To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

by Cameron, Collette

  Several minutes later, when reality settled upon Branwen once more, she sighed and snuggled closer to his side, draping a thigh across his hairy ones. “I think we’ll have to wait to marry.”

  He cracked an eyelid open, his mouth turned down the merest bit. “Because?”

  “Because I want my family present.”

  A blond eyebrow arched. “Aye, and we’ll be at Trentwick within a fortnight.”

  Playing her fingers through the soft hair upon his chest, she shook her head. “Nae, I think I’d like to sail to the Caribbean first. I’ve heard it’s verra warm and has beautiful beaches.”

  “Lass, Keane—”

  She put two fingers to his lips and gave him what she hoped was a come-hither look. “Has nae way of kennin’ how long it took us to rid ourselves of Le Sauvage.”

  Bryston grinned, a wicked bend of his mouth that had her imagining all sorts of naughty things he might do with those lips. Sweeping his hands down to cradle her hips, he murmured, “I’m sure we can reach an accord. I am, after all, quite adept at striking bargains.”

  Allowing him to pull her beneath him, she whispered, “I’m sure we can, my love. I’m thinking Portugal after the Caribbean…”

  Epilogue

  Early October 1728

  Dunnancrief Manor

  Scottish Highlands

  High-pitched quickly shushed giggles carried to Bryston as he strode into Dunnancrief Manor’s entry. Ah, his bairns were playing their usual game when he arrived home after being away for a day or two.

  Checking a grin, he covertly eyed the entrance.

  Nae place for mischievous imps to hide here.

  “Is my wife in the solar?” he asked Stoute, passing his cap and sword to the butler.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Scarcely an inch over five feet tall, the majordomo nonetheless ran the household with military precision. Except for when it came to the trio of impish McPherson offspring. Those urchins he doted upon, and they could do no wrong in the crusty bachelor’s eyes.

  His gaze snapping with merriment, and eyebrows shied to his dusty red hairline, Stoute cleared his throat as he made an exaggerated visual search of the area. “Though, I have nae idea where the bairns have disappeared to.”

  A happy yap, promptly followed by a loud, “Shh,” revealed six-year-old Meddy and Alba, the mixed-breed mongrel Bryston had given Branwen over seven years ago, were nearby. Probably hiding behind the door to the dining room, given the slight creak of the walnut panel.

  Better have that oiled, else a good hiding spot would be spoiled.

  And since Meddy no doubt peeked at Bryston through the crack between the door and the doorframe, the smothered giggles came from Eliot and Errol.

  Footsteps echoed on the floor a moment before Branwen appeared around the corner, her distended belly leading the way. A radiant smile bloomed across her face upon seeing him. “My love, ye are home. I thought I heard yer voice.”

  She came into his embrace as naturally and easily as a glove slid onto a hand or a foot into a shoe. They’d always fit together, and in the years since making her his wife, he’d come to know a love that surpassed that which he’d experienced with Delphine.

  His first wife would always be a cherished memory, but Branwen had given him a reason for living again and fulfilled him in a way he’d not have believed possible.

  The bairn in her belly chose that moment to kick, and she laughed.

  “A feisty rascal, isna he?” Bryston chuckled as he placed his palm over her rounded stomach. “Ye are well, lass?”

  Though he’d been away less than forty-eight hours, he’d missed her. Each day they grew closer, their very spirits fused, to the point she often finished his sentences and he knew her thoughts.

  A small grimace pulled her pink mouth down and caused two neat creases across her forehead. “I am, but confess, though I have two months until the wee one arrives, I feel I could burst.” She lifted quicksilver eyes to him, and he recognized a hint of apprehension swirling in their depths. “Ye dinna think ’tis twins again?”

  What were the odds of that?

  Unease lanced him, but he feigned nonchalance.

  “What a gift that would be,” Bryston soothed, his mind already scrambling to put a plan in place if that were the case again. A breech birth, they’d almost lost Errol. As a result, the lad possessed a slight limp. “Dinna fash yerself, jo. We’ll prepare for twins, just in case.”

  “Hmm.” She made a noncommittal sound in her throat.

  If he could take her place, he would, and spare her the suffering and angst.

  Draping an arm around her shoulder, Bryston guided her toward her favorite place in the house—the solar. The many treasures they’d collected on their sojourns in the first year of marriage were proudly displayed there.

  All the while, he watched for sneak attacks from his offspring.

  Bryston had the addition built for Branwen when they’d returned to Scotland. They’d sailed the world after their wedding. However, once Branwen was increasing, she’d wanted to settle down and create a home for their bairn.

  “What have ye done with my bairns?” Bryston casually asked.

  “Why, I have nae idea where they are.” Branwen made a pretense of looking flummoxed as she gazed around. “Surely, they must be nearby. They’ve been so verra eager to see their da.”

  Another stifled giggle floated from the alcove farther along the corridor, and the sea-foam green drapery fluttered the merest bit.

  “Och, ’tis too bad Meddy, Eliot and Errol arena here. I brought gifts home for them,” Bryston said.

  The three exploded from their hiding places, dashing straight toward their parents. Meddy had his hair but her mother’s gray eyes. The boys had inherited Branwen’s raven-black hair, but their eyes were a startling blue. Branwen said her father’s eyes had been blue.

  “Da, ye have a gift for us?” Meddy asked, her best friend panting at her side. The two had been inseparable since Alba first laid eyes on the lass.

  “What is it, Da?” Errol asked, holding his brother’s hand. “A sword?”

  “A dagger? Dirk?” Grinning, Eliot swiped his hair off his forehead.

  Someone had been filling his son’s head with stories about pirates and buccaneers again.

  Branwen gave him a contrite look and a half-shrug. “’Tis how I get them to fall asleep when ye are nae home. I tell them about yer adventures.”

  Bryston cleared his throat. “Ahem. Och, well.”

  He did not like the idea of his sons and daughter following in those footsteps.

  Meddy laid a small hand on Branwen’s belly and leaned in to speak to the infant. “Hello, wee bairn. Please be a lass.” She cut her brothers, now pretending to sword fight with an impatient glance. “I’m already outnumbered.”

  Branwen took her hand. “Well, if we count Alba, there are three lasses and three laddies.”

  For a moment, Bryston thought their daughter might be mollified, but after a few seconds, she shook her head. “Nae, I love Alba, but she canna talk to me.”

  Collecting one of his son’s hands in each of his, he canted his head toward the butler.

  Stoute smiled fondly as he opened the door Bryston had passed through not more than five minutes ago.

  “Close yer eyes,” Bryston told his children.

  Obediently, they shut their eyes as he and Branwen led them outside.

  Alba barked excitedly, and the children’s eyelids popped open.

  Three sturdy Shetland ponies stood in a neat row, a groom holding each by a harness.

  “Ponies!” The twins whooped in unison, jumping up and down.

  “Da, we each get one?” Wide-eyed in wonderment, Meddy clapped her hands.

  “Bryston, why dinna ye tell me?” Branwen gave him a reproachful look, but her brilliant smile belying any true censure.

  “The gray one is for Meddy, the black for Eliot, and the bay for Errol.” He’d decided on the way home it was b
etter to not let the children choose. Meddy’s was slightly larger, and Errol’s was the most docile.

  “Can ye calmly approach them?” he asked, looking to his sons and then Meddy. “Ye dinna want to scare them.”

  “Aye, Da,” they chorused.

  Bryston released the boys’ hands, and Branwen released Meddy’s.

  As their children greeted the ponies, he drew his wife to his side. “I have something for ye too.”

  She gazed at him with adoration, and his heart plopped at her feet.

  “Ye ken, I dinna need trinkets and baubles.”

  “This isna a trinket or a bauble.”

  He angled his head to the end of the drive.

  She turned her attention in that direction and gasped, putting a hand to her throat and tears welled in her eyes. “Och, Bryston. She’s lovely.”

  A stable hand brought a majestic white mare with a black mane and tail forward.

  “The moment I saw her, I kent she was for you. Her name is Starlight, but ye canna ride until after the bairn is born.” He drew her near, kissing her sweet mouth. “Happy birthday, love.”

  “But, my birthday isna for a fortnight.” Branwen started to move toward the mare, but he grasped her hand.

  “I have another surprise for ye.”

  It had taken a good bit of corresponding and secretive arranging, but he’d managed to contrive to have her family present for her birthday too.

  “Ye are too good to me,” she said softly, love shining in her eyes.

  “Branwen.” Her sister emerged from behind a bush.

  Tears trailed down Branwen’s cheeks, and she wept openly as Bethea ran toward her, arms outstretched. Camden followed, carrying a toddler while a nurse urged two more sons after their father. Keane, Marjorie, her two daughters, and their other two children, all wearing grins, marched up the drive, as well.

  After exchanging hugs and kisses, the horseflesh secured in the stables, the children tucked into the nursery, and the adults had been shown to their rooms to freshen up before dinner, Bryston pulled Branwen into their bedchamber.

  Eyes glowing, she raised on her toes and kissed him. “Ye’ve always been so thoughtful. I’ve missed my family so much.”

  “I ken ye have.” He kissed her nose. “I might’ve invited a few more people to yer birthday celebration, lass.”

  She quirked a brow and leaned slightly away from him.

  “How many precisely?”

  He grinned and nuzzled her fragrant neck. “Graeme Kennedy and his family, the McGregors, Wallaces, Rutherfords, and the Catherwoods.”

  Her mouth slackened, and her eyes rounded. “Ye dinna.”

  “Aye, I did.” He tilted her chin up, gazing deeply into her eyes. “We’ve all found true love, Branwen, and ye ken, the heart of a Scot is nae easily given. I’d have our children and our friends’ bairns see what love can accomplish. Who kens what the future of Scotland holds, but I ken that with ye, I can face anythin’?”

  “And I with ye, husband.”

  The End

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading TO BARGAIN WITH A HIGHLAND BUCCANEER, the eighth and final book in my HEART OF A SCOT series.

  I know it’s unusual to have a Highlander who spends more time on the ocean than in the Highlands, but Bryston’s character demanded it.

  I took a wee bit of author license with a few facts in this story. For instance, the great age of piracy on Tortuga ended in the late 1600s, but I extended it into the early 1700s for the purpose of this tale. Privateers received a letter of marque that basically made being a pirate legal—all for a good cause, of course. Some pirates did retire and go on to live respectable lives.

  Nearly eight hundred women did volunteer to become the wives of French colonists in places like Tortuga between 1663 and 1673. They were called Filles du Roi, which means King’s Daughters. Leith did have a street named Abbey Street, but the wharves weren’t clearly visible from there. There was also a brothel called Lucky Spence’s House and a tavern named the Queen’s Arms.

  I hope you found a few hours of relaxation and escape with Bryston and Branwen. If so, please consider leaving a review. I’d appreciate it very much!

  Hugs,

  Collette

  About the Author

  USA Today Bestselling, award-winning author COLLETTE CAMERON® scribbles Scottish and Regency historical romance novels featuring dashing rogues, rakes, and scoundrels and the strong heroines who reform them. Blessed with an overactive and witty muse that won’t stop whispering new romantic romps in her ear, she’s lived in Oregon her entire life. Although she dreams of living in Scotland part-time. A confessed Cadbury chocoholic, you’ll always find a dash of inspiration and a pinch of humor in her sweet-to-spicy timeless romances®.

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