To Marry a Highland Marauder Read online

  Aye, but gazing upon female kin had never heated his blood or caused blood to rush to his loins before.

  Chapter Three

  Even as Bethea helped her sister to one of the turquoise and gold brocade couches, Camden’s fierce expression intruded upon her thoughts. He’d looked ready to pummel Monteith.

  On her behalf?

  It rather thrilled her to think so.

  With a hitch in her breathing and a grimace contorting her pretty face, Branwen gingerly sank onto the cushions. “I vow, I’m done for the night.”

  “Darlin’, why ever did ye continue dancin’ with him if he was stompin’ upon yer toes?” Bethea asked sympathetically.

  “I felt sorry for him.” Branwen summoned a wry smile, and putting a hand to her forehead, shut her eyes. “He’s rather nice, but clumsy as an ox in the proverbial china shop.”

  So like Branwen. Her compassionate nature made her vulnerable.

  “I overheard several ladies refuse him,” she said. “Some quite ruthlessly, I might add. When Lord Hurstwood approached me, he looked so hopeful, and I didna have the heart to say nae. Now I ken why they were reluctant to accept his offer to dance.”

  Bethea shook her head, a small empathetic smile tugging at her lips. “Honestly, I’m no’ sure whether to be outraged or amused. I confess, I pity the poor man, but surely he must be aware of his deficit.”

  Cracking an eyelid open, her sister arched a midnight brow. She gave a dubious shake of her head. “Trust me. He is no’. I both admire his oblivion and am confounded by it.”

  “Well, I assure ye, should he ask me, I shall have to decline.” Bethea knelt before her sister and cautiously removed her shoes. “I have nae wish to have my toes mashed. I shall suggest a sedate walk about the ballroom, or if the weather permits, upon the veranda.”

  Branwen inhaled sharply and clamped her teeth upon her lower lip as Bethea freed her sister’s foot.

  “Forgive me, dearest,” she apologized, hating that she’d hurt her sister. But the shoes must come off so that she could see the damage and determine the best course of action. “I am tryin’ to be gentle.”

  “I ken.” Her face strained, Branwen let her eyelash flutter shut again. “I confess, I’m afraid to look.”

  The second shoe followed the first. Thankfully, no blood marred the fine silk stockings.

  “Ye just relax, and I’ll look for both of us,” Bethea assured her, not certain she wanted to see her sister’s abused feet, either.

  Taking care not to jostle or bump Branwen’s feet more than necessary, she rolled her sister stockings down. She slipped the first one off and couldn’t suppress her gasp. Bruises had already begun to form on her sister’s reddened toes and even atop her feet.

  “That bad?” Branwen whispered, keeping her eyelids firmly shut.

  Bethea chose her words with care. “Yer nae bleedin’, but ye’re no’ goin’ to be able to walk for several days, I fear.”

  A tiny part of Bethea rejoiced because, now, she’d have a legitimate excuse to stay home and avoid another encounter with the wretched Earl of Montieth. But also miss opportunities to find a potential husband, her annoying conscience quipped.

  Balderdash.

  She hadn’t come to Edinburgh with the express purpose of finding a husband. That would merely be an added benefit. Mayhap. Bethea wasn’t so desperate to get married that she’d marry without love.

  After removing the second stocking, she pushed to her feet. “Let’s put a cool cloth on them. That should help with the swellin’.”

  “Ye dinna think the damage is worse than it looks?” Branwen raised her legs a couple of inches, and a frown knitted her forehead. She angled her abused feet back and forth.

  Hopefully, no’.

  Bethea shook her head. “Nae. I dinna think there are any broken bones. Yer shoes protected ye from that.”

  She crossed to an ewer and basin, beside which lay a stack of neatly folded linens. After removing her gloves, she poured a measure of water into the basin, then saturated two cloths. Once she’d wrung them out, she returned to Branwen, now resting her head against the back of the sofa.

  “I shall inform Marjorie or Keane we must depart at once.” Draping the cool, damp squares over her sister’s damaged feet, she glanced upward. “Ye canna possibly leave through the main doors, unless someone carries ye.”

  It wouldn’t be Keane.

  He’d broken his wrist in January and was still recovering his strength.

  Branwen vigorously shook her head. “Nae, there must be another way. I dinna want more unkind things said about Lord Hurstwood, and I have nae desire to be the object of the rumormongers’ attention.”

  Of course, she’d consider Lord Hurstwood’s feelings.

  A faint frown drew her fine eyebrows together. “There are vipers out there.” She canted her head toward the closed door. “Marjorie warned us about their cruelty, but I didna understand just how nasty people can be.”

  She was absolutely right.

  Through those elaborate panels mingled pretentious popinjays, and painted and perfumed ladies whose shrewd-eyed gazes lit with excitement at the merest hint of scandal, impropriety, or gossip. They thrived on others’ mistakes and calamities as if misfortune somehow elevated their standing.

  “I’ll see if there’s an inconspicuous way to depart,” Bethea said.

  Surely a house this size must have a dozen exterior exits. Bethea considered the door on the other side of the room and angled her head in that direction.

  “Perhaps through there.” She pointed at the door on the other side of the room. “I believe there’s a terrace or veranda on this side of the house.”

  Earlier, she’d seen a porch of some sort through the tall glass doors on one end of the ballroom.

  Her sister gave an unconvinced nod and puffed out her cheeks. “And I was so eager to experience High Society.”

  As had Bethea been.

  Branwen chuckled dryly and cocked an eyebrow in skepticism. “I must confess to havin’ regrets.”

  “I had similar thoughts myself not even fifteen minutes ago,” Bethea admitted. “As I was dodgin’ the Earl of Montieth again.”

  Screwing her mouth in distaste, Branwen said, “He really has become an obnoxious pest, hasna he?”

  “Aye, and he asked Marjorie if he could call tomorrow.” Hugging herself, Bethea rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. “He’s goin’ to ask for my hand. I ken he is. But, thank God, Marjorie has persuaded Keane that we should be allowed to choose our husbands.”

  “She is a dear, and I’m verra glad Keane married her,” Branwen said, settling further back onto the couch.

  “As am I,” Bethea agreed.

  They’d taken to Marjorie, and she to them, as if they’d known each other their entire lives.

  Bethea leaned down and bussed a kiss across her sister’s soft cheek. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with Marjorie and Keane, and we’ll get ye home and settled comfortably. I think it would be wise to have a physician examine yer feet, too.”

  “Nae.” Branwen shook her head. “Let’s see how I am tomorrow. I truly believe my feet and toes are merely bruised.” She grinned and waggled her winged black eyebrows mischievously. “Just think. We have an excuse to stay in, read before the fire, or play games.”

  “Good heavens! Is this the same sister who lamented we’d end up whiskery-chinned old tabbies with a collection of purrin’ cats durin’ the Hogmanay celebration?” Bethea teased as she crossed to the other door.

  Her sentiments exactly matched Branwen’s.

  Perhaps the quieter, more sedate life of the Highlands wasn’t so very disagreeable after all. An unexpected pang of homesickness fluttered behind her ribs, like a caged sparrow trying to escape.

  Uncertain what she’d find on the other side, Bethea turned the key in the lock, and then tentatively lowered the handle and drew the panel open a couple of inches. Head cocked, she listened, and upon hearing nothing, boldl
y pulled the door wide, exposing what appeared to be an antechamber.

  It was dark, except for the faint illumination filtering in from a single, tall terrace window and a wedge of light streaming in from another partially ajar door on the room’s far side.

  Angling back to her sister, she gave a jaunty little wave. “I’ll return shortly. Dinna do anythin’ I wouldna do,” she quipped, gratified to hear Branwen laugh at the jest.

  With that, Bethea slipped through the opening, closing the door behind her. Treading softly upon the thick carpet, lest someone occupy the other room, she considered the burning question that had plagued her these past ten minutes or so.

  Why hadn’t Camden made his presence known to them this evening?

  And why had he looked like he’d like to tear the Earl of Montieth limb from limb?

  She’d never seen Camden angry before, but the severe slash of his dark eyebrows, the granite-like contours of his face, and unyielding line of his mouth left no doubt he’d been fuming. Flames had flashed in his blue eyes, and didn’t blue fire always burn the hottest?

  She supposed she’d have to ask him what had his hackles up when next she saw him.

  Once at the opposite door, she peeked around the doorframe, unwilling to interrupt a tête-à-tête or a clandestine assignation. Marjorie had warned her, quite severely, in fact, that dalliances of that nature were not uncommon at social gatherings or court. Bethea must use every caution not to be caught alone with a gentleman, no matter how innocuous on her part.

  To do so spelled certain ruin.

  A relieved sigh filtered past her parted lips at finding the chamber empty.

  Candles glowed in brass and umber marble sconces on either side of the elaborate beveled mirrored mantelpiece. Bookshelves of the same lustrous dark wood flanked the fireplace. Behind an intricate screen, a fire crackled merrily, and yet, for all of the room’s grandeur, it lacked cheer and warmth.

  A study or office, she presumed.

  The aroma of ink, paper, burning wood, and cigars clung to the furnishings and draperies. Catching a lingering whiff of the sickly sweet smell that surrounded Montieth, she wrinkled her nose.

  A double door led onto the terrace, which paralleled the side of the house. Just as she’d thought. A perfect way to unobtrusively bundle Branwen to the coach. Perhaps Camden could be imposed upon to carry her since Keane shouldn’t. She’d request a footman locate Camden while she informed Keane and Marjorie of Branwen’s condition.

  The evening was cool and damp, and a swift glance out the window confirmed Bethea’s suspicion. No guests made use of the terrace or gardens. Besides, it had rained all day, and even now, the steady drip, drip, drip of rainwater from the eaves confirmed the outdoors inhospitable to even the most robust guests.

  As she skirted two wing-backed leather chairs positioned beside a tall table bearing a cigar stub in an ashtray, the snick of the door handle launched her heart to her throat, and her heartbeat accelerated.

  Someone meant to enter.

  Chapter Four

  Though Bethea wasn’t doing anything wrong, alarm pumped through her, nevertheless. She could explain her presence. However, she conceded, even her presence might appear suspicious to someone with a distrustful mind.

  Should she stand her ground, and clarify that she merely searched for another exit from the house because of Branwen’s ill-used toes? Or should she retreat?

  God and all the saints, what if it was Montieth on the other side of the door?

  In all probability, it was, and she wasn’t about to be alone with the man. He might take liberties that would compel her to accept his hand.

  Never, she silently vowed.

  Never would she enter into a forced or arranged marriage, or a marriage of convenience. Better to remain unwed than subject herself to a lifetime with a man she didn’t love. Or, in Montieth’s case, a man she couldn’t abide.

  That thought sent her fleeing, and she’d just dashed around the corner of the adjacent chamber, yanking her skirts inside, when the door whisked open. She pressed into the corner behind the door. Her heart hammering against her ribcage, she covered her quivering mouth with one hand and pressed her fluttering stomach hard with the other.

  That had been much, much too close.

  “You were able to convince them to swear their allegiance? In writing?” A man asked in a haughty, English accent, his voice grating like broken pieces of china grinding together.

  She gathered her skirts closer and caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. Her heart thumped so loudly in her ears, she was certain the men could hear its erratic pounding. Leaning forward a couple of inches, she squinted through the crack between the door and the doorframe.

  A tall, cadaverous man with waxy, jaundiced skin and a prominent, hooked nose stood indolently, a bony knee bent and an even bonier hand on his hip. He wore stark black from his wig to his plain shoes, which made the frothy white lace at his throat and the large ruby ring on his forefinger oddly discordant with the rest of his severe appearance.

  She didn’t recognize him, nor had she seen him amongst the guests tonight. Though, she reminded herself, she hadn’t seen Camden, either, until he’d appeared like an avenging marauder behind Montieth.

  Her breath caught, almost choking her, as Montieth wandered across her line of vision.

  Good God. I’d rather face down a charging rhino or a starving lion than encounter him.

  She clapped a hand over her mouth again, lest she give herself away.

  The crow-like man roved his bored gaze languidly around the chamber, and her skin prickled at the complete lack of emotion in his too-close, wintery gray eyes.

  Who was he?

  Were those pockmarks covering his skeletal features?

  His lips thinned further, reminding her of a serpent.

  Without a doubt, he was the most unnerving man Bethea had ever beheld. Even worse, impossible as it seemed, than Montieth.

  Removing her hand from her mouth, she darted a frantic glance at the closed door a few feet away. She’d retreat into the ladies’ retiring room, but feared discovery. She’d done nothing wrong, yet guilt assailed her. Or perhaps it was a premonition that these two men couldn’t be up to any good, slithering away during a ball.

  Never had time crept along so slowly.

  “Well, Montieth?” snapped the Englishman, impatiently tapping his thigh with his fingertips. “Did you, or didn’t you? Has tonight been another waste of my time? Just like all of the others? In truth, I’m beginning to lose patience with you and your promises.”

  Montieth chuckled, his belly bouncing and jowls jiggling with his jubilance. “Aye. I told ye, Etherin’ton, I had done, but ye didna credit me.”

  “Where is it, then? I haven’t all night.” His eyebrows slashing low over his protuberant nose, the crow folded his arms. “As you know, my ship sails with the tide.”

  “I ken.” Nodding, Montieth minced to the bookshelf to the right of the fireplace and removed four leather-bound burgundy volumes. “Ye’ll be well-pleased,” he boasted airily.

  It baffled Bethea why a man his size opted to wear high heels and prance about on them. He looked utterly ridiculous.

  He grunted a few times as he rummaged around in a hidden compartment behind the books, before withdrawing a cylinder-shaped leather tube. A smug grin kicking his mouth up on one side, he pulled the cap off and extracted a rolled parchment. With a triumphant flourish, he waved the scroll in the air, a grin splitting the folds of his chuffy face.

  A slow, utterly sinister smile pulled Etherington’s mouth upward as he reached for the parchment. “It seems I underestimated you, Montieth.”

  The earl puffed his chest out, giving a superior nod. “It contains the signatures of every Scottish peer and laird vowin’ their support in overthrowin’ that German imposter sittin’ upon the throne.”

  Once more, Bethea slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her shocked gasp.

  Traitors. Th
ey are both traitors.

  She must inform Keane at once. He’d know what to do with the information.

  Having lived in the Highlands and been sheltered by Keane, Bethea knew little of Scotland’s politics. What she did know, however, was plots such as this led to innocent people dying, clans dividing, and families splitting.

  And much, much, heartache and suffering.

  “Well done. Well done, indeed.” Scratching beneath his wig, Etherington gave a crackling, humorless chuckle. “I must be away, but I’ll be in touch soon.”

  Montieth grunted, followed by a couple of thunks.

  She presumed he replaced the books on the shelf.

  “I need to return to my guests, as well.” He gave Etherington a sly glance. “I have my eye on a delectable lass I intend to make the next countess.” He licked his fat lips and cupped his groin. “I’ve been hard as marble for a fortnight now, and the whores I’ve bedded havena relieved my lust. I canna wait to swive the girl. I’m positive she’s a virgin, and ye ken, I have a fondness for them.”

  Bile bubbled up Bethea’s throat, and she swallowed reflexively against the sour burning.

  “Mmm.” Phillip Etherington made a noncommittal sound as he tucked the folded parchment into an inner coat pocket. “Will she be your third or fourth countess?”

  Third or fourth?

  Bethea’s stomach cramped, and bile throttled up her throat so swiftly, she thought she might be sick. Right there on the floor.

  Montieth had been married that many times before?

  And what, pray God, had happened to his other wives?

  “The lass will be my fourth,” Montieth said, not a hint of sorrow or remorse in his tone. “Two previous countesses died in childbirth and the last from a fever.”

  Well, that answered that question.

  “I am desperate for an heir. Miss Bethea Glanville is young and healthy. Good, strong Highlander stock, rather than the insipid noble-borns with weak constitutions I’ve married before.” Scratching his wide arse, Montieth pranced toward the door, passing wind as he went.