Page 2 of A Scot for Bethan (The Welsh Rebels #6)

Chapter One

B ethan stared at the letter in her hand, its enormous seal as shiny and red as a blood stain.

“A letter from Scotland,” the messenger had said as he’d handed her the piece of parchment covered with flowery script.

Scotland. It could mean only one thing. At long last, her betrothed was coming to get her. After more than seven years of waiting and endless delays, Dougal Campbell had finally decided to honor his promise to his dead father and marry her.

On the chair opposite her, Gwenllian was biting her bottom lip. Evidently, her friend had guessed what the missive might be. “Is this it then?” she breathed.

Bethan let out a mirthless laugh. Upon being told about the union her father had arranged for her all those years ago, she had exclaimed that she hoped Dougal would not come until she was an old maid.

Well, she had been made to regret her bitter words ten times over. But it seemed that the wait was about to end.

“Yes, this is it,” she answered through gritted teeth. “Dougal is coming.”

Or…was he?

Suddenly she wasn’t so sure. She and her best friend had often jested that the Scot would end up changing his mind and break off their engagement now that both their fathers, who had arranged the match between them, were dead.

After all, he didn’t seem interested in marrying her any more than she was in marrying him.

It seemed entirely plausible that he should release her from the contract considering his lack of enthusiasm for matrimony.

Hadn’t he prolonged their three-year betrothal by another four years so he could join Robert the Bruce’s army?

Didn’t he prefer to fight for the independence of his country and besiege castles rather than do his duty by her?

Hadn’t he ignored the numerous letters she had sent over the years?

Yes, a thousand times, yes.

So, was she holding the key to her freedom in her hand?

Had he written to announce she could start finding herself a husband she actually wanted because she was no longer beholden to him?

The missive in her hand certainly looked nothing like the two short, perfunctory notes he had sent her before he’d joined the Bruce’s men aged barely sixteen. Oh, if only…

Before she allowed hope to bloom in her chest, Bethan broke the seal with a shaky finger and started to read. It was not long before disappointment settled over her shoulders like a lead mantle. This was not the key to her freedom, but rather to the cage she was about to be locked in.

“Dougal has decided it was time we wed but he will not be coming to get me himself. Laird Campbell, his uncle, will be the one escorting me to Scotland. It is easier that way, apparently, as the man speaks English.” Her voice took on a dull quality as she carried on.

In his two brief missives, her betrothed had made no secret of his refusal to learn the language of his enemies, even if it was the only way the two of them would be able to communicate, at least at first. “We are to be married the day after I arrive. The retinue intends to set off as soon as the snow has melted and should reach Castell Esgyrn at the end of the month. It has all been decided.”

The two women stared at one another for a long moment.

Not only had her elusive betrothed not changed his mind, but he’d not thought it necessary to come in person to get her.

Instead, he’d sent someone else to escort her to her new home.

This was a blow, undeniably— another blow, she should perhaps say.

She had always imagined she and Dougal would have time to get to know one another during the lengthy ride to the Scottish Highlands, in other words, before they became husband and wife.

It seemed that she was to be denied even this small boon.

Bethan stilled, resignation seeping to her very core.

Deep down she knew the news she’d just received should rouse a reaction out of her, but she just felt numb.

Soon she would have to say goodbye to all she knew, settle in an unknown place and, the following day, marry a perfect stranger.

It was an appalling prospect, whichever way she looked at it, but she had endured so many setbacks over the years, swallowed so many disillusions that she could not muster the energy to be devastated.

Gwenllian put on a brave smile, determined not to let her own dismay show. “Well, I suppose we knew this day would come.”

Yes, they had, which was ironic because none of the rest had gone the way it was supposed to go in that grim affair.

When her father had betrothed her to Dougal seven years ago, he had done so on the understanding that her future husband would, in time, succeed his father and become laird.

But at the Scot’s death a few months ago, the title had gone to Cameron Campbell, Dougal’s uncle instead.

The clan, understandably, had preferred to elect an experienced man to rule over them rather than take a chance on an untried youth of barely twenty summers who was never there.

In spite of this new development, the arrangement between them had been maintained, for which Bethan was grateful.

No one had wanted to ally themselves with the fourteen-year-old granddaughter of a brewer, whose penniless father had been dispossessed of what little he had managed to build by the English King after the conquest. She was now one and twenty, not old exactly, even if it often felt that way, but she was certainly no child bride anymore.

And she was still as poor as she had been seven years ago.

All in all, she was hardly an enviable party and Dougal’s offer was the best she could aspire to.

Bethan sighed. What would her father think of all this?

He had arranged her eventual marriage to the prospective Laird Campbell to restore their family’s prestige.

When he’d died two years after signing the wedding contract, he had gone to his grave comforted in the knowledge that he had made an advantageous match for her.

But instead of being the wife of a clan chief, and the lady of the castle, as he had planned, she would end up being married to one of the laird’s nephews, a man who was only interested in fighting for his country’s independence and likely to be killed before too long as a result.

She looked around, seeing the bedchamber she shared with Gwenllian with new eyes.

Soon she would leave Castell Esgyrn, never to return.

Though it was not, strictly speaking, her home, it was the place she felt most comfortable in.

Because of her friendship with Gwenllian, the Hunter family had always considered her like a daughter.

After the death of her father, they had offered to welcome her under their roof.

It had been natural to accept their kindness.

In leaving them, she would leave the people she loved the most in this world, the only people who cared for her, except for her brother Siaspar, who had been sent to foster in a castle beyond the valley as a young lad.

Yes, the people of Castell Esgyrn were her family. And yet, close as they were, they didn’t know her secret.

The respectable, betrothed , Bethan ferch Morgan, was no virgin.

How would Dougal react when he found out?

Would he even notice? He was younger than her, so maybe he was not so experienced that he would know the difference.

Would he care if he did notice? She was not even sure.

Theirs was not a love match, far from it, so he might well not worry about his wife’s past, as long as she did not make a fool of him once they were married.

The thought that her indiscretion might never be exposed should have reassured her, but it didn’t, because it only served to show the lack of interest her future husband took in her.

Prolonging their betrothal beyond what was acceptable was proof enough that he had no interest in her.

Sending another man to get her on the pretext that he didn’t speak English was such a feeble excuse…

He could easily have come along and brought an interpreter with him.

But no. He didn’t care about her, and she doubted that would change when he met her.

As for her… What did she think?

Though she was determined to give this marriage a try, Bethan didn’t see how she would ever get on with a man who had not bothered writing to her more than twice in seven years, whose only interest seemed to be in political machinations and whose ways would be utterly foreign to her, at least at first. If he didn’t speak English—Welsh had never even been mentioned—then how were they to converse, and get to know one another?

She had been unable to find a single person able to teach her Gaelic, so she would have to learn when she reached Scotland.

It would take time. An interpreter was all well and good, but having someone constantly lurking in the background, repeating your every word, hardly helped build intimacy.

And how would it work when they were alone, in bed?

Unable to communicate their doubts and preferences, they would be reduced to copulating like beasts without exchanging a single loving word or voicing out a tender reassurance.