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So why had he left the sea when he so obviously loved her? Relished this way of life?

A fulmar circled back to Branwen, looking her straight in the eye for several seconds before winging away. It swooped low over the frothing water, and as it rose, a half dozen silvery white-beaked dolphins jumped beside the ship.

A cry went up from the crewman who’d spotted the animals, too.

“Dolphins on the starboard side,” came the shout from high above her. That would be Edmunds, the cabin boy and rigging monkey, clinging to the mast.

“Aye, ’tis a good omen,” Scags said, in his thick as cold molasses brogue.

An epiphany struck Branwen with such intensity, she knew she’d accidentally stumbled upon the truth.

His wife’s death.

Delphine—French for dolphin.

That was why Bryston stopped captaining The Dolphin. A vessel named after his beloved wife, a woman he’d loved so much, he couldn’t continue sailing after she’d died so tragically.

Did he blame himself for her death?

That he couldn’t stop Le Sauvage in time?

Curling her lips inward over her teeth, Branwen pondered that, then nodded to herself.

Quite possibly, and with Le Sauvage back from the dead, everything Bryston had tried to put behind him, to forget, was once more guiding his life. Very much like the wind in the ship’s sails sped them onward, even now.

Aye, but a good sailor knew how to use the wind and sails to take him where he wanted to go. However, she highly doubted Bryston had as much control over his life—or hers, for that matter—right now.

The wind played with her hair, flinging a few strands across her face. She brushed them aside, wincing slightly at their stiff texture. No small surprise, her hair was dirty and in need of washing after nearly a week at sea.

She’d lost the bonnet Abbie had given her in the mad dash to the skiff, and the cloak didn’t have a hood.

Rather than sail directly to France, Bryston had lingered in the North Sea for several days to throw Le Sauvage off their trail. When they reached Le Havre, he intended to try to find De La Beche and put the hidden treasure myth to rest once and for all.

She wasn’t confident that would do any good or, in truth, if it were possible. If Le Sauvage was as crazed as Bryston said he was, the pirate mightn’t believe the priceless plunder didn’t exist, even if De La Beche told him so himself.

What then?

She shuddered, acute fear for Bryston sending a chill winging through her.

He despised Le Sauvage, rightly so, and she didn’t believe he’d ever be at peace until the pirate no longer breathed.

“Good mornin’ to ye, lass.” As he so often did, Bryston had silently approached her as she stood before the rail at the ship’s bow. How such a large man could move so stealthily baffled her. “Did ye sleep well?”

Nae, she’d not slept well a single night, but she’d not tell him that.

Especially after he’d insisted she occupy his cabin, the door of which boasted a stout bolt to deter any unwanted visitors. He’d bunked with his crew, and she was both relieved and chagrined that he’d relinquished his quarters so that she might be comfortable and safe.

His face sun-bronzed, his hair tied back in a queue, he wore what she’d come to understand was his typical attire aboard ship. Black breeches, knee-high boots, a linen shirt open at the neck, a wide black belt at his waist from whence his dirk protruded, and the crimson scarf knotted at his throat. Today, his sword was also in place at his hip, again reminding her they’d reach their destination in a matter of hours.

He passed her a steaming cup of strong tea, which she gratefully accepted. That, too, had become a routine this past week. After her morning ablutions, she’d come above deck and greet the new day, enjoy a cup of tea with him, and then eat a simple but filling breakfast of oat porridge, oatcakes, ham, and all the strong tea or coffee she could wish for.

Shewished for tea.

Bryston preferred coffee, and she suspected something a wee bit stronger frequently laced his beverage.

Bryston’s attention lingered on her mouth, and she automatically trailed her tongue across her bottom lip to catch any droplets of tea that might remain there.

His facial muscles tensed, and his eyelids slammed shut for a long blink. He’d done that often of late, and Branwen couldn’t help but wonder if he wanted to kiss her.