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He’d been clenching his jaw so hard, he’d ground his teeth together.

Branwen had watched him keenly on and off since he’d bundled her into the conveyance, along with extra loaded blunderbusses. His men were equally equipped with weapons.

Jabir drove the rented equipage, Bayu and Scags riding atop with weapons at the ready. Two of the other guards flanked the vehicle, and the third rode a few feet behind. Now he wished he’d asked more men to accompany them.

All of his crew wore garments appropriate for French commoners, but no one who took one look at Jabir or Bayu would mistake them for such.

Especially not Le Sauvage.

“Bryston?” she said his name again, leaning forward to place her palm upon his knee.

Sensation sluiced up his thigh, straight to his groin, which grew heavy with need.

It wasn’t any wonder.

He hadn’t bedded a woman since Delphine’s death, and for days now, he’d imagined joining with Branwen to the point he’d awoken several nights with a marble-hard cockstand. Aye, he’d relieved himself with his hand, while envisioning the raven-haired beauty, and imagining her glorious body unclothed and writhing beneath his.

It was either tend to the task himself or risk perpetual embarrassment and heckling by his men for his obvious arousal and desire for the lass.

France was known for its many erotic houses of pleasure, the likes of which were touted all over the world, yet he couldn’t bring himself to bed a prostitute, no matter how skilled she might be in the art of pleasing a man.

Not when he only wanted one woman, and she sat across from him, poised and serene.

He covered her hand with his own. “Aye, I’m just thinkin’, leannán.”

Her mouth and eyes softened with his endearment, but she didn’t ask about what. Nonetheless, the question lingered in her eyes.

He knew her, though.

She wouldn’t pry, no matter how curious she might be.

He appreciated that about Branwen. She allowed him the space he needed to work things out in his mind. And also, with his emotions, which, at present, were a maelstrom of confusion and vexation and, aye, lust.

Even now, desire hummed through him.

He’d seen the yearning in her gorgeous eyes, tasted it in her unskilled but passionate kisses. Aye, this lass had wiggled her way past his barricades and managed to worm her way into a heart he’d believed too mangled to ever feel anything again.

But Bryston did feel something for her.

Something incredibly compelling.

Different than what he’d experienced with Delphine, but no less meaningful or forceful in its intensity. Just different. He couldn’t think of another word to accurately describe it. And how could the sentiment not be different? They were two vastly diverse women, each unique and marvelous.

But was it love?

Could he permit himself to love another woman and betray his promise to Delphine?

Couldn’t he hold Branwen in deep affection, respect and admire her, and most definitely lust after her delectable body? Weren’t many marriages built on far less?

Giving him a winsome closed-mouth smile, Branwen turned her attention to the passing countryside.

For certain, she must harbor fear and trepidation, yet she’d remained ever stoic and undaunted. Her trust in Bryston humbled him. And, Odin’s teeth, filled him with absolute terror.

Another had trusted him absolutely as well, and he’d failed her. He’d left her alone while he sought Le Sauvage only to find the cur had slithered into his home and destroyed that which was most precious to him.

By damn, he wouldn’t leave Branwen in a strange hotel in a foreign land and risk that horror happening all over again. True, she didn’t know anything about the treasure, but that didn’t mean La Sauvage wouldn’t exploit her to manipulate Bryston.

Tapping the fingers of one hand on his thigh, he considered his choice to take her with him. How many times over these past several days had he wondered if Keane would’ve been able to protect her and his family?