Page 4

Chapter Two

The Scot truly was a most pleasant visual feast for Branwen’s appreciative feminine regard.

As was his wont, Bryston wore his pale blond hair braided and pulled back at the sides. He left the rest of the fair strands trailing past his shoulders. The slight breeze flirted with the tendrils, lifting them playfully before dropping them onto the vast expanse of his black-clad back and shoulders where they contrasted starkly.

Lord, but the man possessed a splendid physique.

More than once, Branwen had seen him without his shirt as he practiced his warrior’s skills in the bailey with Keane and the other clansmen. Unlike many of the Scots who sported thick patches of hair upon their chests, only a light smattering of blond hair graced the cleft between his ridiculously large, bronzed pectoral muscles.

A tattoo of a dolphin and a red rose extended from his right shoulder and around his bicep.

Of a sudden, Branwen grew inexplicably heated, warmth washing over her in a powerful wave of awareness.

She veered her attention lower, lest Bryston catch her openly admiring him.

Admirin’?

Ye were oglin’ the mon, plain and simple.

And did her inner diatribe and self-recrimination curb her assessment?

Nae, indeed. Not a jot.

She continued her visual assessment, very much liking what she saw.

Practical boots covered the lower half of his thickly-muscled legs clad in black leather. The sleek, sculpted flesh rippled and rolled with his confident stride. As usual, a jewel-handled dagger glinted from the belt at his trim waist, and a sword swung near his lean hips.

Unlike other Scots, he seldom wore plaid, even as a waistcoat. He preferred the long, black leather doublet he wore today. Only the snow-white shirt and luxurious maroon scarf tied at the column of his corded, sun-browned throat interrupted the monotony of his ensemble.

The sunlight caught the long sliver of scar that lashed across his left cheek, but rather than disfiguring his face, she’d long ago decided the mark rather gave him a dashing, pirate effect. He even sported a ruby earring in his left ear, although his wasn’t a large, gaudy looped affair, but instead, a half-circle, studded with blood-red gems.

A tempting pirate, indeed.

And was it any wonder?

The man had been a buccaneer—a privateer—for His Majesty for several years. Once, when she’d been fourteen, she’d accidentally overheard that tidbit. Branwen had also learned Bryston had gone to sea at the tender age of ten and owned his own ship by one and twenty.

No small feat, that.

However, no one ever discussed Bryston McPherson’s life as a swashbuckler openly. Nor the reason he’d abruptly given up his wandering the oceans several years ago.

Two burly men flanked him, the threesome advancing toward the abbey with measured gaits.

Assessing them, she cocked her head.

Most definitely not Scots.

One possessed skin the color of smooth, dark honey, and the other almond-shaped eyes and an extravagant mustache. They sported two dirks apiece in their waistbands, as well as swords. Were they sailors or men Bryston had brought along as bodyguards?

Surely, the wharf wasn’t so very dangerous as all of that. Why, even urchins scampered about the piers alone, delivering messages and running errands.

Perchance the extra security had something to do with Bethea’s abduction and the despicable Earl of Montieth who was behind the act.

Nae, that couldn’t be the reason. The strapping man advancing toward her had seen Montieth arrested for treason. The earl might very well have met a gruesome end by now.

Finally noticing her, Bryston changed his direction, his sturdy legs and elongated treads carrying him to her in short order. As usual, his guarded eyes hid his thoughts as effectively as shutters secured across windows.

The daunting men followed him, their alert gazes taking in every inch of the churchyard. Had she come upon them in another setting, they might’ve frightened her.