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Chapter Fourteen

Five hours later

Hôtel De La Rouen

Weary to her core, Branwen ran the brush Bryston had purchased for her through her hair. Closing her eyes, she pondered the past few hours. The return journey to Rouen had been much the same as that to Châteaux de Beaumont.

With the exception of one predominate thing—one undeniably painful thing.

She’d been a starry-eyed lass with hopes of love on the way there.

That was no longer the case, and she couldn’t summon an ounce of anger or censure.

How could she possibly begrudge Bryston his love for Delphine?

She refused to permit jealousy or envy a foothold. Such were direct paths to bitterness, acrimony, and discontent. Nae, Branwen sincerely respected his loyalty and commitment, even this many years after his wife’s death.

Today, not only had Branwen realized she and Bryston could never be, but she’d also stabbed a man and witnessed the deaths of others.

True, Le Sauvage was as rotten and misbegotten a scunner—a devil’s spawn if there ever was one—as they came. In all of the times she’d trained with Keane, she’d never expected to actually have to use a blade against another person.

Had her actions truly made a difference?

Aye, she believed they had, and she couldn’t deny the self-confidence and pride that knowledge aroused in her. Though it hadn’t even been a fortnight ago, she’d changed since fleeing Leith.

Having lived in her older sister’s shadow and with an exceedingly protective guardian since she was a wee lass, she’d discovered she was much stronger and more independent than she’d previously believed. And, by heaven, she liked that about herself. It gave her the confidence to forge her own future.

Aye, she might be returning to Trentwick Castle, but she’d do her utmost to persuade Keane and Marjorie to permit her to travel. She wasn’t certain how that might be accomplished since neither enjoyed traveling themselves, but perhaps a companion could be hired. A distant relative imposed upon. She would find a means.

And she’d take up a cause or hobby too, though, in truth, she wasn’t quite certain what that would be.

Branwen only had one life to live, and she wouldn’t spend it pining for a wonderful man. Oh, her heart and soul would always belong to Bryston, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t pull up her stockings and get on with it.

Unrequited love was tragic, but not the end of the world. Far more heart-rending to her way of thinking would be to waste the life the Lord had given her. To not seize every opportunity and experience she was able to.

With a firm nod, not quite having convinced herself, Branwen puffed out a sigh. She set the brush beside the hairpins and the letter to post to Marjorie and Keane tomorrow, resting on the dressing table. Slowly, reluctantly, she brought her gaze to meet her reflection in the looking glass.

She gave a sharp little shake of her head and pursed her lips at what she saw there.

Sorrow. Resignation. Discouragement.

Those were what shadowed the eyes, the color of the North Sea in January, mirrored back at her.

Well, little steps, she assured herself.

She couldn’t very well expect a pulverized heart to heal in mere hours, could she?

Bryston had respected her muffled request not to converse on the way back to Rouen, and she’d dozed off only to awaken as the carriage lurched to a halt in the hotel’s courtyard. Unable to bear her own doleful expression and more drained emotionally and physically than at any other time she could recall, she stood and wandered to the window.

Freshly bathed and her hair washed, she’d barely touched her dinner. Now, though it was not even seven of the clock, she considered crawling into bed and pulling the bedding over her head. If only it were that simple to snuff her tumultuous thoughts.

Slumber, at least, would obliterate her heartache for a brief while.

The magistrate had sent word he’d meet with her and Bryston in the morning, and she’d overheard him telling Bayu to ready The Dolphin to set sail tomorrow evening.

Good.

She was homesick.