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Chapter Eleven

Later that afternoon

Outside Rouen, France

Bryston swore a litany of vulgar curses inwardly during the forty-five-minute drive to De La Beche’s estate. He’d thought to have time to interview De La Beche and to warn him about Le Sauvage before the bastard tracked them to Rouen.

He wasn’t concerned for himself. After all, he knew how to fight, but there was De La Beche’s wife and possibly his children to consider if he had any, as well as Branwen’s safety and his men’s, of course.

Le Sauvage hadn’t acquired his name by being merciful or compassionate.

Bryston’s crew’s willingness to help him capture Delphine’s murderer, no matter how dangerous the task, further touched that previously dead place inside him that Branwen had awakened. It made Bryston wonder if he mightn’t take to the sea again, after all.

From beneath half-lowered lids, he observed her and the play of muted light flickering across her smooth cheeks as the carriage jostled along. She’d taken to sea like a mermaid, and he didn’t doubt she’d enjoy venturing to new lands, as well.

Hadn’t her father been a sea captain?

Aye.Bryston strongly suspected the sea was in the lass’s blood, too.

He’d observed it in the way she lifted her face to the spray, the private smile tickling the edges of her lush mouth as she watched the dolphins and the waves, in the way she closed her eyes and breathed in the salty air.

They’d make a good pair, they would.

As if sensing he watched her, she flicked a swift look at him before darting her pale gray gaze away. Her expression was indiscernible, but he knew questions bubbled beneath that calm mien:

Did he care for her?

Could they have a future together?

Could they be happy?

Could he ever truly put what happened to his wife behind him?

Did he want to?

Honestly, he didn’t have exact answers for some of those unspoken questions, but did admit to a strong inclination for others.

He pointedly turned his musings to what was to transpire in a few short minutes.

De La Beche knew Bryston was calling today, but all he’d told him was that it had something to do with concern for his safety. He hadn’t decided yet whether to tell the man he was Delphine’s father.

Bryston pressed a knuckle into his temple, something he often did when deep in thought.

The truth of it was, this meeting with De La Beche was likely a waste of time, but he’d been at a loss as to how to lure Le Sauvage into a trap. He wasn’t even certain he’d face punishment in France for killing Delphine, though Tortuga was a French colony.

He’d witnesses aplenty who could attest to the murder, beside himself.

Even if Le Sauvage heard from De La Beche’s mouth himself that there was no treasure buried on a tropical island or hidden in a secret cave along some craggy Atlantic coastline, Le Sauvage was mad enough to not believe him.

The question still niggled as to where Le Sauvage had been these past five years?

There’d not been a single sighting of the man.

No whispers or rumors.

Nothing after his ship supposedly foundered in a hurricane in the Atlantic after he’d killed Delphine and fled Tortuga.

“Bryston? Are ye all right?”