To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

by Cameron, Collette

  “Is that safe, McPherson?” De La Beche queried, bending to pick up a white Madonna marble sculpture that had incredulously survived the destruction.

  “Jabir and Bayu will return with us. I doubt the rest of Le Sauvage’s crew is as loyal as these curs.” He dropped his gaze to the dead and wounded pirates. “The scunner who fled will tell them of their captain’s capture and imminent execution, and I’d wager they commandeer the Hell’s Siren for themselves,” he told De La Beche.

  “Hmm, you have a valid point,” De La Beche acknowledged.

  “Do ye have capable men who can guard Le Sauvage?” Bryston asked.

  De La Beche swung his gaze to look out the broken door. “I do. I’ve already sent for them. As Tasse mentioned, they should’ve arrived by now.”

  Then why hadn’t they been in place beforehand?

  Perhaps De La Beche hadn’t thought there wasn’t a need. It might’ve saved a degree of bloodshed.

  As if reading Bryston’s mind, he said, “Madame De La Beche would prefer no reminders of my former life, or else I’d have a half-dozen guards ensconced in the house and stables. I considered sending for my men this morning, but rightly assumed you’d bring your own.” He lifted his shoulder as he ran his gaze over the demolished room. “I didn’t think a man who would warn me I was in danger would then cause me harm.”

  De La Beche had become too trusting in his retirement from piracy, but Bryston refrained from saying so.

  Just then, a quartet of very capable, burly men plowed into the room. De La Beche crossed to them and spoke in soft tones. After casting inquisitive glances at Bryston and Branwen, they departed, led by their employer.

  Bryston took Branwen’s elbow, and she didn’t flinch away from him, but she did give him a doubtful look.

  “Come, let’s return to Rouen. We’ve much to discuss,” he said quietly.

  Angling her head, she searched his face while disengaging her arm from his hand.

  “Nae, Bryston. We’ve had our discussion already. There’s naught else left to say.”

  Without a backward glance, she sailed from the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Five hours later

  Hôtel De La Rouen

  Weary to her core, Branwen ran the brush Bryston had purchased for her through her hair. Closing her eyes, she pondered the past few hours. The return journey to Rouen had been much the same as that to Châteaux de Beaumont.

  With the exception of one predominate thing—one undeniably painful thing.

  She’d been a starry-eyed lass with hopes of love on the way there.

  That was no longer the case, and she couldn’t summon an ounce of anger or censure.

  How could she possibly begrudge Bryston his love for Delphine?

  She refused to permit jealousy or envy a foothold. Such were direct paths to bitterness, acrimony, and discontent. Nae, Branwen sincerely respected his loyalty and commitment, even this many years after his wife’s death.

  Today, not only had Branwen realized she and Bryston could never be, but she’d also stabbed a man and witnessed the deaths of others.

  True, Le Sauvage was as rotten and misbegotten a scunner—a devil’s spawn if there ever was one—as they came. In all of the times she’d trained with Keane, she’d never expected to actually have to use a blade against another person.

  Had her actions truly made a difference?

  Aye, she believed they had, and she couldn’t deny the self-confidence and pride that knowledge aroused in her. Though it hadn’t even been a fortnight ago, she’d changed since fleeing Leith.

  Having lived in her older sister’s shadow and with an exceedingly protective guardian since she was a wee lass, she’d discovered she was much stronger and more independent than she’d previously believed. And, by heaven, she liked that about herself. It gave her the confidence to forge her own future.

  Aye, she might be returning to Trentwick Castle, but she’d do her utmost to persuade Keane and Marjorie to permit her to travel. She wasn’t certain how that might be accomplished since neither enjoyed traveling themselves, but perhaps a companion could be hired. A distant relative imposed upon. She would find a means.

  And she’d take up a cause or hobby too, though, in truth, she wasn’t quite certain what that would be.

  Branwen only had one life to live, and she wouldn’t spend it pining for a wonderful man. Oh, her heart and soul would always belong to Bryston, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pull up her stockings and get on with it.

  Unrequited love was tragic, but not the end of the world. Far more heart-rending to her way of thinking would be to waste the life the Lord had given her. To not seize every opportunity and experience she was able to.

  With a firm nod, not quite having convinced herself, Branwen puffed out a sigh. She set the brush beside the hairpins and the letter to post to Marjorie and Keane tomorrow, resting on the dressing table. Slowly, reluctantly, she brought her gaze to meet her reflection in the looking glass.

  She gave a sharp little shake of her head and pursed her lips at what she saw there.

  Sorrow. Resignation. Discouragement.

  Those were what shadowed the eyes, the color of the North Sea in January, mirrored back at her.

  Well, little steps, she assured herself.

  She couldn’t very well expect a pulverized heart to heal in mere hours, could she?

  Bryston had respected her muffled request not to converse on the way back to Rouen, and she’d dozed off only to awaken as the carriage lurched to a halt in the hotel’s courtyard. Unable to bear her own doleful expression and more drained emotionally and physically than at any other time she could recall, she stood and wandered to the window.

  Freshly bathed and her hair washed, she’d barely touched her dinner. Now, though it was not even seven of the clock, she considered crawling into bed and pulling the bedding over her head. If only it were that simple to snuff her tumultuous thoughts.

  Slumber, at least, would obliterate her heartache for a brief while.

  The magistrate had sent word he’d meet with her and Bryston in the morning, and she’d overheard him telling Bayu to ready The Dolphin to set sail tomorrow evening.

  Good.

  She was homesick.

  Heartsick, too.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Scrunching her brow, she checked the tie of her robe before calling, “Who is it?”

  “Nanette, Miss Glanville,” burbled the cheery maid in her heavy accent through the door. “You have a delivery.”

  A delivery?

  What in the world?

  Branwen opened the door a crack, well aware of the impropriety of doing so wearing her nightclothes.

  A delighted grin dominated the lower half of the plump girl’s face. Holding a vase containing a huge bouquet of flowers, she bobbed her head at six other maids behind her.

  Each held a box wrapped in pretty fabric and festooned with a large ribbon. Except for the last, who cooed and patted an acorn-brown, curly-coated puppy.

  Puzzling her brow, completely baffled, Branwen gazed helplessly at the array before her. “Are ye certain ye havena made a mistake?” Her attention gravitated to the beaming maids. “This is all meant for me?”

  Giving an exuberant nod, Nanette giggled as she and her cohorts exchanged knowing glances. “’Tis wondrous, non?”

  “Aye,” Branwen agreed.

  Perhaps it was De La Beche’s way of saying thank you? Or his wife’s?

  Overwhelmed, Branwen stepped aside and permitted the servants to parade into the chamber, proudly bearing the gifts.

  Nanette placed the bouquet on the table beside Branwen’s nearly full dinner tray. She tsked upon spying the uneaten food. “You did not like the meal, mademoiselle? Shall I bring you something else? Oui?” she asked, so eager to please.

  “I didn’t have much of an appetite after the events of the day,” Branwen consoled, not wanting to hurt the servant’s feelings. Witnessing men die,
impaling one herself, and relinquishing any hope of a future with Bryston had rather put her off her food. “Please dinna take offense. I’m sure on the morrow I’ll be famished.”

  “Oui, fresh croissants.” Nanette put her fingertips to her mouth and made a kissing noise.

  The other excited maids placed their boxes on the bed.

  “The puppy is a female. If she needs to go outside, just ring, and someone will come up to take her out,” Nanette offered with a little, shallow curtsy.

  “Arena you adorable?” Branwen said, accepting the wriggling puppy from a maid whose name she did not know. It promptly began licking her face enthusiastically. Despite her earlier melancholy, she laughed and buried her nose in the dog’s soft neck.

  Holding the chubby, wriggling pup close, she took in the packages. “Do ye ken who they are from?”

  “From me, lass.”

  She whirled to face Bryston, and her heart did that weird skittering, wobbly thing it always did when she looked upon him. Unabashedly, she permitted her gaze to feast upon his masculine magnificence.

  Hair damp and hanging around his shoulders rather than tied back at the sides as was his wont, wearing only a linen shirt, leather breeches, and boots, his large frame dominated the doorframe. Arms folded, he rested one ridiculously broad shoulder against the wood.

  He winked at the maids who erupted into giggles once more.

  “Mademoiselles.” He stepped aside, then bowed as he swept his arm out to indicate they should leave.

  Falling over themselves while tittering and speaking in French—a couple of the bolder lasses giving Bryston seductive inviting looks—they filed from the chamber.

  Branwen waited until the last one’s footsteps receded before speaking.

  “Why? I havena need of anythin’. Ye’ve already purchased much for me that stretches the bounds of propriety.” Branwen shook her head while trying to control the exuberant puppy. She was also aware the servants could still hear their conversation.

  Clasping the back of his neck, he peered at her almost sheepishly and slanted his molded mouth into a disarming smile.

  “I’m wooein’ ye, Branwen. But because we’re short on time, I’m acceleratin’ the process. I figure a gift a week added to the near fortnight since we left Leith, that’s almost two full moons of courtship.”

  She honed in on two words. Two glorious, terrifying, hope-stirring words.

  Dinna become too excited.

  Wooin’ and lovin’ are nae the same thing.

  “Wooing me?” Eyes narrowed dubiously, she sniffed the air for the odor of spirits. “Are ye drunk?” she asked warily.

  Was that what he’d been doing these past several hours? He didn’t seem pished, but what other reason could there be for his impulsiveness?

  His mouth yet bent into that sensual smile, he closed the door. As always, his presence seemed to shrink the room.

  Branwen resisted the urge to retreat a step for every one he advanced toward her. Instead, she planted her feet and angled her chin upward. The Branwen of old would’ve backed away, but the new Branwen faced things head-on.

  “Aye.” He took the puppy from her and ruffled its neck before placing it on the floor.

  The roly-poly imp promptly pounced upon the carpet laid before the hearth. It seized the edge in its little jaws, growling and shaking the undeserving carpet as if it were a rat.

  A smile twitching her mouth at the puppy’s antics, she placed her hands on her hips and scrutinized Bryston.

  A devilish gleam glinted in his eyes as if he were privy to a secret.

  “Bryston McPherson, what are ye about?”

  He slashed her a roguish grin while wrapping those strapping arms around her waist and drawing her near. She should resist, but how could she, when with every breath, every beat of her heart, her every pore cried out for him?

  “I brought ye sweetmeats, jewels, books, a small saber, a compass, and a mariner’s astrolabe.” He nuzzled her hair while flattening his palms against her upper and lower spine, pressing her flush against him.

  God, he smelled heavenly, and she bit her lip to keep from nuzzling her nose into the open vee of his shirt. Whatever soap he’d used for bathing had left a spicy, woodsy essence on his sun-kissed skin.

  Every rigid contour of his body, the sinewy thighs, the corded steps of his stomach, and the rock-solid bulges of his chest reminded her how very different their bodies were. His hard, sculpted, and powerful. Hers, softer and rounder, and inviting.

  “Bryston…?”

  She battled to form his name, to draw enough oxygen into her lungs.

  The physical effect he had on her was heady, a dizzying cacophony of sensation.

  “Whatever would I do with a compass or a mariner’s astrolabe?” she finally managed, her voice throaty with desire.

  Whatever the latter was.

  Branwen supposed it must be a nautical device of some sort.

  “Sail around the world with me, Branwen.” A husky timbre entered his voice as he stared into her eyes.

  Why, there are gold flecks in his eyes.

  How had she never noticed that before?

  “Or explore the Himalayas,” he continued, each word a throaty rumbling invitation. “Or teach our children the constellations.”

  Her breath hitched, suspended for a long, long sliver of a moment.

  Is he sayin’?

  She blinked back the sudden surge of tears—afraid to hope. To believe.

  Tilting her head, she met his smoldering gaze.

  “I love ye, Branwen.” He brushed a calloused thumb across her cheek.

  Her mouth parted in astonishment.

  He pressed a hard kiss to the knuckles of one hand, then groaned and encompassed her in a powerful hug, wrapping those iron-like arms around her.

  “I love ye. When I saw Le Sauvage turn to attack ye, I kent in that instant that I couldna envision the rest of my life without ye in it. Please, marry me.”

  “Och, Bryston, I love ye, too.” Branwen stood on her tiptoes and flung her arms around Bryston’s neck, peppering his chin and jaw with kisses. “Aye, I’ll wed ye.”

  He swooped her into his arms and, in three long strides, reached the bed.

  She glanced over his shoulder. The puppy had given up attacking the rug and lay curled in a ball, sleeping soundly before the fire.

  “Lass?” His voice and eyes held a question. “I will wait until we are wed if that is what ye wish.”

  Heat suffused her cheeks, but she shook her head. “Nae. We can marry tomorrow, but tonight, I’d give myself to ye in the way a woman does a man. If ye promise me one thing, Bryston.”

  “Aye, anything lass.” Such tenderness softened his eyes that tears sprang to hers.

  “Ye will nae leave me behind. Where ye go, I go.”

  A smile teased his mouth before he swept it across hers. “Another bargain?”

  “Aye.” She grinned, tossing her hair over her shoulders. “I dinna intend to mind the hearth while ye roam the seas.”

  “It will be as ye wish, leannán. My heart beats with the fullness of ye, mo chridhe.” My heart. “The blood running through my veins hums yer name.”

  If she hadn’t already been in love with him, that vow would’ve catapulted her into falling in love all over again.

  He gently deposited her on the bed, causing the packages to rustle and tumble. “Do ye want to open yer gifts first?”

  She sliced the boxes a swift glance.

  Nae, she didn’t.

  A wicked glint entered his eyes. “Before I open mine?”

  “Nae, they can wait.” She laughed and shook her head. “I canna.”

  While he moved the packages to the table with the bouquet, she removed her wrapper and lay it at the foot of the bed before turning the bedclothes down and climbing onto the bed. Biting her lip, she decided to leave her night rail on.

  Branwen might be bolder than she was a few days ago, but maidenly modesty still prevailed.
>
  She wanted this more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life. Wanted to become Bryston’s woman. His wife.

  Holding her gaze, a lazy smile arcing his mouth, he swiftly undressed.

  Good Lord above.

  She raked an appreciative gaze over him, admiring the delicious masculine architecture. All sinewy contours and rippling muscles. He was bloody magnificent, his erect maleness, hard and proud, raised toward the rigid bands of his belly.

  Swallowing, she brought her attention up to meet his eyes. Opening her arms, she invited him to her.

  Then he was upon her, his length pressed against hers from toe to chest. Hunger swirled through her in heady waves. Bryston’s hands and mouth were everywhere as he whispered words of love and desire.

  She floated on a dizzying cloud of want and need and love.

  When he entered her, so much joy sluiced Branwen, tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.

  “Branwen? Love?” Balanced on his elbows, he brushed her hair from her face. “We can stop if it pains ye too much.”

  “Nae. Nae. Dinna ever stop.” She shook her head, clutching him to her breasts.

  “Why are ye cryin’?” he asked, brushing his rough fingertips across her collarbone and causing little jolts of pleasure to spark outward.

  “Because I’m so happy.” She smiled into his eyes. “I’m so verra happy, Bryston.”

  His answering smile melted her heart, and she suspected she’d spend the rest of her life falling in love with him over and over and over.

  He began to move then, slow, languid strokes, and with each surge, she rose higher and higher, her love carrying her to an ethereal place where only the two of them existed.

  “I love ye,” he moaned, his movements becoming stronger and more insistent, driving the burning need inside her to new heights. “I love ye.”

  He raised her legs so that they encircled his waist, and a hissing gasp escaped between her parted lips.

  “I love ye,” she cried, as bliss shattered over her in undulating waves, so powerful, she felt faint. Before the last ripple ebbed, he stiffened and groaned, then pulled out to spurt his seed onto her belly.

  “When we are married, I’ll spill my seed in ye, but until then, I dinna want to chance to impregnate ye.” He kissed her shoulder then wiped her belly with the edge of the sheet before pulling her into his embrace.