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“Let me speak to Sir Walter and explain the situation,” she insisted.

He shook his head, his hair brushing his shoulders with the movement. “Nae, lass. If ye tell him we arena betrothed, in truth, I dinna ken if Bryston and I can protect ye. The men have been drinkin’ and are—ah—”

Bright color blotched his prominent cheekbones, and she almost giggled at the incongruity. This burly Highlander—a bit of a rogue himself—blushing at the mention of fornication?

“They require female companionship because Mrs. Dowerdy runs a respectable establishment?” She mimicked the innkeeper’s admonishing tenor.

“Aye.” He crooked his mouth sideways. “That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

“I’ll tell him I canna possibly marry without my family present.” Again, she moved toward the door. “That ought to satisfy him.”

He blocked her path and trapped her by gently placing his palms upon her shoulders. “Nae lass. He’s determined to salvage yer reputation and insists we wed immediately. I’ve argued with him for the past hour. He’s resolute, and he has the ear of His Majesty. We dinna have a choice.”

“Poppycock,” she snorted. “Of course, we do. Your Sir Walter canna force us to marry.”

Could he?

She stitched her eyebrows together as she squinted at Camden’s too-wide chest. His shirt was unlaced several inches, and tantalizing curly, black hair peeked at her.

Oh, she wanted to slide her fingers through that thick mat. Bury her nose in that hair, too.

What was she thinking?

He’d just announced a Sir Walter Makepeace demanded they marry—now—and she was indulging in decadent thoughts about his chest hair?

Addled. Aye, off my head.

The blow had damaged her reasoning.

Giving herself a mental shake and a severe admonishment for noticing his deliciously hairy chest, Bethea refocused on the matter at hand.

“Who, exactly, is this Sir Walter Makepeace?” She’d never heard of the man, but that was no surprise.

“He’s an advisor to the king. A delegate with the power and authority to act on the king’s behalf.”

She narrowed her eyes. She didn’t care if Sir Walter Makepeace was the bloody king himself. No one was going to trap her into a marriage of convenience.

Camden placed a bent finger beneath her chin and levered her gaze up to meet his. Compassion and something considerably warmer shone in his eyes. “We will marry, lass.”

His tone brooked no argument, and in that interminable instant, she knew it for the truth it was. Neither of them had any choice. She wasn’t sure what this man’s power was over Camden, but he’d conceded defeat regarding their union.

Marriage would salvage her reputation. Her reputation for her dreams—to choose her husband and marry for love. More irony.

“Nae.” She shook her head. “Nae,” she whispered again.

Mother of God,she’d not considered this. Ruination and banishment, aye. A forced marriage wasn’t fair to Camden, either.

“’Tis nae fair,” she choked out, furious at the moisture blurring her vision. “Ye were bein’ a gentleman. I dinna think even Keane would expect it of ye.”

Would he?

In truth, he might. And Bethea felt more the fool for not having considered that, too.

A tear trickled from the corner of her eye, but before she could angrily swipe it away, Camden caught it with a bent finger.

“I’m sorry, lass. I didna think ye’d be so opposed to the match.”

“’Tis no’ ye I’m opposed to, but a marriage of convenience,” she murmured. Merely ruined, she might find love someday. As a married woman, there wasn’t a chance in hell of that.