Page 5 of A Scot for Bethan (The Welsh Rebels #6)

Chapter Two

T he next morning, the mysterious stranger by the gate was still all Bethan could think about.

Try as she may, she just could not get him out of her head.

He had made a much stronger impression on her than the few moments they had spent together warranted.

It was not just the fact that he had helped her that made it impossible for her to forget him, it was the way he had allowed his gaze to roam over her.

She suspected it would haunt her for years to come.

It had been sensual rather than lecherous, not marred by any ill-placed possessiveness as was too often the case with men who desired her.

It had been like being stroked when you were used to being groped, a caress and a kiss in lieu of a nip and a bite.

Most men just wanted to take their pleasure with her and hoped she got hers in the process, but this man had given her the impression that, for him, giving his lover pleasure was the best way to ensure his.

In her half-awakened state and then in her even wilder dreams, she had pictured the two of them involved in all sorts of scandalous acts.

She had been spreading her legs and baring her sex for him to lick.

She had dropped to her knees in front of him to pleasure him until he shouted in release, like Murdo had done in the courtyard.

Her cheeks started to burn at the memories, and she was glad to be alone in the bed.

Dear God. As she’d pointed out last night, she was not a girl from the stewhouse, she shouldn’t know about these acts, much less try to imagine what it would feel like to perform them, even with a man of undeniable appeal.

Once again, she tried to push these ideas out of her mind.

Now certainly wasn’t the time to fantasize about strangers.

She was about to meet her betrothed’s envoy.

After an agitated night, she had slept later than usual and been awakened by a clatter of hooves on the drawbridge, heralding the arrival of at least half a dozen horses.

Though they had not expected the Campbells for another few days, Bethan had instantly guessed the riders would be the ones charged with escorting her back to Scotland.

The arrival of the retinue, predictably, had sent the castle into a flurry of activity.

Margie had been at her door within moments, a look of alarm on her face and a heavily embroidered dress in her arms.

“The Scots are asking after you,” the old maid told her as soon as she entered.

Yes, they would be. They would be curious to finally see the beauty who had been promised to their laird’s nephew.

“You’ll have to welcome them alone, I’m afraid,” Margie carried on, already fastening the laces on the sides of her bodice with deft gestures. “Lord Sheridan and the family went to the village shortly after dawn. A messenger has been sent to warn them, but it will be a while before they come back.”

Bethan could not repress a groan. Could this get any worse? Not only had she been denied what little respite she’d thought to have, but she would have to face dour old Laird Campbell on her own, while her mind was filled with unsuitable images involving a fascinating, fiery-haired stranger.

Still, there was no other choice, so she let herself be trussed up like a fowl ready for the roasting, which was exactly how she felt at the moment.

Eventually there was nothing else to do.

Everything had been pinned into place, laced, brushed, and smoothed.

Knowing she looked as good as she had ever done was small consolation.

Considering why they had come, she had no intention of impressing the Scottish delegation.

“Thank you, Margie. I think I’ll go down now.”

Taking one last deep breath for courage, Bethan descended the spiral staircase. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

After seven long years of waiting, the second part of her life was about to start.

Now was not the time to obsess about a man she would never meet again, or marvel at the unprecedented effect his gaze had had in her body.

It was difficult though. Never had she seen a man with such presence and compelling beauty.

Now that she was not in front of him, she couldn’t help but wonder if she had not imagined it all.

It must have been a trick of the light, or rather the absence of adequate lighting that had made him seem so appealing.

Either that or she was misremembering him.

Surely no one could be that attractive, that sinfully carnal.

No one except…

Except the man standing in the shadow of the keep right now, talking to the castle steward.

Bethan stared in amazement at the man who had come to her aid the previous evening.

It was him, there was no doubt about it.

Gone were the unkempt stubble and tousled hair, today he was clean shaven, impeccably groomed and wearing a tunic of soft velvet rather than dusty chainmail.

Still, she knew it was the same man. Even if her mind had hesitated, her body would have given him away.

It reacted as if it had finally been allowed to have what she had been craving for years.

Then a series of thoughts, each more worrying than the last, hit her.

If he was the man who’d been by the gate last night, then the riders waiting in the bailey right now were none others than the ones who had wanted her to pleasure them. And if they were here, it was because they were the Scots charged with escorting her back to Dougal.

Dread shot up her spine. Would they recognize her, expose her to the people of Castell Esgyrn?

Maybe not. Today, dressed in all her finery, and with her face clean, she looked nothing like the dirty whore they had thought her to be.

Besides, they had no reason to think they could meet such a woman in Lord Sheridan’s castle.

If she acted as if she had no idea who they were, it would be all right.

After one last nod at the fiery-haired man, the steward walked away.

Bethan remained frozen on the last step of the staircase, hidden in the door frame, wondering what to do.

Then a man in a black tunic she thought might be Murdo whispered something in the stranger’s ear and his response drifted all the way to her.

“McBain is a fool. If he is incapable of managing such a simple task, then I can find plenty of people who can. Make sure to tell him that I’m not above leaving him behind. I’ve had enough of him.”

There it was, the deep voice she remembered. She let its wash over her a moment, before a shiver replaced the warmth created in her body. Dear, oh, dear, he sounded a hundred times more commanding than he had been the evening before, when he had spoken to her, and proportionally intimidating.

This McBain, whoever he was, was in serious trouble.

As was she. If the men who had come to take her to her husband recognized her, then she would have an awful lot of explaining to do.

Her behavior had seemed to amuse the handsome stranger last night, but it could have serious repercussions.

If he decided to tell Dougal that his future wife was in the habit of wandering around at night unaccompanied, and had narrowly escaped being used as a whore by a company of inebriated men, her life would become very complicated.

And even if no one recognized her, it wouldn’t be much better. She had just spent the night lost in lewd musings involving a man in her betrothed’s retinue. Such a thing was not easily forgotten.

Just when she thought of stealing back to her chamber to give herself some time to compose herself, he turned around and saw her standing in the door frame. Their gazes met, and her feet started to move before she could make the decision to go to him.

Once she stopped in front of him, three things became obvious. First of all, his eyes, which had seemed transparent the night before, were actually a silvery shade of gray. Secondly, he was in a foul mood. And finally, most importantly, he hadn’t recognized her.

Relief washed through her. Perhaps this would be all right.

“You must be Bethan ferch Morgan,” he told her with a bow.

The tone was too curt to pass for polite, even if it was obvious that his annoyance was not directed at her but rather at this McBain he’d just described as a fool.

It reassured her. He was welcome to be preoccupied if it prevented him from looking too closely at her and seeing that she bore a close resemblance to the woman he’d rescued the night before.

“I am.”

“The reports of your beauty were not exaggerated, I see.”

How original. Bethan gritted her teeth. She knew she had been accepted by Dougal’s father because of her beauty and she had heard her beauty praised too many times not to feel irritated when it was the first thing someone brought up upon meeting her, as if it were the only thing that could be of interest about her.

She had expected better from this man. The way he had looked at her by the gate had been more sincere than the bland compliments she had heard a hundred times—and had struck a chord within her.

Last night, dirty and disheveled, she had captured his attention.

Now that she looked like the lady she would never be, he was acting like every other man she had ever met and saying what he thought she wanted to hear.

“Thank you. I would have hated to disappoint you,” she replied somewhat tartly.

The man smiled, clearly intrigued by her reaction, when someone else might have been offended.

“I see you like that compliment as much as I like to hear people praise me on my peerless swordsmanship. Such an unimaginative thing to say. I will grant you that I should have done better but, forgive me, I was distracted for a moment.”