To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

by Cameron, Collette

  “Branwen?” He scooted to the opposite seat to sit beside her and took her delicate, gloved hand in his. “Lass, we’ll arrive shortly, and before we do, there’s somethin’ important I’d say to ye.”

  He kissed the back of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed along at a speedy clip.

  “Aye?” Eyes shining, brimming with unfettered hope, she tightly clasped his hand.

  Chuckling, he chucked her under her pert chin. “There’s nothin’ subtle about ye, lass.”

  “Ye’d have me dissemble and feign indifference?” A frown crinkled her forehead, and she pursed those plump red pillows of her mouth. “Ye ken me better than that, Bryston McPherson. I’ve always been straightforward with ye, and ye with me. ’Tis why we get along as well as we do.”

  “Aye, I do ken ye.”

  With a little sniff, she angled her chin. “Well? Did ye wish to say somethin’ or no’?”

  Hadn’t he just been thinking she wasn’t the prying sort?

  Aye, she’d not pry, but she’d prod—ruthlessly.

  “Indeed.” He grinned, delighted at her ruffled feathers and the two bright spots on her cheeks. He drew her soft curves into the circle of his arms. “I would like ye to consider an offer.”

  A fine midnight eyebrow quirked, but she remained silent even as she melted further into his embrace.

  God, she was so womanly soft, and she smelled divine.

  His cock jerked to attention.

  “As ye ken, the king bequeathed me estates and a fancily worded award of some sort. I am a man of means, though humbly born. I love the sea, but as ye ken, I am capable of givin’ her up. I completed my last mission for His Majesty as an agent, which makes me a free man to do as I wish now.”

  He gazed into her eyes, willing her to understand how difficult it was for him to say more.

  “And yer tellin’ me this because?”

  The vixen wasn’t going to make this easy on him.

  “Ye ken, I said we’d have a discussion later.”

  She nodded. “Ye did after ye kissed me.”

  “Ye kissed me too, lass.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded raspy with unchecked desire.

  Her attention lowered to his mouth, and her lips parted. “Aye, I did,” she replied huskily.

  She cleared her throat then wet her lips.

  Bloody hell. How much torment could a man take?

  “What, exactly, are ye tryin’ to say, Bryston?”

  He braced himself then dove in, like a man jumping from a craggy cliff into the foaming sea below.

  “Branwen, if ye’ll have me, I’d take ye as my wife. I ken we could be happy together either livin’ on one of my estates or sailin’ the world pickin’ up and deliverin’ cargo. Or,” he hesitated, trying to determine what she’d want, “even livin’ near yer sister or Edinburgh if that is what ye prefer.”

  Anywhere, as long as we can be together.

  She’d become his life-line, his connection to a happier future. And God, how he wanted to numb the pain eviscerating him every hour of every day. Nae, not numb the pain, but rid himself of it. And for the first time, he was optimistic that was a possibility.

  Her eyes, silver pools of emotion, she cupped his cheek with her palm, staring intently into his eyes, as if seeking to touch his very soul.

  And she did touch it.

  He felt the melding, the joining, much like an iron and carbonite alloy to create sturdy, strong, and enduring steel.

  “Bryston, do ye love me?”

  The words were so softly uttered, he barely heard them, and he knew what courage it had taken her to ask the question. The risk of humiliation and rejection. The craving in her spirit to know that simple truth.

  A truth she had every right to.

  Marshaling his courage to tell her, he slanted his focus away for a fraction—no more than a heartbeat, in truth—but it was enough for her to stiffen and then gently extract herself from his embrace.

  Dammit.

  “Ye dinna.” Her soft murmur lanced his conscience.

  It wasn’t an accusation, nevertheless, hurt fairly dripped from the two short words. Chin high and shoulders back, majestic and proud, Branwen wrapped her cloak tighter around herself as if trying to buffer herself from further pain.

  Also, as if trying to convince him, he hadn’t cleaved her in two, though he’d never intentionally harm her in any way.

  His gut wrenched sickeningly, and Bryston cursed himself for speaking too soon. He was a selfish bastard, wanting to tie her to him because she’d made him feel alive again. Yet he couldn’t vow the one thing—three little life-altering words—she most needed to hear him say.

  Not yet, in any event.

  In truth, likely not ever.

  He couldn’t permit it.

  Loyalty and devotion to another couldn’t be dismissed so summarily.

  “I understand.” She presented her profile, but not before he saw the sheen of tears in her now pewter-gray eyes. “What ye had with Delphine was special. A once in a lifetime emotion. She was yer soulmate.”

  “Branwen.” He touched her upper arm, but she jerked away as if burned by a blazing hot blade.

  Only moments before, she’d cuddled into him, and now she sat rigid and radiating mortification and pain.

  “Lass, I feel somethin powerful for ye. No’ what I felt for my wife, but ’tis deep and abidin’. I canna say for certain if ’tis love, even though I ken that is what ye wish me to tell ye. I ken ye’d have honesty between us.”

  “Why propose then?”

  Because I need ye. I dinna understand it.

  She cocked her head, looking quite adorably like an inquisitive bird.

  “Did ye think I’d jump at the chance to save my reputation? Or is it to escape Keane’s wrath, for we both ken he’ll be livid with ye. Or do ye simply want my body, and yer too honorable to satiate yer lust without exchangin’ vows first?” She skimmed a scornful gaze over him. “Nae likely the latter when ye know the madam of a whorehouse on a given name basis.”

  Anger tempered each snapped word, and he didn’t blame her—couldn’t summon a morsel of offense.

  However, waiting to ask her to be his wife wouldn’t have changed the facts.

  A sigh filled with a torrent of regret and resignation whooshed from Bryston as he pushed away from her and maneuvered to the other side of the carriage once more. “Forgive me for speakin’ out of turn. I had nae right to ask ye.”

  She didn’t respond but huddled further into her corner. “When do I return home?”

  Well, he had his answer.

  Why, then, did it feel like he’d been keelhauled? Flogged with a cat o’ nine tails?

  “As soon as I ken for certain that Le Sauvage isna a threat to ye, lass.”

  Possibly, she was safer with Keane at Trentwick now. Especially now that the spy who’d infiltrated the castle had rejoined Le Sauvage.

  She folded her arms and elevated an eyebrow. “Och, then it seems to me, the wisest thing to do if ye want the cur captured and prosecuted for Delphine’s death is to let him think we are married. Willna he come after me to get to ye? Then ye can be done with the scunner, once and for all, and I can go home.”

  Nae lass, I dinna want to lose ye.

  Too late, his heart cried, mourning the loss already.

  Chapter Twelve

  Châteaux de Beaumont

  Outside Rouen, France

  Thirty minutes later, Branwen and Bryston awaited their hosts in quite the most elaborately appointed drawing room she’d ever seen. The French were known for their opulent taste in décor, and this room with its gilded portraits, plaster moldings, and in general, wholly overdone architecture left her quite stunned.

  Still reeling with humiliation and fulminating compunction, her heart ached painfully. Each breath was a supreme effort. Nonetheless, she affected nonchalance as she studied the room, keeping her back to Bryston as much as possible.

  She felt his brooding gaze on her as
sure as if he’d placed a hand upon her rigid spine, watching her every movement.

  Had it only been mere hours ago, Branwen had wondered if she could make a happy, contented life with someone she knew didn’t love her?

  Had she truly naively believed her love would be enough?

  The instant Branwen had asked Bryston if he loved her, she could’ve bitten off her tongue. She’d forced his hand, but now, she was glad for her impulsiveness. An undeniable truth had reared its head during those extended, awkward moments in the carriage.

  She could not be contented with a man who didn’t love her, no matter how much she loved him.

  Fool. Numpty. Imbecile.

  Branwen had been deluding herself.

  Just as well, she knew the truth of it now, rather than continue to harbor false hope. That someday he might come to love her. Branwen wasn’t a wagering woman, and that gamble was far too risky to take.

  Nevertheless, she respected Bryston for his honesty.

  He could’ve easily lied to get what he wanted. To seduce her into his bed.

  Oh, she hadn’t a doubt he wanted her body, but he craved carnal satisfaction and nothing more. And once they’d wed and she learned the heartbreaking truth, it would’ve destroyed her.

  As it was now, her heart and pride were battered—fine, pulverized—but she still had her dignity. Gone were the foolish, false illusions she’d entertained these past several days.

  How well could one get to know another in less than a fortnight, anyway?

  Well enough to know there will never be another like Bryston McPherson.

  That comprehension effectively and immediately dissolved any lingering anger.

  How could she fault Bryston for feeling the same way about Delphine that Branwen felt for him?

  The heart was an intrepid thing, and it loved whom it loved.

  There was no place for blame, accusation, resentment, regrets, or logic, even.

  Branwen resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder to see what Bryston was doing.

  He hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to her since they’d disembarked the carriage. Once he’d given his men their orders, he’d escorted her inside the mansion, all cool formality and politesse.

  Craning her neck, Branwen gawked unabashedly at the ornamentation, the garish plum and gold furnishings, the bright marble-topped tables, and the vases of flowers on nearly every surface. Gold framed mirrors, candelabras, and chandeliers reflected the ribbons of sunlight streaming in from the six floor-to-ceiling windows gracing one side of the room.

  Between every two windows, French windows opened up onto a raised terrace, upon which a gardener had artfully arranged planters, benches, and statues. Beyond the terrace lay breathtaking gardens, the likes of which she’d never before seen.

  If a single spent blossom or stray leaf marred even one meticulously tended bed, she’d flip her skirts up as Abbie and her girls had upon the docks.

  Either Mical De La Beche had married very well, or he had indeed acquired a vast fortune from his pirating days. Nonetheless, as remarkable as the house was, she could not imagine living in such a place.

  Aye, it might be beautiful and ostentatious, but it lacked any warmth, and she would never be able to relax in such elegant surroundings.

  Meandering across the glossy, dark nut-hued parquet floor, she inspected a portrait of a slender, distinguished gentleman with a roguish sparkle in his eyes.

  He stood behind the chair of a plump, petite dark-haired woman, not particularly pretty, but regal and with an unmistakable air of confidence. Surrounding them were six lads of varying ages, and a chubby infant girl, swathed in white lace reclined upon her mother’s lap.

  “Do ye think that’s him?” She angled her head toward the painting.

  Bryston joined her, scar standing out in stark contrast against his sun-browned skin. “I dinna ken.”

  “Tis magnificent, non?”

  They turned as one to see the object of the portrait stride into the room.

  Perhaps in his middling fifties, De La Beche wore a broad grin as he swept an affectionate glance over the painting. He pointed at the artwork with his unpretentious, curved silver-handled walking cane. “’Twas painted eight years ago. Alas, all my les enfants except my daughter are at school, and my wife took her to visit her family today.”

  Attired in an unadorned burgundy suit and a gold-trimmed silk, ivory doublet, he bespoke understated elegance. He wore a simple chestnut brown wig, black-buckled shoes, and a single ring set with a sapphire glinted on the forefinger of his left hand.

  Though he sported a tidily trimmed beard, Mical De La Beche wasn’t at all what she’d expected in a former pirate captain. Though, of course, she’d only ever known Bryston and seen Le Sauvage the one time. Of average height, nothing in De La Beche’s attire, bearing, or expression hinted at his former scandalous life.

  He turned a penetrating gaze upon Bryston.

  Except that look.

  That unequivocally was a captain’s unflinching, expectant perusal.

  “I suggested such a visit to my wife’s sister might be prudent after receiving your brusque message, Captain McPherson, non?”

  “Wise of ye, De La Beche,” Bryston said. He indicated Branwen with a sweep of his hand. “Permit me to introduce Branwen Glanville, ward of the Duke of Roxdale, of Trentwick Castle.”

  He didn’t bother with a formal introduction, which didn’t surprise her. Nor did he explain why Branwen was in his company or present for this meeting, either.

  She nodded a greeting since there was no need to curtsy.

  De La Beche strode to the bell pull, his heels rapping on the flooring.

  “Refreshments?” he asked, cocking one imperious brow.

  Bryston glanced at Branwen, but she shook her head.

  “No’ for me, thank ye,” she said, finding her way to a comfortable looking, velvet-covered sofa before the roaring fire in the hearth. She sank onto the cushion, and primly folded her hands in her lap, welcoming the heat.

  She’d grown chilled on the journey here.

  Both in body and in spirit.

  How would Bryston proceed?

  He hadn’t discussed his intentions with her.

  “Please, Captain.” De La Beche swept his hand outward, indicating Bryston should also sit.

  Once they’d all claimed a seat, De La Beche placed one palm on a knee while gripping his cane with the other. The sapphire twinkled, almost merrily. He looked between Branwen and Bryston. “Well, what’s this all about then?”

  In short order, Bryston explained about Le Sauvage’s obsession with the treasure Anne Foissey had claimed existed. He also informed the reformed swashbuckler that he’d fathered Delphine and that Le Sauvage had visciously murdered her.

  That news elicited a strong reaction.

  Blanching, the Frenchman sank against the plush upholstery of his chair and shook his head. “Zut, Anne never breathed a word to me, I swear.”

  She probably hadn’t known she carried his child until he’d sailed from Tortuga.

  Mouth turned down, he fingered the cane’s handle. “And this poor murdered mademoiselle was your wife, Captain, oui? And my daughter?”

  He shook his head, with what appeared to be genuine consternation before, again, sliding an assessing sideways glance to Branwen.

  Was he trying to determine precisely what her relationship to Bryston was?

  Branwen merely returned his frank regard. She owed him no explanation.

  “Aye,” Bryston replied, the familiar flintiness edging into his voice that always appeared when he spoke of Delphine.

  “My sincere condolences,” De La Beche murmured.

  “Le Sauvage is off his head,” Bryston said. “I thought him dead these past five years until he turned up in Leith a fortnight ago. He believes the treasure is still out there to be claimed.”

  A derisive chuckle filled the room as De La Beche shook his head, and scraped a hand over his neatl
y trimmed beard. He brought his gaze up to encompass the room. “This house belongs to my wife’s family. She’s a Dassault, one of the oldest and wealthiest families in France. You may find it difficult to believe, but ours was a love-match.”

  That raised him greatly in Branwen’s estimation.

  “I’d amassed a small fortune, ’tis true. But I wisely invested it many years ago. My wife is a woman of, shall we say, high expectations, and I refused to be completely reliant upon the Dassaults’ generosity.” His attention veered to his family’s portrait, and a hint of the calloused pirate he once was shadowed his face.

  He turned that flinty gaze to Bryston. “You spoke of danger, Captain McPherson?”

  Bryston nodded. “Le Sauvage is in Rouen. He’s crazed enough that he may come here.”

  De La Beche slowly nodded. “I will alert my men to be extra diligent, but what purpose would that serve? Even if he’d intended to steal my plunder, it has long since been converted into more acceptable and respectable endeavors.”

  Bryston tapped his fingers upon his thigh before rolling a broad shoulder.

  Must he do that?

  How was a woman supposed to remain impervious to such overt masculinity?

  “I dinna ken, in all honesty,” Bryston admitted. “But as I’ve said, we arena dealin’ with a rational man.”

  A movement caught the corner of her eye, and Branwen cast a disinterested glance to the terrace. Her blood ran cold with fear, and her heart palpitated in dread.

  Nae. Nae.

  Gasping, she clasped one hand to her throat, just as Le Sauvage kicked a French window open.

  Wearing that same ridiculous hat, the feathers waving an impertinent greeting, he strode inside, acting as if he were simply calling as an invited guest and hadn’t just broken a door. For the first time, she noticed his flaming red boots.

  The man had a penchant for red, it would seem.

  Blackened teeth bared, a pair of filthy henchmen flanked him on each side. All wielded ugly swords. Their fetid body odor carried to her, several feet away, and she swallowed a gag.

  Swiftly examining their weapons, relief washed over Branwen.