sir.”
“Not till you answer my question,” he said evenly and swiveled to the sound of feet stamping in the entry foyer. He held her gaze a moment longer. “Apparently we have company. We shall finish this conversation anon.”
“I highly doubt that we will,” she retorted. “My brother has arrived to accuse me of witchcraft and arrest me. Unless you are available for hire as my protector, this conversation is quite finished.”
Instead of appearing shocked, the stranger’s eyes took on a twinkle. “Is that so? Most damsels in your distressed shoes would be either weeping or swooning by now. Instead you offer me employment. I’ll admit I am fascinated by your offer.”
The tavern door rattled on its hinges as if the men on the other side of it were having difficulty opening it.
“’Tis a limited time offer,” Branwyn gritted through clamped teeth, surprised he actually seemed to be considering it. “I’ve not the time to dicker like a fish wife over price, but I will pay you handsomely.” In labor, for she possessed no money.
He pursed his lips in calculation. “I’ve no need of your coin, but you clearly have need of my assistance. Pray allow me to provide you safe passage from Exeter on my ship in exchange for something else I desperately need – answers...starting with my question about the contents of this sack.”
This ruggedly dressed Viking was wealthy enough to own his own ship? He could be lying, but ’twas worth the risk from her precarious standpoint. ‘Twas not as if she had any better options at the moment. “Safe passage first. Questions afterwards,” she countered.
“Agreed.” He bowed.
“Then you are hired, sir.”
She offered to seal their bargain with a handshake, but the door crashed from its hinges and claimed their attentions. The Duke of Smythen burst into the room in a swirl of bishop’s robes accompanied by a constable and a half dozen knights armed with swords and crossbows.
Branwyn drew a shaky breath and smoothed her dusty green gown. “Byron, my lord brother. How good to see you.”
Snapping dark eyes beneath a cap of black wavy hair raked over her. From his high frowning forehead to his patrician nose, the man was too sinfully handsome to be so heartless. “Behold the accused. Arrest this cursed woman at once.”
Two of the knights separated themselves from the group and rushed forward. Alas, the one on the left slipped on a puddle of ale and crashed into his comrade. Their helmets collided with a dull clanking sound that made Branwyn wince. Then they crumpled to the floor.
The Viking stranger emitted a muffled guffaw and appraised her carefully. “Methinks I can guess the nature of the potion now. Come, lass. ’Tis getting late. We’d best be on our way.” The rogue actually crooked an arm at her as if preparing for a stroll in the park.
Branwyn could only gape.
With a sigh of resignation, he reached down to clasp her hand and drew it through his arm. She gasped as a powerful awareness sizzled through her. ‘Twas sharp and immediate, stopping just sort of pain. Branwyn’s shocked gaze locked with the stranger’s. When the clarity of his blue gaze took on a slightly dazed sheen, she realized he felt it, too.
Lord help her, but she was instantly drawn to his scent — a mixture of smoke and salt and mystery — as well as his strength. The pulse of his heart, the hum of blood through his veins, the aura of power and danger surrounding him. The air around them fairly crackled with the potency of their contact as skin brushed over skin.
Alarmed, Branwyn tried to tug her hand free, but the stranger clamped his arm tighter to his side, imprisoning her. She nearly cried out from the sensations flooding her. Light. Heat. Joy.
“Pray forgive the liberties I take with ye, lass,” he muttered in her ear. His breath on her lobe brought her just shy of the point of collapsing. “I will explain as soon as we are clear of this arse.” He steered her
“Not till you answer my question,” he said evenly and swiveled to the sound of feet stamping in the entry foyer. He held her gaze a moment longer. “Apparently we have company. We shall finish this conversation anon.”
“I highly doubt that we will,” she retorted. “My brother has arrived to accuse me of witchcraft and arrest me. Unless you are available for hire as my protector, this conversation is quite finished.”
Instead of appearing shocked, the stranger’s eyes took on a twinkle. “Is that so? Most damsels in your distressed shoes would be either weeping or swooning by now. Instead you offer me employment. I’ll admit I am fascinated by your offer.”
The tavern door rattled on its hinges as if the men on the other side of it were having difficulty opening it.
“’Tis a limited time offer,” Branwyn gritted through clamped teeth, surprised he actually seemed to be considering it. “I’ve not the time to dicker like a fish wife over price, but I will pay you handsomely.” In labor, for she possessed no money.
He pursed his lips in calculation. “I’ve no need of your coin, but you clearly have need of my assistance. Pray allow me to provide you safe passage from Exeter on my ship in exchange for something else I desperately need – answers...starting with my question about the contents of this sack.”
This ruggedly dressed Viking was wealthy enough to own his own ship? He could be lying, but ’twas worth the risk from her precarious standpoint. ‘Twas not as if she had any better options at the moment. “Safe passage first. Questions afterwards,” she countered.
“Agreed.” He bowed.
“Then you are hired, sir.”
She offered to seal their bargain with a handshake, but the door crashed from its hinges and claimed their attentions. The Duke of Smythen burst into the room in a swirl of bishop’s robes accompanied by a constable and a half dozen knights armed with swords and crossbows.
Branwyn drew a shaky breath and smoothed her dusty green gown. “Byron, my lord brother. How good to see you.”
Snapping dark eyes beneath a cap of black wavy hair raked over her. From his high frowning forehead to his patrician nose, the man was too sinfully handsome to be so heartless. “Behold the accused. Arrest this cursed woman at once.”
Two of the knights separated themselves from the group and rushed forward. Alas, the one on the left slipped on a puddle of ale and crashed into his comrade. Their helmets collided with a dull clanking sound that made Branwyn wince. Then they crumpled to the floor.
The Viking stranger emitted a muffled guffaw and appraised her carefully. “Methinks I can guess the nature of the potion now. Come, lass. ’Tis getting late. We’d best be on our way.” The rogue actually crooked an arm at her as if preparing for a stroll in the park.
Branwyn could only gape.
With a sigh of resignation, he reached down to clasp her hand and drew it through his arm. She gasped as a powerful awareness sizzled through her. ‘Twas sharp and immediate, stopping just sort of pain. Branwyn’s shocked gaze locked with the stranger’s. When the clarity of his blue gaze took on a slightly dazed sheen, she realized he felt it, too.
Lord help her, but she was instantly drawn to his scent — a mixture of smoke and salt and mystery — as well as his strength. The pulse of his heart, the hum of blood through his veins, the aura of power and danger surrounding him. The air around them fairly crackled with the potency of their contact as skin brushed over skin.
Alarmed, Branwyn tried to tug her hand free, but the stranger clamped his arm tighter to his side, imprisoning her. She nearly cried out from the sensations flooding her. Light. Heat. Joy.
“Pray forgive the liberties I take with ye, lass,” he muttered in her ear. His breath on her lobe brought her just shy of the point of collapsing. “I will explain as soon as we are clear of this arse.” He steered her
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