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It was the Frenchman who’d been chasing them.

Branwen went hot then cold, then heat and moisture sprang out upon her forehead.

If Bryston hadn’t had the forethought to hide—

Branwen curled her fingers into his broad shoulders, and he pressed his warm mouth to her ear again. He didn’t speak, but she knew he urged her to remain silent.

“Och, now do ye see any tall blonds here?” The bed squeaked again. “I canna say that I’ve seen any mon matchin’ that description, either.”

The sound of heavy footsteps on first the wood floor and then muffled on the thick carpet carried to the closet.

“What do ye think ye’re doin’?” Abbie asked, her voice rising half an octave in offended affront.

“Looking beneath your bed and in your armoire, mademoiselle, oui?” A disappointed grunt followed the clacking of the wardrobe’s doors banging shut.

“I told ye, nae one was here, monsieur.” She spat the last word, making it sound like a foul oath. “And if the man ye seek is yer friend, why would he be hidin’ beneath my bed or in my wardrobe?”

“Dammit, Abbie. All this jabberin’ caused me to lose my cockstand,” Barday complained, and the bed groaned again.

Branwen guessed he’d arisen. She bloody well wasn’t looking through those two convenient holes, afraid of what she might see.

“I’m nae payin’ for yer favors when I didna even come,” Barday whined, very much sounding like a laddie denied a bonbon.

“See what ye’ve done now, Frangach?” Abbie cried sullenly and addressing the Frenchman in Gaelic. “Ye can pay his fee since ye interrupted us. That will be two pounds.”

“Mon Dieu, non. I never pay for whores, and certainly not two pounds for a fat putain far past her prime.” A scornful laugh filled the chamber, and Branwen shuddered.

Bryston’s enemy was an evil man.

“Get out, ye bastard, before I call the bouncers.” Every trace of seductiveness had left Abbie’s tone, and only smoldering fury weighted each cracking syllable.

“With pleasure.” The rhythmic click of booted footsteps retreating faded, followed by a sharp whistle. “Bisonette, Faucheux, search every room, even the kitchen. Zut, the tavernkeeper down the street swears he saw a man matching McPherson’s description enter this building.”

Branwen uncoiled her fingers from where she’d been gripping Bryston’s arms and drew in her first real breath in the past ten minutes.

“I’m sorry, Barday,” Abbie cajoled in soothing tones. “Are ye positive ye dinna want to finish?”

“Nae. I’m limper than my wife’s tattie scones.” He grunted, and a couple of thuds followed.

Had he donned his boots?

“Dinna look so sad, lass. Yer nae fat. I adore yer generous curves.”

Branwen pressed her lips tight, resisting the urge to cover her ears again. There was something so wrong about listening to such intimacies.

“Yer a love, Barday,” Abbie said with something that sounded like real affection.

“I wish my wife thought so.” Still grumbling beneath his breath, he shuffled from the room.

Several long moments passed, and Branwen supposed the woman was dressing. She gave a small start when Abbie whispered outside the closet. “Stay put until I’ve made sure they’ve left.”

As if they had any choice.

Did this chamber even have a method of opening from the inside?

Branwen slouched against Bryston, all of her energy sapped at once.

How much time had passed since she’d left Holyrood Abbey?

Were Keane and Marjorie at the Queen’s Arms, wondering where she was?

She must go to them at once.

“Ye did well, lass,” Bryston whispered against her cheek. “I’m verra proud of ye.”

“I was terrified,” She murmured low and shifted, turning her face toward the door. “This closet is for someone to watch a couple joinin’ on the bed, isna it? Why would anyone want to do that?”