To Marry a Highland Marauder Page 9

  “Relax, cousin. All is well. I married her.” He’d never know what devil prompted him to blurt that, but it felt damn good to say it.

  Keane’s jaw came unhinged, and then his mouth worked, but nothing but angry rasps came forth. “Ye…” He finally managed, his gruff voice as rough as a gravel lane. “Ye married her?”

  “Aye. I wed the lass to preserve her reputation after saving her from an abduction.” Camden grinned and slapped his flummoxed cousin on the back. “Ye can thank me inside.”

  Chapter Ten

  Parkhill Hall-Edinburgh

  Late morning

  22 March 1721

  Relieved of her borrowed cloak and settled onto a plush brocade striped chaise in the green salon, Marjorie and Branwen on either side of her, Bethea looked to Camden.

  Would he announce their news, or should she?

  Keane paced back and forth, his hair unkempt and dark stubble covering his jaw. Face ruddy and black eyebrows slashed into a stern line, he seemed incapable of speech. Well, of polite speech, that was.

  Wrath radiated off him in thick, tense waves, and every few steps, he fired Camden murderous glowers that would have smote a lesser man into cinders.

  Marjorie observed her husband, a fretful frown puckering her forehead.

  He knows. Keane knows Camden and I are married.

  Bethea narrowed her gaze and cut Camden a reproachful look. Skewing a rather starchy eyebrow, she mouthed, “Well?”

  He cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. “As I’ve already told my cousin, circumstances required Bethea and me to marry this morn.”

  Branwen gasped, the color draining from her face as she grasped about clumsily, searching for Bethea’s hand to clutch in hers.

  “Marry? You’re married?” Marjorie said, her shock apparent but subdued. She was never one to overreact without an explanation, but even she looked utterly confounded. “Please, do explain.”

  Concern filling her brown eyes, she followed Keane’s rigidly controlled movements with her gaze.

  “Aye, do.” Thunder reverberated in her husband’s voice, and lightning sparked in his eyes.

  Bethea feared he was on the verge of apoplexy, and her mind raced for a way to diffuse the volatile tension, thick enough to slice with a saber.

  “It began when I took Branwen to the ladies’ retirin’ room.” Bethea quickly recounted the events, only leaving out the kiss she and Camden had shared. Not only was that too private, but it was also sure to rile Keane further. And there’d be no annulment should that tidbit become public knowledge.

  Standing before the fireplace, one hand on his hip and the other cradling his nape, Keane stared hard at her and then Camden. “God damn that bastard. I’ll strangle Montieth with my bare hands,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

  “Keane,” Marjorie softly admonished, the understanding in her eyes softening her reproach. “The girls.”

  Bethea and Branwen exchanged a knowing glance. They were hardly girls, and they’d heard much worse in the great hall, stable, and bailey.

  Speaking of girls, however, where were Cora and Elana, Marjorie’s pixyish red-haired daughters? Probably sequestered in their chamber, lest things become heated between their beloved Uncle Camden and equally adored stepfather.

  “Leannan.” Sweetheart. Keane heaved a weighty sigh, aggravation and frustration alternating across his countenance. “Even ye must concede this is a bloody mess. Surely everyone at the ball kens of Bethea’s disappearance.”

  Bethea winced inwardly, a hint of despair cresting in her chest. She’d naively hoped the incident had been kept quiet. Or that only a select, critical few were aware she’d vanished.

  “I canna be sure, of course,” Camden said. “But from my conversation with Etherin’ton, I’ve concluded Montieth intended to swoop in and play the hero by rescuin’ her from him.” His expression and voice turned flinty. “Then, the bugger intended to ruin her to force her to wed him.”

  “As if I ever would.” Revulsion caused Bethea to shudder, and Marjorie patted her arm in commiseration. “I’d rather die than marry that doughy, putrid pizzle.”

  “Pizzle?” Branwen asked, struggling, unsuccessfully, to subdue the twitching of her mouth.

  Marjorie choked on a laugh and swiftly pretended to cough behind her hand.

  Keane opened and closed his mouth, no doubt wondering how in the hell Bethea even knew the word, and likely praying she didn’t know its meaning.

  She did, indeed.

  The Roma that traveled through the Highlands every spring were responsible. She’d learned a few other expressions from them, too. The gypsies were a flamboyant, spirited people, who, unlike High Society, didn’t put on airs or speak out of two sides of their mouths. However, they could also be cunning and crafty and most definitely colorful in their speech. Hence pizzle for penis.

  Camden did not attempt to hide the upward slant of his mouth at her choice of words. He pulled at his ear lobe, his gaze working over her, a shadow of possessiveness there. “The point is rather moot now, as ye are married to me.”

  Awareness swept Bethea, and this time when a shiver tiptoed the length of her spine, aversion didn’t cause it.

  “Are ye truly wed?” Branwen whispered in Bethea’s ear, equal parts fascination and astonishment in her tone.

  “Aye, but in name only,” she whispered back under cover of the rather intense exchange commencing between Keane, Camden, and Marjorie. “We had nae choice.”

  “What will ye do?” Branwen asked, worry darkening her eyes to the shade of the sky before a winter tempest.

  Hitching a shoulder, Bethea meshed her lips together. “An annulment after a respectable amount of time has passed to put rumors to rest.” She darted Camden a glance beneath her lashes. “Or a divorce if we canna acquire an annulment.”

  “Oh.” Something in Branwen’s voice made Bethea give her a searching look. “And… in the meanwhile?”

  Aye, that was the two-ton question. One she and Camden hadn’t discussed. One she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Would Bethea move to Eytone Hall or Camden to Trentwick Castle? Or would they live elsewhere? Or—would they live apart? The latter wouldn’t reinforce the wildly in love ruse, but it would make obtaining an annulment easier if they never resided together.

  Surely Camden’s assignments would require him to be absent, perhaps for weeks on end. Just how dangerous were his missions? A chill slithered down her spine, dual venoms of apprehension and worry coiling around her belly.

  She didn’t like the idea of him being in danger or taking risks. Even if it were for King and country. But some men thrived on intrigue and peril. Her father, a reckless sea captain, had. And his last madcap escapade had taken his and Mama’s lives.

  Was Camden one of those men? One always looking for the next adventure?

  Firming her mouth, Bethea searched the archives of her mind. She knew so little about the man she now called husband. Other than he kissed divinely, and there was much more to Camden than the accomplished flirt and rapscallion he presented to the world.

  She’d never have suspected him of being an agent for the Crown.

  And dinna forget, a confessed marauder and part-time highwayman.

  Although supposedly those were guises.

  What other secrets did Camden Kennedy have?

  Did she really want to know?

  “’Tis settled then,” Keane said, though no satisfaction lit his eyes, and no happiness softened his features.

  His no-nonsense statement effectively ended Bethea’s woolgathering.

  What was settled?

  She looked between Keane and Camden, searching for a hint of what she’d missed.

  His expression grim, Camden gave a terse nod. “I’d like a word with Bethea before I leave.”

  Ah, his meeting with Sir Walter. He’d need to depart soon.

  A glance at the ormolu and marble clock atop the fireplace revealed he had plenty of ti
me.

  “Of course,” Marjorie agreed as she rose. Smiling broadly, she gave him an exuberant hug. “I cannot say I’m not thrilled that two of my favorite people are now husband and wife. ’Tis another way our clans are united.”

  Her eyes grew misty with emotion, and she blinked rapidly.

  “Aye, Marjorie.” Camden gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Should I call ye mum now?” Considering he was a year older than she, the question proved ludicrous, but had the desired effect of defusing a degree of tension.

  She laughed, and even Keane’s mouth tipped upward.

  Still baffled about what she’d missed, Bethea returned Branwen’s embrace.

  “I’ll see ye upstairs in a few minutes,” Branwen said. “I’ll start packin’ yer belongin’s.”

  So Bethea was to leave then. Bundled off like a wayward child. She couldn’t help the spark of resentment that flamed behind her breastbone.

  Until she reminded herself it was unfair to jump to that conclusion when she’d not heard the conversation.

  Drat her inattentiveness and daydreaming.

  With Marjorie’s help, Branwen limped from the salon, Keane trailing behind them.

  At the door, his hand on the latch, he turned and offered his first genuine smile. “Camden, I do appreciate what ye did for Bethea. I ken yer hands were tied.”

  “Ye’d have done the same, Cousin.” Camden acknowledged the thanks with a wry smile and inclination of his dark head.

  “Aye.” Keane’s gaze slid to Bethea. “I’ll await ye in the entry.”

  After he’d quit the room, Camden settled his large form on the chaise beside Bethea. Why did the room suddenly feel tiny, and as if the air had been sucked out of it? And why must she be so aware of the virile male so close that his heat beckoned her nearer? His musky, masculine scent enticed her—drew her ever nearer, much like the proverbial moth to a flame. And yet… having her wings singed might be worth it.

  “Keane’s goin’ with ye to arrest Montieth?” She wasn’t surprised, nor particularly worried. Keane and Camden knew their way around a sword and were seasoned warriors.

  “Aye. He needs to feel like he’s doin’ somethin’ to vindicate ye.” He flicked the tip of her disheveled braid. “I canna permit him to kill the rotter, though. Montieth’s too valuable alive.”

  “Mmm.” Despite the truth of his words, Bethea was shocked at the degree of loathing for Montieth heating her blood. She wanted him dead. That knowledge forced her to face a side of herself that, until today, she’d never have believed existed. She was capable of deep, abiding hatred.

  It made her sick to her stomach.

  Camden quirked his mouth into a smile and brushed a lock of hair off her face. “I dinna ken how long this business with Montieth will take, but Keane is eager for ye and me to depart Edinburgh as soon as ’tis completed.” He hesitated and then took her hand in his. “He’ll spread the word that we eloped and are now enjoyin’ a romantic weddin’ trip.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Just like that?”

  “Our families are close, and we’ve been in love for years.” His brogue deepened, and a decidedly primal glint gleamed in his blue eyes.

  She nodded, having a hard time concentrating when he kept brushing his thumb over the back of her hand, and with his marble-like thigh pressing into hers. She gave a toss of her head. “Elopements are so common in Scotland, the gossip should be minimal.”

  Minimal?

  Nae, but perhaps subdued?

  His expression thoughtful, he nodded. “Unless Montieth flaps his mouth, which is doubtful given his culpability. And when he’s arrested in a couple of hours, nae one will regard anythin’ he says.”

  At the mention of Montieth, her stomach toppled over. A fake marriage was far preferable to despoilment at the earl’s hands. She owed Camden much. “I’m afraid I was speakin’ with Branwen and missed whatever decision ye and Keane settled on.”

  Since whatever they’d decided also affected her, it would’ve been nice to have been included in the decision. But men were forever making decisions on women’s behalf, and women were expected to accept those choices docilely.

  She wasn’t peeved, exactly, for she recognized that if she’d been paying attention to the conversation, she might’ve interjected her opinion. It was unfair to blame them.

  He scratched a hawkish eyebrow, a slightly enigmatic smile curving his mouth. “Yer family will remain in Edinburgh for at least a month to reinforce the elopement subterfuge, and we will journey to Culloden.”

  “Culloden?” She tilted her head, pulling her eyebrows together in her confusion. “No’ Trentwick Castle or Eytone Hall? I dinna understand.”

  “Keane has a house there. Actually, more of a huntin’ lodge a couple of miles outside of the township.” He relaxed against the back of the chaise, drawing her with him.

  She should protest, but couldn’t bring herself to voice an objection. In truth, it felt rather wonderful, tucked into Camden’s side, his heat warming her.

  “We’ve agreed that until Montieth, Etherin’ton, and whoever else they’re collaboratin’ with are securely locked in whatever prison His Majesty decides upon, ye may no’ be safe,” he murmured into her hair.

  Did he just sniff her hair?

  “That’s ridiculous.” She snorted and shook her head, bumping his chin. She almost giggled at his grunt of pain. Instead, she focused on the absurdity of their reasoning. “Even now Bryston is takin’ Etherin’ton to London, and by this afternoon, ye’ll have Montieth in custody, as well.”

  Did he know something he wasn’t telling her?

  “’Tis wise to never underestimate the enemy, my sweet.”

  He still held her hand, and she had no desire to remove it—especially when he called her his sweet.

  “I understand leavin’ Edinburgh,” she said. “Especially if Keane says we’re on a weddin’ trip, but canna we go home?”

  “Nae. No’ for now.” His expression grew serious. “We’ll have to discuss where we are to live until…” Rolling a shoulder, he said, “Och, until we decide what path our futures will take.”

  “I take it ye didna mention the annulment to Keane.’

  Camden slowly grazed his big, rough fingers along her jawline.

  Bethea’s breath caught on a half-sigh, half-gasp as desire, unexpected and undeniable, jolted her.

  He really must stop doing that. His touch proved terribly—deliciously—distracting. It made her want more, want to explore whatever this was between them. And that was perilous because once they tripped down that convoluted road of passion and desire, there could never be any turning back.

  They would remain man and wife for the rest of their lives.

  Camden might want her in the way a man did a woman, and he’d certainly raised her interest in the forbidden subject, but neither had entered the arrangement willingly. And both had done so with the expectation they’d gain their freedom again.

  She cleared her throat and repeated her question, positive the mention of Keane would curb Camden’s ardor as much as it did hers. “Keane disna ken about our agreement?”

  Camden chuckled, his chest vibrating with his mirth.

  “Nae. I have nae wish to be on the receivin’ end of my cousin’s wrath. I count myself fortunate he didna throttle me for marryin’ ye without his blessin’.” He quirked a sardonic eyebrow. “God’s ballocks, can ye imagine his reaction if I told him we intended to annul the union?”

  Gazing at their intertwined fingers, hers small and pale, and his thick and sun-browned, she murmured, “He’d never permit me to go to Culloden with ye, and then the elopement would be exposed as a farce.”

  “Exactly.” He squeezed her hand and winked, but his previous humor had vanished. “I always kent ye were an intelligent lass.”

  A long moment went by, each absorbed in their thoughts. Circumstances had irrevocably woven their together lives together in a complex tapestry: nae, a tangled knot. Even
after the dissolution of their marriage, they’d no doubt encounter each other. Not only was Camden Keane’s cousin and Marjorie’s former brother-in-law, but he was also close to her and her daughters.

  Bethea and Camden would see each other from time to time, unless she married another and moved away. That unwarranted thought made her positively ill.

  “I must be off.” With a sigh, he straightened and, at last, relinquished her hand.

  An odd bereftness bathed her.

  Sitting beside Camden in comfortable silence, listening to the regular rhythm of his breathing while holding his hand filled her with a deep peace and contentment.

  “We’ll leave as soon as I return, lass, nae matter how late the hour.” He tilted her face to his and brushed a light kiss across her lips.

  Again, she felt as if he kept something from her, and she opened her mouth to ask what, but then decided against the impulse.

  She stood as he did and walked with him to the door. Bethea laid a hand on his arm. “Camden. Ye will be careful, willna ye? Montieth’s a deceptive snake. I dinna ken what he’s capable of.”

  His eyes softened, the warmth in their depths doing peculiar things to her bones, and he gathered her near. She willingly stepped into his embrace. Nothing felt as natural or right as being in his arms. “I promise, Bethea.”

  He kissed her forehead, then her temple then her nose, and finally settled his molded mouth upon hers. She clutched his shirt as sensation encapsulated her. One touch from this man and she forgot—well, everything.

  The kiss went on and on and on. Hunger grew within her to know him in every way a woman could know a man. He’d only been her husband for a few hours, but already, she didn’t know how she’d let him go.

  He drew away first, his breathing ragged. “I promise ye, lass. I’ll be careful.” He gave her a devilish wink. “I have a new bride and a weddin’ trip to look forward to.”

  Then he was gone.

  Bethea stood there with one hand on her heart, and her fingertips touching her still throbbing lips, as a shocking, wholly inconceivable thought kept repeating in her mind, over and over and over.