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Chest heaving and his breathing labored, Bryston swiftly assessed the others.

His men hadn’t come through the scuffle untainted.

Three suffered multiple gashes but remained on their feet, crimson oozing between the fingers clasping their wounds. Scags lay insensate, a small pool of congealing blood spreading out from beneath the side of his head.

However, two of Le Sauvage’s men stared sightlessly at the ceiling, another writhed upon the floor, moaning and clutching hands to his bloodied abdomen, and the fourth poltroon had fled.

His hat long since trampled underfoot, whistling gasps expanding his chest, and perspiration streaming down his reddened face, Le Sauvage staggered, the tips of Bryston’s, De La Beche’s, and Jabir’s swords at his convulsing throat.

Though his sword lay upon the ground, in his outstretched left hand, he clenched a dagger reflexively.

“On yer knees,” Bryston gritted out, prodding the cur with his weapon and drawing a thin line of scarlet across Le Sauvage’s throat.

With a half-groan, half-oath, the pirate fell heavily onto his knees, insanity and hatred glowing in his eyes.

“You think you’ve won, non?” he spat.

“Aye, ye bloody bastard, I have,” Bryston allowed with no small amount of satisfaction.

Wordlessly, the pirate glared at him then turned his loathing toward Branwen. His lip curled as he cursed. “If it weren’t for the bitch, the outcome would’ve been much different, McPherson, non?”

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

After returning the poker to its place, Branwen skirted them, her gaze leery and alert. She kneeled beside Scags and examined him, making a soft sound of empathy in her throat. She withdrew a frilly handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to the side of his head.

Scags would not be pleased to learn that feminine bit of cloth staunched his wound. He’d consider it unmanly. Better to bleed to death than be coddled.

He groaned, and his eyelids fluttered open.

“Am I in heaven?” he croaked weakly, using the opportunity to look his fill at the mounds of Branwen’s full breasts only a few inches away.

“Scags…” Bryston warned silkily, jealousy turning his voice gravelly.

Branwen seemed oblivious to his possessiveness as she tutted and fretted over the Scot.

Jabir released a full-bodied chuckle, and Bayu said, “’Tis doubtful that is where you will find yourself when you pass from this world, my friend.”

Scags glowered and raised a fist in feigned anger.

“Hold still, Mr. Scags,” Branwen told him as she accepted the cloth Jabir had removed from around his neck and folded into a square. She applied it to the wound, as well. “Ye’ve a nasty cut on yer scalp. I canna be certain, but I think ye’ll need stitches.”

Assured Branwen was safe, and Scags would survive, Bryston returned his regard to Le Sauvage. Casting De La Beche a sideways glance, his hand yet gripping his sword, he said, “Send someone for the authorities.”

By God, how he longed to take Le Sauvage’s life himself. Torture the cowardly dog as he’d tortured Delphine. But he grudgingly acknowledged that would make him no better than the piece of excrement kneeling before him.

A fortnight ago, he would’ve done so without a qualm, damning the consequences to ten times Sunday. But Branwen…. Aye, Branwen. She’d made him see the goodness in the world again. He wanted to be worthy of her. Of her love.

With a sharp nod, De La Beche turned to the doorway, where three terrified servants huddled. The butler brandished a candelabra, one footman, a bed warmer, and the other footman what appeared to be a mop.

Bryston almost rolled his eyes at the ludicrousness but didn’t want to humiliate the cowering trio.

“Tasse?” De La Beche addressed the waxen-faced majordomo. “Picard and Vettel are to go for the magistrate and a physician, at once, non? Did you send for the men to come up from the village, as I asked you to if there was any trouble?”

“Indeed, sir. I am surprised they haven’t arrived as yet,” At once, the butler turned to the footmen and rapidly issued orders in French. Relief washing over their ashen faces at not being required to defend their master with household items, they promptly trotted away to do his bidding.

Tasse turned his soulful-eyed offended scrutiny to the broken furniture, blood-smeared flooring, shattered vases and whatnots, and lashed curtains. He swayed noticeably on his feet. “Mon Dieu. Madame will be most distressed.”

Aye, but she’d be grateful her husband was alive.