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“I’m wooein’ ye, Branwen. But because we’re short on time, I’m acceleratin’ the process. I figure a gift a week added to the near fortnight since we left Leith, that’s almost two full moons of courtship.”

She honed in on two words. Two glorious, terrifying, hope-stirring words.

Dinna become too excited.

Wooin’ and lovin’ are nae the same thing.

“Wooing me?” Eyes narrowed dubiously, she sniffed the air for the odor of spirits. “Are ye drunk?” she asked warily.

Was that what he’d been doing these past several hours? He didn’t seem pished, but what other reason could there be for his impulsiveness?

His mouth yet bent into that sensual smile, he closed the door. As always, his presence seemed to shrink the room.

Branwen resisted the urge to retreat a step for every one he advanced toward her. Instead, she planted her feet and angled her chin upward. The Branwen of old would’ve backed away, but the new Branwen faced things head-on.

“Aye.” He took the puppy from her and ruffled its neck before placing it on the floor.

The roly-poly imp promptly pounced upon the carpet laid before the hearth. It seized the edge in its little jaws, growling and shaking the undeserving carpet as if it were a rat.

A smile twitching her mouth at the puppy’s antics, she placed her hands on her hips and scrutinized Bryston.

A devilish gleam glinted in his eyes as if he were privy to a secret.

“Bryston McPherson, what are ye about?”

He slashed her a roguish grin while wrapping those strapping arms around her waist and drawing her near. She should resist, but how could she, when with every breath, every beat of her heart, her every pore cried out for him?

“I brought ye sweetmeats, jewels, books, a small saber, a compass, and a mariner’s astrolabe.” He nuzzled her hair while flattening his palms against her upper and lower spine, pressing her flush against him.

God, he smelled heavenly, and she bit her lip to keep from nuzzling her nose into the open vee of his shirt. Whatever soap he’d used for bathing had left a spicy, woodsy essence on his sun-kissed skin.

Every rigid contour of his body, the sinewy thighs, the corded steps of his stomach, and the rock-solid bulges of his chest reminded her how very different their bodies were. His hard, sculpted, and powerful. Hers, softer and rounder, and inviting.

“Bryston…?”

She battled to form his name, to draw enough oxygen into her lungs.

The physical effect he had on her was heady, a dizzying cacophony of sensation.

“Whatever would I do with a compass or a mariner’s astrolabe?” she finally managed, her voice throaty with desire.

Whatever the latter was.

Branwen supposed it must be a nautical device of some sort.

“Sail around the world with me, Branwen.” A husky timbre entered his voice as he stared into her eyes.

Why, there are gold flecks in his eyes.

How had she never noticed that before?

“Or explore the Himalayas,” he continued, each word a throaty rumbling invitation. “Or teach our children the constellations.”

Her breath hitched, suspended for a long, long sliver of a moment.

Is he sayin’?

She blinked back the sudden surge of tears—afraid to hope. To believe.