To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

by Cameron, Collette

  Except for the lack of a bathtub.

  There wasn’t one aboard the ship, and Branwen longed for a good soak and to scrub her salt-laden hair. The daily wash with warm water from a bucket was welcome but nowhere near as satisfying as a real bath.

  Her tummy hadn’t rebelled at the unaccustomed rising and dipping of the ocean as she’d expected, either. It did contract, however, and a sick sensation flopped about her middle every time she pondered how Keane and Marjorie had reacted upon receiving Bryston’s letter. Likely Bethea didn’t know what had happened yet, and that was one small thing for which Branwen was grateful.

  She’d ask to write to them as soon as they landed in France.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but fret that Keane and Marjorie worried about her wellbeing, and they needn’t do so.

  Once safe from the raving lunatic chasing Bryston, she’d been treated with the utmost courtesy. And though she ought to be wary of the former buccaneer crew, she was not.

  In fact, she quite liked the motley array of seamen with their tattoos and piercings, colorful language, lilting accents, and often bizarre attire. They were a rough, uncouth, burly lot, and while Branwen wasn’t naive enough to believe them harmless—for each wore multiple weapons upon his scarred person—they fascinated her.

  Oh, the glorious tales and wondrous adventures they’d shared with her this past week. Such grand escapades to so many exotic and thrilling places and animals. Naturally, they didn’t share the seedier side of being reformed privateers, but the stories they’d woven created such a grand tapestry in her mind. She could almost see the fascinating places they described.

  Zhao was Bryston’s first mate and the fourth son of a Chinese nobleman who’d fled home at sixteen before being forced into an arranged marriage. Next to Bryston, he was the most serious of the lot. Bayu, only marginally less somber, was a Sumatran. He told her of his home and a delightful myth about the Tiger People of the forest.

  Jabir, a hulking giant of a man from Morocco, had beautiful nut-brown skin, a deep, lyrical voice, and a contagious laugh that boomed across the ocean. Scags—surely not his real name—a tall, rickle-a-bones Scot, was a genuinely gifted fiddler, and Connolly, the ship’s medical officer, was a bespeckled, scholarly man with perhaps more affection for rum than was wise.

  They were a rough and coarse conglomeration of cast-offs, but together, seemed more of an irregular family of misfits than mere crewmembers. And that they were delighted their captain sailed with them on this journey was as evident as the black leather patch over Scags’ right eye.

  They revered, respected, and, aye, loved their captain.

  As Branwen had observed him this past week, she’d come to know a Bryston McPherson she’d never had the privilege of knowing on land. If any man was born to captain a ship, it was him. He held his men in real affection, and his laugh rang out frequently as he jested and joked with them.

  More than once—fine, several times—she’d covertly watched him at the helm, legs splayed, broad shoulders back, and face forward as he marked the ship’s progress. The lines of tension eased around the corners of his handsome face, and a sparkle shone in the depths of his eyes that was missing when he was on land.

  So why had he left the sea when he so obviously loved her? Relished this way of life?

  A fulmar circled back to Branwen, looking her straight in the eye for several seconds before winging away. It swooped low over the frothing water, and as it rose, a half dozen silvery white-beaked dolphins jumped beside the ship.

  A cry went up from the crewman who’d spotted the animals, too.

  “Dolphins on the starboard side,” came the shout from high above her. That would be Edmunds, the cabin boy and rigging monkey, clinging to the mast.

  “Aye, ’tis a good omen,” Scags said, in his thick as cold molasses brogue.

  An epiphany struck Branwen with such intensity, she knew she’d accidentally stumbled upon the truth.

  His wife’s death.

  Delphine—French for dolphin.

  That was why Bryston stopped captaining The Dolphin. A vessel named after his beloved wife, a woman he’d loved so much, he couldn’t continue sailing after she’d died so tragically.

  Did he blame himself for her death?

  That he couldn’t stop Le Sauvage in time?

  Curling her lips inward over her teeth, Branwen pondered that, then nodded to herself.

  Quite possibly, and with Le Sauvage back from the dead, everything Bryston had tried to put behind him, to forget, was once more guiding his life. Very much like the wind in the ship’s sails sped them onward, even now.

  Aye, but a good sailor knew how to use the wind and sails to take him where he wanted to go. However, she highly doubted Bryston had as much control over his life—or hers, for that matter—right now.

  The wind played with her hair, flinging a few strands across her face. She brushed them aside, wincing slightly at their stiff texture. No small surprise, her hair was dirty and in need of washing after nearly a week at sea.

  She’d lost the bonnet Abbie had given her in the mad dash to the skiff, and the cloak didn’t have a hood.

  Rather than sail directly to France, Bryston had lingered in the North Sea for several days to throw Le Sauvage off their trail. When they reached Le Havre, he intended to try to find De La Beche and put the hidden treasure myth to rest once and for all.

  She wasn’t confident that would do any good or, in truth, if it were possible. If Le Sauvage was as crazed as Bryston said he was, the pirate mightn’t believe the priceless plunder didn’t exist, even if De La Beche told him so himself.

  What then?

  She shuddered, acute fear for Bryston sending a chill winging through her.

  He despised Le Sauvage, rightly so, and she didn’t believe he’d ever be at peace until the pirate no longer breathed.

  “Good mornin’ to ye, lass.” As he so often did, Bryston had silently approached her as she stood before the rail at the ship’s bow. How such a large man could move so stealthily baffled her. “Did ye sleep well?”

  Nae, she’d not slept well a single night, but she’d not tell him that.

  Especially after he’d insisted she occupy his cabin, the door of which boasted a stout bolt to deter any unwanted visitors. He’d bunked with his crew, and she was both relieved and chagrined that he’d relinquished his quarters so that she might be comfortable and safe.

  His face sun-bronzed, his hair tied back in a queue, he wore what she’d come to understand was his typical attire aboard ship. Black breeches, knee-high boots, a linen shirt open at the neck, a wide black belt at his waist from whence his dirk protruded, and the crimson scarf knotted at his throat. Today, his sword was also in place at his hip, again reminding her they’d reach their destination in a matter of hours.

  He passed her a steaming cup of strong tea, which she gratefully accepted. That, too, had become a routine this past week. After her morning ablutions, she’d come above deck and greet the new day, enjoy a cup of tea with him, and then eat a simple but filling breakfast of oat porridge, oatcakes, ham, and all the strong tea or coffee she could wish for.

  She wished for tea.

  Bryston preferred coffee, and she suspected something a wee bit stronger frequently laced his beverage.

  Bryston’s attention lingered on her mouth, and she automatically trailed her tongue across her bottom lip to catch any droplets of tea that might remain there.

  His facial muscles tensed, and his eyelids slammed shut for a long blink. He’d done that often of late, and Branwen couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to kiss her.

  Did she want him to?

  Aye, verra much.

  “Branwen?” he inquired, a dark blond eyebrow cocked.

  What had he asked?

  Aye, how had she slept?

  “I slept well enough, though I confess to a wee bit of a waffy stomach durin’ the night.”

  She shifted her gaze to the shoreline
once more, and a tremor skittered up her spine, spreading out across her shoulders.

  Were they headed to safety or into a trap?

  Would La Sauvage await them when they went ashore? Bold and brazenly, or would he slither around, hiding in fusty nooks, hoping for an opportunity to strike? Or, had he sailed to warmer climes since The Dolphin was to have sailed to the Caribbean?

  She fervently prayed the latter.

  The ship would still voyage to the Caribbean, but only after Bryston had returned Branwen to Scotland. Or so he’d said.

  Branwen guessed that was what Bryston hoped had happened. That the scurrilous bounder had voyaged to the tropics. It would give him plenty of time to locate Mical De La Beche, if he yet lived.

  If not…

  Well, she didn’t know what Bryston intended then. He’d not spoken of an alternative plan.

  She supposed he’d return her to the bosom of her family, but what would he do?

  Her stomach wobbled in the queer way it had the past few days when she thought of not seeing Bryston every day. She’d come to like and admire him a great deal. More than was wise, an inner voice warned, not for the first time.

  Bryston took a long swallow from his mug and gave a satisfied sigh. “I’m sorry ye dinna feel well. The sea grew rough for a wee spell. I should’ve checked on ye.”

  “There was nae need. Nerves about arrivin’ in Le Havre today, no’ the seas, caused the upset. I’m perfectly fine now. Honestly, I am.” His keen, slightly narrowed gaze probed behind her falsely cheerful declaration, and she blurted, “Did ye see the dolphins?”

  Something flashed across his face—Pain? Guilt? Regret? Sorrow?—and she immediately regretted her impulsiveness.

  Damn my quick tongue.

  “I envy ye, Bryston.” She swept her gaze across the ocean. A mere week on the sea and she’d miss it when she returned to the Highlands. “The places ye’ve visited and will in the future. The freedom ye have.” Shaking her head, causing her hair to swirl around her, she gave a self-conscious laugh. “Women dinna have such opportunities.”

  He stepped closer, his large body shielding her from the curious stares of his crew. “Branwen?”

  A note in the timbre of his voice caused her heartbeat to falter, stall, and then gallop forward much like an unrestrained racehorse.

  She tilted her head, taking in the whiskers shadowing his strong jawline, and the concern in his dark brown eyes framed by lashes the same color, though they were gold-tipped. Fine lines etched the corners of his eyes, and her attention strayed to the scar marring his cheek.

  Before she contemplated what she was doing, she traced its rough length with two fingertips. “I canna look upon this without a pang in my heart for the pain ye suffered.”

  The words clogged her throat, as even touching the rigid flesh caused her insides to seize up. She remembered what Bryston had looked like before the scar marred his chiseled face. But in truth, the disfigurement didn’t detract from his rugged attraction.

  Often, when she gazed upon him, she didn’t even notice the disfigurement anymore.

  His eyes grew hooded, and Bryston advanced until his thighs pressed into her. A jolt of excitement cracked through her, jarring, alarming, and tantalizing all at once.

  “Lass, when ye look at me like that, yer gaze soft and yearnin’, I vow I canna resist. Ye must ken there canna be anythin’ between us.”

  And yet, despite his words, he cupped her chin with his long fingers, edging his mouth ever nearer to hers.

  “Why no’?”

  Why, ye numpty fool? Seriously?

  Because he is still in love with his dead wife, that’s why.

  What mortal lass could compete with a woman raised to the status of sainthood in a man’s memory? One he obviously idolized and worshipped.

  Something akin to envy scratched away at her composure.

  Branwen had always wished to fall in love and have a man cherish her with his whole heart, and if he were a man like Bryston McPherson?

  Well, she’d count herself very blessed indeed.

  “Because I canna offer what ye rightly deserve, Branwen. What every lass dreams of in the recesses of her heart.”

  His mouth was a scant hairsbreadth from hers.

  If she but lifted her chin, the merest bit…

  “I canna give ye what yer heart longs for,” he murmured, low and gruff and anguished.

  Did he long for it as well?

  Did memories and loyalty to Delphine ensnare him as surely as chains and shackles attached to a dank dungeon wall? He was a man tormented, and with everything in her, she ached to ease his suffering.

  As she ran her gaze over his dear face, Branwen realized she was at a crossroads.

  She could either take offense that he presumed to know what she wanted when they’d never spoken of this thing birthing between them, and thereby put him in his place and salvage her pride and dignity at his rejection.

  Or, she could take a risk.

  A monumental, possibly disastrous risk, and kiss him. Prove to him that perhaps, he could move on with his life.

  But what if he canna?

  What if he can never care for another woman again?

  Och, Branwen was already compromised as thoroughly as her beloved sister had been through no fault of her own. She might as well do something to earn her ruination. Unlike that, this she could control.

  Standing on her tiptoes, she rested her palms against either side of Bryston’s bristly face. “I think I ken what I need and want better than ye, Bryston McPherson, and I’ll thank ye to nae be makin’ decisions on my behalf.”

  Then she touched her mouth to his, and when he groaned low in his throat and crushed her to his hard chest, she promptly forgot entirely why she’d ever held any doubts as to whether she should or should not kiss him.

  Chapter Nine

  21 April 1721

  Early Evening

  Le Havre, France

  Bryston patted the horse’s wither as the friendly stable lad led the gelding into the mews behind the unexceptional whitewashed lodging house located in a respectable neighborhood several streets from the Le Havre’s harbor.

  The sun hovered low on the bronze and berry-toned horizon, casting everything in a warm, golden glow as he hefted the bulging bag of garments for Branwen onto his shoulder. He’d placed the order yesterday morning and paid extra to have three gowns, a night rail, undergarments, stockings, a hairbrush and pins, a shawl, bonnet, and a few other feminine necessities ready by this afternoon.

  It had rained earlier, and puddles dotted the ground here and there. A pair of songbirds bathed in a shallow pool until sensing his perusal, they shook their wings and tails before flying away.

  For the second day, he’d scoured Le Havre since after breaking his fast at dawn, seeking information about Mical De La Beche. Delphine had once told him that her mother said her lover had hailed from Normandy. It only seemed logical to Bryston that, as a former pirate, De La Beche might be known in the area.

  He’d been about to give up for the day when he’d encountered an old, stooped shoulder sea salt at a seedy, smoke-filled pub on the waterfront. The shrunken man, deep wrinkles carved into his wizened face, claimed to have sailed with De La Beche over two decades ago.

  After buying the nearly toothless tippler a bottle of superior rum, and joining him in a dram, Bryston coaxed the information he’d sought from the sailor.

  According to him, De La Beche was alive and well, living in Rouen. On occasion, he ventured to Le Havre, but the former crew member hadn’t seen him in a couple of years.

  It seemed shortly after leaving Tortuga all those years ago, Mical De La Beche had risen to the ranks of the respectable. He’d married a nobleman’s daughter and now lived quite a luxurious life on a sprawling estate outside Rouen.

  Bryston couldn’t help but wonder if the pirate’s change in status was the result of the mystical treasure.

  Could it have really existed?

/>   He scratched his jaw, then rolled his shoulders.

  Mayhap.

  Until now, he’d doubted its existence, mainly because Delphine had been so skeptical. But if so, De La Beche wouldn’t be the first pirate to retire in comfort, living the remainder of his life off the wealth he’d acquired during his days of plundering and pillaging upon the high seas.

  Bryston had spent the last hour making arrangements to hire a coach for the journey to Rouen on the morrow. He nodded at Jabir and Bayu sitting on a bench outside the inn as he approached.

  Two yellow and white cats curled together near Jabir’s feet, opened their citrine eyes and watched his approach. Neither moved except for a single flick of the larger cat’s white-tipped striped tail. Evidently, determining Bryston wasn’t a threat, they closed their eyes and resumed their naps.

  “Any luck, captain?” Bayu asked as he continued to sharpen one of his daggers after casting the bag a casual glance. “What have ye there?”

  Bryston felt his neck heat. He didn’t owe his men an explanation, and he certainly needn’t feel chagrined for thinking of Branwen’s comfort. “Och, just a few things for the lass. We fled so swiftly, she dinna have time to collect any of her belongin’s.”

  “Quite so.” Did Bayu’s lips twitch the merest bit?

  Jabir chuckled outright as he leaned down to scratch behind the purring cats’ ears.

  Insolent scunners.

  Deciding that ignoring the clotheads was the wisest thing to do, Bryston placed his free hand on his hip. He glanced around, surveying the tidy circular drive and the potted plants on either side of the entrance. Le Chien et le Coq, The Hound and Cock, had been a good choice to stay at. Foreigners frequented the lodging house regularly, and Bryston didn’t worry that he and the others would draw any unwanted attention.

  “Aye,” he said with a satisfied nod in answer to Bayu’s first question. “De La Beche’s in Rouen. Or, at least, he was.”