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His cock jerked to attention.

“As ye ken, the king bequeathed me estates and a fancily worded award of some sort. I am a man of means, though humbly born. I love the sea, but as ye ken, I am capable of givin’ her up. I completed my last mission for His Majesty as an agent, which makes me a free man to do as I wish now.”

He gazed into her eyes, willing her to understand how difficult it was for him to say more.

“And yer tellin’ me this because?”

The vixen wasn’t going to make this easy on him.

“Ye ken, I said we’d have a discussion later.”

She nodded. “Ye did after ye kissed me.”

“Ye kissed me too, lass.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded raspy with unchecked desire.

Her attention lowered to his mouth, and her lips parted. “Aye, I did,” she replied huskily.

She cleared her throat then wet her lips.

Bloody hell.How much torment could a man take?

“What, exactly, are ye tryin’ to say, Bryston?”

He braced himself then dove in, like a man jumping from a craggy cliff into the foaming sea below.

“Branwen, if ye’ll have me, I’d take ye as my wife. I ken we could be happy together either livin’ on one of my estates or sailin’ the world pickin’ up and deliverin’ cargo. Or,” he hesitated, trying to determine what she’d want, “even livin’ near yer sister or Edinburgh if that is what ye prefer.”

Anywhere, as long as we can be together.

She’d become his life-line, his connection to a happier future. And God, how he wanted to numb the pain eviscerating him every hour of every day. Nae, not numb the pain, but rid himself of it. And for the first time, he was optimistic that was a possibility.

Her eyes, silver pools of emotion, she cupped his cheek with her palm, staring intently into his eyes, as if seeking to touch his very soul.

And she did touch it.

He felt the melding, the joining, much like an iron and carbonite alloy to create sturdy, strong, and enduring steel.

“Bryston, do ye love me?”

The words were so softly uttered, he barely heard them, and he knew what courage it had taken her to ask the question. The risk of humiliation and rejection. The craving in her spirit to know that simple truth.

A truth she had every right to.

Marshaling his courage to tell her, he slanted his focus away for a fraction—no more than a heartbeat, in truth—but it was enough for her to stiffen and then gently extract herself from his embrace.

Dammit.

“Ye dinna.” Her soft murmur lanced his conscience.

It wasn’t an accusation, nevertheless, hurt fairly dripped from the two short words. Chin high and shoulders back, majestic and proud, Branwen wrapped her cloak tighter around herself as if trying to buffer herself from further pain.

Also, as if trying to convince him, he hadn’t cleaved her in two, though he’d never intentionally harm her in any way.

His gut wrenched sickeningly, and Bryston cursed himself for speaking too soon. He was a selfish bastard, wanting to tie her to him because she’d made him feel alive again. Yet he couldn’t vow the one thing—three little life-altering words—she most needed to hear him say.

Not yet, in any event.

In truth, likely not ever.