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Why was he here?

Call her foolish, but she was still unwilling to accept the laughing, considerate man who’d attended Keane’s Hogmanay celebration had anything to do with her abduction. Or the plot against the Crown.

“He struck ye?” Camden swore beneath his breath, striking a fist to his knee. A feral scowl contorted his handsome features for a heartbeat, before he arranged them into a less intimidating mien. “He’ll pay for that, by God. Pay dearly for layin’ a hand on ye, lass. I’ll make sure of it.”

So would Keane.

There’d not be much left of Etherington or Montieth, by the time those two finished with them. She couldn’t summon an iota of pity.

Bethea surreptitiously examined Camden. He’d changed his clothes since the ball and now wore all jet black, except for his shirt. A simple knitted black cap covered his sable hair, as well. He looked like a humble laborer or a farmhand.

How had he come to be in this coach with her, and where were Sir Phillip Etherington and Montieth?

There was only one way to find out.

Yes, she might not know where she was, or how she would escape, but she wasn’t so hen-hearted she’d not ask. This was her life, after all.

She’d craved excitement and adventure, but this assuredly wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

“Why?” The word came out a raspy croak. “Why are ye here?” Bethea swallowed again, her waffy stomach less overwhelming, but present nonetheless. “Where’s that despicable Englishman and the Earl of Montieth?”

Bethea darted an uneasy glance toward a window.

Out there?

Nae, Camden wasn’t working with them.

He couldn’t be.

He wouldn’t hurt her. She instinctively knew it.

Knew that he was good at his core, as much as Montieth was evil to the depths of his black soul. God rot him.

In fact, at Trentwick, she’d suspected Camden might, in fact, esteem her. In the way a man admires a woman who’s captured his serious masculine interest.

Bethea had been flattered, quite naturally.

How could she not be?

Camden was dashing, possessed a physique a Roman god might envy, and was handsome in the rugged way many Highlanders were. He was also a tease and a flirt, and seldom took anything seriously.

He’d not said a word, of course, and she couldn’t very well ask what his reputation was with the ladies. Instinct told her he had no detriments on that front, and if she began poking around, making inquiries about a handsome Kennedy, Keane wouldn’t take it well.

A thread of tension yet remained between the Kennedys and Buchannans, and he knew full well how blasted protective Keane was of her and Branwen.

Her dreams of partaking in Edinburgh’s high social season had remained firmly affixed in her mind. She’d not settle on the first Highlander that paid her any attention when she might very well meet a gentleman who’d steal her heart and sweep her off her feet in Edinburgh.

What did she truly know of Camden Kennedy?

Certainly not that he appeared at balls unannounced, dressed for stealthy activities, or mysteriously wound up in coaches in the middle of the night.

An almost wry smile quirked his mouth, and the rakish glint she knew so well twinkled in his eyes.

Surprisingly—or perhaps foolishly—his rapscallion charm relaxed her.

Kicking his legs out before him and crossing his booted ankles, he reclined against the seat. Arms folded, the ridiculously muscled cords straining against the lucky fabric of his roughly woven shirt, he jutted his strong chin toward the back of the coach. A chin, she couldn’t help but notice, shadowed by dark stubble.

“Etherin’ton, the bastard, is gagged and tied to a horse. The horse, in turn, is secured to the back of this coach.” He gave a decidedly wicked chuckle, and a little thrill jolted through her.