Page 31

“Aye.” A seductive wink followed his keen assessment. “Ye are verra lovely. I’ve always thought so.”

He had?

Despite the inappropriateness of his perusal, heat like warm custard or honey suffused her. Mustering supreme effort, she subdued her feminine response to him. Arms still crossed, she canted her head and arched a starchy eyebrow upward. “Well?”

His mirth evaporated, and solemnness transformed the contours of his face.

Something was amiss.

“I told ye that I had to claim ye were my betrothed to keep ye safe from—” He stepped nearer and took one of her hands in his rough one. “Well, ye ken what from.”

Violation. Rape. Despoilment. Being set upon.

There were a number of polite ways to describe being taken by force.

Keane was the product of rape, and he’d never shied away from warning Bethea and Branwen of the way men might attempt to abuse them. Not that he’d permitted men near enough very often for such a thing to occur.

She didn’t blame or resent Camden for claiming they were betrothed. He’d said what he must to keep her from a horrible fate. So why did he look so discomfited now, as if he struggled to speak what was on his mind?

“Aye. I ken, and I appreciate ye did what ye must. I’m no’ angry if that is what has ye worried.” Mesmerized, she watched him brush his big thumb back and forth across the back of her hand. The movement was at once soothing and sensual. Much like the deep, melodious baritone of his voice.

He remained silent, so she tried again. “I understand, ye had nae choice, Camden. Dinna fash yerself about it.”

His eyes had deepened to indigo, and the teasing glint he normally regarded her with was absent. So very serious. Whatever could have ever-cheerful Camden Kennedy this somber?

Odd that he should be so concerned over the matter.

Perhaps Bethea had misread his interest in her at Trentwick, and he was truly opposed to anyone believing them betrothed.

Her heart gave a queer twinge at the thought, though why it should, she couldn’t imagine. Wasn’t she the one who wanted a chance to meet other men?

“I promise, I’ll nae hold ye to the fabrication.” In an attempt to lighten the heavy mood in the room, she grinned and winked. “I’ll nae be exchangin’ vows with ye. Ye willna find yerself saddled with an unwanted wife.”

He brought his vivid blue gaze up to meet hers, and his eyes probed the depths of her soul. Something unnamable flickered behind the cage that was her ribs. It was if he tried silently to communicate with her. As if he couldn’t summon the right words.

That had never been an issue with him before. He’d always had a glib reply, a flirtatious comment, or a cheeky retort.

He touched her cheek with a bent knuckle, and she widened her eyes, taken aback at the affectionate gesture.

“Aye lass. Ye will. Below. In ten minutes.”

What?

“Pardon?” Bethea’s mouth went dry, and her heart seized mid-beat. Then, feeling like an utter fool, she realized he but jested. “That’s no’ verra funny, Camden. I about lost ten years—”

“I’m nae jestin’ lass.” From the pained expression on his face and harshness of his deep burr, it seemed he very much wished he were. “A high-rankin’ advisor to His Majesty, Sir Walter Makepeace, has decreed that we will wed before returnin’ to Edinburgh at first light.”

“But… but… that’s ridiculous.” She shook her head, withdrawing her hand and backing away. “Ye dinna have any desire to marry me, and I dinna want to wed ye.”

“Och, and ye can read my mind?” His expression grew impossibly sterner, his tone dangerous.

Odin’s teeth, had she offended him?

Most men she knew would rejoice at escaping forced nuptials.

“I didna mean that as an insult, Camden. I only meant I wouldna hold ye to the vow ye made to protect me. What kind of a woman do ye think I am?”

She moved toward the door, but he caught her arm, his huge hand almost encircling her wrist.