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“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.