Tangled Hearts (22 page)

Henry walked with Jane on his arm. Ewan turned to Dory, who had been very quiet through the meal. “Let us retreat to the room.”

She stiffened. “You can return to whoever you were swiving last night,” she seethed. “I’m leaving at nightfall with Margery.”

Ewan circled her upper arm and steered her through the hall. The child followed, probably still shaken. He turned to her and smiled. “Come now, lass, let’s meet back in our room to figure out what our next step shall be.”

But as sure as God and Hell, he was not letting Dory just walk away from him.

He must have held too tight, for she tried to yank her arm from his grasp. He let her, not wanting to bruise her. She took Charissa, or Margery—he shook his head—by the hand. His long strides kept up with Dory’s near trot. He could just about see the fury rolling off her and heard the thunder outside. What did O’Neil think every time he heard a storm? That Dory was near and mad?

She ushered the girl into their room and tried to shut the door, but he was right there to stop it. He entered and let the bar thunk into place. The girl jumped while Dory flew to the press, whipping through costumes.

“Ye are not going anywhere tonight, and certainly not without me,” he said calmly.

She snorted and yanked out the riding habit that had been cleaned.

He walked over to her. “Sometimes I think ye would just rather be mad than listen to reason.”

She stopped and glared at him. “Perhaps the whores in port don’t mind when their… their swiving partners move on to another woman. I’m not a true lady, but I’m not a whore and you said you’d claimed me.”

Ewan caught Margery’s wide eyes and lowered his voice, leaning into Dory. “Ye really think I spent last night with another woman?”

“You didn’t come back and,” she indicated his disheveled appearance, “you look like you slept in the hay.”

“I stayed up most of the night in the barn with Alec and Searc, helping Alec escape unnoticed. When I returned, there was another maid in the alcove across the hall. Spying for someone, most likely. I wasn’t about to show her that I was sneaking around during the night. So I slept in the barn, in the hay.”

“But you said—”

“An obvious lie if ye know anything about me.”

“Well that’s it, isn’t it?” She countered, not ready to admit she might be wrong. “I don’t really know you.”

“I think I will head back to my room,” the girl said near the door. She had the look of someone who wanted to escape.

“O’Neil could find you there. Either go to Tilly or to Searc’s room. It’s empty tonight,” Dory cautioned. “I can—”

“I’m very good at moving in the shadows,” Margery said and lifted the bar. She stopped. “Should I pack a bag?”

“It’s good to have necessities packed, lass,” Ewan said without turning toward her. “But ye aren’t going anywhere this eve.” His gaze took the glare from Dory without wavering. “Ye aren’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dory said and turned back to a clothing bag she pulled from the bottom of the press.

“Why?”

“Most men lie, especially about being faithful.”

“Ye’ve had a very narrow upbringing. How would ye know what most men are like when ye’ve only been around pirates, slave traders, and whores?”

She paused, but then she continued to jam a brush, a chemise, and a bar of soap in her bag.

He walked over to her. “My best friend, Caden, says his wife, who has the same healing abilities ye have, can tell when someone’s lying just by touching them. Can ye?”

She stopped but didn’t look at him.

“Touch me,” he said.

She released a long breath and turned. He put his hand up, palm facing her. Slowly she placed her much smaller hand against his. The gentle touch of her warm palm mirroring his felt like embers rolling down into his stomach.

“Now ask me something ye know, and I’ll lie.”

She huffed a little but opened her pretty mouth. “What is your name?”

“Henry Tudor, king of all England and every other land I can sink my teeth into.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she kept her frown intact.

“Was I lying?” he asked.

She nodded. “Your eyes dilated and your pulse quickened and the muscles in the back of your neck tensed.”

“Ask me something else and I’ll answer true.”

“Do you love your family?”

Ewan’s breath hitched for a moment. “Some.”

“Some?”

“They are dead anyway.”

“So you, too, are an orphan.”

“Have been for a long time,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft but firm, without pity. “They died when you were a boy? Was there a plague?”

Ewan’s gut tightened. If only it could have been something as mundane as illness. “They were murdered,” he said though his lips felt numb. “Ask a different question.”

She stared at him for a moment as if trying to read his mind, but finally opened her lovely lips. “Are you the best warrior in all the land?”

His face relaxed into a grin. “That’s subjective, but since we are in England, I can undoubtedly say yes.”

She did smile then. “Your eyes relaxed, as did your neck and shoulders. Your breathing is more normal. ’Tis true you believe your boast.”

“Now ask me where I was last night, or what I was doing, or who I slept with.”

She pursed her lips. “Were you swiving someone last night?”

Bloody hell, she jumped right to the point.

“Nay. I was sleeping in the barn which unfortunately still smells a bit like a corpse.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but he laced his fingers down through hers. “But I’d much rather have been here with ye.”

He tugged and she actually followed, her body slightly limp as if she were relieved. He enveloped her, surrounded her with his arms as he lowered his mouth to hers. Soft, warm, and och—delicious. He kissed her, his lips molding to her sweet lips. His hands came up to tilt her head, but she was already accommodating the crush. He changed course and ran his fingers up her spine, teasing out the hidden laces and slipping the knots free. Her bodice parted in the back and slid to the floor between them, sleeves still attached. He lifted her warm body up against him.

Her breathing was erratic against his mouth and she groaned. He trailed heat with his kisses down her neck to that luscious little ridge of delicate collarbone. Lifting her, he carried her upright to the bed. He kept her standing beside it as he unlaced the back of her skirts.

“Too many damn locks on yer costume,” he grumbled. He felt a tug on his trews and glanced down to see Dory’s slim fingers plucking the laces open. She loosened them enough to slide her hand inside.

“Och lass,” he groaned against her mouth. She moved her hand and Ewan growled low in his throat. He disentangled her grip and pulled back to look at her.

Dory’s lovely face was flushed, her lips moist from his kisses and parted on shallow pants. “Perhaps you should bar the door,” she said, and the tip of her tongue peeked through her white teeth to touch her bottom lip.

Ewan forgot momentarily how to inhale. Motionless, his heart felt like it had stopped, until a deep thud reminded him to breathe. Once set in motion again, he did so without pause, yanking the linen shirt over his head and throwing the bar across the door. When he looked back at Dory, she was sprawled across the furs on their bed, propped up on her elbows. Her breasts pressed upward against the confines of her thin chemise, the peaks jutting forward.

“My God, lass, ye are the most tantalizing thing I’ve ever set eyes upon.”

Her hair hung loose in curls that cascaded down to the furs, splashes of gold and brilliant brown. Her skin looked as smooth as cream where the chemise gaped, revealing parts of her never touched by the sun.

He kicked off his boots and stalked her across the furs. She scooted back playfully and he pounced, making her gasp on a smile. She tried to tease her way back to his open trews, but he grabbed her wrists and pulled them both upward over her head.

“I like the look of ye trussed up,” he said with a grin. Her smile faltered as a languid look softened her eyes. She moved against the furs as if begging for his touch. He quickly shucked his trews with his one free hand and pressed her into the bed, his legs tangling with hers.

She broke one of her legs free, raising it up against his bare hip. He kissed her, still trapped in his grasp, and felt her pelvis lift against his.

“Now,” she breathed into him.

“Not yet.”

“Now,” she said again and rotated her hips upward, grazing him. Her chemise had ridden higher, exposing her perfect form below. His base need rose up to agree. It took all his self-control to turn her over.

“What are you doing?” she asked and ground into the furs. He groaned watching her, but moved swiftly before he lost all control.

“Trust me.” He swept her hair to the side and inched her chemise up to expose the lush curve of her arse, the slope of her lower back, the lines of her torso and shoulders. The garment slid easily over her head and down her hair to join his shirt and trews.

She moved on the furs, her skin a contrast to the nearly black coverlet. Instead of touching her, Ewan only kissed her nape. She shivered. He inhaled the warm scent that was all Pandora Wyatt, wild lass of the sea, a mermaid without a tail, a siren able to lure him anywhere. His hands spanned her back to run down the sides of her spine. She groaned in pleasure, her hips rising on their own.

He caressed a path from the top of her shoulders, over her rounded backside, to the tiny toes of her ticklish feet. His large hands stroked back up to the sides of her hips, capturing them in his sure grasp as he leaned over to kiss her back, her neck, and finally her ear.

And slipped his hands around front between her and the furs to tease. “Ye are mine, only mine.”

He covered her then, sliding his strength against her softness until he thought he might explode merely from the friction. She moaned, the furs capturing the sound of erotic torture. His hand kept stroking, building her fire higher and higher.

“Ewan!” she cried out and shuddered. His name on her lips, her body clenching around his fingers nearly unmanned him.

“Mine,” he gritted out in Gaelic. He lifted her to her knees and bent over her. She glanced past her shoulder at him and licked her full bottom lip once more.

“Now,” she demanded.

Ewan grabbed her hips, plunging inside. His eyes closed at the exquisite heat, the tightness, the smell of Dory. Reaching forward he palmed her breasts, tweaking and rubbing as he moved.

“Are ye sore?”

She shook her head, sending her wild curls across her back. “Healed, but not new,” she breathed and rammed backward into him, taking all of him.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed and she laughed, pushing in reverse again. He groaned and ground into her, setting a rhythm that she met with gusto. He strained as he moved, his lips against her nape, one hand teasing and touching.

“Ewan!” she cried out, but he didn’t slow, building her even higher as her voice grew into a moan, her body shuddering and bucking. The clenching grabbed him, yanking him over the edge with her. He yelled her name on a growl of pure pleasure, pumping into her until his own tremors faded into a satisfied weight of exhaustion.

He held her up against his body though her head hung, hair around her face. He lowered them to the furs on their sides. Legs, hair, heat, and scents all tangled together, their bodies, so different, seemed as one.

He’d never felt so strong yet so sated before in his life. He wrapped his arms around Dory, cupping her. She nestled her back against his chest, her head on his arm. They lay in silence, the coolness of the room settling on their damp skin. She shivered and he threw the coverlet from the side of the bed over them.

A little chuckle erupted from her.

“What?” he asked and kissed her hair, marveling in the lasting flower scent.

“Both of us have rub burns on our knees.”

A laugh rumbled up from his chest and he squeezed her. “I’m sure ye can remedy that.”

There was a slight blue glow, followed by heat and the small sting at his knees disappeared.

He turned her to him so that she stared upward, into his eyes. The smile across her face was pure heaven. He just stared for a long moment, unable to give words to the perfection there. He gave up trying to find them, as none existed, but he wanted so badly to say something, something to ease the ache in his chest.

“God, Dory,” he whispered and shook his head. “Ye are never ever leaving me. Forever lass, ye are mine, forever.”

Chapter Fourteen

25 July of the Year our Lord God, 1518

Katharine,

My ring comes directly to me by Isabelle. He’s said to have his own rose, made for himself by some German smith. What a fool! The damn jackal didn’t fire even when I gave the signal on the hunt! I specifically told him where to wait with his bow ready. I fell from my horse when Henry and I were alone for a moment, but no arrow flew! It was completely botched, making me appear the poorly seated fool. Henry had a laugh at me in the mud, instead of dying before me.

Forever yours,

Rowland

After ensuring the girl was safe with Tilly and rubbing down Gaoth for the tournament in two days, Ewan retrieved some food from the kitchens. A lad walked up to him with a kettle of cook water, and when he spotted Ewan he stopped. “Wasn’t it your wife who saved me life?” he asked and set the kettle down.

“You look well and hearty, lad.”

“The king’s wine, it tasted bitter, thick even. Was it poisoned?” he whispered.

“It was off, but not poisoned, else how are ye walking the halls?”

The lad came closer. “Tilly told me your wife saved me,” he said low. “Me name is Owen, and I’m in your debt.”

He’d have to talk with Tilly. “Ye owe me nothing.” Ewan smiled at the lad. “Though being the king’s taster is dangerous work.”

The boy looked like he wanted to argue about the wine again, but thought better of it and nodded. “Tell your wife my mother and I are saying a prayer of thanksgiving for her.”

“I will.” Ewan grinned and left the kitchens. By now, Dory should be nearly done with her bath. She did like to lounge in the warm water, though. Life on ship must have been hard for a lass.

Balancing the tray, he raised his knuckle to rap on the door.

“I’ll go for some food then, my lady,” Tilly said as she opened the door, her eyes bugging out of her face for a moment before she recognized Ewan. He put a finger to his lips to shush her and motioned for her to come out. Tilly waved quietly to Margery, who followed her.

“Thank you, Tilly,” Dory called from the small wooden bathing tub by the fire. Her head lolled over the back, her arms resting on the sides. She sunk in the steaming water, her knees poking up through the surface. As he neared he noticed the rub burns on her knees and frowned.

He set the tray down and neared, bending down to look closer at them. “Why haven’t ye healed?”

Dory’s head jerked up, splashing water over the edge. Her full breasts bobbed at the surface as her knees hid below. She fanned out her fingers to cover herself.

He frowned. “Ye healed me. Can’t ye heal yerself?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I brought food. Why are your knees still hurt? How about the rest of ye? I wouldn’t have—”

“I’m fine,” she cut him off as she blushed. He saw a faint blue glow under the water and she let her knees surface. They were healed. “See, just fine.”

He studied her. “Why didn’t ye—”

She groaned. “I was getting around to it.” She stared down at the soap bubbles on the surface, flicking one with a lovely curved fingernail. “If I heal myself, I heal my whole self since my magic flows through me.” Was she turning pinker? He dipped a finger in the water, but it didn’t seem overly hot. Her words tumbled out. “Maybe I just liked the feel… the reminder of what we’d just done.”

“Ye wanted yer knees to sting to remind ye that we…”

“Not my knees, you dim wit.”

He watched her sink even lower into the small tub. She must be tangled up in there, trying to keep all parts of her covered.

“Inside,” she whispered, her lips just above the water surface.

“Oh,” he said and grinned. “So ye are all healed up?” he asked and poked the fire until it came back to life. “No evidence of any intrusion.”

She groaned as if she wished to drown herself.

He walked back over, purposely knocking the bar of soap into the water. In two heartbeats, he shucked his jacket and rolled up a sleeve. “I’ll get that,” and he plunged his hand in after it.

She gasped as he found the spot he sought.

“That’s not the soap,” she squeaked and tried to squirm away, but he followed. She only managed to rise so that her breasts were once again exposed on the surface.

He leaned forward over the pool, finding her lips as his touch continued to remind her of his earlier intrusion. She stopped pushing backward and relaxed, her hands coming up to grasp his shoulders, soaking through the linen. He straightened only long enough to once again shuck his shirt.

He would have dove in with her if there’d been room. As he leaned into the bath, sliding his hands around her slippery, warm body, water crested and drenched the stone floor under them.

“Yer skin is even smoother wet,” he murmured against her lips.

“That’s because I’m a mermaid,” she teased and pulled him almost on top of her in the basin. Her arms wrapped behind his head, keeping him there.

“Ah, so ye be a siren, lass. Explains why I can’t get ye out of my mind.”

Ewan leisurely explored the contours of her mouth, and lifted her up out of the tub. Water sluiced off her skin as she stood. He gave her just enough room to see her, and shook his head. “Aye, a siren indeed.”

Her nipples puckered against the cold, her skin rosy from the heat and the flame he’d hopefully rekindled inside. She was curves and valleys in all the places he would kiss. He grabbed a bathing sheet and wrapped her up in it to set her by the fire.

“Stay,” he instructed, and grabbed the fur throws from the bed. He spread them out before the flames.

Dory formed a little circle with her lips and blew softly. A breeze surged down the chimney to feed the growing flames until they caught a new log hungrily.

“Luscious and talented,” Ewan said and scooped her up. She gasped but laughed as he swooped her down onto the furs. He unwrapped her slowly as if she were a yuletide gift. He kissed open the pink bow of her lips and ran his hands over the velvet of her skin.

“Exquisite,” he said.

“Aren’t we supposed to be looking for a traitor?” she commented but reclined on her elbows, her toes rubbing his shins.

Did she know the picture she made there on the furs, one knee bent, the fire casting a golden glow on her smooth, clean skin? Cream puffs, that’s what her breasts reminded him of, and he was certainly going to devour them.

He leaned in to tease one with a kiss. “Tomorrow, we hunt tomorrow. Tonight we feast.”

…

“Wake up, siren.”

Dory stretched under the warm blankets, unwilling to open her eyes. She smiled, though, a broad, joyful grin. She felt his lips near her ear as he kissed along her jaw to her mouth. When she pulled away, she sighed and blinked her eyes open.

Ewan, hair haphazard, unshaven, scars giving his grin a roughish look, was more dashing than any man she’d ever seen. His smile reached his blue eyes, making them sparkle as if he held a fun secret.

“Good morn, lass,” he drawled and gifted her with another kiss. “Time to rise.”

She leaned in to him as he tried to turn away. “I’m sure I can make you rise,” she said. He laughed and rolled out of bed.

“Ye already have.”

“Come back to bed then,” she said and wiggled down in the sheets that still held their scent. She felt every little ache from their night of play. “The world can wait.”

“Och, ye’re a temptress.” He shoved into his trews and brought the remains of the bread and cheese from the night before.

As he bent in, she watched the muscles of his arms and shoulders cord, as if they readied themselves for the weight of his sword. Her mouth went dry and she reached for the water cup. How was it that just looking at him made her insides quiver? And the scars. They just about made her beg to lick them again like last night, tasting his prowess, his warrior’s might. Just thinking about them made her ache.

“If you aren’t coming back to bed, put your blasted shirt on,” she growled and rolled out on the other side. She had to put some distance between them.

“Och lass, ye need to do the same.”

She smiled at the anguish on his face. Each step reminded her of the night before, keeping her smile in place as she shrugged into a clean chemise and found a day costume that would do.

“I’ll check on the wee one and Tilly,” he said and kissed her quickly. Before he could turn, she grabbed his shirt, tugging him back for a longer, deeper farewell kiss. He had to adjust himself as he strode to the door.

“Bloody English trews,” he cursed.

She chuckled and ran a brush through the tangled mass of hair. The sun shot in with the dawn, and she sauntered over to the window. She smiled, a giddy flipping in her stomach, making it hard to breathe for a moment. Was that joy? Life was good, truly good. Maybe she should claim Ewan back. Wouldn’t that stop him from ever leaving her? Her smile faltered. Yes, she should claim him, and whatever it meant, it had to bind them even more. Could claiming be close to loving? Her heart leapt at the possibility.

Dory’s glance caught the movement of a man in the gardens, pulling away her happy thoughts. He walked briskly away from two others who stood together in the corner by some tall bushes. Cromwell and O’Neil. They argued. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see the third man, but he was already gone. Stupid Cromwell. Didn’t he know that O’Neil was more than capable of murdering him there on the spot? Instead, the captain of her nightmares stood there, nodding as Cromwell gestured with his small hands.

A soft rapping came at the door. “My Lady Brody?”

Dory ushered Margery in. She set the girl’s tray of food down and gave her a gentle hug. “You slept well?”

“Aye,” Margery replied and set about making the bed.

Dory glanced out at the gardens, but they were empty. She paged through the copy of Boswell’s letters, trying to imagine what her father must have been like. He seemed completely enamored of her mother, but there was a sharp edge to some of his orders. He was detailed, intelligent, and cautious, though from what Ewan had said, he was the devil himself. How had he reacted when finding out his love and unborn child were gone?

She sighed. Her hope of finding a kind, honorable family was completely squelched. She had her family on the
Queen Siren
, at least. James Wellington was her uncle, though he’d made no attempt to interact with her. Perhaps he thought she sought some of the family fortune. She didn’t, but more than the coins she took from Rosewood would be helpful so she could settle down somewhere. She wasn’t about to claim Boswell as her father, hoping to get any more of his money. She sighed and toyed with the corner of one letter. A few coins would be nice. Then she could have a lovely herb garden to tend. She’d always wanted to try that. And children of her own.

Dory sat upright. Where had that thought come from? There were too many children in the world already. What type of children would come from her blood anyway? Her father was a traitor and her mother possibly, too. They were both adulterers, and she was a bastard. But Ewan’s child would be so special, so beautiful. She blushed.

“Did Ewan tell you where he was headed?” she asked Margery.

“To the training field to practice for the jousting tournament tomorrow.”

“With swords and lances?” Dory asked, her pulse quickening. What if Ewan got hurt and she was stuck up in her room where she couldn’t heal him?

“Tilly says they take it easier in training. Some even act weak so that others watching won’t know how strong they actually are. Does Lord Brody have much jousting experience?”

“I… I don’t know.”

…

Ewan swung his blade, catching the breeze and slicing it through, his arms moving with skillful rhythm. Och but it felt good to train again. At Druim warriors devoted hours each day practicing battle moves, almost like dances, but much more deadly. The heft of the two-handed claymore required a different movement and only certain warriors had the strength to perform well with the weapon. He’d brought the long, honed blade as well as his regular battle sword. He planned to run through his exercises with both of them and then ride Gaoth with the lance. Although Highlanders didn’t joust for frivolity, they still practiced riding into battle with a lance. The tournament didn’t worry Ewan—he relished the chance to kill O’Neil. The bastard deserved to die.

Ewan hefted the claymore, letting it fall with guiding muscles and spun to thrust it into an unsuspecting foe. His gaze settled in the distance on the bastard pirate captain as he returned the stare. O’Neil raised his hands in mock applause and spun to take up his cutlass. Aye, the devil would die.

“You are going to kill the bastard?”

Ewan spun, his sword at the ready. James Wellington stepped back, sleek eyebrows raised at the defensive threat. “Ho there, I’m unarmed.”

Ewan lowered the tip. “’Tis dangerous to sneak up on a warrior in training.”

“I wasn’t sneaking.” James laughed. “You were engrossed with staring down the pirate who wants my niece.”

“I didn’t think ye claimed her as kin.”

“As long as she doesn’t want more than the modest stipend I intend to give her from the family moneys, she can be my niece.” He lowered his voice and took a small step closer. “Though we both know she is not of my blood.”