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Chapter Four

12 April 1721

Lucky Spence’s House

Leith, Scotland

If Le Sauvagecaught her…

Nae. Nae.

Bryston refused to contemplate the revolting, gut-wrenching notion.

Pressing her full lips into a piqued line, Branwen cast an uneasy glance at the door.

Outside, gruff male voices called to each other, but it was impossible to tell if they belonged to their pursuers.

Nonetheless, it was enough to compel her to agree. Nodding, her wavy, ebony hair brushing her shoulders and arms, she hurried up the steps before Bryston.

Bryston raised his eyes ceilingward, releasing a breath and a silent prayer of thanks.

He’d been prepared to toss the obstinate lass over his shoulder if she refused to cooperate. Which meant gagging her and possibly tying her hands and feet, too. And if she still didn’t quiet, dosing her with the opium he knew full well Abbie kept locked away for special guests.

Bringing his attention back to the woman stamping up the stairs before him, he sighed. As much as he’d loved his wife, there was no denying Branwen Glanville had a delectable form and an angelic face. And, it seemed, she possessed a feisty spirit he hadn’t noticed prior to this.

When Bryston found himself observing the tantalizing sway of her hips, despite his avowal not to, he clenched his jaw and pointed his attention upward again.

She’s Keane’s ward.

He’ll have my bollocks and hang them at Trentwick’s entry for even thinkin’ untoward thoughts about the lass.

Aye, but he’d have to be dead not to notice the alluring woman ascending the risers in front of him. She was the type of woman people stopped and took a second look at.

Her blue-black hair shone like the moon itself. Matching ebony brows arched over clear gray eyes that fluctuated in color from dark pewter to silver. Skin as smooth and creamy as statues he’d seen in Greece covered delicately formed bones, sloping cheeks, a high brow, and a rosebud of a chin.

And her lips.

God’s teeth,her plump, ripe lips were full and usually tinted berry red, enticing men to taste their sweetness.

Aye, Branwen Glanville might be a beauty, but she was not for him. His heart had died the day Delphine had, and he’d buried the shredded organ with his golden-skinned island flower.

“Keane and Marjorie will worry when they discover we arena at the Queen’s Arms,” Branwen said, pausing with her skirts raised, revealing tantalizingly turned ankles, and her forehead puckered into a frown.

They’d fret far more when they learned Bryston had taken her aboard The Dolphin.

Nevertheless, that was precisely what he intended to do. He couldn’t take a chance of Le Sauvage capturing her—torturing Branwen the way the rotter had Bryston’s generous and trusting Delphine.

His stomach cramped as it always did when he thought of his dead wife—the vile, cruel way she’d died—and he ground his teeth together, causing his jaw to scream in protest.

What seemed an eternity later, his nerves and muscles taut and ears yet straining for a door crashing open, they reached the landing.

“Come on with ye.” Abbie awaited them outside a chamber, the door open wide. She gestured curtly for them to enter ahead of her. A secretive smile bending her mouth, and again running her curious gaze over Branwen, she led them into her personal boudoir.

Bryston had never been inside the madam’s rooms before. Paintings of nudes in various intimate poses covered the walls, in between gilded mirrors strategically placed to reflect the deep rose satin-covered mahogany four-poster bed dominating the room.

Branwen’s astounded gaze traveled around the bed-chamber, decorated in feminine shades of gold, pink, and ivory. Her mouth went slack when she spied the mirror positioned on the ceiling directly above the bed, and several items laid upon a table, including silken scarves and a small whip.

Her questioning gaze flew to Bryston’s, and he tried to pour reassurance into his.