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A man?

Not Keane.

Forcing her eyelids open, she stared around her in confusion.

Where was she?

“Bethea?” Knock. Knock. “’Tis Camden.” Knock. Knock. “Open the door. ’Tis important.”

“Camden?”’ she murmured groggily.

What?

Memory flooded back, slamming into her with the impact of a pair of millstones.

Och, God.

She scrambled off the bed and hurriedly lifted the board barring the entrance.

At once, he shoved the door open and slipped inside. His presence seemed to fill the space and suck the very air from the tiny chamber.

Pushing her hair off her face, she met his tense gaze. “Did it no’ go well with Etherin’ton?”

Something had him in a temper. Every plane of his face stood out starkly, and a grim line pulled his full mouth into a stern ribbon.

“Camden?” Frissons of alarm skittered down her back and tangled low in her belly. She placed a hand on his forearm.

He stiffened, the muscle beneath her palm twitching. Even as he did so, his warmth penetrated her skin and his masculine scent met her nostrils fresh sweat, leather, horse, and another woodsy aroma.

“Bethea?” He summoned what was, at best, a tenuous smile.

She stepped away, tilting her chin to see him better.

He was, after all, three or four inches over six feet tall, and while she was no short lass at six inches over five feet herself, he towered over her. The immense width of his shoulders and chest, the corded column of his neck, and the tree-trunks he had for thighs all contributed to the impression of him as a powerful, brawny warrior.

The fierce scowl darkening his face at the moment did, as well.

Why was he so upset? How long had he been below?

It must be near dawn. She cast a glance at the shuttered window. No hint of light peeked through any of the cracks, but if the sky were still obstructed by heavy cloud cover, daylight would creep upon the inn like a low blanket of fog upon a loch.

“I assume somethin’ happened to disgruntle ye,” she offered, prying gently. She wasn’t one to poke her nose in another’s private affairs, but whatever had Camden disgruntled pertained to her, or else he wouldn’t be in this chamber with her.

“Aye, lass.” He puffed out a breath, the motion emphasizing the breadth of his sculpted chest, as he shoved a hand through his thick, black hair. “A wee bit of a problem has arisen.”

Bethea would wager whatever had him discomposed was more than a wee problem. Despite her impatience, she bridled her tongue and waited for him to say whatever it was he needed to say.

Planting his hands on his lean hips—not that she noticed men’s hips or the very apparent bulge at his loins—he took a long, leisurely look over her form. An almost possessive glint entered his clear blue eyes, framed by sinfully thick lashes.

Even her lashes weren’t that thick. And the way he looked at her just now… Well, any woman would take exception to that masculine appraisal.

What yer feelin’ is nae offense.

Crossing her arms, she narrowed her gaze in reproach. “Enjoyin’ yerself?”

He grinned, a cocky, self-confident smirk that made her simultaneously long to slap the smugness off his face and also kiss that molded mouth.

What was wrong with her?