To Marry a Highland Marauder Read online

  What a foul clod.

  “You’ve asked for her hand, then?” Etherington picked a bit of lint from his sleeve, his demeanor revealing he didn’t give a hog’s fart about the subject. In truth, he seemed distracted. His mind elsewhere, that peculiar vacant gaze of his inching around the study.

  Bethea changed her evaluation of him. He wasn’t a crow at all, but rather, a serpent.

  “I mean to approach her guardian, and I’m confident he’ll accept my suit.” Montieth waited for Etherington to join him at the door. “If no’, I havna a qualm about takin’ her by force. Roxdale will come around then. If she’s despoiled, he’ll have nae choice.”

  Like hell, he willna.

  A dozen agitated heartbeats later, the door snapped shut, and Bethea forced herself to slowly count to two hundred before she moved so much as a hair. Her mind whirled, and her heart beat frantically.

  They needed to leave. Immediately. And then head straight back to the Highlands.

  Determination in her step, she crossed the room and grasped the handle. But no sooner had she lowered the lever, than Montieth and the snake violently shoved her back into the room.

  Crying out in alarm and shock, Bethea stumbled backward several paces. Once she’d regained her balance, she drew herself up and met Montieth’s leering gaze unflinchingly. Quite proud of her outward composure, she slid her focus to Etherington’s stone-cold perusal.

  Inwardly, she quaked like a newborn foal attempting to stand for the first time.

  The earl advanced on her and seized her wrist in a cruel grip. “Och, I believe we may have found ourselves a spy, Etherin’ton.”

  “It certainly appears so,” Etherington conceded in a disturbing monotone.

  “Unhand me.” Bethea jerked her arm free and cut the Englishman a swift glance. Her blood congealed at his lethal examination. She hadn’t a doubt he’d see her dead if he supposed her an infiltrator.

  Bethea shook her head.

  “Ye’re mistaken. I swear. My sister’s in the retirin’ room.” She gestured vaguely toward the other door. “Her feet were injured dancin’, and I was attemptin’ to find a discreet way for her to leave without drawin’ attention to her condition.”

  Upper lip curled, Etherington grunted his disbelief.

  She forced a genial expression to her face and her tone of voice as she looked directly at Montieth. “Ye, yerself, saw us enter a few minutes ago, my lord.”

  Every word was true, which was a good thing, for Bethea was a poor liar.

  Suspicion narrowing his eyes, Montieth rubbed his full jaw and nodded. “’Tis true.”

  A calculating expression crawled across Etherington’s face. His frigid gunmetal eyes bored into her, demanding the truth, and it was all she could do not to avert her gaze. “But you listened to our conversation, didn’t you?”

  How could he know that?

  She swallowed to wet her mouth, which had gone dry as ash. “I dinna ken what ye’re talkin’ about. I only just came through.”

  “Tsk, now you’re lying, Miss Glanville.” He examined a nail and scraped a bit of something from beneath it. Without raising his head, he directed his hooded gaze to her. “I heard your relieved sigh as we departed the chamber.”

  Had she sighed?

  She didn’t recall doing so.

  He veered his attention to the door she’d hidden behind. “Had you been more careful, we never would’ve known.”

  Bethea cursed herself for a thousand kinds of careless fool. She should’ve headed straight back to the retiring room and sought Marjorie and Keane by way of that door.

  Etherington flicked an icy, baleful glance over her. Head cocked, he touched a spindly finger to the deep cleft in his chin.

  She had the absurd urge to laugh at the prominent dimple, which very much made his chin resemble a posterior. That feature seemed wholly incongruent with his sharply angled face.

  “Now what to do with you?” he murmured, sending Montieth a questioning look.

  “Ye are mistaken, sir.” Bethea was so frightened, she could scarcely form the words. “As I said, I only now just came through here.”

  Monteith’s pudgy features folded in contemplation as he leveled her a discerning look.

  It was all Bethea could do not to retch. But she summoned her bravado and made to move past them. “If ye’ll excuse me, gentlemen. My sister is waitin’, and I promised my guardian I’d report on the condition of Branwen’s feet. She’s expectin’ me.”

  What was another lie at this juncture?

  In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Marjorie had also said she’d check on her and Branwen.

  How long ago was that?

  Ten minutes? Fifteen?

  Surely no more than twenty, which meant no one would come for them yet.

  God help her.

  “This works out quite well, actually, Etherin’ton.” Montieth lumbered to the terrace doors and threw them open. “Take her with ye. It seems I shall have a new bride sooner than anticipated. And make sure nae one, and I mean nae one, touches her.”

  “You’ll make it worth my while, of course,” the Englishman murmured smoothly in that scraping voice that lifted Bethea’s scalp hairs as he drifted nearer to her.

  It wasn’t a request.

  “Of course,” Montieth agreed heartily, scratching vigorously at his behind again.

  Did he have fleas? Lice? Something else?

  Bethea shuddered.

  “I’m feelin’ quite generous,” the earl said, sliding his lewd gaze over Bethea.

  “I can understand your fascination, Montieth. She truly is a delectable little piece.” Etherington’s gaze dropped to her bosom, his mouth curving suggestively.

  She shrank away, uncertain which man was more offensive.

  “Dinna get any ideas,” Montieth warned stonily, all pretense at civility gone. “She’s mine.”

  Nae. This canna be happenin’.

  “Nae—” Before Bethea finished her protest, Etherington struck her in the back of the head.

  She felt herself falling, darkness closing in on her.

  And then nothingness claimed her.

  Chapter Five

  Easter Road between Edinburgh and Leith

  Just short of eleven o’clock

  21 March 1721

  His attention riveted on Easter Road, Camden hunched further into his saddle. It was a bloody miserable night for arresting traitors. Rivulets of rainwater dribbled from his nape into his already sodden collar. But he’d experienced worse, and the dampness proved a mere annoyance to a Highlander such as himself.

  He worked his astute gaze over his men strategically placed along this section of the road. He knew from experience, they were as keenly alert as him.

  Unlike him, to a man, they thrived on the thrill—this living on the edge of danger. And also, unlike him and Bryston, not a man amongst them could claim honor motivated his actions. These dastards required a strong, uncompromising hand to keep them in line.

  If all went well, when this assignment culminated, the mercenaries would receive the balance of their payment and seek another employer with a heavy purse. Camden had put his foot down about working with such unpredictable and unsavory men in the future. Trained agents were one thing, but unreliable curs who’d as soon bite the hand that fed them as any other hand…

  Nae, he was through with the lot, no matter what Sir Walter said.

  In truth, as he’d never sought the dubious honor of spying on the King’s behalf, he seriously considered another direction for his life as well.

  Precisely what that looked like, he couldn’t say.

  He’d no desire to leave Scotland—permanently, at least. Oh, Graeme would claim to need Camden’s help in overseeing his lairdship and their clan, but the truth was, his brother was more than capable of the task himself.

  Younger sons often found themselves in predicaments like Camden’s. He had no desire to enter the ministry or the military, nor did h
e particularly wish to travel the world for years. Nae, his heart was now and would always be in Scotland.

  So, exactly, what the hell would he do with his time if he did resign?

  And that brought him full circle to why he hadn’t, as yet, done so.

  Christ, his rambling musings scrambled his brain.

  Swiping at a droplet trailing down his nose, he furrowed his brow, every sense tuned into the surroundings once more. In truth, he’d expected Etherington’s coach by now. Another inspection of the track revealed only an empty black expanse, unbroken by a single sliver of moonlight.

  Perhaps Etherington had taken the Wester Road, after all.

  He mentally shrugged. It mattered not, as long as he was captured.

  Bryston was just as capable as Camden of apprehending the English conspirator and escorting him to the inn. As planned, they’d meet in the wee morning hours, and Etherington could explain himself to Sir Walter Makepeace.

  After the revolt led by the Earl of Mar, Robert Walpole had personally selected Makepeace to head up the intelligence ring established for one purpose: to prevent any further uprisings in Scotland. And more importantly, to prevent further loss of life.

  Lightly drumming his fingertips on his thigh, Camden hardened his jaw, his thoughts once more on Bethea.

  He wouldn’t wait to return to Trentwick Castle to speak with Keane about Montieth’s interest in her. In fact, it might be worthwhile to have that devil’s spawn also investigated.

  After all, why, precisely, was Etherington even invited to his ball?

  Had he been invited?

  Perhaps not, which begged the question, why would Etherington overstep propriety and impose himself? It wasn’t as if he held a lofty title, and none would dare object to his presence.

  Except, to Camden’s knowledge, Montieth hadn’t raised a fuss, and he knew the answer to why Etherington was present. To obtain a very valuable list. A list incriminating every Scottish conspirator, signed in their own hands.

  Idiots, all.

  Last month, Bryston had proposed Montieth as a possible collaborator. Sir Walter, however, had immediately dismissed the notion. He’d emphatically claimed the earl all but kissed King George’s arse each time he saw him. Montieth had never openly associated with anyone suspected of disloyalty to the Crown, either.

  Until now.

  Still, the stark apprehension and fear Camden witnessed ravaging Bethea’s face earlier this evening made him determined to remove her from Monteith’s reach, no matter what it took.

  Keane should never have brought the Glanville sisters to Edinburgh. They should’ve remained safe in the Highlands, where whoremongers like the Earl of Montieth couldn’t prey upon them.

  In the distance, the distinct rumble and creak of coach wheels and the unmistakable rhythmic clopping of hoofbeats filtered through the damp night air. At last. Camden straightened and giving a low bird whistle, signaled his men to be at the ready.

  In addition to a dirk and sword, each man also carried at least one loaded blunderbuss. They’d avoided bloodshed waylaying the previous coaches in search of incriminating evidence, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a first time.

  Nevertheless, Etherington must be taken alive.

  Camden didn’t fool himself into believing Sir Walter or another of the king’s lackeys, delegators, or advisors wouldn’t torture the traitor to get the information they wanted.

  Etherington wasn’t acting alone, of that Camden had no doubt. Unquestionably more Englishmen were involved, as well. It was no secret George I wasn’t liked by the English any more than he was by the Scots. Most considered him an imposter who could scarcely speak English and preferred to spend his time in Hanover.

  According to a double agent, someone had acquired the signatures of Scots willing to overthrow George I. Just who that someone was, only Etherington’s accomplice knew for certain.

  The collaborator was cunning. He never met directly with anyone, and always passed his messages through a string of contacts. And he never used the same messengers twice.

  Yet, the conspirator had grown sloppy in the last two weeks. Word had leaked that tonight, Etherington would acquire the very damning list.

  God help any Scot who’d put their signature to it.

  It was as good as a confession.

  At best, they faced imprisonment. At worst, the rebels would lose their heads. The Crown would confiscate everything they owned, and quite likely imprison or put to death anyone associated with the traitors, whether they were guilty or not.

  A frog croaked and then another and then another. In short order, hundreds of frogs’ mating calls filled the night. The sound was slightly haunting and captivating.

  The outline of a vehicle lumbering down Easter Road came into view. Its two exterior lamps sent peculiar shadows cavorting with each bump and rattle of the coach.

  Camden kicked Prometheus’s sides and guided the huge horse to the center of the lane. He removed his blunderbuss from his waistband and rested it casually across the top of his thighs. From the corner of his eyes, he watched in satisfaction as his men stealthily moved into place.

  As they had the previous times, they’d surround the coach, making escape impossible.

  No moon lit the sky, but the layer of clouds had parted here and there, allowing a glimpse of a few twinkling stars.

  When the coach was within a few feet of him, Camden stood in his saddle, raised his pistol, and pointed it directly at the coachmen.

  The coach lamps swayed violently as the conveyance jerked to an abrupt halt. Even in the dim light, Camden couldn’t miss the pallor of the frightened drivers’ faces.

  The men offered no resistance whatsoever. After exchanging alarmed glances, they raised their hands overhead, fear etching deep grooves into their faces.

  That said much about the man riding in comfort inside the conveyance. A well-treated employee was a loyal employee and protected his employer. This pair hadn’t hesitated to surrender.

  “Why have we stopped?” An arrogant, grating English voice cut through the night. A moment later, three firm raps echoed on the coach roof. “I asked why we have stopped? I have a ship to catch before the tide turns.”

  Etherington was such an arrogant ass.

  He hadn’t even bothered with outriders, convinced that no one suspected him of his treasonous activities.

  His men had guided their mounts into position. A horseman flanked either side of the vehicle, and a rider guarded the rear of the vehicle, as well.

  Wordlessly, Camden motion for the drivers to descend. The coach bounced and groaned as they climbed down without hesitation. Once on the ground, the coachmen tore off on foot, never once glancing back.

  Indeed, Etherington must be a royal prig for his men to abandon him so readily.

  A string of vile curses echoed from within the conveyance. Etherington was no lackwit and must’ve deduced what was happening. “Damned riff-raff. I’ll see every one of you bastards hanged. Drawn and quartered. Bloody highwaymen.”

  Camden grinned, despite the seriousness of the situation.

  If Etherington was such a brave fellow, why was he still sequestered inside the coach?

  After throwing one leg over Prometheus’s side, Camden slid to the ground.

  His men followed suit, except for the rider at the rear. He’d give chase if required.

  Blunderbuss at the ready, Camden edged closer. Only a fool rushed ahead without knowing exactly what he faced.

  Sir Phillip Etherington mightn’t be alone, or he might be armed.

  Before Camden could open the door himself, the panel swung outward, and the crow-like man pushed his narrow shoulders into the opening. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, all pompous outrage.

  At Camden’s signal, his men also aimed their pistols directly at Etherington. With mufflers wrapped around their faces and only their eyes visible, Camden didn’t fear recognition. Though, in truth, he doubted the mercenaries car
ed about concealing their identities. Just as long as they received the rest of their coin when this was over, they’d be satisfied.

  As satisfied as anyone with no conscience or moral code could be.

  Craning his neck, Etherington scowled ferociously at the empty drivers’ seat, then brought his infuriated gaze back to Camden and sneered. “Bloody cowards. They didn’t even put up a fight.”

  “I do have to wonder why,” Camden drolly observed, earning him a loathing-filled glare. “Show yer hands,” he ordered.

  Etherington didn’t immediately comply.

  “Ye should ken, three weapons are trained on ye. One false move, and it will be yer last.” Camden wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate the man.

  Etherington’s expression grew more disdainful as he pursed his mouth and glowered at each gunman in turn. “You realize, of course, I wouldn’t be foolish enough to carry a large purse with me.”

  Camden remained silent and cocked a brow mockingly, having learned long ago that nervous people often prattled. And for all of Phillip Etherington’s bravado, he was as nervous as a new whore.

  Etherington swore beneath his breath as he began fiddling inside his coat pocket.

  “I said, show yer hands. Now.” Camden bit out the last, leveling the barrel of his pistol directly at Etherington’s chest.

  Eyes narrowed, his sunken features taut, Etherington slowly withdrew his hand from his coat. He clutched a small leather purse in his fist, but obediently extended his hands. “I’m not armed. I was but retrieving my purse.”

  “We’re no’ interested in yer money,” Camden said, convinced more than ever the damning documents were concealed within the coach.

  Else why would Etherington voluntarily come out and offer his purse?

  He’d also wager Prometheus, a weapon or two lay within the vehicle. Camden jerked his pistol in a manner indicating Etherington should descend from the conveyance. “Get out.”

  Etherington scowled sinisterly, his gaze shifting from gun to gun.

  “There’s no need for me to descend.” He threw his coin purse onto the ground near Camden’s feet. “I haven’t any other valuables on me,” he declared. “Take it and be gone with you, bastards.”