Page 22 of A Scot for Bethan
Bethan’s heart leaped at his answer. How she loved it when they jested together! “I will.”
Just then the music picked up pace, and for a moment they were prevented from talking.
“Why did you tell Sir Alan you would let me go back to him when I wanted to?” Bethan asked once the rhythm had slowed down once more. She’d had time to come back to her senses and realized she should steer the conversation away from men seeking relief. “You know full well I have no intention of doing so.”
“Do I?” Cameron’s lips quivered.
“Yes, you do,” she scolded. “And so, when I don’t, he will understand that I found him dull.”
He frowned. “What of it? If you did find him dull, why shouldn’t you let him know it? But, of course, if you wish to go back to him after this dance you are free to do so, as I said.” The clasp around her fingers tightened, contradicting the words. Bethan swallowed. Dare she hope he wanted her to stay with him?
“No, I—I mean, yes, I did find him dull. How could I not? All he kept talking about was maces, how flailed ones were better than flanged ones, or the other way around, and how they could reduce a man’s skull to a pulp. It was horrid, really, but I…I could not make him understand…”
Too confused, she stopped talking. Cameron’s body was so hard and hot next to hers, he smelled so good, a smellevocative of something like cut grass and fresh air, he sounded so masculine, and he looked so intense that it was all too much. Everything started to go awry. Her mind was spinning out of control, her senses were overwhelmed, her mouth had gone dry, her chest had tightened.
“What are you trying to say, Bethan?”
It was the first time he had called her Bethan, and she had no idea how he managed to make the name she had heard so many times before sound so seductive.
“I meant that yes, of course, the man was dull. That is precisely why I wanted to escape. I just hadn’t dreamed he would want to save me from my betrothed’s demanding, insufferably high-handed uncle.”
“Ah. So that is the role I was supposed to play. Thanks. I was wondering.” He smiled and arched a brow at the same time, a lethal look. “Demanding and insufferably high-handed. Mm. I can make my peace with it. I have been called worse things.”
Her heart fluttered again, because she enjoyed it when he teased her almost as much as she liked it when they jested together. “I thought that if I made you sound like an overbearing monster, he would not follow me,” she explained.
“Then you have a lot to learn about men. Once they have set their eyes on a woman, they don’t take it too well to have her snatched away from them.”
He growled, and the sound reverberated to the bottom of Bethan’s soul. His fingers tightened further, making her wonder if he was subconsciously making sure no one would snatch her away from him either.
“I told Sir Alan I was betrothed precisely because I did not want him to entertain any ideas about me,” she defended. “How was I to know he would start acting all proprietary instead?”
“As I said, you have a lot to learn about men.”
The irony of the comment was not lost on her. Up until that moment Bethan would have sworn she was more knowledgeable on the subject than the average unmarried woman. But Cameron made her feel like a novice indeed. His transparent eyes bore into her, the expression in them impossibly intense. She shivered. What could she say? Nothing. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth.
She carried on dancing.
“Listen,” Cameron said after a while, his tone serious once more. “The music is about to stop. We had better make it look as if we were deep in conversation when it does, otherwise I fear the esteemed Sir Alan will try his hand at rescuing you from the overbearing Scot.”
Indeed, the man was eyeing her up in concern from the corner of the room, as if worried she was being mistreated. The idea of leaving Cameron to go back to him was simply too dire to contemplate. She wouldn’t put it past him to resume his bloodcurdling description of weapons of war, or talk about the “sweet fruits” she was hiding under her gown. She had no idea which would be worse.
“Please,” she said in a breath. “Do whatever you have to do to make him understand that you will not hand me over to anyone.”
Hand her over to anyone.
Cameron barely repressed a growl. Indeed, he would not. The interminable banquet without Bethan had been torture, and now that they had finally been reunited, he would keep her by his side for the rest of the evening. His fingers tightened their grip around hers of their own accord, the connection between them searing. Damn and blast, he had to stop doing this, or her hand would end up being reduced to a pulp. Every time he’d mentioned her leaving him during the carole, he’d involuntarily squeezed her fingers, as if to stop her from going anywhere.
“On what grounds could I possibly want to keep you for myself, Bethan?” he purred in her ear, unable to resist the temptation of leaning closer. Perhaps she wouldn’t see anything amiss in the gesture. Hadn’t he just said they were supposed to appear deep in conversation? That’s all they were doing.
“Why are you suddenly calling me Bethan?” she asked instead of answering.
“Because it’s your name.”
It was beautiful, like her—and he liked using it. It was intimate, the only intimacy they were allowed to share. He wished she would start calling him Cameron, instead of “my laird.” That was his title, not who he was. With her, he wanted to be himself. He wanted to hear her say his name in her delicious Welsh accent. He wanted to hear her whisper it in his ear when she begged him to fuck her, moan it when he pleasured her with his mouth first, scream it at the top of her lungs when he finally gave her what she wanted and hammered into her.
Damn, damn,damn! Why was he doing this to himself? Not only was she not for him but they were in the middle of a crowded room, and he was wearing a very short tunic. If he didn’t put a stop to his musings in the instant, everyone would see more of him than they wanted.
“Yes, Bethan is m-my name,” she stammered, as if she had not realized it before. Or perhaps she had seen something flash in his eyes and guessed that a shard of desire had just split his groin.
