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Mouth turned down, he fingered the cane’s handle. “And this poor murdered mademoiselle was your wife, Captain, oui? And my daughter?”

He shook his head, with what appeared to be genuine consternation before, again, sliding an assessing sideways glance to Branwen.

Was he trying to determine precisely what her relationship to Bryston was?

Branwen merely returned his frank regard. She owed him no explanation.

“Aye,” Bryston replied, the familiar flintiness edging into his voice that always appeared when he spoke of Delphine.

“My sincere condolences,” De La Beche murmured.

“Le Sauvage is off his head,” Bryston said. “I thought him dead these past five years until he turned up in Leith a fortnight ago. He believes the treasure is still out there to be claimed.”

A derisive chuckle filled the room as De La Beche shook his head, and scraped a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. He brought his gaze up to encompass the room. “This house belongs to my wife’s family. She’s a Dassault, one of the oldest and wealthiest families in France. You may find it difficult to believe, but ours was a love-match.”

That raised him greatly in Branwen’s estimation.

“I’d amassed a small fortune, ’tis true. But I wisely invested it many years ago. My wife is a woman of, shall we say, high expectations, and I refused to be completely reliant upon the Dassaults’ generosity.” His attention veered to his family’s portrait, and a hint of the calloused pirate he once was shadowed his face.

He turned that flinty gaze to Bryston. “You spoke of danger, Captain McPherson?”

Bryston nodded. “Le Sauvage is in Rouen. He’s crazed enough that he may come here.”

De La Beche slowly nodded. “I will alert my men to be extra diligent, but what purpose would that serve? Even if he’d intended to steal my plunder, it has long since been converted into more acceptable and respectable endeavors.”

Bryston tapped his fingers upon his thigh before rolling a broad shoulder.

Must he do that?

How was a woman supposed to remain impervious to such overt masculinity?

“I dinna ken, in all honesty,” Bryston admitted. “But as I’ve said, we arena dealin’ with a rational man.”

A movement caught the corner of her eye, and Branwen cast a disinterested glance to the terrace. Her blood ran cold with fear, and her heart palpitated in dread.

Nae. Nae.

Gasping, she clasped one hand to her throat, just as Le Sauvage kicked a French window open.

Wearing that same ridiculous hat, the feathers waving an impertinent greeting, he strode inside, acting as if he were simply calling as an invited guest and hadn’t just broken a door. For the first time, she noticed his flaming red boots.

The man had a penchant for red, it would seem.

Blackened teeth bared, a pair of filthy henchmen flanked him on each side. All wielded ugly swords. Their fetid body odor carried to her, several feet away, and she swallowed a gag.

Swiftly examining their weapons, relief washed over Branwen.

Praise the saints. Nae blood.

Hopefully, that meant they hadn’t killed anyone. How had they sneaked past Bryston’s men?

Bryston leaped to his feet, his boots thudding hard against the floor. At once, he seized his dirk and sword. In one fluid motion, he withdrew both, his stance defensive as he moved to guard Branwen.

De La Beche vaulted from his seat as well and slid a thin sword from his cane.

Och, verra clever.

The sensible former pirate hadn’t met with Bryston unarmed, after all.