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Forget to guard his once mangled heart?

It came as an unwelcome start to realize his heart, though undeniably scarred, had healed.

Oh, it would never be whole, and life’s experience had molded it into something far different than it had been five years before. Nevertheless, for some time now, every beat hadn’t been an excruciating reminder he lived and breathed. And Delphine didn’t.

And still, he wanted to bury his fingers in Branwen Glanville’s hair and crush her mouth beneath his.

God.He sent a silent appeal heavenward.

Evidently, the Almighty heard his fervent prayer, for before he could answer Branwen’s question, Abbie returned with her patron.

“Come on, Abbie, lass,” a rough male voice pleaded. “Let me see those bonnie teats of yers, ye ken I’m so fond of. My wife’s as flat-chested as an oatcake. I’ve missed yer full, ripe breasts, I have.”

Branwen stiffened straighter than a freshly sawed board.

Bryston ran a soothing hand down her taut spine, wordlessly calming her.

Affront radiated off her in tangible waves.

Did she genuinely believe only unmarried males sought their pleasures in such places?

“My, yer in a hurry, Barday, arena ye?” The madam giggled before saying huskily, “Next time, dinna wait so long to visit me.”

The man’s response was lost as the unmistakable sound of noisy kissing and hurried disrobing commenced.

Bryston put a finger to Branwen’s lips, signaling for her to remain silent.

She gave a slight nod, and then upon hearing, “That’s it, lass. Take me all the way into yer sweet mouth,” followed by a gravelly moan, buried her face in his neck and clamped her hands over her ears.

If only Bryston might do the same.

For God and all the saints help him, with this tantalizing wench straddling his thighs, her soft breasts pushing into his chest, and her warm breath teasing his throat—not to mention the unmistakable, guttural sounds of joining taking place upon the bed—he was nigh onto spilling his seed where he sat.

He closed his eyes, clamped his teeth together, and rested his head against the back of the closet.

Think of somethin’ else. Anythin’ else, Bryston commanded himself, as his member pulsed painfully, thickening against his will.

Scurvy aboard my ship.

Le Sauvage and his dogs.

Delphine.

“Och, Abbie. Aye. Aye,” the man moaned throatily.

He knew exactly when Branwen felt his rigid length, nudging her delectable bum.

She raised her head, peering at him, then quite deliberately ground the plump twin mounds of her bottom into his groin as if to say, “Behave, ye unconscionable bounder.”

If only he could, but his cock was a randy, intractable thing, and it sensed a woman’s glorious heat was nearby. And, it reminded him, quite audaciously, it hadn’t experienced a release in a woman’s sweet body in a long, long—too long—while.

Nae since Delphine’s death.

Praise the divine powers, he couldn’t clearly see Branwen’s expression.

His member pulsed again.

Dammit.

He wasn’t a callow youth about to bed his first woman.

Bryston felt her swift inhalation and feared Branwen was about to scold him when the outer chamber door crashed open. It opened with such force, the door reverberated off the wall and shattered a mirror.

Abbie screeched, and her partner bellowed his outrage.