His knees nearly touching the door, he wrapped his arm around her waist and adjusted her. His cock perked to attention again at the unexpected friction, and he cursed inwardly. The last thing he needed was a cockstand pressing into Branwen Glanville’s delectable rear end while a seasoned prostitute tended to her patron a scant few feet away.
What maggot had possessed him to seek shelter here?
Aye, his desire to save his and Branwen’s lives.
Pray God, the gent wasn’t the noisy sort, and that he and Abbie completed the act with relative haste.
Thin strips of light filtered into the chamber through the two peepholes, which Branwen had yet to notice. She had her profile to him, her eyes downcast as she fidgeted with her cloak.
“Ye’d best take your cloak off, lass. It will soon become too warm in here.”
She cast him a sideways glance, then unfastened the clasps and let the thick mantle slide off her shoulders.
“I ken we’re in a bordello, Bryston,” she whispered. “But what is this place?”
God save him.
Not only for her outrageous curiosity but for the sound of his name upon her lips. An innocent verbal caress that should not have inflamed his desire but did.
What was it about Branwen Glanville that made him forget his vow to avoid feminine entanglements?
To forget Delphine?
Forget to guard his once mangled heart?
It came as an unwelcome start to realize his heart, though undeniably scarred, had healed.
Oh, it would never be whole, and life’s experience had molded it into something far different than it had been five years before. Nevertheless, for some time now, every beat hadn’t been an excruciating reminder he lived and breathed. And Delphine didn’t.
And still, he wanted to bury his fingers in Branwen Glanville’s hair and crush her mouth beneath his.
God. He sent a silent appeal heavenward.
Evidently, the Almighty heard his fervent prayer, for before he could answer Branwen’s question, Abbie returned with her patron.
“Come on, Abbie, lass,” a rough male voice pleaded. “Let me see those bonnie teats of yers, ye ken I’m so fond of. My wife’s as flat-chested as an oatcake. I’ve missed yer full, ripe breasts, I have.”
Branwen stiffened straighter than a freshly sawed board.
Bryston ran a soothing hand down her taut spine, wordlessly calming her.
Affront radiated off her in tangible waves.
Did she genuinely believe only unmarried males sought their pleasures in such places?
“My, yer in a hurry, Barday, arena ye?” The madam giggled before saying huskily, “Next time, dinna wait so long to visit me.”
The man’s response was lost as the unmistakable sound of noisy kissing and hurried disrobing commenced.
Bryston put a finger to Branwen’s lips, signaling for her to remain silent.
She gave a slight nod, and then upon hearing, “That’s it, lass. Take me all the way into yer sweet mouth,” followed by a gravelly moan, buried her face in his neck and clamped her hands over her ears.
If only Bryston might do the same.
For God and all the saints help him, with this tantalizing wench straddling his thighs, her soft breasts pushing into his chest, and her warm breath teasing his throat—not to mention the unmistakable, guttural sounds of joining taking place upon the bed—he was nigh onto spilling his seed where he sat.
He closed his eyes, clamped his teeth together, and rested his head against the back of the closet.
Think of somethin’ else. Anythin’ else, Bryston commanded himself, as his member pulsed painfully, thickening against his will.
Scurvy aboard my ship.
Le Sauvage and his dogs.
Delphine.
“Och, Abbie. Aye. Aye,” the man moaned throatily.
He knew exactly when Branwen felt his rigid length, nudging her delectable bum.
She raised her head, peering at him, then quite deliberately ground the plump twin mounds of her bottom into his groin as if to say, “Behave, ye unconscionable bounder.”
If only he could, but his cock was a randy, intractable thing, and it sensed a woman’s glorious heat was nearby. And, it reminded him, quite audaciously, it hadn’t experienced a release in a woman’s sweet body in a long, long—too long—while.
Nae since Delphine’s death.
Praise the divine powers, he couldn’t clearly see Branwen’s expression.
His member pulsed again.
Dammit.
He wasn’t a callow youth about to bed his first woman.
Bryston felt her swift inhalation and feared Branwen was about to scold him when the outer chamber door crashed open. It opened with such force, the door reverberated off the wall and shattered a mirror.
Abbie screeched, and her partner bellowed his outrage.
Chapter Six
Just as Branwen was about to throw caution and good sense to the four corners and demand Bryston control his lustful urges, someone stormed into the bedchamber. After all, how was she supposed to ignore something that size and hard flexing against her bottom?
She clutched his shoulders, digging her nails into the rippling muscles, going cold as fear streaked through her and set her to trembling uncontrollably.
Bryston drew her to his chest, running his hands up and down her spine comfortingly. He pressed his warm lips to her ear and whispered very quietly, “Shh.”
She shuddered but wasn’t altogether positive fear was the sole cause. His touch did strange things to her. Heightened her senses and made her aware of every breath he took, the sensual caress of his fingers on her back, his shallow breaths, and that glorious mouth, mere inches from hers.
Men’s lips weren’t supposed to be so appealing.
If she but angled her head the merest bit…
“How dare ye interrupt me when I’m entertainin’ a guest?” Abbie’s shrill voice could’ve peeled wallpaper from the walls. “Git yerself downstairs and wait yer turn.”
She put on a performance that would’ve done a professional actress credit.
“Unless… ye want to join us, that is.” Her voice turned coy. “Yer a braw mon. I could do somethin’ verra, verra special with those feathers in yer hat,” she purred.
Good Lord and all the saints.
All sorts of images sprang to mind, and a nervous giggle bubbled up Branwen’s throat. Shoulders quaking, she bit the inside of her mouth and crammed her face into Bryston’s thick neck.
He smelled of leather and pine trees and his own musky scent.
She struggled to control her laughter.
They might hear her.
She must remain silent.
Bryston squeezed her in silent warning, and she nodded against his thick throat, drawing his essence deep into her lungs.
“Or, perhaps ye’d like to have a seat yonder by the armoire and watch?” Mockery tinged Abbie’s invitation. “Ye’d still have to pay the usual fee, mind ye, but I vow, I’ll make it worth yer while.”
“I dinna want to share ye, Abbie,” Barday whined. “And ye ken, I dinna like an audience.”
Och, who in God’s holy name would?
“Never ye mind, dearie.” What sounded like a slap to a backside echoed in the room. “Abbie kens how to please more than one man. I promise ye, ye’ll have nae complaints when I’m finished with ye.”
Two men.
At once?
Was that even possible?
Branwen’s brain cramped, trying to envision such a thing.
And what, exactly, did the abbess mean by watching?
Branwen squinted at the door, noting for the first time a pair of small holes strategically placed where someone might look through them. In that instant, she understood just the manner of compartment she and Bryston hid inside. She might be naive, but she wasn’t dimwitted.
Mortification and heat surged from her waist to her hairline.
“Come on, then, lov
e.” The bed squeaked in protest, as Abbie must’ve adjusted her position to accommodate the intruder. “I’ve made room for ye. Do ye have a name?”
“Non,” came a revulsion-ridden French male voice. “I’m seeking mon ami. ’Tis urgent that I find him. He’s tall, blond, has a scar on his face, just here.”
It was the Frenchman who’d been chasing them.
Branwen went hot then cold, then heat and moisture sprang out upon her forehead.
If Bryston hadn’t had the forethought to hide—
Branwen curled her fingers into his broad shoulders, and he pressed his warm mouth to her ear again. He didn’t speak, but she knew he urged her to remain silent.
“Och, now do ye see any tall blonds here?” The bed squeaked again. “I canna say that I’ve seen any mon matchin’ that description, either.”
The sound of heavy footsteps on first the wood floor and then muffled on the thick carpet carried to the closet.
“What do ye think ye’re doin’?” Abbie asked, her voice rising half an octave in offended affront.
“Looking beneath your bed and in your armoire, mademoiselle, oui?” A disappointed grunt followed the clacking of the wardrobe’s doors banging shut.
“I told ye, nae one was here, monsieur.” She spat the last word, making it sound like a foul oath. “And if the man ye seek is yer friend, why would he be hidin’ beneath my bed or in my wardrobe?”
“Dammit, Abbie. All this jabberin’ caused me to lose my cockstand,” Barday complained, and the bed groaned again.
Branwen guessed he’d arisen. She bloody well wasn’t looking through those two convenient holes, afraid of what she might see.
“I’m nae payin’ for yer favors when I didna even come,” Barday whined, very much sounding like a laddie denied a bonbon.
“See what ye’ve done now, Frangach?” Abbie cried sullenly and addressing the Frenchman in Gaelic. “Ye can pay his fee since ye interrupted us. That will be two pounds.”
“Mon Dieu, non. I never pay for whores, and certainly not two pounds for a fat putain far past her prime.” A scornful laugh filled the chamber, and Branwen shuddered.
Bryston’s enemy was an evil man.
“Get out, ye bastard, before I call the bouncers.” Every trace of seductiveness had left Abbie’s tone, and only smoldering fury weighted each cracking syllable.
“With pleasure.” The rhythmic click of booted footsteps retreating faded, followed by a sharp whistle. “Bisonette, Faucheux, search every room, even the kitchen. Zut, the tavernkeeper down the street swears he saw a man matching McPherson’s description enter this building.”
Branwen uncoiled her fingers from where she’d been gripping Bryston’s arms and drew in her first real breath in the past ten minutes.
“I’m sorry, Barday,” Abbie cajoled in soothing tones. “Are ye positive ye dinna want to finish?”
“Nae. I’m limper than my wife’s tattie scones.” He grunted, and a couple of thuds followed.
Had he donned his boots?
“Dinna look so sad, lass. Yer nae fat. I adore yer generous curves.”
Branwen pressed her lips tight, resisting the urge to cover her ears again. There was something so wrong about listening to such intimacies.
“Yer a love, Barday,” Abbie said with something that sounded like real affection.
“I wish my wife thought so.” Still grumbling beneath his breath, he shuffled from the room.
Several long moments passed, and Branwen supposed the woman was dressing. She gave a small start when Abbie whispered outside the closet. “Stay put until I’ve made sure they’ve left.”
As if they had any choice.
Did this chamber even have a method of opening from the inside?
Branwen slouched against Bryston, all of her energy sapped at once.
How much time had passed since she’d left Holyrood Abbey?
Were Keane and Marjorie at the Queen’s Arms, wondering where she was?
She must go to them at once.
“Ye did well, lass,” Bryston whispered against her cheek. “I’m verra proud of ye.”
“I was terrified,” She murmured low and shifted, turning her face toward the door. “This closet is for someone to watch a couple joinin’ on the bed, isna it? Why would anyone want to do that?”
Chapter Seven
Lucky Spence’s House
Bryston had no intention of explaining peculiar sexual preferences or fetishes to the innocent woman perched upon his lap. Instead, he directed her attention to their escape. “Once Abbie verifies Le Sauvage has indeed departed, we’ll need to don a disguise and slip out.”
He wouldn’t tell her their destination was still his ship because he hadn’t a single doubt she’d strenuously object, and he wasn’t in the mood to bargain with her. Precisely how he and Branwen would board the vessel undetected, he’d yet to work out.
Hopefully, Zhao and Bayu had deduced what had occurred and were already aboard The Dolphin, awaiting him and ready to weigh anchor at a moment’s notice. If he didn’t hurry, however, he’d miss the tide, and he didn’t relish trying to fend off Le Sauvage and his men until the next.
Astute and intelligent, Keane would surmise what he needed to do to keep his family safe, and Bryston knew full well that didn’t include loitering at the Queen’s Arms.
The duke would return to Edinburgh and await word about Branwen at Parkhill Hall, where his clansmen could guard him and his new wife and stepdaughters. After what Keane had just undergone with his other ward, Bryston didn’t want to contemplate the wrath that would be directed toward him when he didn’t return Branwen directly to her guardian’s safekeeping.
To do so, however, would put Keane and his family in untold danger. He didn’t know to what extent of a peril Le Sauvage presented nor why he’d appeared after all of this time. But as the first words from the bastard’s mouth had been a threat against Branwen, Bryston could only assume the worst.
Nae, by taking Branwen with him aboard The Dolphin, he could lure the wily spawn of Satan away. Undoubtedly, that course involved risk—a great deal of risk—but it was a chance he’d have to take.
What other recourse had he?
Le Sauvage wrongly assumed Branwen was Bryston’s woman, which put her life in tremendous peril. Where he’d arrived at such a misconception, Bryston couldn’t imagine.
“Bryston?” Branwen murmured. “Why is the Frenchman after ye, and why disna anyone ken ye were married?”
Once more, unsurprisingly, Branwen came directly to the point.
Head cocked, listening for Abbie’s return, he returned in a low tenor, “I’ll tell ye all, lass, but no’ right now. I dinna want to take a chance Le Sauvage or his men are loiterin’ outside. Stay quiet until Abbie’s assures us they’ve gone.”
Her silky hair brushed his chin as she nodded, and a whiff of her unique lavender and heather scent floated about them. She smelled of spring and the Highlands and her own tantalizing, womanly essence.
He breathed her in, inhaling her fragrance deep into his lungs, yearning to explore her satiny skin, to discover if she smelled of heather and lavender everywhere. If her skin was as velvety soft and impossibly creamy as her face and neck.
Careful! A warning pealed in his head and heart. Ye ken what happened the last time ye cared for a woman.
Cared for a woman?
He didn’t care for Branwen Glanville. Yet even as the denial resounded in his mind, he knew it for the colossal lie that it was.
Not more than a score of heartbeats later, the distinct click of the outer door shutting and the lock turning, carried to him, and then Abbie opened the panel.
“Hurry with ye.” She motioned to the bed. “I’ve collected cloaks and bonnets to disguise ye. My girls are watchin’ the streets, and three of us will accompany ye.” She eyed Branwen as she stood and stepped from the closet. “Aye, I guessed yer size accurately.”
“My size?” Branwen sent him a bewildered frown.
<
br /> “Ye canna hope to escape in that fancy thing ye were wearin’. ’Tis a beacon, callin’ attention to ye.” Abbie held out a dove gray cloak. “This is for ye, and so is the bonnet.” She indicted a matching, veiled cap atop the satin coverlet.
“Thank ye,” Branwen said, as she accepted the humble garment and draped it around her shoulders without complaint. Undoubtedly, she knew it belonged to one of the prostitutes, yet she voiced no objection.
Stifling a groan as blood returned to his legs, Bryston collected his dirk, unfolded from the bench, and ducked beneath the doorframe. He held Branwen’s expensive velvet mantel as he slid his dirk back into his waistband.
“And these are for ye, Captain.”
Abbie grinned, a wicked glint in her amused gaze. She extended an ugly as sin black cloak, but it was the hat that captured his disbelieving gaze. An atrocious, oversized straw thing with a thick black veil.
“Nae one will believe I’m a woman, Abbie,” he grumbled as he dropped Branwen’s cloak onto the rumpled bed before accepting the garment the madam held out to him.
She arched a skeptical brow. “Nae? I’ve two lasses who are nearly six feet tall, Captain, and neither is trim of form. They’ll be accompanyin’ us. They said it sounded like a fun adventure.” Her mouth slanted saucily as she leaned near Branwen and said conspiratorially, “Some men like a woman to dominate them in bed.”
Once more, Branwen’s pretty mouth sagged, and her eyes, wide with astonishment, slashed to Bryston’s, a question in hers.
He shut his eyes, cringing at having to explain that to her for he had no doubt the curious minx would ask at the first opportunity. He didn’t think she’d forgotten he hadn’t answered her question about the purpose of the voyeur’s closet, either. Or what determined how long a joining took.
Abbie pointed at the ghastly hat, more suitable for a funeral a decade past than anything a lady of the night might wear. “Ye help him with the bonnet, lass, while I fetch my cloak. Ye’ll need to slouch and hunch yer shoulders, Captain.”
“Abbie, ye canna go with us,” Bryston objected, but she was already rifling through her wardrobe. “’Tis dangerous.”
To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer Page 4
