Page 16 of A Scot for Bethan (The Welsh Rebels #6)
Chapter Six
W ho on earth had thought it a good idea to place her so far away from Cameron? Bethan stared at her empty cup of ale, feeling dejected. She had been with him almost constantly in the last week and it felt odd to not even be able to see him.
The meal was nearly over, thankfully. Next to her a tall, blond man who’d introduced himself as one of Sir Patrick’s numerous cousins, was describing the merits of flailed maces over regular flanged ones in combat.
Under normal circumstances such a discussion would not have stirred the least spark of interest within her but, with her mind full of thoughts of Cameron, she was one anecdote away from breaking the habit of a lifetime and escaping mid-conversation.
Only her unshakable politeness made it impossible for her to simply stand up and leave.
In her place, of course, Cameron wouldn’t have hesitated to tell the man he was boring him.
She found herself jealous of his ability to be blunt and to the point.
How much time and energy she would save if she could just follow his example.
Maybe it was only self-preservation that made him send annoying people to hell.
He was only trying to preserve his sanity. It seemed a very wise choice right now.
When the music started Sir Alan was still doing his best to engage her attention.
Mercifully, he had stopped describing the damage that could be inflicted on a human body with lethal weapons.
Instead, he started to whisper compliments into her ear.
Bethan cringed. This was way, way worse than descriptions of smashed human skulls.
Evidently, he had mistaken her compliance during the banquet for interest on her part and the gleam in his eyes made it clear he thought her already won over.
“I will say that poor Janet never wore that velvet dress the way you do,” he purred, his gaze fastening on the bodice edge framing her breasts.
It was admittedly quite low, but did he really have to eye her up so shamelessly?
“She doesn’t have such sweet fruits to offer so perhaps it is no surprise. ”
Go drapia . In a moment he would tell her he wanted to peel the dress off her and taste those “sweet fruits.” The thought of his lips sliding over her skin gave her the courage she needed.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but being betrothed, I’m sure I should not consent to have men whispering tender words into my ears.”
“Betrothed?” He sounded as if he was choking on the nut he’d just popped into his mouth.
“Yes. I am even now on my way to Scotland, where I will be married to a man from a powerful clan, Dougal Campbell.” This blasted betrothal was at last proving to offer some advantage. “Didn’t Sir Patrick tell you?”
“No, he didn’t,” Sir Alan said slowly. And, to her relief, he straightened back up, his eyes on her face once more.
The satisfaction of having put a stop to his unwelcome advances was quickly replaced by annoyance, however.
From prospective seducer, he appointed himself as protector of her virtue, scowling at every man bold enough to even look her way.
She clenched her teeth and waited for the musicians to start playing.
Surely it could not be too long before she was finally free of him.
At long last, the servants began to clear the table, leaving only the plates of sweetmeats and jugs of spiced wine in front of the guests.
Sir Alan glanced at the musicians who were tuning their instruments and tilted his head in consideration.
Bethan tensed up. As soon as they struck the first chord, he would ask her to dance, she could just feel it.
She had to get out of there before it was too late.
Luckily, Cameron had left his seat and was now standing on the other side of the hall, talking to a man who was sporting an impressive beard. Straightening her shoulders, she improvised.
“I’m sorry, I will have to leave you now that the meal is over. I see Laird Campbell, my betrothed’s uncle, by the door and I have a message from one his men to deliver to him.”
“Surely it can wait a moment? The music is about to start.”
“I’m afraid not. As he was talking to the priest earlier, I didn’t dare disturb him, but he’s been anxious to get that message.
He is quite an overbearing man and will only come and get me if I don’t go to him now that he is free.
Surely you understand that I don’t want to give him or my betrothed cause to reproach me? ”
Bethan repressed a smile, delighted with herself. The lie had passed her lips more easily than she would have suspected. This was easier than she had thought.
Or…perhaps it was not, if people were going to ignore what she said.
“Come,” Sir Alan said, filling her cup with more wine. It was as if she had not spoken. “You don’t need to be afraid of the man, demanding though he might be. He’s hardly going to run you through with his sword for a small delay.”
No, but I might crush your skull with a flailed mace in a moment , Bethan thought savagely. I hear they are superior to the flanged ones.
“I’m sorry, but I really should go before he comes to get me. He can really turn quite nasty, as I’ve learned to my cost,” she said, addressing her mental apologies to Cameron who, she suspected, did not have a cruel bone in his body. Being formidable was one thing, nasty quite another.
Deciding it was the only way to convince Sir Alan of her intentions, she stood up.
He rose in turn, and she quickly understood he was not merely being gallant. He meant to follow her.
“That’s it. I’ve heard enough of this Lord Campbell. Worry not, if he wants to take issue with you, this time he will have to contend with me first.”
Without further ado, he started to lead her in the direction of the door.
Dismay washed through Bethan. This was why she never lied, because it only created problems!
Why had she painted Cameron in such a bad light?
Why had she pretended she needed to see him at all?
Couldn’t she have done what a normal person would do, and said she needed to see to her personal needs?
Or even better, tell Sir Alan the truth, namely that she was bored out of her mind in his presence?
Everyone else she knew would not have given it another thought.
Instead, she had dug herself and possibly Cameron, too, into a hole, and she had no idea how to get out of it.
“Please, this isn’t necessary,” she whispered, panicked at the idea of the scene to come. The man was taking his role as protector ridiculously seriously and it could only end badly, in humiliation or anger.
“I beg to differ. I will not have you face the monster on your own. Where is he?”
“Over there, talking to the man in the green t-tunic,” Bethan stammered. After the disaster created by her first lie, she could not think of another.
“Oh.” Sir Alan slowed down, obviously daunted by Cameron’s commanding presence.
It was hard to blame him. The Scot had never looked more intimidating than he did tonight, dressed in black from his fiery-crowned head to his boot-clad toes.
She had the impression that if she’d made it clearer who her betrothed’s uncle was before, her self-appointed defender would have passed on the chance to accompany her to face the “monster.” Which would have suited just fine.
But unfortunately, with his credibility as a heroic man at stake, he couldn’t back down. He walked bravely on and stopped behind Cameron, ready to stand his ground.
There was no time to lose. Bethan spoke quickly, before he could tell them he was not expecting any messages and ruin everything.
“My laird, Murdo bade me to speak to you without delay.” When he turned around, she did her best to convey with her eyes that he was expected to go along with the pretense. Would he understand? “Do you have a moment?”
Cameron raised an eyebrow in surprise and no wonder. They both knew Murdo was unlikely to use her to deliver his messages. She was no menial. Before he could answer, however, Sir Alan spoke.
“My lord, this young lady here tells me that you have something important to discuss with her but surely it can wait. The music has just started, and I was about to ask her to join the dance.”
He managed to sound both patronizing and pompous, a disastrous combination. Bethan knew that even if Cameron hadn’t wanted to help her before, he would now, just to put the man back into his place. She breathed a discreet sigh of relief and braced herself for the onslaught.
“Being Scottish, and not English, I prefer to be addressed as ‘my laird,’ as you just heard.” He paused and seemed to grow even taller. “And how should I address you, pray tell? I’m afraid I have no idea who you might be.”
“I’m Sir Alan,” the man supplied in a much less confident manner.
“Well, Sir Alan, unfortunately no, my discussion with Bethan can’t wait. I would have thought that she, or I, would be in a better position to appreciate this than you, but you evidently thought differently.”
“I only meant?—”
“I know what you meant, thank you. My grasp of your language is more than sufficient.” Eyes glittering like crystals, he offered his arm to Bethan.
Utterly under his spell, she took it. “Don’t worry, though,” he carried on, his gaze once again on Sir Alan, “I promise to release the lady the moment she expresses the wish to return to you. In the meantime, I suggest you find yourself another dancing partner. It should not be too difficult. As you can see, women abound tonight.”
Throwing an apologetic glance at a bemused Sir Alan, Bethan followed him.