To Marry a Highland Marauder

by Cameron, Collette

“Are you certain about Montieth?” Genuine remorse creasing Sir Walter’s face, he shook his white bewigged head. “He’ll be put to death, you know.”

  Why was he so obsessed about Montieth? Surely the list he held contained the names of many other influential people. Possibly individuals more prominent and powerful than the earl.

  “Aye, I’m sure.” Brushing a palm over his stubbled jaw, Camden gave a curt nod. “My betrothed heard him. Saw him hand Etherin’ton that list.” He pointed at the paper. “And she kens of a secret compartment in Montieth’s study. I’d vow there is more evidence within.”

  “Indeed.” A spark of interest glinted in Sir Walter’s poignant eyes as he refolded the paper. “I should very much like to see the contents. Indeed, I would.” Rocking back on his heels, he grasped his lapel with one hand. “In point of fact…” His voice trailed off, the perceptiveness that made him a master at the game of subterfuge and intrigue turning his eyes flinty. “Hmm.”

  What?

  He settled that unnerving gaze upon Camden. “How long a journey is it to Edinburgh?”

  Edinburgh? Why, for God’s sake?

  He didn’t mean to travel there now?

  No, surely Sir Walter contemplated leaving after the men had slept.

  Which meant, he’d either take Etherington with him, send Camden and Bryston to escort the blackguard to London, or entrust the traitor with his soldiers to do likewise.

  The latter wasn’t a good idea, and Camden wouldn’t hesitate to say so. Not with a man as cunning as Etherington.

  Camden rolled a shoulder, feigning disinterest. By God, the men were likely half-pished by now. “Three hours, more or less, with ideal road conditions. Faster on horseback, of course.”

  But Sir Walter Makepeace always traveled in a very comfortable, very cumbersome coach.

  Make that four hours, at least.

  With a decisive nod, he announced, “We’re for Edinburgh, Kennedy. Ready your men. We’ll depart at first light.”

  Christ.

  He’d have to wake Bethea. Perhaps Sir Walter would allow him to remain behind or delay their departure for a few hours. “My betrothed—”

  “About that.” Lines bracketing Sir Walter’s mouth and his abundant eyebrows knitted into a single line, he harrumphed. “The poor girl—ward to Roxdale, isn’t she?”

  “Aye.” What did it matter to the adviser?

  “I cannot do anything about her abduction or the difficulties she’s endured,” Sir Walter said, striding to the door. “But she’s done the Crown a great service, and I can see the blot upon her reputation rectified to a degree.”

  How, precisely?

  Premonition prickled the length of Camden’s spine.

  He detected the unspoken question in Camden’s eyes.

  “Come, Kennedy. You disappoint me.” Sir Walter chuckled, genuine jollity lighting his eyes. “The solution is simple. You’ll marry before we depart, and then we’ll spread the tale that, overcome by love and impatience to wed, you eloped with your Miss Glanville.”

  Keane will fuckin’ kill me.

  Chapter Eight

  Bethea removed Camden’s wool coat and frowned at her impossibly wrinkled gown. Dirt stained the hem as well as her shoes. Giving a small shrug, she proceeded to wash her face and hands.

  She was never one to fret over that which she couldn’t change. Besides, it was possible the gown, as well as her shoes, could be salvaged. If not, then another, less fortunate soul might make good use of them.

  Examining her face in the looking glass, other than her rumpled hair and shadows of fatigue ringing her eyes, she didn’t appear much worse for wear. Her head ached, but the earlier queasiness had passed, and in fact, she anticipated enjoying the fragrant Scotch pie awaiting her.

  Her abduction had meant she’d missed supper, and despite escaping an undeniably perilous situation, her stomach gnawed hollowly. But then the reality of her current situation seeped into her mind, and trepidation tempered her hunger.

  No one need tell her she was ruined.

  Inextricably and irredeemably.

  Keane would likely send her packing straightaway to Trentwick Castle, where she’d live the remainder of her days in shame and scorn. With all of those cats. Well, Keane’s Scottish wildcats. Och, he might find a Scot willing to wed a tainted wife, but her dreams of a love-match and happily ever after had been shattered the moment Etherington clobbered her.

  It wasn’t bloody fair.

  She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing. She refused to feel remorse for overhearing traitors plotting. And yet, because of the actions of those reprehensible blackguards, her life and her future had been inalterably changed. And not for the better.

  More exasperating was the knowledge that if she were a man, her virtue would be a non-issue.

  Fighting tears—all the more infuriating because she wasn’t given to crying at the drop of a feather—she removed the remaining pins from her hair. She combed her fingers through the length to remove the majority of the snarls, taking care not to aggravate the knot at the back of her head. After plaiting the waist-length tresses, she searched for something to tie the ends together.

  A piece of lace hung loose on her sleeve, and she gave it a vicious tug, taking her frustration out on the poor garment. Once Bethea had tied her hair, she inhaled a bracing breath.

  No sense in moping about, sullen and petulant.

  What was done was done.

  Good had come of this debacle—apprehending Etherington, and soon, hopefully, Montieth, as well. Which meant she no longer had to endure his foul attention.

  Perhaps, after a time, Keane would permit her to travel and take Branwen with her, for the disgrace would taint her dear sister as well. He might even hire a companion to accompany her.

  After all, Bethea was of age. But—and that was a very big but—she had no funds of her own. Mayhap he could be persuaded to give her the dowry he’d settled upon her?

  Feeling marginally mollified with that notion, but still heartsick about the disgrace her disappearance would inevitably cause her family, she set to her delicious Scotch pie, washing it down with wonderfully strong, if a trifle tepid, tea.

  Despite her determination to stay awake, her eyelids kept drifting downward. A boisterous laugh from the courtyard or the common room jolted her awake more than once before she gave in to her exhaustion.

  After covering herself with the extra quilt from the foot of the bed, she sank into the rather lumpy straw mattress and even lumpier pillow. Never had a bed felt half so comfortable.

  Sleep beckoned and still pondering if Keane might be amenable to the possibility of her escaping the humiliation by traveling for six months or a year, she yawned.

  I’ve always wanted to visit Rome. The Pantheon and the Colosseum. The Roman Forum—

  Sleep claimed her, bringing blessed forgetfulness.

  *

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Struggling awake, Bethea crinkled her brow. Who banged at her bedchamber door in the middle of the night?

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Bethea?”

  Knock. Knock.

  A man?

  Not Keane.

  Forcing her eyelids open, she stared around her in confusion.

  Where was she?

  “Bethea?” Knock. Knock. “’Tis Camden.” Knock. Knock. “Open the door. ’Tis important.”

  “Camden?”’ she murmured groggily.

  What?

  Memory flooded back, slamming into her with the impact of a pair of millstones.

  Och, God.

  She scrambled off the bed and hurriedly lifted the board barring the entrance.

  At once, he shoved the door open and slipped inside. His presence seemed to fill the space and suck the very air from the tiny chamber.

  Pushing her hair off her face, she met his tense gaze. “Did it no’ go well with Etherin’ton?”

  Something had him in a temper. Every plane of his face stood out stark
ly, and a grim line pulled his full mouth into a stern ribbon.

  “Camden?” Frissons of alarm skittered down her back and tangled low in her belly. She placed a hand on his forearm.

  He stiffened, the muscle beneath her palm twitching. Even as he did so, his warmth penetrated her skin and his masculine scent met her nostrils fresh sweat, leather, horse, and another woodsy aroma.

  “Bethea?” He summoned what was, at best, a tenuous smile.

  She stepped away, tilting her chin to see him better.

  He was, after all, three or four inches over six feet tall, and while she was no short lass at six inches over five feet herself, he towered over her. The immense width of his shoulders and chest, the corded column of his neck, and the tree-trunks he had for thighs all contributed to the impression of him as a powerful, brawny warrior.

  The fierce scowl darkening his face at the moment did, as well.

  Why was he so upset? How long had he been below?

  It must be near dawn. She cast a glance at the shuttered window. No hint of light peeked through any of the cracks, but if the sky were still obstructed by heavy cloud cover, daylight would creep upon the inn like a low blanket of fog upon a loch.

  “I assume somethin’ happened to disgruntle ye,” she offered, prying gently. She wasn’t one to poke her nose in another’s private affairs, but whatever had Camden disgruntled pertained to her, or else he wouldn’t be in this chamber with her.

  “Aye, lass.” He puffed out a breath, the motion emphasizing the breadth of his sculpted chest, as he shoved a hand through his thick, black hair. “A wee bit of a problem has arisen.”

  Bethea would wager whatever had him discomposed was more than a wee problem. Despite her impatience, she bridled her tongue and waited for him to say whatever it was he needed to say.

  Planting his hands on his lean hips—not that she noticed men’s hips or the very apparent bulge at his loins—he took a long, leisurely look over her form. An almost possessive glint entered his clear blue eyes, framed by sinfully thick lashes.

  Even her lashes weren’t that thick. And the way he looked at her just now… Well, any woman would take exception to that masculine appraisal.

  What yer feelin’ is nae offense.

  Crossing her arms, she narrowed her gaze in reproach. “Enjoyin’ yerself?”

  He grinned, a cocky, self-confident smirk that made her simultaneously long to slap the smugness off his face and also kiss that molded mouth.

  What was wrong with her?

  “Aye.” A seductive wink followed his keen assessment. “Ye are verra lovely. I’ve always thought so.”

  He had?

  Despite the inappropriateness of his perusal, heat like warm custard or honey suffused her. Mustering supreme effort, she subdued her feminine response to him. Arms still crossed, she canted her head and arched a starchy eyebrow upward. “Well?”

  His mirth evaporated, and solemnness transformed the contours of his face.

  Something was amiss.

  “I told ye that I had to claim ye were my betrothed to keep ye safe from—” He stepped nearer and took one of her hands in his rough one. “Well, ye ken what from.”

  Violation. Rape. Despoilment. Being set upon.

  There were a number of polite ways to describe being taken by force.

  Keane was the product of rape, and he’d never shied away from warning Bethea and Branwen of the way men might attempt to abuse them. Not that he’d permitted men near enough very often for such a thing to occur.

  She didn’t blame or resent Camden for claiming they were betrothed. He’d said what he must to keep her from a horrible fate. So why did he look so discomfited now, as if he struggled to speak what was on his mind?

  “Aye. I ken, and I appreciate ye did what ye must. I’m no’ angry if that is what has ye worried.” Mesmerized, she watched him brush his big thumb back and forth across the back of her hand. The movement was at once soothing and sensual. Much like the deep, melodious baritone of his voice.

  He remained silent, so she tried again. “I understand, ye had nae choice, Camden. Dinna fash yerself about it.”

  His eyes had deepened to indigo, and the teasing glint he normally regarded her with was absent. So very serious. Whatever could have ever-cheerful Camden Kennedy this somber?

  Odd that he should be so concerned over the matter.

  Perhaps Bethea had misread his interest in her at Trentwick, and he was truly opposed to anyone believing them betrothed.

  Her heart gave a queer twinge at the thought, though why it should, she couldn’t imagine. Wasn’t she the one who wanted a chance to meet other men?

  “I promise, I’ll nae hold ye to the fabrication.” In an attempt to lighten the heavy mood in the room, she grinned and winked. “I’ll nae be exchangin’ vows with ye. Ye willna find yerself saddled with an unwanted wife.”

  He brought his vivid blue gaze up to meet hers, and his eyes probed the depths of her soul. Something unnamable flickered behind the cage that was her ribs. It was if he tried silently to communicate with her. As if he couldn’t summon the right words.

  That had never been an issue with him before. He’d always had a glib reply, a flirtatious comment, or a cheeky retort.

  He touched her cheek with a bent knuckle, and she widened her eyes, taken aback at the affectionate gesture.

  “Aye lass. Ye will. Below. In ten minutes.”

  What?

  “Pardon?” Bethea’s mouth went dry, and her heart seized mid-beat. Then, feeling like an utter fool, she realized he but jested. “That’s no’ verra funny, Camden. I about lost ten years—”

  “I’m nae jestin’ lass.” From the pained expression on his face and harshness of his deep burr, it seemed he very much wished he were. “A high-rankin’ advisor to His Majesty, Sir Walter Makepeace, has decreed that we will wed before returnin’ to Edinburgh at first light.”

  “But… but… that’s ridiculous.” She shook her head, withdrawing her hand and backing away. “Ye dinna have any desire to marry me, and I dinna want to wed ye.”

  “Och, and ye can read my mind?” His expression grew impossibly sterner, his tone dangerous.

  Odin’s teeth, had she offended him?

  Most men she knew would rejoice at escaping forced nuptials.

  “I didna mean that as an insult, Camden. I only meant I wouldna hold ye to the vow ye made to protect me. What kind of a woman do ye think I am?”

  She moved toward the door, but he caught her arm, his huge hand almost encircling her wrist.

  “Let me speak to Sir Walter and explain the situation,” she insisted.

  He shook his head, his hair brushing his shoulders with the movement. “Nae, lass. If ye tell him we arena betrothed, in truth, I dinna ken if Bryston and I can protect ye. The men have been drinkin’ and are—ah—”

  Bright color blotched his prominent cheekbones, and she almost giggled at the incongruity. This burly Highlander—a bit of a rogue himself—blushing at the mention of fornication?

  “They require female companionship because Mrs. Dowerdy runs a respectable establishment?” She mimicked the innkeeper’s admonishing tenor.

  “Aye.” He crooked his mouth sideways. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

  “I’ll tell him I canna possibly marry without my family present.” Again, she moved toward the door. “That ought to satisfy him.”

  He blocked her path and trapped her by gently placing his palms upon her shoulders. “Nae lass. He’s determined to salvage yer reputation and insists we wed immediately. I’ve argued with him for the past hour. He’s resolute, and he has the ear of His Majesty. We dinna have a choice.”

  “Poppycock,” she snorted. “Of course, we do. Your Sir Walter canna force us to marry.”

  Could he?

  She stitched her eyebrows together as she squinted at Camden’s too-wide chest. His shirt was unlaced several inches, and tantalizing curly, black hair peeked at her.

  Oh, she want
ed to slide her fingers through that thick mat. Bury her nose in that hair, too.

  What was she thinking?

  He’d just announced a Sir Walter Makepeace demanded they marry—now—and she was indulging in decadent thoughts about his chest hair?

  Addled. Aye, off my head.

  The blow had damaged her reasoning.

  Giving herself a mental shake and a severe admonishment for noticing his deliciously hairy chest, Bethea refocused on the matter at hand.

  “Who, exactly, is this Sir Walter Makepeace?” She’d never heard of the man, but that was no surprise.

  “He’s an advisor to the king. A delegate with the power and authority to act on the king’s behalf.”

  She narrowed her eyes. She didn’t care if Sir Walter Makepeace was the bloody king himself. No one was going to trap her into a marriage of convenience.

  Camden placed a bent finger beneath her chin and levered her gaze up to meet his. Compassion and something considerably warmer shone in his eyes. “We will marry, lass.”

  His tone brooked no argument, and in that interminable instant, she knew it for the truth it was. Neither of them had any choice. She wasn’t sure what this man’s power was over Camden, but he’d conceded defeat regarding their union.

  Marriage would salvage her reputation. Her reputation for her dreams—to choose her husband and marry for love. More irony.

  “Nae.” She shook her head. “Nae,” she whispered again.

  Mother of God, she’d not considered this. Ruination and banishment, aye. A forced marriage wasn’t fair to Camden, either.

  “’Tis nae fair,” she choked out, furious at the moisture blurring her vision. “Ye were bein’ a gentleman. I dinna think even Keane would expect it of ye.”

  Would he?

  In truth, he might. And Bethea felt more the fool for not having considered that, too.

  A tear trickled from the corner of her eye, but before she could angrily swipe it away, Camden caught it with a bent finger.

  “I’m sorry, lass. I didna think ye’d be so opposed to the match.”

  “’Tis no’ ye I’m opposed to, but a marriage of convenience,” she murmured. Merely ruined, she might find love someday. As a married woman, there wasn’t a chance in hell of that.