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Exactly as Camden had planned.

A handful of minutes later, the men mounted, and he straightened in the saddle, taking in each hireling, one by one. “Nae matter who snares Etherin’ton, we’ll meet nae later than four in the mornin’.”

Only he and Bryston knew the particular location of that rendezvous, The Boar and Brew—an unobtrusive inn outside Dalkeith. From there, they’d transport Etherington to England to meet whatever fate His Majesty deemed appropriate.

Much would depend on the evidence Etherington carried on him tonight, and how cooperative he proved during his interrogation. In all likelihood, no matter how forthcoming he was, he’d swing from the gallows for his treachery.

And, if all went as anticipated, this plotting to overthrow the king would cease. For the sake of Scotland and her people, it must. Scotland needed to heal, and constant turmoil and insurrection prevented that. If the time ever came for Scotland to regain her independence from England again—peacefully—Camden would be the first to celebrate.

Hunched down and slightly slumped, giving the appearance of a pished tippler slowly making his way home, Camden reigned his mount out of the wynd first.

As arranged, his men gradually followed, keeping their distance from one another so as not to raise suspicion. The ring of the horses’ hooves echoing on the slick cobblestones penetrated the night.

Occasionally, necks bent and collars raised against the cool breeze, men scurried by. A skinny dog slunk past, its tail between his legs, and cats yowled angrily in the distance as they did before a fight commenced.

Over the past fifteen minutes, the drizzle had transformed into large raindrops, and the fog had thickened until he could only see a few feet ahead.

Camden went over the ambush several times in his head until he was positive he’d considered every possibility. After Etherington’s capture, they’d seek his conspirator.

Several of Montieth’s guests tonight were known to harbor less than loyal sentiments toward the king. Not that George I had earned the Scots’ or, for that matter, the English’s respect and admiration.

Satisfied with the evening’s progress so far, at least as far as snaring the traitor to the Crown, he allowed his mind to wander to Bethea.

Thinking about her definitely didn’t bring the same degree of gratification.

Bethea’s pale face as she’d stood in the corridor, an arm wrapped around her sister’s waist, lurched to the forefront of his mind. Wearing an exquisite lavender and silver gown, the toes of her lavender silk shoes peeking out from beneath the hem, her beauty had staggered him like a punch to the gut.

Once more, he recalled the graceful slant of her jaw and cheeks, the elegant arch of her creamy neck, and the glossy sheen of her ebony upswept hair.

He scratched his jaw, trying to recall just how long the Glanville sisters had been Roxdale’s wards.

Fifteen years?

Aye, that seemed about right.

Most of Bethea’s and Branwen’s lives then. Point of fact, they were more like Keane’s adopted sisters than his wards, and therefore, essentially cousins to the Kennedys, as well.

That must be what stirred his protective instincts—the familial connection. Montieth had threatened his kin and even now was a threat to Bethea.

Camden sensed it with every nerve, pore, and fiber of his being.

Aye, but gazing upon female kin had never heated his blood or caused blood to rush to his loins before.