Page 9

The blackguard was supposed to be dead—his ship lost in the Indian Ocean during a gale.

Somehow, the bastard had survived and had come back to haunt Bryston. His gut wrenched as a vision of Delphine’s waxen face and glassy eyes staring sightlessly up at him drove a rusty blade deep into his innards.

Not now!Later, when Branwen was safe, he could permit the old feelings and memories to bubble to the surface.

“This way. Hurry!” He towed a winded Branwen onto a cross street.

He raced them down another lane, weighing his options. Had he been by himself, he’d not be as worried, but Branwen drastically complicated a successful escape.

Though she hadn’t said a word, she tired. She stumbled, gasped, then caught her footing and kept going. She labored for breath, little wheezing sounds coming from her parted mouth, her hand still clutching his in a finger-numbing grip.

The port lay several streets away, and who knew how many of Le Sauvage’s other men patrolled them this very minute, looking for Bryston?

Likely, they watched his ship, as well.

The last time he’d seen that French cockscum’s reviled face, Bryston had cradled Delphine’s lifeless, blood-soaked body in his arms, only a hair’s breadth away from death himself. The scar on his cheek from the wound that had nearly killed him that day pulled tautly as a feral grimace skewed his face, and a primal growl erupted from his throat.

Her features pinched with terror, Branwen cut him a swift, searching look.

“Dinna stop, lass.”

He’d vowed to kill that scurvy dog after Le Sauvage had murdered his beloved wife—slashing her golden skin and inflicting burns, time after time, trying to force information from her she had no knowledge of.

Because there wasn’t any goddamned bloody treasure—never had been as far as Delphine knew.

Memories tumbled over one another, a riot of unsolicited and unwelcome recollections, surging to the forefront of his mind.

How often had Bryston tenderly called Delphine the treasure of his heart? For she had been. A precious, irreplaceable jewel.

Glancing upward, he recognized his location: Lucky Spence’s House.

What if…?

Bryston hesitated for half a blink before making an abrupt decision. Wrapping his arm around Branwen’s waist, he unceremoniously propelled her into the nearest building.

She yelped in surprise but didn’t resist.

After slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame, he bolted it from inside.

The commotion brought the voluptuous madam stomping into the entry.

“What the hell do ye—?”

Upon spying him, Abbie Maduthy’s demeanor completely transformed. Buxom and curvy, the scantily attired redhead smiled seductively and sashayed forward.

Praise the saints.

Abbie still worked here. Bryston’s gamble might just pay off.

“Och, well, if it isna Captain McPherson himself,” she all but cooed, coyly. “’Tis been a long, long time.” She flicked a swift, inquisitive glance at Branwen. “Lucky isna here, if that’s who ye’re lookin’ for.”

Though he’d never sampled her wares, or any of the other lasses working for Lucky Spence, for that matter, Abbie always made the offer. Bryston’s relationship with the establishment had been a business arrangement between Lucky Spence and himself. Lucky had offered the services of his lasses, but Bryston had always declined.

The proprietor required fancy French brandy and other hard-to-find items for his house of pleasure, which Bryston frequently came upon when plundering vessels upon the high seas. It had been quite a lucrative arrangement, benefiting both men since Bryston had no use for the goods that were often his form of payment.

His Majesty was perpetually and invariably short of gold to pay those in his employ.

“Nae, that’s no’ why I’m here, Abbie,” he said, swiftly scrutinizing the whorehouse for danger while straining his ears for the slightest sounds of pursuit.