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Not that she suffered from such womanly afflictions.

Good heavens, nae.

Truth be known, men of his ilk paraded in and out of Trentwick regularly. She was hardly the sort of woman to turn into a quivering custard at the site of a virile man’s flexing muscles or a beard-stubbled jawline.

However, with Bryston and Keane in attendance as they visited the wharf, no one with a lick of common sense would cast so much as a gimlet eye in Branwen and Marjorie’s direction today.

Naturally, even accompanied by two capable protectors, neither she nor Marjorie would be permitted to wander the unsavory lanes that always seemed to stretch out from dockyards, like great depraved vines.

Still, Bryston had advised Keane that there was a charming tavern on Abbey Strand, which provided a partial view of the harbor where they might partake in a midday meal before returning to Edinburgh this afternoon.

Branwen sighed as she reached the abbey’s arched entrance and rested a shoulder against the nearly five centuries-old structure. She wasn’t sure what had plagued her of late, but a discontentment whirled through her at least once a day.

In general, it occurred when she permitted her mind to wander to her future and contemplated what her life would be like now that Bethea was married. Keane, too. She felt as if she were an unnecessary fifth wheel. No one would ever hint at any such thing, but what newlyweds wanted another person underfoot constantly?

Only, she wasn’t sure what it was she wanted. What, precisely, it was that she lacked or craved. Or why this new unrest seemed to expand daily. At Trentwick Castle, she’d believed it was because Keane had been so protective, rarely allowing her or Bethea to attend any functions.

He’d had his reasons, of course.

Good reasons, in truth.

His own mother had been set upon, ravished, and impregnated by a blackguard. Marjorie—bless the woman—had been instrumental in convincing him to relax his strictures and permit his wards this time in Edinburgh.

Undeniably, Branwen had enjoyed the balls, assemblies, and routs. Though, in all honesty, she’d found Edinburgh’s High Society somewhat less than cordial. Downright feral at times, if she were perfectly candid.

As she scanned the horizon, a tall, solidly built man caught her attention, and a queer fluttering began behind her breastbone as if a half dozen blue tits were trapped there before throttling to her throat.

Bryston McPherson.