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She pulled her small dagger from the folds of her skirt, her attention fixed on the intruders.

The odds weren’t with them: five to three, and with her small blade, she hardly counted.

Could she really use the dagger on a man?

Kill him, even?

She eyed the murderous pirates.

Aye, she believed she could.

“Now, De La Beche, s’il vous plaît tell me where you have hidden the treasure I have sought these many years, oui?” Le Sauvage purred, a sinister sneer twisting his features. He smoothed his hand over his beard.

De La Beche’s only reaction was to elevate a sardonic eyebrow.

“The desire to claim it for myself is what kept me alive the four torturous years my men and I were pressed into service aboard the Hell’s Siren,” Le Sauvage continued, conversationally. “We were little more than slaves after they plucked us from the Atlantic.”

So that was where he’d been all of this time.

She cast Bryston a sideways glance.

Jaw flexing, his fingers reflexively clenching and unclenching the handles of his weapons, pure hatred spewed from the murderous glare he directed at Le Sauvage. “And I presume ye talked the crew into mutinyin’?”

“Oui.” Le Sauvage gave an indifferent shrug as he took in the room’s lavishness. “When the captain was killed durin’ a skirmish, ’twas only natural I should assume command of the ship, non?”

An evil grin contorted the pock-marked face of one of his men. “Aye, and Captain Le Sauvage might’ve hurried the bastard along to rot at the bottom o’ the sea.”

His comrades chuckled diabolically.

“What a surprise,” drawled De La Beche, drolly. Lifting his sword, he made a casual circle in the air. “Monsieur, I fear you are misinformed. This is my treasure. My home. My family.” He thinned his mouth into a rueful line. “There truly is naught else.”

He shook his head in false regret, an ominous threat of retribution glinting in his eyes.

“Non. I do not believe you.” Hefting an exaggerated sigh, Le Sauvage swaggered forward a couple of steps, his men mirroring his movements.

Where in God’s precious name where Bayu? Scags? Jabir?

“That putain, Anne Foissey, bragged about yer treasure. In her dyin’ breath, her daughter mentioned it as well,” Le Sauvage said.

“Like hell she did,” Bryston roared, raising his weapons.

Le Sauvage pointed his sword at Bryston, and Branwen felt perspiration dampen her underarms. “Tut, tut, McPherson. The last time you lost your temper with me, I gave you that scar.”

A feral growl echoed low in Bryston’s throat, very much reminding Branwen of a wild creature cornered and prepared to fight to the death.

In truth, that analogy mightn’t be so very far-fetched.

Le Sauvage’s oily gaze gravitated to Branwen and lingered on her bosom. “I must admit, your taste in women is superb.”

His lewd appraisal made Branwen’s skin shrink, and she instinctively edged nearer to Bryston.

“Alas, Annie Foissey was a woman given to too much drink and an even greater imagination, non?” De La Beche murmured. “Any treasure spoken of during our acquaintance was of a… carnal nature.” He veered Branwen a repentant glance. “My apologies for my indelicacy, Miss Glanville.”

De La Beche had been a young pirate, sowing his proverbial wild oats. Likely, he’d never thought of Annie Foissey again once he’d sailed from Tortuga.

Le Sauvage languidly returned his focus to Bryston, while tapping the tip of his sword on the floor, making a portentous clink, clink, clink sound.

“Ah, but the belle Delphine spoke of the treasure with her last breaths.” He drew his eyebrows into an accusatory line. “She specifically said your name, McPherson, and uttered the word, ‘treasure.’”