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Chapter Six

Just as Branwen was about to throw caution and good sense to the four corners and demand Bryston control his lustful urges, someone stormed into the bedchamber. After all, how was she supposed to ignore something that size and hard flexing against her bottom?

She clutched his shoulders, digging her nails into the rippling muscles, going cold as fear streaked through her and set her to trembling uncontrollably.

Bryston drew her to his chest, running his hands up and down her spine comfortingly. He pressed his warm lips to her ear and whispered very quietly, “Shh.”

She shuddered but wasn’t altogether positive fear was the sole cause. His touch did strange things to her. Heightened her senses and made her aware of every breath he took, the sensual caress of his fingers on her back, his shallow breaths, and that glorious mouth, mere inches from hers.

Men’s lips weren’t supposed to be so appealing.

If she but angled her head the merest bit…

“How dare ye interrupt me when I’m entertainin’ a guest?” Abbie’s shrill voice could’ve peeled wallpaper from the walls. “Git yerself downstairs and wait yer turn.”

She put on a performance that would’ve done a professional actress credit.

“Unless… ye want to join us, that is.” Her voice turned coy. “Yer a braw mon. I could do somethin’ verra, verra special with those feathers in yer hat,” she purred.

Good Lord and all the saints.

All sorts of images sprang to mind, and a nervous giggle bubbled up Branwen’s throat. Shoulders quaking, she bit the inside of her mouth and crammed her face into Bryston’s thick neck.

He smelled of leather and pine trees and his own musky scent.

She struggled to control her laughter.

They might hear her.

She must remain silent.

Bryston squeezed her in silent warning, and she nodded against his thick throat, drawing his essence deep into her lungs.

“Or, perhaps ye’d like to have a seat yonder by the armoire and watch?” Mockery tinged Abbie’s invitation. “Ye’d still have to pay the usual fee, mind ye, but I vow, I’ll make it worth yer while.”

“I dinna want to share ye, Abbie,” Barday whined. “And ye ken, I dinna like an audience.”

Och, who in God’s holy name would?

“Never ye mind, dearie.” What sounded like a slap to a backside echoed in the room. “Abbie kens how to please more than one man. I promise ye, ye’ll have nae complaints when I’m finished with ye.”

Twomen.

At once?

Was that even possible?

Branwen’s brain cramped, trying to envision such a thing.

And what, exactly, did the abbess mean by watching?

Branwen squinted at the door, noting for the first time a pair of small holes strategically placed where someone might look through them. In that instant, she understood just the manner of compartment she and Bryston hid inside. She might be naive, but she wasn’t dimwitted.

Mortification and heat surged from her waist to her hairline.

“Come on, then, love.” The bed squeaked in protest, as Abbie must’ve adjusted her position to accommodate the intruder. “I’ve made room for ye. Do ye have a name?”

“Non,” came a revulsion-ridden French male voice. “I’m seeking mon ami. ’Tis urgent that I find him. He’s tall, blond, has a scar on his face, just here.”