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She paled slightly but pursed her mouth and gave a nod for him to continue.

“He erroneously became convinced my wife knew the location of a hidden treasure. Delphine’s mother had been a Filles du Roi, sent by the French government to Tortuga to become a wife to a male colonist.”

“Women did that? Married complete strangers?” Branwen asked, paler now and undeniably appalled at the notion.

“Aye. For a few years on various French colonies.” He lifted the travesty of a hat and plopped the wretched thing upon his head. Hideous. He couldn’t prevent his grimace. Was there ever an uglier woman than he?

“When her tavernkeeper husband died, Anne Foissey took over runnin’ his saloon. Not long afterward, she became lovers with a privateer, Mical De La Beche. According to what Anne told Delphine, he fathered her.”

“Ye must’ve loved yer wife verra much to name yer ship after her.” Compassion softened the angles of her face and the corners of her eyes. “Her second name was Rose, I take it?”

Her gaze drifted to his right arm, though his clothing covered the tattoo.

So, the lass had seen his tattoo, had she?

Interesting.

Had she watched him as he trained?

“Aye,” he said gruffly, remembered grief constricting his throat. He’d vowed to never experience the pain her death had caused him again.

If his heart had been carved from his chest with a letter opener and then diced into pieces, the pain would’ve been trifling compared to seeing how Delphine had suffered from Le Sauvage’s cruel viciousness.

He fumbled with the bonnet’s double ribbons until Branwen shoved his hands aside and, after adjusting the hat, tied the black ribbons into a jaunty bow to the side of his chin. When she eyed the finished product, her mouth quivered, but she schooled her mirth.

“Why is this Le Sauvage scunner after ye?” she asked gently.

Bryston glanced into one of the looking-glasses, amused at the big, homely woman staring back at him. Not even an ape-drunk tippler, straight off a ship at sea for six months, would mistake him for a female.

How much should he tell Branwen?

Everything, he decided with a final grimace at the black-clad creature in the reflection.

“For over two decades, Anne swore to anyone who’d listen to her drunken ravin’s, that De La Beche had told her about a massive treasure he’d hidden, acquired from a decade of plunderin’s. He also said he’d return to Tortuga and take her back to France with him, which, of course, he never did. The man was a charlatan and a liar, and I’m convinced nae treasure ever existed. He’d simply wanted to wheedle his way into her bed.”

“How did ye meet yer wife?” A blush bloomed across Branwen’s face, but she didn’t look away.

“She was tendin’ bar when my ship put into port five years ago. Her mother had died six months before, but the legend of De La Beche’s treasure lived on. Delphine vowed it was a fanciful tale that grew into a legend as time passed, and it was repeated and embellished with each tellin’.”

Unlike her mother, his wife had operated a respectable establishment—as respectable as one could be on an island known for sequestering all manner of swashbucklers, buccaneers, and pirates in addition to mercenaries and prostitutes.

He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. Delphine had four gargantuan bouncers who tossed anyone out on their arses the minute they looked sideways at her. She was adored by one and all for her kindness and generosity.

Anne had been a drunkard and braggart, but she’d raised an intelligent, independent daughter, and Bryston had fallen half in love with her that sunny afternoon she’d slammed that first tankard of warm, dark ale on the table before him.

“And this Le Sauvage heard about the treasure and…?” Branwen probed.

He’d have to give her credit for her tenacity. And bravery, too. She hadn’t succumbed to tears or histrionics, and her fortitude was praise-worthy.

“Bryston?”

Closing his eyes, he braced himself as the memories of that godawful day crashed over him like a gigantic, unmerciful wave. “He tried to torture the truth from her. She couldna tell him what she dinna ken. He gave me this.” He flicked his fingers toward the scar on his face. “And he left us both for dead when my crew arrived and drove him and his men off.”

“I am verra sorry, Bryston.” She touched his forearm, a sheen of moisture making her eyes glassy. “But why is he after ye now, after all of this time?”

“That, I dinna ken. But what I do ken, is he believes ye’re my woman.” He met her silver gaze, realizing with a start that navy blue ringed the gray. “And that means I canna let ye out of my sight. Ye must sail to France with me.”

“Good Lord and all the saints.” Her features crumpled in astonishment. “Why would he think such a thing? Is he daft?”