“Nae, I’m nae conspirator. Set yer mind at ease about that.” Camden scraped a big hand through his hair. “Sir Phillip Etherin’ton is a traitor, however, and I’m turnin’ him over to an English agent awaitin’ us. That’s all I can tell ye. I’m sorry.”
Her lower lip caught between her teeth, she probed his gaze. Either he was a fantastical liar, or he spoke the truth.
She’d bet her life on the latter, and her instinct had never steered her wrong before. But then again, she’d never been abducted and awoken to a spy reassuring her.
The list!
Bethea had almost forgotten.
She leaned forward and earnestly clasped his hand resting atop his marbled thigh. “Etherin’ton has a list. The names of peers and…and others who have vowed to depose the King.”
Camden looked at her incredulously. “How do ye ken that?”
“I saw Montieth give it to him. He took it from a secret compartment hidden behind books in his study.” She quickly relayed what had happened.
“Och, now that is verra interestin’ indeed.” An approving smile tilted his mouth. “Well done. Ye’ve uncovered the contact we’ve been seekin’ for the better part of a year, Bethea.”
“I have?” A surge of pride engulfed her.
“Indeed. Ye’ve helped save many lives.” He gathered her much smaller hand in his.
She wasn’t altogether certain that excitement that she’d helped catch a spy was causing the heat infusing her or the quivering in her belly.
“But I need ye to swear no’ to tell anyone else of this until I tell ye ’tis safe to do so.”
Unease reared its head. “Why?”
He angled his dark head toward the outdoors again. His hair hung to his shoulders and swung slightly with the motion. “I have three hired men with me. Untrustworthy, unsavory curs who’d sell that information, no’ carin’ the lives it would cost or the havoc it would wreak on Scotland.”
She gulped and slid an apprehensive glance in the direction he’d looked. “Why are they with ye if they are so disloyal and reprehensible?”
He turned her hand over, examing her palm.
Where were her gloves?
Oh, that’s right, she’d removed them when caring for Branwen.
“They are the best at what they do,” he replied, matter of factly. “That’s all ye need to ken.”
She studied his face for a long moment.
Nae, I didna ken Camden Kennedy at all.
Camden’s jaw flexed, and he gently squeezed her fingers. “How is yer head?”
“Sore, and there’s a mighty lump.” Bethea gingerly probed her scalp. It wasn’t bleeding, so she supposed she ought to be grateful for that small blessing.
He made a harsh sound in his throat. “Do ye feel waffy or dizzy?”
“Only sick at my stomach, but that might be from the coach. I get sick on long journeys. ’Tis the rockin’ motion. ’Tis the same on boats, too.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I fear I’m no’ exactly heroine material.”
“Och, that depends on who the hero is, disna it?” His voice held a tone she couldn’t quite identify, but which sent a delicious thrill through her.
And, at present, she wasn’t in any mind to examine it further. “What time is it? My family will be beside themselves, and that fat pissant is to blame.”
“It’s nearly half-past two.” He gave her hand a slight squeeze. Odd, she had no desire to remove it from his warm clasp. “We’ll send word to Keane as soon as possible. I promise ye.”
“I wonder how that asslin’ Montieth explained my disappearance?”
Camden didn’t look shocked at her use of profanity. “I’d guess he vowed ignorance and put on a show of concern worthy of a Shakespearian actor.”
Sighing, she rested against the surprisingly comfortable squabs. “I’m beginnin’ to wish I’d never left the Highlands.”
He seemed distracted and only tipped his mouth on one side at her declaration.
“Bethea?”
She turned her head, exhaustion weighing her eyelids. “Aye?”
We’ll arrive at our destination soon.” Something shadowed the contours of Camden’s face, but she couldn’t identify what it was. If she had to put a word to it, the expression had been something between regret and resignation.
“Bethea?” he said her name again.
She went still, searching his face. “There’s somethin’ else, isna there?”
Almost bashfully, he scratched his eyebrow and gave a slow nod. “I had to claim that ye… To keep the men from…” Jaw flexing, he released a gust of breath. “That is, to assure yer safety and that nae one dare impose their—ah—attentions on ye, I had to claim ye were my betrothed.”
Bethea, again, glanced out the window, unable to see the riders accompanying them. Camden wouldn’t have made such an assertion if it hadn’t been necessary.
“I suppose it could’ve been worse,” she bantered. “Ye could’ve said I was yer wife, and in Scotland, that might be enough to be considered an irregular marriage.”
Chapter Seven
The Boar and Brew Inn and Tavern
Dalkeith Scotland
22 March 1721
Bloody damned hell.
Camden gritted his teeth to tame more curses as he handed Bethea down from the coach onto the sodden ground. To a man, his men stared at her like she was a sweetmeat or a dainty they wanted to gobble up. For her part, she kept her gaze averted and stayed close to his side.
She might not admit it, but her trembling revealed her unease.
The rain had ceased, but the air remained damp and heavy with the promise of more showers.
Though Sir Walter awaited his arrival, he’d see Bethea settled in a chamber first. A locked chamber. He’d appoint a guard as well, but he didn’t trust anyone besides himself and Bryston.
As if conjured by his thoughts, Bryston McPherson appeared in the inn’s doorway. His eyes went wide upon spying Bethea, but after Camden’s infinitesimal shake of his head, Bryston gravitated his attention to Etherington.
“Take him inside. I’ll be there, momentarily.”
With a curt nod, Bryston clasped a soggy, sweaty, white-faced Etherington. His swollen nose had begun to bruise already. They disappeared inside the inn, and several men turned curious glances on Bethea, bold male interest and appreciation in their eyes.
With her sable hair, bowed mouth—red from nervously chewing her lower lip—gently sloping cheeks, and dove-gray, almond-shaped eyes beneath winged eyebrows set in an oval face, she was unquestionably lovely.
His coat hid most of her womanly assets, but he knew her to have a narrow waist, nipped in by stays, and a full, creamy bosom. He also knew she smelled of lilacs and lilies.
When he’d put his coat on her, her perfume had teased him unmercifully.
Camden had best get her inside and out of their view. No sense tempting the men with what they couldn’t have.
“Anderson and Headden, take care of the horses and then have yerselves somethin’ to eat.” The hostler had been paid in advance to have food, drink, and their rooms prepared for their arrival.
Pray to God, a chamber was available for Bethea that bolted from inside.
At least a dozen uniformed soldiers lounged about the common room as Camden steered Bethea inside by her elbow.
Tension radiated off her in undulating waves.
“Easy, sweet,” he whispered in her ear. “Nae harm will come to ye.”
Glancing upward, she summoned a wan smile.
“I’ll see ye settled in a chamber before I meet with my contact,” he murmured.
The slim column of her throat worked, but she managed a stiff nod.
Once inside the inn, and after speaking with Shamus Dowdery, the innkeeper, Camden swore a vile oath.
Bloody hell.
No additional rooms were available.
There was no help for it. Bethea would have to use his. There was no way she could stay in the comm
on area with this many men about, and she couldn’t be present for his confidential meeting with Sir Walter Makepeace.
“I’ll need a dinner tray and hot water sent up at once,” he told Shamus, a cheerful chap, despite the ungodly hour and the two score unruly men crowding his establishment.
“Aye. My missus will see to it.” He motioned a beefy arm toward the thrumming common room. “The barmaids are a bit overwhelmed at present.”
Even at this hour, the place buzzed with conversation and laughter.
Camden escorted her to the chamber assigned to him. Leaving the door ajar, he swiftly lit a lamp and nodded his approval. Small and humble, but clean. A bed took up most of the room, an extra quilt folded across the foot. On one side of the bed stood a washstand, and on the other, a chair. A single window, the shutters closed and barred from within, was centered in the wall across from the bed.
As this was the third story, no one would be entering that way. He closed the door, and after inspecting the sturdy bar that acted as a detriment to unwanted visitors, he cupped her shoulders.
Her eyes huge in her pale face, she gazed at him with such trust, it humbled him.
“I have to leave ye, Bethea.”
A sharp rap portended the mistress of the establishment’s entrance. “My, but ’tis a busy one,” she said, blustering into the already cramped chamber. She set the tray upon the chair and motioned for a teenage lad to pour steaming water into the basin from the pail he held.
“Thank you,” Bethea said with a generous smile for both of them. “The food smells delicious.”
She’d always done that—had a ready smile for everyone and made everyone feel special. Mayhap she’d been too polite to Montieth, and he’d mistaken her kindness for something more.
Mrs. Dowerdy beamed. “There’s soap and linen on the washstand.” She wiped her hands on her apron before pushing several strands of wispy dark blonde hair under her cap. “If ye havna need of anythin’ else, I’ll go below. Those soldiers seem to think my girls are available for purchase.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “I’m a God-fearin’ woman, and I run a respectable establishment.”
She cast Camden a gimlet eye before her less than subtle gaze slid to Bethea. He’d told her husband Bethea was his betrothed, but her lack of a chaperone or maid certainly made that assertion suspicious. Not to mention, she still wore his coat.
Bethea gave him a helpless little glance.
“Thank ye.” Camden produced a coin, and that seemed to mollify the woman.
She took herself off, giving the weary lad orders as they departed.
“Bar the door and dinna open it for anyone but me,” Camden said. “If I can manage it, I’ll send Bryston up to guard the door.”
Bethea nodded as she sank onto the bed and put a hand to her injured head. “How long will ye be?”
He shook his head. “I have nae idea. Try to eat somethin’ and then rest.”
“I shan’t be able to sleep a wink, but I am hungry.” She lifted the cloth covering the tray and smiled. “Scotch pies.” She held two out to him. “Here, ye must be starvin’, too.”
He gratefully accepted them with one hand and drew her close with the other. He dropped a kiss onto her forehead in what he hoped was a brotherly fashion. What she stirred in him was most certainly not fraternal, but there was no time to explore that now.
Sir Walter awaited him, and the king’s advisor was not a patient man.
Camden stepped from the chamber and drew the door partially shut. “Secure it after me.”
Taking a bite of the savory pie, he waited until he heard the bar slam home before heading below, gulping down the remaining pie as he went. He needed a pint of ale now.
Hell, a bottle of whisky wouldn’t go amiss.
He might’ve saved Bethea from Etherington and Montieth’s despicable plans for her, but how in Odin’s teeth could he salvage her reputation?
He couldn’t.
Ruined.
That was what she was.
Utterly and irrevocably.
Even before he brought her to the inn, she’d been beyond redemption. Merely being alone with Etherington was enough to cause a scandal, and then she’d been alone with Camden. And now two score men, as well as Dowerdy and his wife, had seen her.
An astute lass, surely Bethea understood how perilous her situation was.
Camden didn’t want to contemplate Keane’s reaction. Keane was the product of rape and a forced marriage. He’d come unhinged if he thought Bethea had come to harm, or if a hint of scandal or impropriety was associated with her name.
Even Camden wasn’t entirely certain he’d be safe from Keane’s vengeance, though he’d rescued Bethea from the devious plans Montieth had for her.
As he made his way to the parlor reserved for the appointment with Sir Walter Makepeace, he turned his thoughts to the list tucked inside his boot. He’d found it after a thorough search of Etherington’s person.
The idiot hadn’t even bothered to try to hide it in the coach.
His arrogance had been his downfall in more ways than one.
Two weary red-clad soldiers stood guard outside the private parlor. They gave him curious glances but remained silent as he knocked briskly.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
After receiving a curt request to enter, he strode into the room.
Bryston was already there, resting a shoulder against the wall. He dipped his chin in a wordless greeting.
Standing before the fireplace, Sir Walter Makepeace examined a document. Barely six inches over five feet and so slight, he looked as if a strong wind might blow him over, many were the fools who’d underestimated the advisor. A brilliant strategist possessing a keen intelligence, he had the king’s ear for a reason. As was his habit, he wore a gray jacket and breeches. Only his waistcoat ever changed color. Today, it was a dark green and ebony striped affair.
He acknowledged Camden’s entrance with a penetrating glance and a sharp nod before his attention veered to Etherington.
Three bored, heavy-lidded soldiers stood guard near the traitorous Englishman.
As if an honored guest, Phillip Etherington sat picking at a plate of food, a serviette tucked into his collar, his nose a swollen beacon in his face. The simple fare might well be his last meal.
Camden would’ve let the cur starve, and he couldn’t help but wonder at the traitor’s preferential treatment. Did Makepeace think treating Etherington civilly would loosen his tongue?
The smile Etherington slid Camden raised the hairs on his scalp.
Leaning back, Etherington nonchalantly took a sip of wine. “I was explaining to Sir Walter how your betrothed happened to be in my company.”
His tone indicated he clearly didn’t believe Bethea and Camden were trothed.
Bryston went perfectly still, but like any agent worth his salt, his expression didn’t reveal his astonishment. He, of course, knew damn well Camden was no more affianced to Bethea Glanville than he was able to sprout wings and fly back to the Highlands.
Arms folded, Camden regarded the Englishmen with the same favor he would a corpse fished from the North Sea after a month. “Did ye also tell him why ye agreed to abduct her so that Montieth could violate her, and thereby force her to wed him?”
Slowly straightening to his impressive six feet four inches, Bryston wrapped his hand around the handle of the dirk at his waist. The look he exchanged with Camden spoke volumes.
He also well knew Keane’s fury, and if Sir Walter didn’t dispose of Etherington and Montieth, Keane would. Bryston tipped his hawkish gaze toward the ceiling in silent communication, and Camden answered with a barely discernable movement of his eyes.
Without a word, Bryston slipped from the room.
Bethea would be safe until Camden returned.
Sir Walter, a devotedly religious man—fanatical some would say—looked appropriately appalled. “Contemptible behavior.” He turned his sad, hound dog brown-eyed gaze upon Camden. “How fares yo
ur affianced? Is she overwrought? Is there anything I can do to ease her distress?”
“She’s restin’ in my room.” The less Sir Walter knew about Bethea, the better. He wasn’t above exploiting the situation if he thought in any way it might be used to bring him favor with His Majesty.
In truth, he’d pondered several times why Robert Walpole had chosen Sir Walter to head the uprising suppressions. Makepeace’s political experience leaned toward commerce and foreign affairs, rather than civil rebellion.
“Good. Good.” With a slant of his head and an extended arm, he indicated Camden should precede him into an adjoining room. Once out of Etherington’s earshot, Sir Walter asked, “Have you the documentation?”
Camden bent and pulled the paper from his boot. Wordlessly, he passed it to the advisor.
“Have you read it?”
Camden shook his head. “Nae. Ye said ’twas classified.”
With an affirmative grunt, Makepeace unfurled the parchment, his white, wiry eyebrows contorting as he read the list of names. Rather than gloating or celebratory, he raised those soulful eyes to Camden’s. “A bloody shame.” He tapped the paper. “Good men here. Good men caught up in misplaced loyalty.”
“Aye.” Sighing, Camden cupped his nape. It brought him no joy or sense of satisfaction to have succeeded at his assignment. Fellow Scots would lose their lives, and that was never a cause for rejoicing. “And as ye may have deduced already, Montieth is the other rat we’ve been after.”
Sir Walter crinkled his broad brow and set his full mouth into a stern line. “I confess, I still find that galling to accept.” He tapped the paper with a forefinger again. “In all these years I’ve been at this business, it still grieves me to learn of the treachery from those considered loyal. That’s what makes this job so damned impossible.”
Impossible, indeed. For didn’t adversaries each pray to the same God for victory? Things were seldom black and white in life. Even this business with who should be on the throne was several shades of gray. But in the end, order must be kept, or else civilization disintegrated into barbarity and savagery.
To Marry a Highland Marauder Page 6
