Page 19

“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.