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“I’ll need four more men in addition to you and Jabir to travel with us as guards,” he said to Bayu. “Let Zhao know, and tell him to send those most skilled at fighting. They need to be here at dawn. I intend to reach Rouen in less than two days.”

There was no time to waste. Even now, Le Sauvage might be bearing down upon France. If he hadn’t arrived before them. Not likely, but not impossible either.

“Aye, captain,” Bayu said, setting aside his honing stone before sliding his dagger into his waistband beside the other that rested there. He set off toward the wharf as Bryston headed toward the enclosed courtyard.

Branwen sat in one of four chairs situated beneath a wisteria-covered pergola. Thick clusters of purple flowers hung from the vine woven between the structure’s braces. The sweet perfume hovered in the courtyard.

Eyes closed, she rested her ebony head against the chair’s back, her open book, spine up in her lap. No other guests occupied the quaint enclosed garden. No doubt they’d gone inside to eat their evening meal.

He allowed himself a few moments to study her, drinking in and memorizing each exquisite feature of this woman who intrigued him so.

Other than her dark hair, she was very different from Delphine.

Delphine’s eyes had been an amber brown, her skin golden from the sun, and the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulder. She’d been quick to smile and laugh, and though she’d been a virgin when she came to their marriage bed, she hadn’t been innocent or naive.

She couldn’t read or write, but nonetheless, possessed a worldly education Branwen would never know.

Branwen was taller, willowier, but no less alluring with lush, feminine curves he was honest enough to admit he itched to explore. Her gray eyes weren’t cold, but they were assessing and shrewd.

More reserved than Delphine, she was formally educated, but not as generous with her smiles. That wasn’t to say Branwen didn’t smile readily, but her countenance bore a thoughtful expression when at rest, while Delphine always seemed happy.

Delphine suffered from mal de mer. Branwen did not.

Branwen had a sister. Delphine was an only child.

Branwen had been fiercely protected and sheltered. Delphine had grown up unsupervised, running about the island, and exposed to all manner of unsavory situations.

Bryston had never felt the need to shield Delphine from the baseness of the world, but he didn’t want Branwen exposed to such sordidness.

He shouldn’t compare the two vastly different women: one raised on a tropical island amidst thieves, pirates, and scandalous women, and the other in the isolated wilds of Scotland surrounded by a fiercely protective guardian and clansmen.

This compelling pull he felt toward Branwen Glanville didn’t make sense.

She was nothing like Delphine, and yet his admiration for her bravery, stalwartness, and intrepidness grew daily.

Nae to mention her bonnie face and womanly assets.

Branwen hadn’t complained once that she’d worn the same gown for over a week. Or that she’d been required to stay at the inn with little to do to occupy herself but read and take walks. Or that she missed her family. Nor had she railed at him in anger or accusation for stealing her away from Leith in such a high-handed manner and for exposing her to a whorehouse and prostitutes.

He’d specifically told her not to converse with the other guests at the inn lest word somehow leak out who she was and that she and Bryston were here. He had no way of knowing how far-reaching Le Sauvage’s arm was. But the pirate was a Frenchman, and the French were unrepentantly loyal to their own.

Branwen stirred, a frown pleating her forehead before she settled again with a soft sigh. The movement drew his attention to her high, firm breasts. Not as bountiful as Delphine’s, but more than enough to fill his palms. His mouth.

He scowled, noting her turned down mouth and the general air of despondency around her. Upon arrival at the inn, she’d asked at once if she might write to her family. Regretfully, he’d declined her request. Again, because he didn’t know who to trust in this seaside community.

Bryston calculated Le Sauvage would find his way to France eventually. After all, he’d left a few crumbs along the way to lead the blackguard here. Branwen thought Le Sauvage voyaged to the Caribbean, and that was what Bryston wanted her to think.

He wouldn’t have her looking over her shoulder or starting at every unknown sound. That was why he’d assigned men to watch her, to bring her a degree of peace.

Zhao had told him, once they’d made the open sea, that he’d sabotaged Le Sauvage’s ship, thereby preventing the scapegrace from immediately following The Dolphin. He’d also accidentally spread the word that The Dolphin sailed to Port de Lyon rather than Le Havre.

Bryston intended to lure Marc-André Le Sauvage into a trap and then finish the bastard off. He’d tortured and killed Delphine, and every minute the devil’s spawn remained breathing was a crime against justice and humanity.

Branwen knew nothing of this scheme. Bryston had meant to tell her when the time was right, but also didn’t want her fretting unnecessarily.

After they reached Rouen.

Aye, that was when he’d tell her.