Page 16
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.
