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She didn’t know Bryston well enough to toddle off with him, much less trust the man.

Well, she knew him, of course.

He was a particular friend of her guardian’s, after all. She’d even danced with him once at the Hogmanay celebration last year. But she didn’t know this Bryston McPherson, the buccaneer turned covert agent.

Slightly breathless at their rapid pace, she searched her surroundings again.

The quaint village loomed before them.

Cozy, peaceful, unremarkable.

Cobbled streets and stone structures lined Easter Road, the main entrance. The ships’ masts gently rose and fell as the water lapped at the vessels’ bellies. Dozens of men and women milled about the busy streets as carts and wagons lumbered back and forth from the docks.

Two men on horseback rode down the center of the lane, and a young boy ran across the street, a big brown dog barking at his side. A gray and white cat sat contentedly upon a stone step before an establishment, its eyes half-closed.

Nothing appeared the least amiss.

Nonetheless, unease slithered down her spine and coiled in her belly as her conscience hissed a warning in her ears.

“I think ye’d better let me return to my family, Bryston.” She despised the slight tremor in her tone.

However, he didn’t give any indication he’d heard her.

“Bryston?” she said again, much more forcefully.

“Have yer feet completely healed?” he asked abruptly, cutting her the briefest glance.

What?

What a peculiar thing to ask.

“Aye. My toes were mostly bruised. I’ve been fine for over a week now.”

Bryston made a rough sound in his throat that almost sounded like a curse. He tightened his grip on her arm as he jutted his bold chin and said almost conversationally, “Branwen, see the mast flyin’ a flag with a dolphin and red rose?”

A trio of seedy men just emerging from a building and now staring boldly at her and Bryston. One bore a long, russet beard and a flamboyant red hat, complete with swaying crimson and black ostrich feathers. The other pair wore ill-fitting sailors’ garb, and even at this distance, she could see their sweat-stained collars, underarms, and overall griminess.

Alarm lifted her nape hairs to attention, and she tore her attention away.

Squinting at the horizon, she spotted the striking flag Bryston had directed her attention to. It was quite similar to the tattoo adorning his arm.

Nae coincidence, that.

Her attention fixed on the fluttering rectangle, she nodded. “Aye. I see it.”

“That’s my ship, The Dolphin, and our destination. When we get to the next corner, we’re goin’ to turn right, and ye need to run as fast as ye can,” Bryston murmured low and soothingly as if it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

“What?” She shot him an astounded look, fear zigzagging an irregular path from her heart to her throat and raising every single pore on her arms and back. “Why?”

Again, he dropped his earnest gaze to hers for a second. Her eyes clashed with his, now darkened to slate. Tension slanted his dark blond brows into a taut line. “We’ve been spotted.”

“Bryston McPherson, I’m nae takin’ another step until ye tell me what’s goin’ on.” Once more, she dug her heels in and came to a stop. It would be the height of folly to blithely go off with him without knowing what caused such a reaction from him.

But wasn’t that what she’d just done? Left the abbey at his insistence?

Hold yer wheesht,she berated her too-logical conscience.

“Damn it, lass. I dinna have time to explain all to ye now.” Bryston cast a harrowed glance down the road, his expression growing grimmer by the second. The lyrical cadence of his voice became brusque and steely. “Ye must trust me, Branwen.”

Branwen also looked to where he stared, and a chill raised goose flesh from her shoulders to waist this time.

The three menacing men advanced in their direction, their movements orchestrated and predatory.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

Her heart pounded a warning cadence.

A sly, evil smile quirked the mouth of the man with the ridiculous hat.

Och, God.

“Bryston. They are the enemy ye spoke of, arena they?”

“Aye,” he said, fisting his hand and looking as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Who are they?”

“The men who killed my wife.” He slid his hand down her arm to grasp her hand. “Now, run!”