Page 12 of A Scot for Bethan (The Welsh Rebels #6)

Bethan made her way toward the river as soon as she had jumped from the saddle.

Graceful as a water nymph, she knelt down on the gravel beach.

Cupping the crystalline liquid into her palm, she drank, closing her eyes as if to better savor the flavor of the water.

Cameron’s groin tightened. God on the cross, if she made him hard by drinking water from a stream, what could she not achieve if she ever decided to seduce him?

Would she ever dare? Of course not, yet it seemed to him that every time their gazes met, the same spark ignited in her as it did in him.

Damnation, why did the first woman to provoke his desire in such a shocking manner have to be the one promised to his blasted nephew?

For years he’d heard her name mentioned, and not once had he thought that he would lust after her when they finally met.

But lust he most certainly did.

Was it because they had met outside Mistress Elen’s house, before he’d known who she was?

Because of her unfortunate comment about never having gone down on her knees for a man?

Because of her incredible beauty? He had no idea, but he suspected there was more to it than mere physical attraction.

If he only wanted to bed her, he would not want to talk to her while they were on horseback, would he?

If he only lusted after her, he would not want to tease her about demons’ bowels and crooked teeth, would he?

That was certainly not his usual method for wooing females.

The scene by the cliff that morning had made him understand that the irritation he felt in her presence was not due to her, but to him and his inability to cope with the desire she stirred in him, and he’d been uncomfortable ever since.

And then, as if he’d needed another reason to be irritated, McBain planted himself in front of him.

“Laird. A word with you, if I may.”

The hairs at the back of Cameron’s neck instantly prickled.

The man had spoken in Gaelic, despite his express instructions that they were to speak only in English during the journey, so as not to make Bethan ill at ease.

Nevertheless, as there might be a good reason for the change, and Bethan was down by the river, out of hearing range, he answered in the same language.

“What is it?”

“I spent the last two days wondering where I had seen the Welshwoman’s horse before.”

Cameron barely repressed a growl. Why was it that he always corrected his men when they called Bethan “my lady,” and yet he wanted to snap McBain’s neck for calling her “the Welshwoman?” It had to be because he could not stand the man, he decided, not because he didn’t like to hear her being talked about so casually.

And then the meaning of McBain’s words hit him.

He thought he had seen Petal, Bethan’s mare, before.

And of course he had, that night at the tavern, when the men had thought her a whore.

This could prove disastrous. No one at Crois Dhubh could know that Dougal’s future wife had been seen in a stewhouse and been propositioned by his men.

That was bad enough, but inevitably, the story would become distorted.

It wouldn’t be long before word got round that she had been seen with her skirts round her ankles and a lover thrusting between her legs.

He turned to the man and said in his most uninterested voice. “Have you? That was a waste of time, if you ask me, because you can’t have.”

“Well… Maybe I can. You remember the night we stopped at the tavern before we reached Castle Ergwin?”

“Castell Esgyrn, you mean?”

“Aye. That’s what I said.”

No, it wasn’t but Cameron was doing his best to give the impression this conversation was of no interest to him, so he didn’t insist. “I vaguely remember, yes.” Or rather, he remembered it very vividly.

“Well, that night I saw that horse.” He nodded toward Petal, who was munching on some grass next to his stallion.

“It was dark, so I didn’t see the color of the mare’s coat as well as I see it now, admittedly, but I saw her face.

No doubt she is named Petal because of the petal-shaped marking on her forehead. It’s quite distinctive.”

Damn it, the man was a fool, but an observant fool. “You saw a horse with a white mark on its face that night. What of it?”

How long could he keep pretending he had no idea where the man was going with this, Cameron wondered? But betraying no alarm was the safest way to act.

“Not a horse, that horse. Don’t you see? If the horse was there, it means that Bethan felch Morvan?—”

“Ferch Morgan.”

“Aye, well if her horse was there, it means that she is the whore who?—”

Cameron moved before he knew what he was doing.

A heartbeat later McBain was pinned to the nearest tree, his feet dangling a few inches in the air.

“If you ever, ever, call the woman who is to marry into my family, my nephew’s longtime betrothed, my future niece by marriage, a whore again, you will find yourself without a tongue with which to spread your slander. Are we clear?”

“But—”

“You say you saw a horse with a white marking on its forehead while out of your mind with drink. Well, I say it means nothing. Why should I trust you remember anything of that night? Hundreds of horses sport such markings, and yet you think that’s enough to go around accusing a lady of depraved behavior? ”

“She’s not a lady, she just said herself that her grandfather was a brewer.”

Mo chreach ! Was the man determined to have his tongue ripped out of his mouth and his bollocks fed to the dogs? It certainly appeared so. Cameron would have liked nothing more than to indulge him, but he could not.

“McBain. If I ever hear you say, or hint, or even think such a thing of the woman again, I will make sure you wish you had kept your foul mouth shut,” he hissed, bringing his face inches away from the vile man’s.

“The horse at the tavern that night, which I saw better than you since I , unlike you, was not in my cups, did have a white marking on its forehead. It also was a stallion. Now look again and tell me. Do you see anything dangling between Lady Bethan’s mare’s legs?

” He narrowed his eyes, indicating there was only one way to answer the question.

“N-no.”

“Well then, we are agreed it cannot be the same beast. Now make sure you do not tempt me to cut off whatever sorry appendage is dangling between your legs. It would not take much to convince me.”

“Yes, my laird.”

“Good. Now go and plunge yourself in the river. You stink.”

He released the man and watched him leave on unsteady legs.

Then he took a moment to calm the anger boiling in his veins.

Murdo and Hamish, having seen the altercation, arched a brow in question.

He shook his head, and they didn’t insist, even though it must look obvious that he was in a towering rage.

Bethan was braver, inevitably. A moment later, she approached, a frown on her face. “Is aught amiss?”

“Nay.” He probably sounded too curt for her to believe him, but what else could he say?

I almost killed a man for calling you a whore.

Mercifully, she didn’t press him.

“Where will we stop for the night?” she asked instead, following him back to the group of horses.

Lord Sheridan had been kind enough to give him letters of recommendation to be handed at the gate of two of the castles situated along the way, on the English side of the boarder.

His friends would welcome them on those two nights but other than that, they would have to rely on themselves to find a place to sleep.

“We won’t be stopping in a tavern, you’ll be pleased to know,” he growled. As well as putting him in a fool mood, his conversation with McBain had made him see that someone else’s memory might be jolted if they met with women plying their trade. He couldn’t risk such a thing happening.

Bethan blushed, and he cursed himself for reminding her of what had happened the night they’d met, when she would have been afraid of what half a dozen drunken men could do to her.

“It’s not a problem if we have to. I daresay today I do not look like a—well, I don’t think anyone would mistake me for what I’m not. ”

Don’t look ! Cameron urged himself. Don’t look at the perfect breasts straining under the bodice, at the perfect hips wrapped in velvet, at the perfect mouth putting you in mind of scandalous acts.

He did look. Of course, he did. He couldn’t help it. It would be like asking him not to drink when he was thirsty, not to move when he was drowning, not to smile when he was happy. But at least she was right about one thing. Today she looked every inch the lady.

“Aye. No one would even dare suggest you’re anything other than respectable,” he growled. “In any case, while I’m with you no harm will befall you, whether on the road or at a place of ill repute.”

“This I do not doubt for a moment.”

“Is that a compliment?” A corner of his mouth lifted up. How was that even possible? In the mood he was in, nothing should be able to amuse him. And why did he care if she had paid him a compliment? “I’m flattered.”

“It’s a statement of fact, nothing more.

You are here to take me to Scotland and deliver me to my future husband safe and whole.

I doubt you will allow anyone to make you fail in your mission.

You are far too proud for that, my laird.

” She arched a brow, and a spark appeared in her eyes, making them lighter than usual.

“I imagine that the only people you allow to get the better of you are the lovers you take to your bed.”

This scandalous answer surprised a bark of laughter out of him. How was it that she could coax him out of his foul temper with only a few sentences?

“Indeed. Surrendering to a beautiful woman’s will feels like the sweetest victory.”

“Has it happened often?”