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Bryston had ridden inside the coach, causing the interior to shrink with his hulking presence, while his six dangerous-looking crew members had acted as reluctant outriders. Amongst the items he’d procured for her was a small silver-handled dagger.

“In case ye need to defend yerself,” he’d said, a trifle too casually.

Keane had taught her and Bethea how to wield a dirk for self-protection, but she’d never used a weapon this small and wasn’t positive how effective the five-inch blade might be against even an average-sized man.

Unaccustomed to the long hours in the saddle, more than one of his crew had groused about their sore rumps when they stopped. “I’ll take the rollin’ deck of a ship any day over the boney back of a horse,” Scags had declared, while rubbing that part of his person paining him before discreetly taking a swig from the flask he’d slid from his pocket.

Branwen had hidden a smile behind her hand.

The man had no extra flesh upon him anywhere, and it was no wonder his posterior ached. That he was one of Bryston’s most skilled fighters came as a surprise since he didn’t look strong enough to lift a butter knife, let alone a sword.

Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap.

Ah, Bryston’s signal.

Her heartbeat accelerated in anticipation, waiting for him to repeat the knock as they’d discussed.

Did he truly expect Le Sauvage to appear and spirit her away?

The thought made her cringe inwardly, and a shudder rippled across her shoulders.

On the two-day journey to Rouen, he revealed that Le Sauvage most likely hadn’t sailed to the tropics but was, instead, hot on their trail. That caused her no small amount of discomfiture. Yet she wholeheartedly trusted Bryston to know how to deal with the pirate.

After all, he’d been a buccaneer himself.

He would be quick to correct her and remind her he’d been a privateer—vast difference from a common pirate or swashbuckler—at the behest of His Majesty himself. Unlike Le Sauvage and many other pillagers of the sea, Bryston possessed an honorable heart and abided by a strict code of ethics.

She furrowed her forehead while running the fingers of one hand down the length of the deep green drapery festooning the leaded glass window.

In truth, she suspected Le Sauvage would never leave off his mad pursuit, even when faced with an irrefutable truth that no treasure existed. Or, if it ever had, De La Beche had retrieved it himself, which accounted for his wealth, as Bryston believed was the case.

What would Le Sauvage do then?

Would he be content to leave them be?

In truth, she also worried Bryston wouldn’t be satisfied, wouldn’t ever be completely at peace, as long as his wife’s murderer roamed free.

Her heart flipped over as it did whenever she thought of Delphine’s death and Bryston’s grief. He felt something for Branwen, she knew it to be true. But was the sentiment as strong and compelling as what burned behind her ribcage for him?

An emotion that grew daily, an unrelenting burgeoning that consumed her thoughts?

Could Bryston ever care for another with the intensity he had loved his wife?

Was it fair to expect that from him?

She wasn’t sure what she believed about soulmates and some people only being able to love one person their entire lives. Even crows, rooks, and ravens found a new mate when theirs died.

But what if Bryston couldn’t?

Could Branwen be content as second-best if he would have her?

Would she grow tired of trying to please him and win his affection?

Was this feeling engulfing her powerful enough to persevere for years, despite knowing she’d never be loved, cherished, or adored, as she’d longed for since girlhood?

Biting her lower lip, she shook her head.

She just didn’t know.