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Chapter Ten

24 April 1721

Hôtel De La Rouen

Rouen, France

Standing at the tall window of her chamber in the Hôtel De La Rouen, overlooking a bustling city street, Branwen awaited Bryston. She wasn’t nervous, precisely, but neither was she at ease.

Resolving to calm her nerves and to force the wings fluttering about her belly to settle, she placed her palms to her midriff and inhaled slowly and deliberately to the count of five, then counted to five once more as she released the deep breath.

Better.

Not much, but she welcomed the reprieve, small though it was.

She glanced down at her hands, still pressed against her middle.

Of the three gowns Bryston had purchased for her, this was the finest—a rich sherry red-colored wool with a delicate lace collar and sleeves. A maid had twisted her hair into a simple chignon, leaving two long curls to trail over her right shoulder. She wore the same simple pearl earrings she’d been wearing that day at Holyrood Abbey.

Never in her wildest conjectures could she have anticipated what the last several days had brought her. That sense of discontent had diffused as Bryston had plunged her headlong into a misadventure of monumental proportions.

Brushing her fingertips across the fine, soft cloth, Branwen quirked her mouth into a rueful smile. She mightn’t be attired appropriately for a High Society assembly in Edinburgh, but no fault could be found in the gown’s simple elegance. Her scuffed shoes, on the other hand…

Pshaw.

Wrinkling her nose, she scanned the damp street for the umpteenth time, quite fascinated with some of the French fashions she’d seen. In truth, she didn’t much care whether Mical De La Beche or his lady found her appearance wanting.

Aye, she was the ward of a powerful Scottish duke, but only the opinion of one man mattered to her.

She touched her fingertip to the cool glass, a small smile playing around the edges of her mouth. Rivulets of rain made irregular paths down the pane, and horses’ hooves splashed muddy water in their wake on the lane below.

Something had occurred after sharing that wondrous kiss with Bryston three days ago. An unspoken agreement that they’d wait until these matters with Le Sauvage and De La Beche were settled, and then they’d examine this compelling, undeniable attraction between them.

At least she thought that was what Bryston had meant when he’d said not now.

“Now isna the time, Branwen. We’ll discuss it later, I vow to ye.”

If she weren’t mistaken—and she didn’t believe she was—he’d been as overtaken with emotion and passion as she had been.

Did that mean he was ready to move on, at last?

That he could put his wife’s death behind him?

Honestly, Branwen didn’t know, nor could she allow herself to ruminate on that very critical point. She’d simply have to wait as Bryston had asked. If she’d been prudent, she’d have bargained with him, agreed to wait, but after extracting a promise the situation wouldn’t be ignored or brushed under a rug indefinitely.

She breathed out a lengthy sigh, her shoulders slumping the merest bit.

Dinna sulk, she scolded herself. Or think the worst.

Well, in a few hours, at least they’d know one way or the other about the mysterious treasure that had caused so much trouble. Och, it wasn’t gold or jewels that caused the problems, but greedy men.

How many times throughout history had that been the case?

Untold times.

Bryston had located De La Beche’s home yesterday, and they would call upon the former pirate this afternoon. Her tummy tightened in anticipation.

Their journey to Rouen had been tediously uneventful. Boring, even. Only intermittent rain showers, three hares tearing across the road and startling the team, and becoming stuck in the mud once had broken the monotony of the trip.