Page 13

Bloody hell, this is awkward.

Bringing an innocent into a well-seasoned prostitute’s bedchamber. Never in all of Bryston’s life had he ever considered he’d be in this situation.

Another knowing smirk bending her too-full mouth, Abbie directed them to a wall opposite the bed, with a hidden panel ajar.

He, of course, knew the purpose of the voyeur’s hidey-hole, but hoped to God Branwen didn’t.

His gut clenched again.

Keane would never forgive him for exposing her to this debauchery.

“In ye go, and dinna make a sound,” the madam ordered, giving Branwen a small shove on her lower back. “Ye must remain absolutely silent,” she warned.

A frown puzzling her brow, Branwen obediently stepped into the narrow closet-like room, not much larger than an armoire. A comfortable, gold velvet-covered, tufted bench took up most of the space.

“It will be a tight squeeze for the both of ye, especially given yer size, Captain.” Abbie gave a bawdy wink, and her gaze turned speculative. “But the lass can always sit on yer lap.”

Aye, she’d have to for them both to fit.

Branwen’s jaw went slack again as she swung her attention between him and the bench.

He could almost hear the cogs in her mind grinding away.

Despite the perilousness of the situation, he chuckled in genuine amusement.

Branwen looked as if she’d been asked to don one of the strumpet’s gowns and parade before their clientele below.

“Hurry up,” Abbie snapped impatiently. “My regular client disna like bein’ made to wait. And I dinna like him takin’ his irritation out on me. Keep quiet, too. He’s no’ one who likes peepers. He may refuse to pay me if he kens ye’re here.”

Branwen’s eyes rounded impossibly larger. She scrambled as far into the corner as she could manage as Bryston crouched down and wedged himself inside, shoving his sword to the side.

On second thought, an armoire was significantly larger than this inadequate cupboard.

A moment later, the panel clicked shut, and Abbie’s footsteps faded as she left the chamber.

“Yer no’ afraid of small spaces are ye?” Bryston suddenly thought to ask.

Too late if she was.

“Nae,” Branwen whispered, her voice the veriest wisp of a sound. The insufficient space sucked the noise from the air.

With a soft grunt, he sank onto the bench, and without asking her permission, pulled her onto his lap. There was scarcely room to breathe in the compartment meant for one voyeur.

“Isna this cozy?” she muttered, sounding distinctly put upon and slightly breathy, too. “There’s more room in a whisky barrel.”

“And ye’d know that, because…?”

He shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist teasing her, even if he couldn’t see her smile. Memory told him her smile made the silver flecks in her eyes sparkle and lit the room the way a full moon did the clear night sky.

“Dinna be flippant.” She wiggled her bum, shifting first one way and then the other. “Ye ken what I mean. ’Tis mighty crowded in here, and yer dirk is diggin’ into my side.”

He pulled the offending weapon from his waist and laid it beside his thigh.

“Better?” he asked into her delicate ear.

“Aye.” She sighed, the sound a breath of pent-up frustration and oddly forlorn. “How long do these things usually take?”

These…?

God’s teeth. What a woman.

After choking back a laugh, he gritted his teeth against his body’s immediate sexual response to her squirming bottom. The next several minutes very well might prove some of the most trying of his entire life.

Why the hell hadn’t he considered this?

“It depends,” he managed, pleased his voice sounded almost normal.

“On what?”