed and the fence recently mended, judging by the fresh yellow lumber. A wiggen tree, which superstitious Highlanders often planted near their cottages to ward off witches, shaded the front garden, and in one open window loaves of freshly baked brown bread were cooling. It was idyllic, the sort of tidy vista that had lately brought Englishmen flocking to the Highlands. The woman, however, was not what Jamie had expected. Old Willie had said she was English, but he’d not mentioned her gray hair or her rounded middle. Jamie had expected a vixen with a sultry gaze and curving figure, a woman who was a master at depriving men of their money. This woman looked as if she ought to be waulking wool. Jamie lowered his hands. “I am Jamie Campbell, Laird of Dundavie.” He waited for her inevitable gasp of alarm when she realized she had done the unthinkable by threatening a man of power and means. She did not gasp. She hoisted her gun up a wee bit more. “That means naught to me. There are