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Well, that was one way to describe their behavior.

As the women posed and preened, even blowing flirtatious kisses to the bystanders, his crew casually glanced around. Two of his men unconcernedly tucked their hands into their pockets, another pair nonchalantly hefted coils of rope over their shoulders, and Zhao lit his clay pipe as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Bryston’s first mate and The Dolphin’s captain in his absence, Zhao glanced around, then slipped the pipe beneath the tarp covering the cart’s contents. The other men exchanged pointed looks before picking up their paces and moving swiftly away.

Bryston wrapped his hand around Branwen’s upper arm and edged them out of the alley and along the weather-worn grayish building to their left.

“When I tell ye to, lass, run for all yer worth and follow Zhao. He’ll have a boat waitin’ to row out to The Dolphin. Dinna wait for me if we are separated. Board that skiff, and they’ll transport ye to my ship and keep ye safe.”

He’d no sooner finished speaking when the contents of the cart erupted. Ear-splitting fireworks exploded, launching high into the sky. The wharf vibrated, men roared, women screamed, and he and Branwen sprinted across the rough timbers.

The Goddamn hat bobbed wildly atop his head, and the veil obstructed his vision.

How in the hell did women manage draped in these trappings all of the time?

As Bryston ran, guarding Branwen with his body, he waited for a lead ball to rip into him or for Le Sauvage and his men to confront them with blades at the ready.

Glancing over his shoulder, he swore as his nemesis stormed around the corner, leading his men. The two men he’d spied with him earlier, led the pack. Fury narrowed his eyes and rage nearly blinded him when he recognized a Highlander he’d seen a few times during the Hogmanay celebration at Trentwick Castle last December.

A bloody, damned spy.

That must be where the Le Sauvage received the misinformation about Bryston and Branwen. True, they had shared a dance, and if he recalled, he’d been seated beside her at least thrice during supper. The latter had been by chance and not ploy.

Shite.

“Allez au diable, McPherson!” bellowed the Frenchman.

Damn ye, too, ye buggering whoremonger.

Abbie placed two fingers in her mouth and let out a high-pitched whistle. Without hesitation, she and her girls flipped their skirts up over their backs, barring their naked behinds. They wiggled their bottoms suggestively before dissolving into laughter and running off.

Thank God, Branwen hadn’t seen that display.

Several eager men charged after the women, cutting off Le Sauvage’s pursuit.

Heart thundering between his ears as loudly as the earlier bang, he handed Branwen into the skiff. Another explosion flared, sparks flying high into the sky, as he and his crew rowed him and Branwen to the relative safety of his ship.

Och, now the real game begins.