To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

by Cameron, Collette

  “That is good news.” Flashing a wide smile, Jabir nodded, his almost black eyes keen and alert. “All’s quiet here, captain. Your lady took a short walk earlier and is reading in the courtyard, just there.”

  He angled his big, shaven head toward a walled garden area a few feet away.

  Branwen hadn’t been happy about not being permitted to search for De La Beche with him. Still, after he’d explained precisely the types of establishments he meant to visit in his search for information, she’d reluctantly agreed.

  He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to see the inside of more brothels, particularly in France. She’d be thoroughly scandalized.

  “I’ll need four more men in addition to you and Jabir to travel with us as guards,” he said to Bayu. “Let Zhao know, and tell him to send those most skilled at fighting. They need to be here at dawn. I intend to reach Rouen in less than two days.”

  There was no time to waste. Even now, Le Sauvage might be bearing down upon France. If he hadn’t arrived before them. Not likely, but not impossible either.

  “Aye, captain,” Bayu said, setting aside his honing stone before sliding his dagger into his waistband beside the other that rested there. He set off toward the wharf as Bryston headed toward the enclosed courtyard.

  Branwen sat in one of four chairs situated beneath a wisteria-covered pergola. Thick clusters of purple flowers hung from the vine woven between the structure’s braces. The sweet perfume hovered in the courtyard.

  Eyes closed, she rested her ebony head against the chair’s back, her open book, spine up in her lap. No other guests occupied the quaint enclosed garden. No doubt they’d gone inside to eat their evening meal.

  He allowed himself a few moments to study her, drinking in and memorizing each exquisite feature of this woman who intrigued him so.

  Other than her dark hair, she was very different from Delphine.

  Delphine’s eyes had been an amber brown, her skin golden from the sun, and the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. She’d been quick to smile and laugh, and though she’d been a virgin when she came to their marriage bed, she hadn’t been innocent or naive.

  She couldn’t read or write, but nonetheless, possessed a worldly education Branwen would never know.

  Branwen was taller, willowier, but no less alluring with lush, feminine curves he was honest enough to admit he itched to explore. Her gray eyes weren’t cold, but they were assessing and shrewd.

  More reserved than Delphine, she was formally educated, but not as generous with her smiles. That wasn’t to say Branwen didn’t smile readily, but her countenance bore a thoughtful expression when at rest, while Delphine always seemed happy.

  Delphine suffered from mal de mer. Branwen did not.

  Branwen had a sister. Delphine was an only child.

  Branwen had been fiercely protected and sheltered. Delphine had grown up unsupervised, running about the island, and exposed to all manner of unsavory situations.

  Bryston had never felt the need to shield Delphine from the baseness of the world, but he didn’t want Branwen exposed to such sordidness.

  He shouldn’t compare the two vastly different women: one raised on a tropical island amidst thieves, pirates, and scandalous women, and the other in the isolated wilds of Scotland surrounded by a fiercely protective guardian and clansmen.

  This compelling pull he felt toward Branwen Glanville didn’t make sense.

  She was nothing like Delphine, and yet his admiration for her bravery, stalwartness, and intrepidness grew daily.

  Nae to mention her bonnie face and womanly assets.

  Branwen hadn’t complained once that she’d worn the same gown for over a week. Or that she’d been required to stay at the inn with little to do to occupy herself but read and take walks. Or that she missed her family. Nor had she railed at him in anger or accusation for stealing her away from Leith in such a high-handed manner and for exposing her to a whorehouse and prostitutes.

  He’d specifically told her not to converse with the other guests at the inn lest word somehow leak out who she was and that she and Bryston were here. He had no way of knowing how far-reaching Le Sauvage’s arm was. But the pirate was a Frenchman, and the French were unrepentantly loyal to their own.

  Branwen stirred, a frown pleating her forehead before she settled again with a soft sigh. The movement drew his attention to her high, firm breasts. Not as bountiful as Delphine’s, but more than enough to fill his palms. His mouth.

  He scowled, noting her turned down mouth and the general air of despondency around her. Upon arrival at the inn, she’d asked at once if she might write to her family. Regretfully, he’d declined her request. Again, because he didn’t know who to trust in this seaside community.

  Bryston calculated Le Sauvage would find his way to France eventually. After all, he’d left a few crumbs along the way to lead the blackguard here. Branwen thought Le Sauvage voyaged to the Caribbean, and that was what Bryston wanted her to think.

  He wouldn’t have her looking over her shoulder or starting at every unknown sound. That was why he’d assigned men to watch her, to bring her a degree of peace.

  Zhao had told him, once they’d made the open sea, that he’d sabotaged Le Sauvage’s ship, thereby preventing the scapegrace from immediately following The Dolphin. He’d also accidentally spread the word that The Dolphin sailed to Port de Lyon rather than Le Havre.

  Bryston intended to lure Marc-André Le Sauvage into a trap and then finish the bastard off. He’d tortured and killed Delphine, and every minute the devil’s spawn remained breathing was a crime against justice and humanity.

  Branwen knew nothing of this scheme. Bryston had meant to tell her when the time was right, but also didn’t want her fretting unnecessarily.

  After they reached Rouen.

  Aye, that was when he’d tell her.

  Unable to resist, Bryston crossed to Branwen and knelt on one knee before her chair, setting the satchel down, too. She’d braided her glorious hair, and the thick rope trailed over her left shoulder and nestled between her breasts.

  Lucky thing.

  “Branwen?” He touched her hand, not wanting to startle her.

  Her sooty lashes fluttered, and she opened drowsy, disoriented quicksilver eyes. For several heartbeats, she gazed at Bryston unguarded, and her soft mouth curved sweetly as she looked at him with unrestrained and undisguised affection.

  He bent his mouth into a wistful smile, wishing with his entire being that he could give her what he so clearly saw she desired.

  Until Le Sauvage was dead, he couldn’t contemplate a different future than what he’d decided upon when Delphine had died.

  But that was before Branwen needed ye. Before Le Sauvage rose from the dead. Ye can carve a new future for yerself, an inner voice whispered.

  Could he?

  The veriest infinitesimal spark of hope ignited.

  Nothing more than an ember, weak and pitiful and easily snuffed. But it was a beginning—more than he’d believed ever possible again.

  Then as if reading something in his expression, Branwen blinked, her lashes feathering across her alabaster cheeks. Whatever affection or sentiment had reflected in her eyes, the second before was replaced by inquisitiveness when she raised them to his again.

  She sat up, closing her book, and setting it aside. She flung her braid behind her back and smoothed her slate blue gown’s deeply creased skirts. Her expression expectant, she asked, “Did ye discover anythin’?”

  Standing, he gazed around to make sure they were alone and that no errant ears listened in on their conversation.

  “Aye,” he said low. “We leave for Rouen at dawn on the morrow.”

  Her eyes went round, and she skimmed a cursory glance about the courtyard before licking her lower lip. She rose and stepped near to Bryston. Instead of the heather and lavender fragrance he’d become accustomed to, he caught a whiff of lemon and rose.

  The soap she’d used to bat
he with these past two days.

  Ridiculous as it was, Bryston grieved the loss of her scent.

  “Is he there?” she asked, scarcely above a whisper. “Ye’re takin’ me with ye?”

  Bryston didn’t need to ask who he was.

  He dipped his chin in affirmation. How could she think he’d leave her behind? “Aye, and six of my best fighters will accompany us.”

  Her eyes glittered with satisfaction and a hint of that emotion she tried so valiantly to hide from him. “Are ye pleased to have found him? I ken this must be verra hard for ye.”

  “Aye, I am.”

  Not once, not one single time, had she voiced concern for herself.

  The truth of her situation lay as an unspoken complication between them.

  After she’d kissed him two days ago, the ship, his crew, and the very ocean itself had disappeared until there was only Branwen in his arms. Branwen’s oh, so delicious, velvety soft mouth beneath his. Branwen pressing herself against him and making the most erotic little noises in her throat.

  He’d known. Known beyond a doubt, he felt something for Branwen, the brave, proud lass. And she unabashedly felt something for him, too.

  And God help him, he wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to do a whole lot more with Branwen Glanville, truth to tell. Wished to lay her across a bed in broad daylight and trail his mouth over every naked inch of her.

  Christ.

  As if reading his erotic thoughts, she stepped nearer and placed one hand upon his chest. Waiting, her face upturned, a question in the depths of those spectacular eyes, she lashed into his reverie.

  Do ye want me? Branwen’s stunning silvery eyes silently entreated.

  Aye.

  Aye, leannán, I do. Odin’s bones, I do.

  If Bryston didn’t kiss her, taste her mouth, mingling his breath with hers, he’d go mad. He cupped her face, and a ragged sigh escaped her as their lips met.

  Fool, he chided. This can never be.

  Mayhap, his heart countered. Mayhap it can, once Le Sauvage is dealt with.

  Branwen parted her mouth, and he slipped his tongue inside, parrying and jousting with hers. He clasped her around her trim waist, needing her closer and yet closer still.

  A small mewling moan escaped her, and she plunged her fingers into the hair at the back of his head, holding him to her hungry mouth.

  A coarse laugh echoed from inside the inn, followed by the sound of glass breaking then an outraged, haughty male diatribe in rapid French.

  Bryston eased away, reluctantly withdrawing his mouth from hers.

  “Bryston?” She whispered, uncertain and confused, the warmth of her breath wisping against his open mouth. His breath came in short pants, a raging erection pulsing at his groin.

  “Och, Branwen. I ken.”

  And he did know, finding it as impossible as she to put into words whatever this was enthralling them both. He rested his forehead against hers while trailing a finger over her creamy cheek with his forefinger.

  “Now isna the time, Branwen. We’ll discuss it later, I vow to ye.”

  After this business with De La Beche and Le Sauvage had been dealt with.

  She shifted away, stumbling over the bag he’d left by her chair.

  He caught her elbow and steadied her.

  Glancing down, she eyed the overstuffed satchel. “What is that?”

  She brought her gaze up to meet his.

  “A few things I picked up for ye. Gowns, gloves, and the like.” Items she’d never have asked him for, he’d learned.

  “Thank ye. That was verra thoughtful of ye.” Her expression softened, her gaze seeking his as gratitude made her beautiful face glow.

  God’s teeth.

  When she looked at him that way, Bryston believed anything was possible.

  Hadn’t the king recently awarded him The Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, and also bestowed estates upon him for capturing and bringing to justice those conspiring against His Majesty?

  Bryston was respectable now, and wealthy, too.

  Respectable enough for a woman like Branwen?

  He’d never cared about respectability with Delphine, and self-recrimination and hot betrayal roiled in his gut.

  “Shall we dine, lass?”

  “Do I have time to change?” she asked huskily, her lips red and swollen from his ravenous kisses.

  Was she embarrassed to wear the same gown a third night in the dining room?

  “Aye.” He nodded and swallowed.

  He wasn’t the least hungry for food. Nae, what he wanted was the luscious woman before him. But could he break a vow he’d made to his dead wife?

  Wouldn’t that make him the worst sort of disloyal bastard?

  He greatly feared that the silver-eyed beauty had bewitched him already, and it was too late for doubts and recriminations.

  I’m sorry, Delphine.

  Forgive me, my sweet tropical flower.

  I’ve failed ye, the treasure of my heart.

  Chapter Ten

  24 April 1721

  Hôtel De La Rouen

  Rouen, France

  Standing at the tall window of her chamber in the Hôtel De La Rouen, overlooking a bustling city street, Branwen awaited Bryston. She wasn’t nervous, precisely, but neither was she at ease.

  Resolving to calm her nerves and to force the wings fluttering about her belly to settle, she placed her palms to her midriff and inhaled slowly and deliberately to the count of five, then counted to five once more as she released the deep breath.

  Better.

  Not much, but she welcomed the reprieve, small though it was.

  She glanced down at her hands, still pressed against her middle.

  Of the three gowns Bryston had purchased for her, this was the finest—a rich sherry red-colored wool with a delicate lace collar and sleeves. A maid had twisted her hair into a simple chignon, leaving two long curls to trail over her right shoulder. She wore the same simple pearl earrings she’d been wearing that day at Holyrood Abbey.

  Never in her wildest conjectures could she have anticipated what the last several days had brought her. That sense of discontent had diffused as Bryston had plunged her headlong into a misadventure of monumental proportions.

  Brushing her fingertips across the fine, soft cloth, Branwen quirked her mouth into a rueful smile. She mightn’t be attired appropriately for a High Society assembly in Edinburgh, but no fault could be found in the gown’s simple elegance. Her scuffed shoes, on the other hand…

  Pshaw.

  Wrinkling her nose, she scanned the damp street for the umpteenth time, quite fascinated with some of the French fashions she’d seen. In truth, she didn’t much care whether Mical De La Beche or his lady found her appearance wanting.

  Aye, she was the ward of a powerful Scottish duke, but only the opinion of one man mattered to her.

  She touched her fingertip to the cool glass, a small smile playing around the edges of her mouth. Rivulets of rain made irregular paths down the pane, and horses’ hooves splashed muddy water in their wake on the lane below.

  Something had occurred after sharing that wondrous kiss with Bryston three days ago. An unspoken agreement that they’d wait until these matters with Le Sauvage and De La Beche were settled, and then they’d examine this compelling, undeniable attraction between them.

  At least she thought that was what Bryston had meant when he’d said not now.

  “Now isna the time, Branwen. We’ll discuss it later, I vow to ye.”

  If she weren’t mistaken—and she didn’t believe she was—he’d been as overtaken with emotion and passion as she had been.

  Did that mean he was ready to move on, at last?

  That he could put his wife’s death behind him?

  Honestly, Branwen didn’t know, nor could she allow herself to ruminate on that very critical point. She’d simply have to wait as Bryston had asked. If she’d been prudent, she’d have bargained with him, agreed to wait, but a
fter extracting a promise the situation wouldn’t be ignored or brushed under a rug indefinitely.

  She breathed out a lengthy sigh, her shoulders slumping the merest bit.

  Dinna sulk, she scolded herself. Or think the worst.

  Well, in a few hours, at least they’d know one way or the other about the mysterious treasure that had caused so much trouble. Och, it wasn’t gold or jewels that caused the problems, but greedy men.

  How many times throughout history had that been the case?

  Untold times.

  Bryston had located De La Beche’s home yesterday, and they would call upon the former pirate this afternoon. Her tummy tightened in anticipation.

  Their journey to Rouen had been tediously uneventful. Boring, even. Only intermittent rain showers, three hares tearing across the road and startling the team, and becoming stuck in the mud once had broken the monotony of the trip.

  Bryston had ridden inside the coach, causing the interior to shrink with his hulking presence, while his six dangerous-looking crew members had acted as reluctant outriders. Amongst the items he’d procured for her was a small silver-handled dagger.

  “In case ye need to defend yerself,” he’d said, a trifle too casually.

  Keane had taught her and Bethea how to wield a dirk for self-protection, but she’d never used a weapon this small and wasn’t positive how effective the five-inch blade might be against even an average-sized man.

  Unaccustomed to the long hours in the saddle, more than one of his crew had groused about their sore rumps when they stopped. “I’ll take the rollin’ deck of a ship any day over the boney back of a horse,” Scags had declared, while rubbing that part of his person paining him before discreetly taking a swig from the flask he’d slid from his pocket.

  Branwen had hidden a smile behind her hand.

  The man had no extra flesh upon him anywhere, and it was no wonder his posterior ached. That he was one of Bryston’s most skilled fighters came as a surprise since he didn’t look strong enough to lift a butter knife, let alone a sword.

  Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap.

  Ah, Bryston’s signal.

  Her heartbeat accelerated in anticipation, waiting for him to repeat the knock as they’d discussed.