Page 19

He shut his eyes, cringing at having to explain that to her for he had no doubt the curious minx would ask at the first opportunity. He didn’t think she’d forgotten he hadn’t answered her question about the purpose of the voyeur’s closet, either. Or what determined how long a joining took.

Abbie pointed at the ghastly hat, more suitable for a funeral a decade past than anything a lady of the night might wear. “Ye help him with the bonnet, lass, while I fetch my cloak. Ye’ll need to slouch and hunch yer shoulders, Captain.”

“Abbie, ye canna go with us,” Bryston objected, but she was already rifling through her wardrobe. “’Tis dangerous.”

“Aye, I can. Ye see, Captain, ye picked a good day to visit.” She plopped a frightening purple bonnet atop her red hair. “Every Saturday afternoon, several of the lasses and I don our cloaks and veiled hats—lest we offend the genteel folk of Leith—and we go shoppin’.”

Planting her hands on her ample hips, she grinned.

Bryston was still convinced he’d stick out like a crow amidst doves, but he didn’t have a better plan. If Abbie and her lasses could provide a distraction, he might just be able to sweep Branwen aboard his ship. Especially if his men could contribute to the commotion.

A plan began to form, and he skewed his lips sideways.

Aye, that would do.

She winked at Branwen. “Even the likes of us appreciates a pretty ribbon, a new fan, scented soap, or some fallall or other.”

“Thank ye for yer help and the cloak and bonnet.” Branwen offered a friendly smile. “I am verra grateful.”

No judgment or censure colored her words.

Approval lit the madam’s eyes.

By not acting haughty or superior, Branwen had guaranteed Abbie’s silence.

“Abbie, do ye have a lad who runs errands for ye?” Bryston asked.

Fastening her cloak, she glanced up. “Aye.”

“I want him to deliver a message to The Dolphin for me.” He offered a crooked grin. “My crew can help provide a spectacle if yer lasses dinna mind puttin’ on a performance of their own.”

She tossed her head back and squared her shoulders. “My girls put on brilliant performances every day, ye well ken.”

Aye, bedding every sort of man and pretending to enjoy themselves. It was a hard life, and he’d never judged the women but felt compassion for their lot.

“The Dolphin?” Branwen’s raven eyebrows stitched together, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Why no’ the Queen’s Arms?”

Bloody hell.

“Branwen…?”

Bryston scraped a hand through his hair, and after clearing her throat, Abbie said, “I’ll just fetch those writin’ supplies for ye, Captain.”

“Bryston? Why arena we going’ to the tavern? Keane and Marjorie will be waitin’ for me.”

He eased the offensive bonnet from her grasp and tossed it on the bed. Taking her cold hands in his, he gave them a little squeeze. “Lass, they’ll no’ be there. My men will have told them about Le Sauvage, and the duke will have wisely taken his family and returned to Edinburgh.”

“I think ye need to tell me precisely what is goin’ on.” She wrinkled her pert nose, puzzlement making three neat lines on her smooth forehead. She folded her arms in that stubborn way that was so Branwen and jutted her chin out in an endearingly mulish manner. “Especially if ye think to take me aboard yer ship willin’ly.”

She had a right to know because her life was still in peril.

Blowing out a long breath, he cupped his nape. “Strikin’ a bargain, are ye lass?”

She rolled her shoulder as she cast an apprehensive glance to the window then the door. “Nae, I dinna bargain with a Highland buccaneer. But I would have the truth. I’ve found honesty saves a great deal of trouble in the end.”

He advanced to the gold velvet festooned window, and after edging the curtain aside and seeing no sign of Le Sauvage or his henchmen, he nodded.

“Marc-André Chastain, or Le Sauvage, as he’s dubbed himself, is a pirate. Not a privateer, but a foul, vicious, blood-thirsty, unmerciful pirate. A scourge and a bane on humanity.”