To Marry a Highland Marauder Read online

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  He drew her against his chest, and she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his manliness.

  “I suppose, after a time, we can seek an annulment or a divorce,” he said. “I’ll nae take ye to my bed.” A hint of regret colored his avowal, and the timbre of his voice stalled her heart for a pair of beats. “But for now, we must exchange vows.”

  She angled her head up to look at him, seeing the earnestness in his eyes. The consternation and remorse there, too. Those penetrating eyes sank to her parted mouth, and then with a muffled groan, he kissed her.

  Slowly. Gently. A wonderfully soft, warm caress.

  And she realized she’d yearned for his mouth on hers for weeks. Since she’d danced with him that first night of the Hogmanay celebration. How could she have been so blind that she’d not seen what was before her?

  She felt something for Camden. Something intense and heady.

  Standing on her toes, she twined her arms around his sturdy neck, reveling in the maelstrom swirling inside her.

  Bethea gasped in pleasant surprise at the tingles humming through her body, and the splendidness of pressing her breasts and torso against his hard contours. She wanted to crawl inside Camden, to explore every glorious, firm curve and masculine angle.

  His tongue teased the seam of her mouth, and she opened for him, allowing him access to that which no man had explored before. He made a low, gravelly sound in his throat; one hand splayed between her shoulders and the other grazing her hip.

  Through the layers of her gown and petticoats, her skin grew hot, a peculiar yearning building deep in her belly.

  A single, sharp rap on the door interrupted their kiss.

  “Camden, the reverend has arrived,” Bryston McPherson called softly through the slightly lopsided door. “Sir Walter wants ye and yer—ah—betrothed below.”

  Breathing irregularly, Bethea attempted to regain her composure. She’d never dreamed a kiss could rattle her senses so thoroughly.

  But that hadn’t been just a kiss.

  That had been introduction to passion. Passion that until this moment, she hadn’t realized burned hotly beneath her proper exterior. And she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be Camden Kennedy’s wife in every way. To take him to her bed and let him do with her what he would. To do with him what she would.

  “Aye. We’ll be down momentarily.” Camden rested his forehead against hers, the tenderness and consideration making her want to weep. “It will be all right, Bethea. I vow to ye.”

  She couldn’t fathom how, but inexplicably, she trusted him, even in this impossible situation.

  “All right,” she finally agreed.

  Not an overly exuberant acceptance to a proposal. But then, Camden hadn’t proposed, had he? She’d never met this Sir Walter Makepeace, but she couldn’t like anyone who lorded their power over another.

  With a reassuring smile, Camden tucked her hand into his arm and led her below. He lent her his strength as they spoke their vows, giving her hand a comforting squeeze every few minutes.

  The tired-looking cleric barely hid his yawns as he droned on, blinking sleepily. Behind him, Sir Walter Makepeace beamed as if Camden were his son and he’d granted him a knighthood.

  And then, it was over.

  And, God and all the saints and angels help her; she was Mrs. Camden Kennedy.

  Knocked on the head, abducted, and married.

  All because she’d wanted to spare Branwen humiliation.

  Camden gave Bethea a chaste kiss on the cheek before shaking Sir Walter’s extended hand, and then Bryston McPherson’s as he slapped Camden’s back.

  “Congratulations, my friend,” Bryston said.

  Camden merely cocked a superior brow and leveled his friend a quelling look.

  Grinning, McPherson gave her a kindly wink and a nod. “Mrs. Kennedy.”

  She’d have to have been deaf not to hear the humor in his words.

  Did he think this a grand jest?

  People’s lives had been manipulated, possibly ruined.

  “I hope we’ll have the pleasure of wishin’ ye well soon, Mr. McPherson,” she said with false sweetness. It would serve him right to find himself leg-shackled through no fault of his own.

  Shaking his blond head, the earring in his left ear swinging with the motion, he chuckled and threw up both hands. “Never say it.”

  “We’ll see,” Camden muttered beneath his breath.

  Twenty minutes later, Beatha sat in Etherington’s coach once more, her new husband sitting across from her, as they jostled and bounced their way to Edinburgh.

  The headache that had niggled earlier thrummed full on now. With two fingers from each hand, Bethea rubbed her temples in a slow, circular motion.

  What in God’s name have I done?

  Chapter Nine

  Easter Road outside Edinburgh

  22 March 1721

  Camden had insisted that he and Bethea take this coach, rather than sharing Sir Walter’s. He well knew his superior would’ve preferred Camden travel with him, but by damn, he wasn’t abandoning his new wife minutes after saying, “I do.”

  Instead, he’d made arrangements to meet Sir Walter after seeing Bethea safely to the bosom of her family. The man could hardly argue the point, as he’d been the one to insist on the nuptials. Besides, he’d agreed Roxdale was entitled to an explanation.

  “Yes, yes, indeed. You are quite right, Camden,” he’d said, shrugging on his black, satin-lined cloak. “See to your lovely bride, soothe any qualms her family may have, and meet me at Montieth’s at, let’s say, three?” He crooked a grizzled eyebrow as he hooked the clasp at his throat. “Is that sufficient time to set things to right?”

  Nae. It would take months. Years even.

  Sir Walter didn’t know Keane or Bethea. Exchanging vows had been the easy part. It was everything that came after—none of which had been anticipated or planned—that would be an unholy mess to untangle.

  “Aye, that should suffice,” he acquiesced.

  Now, three hours later, he held his new wife in his arms as she slept the sleep of the utterly exhausted. At least she’d been spared a sick stomach by sleeping most of the journey.

  Bethea had said little the first few miles, her thoughts obviously elsewhere until her lids had drifted downward, and she’d fallen asleep. She also suffered from a headache, though she didn’t whisper so much as one word in complaint.

  Slumber had eluded him, but he’d drawn her into his arms and held her, feeling a protectiveness and—something else. Something foreign but enticing, suffusing him.

  His lack of rancor and frustration at the situation astonished him. Yes, Camden took orders and carried them out with precision and expertise, but he’d never been a man who’d permitted himself to be manipulated.

  Bethea’s dark lashes fanned her porcelain cheeks, her pink rose-bud mouth parted as she slumbered. Wrapped in a servant’s brown cloak they’d purchased from one of the barmaids for twice what it was worth, her subtle perfume wafted to him now and again.

  Lilacs befit her. Fresh and sweet, but with a hint of something alluring, as well.

  Camden had always faced the truth squarely, and he’d do the same in these circumstances. If he were entirely honest with himself, he hadn’t been averse to marrying Bethea. How they came to be husband and wife wasn’t the most romantic or ideal progression, but he could, in all honesty, say he didn’t mind.

  She, on the other hand, had been utterly appalled. Only Camden’s assurance that the union could be voided later had led her to concede to go through with the ceremony.

  The woman sleeping in his arms had fascinated him since he’d first seen her at Eytone Hall’s cèilidh celebration last August. She’d also intrigued and delighted him with her quick wit, a ready smile, and perpetual kindness to all during the week-long Hogmanay celebration at Trentwick Castle.

  And yet, he hadn’t permitted his interest to go beyond a mild flirtation, firmly believing
he wasn’t free to wed. Men in his line of work put their lives in peril regularly. Now, however, he found himself with a very alluring but reluctant wife. And the truth was, he didn’t object to the union nearly as much as he ought to have.

  Didn’t object to holding her in his arms or the possibility of exploring her very alluring curves. What would it be like to fall asleep with her in his embrace every night? Awaken her with a kiss each morn?

  If it had been any other woman, he’d have refused Sir Walter. And that epiphany both disturbed and stunned him.

  The timing was atrocious, as were the circumstances. But marriage to Bethea Glanville—nae, that wasn’t unpleasant at all.

  There was something powerful and enigmatic between him and Bethea.

  It might only be a physical attraction, but Camden didn’t think so. He’d slated his carnal desires with willing women for over a decade and had never felt this internal pull. And that made it all the more important he not succumb to the unfamiliar emotion swirling around inside him.

  It was one thing to seek an annulment or divorce for an unwanted marriage, but it would be something else entirely if he came to love Bethea. Hell, he suspected he was halfway there already. He’d never want to let her go if he allowed his feelings free rein. But neither would he make her stay if she truly wanted to leave.

  He exhaled a long breath. It was too soon for those disheartening thoughts in any event.

  In order for her reputation to sustain the least amount of damage, people must believe they’d eloped. Then in a few months or a year, they could proceed with the annulment, though that would bring a degree of ignominy as well.

  He suspected Bethea wouldn’t care about dispersions directed at her, but would about her sister. She was fiercely loyal and devoted to those she loved. She’d not want to taint Branwen’s chances of a brilliant match, and in fact, might want to delay the dissolution of the marriage until her sister had wed.

  Running a finger over Bethea’s plump lower lip, he closed his eyes.

  Camden hadn’t meant to kiss her at The Boar and Brew. It had just happened, and he couldn’t regret it. He could still taste her sweetness. A fire smoldered within Bethea Glanville—Kennedy—and he longed to be the man to fan those passionate embers into a blazing conflagration.

  Opening his eyes, he gazed down upon her. She settled closer to him, her eyelids moving as she dreamed, and a little snore escaping her.

  He grinned, utterly entranced.

  Odin’s bones, this delectable woman was his wife. His wife.

  How in hell was he going to keep his hands off her?

  Even now, desire surged through him, and his cock grew hard beneath her.

  As surely as heather bloomed in the Highlands, they’d share his chamber at Eytone Hall. After all, why would two people so in love that they’d toddled off to exchange vows over the anvil keep separate rooms?

  Perhaps he could persuade Berget, his brother Graeme’s bride of only a few months, to move them to a bigger chamber at least. One with a dressing room attached.

  Aye, that might do.

  He could sleep in there, but he’d have to take care the servants didn’t learn of it.

  Shite, who was he trying to fool? Servants knew everything.

  He’d think of something. Maybe he’d request another assignment immediately.

  Except, he didn’t want Bethea to feel he’d deserted her. She’d struggled enough about their forced marriage. If he took off at once, wouldn’t she feel abandoned and betrayed?

  Permitting his eyelids to drift close again, he pondered Sir Walter’s decision to assign Bryston the task of seeing a petulant Etherington to London. Accompanied by six soldiers, Bryston had given a cocky salute, and his mouth quirked into an even cockier grin, had promised to contact Camden the instant he returned to Scotland.

  The six mercenaries had received their pay and bonus and had been summarily discharged. None, save Anderson, grumbled overly much. They’d appreciated the relatively easy work and generous payments.

  However, as Etherington was in custody and Montieth soon would be, their services were no longer required. In truth, Camden had never trusted the scurvy lot.

  Bryston still didn’t know the whole of the tale about Camden and Bethea’s false betrothal and their very real marriage. Camden hadn’t missed the hilarity in Bryston’s eyes and voice, either. He thought fate had trapped Camden. Little did Bryston know how willingly Camden had walked into the snare.

  Camden quite looked forward to calling on the Earl of Montieth. And perhaps, breaking the assling’s nose or rendering him a eunuch over what he’d intended for Bethea.

  For her part, she’d explained precisely which volumes to remove to reveal the hidden compartment. Camden was confident they’d have no trouble finding it.

  What he wasn’t confident about was Keane’s reception in a few minutes.

  They neared Bethea’s home, and he gently shook her awake. “Bethea, darlin’, we’re almost there.”

  She stirred and slowly opened her eyes, blinking up at him. Still drowsy, her quicksilver gaze was soft and slightly confused. He knew the moment she remembered all that had occurred, and she swiftly sat up.

  “Did I truly sleep the entire journey?” she asked groggily as she smoothed her palms over her hair.

  “Aye. Ye were exhausted.” He tucked a silky tress behind her ear. “How is yer headache?”

  “Och, ’tis gone.” Glancing out the window, she sucked her lower lip into her mouth and clamped down with her neat upper teeth. “I dinna ken what to expect.” She sent him a sideways glance. “When they find out we’re married…”

  When Keane found out, she meant.

  A flush pinkened her cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

  “I’ll be right there with ye. I dinna see how anyone can object when they ken the circumstances.” He hoped to God that was true.

  Keane might not see it that way.

  Eyes wide and uncertain, Bethea gave a small nod.

  He despised seeing this vivacious woman trepidatious about facing her family.

  “I willna allow Keane to bully ye.” She drew in a shuddery breath as she toyed with the pleats of the cloak. “He only means well.”

  His heart turned over at her attempt to hearten him.

  “I ken, lass.” Camden did know, but when Keane had taken on the responsibility of two wards, he also vowed to keep them from harm. Quite likely, he’d see Bethea’s abduction as a failure on his part. “He’s a reasonable man. He’ll understand,” Camden assured her, not altogether certain that was the truth.

  “Aye, but this is rather a unique situation.” She sighed and smoothed the rough cloak over her gown. “I blame myself. I never should’ve ventured into that room. All of this—” She swept her hand between them. “My abduction, our hasty marriage, would’ve been avoided had I no’ been where I shouldna have been.”

  “Mayhap. But then we’d no’ ken about Montieth’s treachery or the hidden compartment.” He winked and pressed a kiss to her forehead before rolling his shoulder. “Ye’d make a verra good agent.”

  Something akin to pride erased the worry from her eyes.

  The clock hadn’t chimed twelve when Etherington’s coach groaned to a stop outside a fashionable house on the city’s outskirts. Parkhill Hall, Bethea had called Keane’s house in Edinburgh. The acrid smoke that perpetually hovered over the city, staining the buildings and often burning one’s eyes, was only slightly less thick here.

  “Ready, Bethea?”

  She swallowed then, searching his gaze with hers, nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”

  Camden disembarked the coach first, and Bethea had only stepped from the conveyance when Roxdale front door flew open.

  In less than two heartbeats, Keane and Marjorie sprinted down the four stairs. Behind them, using a cane to support herself, Branwen hobbled laboriously to the entrance. At least a half dozen servants had also crowded onto the stairway and in the entry
.

  Tears ran down Branwen’s face as she held a fist to her mouth.

  Upon seeing her sister’s distress, Bethea’s eyes filled with moisture.

  “Bethea, darling.” Marjorie enfolded her in a tight embrace. “I’m so very, very relieved that you are safe.” The gaze she turned on Camden held inquisitiveness but no condemnation.

  The same could not be said of Keane. He glared predatory daggers at Camden, his seething fury barely in check. “I’m sure ye have a damn good explanation.”

  “Aye,” Camden concurred, rather too nonchalant. “A damn good one, indeed.”

  Bethea untangled herself from Marjorie’s embrace, but before she could defend Camden or explain, Keane wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug.

  “Lass, I aged twenty years since last night. Thank God, ye’re safe.”

  Over her midnight hair, he sent Camden a wordless message.

  She had bloody well better be all right.

  “Bethea,” Branwen called in a tear-clogged voice as she tried to descend the stairs on her injured feet.

  Bethea dashed to her and enfolded her in her embrace. “Darlin’, ye shouldna be puttin’ weight on yer foot.”

  “Pshaw. What flimflam. My bruised feet are nothin’.” She burst into tears and flung her arms around Bethea. “I… I was so afraid I’d lost ye.”

  Marjorie gave a pointed glance at the street. Several passersby openly gawked, and more than one intrigued face pressed against the window of a neighboring house. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  “Yes,” Bethea agreed, wrapping an arm about her sister’s waist. At the top of the stairs, she paused to cast a glance over her shoulder. Worry pleated her usually smooth forehead as she swung her attention from Camden to Keane and back to him again.

  Camden swept his mouth into his most disarming smile, and she offered the slightest upward tilt of her mouth in response. Sweet lass, she continued to fret about Keane’s reaction. Surely he wouldn’t punch Camden in public.

  He hoped.

  With a final, troubled glance at Keane, she helped her sister inside.

  Camden started forward, but Keane’s firm hand on his forearm stopped him. “If ye have touched her—”