Page 45

Chapter Thirteen

Bryston kept his warrior-honed attention focused on the blackguard only a few feet away from Branwen, but her adamant declaration shredded his heart.

And he’d stupidly believed he’d grown numb to pain.

Now, however, wasn’t the time to ruminate upon her statement, because if he didn’t miss his mark, Bayu and the others would appear at any moment, and hell was about to break loose.

“Branwen,” he warned, to alert her just as a shadow slanted across the terrace.

A heartbeat later, his men exploded inside. In the ensuing chaos, shouts, curses, screams of pain, and the violent striking of blade upon blade, he had but one thought.

Protect Branwen.

He must, at all costs, protect Branwen.

God’s bones, he couldn’t see another woman he loved die.

Love?

Aye, by damn. Love.

He loved the silver-eyed beauty.

So caught up with the epiphany, he forgot to defend himself for a heartbeat. Le Sauvage’s triumphant snarl hurtled Bryston back to the present. He swung his sword, barely deflecting a punishing blow by one of the assling’s beefy crewmen.

Shite.

Pay attention!

Of all the inopportune times to realize and admit he did love Branwen, it had to be when her life was in danger, yet again? Except, this time, Le Sauvage would not take the woman Bryston loved from him.

As Bryston anticipated he would, Le Sauvage went straight for Branwen. The bastard enjoyed killing women and children. Far easier prey then fighting men.

Rather than cower or shriek in terror, she adjusted her grip on the dagger. Eyes narrowed to slits and her lips a thin ribbon of concentration, with a practiced twist of her wrist, she sent the blade sailing through the air to impale his shoulder.

I’ll be damned.

Bryston couldn’t check his grin of astonished approval.

It seemed Keane had trained his wards to protect themselves, and he’d been worried Branwen wouldn’t know how to use the blade.

Stupefied, the pirate gazed down at the silver handle protruding from him, then raised his murderous gaze to her. “Merde. You’ll pay for that, mademoiselle. Oui, you will. When I’m done carving your pretty face, no one will recognize you.”

Clutching the grip, he yanked the knife from his flesh and tossed it onto the floor where it landed with a hollow clank and skidded a couple of feet.

At once, Branwen whirled away, searching for another weapon to defend herself.

That was all the time Bryston needed to put himself between Branwen and Le Sauvage.

Blood oozing from the gash in his chest, the madman didn’t appear to feel any pain. He screamed, the sound piercing and deranged, as he lunged for Bryston.

With every arc and swing of his blades, Bryston cursed the man to hell a thousand times over. Wrought the devil’s vengeance for Delphine with every lancing blow he dealt the pirate. And most of all, battled unrelentingly to defend the magnificent woman whose soul was the other half of his.

Branwen scurried out of the way of the fighting men and stood hovering beside the fireplace, a poker gripped in her hands in much the same way one would wield a sword.

By damn, did she know how to do that, as well?

Finally, with a rotation and a thrust, while simultaneously clobbering Le Sauvage upon the side of the head with his fist, Bryston wrested the man’s weapon from his grip. The last of his men to be disarmed, Le Sauvage’s weapon dropped with a loud, reverberating and wholly fulfilling, thunk upon the wood floor.