To Marry a Highland Marauder Page 5

  Then he proceeded to spit, indicating his contempt.

  “Does the sot truly think we’d believe him?” One of the men chuckled.

  They were only too eager for a bit of sport. Etherington had better comply, or he’d be the worse for it.

  They knew nothing of the document, or Camden’s real reason for robbing Etherington. Greedy lot that they were, they assumed the real valuables lay within the coach.

  “I said, out.” Camden stepped forward. “Ye can do so of yer own accord, or I’ll have my men drag ye. Yer choice.”

  “I’m just returning from a business meeting. As you can well see, I don’t even have luggage with me,” Etherington grumbled as he stepped from the conveyance. He made a point of closing the door behind him. “I don’t have any more coin on me, either.”

  As if that would keep Camden from searching the vehicle from top to bottom. He would dismantle the damn thing, if necessary. He was convinced the documentation that would prove Etherington’s guilt, as well as those conspiring against the Crown, lay within the vehicle somewhere.

  At once, his men stepped forward and constrained Etherington by either arm.

  He struggled, swearing and shouting dire threats the entire time. “I’m a citizen of England and an advisor to the king himself. He won’t take kindly to you maltreating me.”

  Tucking his blunderbuss into his waistband, Camden nodded toward Etherington. “Tie and gag him.”

  “I’ve told you I haven’t any other valuables with me.” He strained against the men holding him. “Except… I do have a gold watch. You can have that, too.”

  “Nae, thanks,” Camden said, sauntering forward. “I have my own.”

  Etherington’s rather creative curses filled the night air and then abruptly ceased. Angry, muffled noises followed.

  As his men went about their tasks of restraining the traitor, Camden jerked the coach door open.

  Holy hell.

  His heart ceased beating as his mind tried to comprehend and accept what his eyes clearly saw.

  Shite. Shite. Shite.

  Slumped in the corner, bound and gagged, and wearing only her ballgown and no cloak, Bethea Glanville lay unconscious.

  He whirled around, a feral snarl pulling his lips back from his teeth.

  His fingers twitched with the urge to wrap around the bugger’s skinny throat.

  “What the hell is she doin’ here?” he demanded, stabbing a finger toward the coach. He marched over to Etherington, sitting on the ground, and jerked the gag down. “I’ll give ye one chance to answer me. And one chance only. Why is Bethea Glanville in yer coach?”

  As one, his men’s attention veered to the open door, and Anderson meandered a few feet closer to get a better look. The worst whoremonger of the bunch. The man had a constant itch between his legs that no amount of swiving satisfied.

  Damnation.

  A much fouler expletive knocked at the back of his teeth.

  His men hankering after Bethea Glanville was the last thing Camden needed. He’d dismiss Anderson this very moment and send him on his way, but he didn’t trust the churl not to retaliate to save face. Of all the mercenaries, Anderson possessed the most pride and arrogance.

  Etherington’s perceptive gaze narrowed as his regard shifted between Camden and the open carriage door. “Ah, you know the girl?”

  Camden felt every man’s eyes swing to him.

  “Now, that is fascinating.” A sly smile tipped his almost non-existent lips upward at the corners. “Monteith means to make her his bride, you know,” he remarked, almost conversationally.

  Over my dead body.

  “I’m to meet him in Northumberland in six days.” He lifted a brow. “But…perhaps, we can come to an agreement?”

  Camden would kill Montieth if Keane didn’t get to him first.

  “She’s a lovely bit of fluff,” Anderson observed with a lusty grin. “This job just became considerably more interestin’.”

  Exchanging a knowing look with his compatriots, he winked as his lewd grin widened.

  Hands on his hips, Camden rotated to face his men straight on, his mind racing. They’d not hesitate to ravish Bethea unless they feared severe repercussions. She was an unexpected benefit, and they’d not take kindly to having their lust denied.

  “Watch yer mouth, Anderson. She’s nae bit of fluff. She’s my cousin, the Duke of Roxdale’s ward.” He cursed inwardly. That would mean nothing to them except perhaps an opportunity to demand a ransom for her.

  Anderson lifted a shoulder dismissively. “That disna mean we canna have a bit of fun. Right lads?”

  Lecherous leers kicked the other mercenaries’ mouths upward. “Never had me a lady before,” one murmured, ogling Bethea. He licked his lips and adjusted his cock.

  Sweet Jesus on Sunday.

  “I’d say you have an unanticipated problem.” Etherington chuckled evilly, and Camden balled his fists to keep from slugging him. A punch to his nose could only improve the appendage.

  These men were laws unto themselves, and the only way he could protect Bethea was claiming her as his own.

  Hell and damnation.

  “She’s also my betrothed.” He splayed his legs and looked at each man in turn. “I’ll no’ hesitate to kill any man who looks at her with anythin’ but respect, never mind one stupid enough to touch her.”

  Mutinous grumbles followed his declaration.

  “Do ye understand?” Heart thundering, he met each disgruntled man’s gaze in turn. “She is mine. If any of ye object to waitin’ to relieve yerself with a whore, then ye can take yer leave. However, I do understand yer disappointment, and there are an extra ten pounds apiece to any man who stays.”

  Sir Walter had forced these sods upon him, and he could pay the extra fee.

  A round of cheers went up. These rotters loved nothing—nothing—more than coin.

  “But she’s such a prime little mort.” Etherington cackled again, and this time, Camden did punch him. He flew backward, legs and arms splayed, reinforcing his crow-like appearance. “Count yerself fortunate that I didna slay ye myself.”

  Holding a hand to his spurting nose, glared at Camden. “Your superior will hear about this.”

  God’s ballocks! And still, he blathers.

  A cold smile curved Camden’s mouth as he bent over the cowering Englishman. “I only have to deliver ye alive. What condition ye are in is up to me. My inclination, at present, is to beat ye into a bloody pulp.” With that, he straightened and, with deliberate nonchalance, sauntered toward the coach.

  His men chuckled. They also enjoyed violence.

  Puzzling his forehead, he tried for the umpteenth time to comprehend why Sir Walter insisted on using such degenerates rather than soldiers or agents.

  Chapter Six

  Road to Dalkeith

  Early morning

  22 March 1721

  Bethea groaned and cautiously moved her throbbing head.

  What had happened?

  She tried to recall, even as she realized from the rumbling wheels and rhythmic swaying, she was in a vehicle.

  Take her with ye. She’s mine.

  Montieth!

  Recollection flooded her, and terror curdling her blood, she bolted upright, crying out as pain lanced the back of her head.

  Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  She stifled a moan, but only just.

  “Shh, lass, yer safe now.” A large hand briefly rested on her shoulder, warm and reassuring.

  Not the Englishman, Phillip Etherington’s, bony appendage, nor his British accent, which sounded like he’d gargled glass shards.

  Through the fog of confusion and fear, recognition took root.

  Bethea knew that rich, comforting burr.

  Camden Kennedy?

  But how? Why?

  Her stomach roiled violently, and she allowed her eyelids to drift closed for a blink.

  Och, God above, she might be sick.

  Swallowing nausea cli
mbing her throat, she touched her fingertips to the aching throb at the base of her skull. A combination of the vehicle’s movements and the blow to her head made vomiting a very real possibility.

  Confused, refusing to believe her eyes, she cowered in the corner, shaking. But not from the cold. Someone had put an oversized, slightly damp coat on her.

  His coat.

  It smelled slightly of wet wool and a lighter, musky scent. A manly aroma hinting of the outdoors, pine trees, and mayhap—she gave a light sniff—mayhap cloves?

  Camden had retreated a few inches, concern lining his face and crinkling the corner of his indigo eyes. “Did he harm ye?”

  What…? What was he doing here?

  She blinked several times, trying to clear the cobwebs from her fuzzy brain—attempting to remember precisely what had happened.

  Squinting, she envisioned the Earl of Montieth’s ballroom.

  Branwen had injured her feet while dancing. Well, that clodpole Lord Hurstwood had tromped upon her toes, bruising them quite grievously.

  Yes, and then Bethea was supposed to have found Marjorie and Keane and another, less visible, way to leave the ball.

  Brow puckered, she brushed her fingertips back and forth over the soft wool of his coat.

  The memories came swifter now.

  She’d been in Montieth’s study.

  Fear speared her.

  He’d ordered that foul Englishman to take her with him.

  Her throat tightened in renewed horror. Her breathing irregular, she clutched her neck.

  Oh, God.

  Montieth meant to force her into a marriage.

  He’d said he’d violate her.

  Another wave of sickness assailed her at the thought.

  Then pain had exploded at the back of her head. Etherington must’ve struck her, the fiend.

  She had no idea how she’d come to be in this coach with Camden. Suspicion she didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone entertain, lanced her, and she retreated deeper into the corner.

  What if, God forbid, he was working with Etherington and Montieth?

  Ludicrous.

  But—was it?

  Camden wasn’t supposed to be at the ball, and yet he had been. And he hadn’t told anyone he’d be there. He’d also seen her helping Branwen into the retiring room.

  Why, exactly, had he been standing behind Montieth?

  Waiting for an opportunity to speak with him, mayhap? To conspire against the Crown? But wouldn’t he then have also joined Montieth and Etherington in the study?

  “Bethea?” Concern deepened Camden’s rich brogue and drew his midnight eyebrows into a severe vee. He reached out to touch her, but when she flinched away, he allowed his hand to fall into his lap.

  “Lass?” he asked tentatively and soothingly, as one would an injured, frightened animal. “Are ye all right? Did…?” He cleared his throat, his expression becoming quite fierce. “Did Etherin’ton hurt ye?”

  Hurt me?

  Och, he means—

  Her cheeks burned at his implication.

  “He hit me in the back of the head, but that’s all.”

  At least she thought it was. How, however, could she be certain?

  Closing her eyes, Bethea inhaled even breaths and took a mental inventory. She didn’t hurt anywhere but her head—no sore muscles or bruises or aches in unmentionable places.

  Montieth had been most avid that she was to remain untouched.

  Nae, she was positive, Etherington hadn’t imposed himself upon her.

  Nonetheless, she knitted her forehead in befuddlement as she opened her eyes and scrutinized Camden.

  He hadn’t answered her question.

  Why was he here?

  Call her foolish, but she was still unwilling to accept the laughing, considerate man who’d attended Keane’s Hogmanay celebration had anything to do with her abduction. Or the plot against the Crown.

  “He struck ye?” Camden swore beneath his breath, striking a fist to his knee. A feral scowl contorted his handsome features for a heartbeat, before he arranged them into a less intimidating mien. “He’ll pay for that, by God. Pay dearly for layin’ a hand on ye, lass. I’ll make sure of it.”

  So would Keane.

  There’d not be much left of Etherington or Montieth, by the time those two finished with them. She couldn’t summon an iota of pity.

  Bethea surreptitiously examined Camden. He’d changed his clothes since the ball and now wore all jet black, except for his shirt. A simple knitted black cap covered his sable hair, as well. He looked like a humble laborer or a farmhand.

  How had he come to be in this coach with her, and where were Sir Phillip Etherington and Montieth?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Yes, she might not know where she was, or how she would escape, but she wasn’t so hen-hearted she’d not ask. This was her life, after all.

  She’d craved excitement and adventure, but this assuredly wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

  “Why?” The word came out a raspy croak. “Why are ye here?” Bethea swallowed again, her waffy stomach less overwhelming, but present nonetheless. “Where’s that despicable Englishman and the Earl of Montieth?”

  Bethea darted an uneasy glance toward a window.

  Out there?

  Nae, Camden wasn’t working with them.

  He couldn’t be.

  He wouldn’t hurt her. She instinctively knew it.

  Knew that he was good at his core, as much as Montieth was evil to the depths of his black soul. God rot him.

  In fact, at Trentwick, she’d suspected Camden might, in fact, esteem her. In the way a man admires a woman who’s captured his serious masculine interest.

  Bethea had been flattered, quite naturally.

  How could she not be?

  Camden was dashing, possessed a physique a Roman god might envy, and was handsome in the rugged way many Highlanders were. He was also a tease and a flirt, and seldom took anything seriously.

  He’d not said a word, of course, and she couldn’t very well ask what his reputation was with the ladies. Instinct told her he had no detriments on that front, and if she began poking around, making inquiries about a handsome Kennedy, Keane wouldn’t take it well.

  A thread of tension yet remained between the Kennedys and Buchannans, and he knew full well how blasted protective Keane was of her and Branwen.

  Her dreams of partaking in Edinburgh’s high social season had remained firmly affixed in her mind. She’d not settle on the first Highlander that paid her any attention when she might very well meet a gentleman who’d steal her heart and sweep her off her feet in Edinburgh.

  What did she truly know of Camden Kennedy?

  Certainly not that he appeared at balls unannounced, dressed for stealthy activities, or mysteriously wound up in coaches in the middle of the night.

  An almost wry smile quirked his mouth, and the rakish glint she knew so well twinkled in his eyes.

  Surprisingly—or perhaps foolishly—his rapscallion charm relaxed her.

  Kicking his legs out before him and crossing his booted ankles, he reclined against the seat. Arms folded, the ridiculously muscled cords straining against the lucky fabric of his roughly woven shirt, he jutted his strong chin toward the back of the coach. A chin, she couldn’t help but notice, shadowed by dark stubble.

  “Etherin’ton, the bastard, is gagged and tied to a horse. The horse, in turn, is secured to the back of this coach.” He gave a decidedly wicked chuckle, and a little thrill jolted through her.

  He truly did have the most delicious voice. The kind that made a woman want to lay her head against the broad expanse of his chest and listen to the vibrations when he spoke.

  Good God. Where had that twaddle originated?

  Perchance, Etherington had struck her harder than she’d realized and addled her.

  “As ’tis rainin’ steadily, he wasna overly pleased on bein’ denied the comfort of the coach. Montieth, I presum
e, is still in Edinburgh, although he’s supposed to collect ye from Etherin’ton in a few days.”

  They must’ve plotted that while she was unconscious.

  Camden cut a glance at the black night sky. “I dinna ken what their specific arrangements were, and Etherin’ton isna exactly being forthcomin’ on the matter after I broke his nose.”

  He’d broken Etherington’s nose? Good for him.

  What time was it, anyway?

  Branwen, Marjorie, and Keane would be frantic by now.

  Tears burned behind her eyelids.

  Branwen would blame herself.

  Resolutely, Bethea blinked the moisture away. Naught could be done now. She’d fret about that later, and perhaps how to contrive a means of getting a message to them, as well. Right now, she must focus on these dire circumstances.

  She slid Camden a furtive glance beneath her lashes.

  “Camden, I’m verra confused.” She gathered his coat tighter around her. “How did ye come to be here?”

  She tried to keep her voice steady, but an inflection of suspicion and misgivings colored her question.

  He heard the nuance, and disbelief illuminated his gaze before his blue eyes became shuttered. He ripped the cap from his head and tossed it on the seat, the line of his mouth grim. “I canna tell ye everythin’, lass. But I can vow ye’ll be safe with me.”

  “Are ye a smuggler?” She’d heard whispers that he was, but had dismissed them as rubbish. Now, however…

  One raven eyebrow arched, and then he astonished her by chuckling. “Aye, I used to be. Also a marauder, but only when directed by His Majesty.” He gave her a devilish wink.

  Good God, was he a spy?

  Was he trying to shock her?

  She’d had quite enough shock for one day, thank you very much.

  “Camden, be serious. Right now, it verra much appears that ye are part of the conspiracy to see me ravished by Montieth.” She sucked in a calming breath. “I am havin’ a difficult time believin’ that about ye—”

  “Och, thank ye for that.” He cut her a curt glance and appeared genuinely offended.

  “What else am I supposed to think?” She threw a hand up and immediately regretted the sudden motion when her aching skull soundly objected. “The last thing I remember was Montieth tellin’ Etherin’ton to take me with him, and he’d make it worth his while.”