Marjorie serenely scanned the ballroom before returning her attention to him. “I see this set has ended, my lord, and my husband’s other ward is searching for us. I take my role as chaperone very seriously and must make my way to her, your lordship. Please excuse us.”
A tinge of steel threaded her last words.
With a cordial nod to the ladies, each of their expressions schooled into blandness but a knowing glint in their eyes, she led Bethea away.
“Has he been pestering you, Bethea?” Marjorie asked beneath her breath as they fell into step, putting several feet between themselves and the pungent earl.
“Aye, and I can scarcely relax and enjoy myself. I’ve taken to hidin’ or lurkin’ in shadows. Montieth makes my skin crawl.” Bethea extracted her hand and then fitted it into Marjorie’s bent arm. “I fear he means to propose, and I canna abide him, Marjorie.” A note of anxiousness crept into her voice. “Keane wouldna—”
“Lord have mercy, no.” Marjorie gave a vigorous shake of her head. “Never think it, my dear. He thinks Montieth’s a sweaty toad, but the earl does have valuable connections. We’ll need to put Montieth off without offending him. I’ve already extracted a promise from Keane that you and Branwen will have your choice of husbands.”
“Have I told ye how glad I am Keane married ye?” Bethea pressed nearer to Marjorie’s side, a wide grin arcing her mouth. “I didna ken how we managed without ye before.”
Marjorie squeezed her arm. “And I’m delighted he has wards who could be the younger sisters I never had.”
They were upon Branwen now, resplendent in midnight blue and white. Her stance uneven, she offered a pained smile. “I fear my last partner trod upon my feet so many times, my toes are severely bruised. I believe I’ll rest for a few minutes in the ladies’ retirin’ room. Hopefully, puttin’ my feet up will do the trick.”
“I’ll go with ye,” Bethea offered, seizing the excuse to help her sister and avoid Montieth.
Marjorie nodded. “I’ll let Keane know.”
“Ah, there you are, Marjorie.” A pretty, plump woman with light brown hair and a radiant smile approached. “I’ve been searching for you all evening.” Her curious gaze gravitated to Bethea and her sister. “And these must be Keane’s wards.”
“Anna, I didn’t know you were in Scotland,” Marjorie bussed her cheek. “Yes, this is Bethea.” She indicated Bethea with a sweep of her hand. “And Branwen Glanville. Girls, this is Anna Buchannan Hawthorne. She’s actually a second or third cousin to Keane. We were girlhood friends.”
Anna laughed, a merry twinkle in her pale brown eyes. “Well, my branch of the family rarely ventured north of the border, and that’s why I’ve never met you in all this time.”
“’Tis a pleasure,” Bethea greeted. “How wonderful that ye were friends, and now ye’re cousins.”
“Indeed,” Branwen agreed, shifting on her feet and grimacing slightly.
She truly was uncomfortable.
Marjorie linked her elbow with Anna’s. “The girls were just on their way to the retiring room, but why don’t we find a quiet corner and catch up?”
“A splendid idea,” Anna agreed. “Ten years is far too long.”
“I’ll come for you in a half an hour,” Marjorie told Bethea and Branwen before turning away, her coppery head bent to hear what Anna was saying.
Bethea promptly wrapped an arm around Branwen’s waist and slowly guided her slightly taller sister from the ballroom. Though Branwen put on a brave face, her pinched lips and occasional flinches revealed the state of her damaged feet.
Ladies ought to be warned of Lord Hurstwood’s proclivity to mash his partners’ feet.
“Ye poor darlin’,” Bethea murmured as they entered the corridor.
“Lord Hurstwood is an exuberant dance partner, and I vow he tromped upon my toes a score of times.” Branwen winced again, and a small gasp escaped her.
Lord Hurstwood was no small man, either. Not given to corpulence like Montieth, Hurstwood was nonetheless a thick, stocky sort an inch or two over six feet.
Alarm spiked in Bethea.
Just how badly injured were Branwen’s feet?
Bethea’s scalp tingled, and she had the unmistakable sensation that someone watched her. As she turned the corner, she cut a swift glance along the passage. Her flesh puckered when she spotted the Earl of Montieth, his bulbous form framed in the ballroom’s entrance, staring at her with unfettered lust upon his fleshy face.
A sly smile curved his full mouth, and he boldly winked.
Just as she jerked her focus away, Camden Kennedy’s massive form appeared behind the earl. He looked straight at her, and a scintillating current sparked between them.
He is here.
When had he arrived?
And more mystifying, why hadn’t he sought her family out?
Chapter Two
Clenching his teeth, Camden speared a darkling glower at the Earl of Monteith’s broad, fleshy back. He’d seen the devil’s spawn ogling Bethea from across the ballroom, and when the earl had followed her and Branwen, Camden had momentarily set aside his purpose for being here tonight.
The instinct to shield Bethea from the lecherous tosspot thrummed through him, echoing with each strident step he took across the crowded room. His need to protect Bethea proved a dangerous distraction.
One he couldn’t afford at the moment, damn it all.
In truth, he hadn’t intended to attend tonight’s ball, and he hadn’t informed Marjorie or Keane of his last-minute change in plans. The widow of their older brother Sion, Camden and his brother Graeme still considered Marjorie their sister.
They always would.
The death of a family member didn’t negate the relationship forged over years.
Keane was his cousin, although there’d been little interaction between the two branches of the family for almost three decades. However, the Buchannans and Kennedys had reconciled their differences, and Camden had come to like and respect his ducal, sometimes stodgy, cousin.
He liked Keane’s eldest ward even more, although he’d not permitted himself to contemplate why. His was a dangerous life, running covert operations for the Crown, and although he enjoyed a lush, feminine body warming his bed, he wasn’t ready to take a bride. Doing so assuredly meant relinquishing his role as an agent.
Dragging in a steadying breath, and reminding himself of the importance of his mission–and that bloodying the nose of his host wouldn’t help advance that purpose–he shifted his focus beyond Montieth.
Camden met Bethea’s startled gaze across the distance. Her beautiful silver-gray eyes went round as the moon, and her delicate raven eyebrows arched high on her forehead.
A glint of welcome shone in her avid gaze, but a stark question did, as well.
Why didna ye tell anyone ye’d be here tonight?
In truth, he’d hoped to avoid his cousin, Marjorie, and the Glanville sisters in this throng, along with revealing the details required to explain his presence in Edinburgh. He’d meant to locate tonight’s target and furtively observe the Sir Phillip Etherington, until the Englishman slunk away for his clandestine meeting that was supposed to occur during the ball.
Then Camden, Bryston McPherson, and their men would follow the scunner, apprehend him en route to meet his contact, and relieve him of the incriminating evidence His Majesty sought.
There were far too many things that could go wrong with that plan. Nonetheless, Etherington had indeed arrived almost an hour ago, and as was his wont, had scarcely spoken to anyone, let alone danced. He was, quite obviously, as uncomfortable and out of place as a strumpet in a convent.
Bethea’s attention flickered to Monteith for an instant, and genuine fear shadowed her refined features.
The earl terrified her, Camden realized with an unpleasant start that ignited a spark of fury.
If Montieth had said or done anything…
Nae, he swiftly reassured himself.
Keane was most protective of his
wards. Montieth wouldn’t dare go beyond the bounds of propriety, or he’d risk Keane’s wrath. Montieth might be a powerful earl, but Keane was the Duke of Roxdale. A near legend in Scotland, and only an imbecile dismissed him offhandedly.
And yet, Montieth openly leered at her.
Well, that wasn’t precisely true.
Camden brushed a hand over his jaw as he eyed the earl, still avidly peering down the corridor.
The earl had let his guard down when he wasn’t aware others observed him, and with his back to the guests, only Bethea and her sister could see his face. Branwen appeared to be in some distress, and leaning heavily on Bethea, kept her gaze trained upon the floor.
Branwen murmured something, and pulling her gaze from Camden, Bethea bent her sable head near her sister’s slightly darker head as she guided the taller girl into the room. The door shut firmly behind them.
From what Camden’s informant had briefly told him about the house’s layout, that chamber was the retiring room, and Monteith wouldn’t dare intrude upon the ladies’ hallowed ground.
Or would he?
What did Camden know of Montieth, other than he was wealthy, powerful, and a sycophant always toadying for the king’s attention? Oh, and he had an eye for young ladies and a penchant for whoring. In all likelihood, the man probably had the clap.
Time to ponder and investigate that later, and by God, Camden would.
Right now, he needed to return his attention to the reason he was here tonight. Putting his thoughts of Bethea and Montieth aside, he faced the ballroom and sought Bryston McPherson, also a covert agent for the Crown.
Several ladies gave the ominous-looking Scot with a thin scar lashing his left cheek wary glances and a wide berth. As was his habit, Bryston had pulled his long blond hair back on the sides and secured it in a knot at the back of his head. His size and features revealed his Norse heritage.
Neither Camden nor Bryston had any particular love for King George I, but they did for Scotland. There were those only too happy to drag Scotland into another brutal war. More violence, more killing and death, more sorrow and heartache.
The King had quashed two uprisings in the last few years, but Camden feared there would always be Scots resistant to English rule. He didn’t blame them, and in truth, understood their frustration. But by damn, Scotland and her people had suffered enough.
A wound never healed if constantly picked. Scotland was very much like that.
Bryston jutted his strong chin toward the terrace, and Camden gave an infinitesimal nod indicating he understood. Casually strolling the ballroom’s perimeter, he avoided looking directly at anyone as he made his way to the exit.
Disguised as highwaymen, six men awaited him in an alley a half street away.
Unlike Camden and Bryston, these Scots hadn’t been retained for clandestine operations at His Majesty’s behest. Fearless, ferocious fighters, and utterly ruthless, the mercenaries awaiting him and Bryston fought for whatever man possessed the heaviest purse.
And because Camden acted as an extension of His Majesty, that man was him. For now.
In truth, his superior, Sir Walter Makepeace, had brought these mercenaries on board, adamant that the nature of this assignment called for men of a different ilk than trained agents or soldiers.
It still struck Camden as irregular that in all the missions he’d participated in, only this one, led by Makepeace, required hired mercenaries.
Camden wholeheartedly disagreed with Makepeace’s assessment, but wary and watchful, he followed orders nevertheless.
Tonight marked the eighth time they’d detained a coach in an attempt to catch the traitor.
Every other time, Etherington had eluded them, which was why they’d changed tactics and opted to watch the Englishman’s every move tonight. He’d sent out a decoy coach as usual, but this time, Camden was ready for his trickery.
His position with the Crown had required him to take on the persona of a smuggler and marauder. Bryston, on the other hand, had truly sailed the seas for nigh on a decade as a buccaneer. Captain of his own ship, he’d carried letters of marque sanctifying his privateering.
An intimidating man, he boasted several piercings and tattoos. When he’d left his former life, he agreed to join Camden as an agent for His Majesty, not quite ready to relinquish an adventurer’s life just yet.
To this day, Camden didn’t know what caused Bryston to leave the life of a seafarer abruptly, and he hadn’t asked. Some things a man didn’t share.
“Shall we be about it, then?” Camden said as he fell into step beside Bryston.
“Aye,” Bryston agreed with a terse nod. Lowering his voice as they approached the footmen standing at attention, he murmured, “I have men watchin’ every exit. They’ll give the signal the second that English turd pokes his beak out.”
Boot heels clacking on the charcoal gray and white tiled marble foyer, they strode toward the door. For the benefit of the crimson and gold liveried footmen standing at attention on either side of the entrance, as well anyone else watching, Camden slapped Bryston heartily upon the back. “What say ye we find ourselves a bit of real entertainment?” he said loudly.
“Aye,” Bryston chuckled and jeered. “I canna watch any more of those foplin’s and coxcombs prancin’ about like banty roosters.” One pinky in the air and his mouth pursed, he demonstrated a few mincing steps.
The corner of a footman’s mouth twitched as if he agreed with Bryston’s assessment.
Oh, to be able to see inside the mind of a servant. What tales they might tell.
Moments later, he and Bryston tripped down the immaculate front stairs. The dank, damp air encircled them as they sauntered down the cobbled lane. Camden casually glanced over his shoulder before giving a slight nod, and they slipped into the side street.
It only took a few moments to divest his evening jacket and exchange it for a black, wool coat to match those of his comrades. Wrapping a black scarf around his neck, he nodded to Bryston.
“Ye take three men and find a place to conceal yerselves along Wester Road. The others will ride with me, and we’ll do the same on Easter Road.”
They must catch Etherington before he boarded the ship at Leith, and aside from Leith Walk, those were the two main routes between Edinburgh and Leith.
Camden disregarded Leith Walk as an escape route for Etherington. The Englishman enjoyed his creature comforts too much. He wouldn’t trudge two miles on foot to the port in the fog and drizzle this time of night.
No, he’d take Easter or Wester Roads, and Camden would place his money on Easter.
He crammed a knitted cap upon his head, as did Bryston before tugging on black leather gloves. Except for their mounts and varying sizes, the men were indistinguishable from one another.
Exactly as Camden had planned.
A handful of minutes later, the men mounted, and he straightened in the saddle, taking in each hireling, one by one. “Nae matter who snares Etherin’ton, we’ll meet nae later than four in the mornin’.”
Only he and Bryston knew the particular location of that rendezvous, The Boar and Brew—an unobtrusive inn outside Dalkeith. From there, they’d transport Etherington to England to meet whatever fate His Majesty deemed appropriate.
Much would depend on the evidence Etherington carried on him tonight, and how cooperative he proved during his interrogation. In all likelihood, no matter how forthcoming he was, he’d swing from the gallows for his treachery.
And, if all went as anticipated, this plotting to overthrow the king would cease. For the sake of Scotland and her people, it must. Scotland needed to heal, and constant turmoil and insurrection prevented that. If the time ever came for Scotland to regain her independence from England again—peacefully—Camden would be the first to celebrate.
Hunched down and slightly slumped, giving the appearance of a pished tippler slowly making his way home, Camden reigned his mount out of the wynd first.
As arranged, his men gradua
lly followed, keeping their distance from one another so as not to raise suspicion. The ring of the horses’ hooves echoing on the slick cobblestones penetrated the night.
Occasionally, necks bent and collars raised against the cool breeze, men scurried by. A skinny dog slunk past, its tail between his legs, and cats yowled angrily in the distance as they did before a fight commenced.
Over the past fifteen minutes, the drizzle had transformed into large raindrops, and the fog had thickened until he could only see a few feet ahead.
Camden went over the ambush several times in his head until he was positive he’d considered every possibility. After Etherington’s capture, they’d seek his conspirator.
Several of Montieth’s guests tonight were known to harbor less than loyal sentiments toward the king. Not that George I had earned the Scots’ or, for that matter, the English’s respect and admiration.
Satisfied with the evening’s progress so far, at least as far as snaring the traitor to the Crown, he allowed his mind to wander to Bethea.
Thinking about her definitely didn’t bring the same degree of gratification.
Bethea’s pale face as she’d stood in the corridor, an arm wrapped around her sister’s waist, lurched to the forefront of his mind. Wearing an exquisite lavender and silver gown, the toes of her lavender silk shoes peeking out from beneath the hem, her beauty had staggered him like a punch to the gut.
Once more, he recalled the graceful slant of her jaw and cheeks, the elegant arch of her creamy neck, and the glossy sheen of her ebony upswept hair.
He scratched his jaw, trying to recall just how long the Glanville sisters had been Roxdale’s wards.
Fifteen years?
Aye, that seemed about right.
Most of Bethea’s and Branwen’s lives then. Point of fact, they were more like Keane’s adopted sisters than his wards, and therefore, essentially cousins to the Kennedys, as well.
That must be what stirred his protective instincts—the familial connection. Montieth had threatened his kin and even now was a threat to Bethea.
Camden sensed it with every nerve, pore, and fiber of his being.
To Marry a Highland Marauder Page 2