Page 29
Chapter Eight
Bethea removed Camden’s wool coat and frowned at her impossibly wrinkled gown. Dirt stained the hem as well as her shoes. Giving a small shrug, she proceeded to wash her face and hands.
She was never one to fret over that which she couldn’t change. Besides, it was possible the gown, as well as her shoes, could be salvaged. If not, then another, less fortunate soul might make good use of them.
Examining her face in the looking glass, other than her rumpled hair and shadows of fatigue ringing her eyes, she didn’t appear much worse for wear. Her head ached, but the earlier queasiness had passed, and in fact, she anticipated enjoying the fragrant Scotch pie awaiting her.
Her abduction had meant she’d missed supper, and despite escaping an undeniably perilous situation, her stomach gnawed hollowly. But then the reality of her current situation seeped into her mind, and trepidation tempered her hunger.
No one need tell her she was ruined.
Inextricably and irredeemably.
Keane would likely send her packing straightaway to Trentwick Castle, where she’d live the remainder of her days in shame and scorn. With all of those cats. Well, Keane’s Scottish wildcats. Och, he might find a Scot willing to wed a tainted wife, but her dreams of a love-match and happily ever after had been shattered the moment Etherington clobbered her.
It wasn’t bloody fair.
She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing. She refused to feel remorse for overhearing traitors plotting. And yet, because of the actions of those reprehensible blackguards, her life and her future had been inalterably changed. And not for the better.
More exasperating was the knowledge that if she were a man, her virtue would be a non-issue.
Fighting tears—all the more infuriating because she wasn’t given to crying at the drop of a feather—she removed the remaining pins from her hair. She combed her fingers through the length to remove the majority of the snarls, taking care not to aggravate the knot at the back of her head. After plaiting the waist-length tresses, she searched for something to tie the ends together.
A piece of lace hung loose on her sleeve, and she gave it a vicious tug, taking her frustration out on the poor garment. Once Bethea had tied her hair, she inhaled a bracing breath.
No sense in moping about, sullen and petulant.
What was done was done.
Good had come of this debacle—apprehending Etherington, and soon, hopefully, Montieth, as well. Which meant she no longer had to endure his foul attention.
Perhaps, after a time, Keane would permit her to travel and take Branwen with her, for the disgrace would taint her dear sister as well. He might even hire a companion to accompany her.
After all, Bethea was of age. But—and that was a very big but—she had no funds of her own. Mayhap he could be persuaded to give her the dowry he’d settled upon her?
Feeling marginally mollified with that notion, but still heartsick about the disgrace her disappearance would inevitably cause her family, she set to her delicious Scotch pie, washing it down with wonderfully strong, if a trifle tepid, tea.
Despite her determination to stay awake, her eyelids kept drifting downward. A boisterous laugh from the courtyard or the common room jolted her awake more than once before she gave in to her exhaustion.
After covering herself with the extra quilt from the foot of the bed, she sank into the rather lumpy straw mattress and even lumpier pillow. Never had a bed felt half so comfortable.
Sleep beckoned and still pondering if Keane might be amenable to the possibility of her escaping the humiliation by traveling for six months or a year, she yawned.
I’ve always wanted to visit Rome. The Pantheon and the Colosseum. The Roman Forum—
Sleep claimed her, bringing blessed forgetfulness.
*
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Struggling awake, Bethea crinkled her brow. Who banged at her bedchamber door in the middle of the night?
Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Bethea?”
Knock. Knock.
