To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

by Cameron, Collette

  Did he truly expect Le Sauvage to appear and spirit her away?

  The thought made her cringe inwardly, and a shudder rippled across her shoulders.

  On the two-day journey to Rouen, he revealed that Le Sauvage most likely hadn’t sailed to the tropics but was, instead, hot on their trail. That caused her no small amount of discomfiture. Yet she wholeheartedly trusted Bryston to know how to deal with the pirate.

  After all, he’d been a buccaneer himself.

  He would be quick to correct her and remind her he’d been a privateer—vast difference from a common pirate or swashbuckler—at the behest of His Majesty himself. Unlike Le Sauvage and many other pillagers of the sea, Bryston possessed an honorable heart and abided by a strict code of ethics.

  She furrowed her forehead while running the fingers of one hand down the length of the deep green drapery festooning the leaded glass window.

  In truth, she suspected Le Sauvage would never leave off his mad pursuit, even when faced with an irrefutable truth that no treasure existed. Or, if it ever had, De La Beche had retrieved it himself, which accounted for his wealth, as Bryston believed was the case.

  What would Le Sauvage do then?

  Would he be content to leave them be?

  In truth, she also worried Bryston wouldn’t be satisfied, wouldn’t ever be completely at peace, as long as his wife’s murderer roamed free.

  Her heart flipped over as it did whenever she thought of Delphine’s death and Bryston’s grief. He felt something for Branwen, she knew it to be true. But was the sentiment as strong and compelling as what burned behind her ribcage for him?

  An emotion that grew daily, an unrelenting burgeoning that consumed her thoughts?

  Could Bryston ever care for another with the intensity he had loved his wife?

  Was it fair to expect that from him?

  She wasn’t sure what she believed about soulmates and some people only being able to love one person their entire lives. Even crows, rooks, and ravens found a new mate when theirs died.

  But what if Bryston couldn’t?

  Could Branwen be content as second-best if he would have her?

  Would she grow tired of trying to please him and win his affection?

  Was this feeling engulfing her powerful enough to persevere for years, despite knowing she’d never be loved, cherished, or adored, as she’d longed for since girlhood?

  Biting her lower lip, she shook her head.

  She just didn’t know.

  Which was worse?

  To love someone and let them go because they couldn’t ever love you? Or to try to make a life with them, knowing their heart would always belong to someone else?

  Yer gettin’ ahead of yerself Branwen Tara Patience Glanville. He’s made nae declaration, and neither has he spoken of a future together, let alone marriage.

  She inhaled another lengthy, cleansing breath.

  One thing at a time.

  First things first: De La Beche. Le Sauvage. Then she and Bryston.

  Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap.

  Bryston knocked again.

  “Comin’,” she called as she hurried across the scratched but clean wood floor to unlock the door.

  He’d insisted it remain locked whenever she was in the chamber.

  After opening the door, she stood aside for him to enter. He gave her one of his cocky grins as he took in her gown and hair. When he looked at her like that, smoldering interest in his eyes, she couldn’t help but believe he cared for her.

  “Lass, ye are a vision. Ye put God’s glorious sunrises and sunsets to shame, ye do.” He winked and puffed out his chest in an exaggerated manner. “I shall be the envy of every man in France.” He shook his head, that blond mane of his brushing his shoulders. “Nae all of Europe.” He spread his arms wide. “The world.”

  She wrinkled her nose at his obvious silly antics to put her at ease as she closed the door behind him. “Ye’d say that to anythin’ I wore as long as it wasna that creased and stained travesty I wore for over a week straight.”

  In truth, she was heartily sick of that gown herself.

  “Nae, ye ken that isna true.” His expression turned somber, and that light shone in his deep brown eyes that sent her pulse capering and the rest of her heating like a kettle simmering over an open fire. “Ye could wear rags, lass, and I’d think ye utterly exquisite.”

  A flush of pleasure made her cheeks prickle with warmth. She grinned and hands on her hips, tossed her head. “That’s because my namesake was the daughter of the mythical King Llyr. Did ye ken she’s the Welsh goddess of love and beauty?”

  “Och, ye dinna say?” He eyed her speculatively, a merry twinkle in his eyes. “Love and beauty? Disna seem fair to the other goddesses that ye should have two.”

  This flirting with him was fun, neither of them daring to say yet what simmered in their hearts.

  Please, God and all the divine powers. Dinna let me be mistaken about his feelin’s for me.

  Bryston glanced around her chamber, taking in the neatly made bed, her other garments hanging from pegs on the wall, and the open window to let the fresh air in.

  “Are ye ready?” he asked.

  He wore a fine woolen dark blue jacket and matching waistcoat today. The same clothing he’d worn at the Earl of Montieth’s ball, if she weren’t mistaken. Though undeniably striking in the fancy attire, she preferred the ship’s captain in his usual long, leather doublet. That was the Bryston McPherson she’d come to know and love these past several days.

  Her breath stuttered to a halt, and she dropped her focus to his boots lest he see the shocked realization that surely shone in her eyes.

  She loved him.

  How could that be true?

  Shouldn’t it take weeks, even months, to fall in love?

  Nae, Marjorie and Keane had fallen in love almost at first sight. In fact, she could count on two hands a number of Keane’s Highlander friends who’d lost their hearts to worthy women in a very short amount of time.

  Once given, the heart of a Scot was faithful, loyal, and enduring.

  “Branwen?” He gave her a quizzical look as she raised her eyes to his, afraid he’d see the truth reflected there.

  “Aye, just let me collect my cloak,” she said, fashioning a benign smile.

  Before she could retrieve the garment from the hook near the door, he’d removed it and now held it open for her.

  With a small, appreciative nod, she turned her back and nearly sighed with contentment when he wrapped it around her shoulders. But instead of stepping away, he drew her against the broad, hard planes of his chest and pressed his lips to her hair.

  “Dinna fash yerself, nae matter what happens today, Branwen.”

  His masculine scent surrounded her, and she closed her eyes for a blink, absorbing him. The feeling of his muscular arms encircling her, making her feel safe. The wonder of his manly contours pressed into her softer form.

  This man. This inscrutable, complex man. Spy. Highlander. Buccaneer. Fierce and kind. Powerful warrior and gentle giant. Lord, how she loved him.

  She turned her head to gaze into his seductive eyes. Eyes, she wanted to sink into. To see upon wakening first thing every morning as the sun rose.

  As it often did of late, her wretched attention dipped to his mouth.

  How could a man’s mouth be so bloody tempting?

  Nae, no’ any mon’s mouth. Bryston’s.

  His lips curved minutely at her avid inspection, and she hadn’t a doubt he, too, remembered the blistering kiss they’d exchanged.

  Bending his neck, he whispered near her cheek, sending a rush of awareness crackling through her. Never had she been so in tune with another person, not even her sister.

  “In good time, lass. In good time. Ye ken?”

  Another promise?

  What, exactly, did he mean by that?

  Branwen opened her mouth to ask when urgent pounding rattled the door. As one, she and Bryston turned toward the ent
ry.

  His brows lashed together as he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his dirk.

  At once, she slipped her hand into the pocket of her gown. Curling her palm around the cold, hard metal, she awaited Bryston’s cue.

  “Captain? Are ye in there?” Bayu spoke low and intense.

  In three lumbering strides, Bryston was at the door, yanking it open.

  His expression grim, Bayu glanced past Bryston to Branwen, then swung his attention back. “Jabir spied two of Le Sauvage’s dogs, not more than a half-hour ago.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Later that afternoon

  Outside Rouen, France

  Bryston swore a litany of vulgar curses inwardly during the forty-five-minute drive to De La Beche’s estate. He’d thought to have time to interview De La Beche and to warn him about Le Sauvage before the bastard tracked them to Rouen.

  He wasn’t concerned for himself. After all, he knew how to fight, but there was De La Beche’s wife and possibly his children to consider if he had any, as well as Branwen’s safety and his men’s, of course.

  Le Sauvage hadn’t acquired his name by being merciful or compassionate.

  Bryston’s crew’s willingness to help him capture Delphine’s murderer, no matter how dangerous the task, further touched that previously dead place inside him that Branwen had awakened. It made Bryston wonder if he mightn’t take to the sea again, after all.

  From beneath half-lowered lids, he observed her and the play of muted light flickering across her smooth cheeks as the carriage jostled along. She’d taken to sea like a mermaid, and he didn’t doubt she’d enjoy venturing to new lands, as well.

  Hadn’t her father been a sea captain?

  Aye. Bryston strongly suspected the sea was in the lass’s blood, too.

  He’d observed it in the way she lifted her face to the spray, the private smile tickling the edges of her lush mouth as she watched the dolphins and the waves, in the way she closed her eyes and breathed in the salty air.

  They’d make a good pair, they would.

  As if sensing he watched her, she flicked a swift look at him before darting her pale gray gaze away. Her expression was indiscernible, but he knew questions bubbled beneath that calm mien:

  Did he care for her?

  Could they have a future together?

  Could they be happy?

  Could he ever truly put what happened to his wife behind him?

  Did he want to?

  Honestly, he didn’t have exact answers for some of those unspoken questions, but did admit to a strong inclination for others.

  He pointedly turned his musings to what was to transpire in a few short minutes.

  De La Beche knew Bryston was calling today, but all he’d told him was that it had something to do with concern for his safety. He hadn’t decided yet whether to tell the man he was Delphine’s father.

  Bryston pressed a knuckle into his temple, something he often did when deep in thought.

  The truth of it was, this meeting with De La Beche was likely a waste of time, but he’d been at a loss as to how to lure Le Sauvage into a trap. He wasn’t even certain he’d face punishment in France for killing Delphine, though Tortuga was a French colony.

  He’d witnesses aplenty who could attest to the murder, beside himself.

  Even if Le Sauvage heard from De La Beche’s mouth himself that there was no treasure buried on a tropical island or hidden in a secret cave along some craggy Atlantic coastline, Le Sauvage was mad enough to not believe him.

  The question still niggled as to where Le Sauvage had been these past five years?

  There’d not been a single sighting of the man.

  No whispers or rumors.

  Nothing after his ship supposedly foundered in a hurricane in the Atlantic after he’d killed Delphine and fled Tortuga.

  “Bryston? Are ye all right?”

  He’d been clenching his jaw so hard, he’d ground his teeth together.

  Branwen had watched him keenly on and off since he’d bundled her into the conveyance, along with extra loaded blunderbusses. His men were equally equipped with weapons.

  Jabir drove the rented equipage, Bayu and Scags riding atop with weapons at the ready. Two of the other guards flanked the vehicle, and the third rode a few feet behind. Now he wished he’d asked more men to accompany them.

  All of his crew wore garments appropriate for French commoners, but no one who took one look at Jabir or Bayu would mistake them for such.

  Especially not Le Sauvage.

  “Bryston?” she said his name again, leaning forward to place her palm upon his knee.

  Sensation sluiced up his thigh, straight to his groin, which grew heavy with need.

  It wasn’t any wonder.

  He hadn’t bedded a woman since Delphine’s death, and for days now, he’d imagined joining with Branwen to the point he’d awoken several nights with a marble-hard cockstand. Aye, he’d relieved himself with his hand, while envisioning the raven-haired beauty, and imagining her glorious body unclothed and writhing beneath his.

  It was either tend to the task himself or risk perpetual embarrassment and heckling by his men for his obvious arousal and desire for the lass.

  France was known for its many erotic houses of pleasure, the likes of which were touted all over the world, yet he couldn’t bring himself to bed a prostitute, no matter how skilled she might be in the art of pleasing a man.

  Not when he only wanted one woman, and she sat across from him, poised and serene.

  He covered her hand with his own. “Aye, I’m just thinkin’, leannán.”

  Her mouth and eyes softened with his endearment, but she didn’t ask about what. Nonetheless, the question lingered in her eyes.

  He knew her, though.

  She wouldn’t pry, no matter how curious she might be.

  He appreciated that about Branwen. She allowed him the space he needed to work things out in his mind. And also, with his emotions, which, at present, were a maelstrom of confusion and vexation and, aye, lust.

  Even now, desire hummed through him.

  He’d seen the yearning in her gorgeous eyes, tasted it in her unskilled but passionate kisses. Aye, this lass had wiggled her way past his barricades and managed to worm her way into a heart he’d believed too mangled to ever feel anything again.

  But Bryston did feel something for her.

  Something incredibly compelling.

  Different than what he’d experienced with Delphine, but no less meaningful or forceful in its intensity. Just different. He couldn’t think of another word to accurately describe it. And how could the sentiment not be different? They were two vastly diverse women, each unique and marvelous.

  But was it love?

  Could he permit himself to love another woman and betray his promise to Delphine?

  Couldn’t he hold Branwen in deep affection, respect and admire her, and most definitely lust after her delectable body? Weren’t many marriages built on far less?

  Giving him a winsome closed-mouth smile, Branwen turned her attention to the passing countryside.

  For certain, she must harbor fear and trepidation, yet she’d remained ever stoic and undaunted. Her trust in Bryston humbled him. And, Odin’s teeth, filled him with absolute terror.

  Another had trusted him absolutely as well, and he’d failed her. He’d left her alone while he sought Le Sauvage only to find the cur had slithered into his home and destroyed that which was most precious to him.

  By damn, he wouldn’t leave Branwen in a strange hotel in a foreign land and risk that horror happening all over again. True, she didn’t know anything about the treasure, but that didn’t mean La Sauvage wouldn’t exploit her to manipulate Bryston.

  Tapping the fingers of one hand on his thigh, he considered his choice to take her with him. How many times over these past several days had he wondered if Keane would’ve been able to protect her and his family?

  Doubted himself for dragging her
along?

  The truth was, nothing in life was certain or absolute. No decision he made was absolutely right or wrong. There were too many uncontrollable variables. At the time, it seemed the most prudent thing to do. Because some churl had planted a maggot in Le Sauvage’s head that Branwen was Bryston’s woman.

  Isna she?

  Aye, mayhap now, even though he hadn’t declared himself, but she wasn’t mere days ago.

  And underlying all of his pondering and plotting was the burning question, why had Le Sauvage come after him again?

  In Leith, bringing Branwen with him had seemed the most logical, but he hadn’t expected the attraction he’d felt for her to explode into consuming emotion. However, he could not dwell on that at present. He must concentrate all of his efforts and focus on destroying Le Sauvage, or he’d never find peace. And he risked making a mistake or becoming careless.

  More on point, Branwen would never be safe as long as Le Sauvage roamed free.

  His heart swelled with emotion. He might not be able to vow undying love, but he didn’t want to lose this lass. She meant something to him, and if marrying her was how he could guarantee she’d be a part of his life, he could do that and still be faithful to his dead wife’s memory.

  He could marry Branwen, hold her in deep regard, perhaps have children in time, and still be faithful to Delphine’s memory if he didn’t permit himself to love her.

  Bryston didn’t deserve Branwen, but if she’d have him, he’d make her his wife. For she alone had been able to ease the torment in his soul and bring a degree of contentment to him he never thought to know again.

  He was a bloody, selfish bastard.

  Aye, he was.

  An unmitigated, hell-fired arse.

  Nonetheless, he’d ask her to be his wife, and she could choose where they lived. Even take to the sea with him, if that was what she desired.

  He ought to wait until the matter with Le Sauvage was settled, but if he could persuade her, he’d like to wed before they left France.

  A derisive snort almost escaped him.

  Hadn’t he vowed to himself mere days ago that he’d do no such thing?

  Aye, but he hadn’t spent days in her company then, either, hadn’t realized how perfect she was for him, hadn’t known the transformation to his soul she’d cause.