Page 3 of A Scot for Bethan
Bethan stilled. Well. If that were the case, then she understood why William could not bed her, why this was indeed not personal. All bitterness forgotten, she melted into the embrace and felt him relax when he saw she did not resent him for his refusal or condemn him for his preferences.
“I understand. And your secret is safe with me.”
It was better that way, she had assured herself, as she watched William being congratulated on his achievement later on that evening. He was a dear friend, the only male friend she had, and she didn’t want to do anything to compromise their friendship. Besides, it was him who had introduced her to Edward, his cousin, the following day. The handsome groom had been an excellent choice and the two of them had spent a delightful few days teaching one another the pleasure that could be had between lovers.
Since that fateful night, she had become more competent at choosing men who wanted her, and furthering her knowledge of her own and her lovers’ bodies. Since she was no longer a virgin, there was no point in denying herself what little excitement she could have for now, she’d reasoned. All too soon, her life would change. Once she was married, only one man would be allowed to touch her. It was the way of the world, so she might as well make her peace with the notion. And who knows, perhaps Dougal, as disappointing a betrothed as he had been, would prove to be a caring husband and skilled lover.
Yes. And perhaps trees in Scotland grew fruits of gold.
Bethan turned to Gwenllian, tears in her eyes. “Yes. It would seem that my time has finally run out.”
Damn and blast. The way was blocked.
A quick glance around the courtyard confirmed Bethan’s suspicion. While she’d been talking to Mistress Elen upstairs, a group of riders had stopped by the tavern, making a discreet retreat to her horse impossible. One of the men was leaning against the gate leading to the stables. She would never get past him unnoticed. Three others were standing in front of the fire,warming their hands and laughing. They would see her as soon as she stepped out of the door. The only ones who might not notice her were the two relieving themselves in a dark corner, shouting lewd comments and egging each other on as they did. Heat invaded her cheeks when she saw that their arms were moving with frantic, rhythmic gestures and their backs were arched. Were they actually?—
A cry of male satisfaction pierced the night, answering her question. They were indeed relieving themselves, but not in the way she’d thought at first.
“Feeling better, Murdo?” one of the men by the fire shouted.
“Aye,” he growled back. “Though with my hands so callused, I’d rather have ploughed a woman’s sweet?—”
Not wishing to hear the rest of the sentence, Bethan clapped her hands over her ears and debated what to do.
She could not step out of the tavern in front of half a dozen men desperate for release. The risk of being mistaken for one of Mistress Elen’s girls was too great. But she couldn’t stand here all night either, she had to get to her horse and leave without delay. It was late already, much later than she would have liked. Any moment now customers would start to arrive. Getting away would be even more difficult than it was now. Perhaps the element of surprise would play in her favor? It was worth a try.
Avoiding the light shed by the fire burning in the center of the courtyard, Bethan started to walk to the gate on silent feet. A whispered entreaty to the man leaning on it might be enough to make him move out of the way. He might, just might, understand the predicament she was in and let her pass.
By keeping in the shadows and hugging the walls she almost reached the other side of the courtyard before the men spotted her. Once they did, however, their reaction was immediate.
“Whoa there, halt!”
All attempts at discretion forgotten, Bethan started to run to the gate, hoping that the man stationed in front of it would take pity on her and move out of the way in time for her to slip through it.
He did not, even if he made no move to seize her.
With her only escape route blocked, she had no other choice but to halt. Panicked, she watched as two of the men walked toward her on unsteady legs.
“Just where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?”
“What’s the hurry? Stay a while, we’re in need of company.”
Bethan’s heart sank. These were not only men, but drunken men—and English. The fact had not registered earlier, when she’d heard Murdo and his friend, but they had not spoken in Welsh. Damn and blast indeed! Now she was in serious trouble. A pack of Englishmen could only mean danger to a lone Welshwoman, especially if they thought she was the kind who earned her living on her back.
Fortunately, living with the Hunter family, she had a reasonable knowledge of the language, even if she spoke it with a much stronger accent than she would have liked, so she would be able to at least try to defend herself.
“I’m not what you think I am,” she said before they could get the wrong idea. “I’m a…a l-lady,” she stammered.
Well, she wasn’t, not exactly, but neither was she a simple villager, much less a whore. And she wasnotgoing to service them, whatever they thought.
Laughter answered her, as could have been predicted.
“A lady are you now?” the man called Murdo scoffed, joining his two friends. She was relieved to see he had tucked himself back in his braies at least. “We all know that ladies spend their time wandering around taverns at night looking for men. I’ve lost count of the number of grand noblewomen I’ve fucked onwooden tables, amidst pitchers of ale. There was even a princess once, if I recall.”
“Aye, wasn’t she the one who sucked you dry in front of everyone?”
“Nay, that was the Duchess of the Holy Land. Get your story straight, Hamish!”
More laughter. Bethan had no idea how to get out of this. As she had taken care to dirty her face and dress as plainly as she always did when visiting Mistress Elen, she knew that it was ridiculous to claim to be a lady. The disguise usually protected her identity, but it might prove to be her downfall today. She didn’t want to give her name, as the last thing she needed was for Lord Sheridan to find out that the girl he was kindly housing under his roof was visiting stewhouses at night to obtain herbs preventing conception. Besides, there was no guarantee the men would believe her if she claimed to be under the protection of the local lord. They seemed too aroused and drunk to see sense.
