How often had Bryston tenderly called Delphine the treasure of his heart? For she had been. A precious, irreplaceable jewel.
Glancing upward, he recognized his location: Lucky Spence’s House.
What if…?
Bryston hesitated for half a blink before making an abrupt decision. Wrapping his arm around Branwen’s waist, he unceremoniously propelled her into the nearest building.
She yelped in surprise but didn’t resist.
After slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame, he bolted it from inside.
The commotion brought the voluptuous madam stomping into the entry.
“What the hell do ye—?”
Upon spying him, Abbie Maduthy’s demeanor completely transformed. Buxom and curvy, the scantily attired redhead smiled seductively and sashayed forward.
Praise the saints.
Abbie still worked here. Bryston’s gamble might just pay off.
“Och, well, if it isna Captain McPherson himself,” she all but cooed, coyly. “’Tis been a long, long time.” She flicked a swift, inquisitive glance at Branwen. “Lucky isna here, if that’s who ye’re lookin’ for.”
Though he’d never sampled her wares, or any of the other lasses working for Lucky Spence, for that matter, Abbie always made the offer. Bryston’s relationship with the establishment had been a business arrangement between Lucky Spence and himself. Lucky had offered the services of his lasses, but Bryston had always declined.
The proprietor required fancy French brandy and other hard-to-find items for his house of pleasure, which Bryston frequently came upon when plundering vessels upon the high seas. It had been quite a lucrative arrangement, benefiting both men since Bryston had no use for the goods that were often his form of payment.
His Majesty was perpetually and invariably short of gold to pay those in his employ.
“Nae, that’s no’ why I’m here, Abbie,” he said, swiftly scrutinizing the whorehouse for danger while straining his ears for the slightest sounds of pursuit.
Two other women, one blond, the other brunette, sauntered down the stairs at the end of the corridor, each also boldly displaying their wares.
They were new lasses. Or at least new since he’d last been here six years ago.
“Och, take a peek at him,” the blonde crooned, cradling her bountiful breast in her hands provocatively. Licking her lips, she nudged her companion. “I bet he’d satisfy us both, Violet. More than once.”
“Aye, he’s a braw one, he is,” the brunette agreed, pulling her dusky rose satin wrapper aside to display a shapely thigh as she boldly stared as his groin.
His manhood didn’t so much as twitch with carnal interest.
Whores had never been his preference for intimate encounters.
Branwen inhaled a sharp breath, and after shooting him an accusatory glare with those speaking gray eyes, pointed her attention to the floor. A blush turned the flawless skin of her cheeks bright pink as she, no doubt, accurately deduced just what sort of establishment he’d dragged her into.
An unfamiliar flush heated his neck. Not because of the prostitutes. No sailor worth his salt colored at the mere presence of a harlot. They were as common in ports as the sea salts who vied for their favors.
Nae, it was the way Branwen looked askance at him. And, by God, that rankled. He wasn’t accountable to her.
Nevertheless, Roxdale would skewer him for exposing her to such women. Multiple times, and rightly so.
Aye, but at least Bryston would keep the duke’s ward alive.
Abbie clapped her hands once, pointing a cosmetic-laden, stern gaze at the two women still loitering in the entry. “Ye have patrons awaitin’ ye already. Go on with ye.”
She inclined her head toward the room at the end of the corridor.
Pouts on their rouged lips, the pair gave Bryston one final appreciative glance, their interest apparent before they reluctantly wandered into what he knew to be the drawing room at the end of the hallway where patrons waited. Given the time of day, they were likely men in Leith for the day and looking for a good time before they returned to their wives and farms.
“Yer in a wee bit of a hurry, Captain,” Abbie observed, taking Branwen’s measure from her wind-mussed hair, reddened cheeks, and costly cloak to her fine, leather shoes. “I see ye brought yer own entertainment. The lasses willna be happy about that.”
Branwen sucked in a sharp breath and cast the woman an affronted look. “I’m no’—”
“Aye, we require a room.” He tightened his arm about her waist, causing her to release a startled squeak, and winked at Abbie. “And a place to hide, if ye would oblige us.”
The brothel-keeper’s red-brown eyebrows shied high on her forehead before she nodded slowly, eyeing Branwen again. This time with considerably more interest.
Damnation.
Bryston should’ve told Branwen to pull her hood up. Hers was an arresting face, and one didn’t forget such beauty. Too late now. As a madam of a brothel, Abbie knew how to keep her mouth shut. He’d make it worth her while.
“Aye, I can,” Abbie agreed, her blue eyes narrowing, calculatingly. “But it will cost ye.”
He produced his most charming grin while warning Branwen to stay silent by pressing his palm firmly into her waist.
She speared him a furious look, her lips pressed so tightly together, white lines bracketed her mouth. He didn’t fool himself that she’d keep her thoughts to herself. Nae, the instant they were alone, she’d give him a tongue lashing.
“Ye ken, Abbie, I am verra generous.”
Branwen made a strangled sound, as if she’d swallowed pickled eggs whole, and they’d become stuck in her throat, which caused Abbie to throw back her head and guffaw.
Branwen took the opportunity to stomp on his toes with her heel.
He stifled a grunt and dug his fingertips into her ribs in a silent warning to behave herself.
She ground her heel harder.
Little hellion.
“Aye, that ye are, Captain.” Abbie turned toward the stairs, saying over her shoulder, “Do I need to provide a diversion, too?”
Her gaze slid to Branwen, and she arched a cynical eyebrow.
He knew exactly the type of diversion she referred to, but he was reluctant to expose Branwen to any more than she’d already seen. Unfortunately, if Le Sauvage and his thugs suspected they were here and chose to search the brothel, something scandalous might be necessary to deter him.
Not meeting Branwen’s wide eyes, which had taken on the stormy pewter gray of the North Sea in wintertime, he gave a terse nod. “Aye. That would be appreciated.”
“I have just the place for ye.” Without waiting for them to follow, the bawd started up the stairs, her loosely tied violet robe swirling about her ankles.
“Bryston,” Branwen hissed, trying to squirm free of his hold. Ire and chagrin sparked in her quicksilver eyes. “What do ye think yer doin’ draggin’ me into a… a house of ill-repute?”
He took in her pale features and black lashed eyes that, for all of her bravado, couldn’t entirely hide her fear and apprehension.
“Tryin’ to save yer life.”
“Why is that man after ye?” Her eyes narrowed further, and sparks flew from their depths. “Why did he kill yer wife?”
A lesser man would’ve been burnt to cinders by the accusation flaming in her gaze.
“And why is it, Bryston, nae one kens ye were married? No’ even Keane.”
Because Delphine had been a precious flower, and her death eviscerated me. Left me half a man.
Speaking of the woman who’d been his wife for three short months was beyond Bryston. Yes, he’d gone on with his life, but he’d been forever altered. In truth, he didn’t much give a damn whether he lived or died.
But now that he knew Le Sauvage lived, he did have a purpose. Revenge. He’d see that cur dead by his hand if it was the last thing he ever did. For Delphine. She must be avenged, he vowed to himself.
Chapter Four
12 April 1721
Lucky Spence’s House
Leith, Scotland
If Le Sauvage caught her…
Nae. Nae.
Bryston refused to contemplate the revolting, gut-wrenching notion.
Pressing her full lips into a piqued line, Branwen cast an uneasy glance at the door.
Outside, gruff male voices called to each other, but it was impossible to tell if they belonged to their pursuers.
Nonetheless, it was enough to compel her to agree. Nodding, her wavy, ebony hair brushing her shoulders and arms, she hurried up the steps before Bryston.
Bryston raised his eyes ceilingward, releasing a breath and a silent prayer of thanks.
He’d been prepared to toss the obstinate lass over his shoulder if she refused to cooperate. Which meant gagging her and possibly tying her hands and feet, too. And if she still didn’t quiet, dosing her with the opium he knew full well Abbie kept locked away for special guests.
Bringing his attention back to the woman stamping up the stairs before him, he sighed. As much as he’d loved his wife, there was no denying Branwen Glanville had a delectable form and an angelic face. And, it seemed, she possessed a feisty spirit he hadn’t noticed prior to this.
When Bryston found himself observing the tantalizing sway of her hips, despite his avowal not to, he clenched his jaw and pointed his attention upward again.
She’s Keane’s ward.
He’ll have my bollocks and hang them at Trentwick’s entry for even thinkin’ untoward thoughts about the lass.
Aye, but he’d have to be dead not to notice the alluring woman ascending the risers in front of him. She was the type of woman people stopped and took a second look at.
Her blue-black hair shone like the moon itself. Matching ebony brows arched over clear gray eyes that fluctuated in color from dark pewter to silver. Skin as smooth and creamy as statues he’d seen in Greece covered delicately formed bones, sloping cheeks, a high brow, and a rosebud of a chin.
And her lips.
God’s teeth, her plump, ripe lips were full and usually tinted berry red, enticing men to taste their sweetness.
Aye, Branwen Glanville might be a beauty, but she was not for him. His heart had died the day Delphine had, and he’d buried the shredded organ with his golden-skinned island flower.
“Keane and Marjorie will worry when they discover we arena at the Queen’s Arms,” Branwen said, pausing with her skirts raised, revealing tantalizingly turned ankles, and her forehead puckered into a frown.
They’d fret far more when they learned Bryston had taken her aboard The Dolphin.
Nevertheless, that was precisely what he intended to do. He couldn’t take a chance of Le Sauvage capturing her—torturing Branwen the way the rotter had Bryston’s generous and trusting Delphine.
His stomach cramped as it always did when he thought of his dead wife—the vile, cruel way she’d died—and he ground his teeth together, causing his jaw to scream in protest.
What seemed an eternity later, his nerves and muscles taut and ears yet straining for a door crashing open, they reached the landing.
“Come on with ye.” Abbie awaited them outside a chamber, the door open wide. She gestured curtly for them to enter ahead of her. A secretive smile bending her mouth, and again running her curious gaze over Branwen, she led them into her personal boudoir.
Bryston had never been inside the madam’s rooms before. Paintings of nudes in various intimate poses covered the walls, in between gilded mirrors strategically placed to reflect the deep rose satin-covered mahogany four-poster bed dominating the room.
Branwen’s astounded gaze traveled around the bed-chamber, decorated in feminine shades of gold, pink, and ivory. Her mouth went slack when she spied the mirror positioned on the ceiling directly above the bed, and several items laid upon a table, including silken scarves and a small whip.
Her questioning gaze flew to Bryston’s, and he tried to pour reassurance into his.
Bloody hell, this is awkward.
Bringing an innocent into a well-seasoned prostitute’s bedchamber. Never in all of Bryston’s life had he ever considered he’d be in this situation.
Another knowing smirk bending her too-full mouth, Abbie directed them to a wall opposite the bed, with a hidden panel ajar.
He, of course, knew the purpose of the voyeur’s hidey-hole, but hoped to God Branwen didn’t.
His gut clenched again.
Keane would never forgive him for exposing her to this debauchery.
“In ye go, and dinna make a sound,” the madam ordered, giving Branwen a small shove on her lower back. “Ye must remain absolutely silent,” she warned.
A frown puzzling her brow, Branwen obediently stepped into the narrow closet-like room, not much larger than an armoire. A comfortable, gold velvet-covered, tufted bench took up most of the space.
“It will be a tight squeeze for the both of ye, especially given yer size, Captain.” Abbie gave a bawdy wink, and her gaze turned speculative. “But the lass can always sit on yer lap.”
Aye, she’d have to for them both to fit.
Branwen’s jaw went slack again as she swung her attention between him and the bench.
He could almost hear the cogs in her mind grinding away.
Despite the perilousness of the situation, he chuckled in genuine amusement.
Branwen looked as if she’d been asked to don one of the strumpet’s gowns and parade before their clientele below.
“Hurry up,” Abbie snapped impatiently. “My regular client disna like bein’ made to wait. And I dinna like him takin’ his irritation out on me. Keep quiet, too. He’s no’ one who likes peepers. He may refuse to pay me if he kens ye’re here.”
Branwen’s eyes rounded impossibly larger. She scrambled as far into the corner as she could manage as Bryston crouched down and wedged himself inside, shoving his sword to the side.
On second thought, an armoire was significantly larger than this inadequate cupboard.
A moment later, the panel clicked shut, and Abbie’s footsteps faded as she left the chamber.
“Yer no’ afraid of small spaces are ye?” Bryston suddenly thought to ask.
Too late if she was.
“Nae,” Branwen whispered, her voice the veriest wisp of a sound. The insufficient space sucked the noise from the air.
With a soft grunt, he sank onto the bench, and without asking her permission, pulled her onto his lap. There was scarcely room to breathe in the compartment meant for one voyeur.
“Isna this cozy?” she muttered, sounding distinctly put upon and slightly breathy, too. “There’s more room in a whisky barrel.”
“And ye’d know that, because…?”
He shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist teasing her, even if he couldn’t see her smile. Memory told him her smile made the silver flecks in her eyes sparkle and lit the room the way a full moon did the clear night sky.
“Dinna be flippant.” She wiggled her bum, shifting first one way and then the other. “Ye ken what I mean. ’Tis mighty crowded in here, and yer dirk is diggin’ into my side.”
He pulled the offending weapon from his waist and laid it beside his thigh.
“Better?” he asked into her delicate ear.
“Aye.” She sighed, the sound a breath of pent-up frustration and oddly forlorn. “How long do these things usually take?”
These…?
God’s teeth. What a woman.
After choking back a laugh, he gritted his teeth against his body’s immediate sexual response to her squirming bottom. The next several minutes very well might prove some of the most trying of his entire life.
Why the hell hadn’t he considered this?
“It depends,” he managed, pleased his voice sounded almost normal.
“On what?”
Chapter Five
Sweet Jesus on the cross.
“’Tis nae a conversation I’ll have with ye.” Bryston flatly refused to discuss intercourse options with a virginal maid.
He’d always found Branwen attractive. Och, well, mayhap no’ as an awkward lass, but assuredly he had since she’d become a woman fully grown. And until today, he’d never permitted himself a single unchaste thought about her.
Not only had his heart been too full of Delphine, as Keane’s heavily protected ward, Branwen was off-limits. In truth, he’d been somewhat surprised the duke hadn’t reacted more violently when Camden Kennedy had gone and married Bethea without permission.
No coward or poltroon, Bryston wouldn’t permit himself to contemplate Keane’s reaction when he sailed to Le Havre with her.
Not The Dolphin’s original destination, but Bryston wanted to find De La Beche and learn if there were any truth to the treasure legend. Then perhaps he might rid himself of Le Sauvage and dispose of the piece of shite once and for all.
“I canna imagine what Keane and Marjorie will say when I tell them where I’ve been,” Branwen speculated, speaking her thoughts aloud.
She cautiously moved her head as if she peered into the darkness. The aroma of lavender and heather soap wafted from her silky hair as she brushed his chin with her crown.
Bryston gripped her shoulder, turning her to face him in the dim light. He could only make out the outline of her delicate features, but her scent wrapped around him like a woolen tartan.
A craving to settle his lips upon hers and explore the honeyed depths nearly choked him.
He swallowed hard and forced his desire down.
“Ye canna ever tell him, lass. Or her grace, either. Nae one must ever ken.”
“But why?”
He heard the frown in her melodious voice.
“Yer reputation would be ruined.”
No sense in cushioning the truth. Branwen must understand the seriousness of her situation.
“Och, aye.” She wilted against him. “That ’tis true for certain.”
To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer Page 3
