“Aye, I can. Ye see, Captain, ye picked a good day to visit.” She plopped a frightening purple bonnet atop her red hair. “Every Saturday afternoon, several of the lasses and I don our cloaks and veiled hats—lest we offend the genteel folk of Leith—and we go shoppin’.”
Planting her hands on her ample hips, she grinned.
Bryston was still convinced he’d stick out like a crow amidst doves, but he didn’t have a better plan. If Abbie and her lasses could provide a distraction, he might just be able to sweep Branwen aboard his ship. Especially if his men could contribute to the commotion.
A plan began to form, and he skewed his lips sideways.
Aye, that would do.
She winked at Branwen. “Even the likes of us appreciates a pretty ribbon, a new fan, scented soap, or some fallall or other.”
“Thank ye for yer help and the cloak and bonnet.” Branwen offered a friendly smile. “I am verra grateful.”
No judgment or censure colored her words.
Approval lit the madam’s eyes.
By not acting haughty or superior, Branwen had guaranteed Abbie’s silence.
“Abbie, do ye have a lad who runs errands for ye?” Bryston asked.
Fastening her cloak, she glanced up. “Aye.”
“I want him to deliver a message to The Dolphin for me.” He offered a crooked grin. “My crew can help provide a spectacle if yer lasses dinna mind puttin’ on a performance of their own.”
She tossed her head back and squared her shoulders. “My girls put on brilliant performances every day, ye well ken.”
Aye, bedding every sort of man and pretending to enjoy themselves. It was a hard life, and he’d never judged the women but felt compassion for their lot.
“The Dolphin?” Branwen’s raven eyebrows stitched together, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Why no’ the Queen’s Arms?”
Bloody hell.
“Branwen…?”
Bryston scraped a hand through his hair, and after clearing her throat, Abbie said, “I’ll just fetch those writin’ supplies for ye, Captain.”
“Bryston? Why arena we going’ to the tavern? Keane and Marjorie will be waitin’ for me.”
He eased the offensive bonnet from her grasp and tossed it on the bed. Taking her cold hands in his, he gave them a little squeeze. “Lass, they’ll no’ be there. My men will have told them about Le Sauvage, and the duke will have wisely taken his family and returned to Edinburgh.”
“I think ye need to tell me precisely what is goin’ on.” She wrinkled her pert nose, puzzlement making three neat lines on her smooth forehead. She folded her arms in that stubborn way that was so Branwen and jutted her chin out in an endearingly mulish manner. “Especially if ye think to take me aboard yer ship willin’ly.”
She had a right to know because her life was still in peril.
Blowing out a long breath, he cupped his nape. “Strikin’ a bargain, are ye lass?”
She rolled her shoulder as she cast an apprehensive glance to the window then the door. “Nae, I dinna bargain with a Highland buccaneer. But I would have the truth. I’ve found honesty saves a great deal of trouble in the end.”
He advanced to the gold velvet festooned window, and after edging the curtain aside and seeing no sign of Le Sauvage or his henchmen, he nodded.
“Marc-André Chastain, or Le Sauvage, as he’s dubbed himself, is a pirate. Not a privateer, but a foul, vicious, blood-thirsty, unmerciful pirate. A scourge and a bane on humanity.”
She paled slightly but pursed her mouth and gave a nod for him to continue.
“He erroneously became convinced my wife knew the location of a hidden treasure. Delphine’s mother had been a Filles du Roi, sent by the French government to Tortuga to become a wife to a male colonist.”
“Women did that? Married complete strangers?” Branwen asked, paler now and undeniably appalled at the notion.
“Aye. For a few years on various French colonies.” He lifted the travesty of a hat and plopped the wretched thing upon his head. Hideous. He couldn’t prevent his grimace. Was there ever an uglier woman than he?
“When her tavernkeeper husband died, Anne Foissey took over runnin’ his saloon. Not long afterward, she became lovers with a privateer, Mical De La Beche. According to what Anne told Delphine, he fathered her.”
“Ye must’ve loved yer wife verra much to name yer ship after her.” Compassion softened the angles of her face and the corners of her eyes. “Her second name was Rose, I take it?”
Her gaze drifted to his right arm, though his clothing covered the tattoo.
So, the lass had seen his tattoo, had she?
Interesting.
Had she watched him as he trained?
“Aye,” he said gruffly, remembered grief constricting his throat. He’d vowed to never experience the pain her death had caused him again.
If his heart had been carved from his chest with a letter opener and then diced into pieces, the pain would’ve been trifling compared to seeing how Delphine had suffered from Le Sauvage’s cruel viciousness.
He fumbled with the bonnet’s double ribbons until Branwen shoved his hands aside and, after adjusting the hat, tied the black ribbons into a jaunty bow to the side of his chin. When she eyed the finished product, her mouth quivered, but she schooled her mirth.
“Why is this Le Sauvage scunner after ye?” she asked gently.
Bryston glanced into one of the looking-glasses, amused at the big, homely woman staring back at him. Not even an ape-drunk tippler, straight off a ship at sea for six months, would mistake him for a female.
How much should he tell Branwen?
Everything, he decided with a final grimace at the black-clad creature in the reflection.
“For over two decades, Anne swore to anyone who’d listen to her drunken ravin’s, that De La Beche had told her about a massive treasure he’d hidden, acquired from a decade of plunderin’s. He also said he’d return to Tortuga and take her back to France with him, which, of course, he never did. The man was a charlatan and a liar, and I’m convinced nae treasure ever existed. He’d simply wanted to wheedle his way into her bed.”
“How did ye meet yer wife?” A blush bloomed across Branwen’s face, but she didn’t look away.
“She was tendin’ bar when my ship put into port five years ago. Her mother had died six months before, but the legend of De La Beche’s treasure lived on. Delphine vowed it was a fanciful tale that grew into a legend as time passed, and it was repeated and embellished with each tellin’.”
Unlike her mother, his wife had operated a respectable establishment—as respectable as one could be on an island known for sequestering all manner of swashbucklers, buccaneers, and pirates in addition to mercenaries and prostitutes.
He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. Delphine had four gargantuan bouncers who tossed anyone out on their arses the minute they looked sideways at her. She was adored by one and all for her kindness and generosity.
Anne had been a drunkard and braggart, but she’d raised an intelligent, independent daughter, and Bryston had fallen half in love with her that sunny afternoon she’d slammed that first tankard of warm, dark ale on the table before him.
“And this Le Sauvage heard about the treasure and…?” Branwen probed.
He’d have to give her credit for her tenacity. And bravery, too. She hadn’t succumbed to tears or histrionics, and her fortitude was praise-worthy.
“Bryston?”
Closing his eyes, he braced himself as the memories of that godawful day crashed over him like a gigantic, unmerciful wave. “He tried to torture the truth from her. She couldna tell him what she dinna ken. He gave me this.” He flicked his fingers toward the scar on his face. “And he left us both for dead when my crew arrived and drove him and his men off.”
“I am verra sorry, Bryston.” She touched his forearm, a sheen of moisture making her eyes glassy. “But why is he after ye now, after all of this time?”
; “That, I dinna ken. But what I do ken, is he believes ye’re my woman.” He met her silver gaze, realizing with a start that navy blue ringed the gray. “And that means I canna let ye out of my sight. Ye must sail to France with me.”
“Good Lord and all the saints.” Her features crumpled in astonishment. “Why would he think such a thing? Is he daft?”
“Aye, he’s mad. Off his head.” A stark-raving lunatic.
Loudly clearing her throat, Abbie re-entered her bedchamber with the writing implements. “Here ye go, now.”
In short order, Bryston penned a brief missive to Zhao. The Chinaman had a mischievous streak and a particular fondness for fireworks. A combination that worked well for what Bryston intended.
He also wrote Keane a letter. He lifted the folded rectangle after affixing the wax seal. “This is for Roxdale, Abbie. It explains we’re sailin’ to France, but will be back within a month.”
“A month?” Branwen blanched and swallowed. “A month?” she repeated, unable to keep the dismay from her voice. “That long?”
“Aye. Yer family would be in peril if ye returned to them before I deal with Le Sauvage, once and for all.” Bryston lowered the hat’s veil and slouched as Abbie had recommended.
“But it disna take a month to sail to France and back,” Branwen insisted, glancing at Abbie and then back to him.
“Nae, but it may take me that long to find De La Beche. If he yet lives, that is.”
And if he didn’t? Then what?
God’s bollocks, Bryston didn’t bloody well know.
Abbie looked on, sympathy brimming in her eyes. She also knew what this meant for Branwen. How many of the women in this whorehouse had been compromised through no fault of their own, and their only recourse afterward had been to sell their bodies?
At least Branwen had her family, which included a powerful, wealthy duke as her guardian. Unlike Camden Kennedy, who’d salvaged Bethea Glanville’s reputation by marrying her, Bryston wouldn’t make the same noble sacrifice.
He’d known true love and vowed the day Delphine had been ripped from his life, taking his heart, soul, and joy with her to the grave, he’d never wed again. Loving another was out of the question. He was a man who loved but once in a lifetime.
No remorse speared him. He’d save Branwen’s and possibly Roxdale’s and his family’s lives. That was enough, and if the duke or anyone else, expected more, hoped for more, well disappointment was in their futures.
“Yer point is well taken. I willna knowin’ly put my family in danger.” Giving a brusque nod, Branwen turned toward the door. “Shall we go?”
Again, her stalwartness and pragmatism impressed him. Her acceptance of the situation earned further respect. Branwen Glanville was a singularly remarkable woman.
As they departed the chamber, Abbie chuckled. “Just wait until ye see what the lasses and I have planned.”
Somehow, Bryston didn’t doubt it would be utterly scandalous, and he prayed to God, would carve enough time for his and Branwen’s escape.
Fifteen minutes later, having walked to the wharf unmolested, Bryston, Branwen, and the four prostitutes, as well as two of Lucky Spence’s more intimidating bouncers, stood in an alley adjacent to the docks. The Dolphin swayed in the harbor, her colorful flag fluttering flirtatiously in the ever-present breeze.
Squinting from behind the lacy veil covering his face, Bryston grinned. Zhao and another four of Bryston’s crew wheeled an innocuous cart, no different than a dozen or so others, toward the middle of the dockyard.
He didn’t know precisely what Abbie and her girls had planned, but he was positive it was something that would draw keen attention.
“Are ye ready, lasses?” Bryston asked the demurely attired women.
“Aye,” they chorused, then giggled as if privy to a great secret.
He touched Abbie’s arm before passing her a weighty purse. “Thank ye, Abbie. I’ll send ye more.”
“Nae need, Captain.” Shaking her head, she accepted the coins and tucked them inside a pocket concealed within her skirts. “Ye always treated the lasses and me with respect. That’s worth more than ye’ll ever ken. And yer lady is a kindhearted lass, too.”
My lady?
Before he could correct her assumption, she turned and sauntered onto the gray-brown planking. “Ye ken what to do, dearies.”
A moment later, having shed their conservative hats and cloaks, to reveal scandalous gowns, the women paraded forth, advertising their assets with the confidence of those well-practiced in the profession. At once, they drew loud whistles and hoots from the myriad of men on the docks for one reason or another.
Laborers, merchants, and sailors paused in their tasks, their attention riveted on the women flashing lengths of pale legs and tantalizing glimpses of creamy shoulders and bosoms.
“They really are somethin’,” Branwen said, admiration inflecting her voice rather than derision or condemnation. “I admire their confidence.”
Well, that was one way to describe their behavior.
As the women posed and preened, even blowing flirtatious kisses to the bystanders, his crew casually glanced around. Two of his men unconcernedly tucked their hands into their pockets, another pair nonchalantly hefted coils of rope over their shoulders, and Zhao lit his clay pipe as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Bryston’s first mate and The Dolphin’s captain in his absence, Zhao glanced around, then slipped the pipe beneath the tarp covering the cart’s contents. The other men exchanged pointed looks before picking up their paces and moving swiftly away.
Bryston wrapped his hand around Branwen’s upper arm and edged them out of the alley and along the weather-worn grayish building to their left.
“When I tell ye to, lass, run for all yer worth and follow Zhao. He’ll have a boat waitin’ to row out to The Dolphin. Dinna wait for me if we are separated. Board that skiff, and they’ll transport ye to my ship and keep ye safe.”
He’d no sooner finished speaking when the contents of the cart erupted. Ear-splitting fireworks exploded, launching high into the sky. The wharf vibrated, men roared, women screamed, and he and Branwen sprinted across the rough timbers.
The Goddamn hat bobbed wildly atop his head, and the veil obstructed his vision.
How in the hell did women manage draped in these trappings all of the time?
As Bryston ran, guarding Branwen with his body, he waited for a lead ball to rip into him or for Le Sauvage and his men to confront them with blades at the ready.
Glancing over his shoulder, he swore as his nemesis stormed around the corner, leading his men. The two men he’d spied with him earlier, led the pack. Fury narrowed his eyes and rage nearly blinded him when he recognized a Highlander he’d seen a few times during the Hogmanay celebration at Trentwick Castle last December.
A bloody, damned spy.
That must be where the Le Sauvage received the misinformation about Bryston and Branwen. True, they had shared a dance, and if he recalled, he’d been seated beside her at least thrice during supper. The latter had been by chance and not ploy.
Shite.
“Allez au diable, McPherson!” bellowed the Frenchman.
Damn ye, too, ye buggering whoremonger.
Abbie placed two fingers in her mouth and let out a high-pitched whistle. Without hesitation, she and her girls flipped their skirts up over their backs, barring their naked behinds. They wiggled their bottoms suggestively before dissolving into laughter and running off.
Thank God, Branwen hadn’t seen that display.
Several eager men charged after the women, cutting off Le Sauvage’s pursuit.
Heart thundering between his ears as loudly as the earlier bang, he handed Branwen into the skiff. Another explosion flared, sparks flying high into the sky, as he and his crew rowed him and Branwen to the relative safety of his ship.
Och, now the real game begins.
Chapter Eight
19 April 1721
Early Morning
Strait of Dover
Branwen wrapped the borrowed cloak around her snugger as she shifted her gaze between the white cliffs of Dover, England on the starboard, and France to the vessel’s port side. A brilliantly clear morning, the sun caused the Strait of Dover, as Bryston had called the waterway, to twinkle and sparkle as The Dolphin sailed the last stretch of their journey to Le Havre, France.
Deep cobalt in the middle of the channel, the tapestry of waters became gradually lighter shades of blue nearer to the shore due to the chalky cliffs shedding into the coastline.
The ship moved as gracefully as any dancer, neatly dividing the sea, her snapping sails proud and full as she unerringly carried them forward.
A dozen men moved about the deck of the sleek schooner in what Branwen had come to recognize as their morning routine. Everything aboard The Dolphin bespoke discipline and order, and the men’s loyalty and devotion to their captain was commendable.
Surprisingly, for a group of former privateers, given the superstitions she’d heard about women being bad luck aboard a vessel, the sailors had accepted her presence with little more than a raised bristly eyebrow, a calloused hand scrubbed across a stubbly chin, or a furrowed craggy forehead.
Evidently, their confidence in Bryston made her company acceptable, even if she was female. She suspected, however, he’d also spoken to them that first night, and though she had no notion what he might’ve said, there hadn’t been a single uncomfortable incident.
No scowls, glowers, mutters, cold shoulders—nothing.
Abbie had mistakenly assumed she was Bryston’s woman. Perhaps his crew had as well.
In truth, she wasn’t positive how that inaccurate assumption made her feel. Part of her thrilled at being his, and another part was appalled that people could so readily believe them a couple.
Face raised, Branwen inhaled the tangy air and smiled as several fulmars, their black-tipped wings stiff and outstretched, glided gracefully through the air. The seabirds didn’t make a sound as they dove and swooped above the frolicking waves.
She loved this.
Adored the morning as the day began on the ship. Loved the spray on her face, the feel of the wind in her hair, which she’d left down and now fluttered about her shoulders and back. The sounds, the smells, admiring the sunrise and sunset from the poop deck—all of it.
To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer Page 5
