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Unable to resist, Bryston crossed to Branwen and knelt on one knee before her chair, setting the satchel down, too. She’d braided her glorious hair, and the thick rope trailed over her left shoulder and nestled between her breasts.

Lucky thing.

“Branwen?” He touched her hand, not wanting to startle her.

Her sooty lashes fluttered, and she opened drowsy, disoriented quicksilver eyes. For several heartbeats, she gazed at Bryston unguarded, and her soft mouth curved sweetly as she looked at him with unrestrained and undisguised affection.

He bent his mouth into a wistful smile, wishing with his entire being that he could give her what he so clearly saw she desired.

Until Le Sauvage was dead, he couldn’t contemplate a different future than what he’d decided upon when Delphine had died.

But that was before Branwen needed ye. Before Le Sauvage rose from the dead. Ye can carve a new future for yerself, an inner voice whispered.

Could he?

The veriest infinitesimal spark of hope ignited.

Nothing more than an ember, weak and pitiful and easily snuffed. But it was a beginning—more than he’d believed ever possible again.

Then as if reading something in his expression, Branwen blinked, her lashes feathering across her alabaster cheeks. Whatever affection or sentiment had reflected in her eyes, the second before was replaced by inquisitiveness when she raised them to his again.

She sat up, closing her book, and setting it aside. She flung her braid behind her back and smoothed her slate blue gown’s deeply creased skirts. Her expression expectant, she asked, “Did ye discover anythin’?”

Standing, he gazed around to make sure they were alone and that no errant ears listened in on their conversation.

“Aye,” he said low. “We leave for Rouen at dawn on the morrow.”

Her eyes went round, and she skimmed a cursory glance about the courtyard before licking her lower lip. She rose and stepped near to Bryston. Instead of the heather and lavender fragrance he’d become accustomed to, he caught a whiff of lemon and rose.

The soap she’d used to bathe with these past two days.

Ridiculous as it was, Bryston grieved the loss of her scent.

“Is he there?” she asked, scarcely above a whisper. “Ye’re takin’ me with ye?”

Bryston didn’t need to ask who he was.

He dipped his chin in affirmation. How could she think he’d leave her behind? “Aye, and six of my best fighters will accompany us.”

Her eyes glittered with satisfaction and a hint of that emotion she tried so valiantly to hide from him. “Are ye pleased to have found him? I ken this must be verra hard for ye.”

“Aye, I am.”

Not once, not one single time, had she voiced concern for herself.

The truth of her situation lay as an unspoken complication between them.

After she’d kissed him two days ago, the ship, his crew, and the very ocean itself had disappeared until there was only Branwen in his arms. Branwen’s oh, so delicious, velvety soft mouth beneath his. Branwen pressing herself against him and making the most erotic little noises in her throat.

He’d known. Known beyond a doubt, he felt something for Branwen, the brave, proud lass. And she unabashedly felt something for him, too.

And God help him, he wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to do a whole lot more with Branwen Glanville, truth to tell. Wished to lay her across a bed in broad daylight and trail his mouth over every naked inch of her.

Christ.

As if reading his erotic thoughts, she stepped nearer and placed one hand upon his chest. Waiting, her face upturned, a question in the depths of those spectacular eyes, she lashed into his reverie.

Do ye want me? Branwen’s stunning silvery eyes silently entreated.