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Her gaze slid to Branwen, and she arched a cynical eyebrow.

He knew exactly the type of diversion she referred to, but he was reluctant to expose Branwen to any more than she’d already seen. Unfortunately, if Le Sauvage and his thugs suspected they were here and chose to search the brothel, something scandalous might be necessary to deter him.

Not meeting Branwen’s wide eyes, which had taken on the stormy pewter gray of the North Sea in wintertime, he gave a terse nod. “Aye. That would be appreciated.”

“I have just the place for ye.” Without waiting for them to follow, the bawd started up the stairs, her loosely tied violet robe swirling about her ankles.

“Bryston,” Branwen hissed, trying to squirm free of his hold. Ire and chagrin sparked in her quicksilver eyes. “What do ye think yer doin’ draggin’ me into a… a house of ill-repute?”

He took in her pale features and black lashed eyes that, for all of her bravado, couldn’t entirely hide her fear and apprehension.

“Tryin’ to save yer life.”

“Why is that man after ye?” Her eyes narrowed further, and sparks flew from their depths. “Why did he kill yer wife?”

A lesser man would’ve been burnt to cinders by the accusation flaming in her gaze.

“And why is it, Bryston, nae one kens ye were married? No’ even Keane.”

Because Delphine had been a precious flower, and her death eviscerated me. Left me half a man.

Speaking of the woman who’d been his wife for three short months was beyond Bryston. Yes, he’d gone on with his life, but he’d been forever altered. In truth, he didn’t much give a damn whether he lived or died.

But now that he knew Le Sauvage lived, he did have a purpose. Revenge. He’d see that cur dead by his hand if it was the last thing he ever did. For Delphine. She must be avenged, he vowed to himself.

He guided Branwen’s stiff body toward the stairs, reluctance in her every grudging step. “I’ll explain all later, lass. But for now, we need to hide.”