Page 10

Two other women, one blond, the other brunette, sauntered down the stairs at the end of the corridor, each also boldly displaying their wares.

They were new lasses. Or at least new since he’d last been here six years ago.

“Och, take a peek at him,” the blonde crooned, cradling her bountiful breast in her hands provocatively. Licking her lips, she nudged her companion. “I bet he’d satisfy us both, Violet. More than once.”

“Aye, he’s a braw one, he is,” the brunette agreed, pulling her dusky rose satin wrapper aside to display a shapely thigh as she boldly stared as his groin.

His manhood didn’t so much as twitch with carnal interest.

Whores had never been his preference for intimate encounters.

Branwen inhaled a sharp breath, and after shooting him an accusatory glare with those speaking gray eyes, pointed her attention to the floor. A blush turned the flawless skin of her cheeks bright pink as she, no doubt, accurately deduced just what sort of establishment he’d dragged her into.

An unfamiliar flush heated his neck. Not because of the prostitutes. No sailor worth his salt colored at the mere presence of a harlot. They were as common in ports as the sea salts who vied for their favors.

Nae, it was the way Branwen looked askance at him. And, by God, that rankled. He wasn’t accountable to her.

Nevertheless, Roxdale would skewer him for exposing her to such women. Multiple times, and rightly so.

Aye, but at least Bryston would keep the duke’s ward alive.

Abbie clapped her hands once, pointing a cosmetic-laden, stern gaze at the two women still loitering in the entry. “Ye have patrons awaitin’ ye already. Go on with ye.”

She inclined her head toward the room at the end of the corridor.

Pouts on their rouged lips, the pair gave Bryston one final appreciative glance, their interest apparent before they reluctantly wandered into what he knew to be the drawing room at the end of the hallway where patrons waited. Given the time of day, they were likely men in Leith for the day and looking for a good time before they returned to their wives and farms.

“Yer in a wee bit of a hurry, Captain,” Abbie observed, taking Branwen’s measure from her wind-mussed hair, reddened cheeks, and costly cloak to her fine, leather shoes. “I see ye brought yer own entertainment. The lasses willna be happy about that.”

Branwen sucked in a sharp breath and cast the woman an affronted look. “I’m no’—”

“Aye, we require a room.” He tightened his arm about her waist, causing her to release a startled squeak, and winked at Abbie. “And a place to hide, if ye would oblige us.”

The brothel-keeper’s red-brown eyebrows shied high on her forehead before she nodded slowly, eyeing Branwen again. This time with considerably more interest.

Damnation.

Bryston should’ve told Branwen to pull her hood up. Hers was an arresting face, and one didn’t forget such beauty. Too late now. As a madam of a brothel, Abbie knew how to keep her mouth shut. He’d make it worth her while.

“Aye, I can,” Abbie agreed, her blue eyes narrowing, calculatingly. “But it will cost ye.”

He produced his most charming grin while warning Branwen to stay silent by pressing his palm firmly into her waist.

She speared him a furious look, her lips pressed so tightly together, white lines bracketed her mouth. He didn’t fool himself that she’d keep her thoughts to herself. Nae, the instant they were alone, she’d give him a tongue lashing.

“Ye ken, Abbie, I am verra generous.”

Branwen made a strangled sound, as if she’d swallowed pickled eggs whole, and they’d become stuck in her throat, which caused Abbie to throw back her head and guffaw.

Branwen took the opportunity to stomp on his toes with her heel.

He stifled a grunt and dug his fingertips into her ribs in a silent warning to behave herself.

She ground her heel harder.

Little hellion.

“Aye, that ye are, Captain.” Abbie turned toward the stairs, saying over her shoulder, “Do I need to provide a diversion, too?”