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Chapter Six

Road to Dalkeith

Early morning

22 March 1721

Bethea groaned and cautiously moved her throbbing head.

What had happened?

She tried to recall, even as she realized from the rumbling wheels and rhythmic swaying, she was in a vehicle.

Take her with ye. She’s mine.

Montieth!

Recollection flooded her, and terror curdling her blood, she bolted upright, crying out as pain lanced the back of her head.

Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

She stifled a moan, but only just.

“Shh, lass, yer safe now.” A large hand briefly rested on her shoulder, warm and reassuring.

Not the Englishman, Phillip Etherington’s, bony appendage, nor his British accent, which sounded like he’d gargled glass shards.

Through the fog of confusion and fear, recognition took root.

Bethea knew that rich, comforting burr.

Camden Kennedy?

But how? Why?

Her stomach roiled violently, and she allowed her eyelids to drift closed for a blink.

Och, God above, she might be sick.

Swallowing nausea climbing her throat, she touched her fingertips to the aching throb at the base of her skull. A combination of the vehicle’s movements and the blow to her head made vomiting a very real possibility.

Confused, refusing to believe her eyes, she cowered in the corner, shaking. But not from the cold. Someone had put an oversized, slightly damp coat on her.

Hiscoat.

It smelled slightly of wet wool and a lighter, musky scent. A manly aroma hinting of the outdoors, pine trees, and mayhap—she gave a light sniff—mayhap cloves?

Camden had retreated a few inches, concern lining his face and crinkling the corner of his indigo eyes. “Did he harm ye?”

What…? What was he doing here?

She blinked several times, trying to clear the cobwebs from her fuzzy brain—attempting to remember precisely what had happened.

Squinting, she envisioned the Earl of Montieth’s ballroom.

Branwen had injured her feet while dancing. Well, that clodpole Lord Hurstwood had tromped upon her toes, bruising them quite grievously.

Yes, and then Bethea was supposed to have found Marjorie and Keane and another, less visible, way to leave the ball.