Page 10 of A Scot for Bethan
A little delay wouldn’t hurt. After waiting for seven long years to set eyes on his betrothed, Dougal could wait an extra day, could he not?
It was only when Bethan smiled her thanks that Cameron remembered the reason why he had elected to return home as quickly as possible. He was too susceptible to her charms by far. But how could he not be? He was just a man, and she was a woman of exceptional appeal. Last night he had been impressed by her courage, charmed by her voice and her unusual accent, but he had barely noticed her appearance. In the darkness and under the grime, he had not really seen what she looked like, and the shapeless gown she’d been wearing could have hidden even the most glaring deformities. Now that she was clean and wearing a dress worthy of the name, however, he could see that every inch of her was perfection.
Well, he had better make to keep his urges under control and ensure McBain didn’t report to Dougal that his uncle was lusting after his new wife.
Saying goodbye was even harder than Bethan had imagined. It probably didn’t help that she had barely slept that night. For long moments she had lain awake next to an equally weepy Gwenllian.
And now the moment had come.
“Say you will visit soon,” Seren urged her, her face scrunched up in a grimace.
“If you don’t, we’ll only come to get you,” Gwenllian warned.
Atop her mare, Petal, Bethan could only smile. If she opened her mouth, tried to say anything, the tears she was trying to keep at bay would fall. Besides, what could she say? Everyone knew that once she was in Scotland, the opportunity to see one another would be, if not nonexistent, at least rare enough. There was no use pointing it out.
She glanced at Cameron who, despite his obvious discomfort and eagerness to leave, was giving her the time she needed. This was a kindness she had not expected. Even his men, mounted on stallions each fiercer than the next, betrayed no impatience. They simply waited for her to signal that she was ready. In the end, it was Lord Sheridan who put an end to the difficult moment.
“Come,” he said, wrapping an arm around Gwenllian’s shoulders while Esyllt drew Seren to her side. “Let us allow Bethan to leave with our assurances than she will be welcome here or at Sheridan Manor anytime she wants.”
He nodded at her, a fatherly gesture, and, unable to bear the warmth in his eyes, Bethan kicked her mount into a canter. It was time to go. A moment later, she was galloping on the east road with the retinue of Scots hot on her heels.
There, Cameron Campbell surprised her yet again. Not only did he not ask her to slow down, but he also shouted to his men that they were not to try and catch her. He seemed to understand she was not trying to escape but needed the wild ride to free herself of the pain crushing her chest. Either that or he was eager to make up for lost time and deliver her to her husband as soon as possible. The thought was what eventually made her slow down. She was certainly in no hurry to reach Dougal.
“Feeling better?” he asked when he finally drew up next to her, his stallion panting as hard as her mare was.
“No.” How could she? She was sick at the idea of all she had just lost. A ride, even a reckless one, was hardly going to change that. “But I thank you for giving me the impression, brief as it was, that I was free.”
“No one is free,” he told her, his tone somber. “We each have our burden to bear.”
Yes. And didn’t she know it? Her temper flared at the cruel reminder.
“I was bartered off at fourteen and then spent seven long years waiting for my future groom to remember he was supposed to marry me. I’ve just been taken away from everyone I love, I’m being escorted to a foreign land so I can marry a man I do not know and who cares nothing for me,” she said hotly. What did he have to offer that could start to compare? She doubted this man had ever been made to do anything he didn’t want to do. “I’m a woman, I have no choice but to go along with what others have chosen for me.”
“Well, I’m a man and the same applies to me. I never wanted to be laird,” was his blunt answer. “But I was chosen and, as even I could see that it was the safest option for the clan, I accepted. ’Tis no use bemoaning what cannot be changed, it only leads to discontent.”
All the fight went out of Bethan at the words. ’Twas no use indeed. In less than two weeks she would be married, no matter what. She might as well make her peace with it.
The rest of the ride was accomplished mostly in silence, with her giving Cameron the occasional direction to Castell y Ddraig. Fortunately, sensing her despair, he didn’t insist on making useless remarks or asking insipid questions. This restraint found favor with her. Most people she knew would have forced her to endure meaningless chatter, thinking it would distract her.
The only notable incident happened after they had stopped to water the horses the second time. As Bethan drew near Cameron while he had his back to her, he started to fire off what she imagined to be instructions in rapid Gaelic. It was obvious he had mistaken her for one of the men and had not meant to make her ill at ease, but being unable to understand any of the words only highlighted all she had lost—and her powerlessness. Was this what her life would be from now on? Would she be forced to listen to people talking and jesting in a foreign tongue and not be able to take part? She would learn, of course, in time,and she was hopeful she would pick it up as easily as she had picked up English but for a few, crucial months she would be at a loss.
“If you think that’s pleasant, then let us see how you like me talking to you in Welsh,” she retorted in that language, making sure to talk as fast and as loud as she could. He was not the only one who could bark.
Cameron stiffened and turned to face her. Something was swirling in his eyes, but it was not censure, which made her feel rather guilty. Bethan reddened. In truth, she had overreacted, and she would have to ask for his forgiveness. It was clear he had not meant to bark ather. He opened his mouth and, instead of the apology she had thought to receive, she received a volley of what sounded like angry curses in the same gruff language as before. Though he hadn’t understood her words, he’d guessed it was a rebuke, and he refused to be chastised for what had been a mistake.
Not to be outdone, she tilted her head and carried on Welsh. “Is that all you’ve got? I think you can do better, my laird. Or are you scared to say what you really want to say because I’m a woman and you think my sensibilities should be preserved? It would be a first, would it not?”
His lips twitched, and a short sentence was uttered next, just as incomprehensible. But it almost sounded as if he’d understood what she’d said and accepted her challenge.
“Yes, I bet you are,” she replied, choosing her answer at random. Their little game was starting to have an odd effect on her. She had been angry at first, and she was now… What was she exactly? She didn’t know, but the whole thing was strangely soothing. It was as if she could be herself in front of him, with all her faults, and still be appreciated.
“You’re a vixen, you know that?” he said, finally switching to English.
“And you’re a scoundrel, but I’m sure I’m not the first person to tell you as much,” she answered in the same language—and in the same teasing tone. “Admit it, you used your best foul language just then.”
“I might have. Alas, you shall never know.” This time the corner of his lips lifted. Hewasamused. “You enjoyed that, did you not?”
She had, inexplicable as it was. What satisfaction could she have derived from the exchange? Each had had no idea what the other was saying. It should have been frustrating. And yet there was an undeniable warmth in her chest. “Yes, I did.”
