Page 25

Did she want him to?

Aye, verra much.

“Branwen?” he inquired, a dark blond eyebrow cocked.

What had he asked?

Aye, how had she slept?

“I slept well enough, though I confess to a wee bit of a waffy stomach durin’ the night.”

She shifted her gaze to the shoreline once more, and a tremor skittered up her spine, spreading out across her shoulders.

Were they headed to safety or into a trap?

Would La Sauvage await them when they went ashore? Bold and brazenly, or would he slither around, hiding in fusty nooks, hoping for an opportunity to strike? Or, had he sailed to warmer climes since The Dolphin was to have sailed to the Caribbean?

She fervently prayed the latter.

The ship would still voyage to the Caribbean, but only after Bryston had returned Branwen to Scotland. Or so he’d said.

Branwen guessed that was what Bryston hoped had happened. That the scurrilous bounder had voyaged to the tropics. It would give him plenty of time to locate Mical De La Beche, if he yet lived.

If not…

Well, she didn’t know what Bryston intended then. He’d not spoken of an alternative plan.

She supposed he’d return her to the bosom of her family, but what would he do?

Her stomach wobbled in the queer way it had the past few days when she thought of not seeing Bryston every day. She’d come to like and admire him a great deal. More than was wise, an inner voice warned, not for the first time.

Bryston took a long swallow from his mug and gave a satisfied sigh. “I’m sorry ye dinna feel well. The sea grew rough for a wee spell. I should’ve checked on ye.”

“There was nae need. Nerves about arrivin’ in Le Havre today, no’ the seas, caused the upset. I’m perfectly fine now. Honestly, I am.” His keen, slightly narrowed gaze probed behind her falsely cheerful declaration, and she blurted, “Did ye see the dolphins?”

Something flashed across his face—Pain? Guilt? Regret? Sorrow?—and she immediately regretted her impulsiveness.

Damn my quick tongue.

“I envy ye, Bryston.” She swept her gaze across the ocean. A mere week on the sea and she’d miss it when she returned to the Highlands. “The places ye’ve visited and will in the future. The freedom ye have.” Shaking her head, causing her hair to swirl around her, she gave a self-conscious laugh. “Women dinna have such opportunities.”

He stepped closer, his large body shielding her from the curious stares of his crew. “Branwen?”

A note in the timbre of his voice caused her heartbeat to falter, stall, and then gallop forward much like an unrestrained racehorse.

She tilted her head, taking in the whiskers shadowing his strong jawline, and the concern in his dark brown eyes framed by lashes the same color, though they were gold-tipped. Fine lines etched the corners of his eyes, and her attention strayed to the scar marring his cheek.

Before she contemplated what she was doing, she traced its rough length with two fingertips. “I canna look upon this without a pang in my heart for the pain ye suffered.”

The words clogged her throat, as even touching the rigid flesh caused her insides to seize up. She remembered what Bryston had looked like before the scar marred his chiseled face. But in truth, the disfigurement didn’t detract from his rugged attraction.

Often, when she gazed upon him, she didn’t even notice the disfigurement anymore.

His eyes grew hooded, and Bryston advanced until his thighs pressed into her. A jolt of excitement cracked through her, jarring, alarming, and tantalizing all at once.

“Lass, when ye look at me like that, yer gaze soft and yearnin’, I vow I canna resist. Ye must ken there canna be anythin’ between us.”

And yet, despite his words, he cupped her chin with his long fingers, edging his mouth ever nearer to hers.