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Chapter Seven

The Boar and Brew Inn and Tavern

Dalkeith Scotland

22 March 1721

Bloody damned hell.

Camden gritted his teeth to tame more curses as he handed Bethea down from the coach onto the sodden ground. To a man, his men stared at her like she was a sweetmeat or a dainty they wanted to gobble up. For her part, she kept her gaze averted and stayed close to his side.

She might not admit it, but her trembling revealed her unease.

The rain had ceased, but the air remained damp and heavy with the promise of more showers.

Though Sir Walter awaited his arrival, he’d see Bethea settled in a chamber first. A locked chamber. He’d appoint a guard as well, but he didn’t trust anyone besides himself and Bryston.

As if conjured by his thoughts, Bryston McPherson appeared in the inn’s doorway. His eyes went wide upon spying Bethea, but after Camden’s infinitesimal shake of his head, Bryston gravitated his attention to Etherington.

“Take him inside. I’ll be there, momentarily.”

With a curt nod, Bryston clasped a soggy, sweaty, white-faced Etherington. His swollen nose had begun to bruise already. They disappeared inside the inn, and several men turned curious glances on Bethea, bold male interest and appreciation in their eyes.

With her sable hair, bowed mouth—red from nervously chewing her lower lip—gently sloping cheeks, and dove-gray, almond-shaped eyes beneath winged eyebrows set in an oval face, she was unquestionably lovely.

His coat hid most of her womanly assets, but he knew her to have a narrow waist, nipped in by stays, and a full, creamy bosom. He also knew she smelled of lilacs and lilies.

When he’d put his coat on her, her perfume had teased him unmercifully.

Camden had best get her inside and out of their view. No sense tempting the men with what they couldn’t have.

“Anderson and Headden, take care of the horses and then have yerselves somethin’ to eat.” The hostler had been paid in advance to have food, drink, and their rooms prepared for their arrival.

Pray to God, a chamber was available for Bethea that bolted from inside.

At least a dozen uniformed soldiers lounged about the common room as Camden steered Bethea inside by her elbow.

Tension radiated off her in undulating waves.

“Easy, sweet,” he whispered in her ear. “Nae harm will come to ye.”

Glancing upward, she summoned a wan smile.

“I’ll see ye settled in a chamber before I meet with my contact,” he murmured.

The slim column of her throat worked, but she managed a stiff nod.

Once inside the inn, and after speaking with Shamus Dowdery, the innkeeper, Camden swore a vile oath.

Bloody hell.

No additional rooms were available.

There was no help for it. Bethea would have to use his. There was no way she could stay in the common area with this many men about, and she couldn’t be present for his confidential meeting with Sir Walter Makepeace.

“I’ll need a dinner tray and hot water sent up at once,” he told Shamus, a cheerful chap, despite the ungodly hour and the two score unruly men crowding his establishment.

“Aye. My missus will see to it.” He motioned a beefy arm toward the thrumming common room. “The barmaids are a bit overwhelmed at present.”