To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

by Cameron, Collette

  Praise the saints. Nae blood.

  Hopefully, that meant they hadn’t killed anyone. How had they sneaked past Bryston’s men?

  Bryston leaped to his feet, his boots thudding hard against the floor. At once, he seized his dirk and sword. In one fluid motion, he withdrew both, his stance defensive as he moved to guard Branwen.

  De La Beche vaulted from his seat as well and slid a thin sword from his cane.

  Och, verra clever.

  The sensible former pirate hadn’t met with Bryston unarmed, after all.

  She pulled her small dagger from the folds of her skirt, her attention fixed on the intruders.

  The odds weren’t with them: five to three, and with her small blade, she hardly counted.

  Could she really use the dagger on a man?

  Kill him, even?

  She eyed the murderous pirates.

  Aye, she believed she could.

  “Now, De La Beche, s’il vous plaît tell me where you have hidden the treasure I have sought these many years, oui?” Le Sauvage purred, a sinister sneer twisting his features. He smoothed his hand over his beard.

  De La Beche’s only reaction was to elevate a sardonic eyebrow.

  “The desire to claim it for myself is what kept me alive the four torturous years my men and I were pressed into service aboard the Hell’s Siren,” Le Sauvage continued, conversationally. “We were little more than slaves after they plucked us from the Atlantic.”

  So that was where he’d been all of this time.

  She cast Bryston a sideways glance.

  Jaw flexing, his fingers reflexively clenching and unclenching the handles of his weapons, pure hatred spewed from the murderous glare he directed at Le Sauvage. “And I presume ye talked the crew into mutinyin’?”

  “Oui.” Le Sauvage gave an indifferent shrug as he took in the room’s lavishness. “When the captain was killed durin’ a skirmish, ’twas only natural I should assume command of the ship, non?”

  An evil grin contorted the pock-marked face of one of his men. “Aye, and Captain Le Sauvage might’ve hurried the bastard along to rot at the bottom o’ the sea.”

  His comrades chuckled diabolically.

  “What a surprise,” drawled De La Beche, drolly. Lifting his sword, he made a casual circle in the air. “Monsieur, I fear you are misinformed. This is my treasure. My home. My family.” He thinned his mouth into a rueful line. “There truly is naught else.”

  He shook his head in false regret, an ominous threat of retribution glinting in his eyes.

  “Non. I do not believe you.” Hefting an exaggerated sigh, Le Sauvage swaggered forward a couple of steps, his men mirroring his movements.

  Where in God’s precious name where Bayu? Scags? Jabir?

  “That putain, Anne Foissey, bragged about yer treasure. In her dyin’ breath, her daughter mentioned it as well,” Le Sauvage said.

  “Like hell she did,” Bryston roared, raising his weapons.

  Le Sauvage pointed his sword at Bryston, and Branwen felt perspiration dampen her underarms. “Tut, tut, McPherson. The last time you lost your temper with me, I gave you that scar.”

  A feral growl echoed low in Bryston’s throat, very much reminding Branwen of a wild creature cornered and prepared to fight to the death.

  In truth, that analogy mightn’t be so very far-fetched.

  Le Sauvage’s oily gaze gravitated to Branwen and lingered on her bosom. “I must admit, your taste in women is superb.”

  His lewd appraisal made Branwen’s skin shrink, and she instinctively edged nearer to Bryston.

  “Alas, Annie Foissey was a woman given to too much drink and an even greater imagination, non?” De La Beche murmured. “Any treasure spoken of during our acquaintance was of a… carnal nature.” He veered Branwen a repentant glance. “My apologies for my indelicacy, Miss Glanville.”

  De La Beche had been a young pirate, sowing his proverbial wild oats. Likely, he’d never thought of Annie Foissey again once he’d sailed from Tortuga.

  Le Sauvage languidly returned his focus to Bryston, while tapping the tip of his sword on the floor, making a portentous clink, clink, clink sound.

  “Ah, but the belle Delphine spoke of the treasure with her last breaths.” He drew his eyebrows into an accusatory line. “She specifically said your name, McPherson, and uttered the word, ‘treasure.’”

  “Ye goddamned bastard.” Bryston thundered. “I called her my treasure. She wasn’t speakin’ of baubles and jewels and coins and other bloody meanin’less rot. She meant love and adoration, somethin’ ye obviously ken nothin’ of.”

  Branwen’s heart broke for him as he faced his wife’s murderer. The poor woman’s last words had been of her love for Bryston. Stinging tears pricked behind her eyelids.

  It shattered Branwen as she fully understood the depths of his love for Delphine and hers for him.

  Och, to be loved so wholly and devotedly by a man such as he.

  Le Sauvage’s confidence faltered, and a flicker of uncertainty danced across his sun-bronzed features. He narrowed his snake-like eyes, his attention traveling from De La Beche to Bryston and back to De La Beche.

  A wholly humorless grin edged Bryston’s mouth upward. “That’s why ye had a spy infiltrate Trentwick Castle, isna it? Because ye think I kent where the treasure was?

  Branwen shot him an astonished glance.

  Spy? At Trentwick?

  “Christ, ye’re as stupid as a neep,” Bryston said.

  His upper lip curled in anger at the insult, another gleam of uncertainty flashed in Le Sauvage’s eyes.

  That mocking grin still in place, Bryston canted his head and gave a derisive snort. “Yer spy is as much an idiot as ye. He told ye there is somethin’ between this lass and I, too, didna he?”

  He inclined his head toward her, his flaxen hair swinging with the movement.

  Something unhinged in Branwen’s heart at the cold, dismissive way he uttered those indifferent words, but she refused to let her devastation show on her face. Instead, she straightened her spine and arranged her features into controlled disdain.

  She swung her blade side to side.

  “Well, now that is a colossal mistake. A most embarrassin’ and incompetent one. Mr. McPherson has been assigned to be my bodyguard at the behest of my guardian. I’ve known him since I was a young lass. There is absolutely nothin’ between us. Nor will there ever be.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bryston kept his warrior-honed attention focused on the blackguard only a few feet away from Branwen, but her adamant declaration shredded his heart.

  And he’d stupidly believed he’d grown numb to pain.

  Now, however, wasn’t the time to ruminate upon her statement, because if he didn’t miss his mark, Bayu and the others would appear at any moment, and hell was about to break loose.

  “Branwen,” he warned, to alert her just as a shadow slanted across the terrace.

  A heartbeat later, his men exploded inside. In the ensuing chaos, shouts, curses, screams of pain, and the violent striking of blade upon blade, he had but one thought.

  Protect Branwen.

  He must, at all costs, protect Branwen.

  God’s bones, he couldn’t see another woman he loved die.

  Love?

  Aye, by damn. Love.

  He loved the silver-eyed beauty.

  So caught up with the epiphany, he forgot to defend himself for a heartbeat. Le Sauvage’s triumphant snarl hurtled Bryston back to the present. He swung his sword, barely deflecting a punishing blow by one of the assling’s beefy crewmen.

  Shite.

  Pay attention!

  Of all the inopportune times to realize and admit he did love Branwen, it had to be when her life was in danger, yet again? Except, this time, Le Sauvage would not take the woman Bryston loved from him.

  As Bryston anticipated he would, Le Sauvage went straight for Branwen. The bastard enjoyed killing women and children. Far easier prey then figh
ting men.

  Rather than cower or shriek in terror, she adjusted her grip on the dagger. Eyes narrowed to slits and her lips a thin ribbon of concentration, with a practiced twist of her wrist, she sent the blade sailing through the air to impale his shoulder.

  I’ll be damned.

  Bryston couldn’t check his grin of astonished approval.

  It seemed Keane had trained his wards to protect themselves, and he’d been worried Branwen wouldn’t know how to use the blade.

  Stupefied, the pirate gazed down at the silver handle protruding from him, then raised his murderous gaze to her. “Merde. You’ll pay for that, mademoiselle. Oui, you will. When I’m done carving your pretty face, no one will recognize you.”

  Clutching the grip, he yanked the knife from his flesh and tossed it onto the floor where it landed with a hollow clank and skidded a couple of feet.

  At once, Branwen whirled away, searching for another weapon to defend herself.

  That was all the time Bryston needed to put himself between Branwen and Le Sauvage.

  Blood oozing from the gash in his chest, the madman didn’t appear to feel any pain. He screamed, the sound piercing and deranged, as he lunged for Bryston.

  With every arc and swing of his blades, Bryston cursed the man to hell a thousand times over. Wrought the devil’s vengeance for Delphine with every lancing blow he dealt the pirate. And most of all, battled unrelentingly to defend the magnificent woman whose soul was the other half of his.

  Branwen scurried out of the way of the fighting men and stood hovering beside the fireplace, a poker gripped in her hands in much the same way one would wield a sword.

  By damn, did she know how to do that, as well?

  Finally, with a rotation and a thrust, while simultaneously clobbering Le Sauvage upon the side of the head with his fist, Bryston wrested the man’s weapon from his grip. The last of his men to be disarmed, Le Sauvage’s weapon dropped with a loud, reverberating and wholly fulfilling, thunk upon the wood floor.

  Chest heaving and his breathing labored, Bryston swiftly assessed the others.

  His men hadn’t come through the scuffle untainted.

  Three suffered multiple gashes but remained on their feet, crimson oozing between the fingers clasping their wounds. Scags lay insensate, a small pool of congealing blood spreading out from beneath the side of his head.

  However, two of Le Sauvage’s men stared sightlessly at the ceiling, another writhed upon the floor, moaning and clutching hands to his bloodied abdomen, and the fourth poltroon had fled.

  His hat long since trampled underfoot, whistling gasps expanding his chest, and perspiration streaming down his reddened face, Le Sauvage staggered, the tips of Bryston’s, De La Beche’s, and Jabir’s swords at his convulsing throat.

  Though his sword lay upon the ground, in his outstretched left hand, he clenched a dagger reflexively.

  “On yer knees,” Bryston gritted out, prodding the cur with his weapon and drawing a thin line of scarlet across Le Sauvage’s throat.

  With a half-groan, half-oath, the pirate fell heavily onto his knees, insanity and hatred glowing in his eyes.

  “You think you’ve won, non?” he spat.

  “Aye, ye bloody bastard, I have,” Bryston allowed with no small amount of satisfaction.

  Wordlessly, the pirate glared at him then turned his loathing toward Branwen. His lip curled as he cursed. “If it weren’t for the bitch, the outcome would’ve been much different, McPherson, non?”

  Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  After returning the poker to its place, Branwen skirted them, her gaze leery and alert. She kneeled beside Scags and examined him, making a soft sound of empathy in her throat. She withdrew a frilly handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to the side of his head.

  Scags would not be pleased to learn that feminine bit of cloth staunched his wound. He’d consider it unmanly. Better to bleed to death than be coddled.

  He groaned, and his eyelids fluttered open.

  “Am I in heaven?” he croaked weakly, using the opportunity to look his fill at the mounds of Branwen’s full breasts only a few inches away.

  “Scags…” Bryston warned silkily, jealousy turning his voice gravelly.

  Branwen seemed oblivious to his possessiveness as she tutted and fretted over the Scot.

  Jabir released a full-bodied chuckle, and Bayu said, “’Tis doubtful that is where you will find yourself when you pass from this world, my friend.”

  Scags glowered and raised a fist in feigned anger.

  “Hold still, Mr. Scags,” Branwen told him as she accepted the cloth Jabir had removed from around his neck and folded into a square. She applied it to the wound, as well. “Ye’ve a nasty cut on yer scalp. I canna be certain, but I think ye’ll need stitches.”

  Assured Branwen was safe, and Scags would survive, Bryston returned his regard to Le Sauvage. Casting De La Beche a sideways glance, his hand yet gripping his sword, he said, “Send someone for the authorities.”

  By God, how he longed to take Le Sauvage’s life himself. Torture the cowardly dog as he’d tortured Delphine. But he grudgingly acknowledged that would make him no better than the piece of excrement kneeling before him.

  A fortnight ago, he would’ve done so without a qualm, damning the consequences to ten times Sunday. But Branwen…. Aye, Branwen. She’d made him see the goodness in the world again. He wanted to be worthy of her. Of her love.

  With a sharp nod, De La Beche turned to the doorway, where three terrified servants huddled. The butler brandished a candelabra, one footman, a bed warmer, and the other footman what appeared to be a mop.

  Bryston almost rolled his eyes at the ludicrousness but didn’t want to humiliate the cowering trio.

  “Tasse?” De La Beche addressed the waxen-faced majordomo. “Picard and Vettel are to go for the magistrate and a physician, at once, non? Did you send for the men to come up from the village, as I asked you to if there was any trouble?”

  “Indeed, sir. I am surprised they haven’t arrived as yet,” At once, the butler turned to the footmen and rapidly issued orders in French. Relief washing over their ashen faces at not being required to defend their master with household items, they promptly trotted away to do his bidding.

  Tasse turned his soulful-eyed offended scrutiny to the broken furniture, blood-smeared flooring, shattered vases and whatnots, and lashed curtains. He swayed noticeably on his feet. “Mon Dieu. Madame will be most distressed.”

  Aye, but she’d be grateful her husband was alive.

  “Is there someplace this bastard can be held until the magistrate arrives?” Bryston asked, plucking the dagger from Le Sauvage’s fingers.

  Bayu lowered his weapon, but Jabir kept his sword tip nestled against the pirate’s jugular.

  “Oui.” Nodding, De La Beche said, “There is a windowless servant’s accommodation with a stout door below.” Once more, he turned to his fussing butler, in the process of gingerly stepping over scarlet droplets.

  Appearing about to weep upon spying a broken clock, he touched a knuckle to the corner of one eye. “It was a Religieuse,” he bemoaned beneath his breath.

  “Tasse, please show the captain’s men where they can secure Le Sauvage,” directed De La Beche, sympathy softening his timbre.

  Shaking his head ruefully, Tasse exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “This way, please.”

  After tying Le Sauvage’s hands behind his back with De Le Beche’s swiftly proffered neckcloth, Jabir and Bayu towed the struggling, foully swearing, Le Sauvage from the room.

  “He will hang, of course,” De La Beche stated dispassionately, toeing aside a blue and white ceramic shard. “I will see to it as retribution for my daughter’s murder.”

  Delphine would’ve liked her father, had she ever met him.

  Bryston held his gaze for an extended moment before dipping his chin in acquiescence.

  “I should hope so,” Branwen said vehemently as she helped Scags into an upright posit
ion. “He’s too vile to live.”

  Two bright spots of color tinted her cheeks.

  Bryston noticed she studiously avoided meeting his gaze, and he burned to tell her what she’d longed to hear. What he’d only just discovered himself when it was almost too late. To whisper the words into her delicate ear and watch the joy transform her features.

  Nae yet.

  Nae in a room full of dead and wounded men.

  De La Beche wiped her dagger blade clean, then extended it to her. An approving smile tipped his mustached mouth upward.

  “I am most impressed at your skill, mademoiselle. Mon Dieu, never have I seen a woman throw a blade with such accuracy.” He winked, and jealousy winged through Bryston’s middle again. “My wife would’ve fainted when the pirates burst in. Ever so gracefully, of course.”

  “I dinna faint.” Flicking a glance at the shattered French window, Branwen chuckled. “My guardian believes it is important for women to be able to defend themselves.”

  Her expression sobered, and she eyed the weapon with distaste before sighing and grudgingly accepting it and returning it to the sheath hidden in the folds of her skirts.

  “I must concur. Perhaps I can persuade my wife to permit our Solène to learn the art.” De La Beche narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. He turned to Bryston. “You must stay here tonight, mon ami. It will be hours before the magistrate arrives, and our captive is dealt with appropriately.”

  “Nae.” Bryston declined with a slight shake of his head. “Have the magistrate call at the Hôtel De La Rouen on the morrow to take our statements. However, I would appreciate ye seein’ to my wounded men and their transport back to Rouen. I’d like to weigh anchor as soon as possible. Miss Glanville’s guardian is most anxious for her return.”

  Something akin to pain flashed across Branwen’s features before she schooled her features and shifted her focus from him. Damn, she probably thought he was eager to see her home after their quarrel in the carriage.

  Impatience chafed him. He couldn’t explain anything with extra people about, listening in. When he revealed his feelings, it wouldn’t be surrounded by death and gore. She should be courted and wooed. Made to feel cherished and adored.