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Chapter Five

Sweet Jesus onthe cross.

“’Tis nae a conversation I’ll have with ye.” Bryston flatly refused to discuss intercourse options with a virginal maid.

He’d always found Branwen attractive. Och, well, mayhap no’ as an awkward lass, but assuredly he had since she’d become a woman fully grown. And until today, he’d never permitted himself a single unchaste thought about her.

Not only had his heart been too full of Delphine, as Keane’s heavily protected ward, Branwen was off-limits. In truth, he’d been somewhat surprised the duke hadn’t reacted more violently when Camden Kennedy had gone and married Bethea without permission.

No coward or poltroon, Bryston wouldn’t permit himself to contemplate Keane’s reaction when he sailed to Le Havre with her.

Not The Dolphin’s original destination, but Bryston wanted to find De La Beche and learn if there were any truth to the treasure legend. Then perhaps he might rid himself of Le Sauvage and dispose of the piece of shite once and for all.

“I canna imagine what Keane and Marjorie will say when I tell them where I’ve been,” Branwen speculated, speaking her thoughts aloud.

She cautiously moved her head as if she peered into the darkness. The aroma of lavender and heather soap wafted from her silky hair as she brushed his chin with her crown.

Bryston gripped her shoulder, turning her to face him in the dim light. He could only make out the outline of her delicate features, but her scent wrapped around him like a woolen tartan.

A craving to settle his lips upon hers and explore the honeyed depths nearly choked him.

He swallowed hard and forced his desire down.

“Ye canna ever tell him, lass. Or her grace, either. Nae one must ever ken.”

“But why?”

He heard the frown in her melodious voice.

“Yer reputation would be ruined.”

No sense in cushioning the truth. Branwen must understand the seriousness of her situation.

“Och, aye.” She wilted against him. “That ’tis true for certain.”

His knees nearly touching the door, he wrapped his arm around her waist and adjusted her. His cock perked to attention again at the unexpected friction, and he cursed inwardly. The last thing he needed was a cockstand pressing into Branwen Glanville’s delectable rear end while a seasoned prostitute tended to her patron a scant few feet away.

What maggot had possessed him to seek shelter here?

Aye, his desire to save his and Branwen’s lives.

Pray God, the gent wasn’t the noisy sort, and that he and Abbie completed the act with relative haste.

Thin strips of light filtered into the chamber through the two peepholes, which Branwen had yet to notice. She had her profile to him, her eyes downcast as she fidgeted with her cloak.

“Ye’d best take your cloak off, lass. It will soon become too warm in here.”

She cast him a sideways glance, then unfastened the clasps and let the thick mantle slide off her shoulders.

“I ken we’re in a bordello, Bryston,” she whispered. “But what is this place?”

God save him.

Not only for her outrageous curiosity but for the sound of his name upon her lips. An innocent verbal caress that should not have inflamed his desire but did.

What was it about Branwen Glanville that made him forget his vow to avoid feminine entanglements?

To forget Delphine?