Tangled Hearts (23 page)

Ewan kept his face blank.

“I discovered my sister-in-law’s betrayal with the rotting traitor you brought to court.”

“How?”

James paused, his eyes taking on a sharp glint. “A tip from a peer a long time ago.” The man pursed his thin lips, making it quite obvious he wasn’t giving out more information.

“Is there something ye want?” Ewan asked.

“There are several scenarios here that could harm my family’s reputation.”

“More so than having it known that Katharine was a traitor?”

James Wellington’s mouth thinned more. “That hasn’t been proven. Those two pirates are bringing back proof that could show she was acting to stop the assassinations.” The man must be talking to Cromwell. “Katharine could be held up as a hero,” Wellington continued. “But not if her whorish behavior is exposed. I knew that Pandora must know Boswell was her father. Otherwise, the fact that she showed up here with his body was just too much of a coincidence.”

Ewan neither agreed nor refuted.

“I do not wish,” James continued, “for further scandal to come out now regarding John’s cuckolding wife. And you seem intelligent enough not to reveal your wife’s association with a proven traitor.”

“She shouldn’t be judged by the sins of her father,” Ewan said.

“But you know very well that she would.” James smiled then. “I will pay you all to keep quiet and move on as quickly as you can back to wherever you belong.”

“And why do ye want O’Neil dead?”

“He knows the truth. You see, Julian O’Neil was the captain who agreed to take Katharine away before the birth. Now he wants gold to keep his mouth shut about Pandora’s lineage. ’Twould be easier for all of us if Julian O’Neil fell permanently tomorrow in the tournament.”

Ewan glanced at the bloody pirate as he swung his sword through several lunges. “He hunts my wife. He will fall.”

“Good,” James said, a grin softening his face. “We are in agreement then. Will your cousin squire for you?”

Even though the lad’s father was staying in town, Searc was still living at court and could assist Ewan in the joust. “Aye.” Ewan had no idea what a squire would be required to do, but Searc could find out.

“The Scots don’t joust, do they?” James asked with a slight sneer.

“We do not play when we kill,” Ewan replied.

“Hmmm…” James nodded. “Aye, the king likes lots of pageantry and amusement. Call your cousin then and I’ll introduce you to my squire, Lawrence. He will see you and your squire educated on what will be expected.”

“Expected?” Would he have to bloody bow down and kiss the tyrant king’s ring?

“There’s an order to events in the tournament,” James explained. “Do you even have armor?”

“Scots battle in leather, not tin.”

“Well, tomorrow you will wear tin, my good man.”

English armor. Probably as uncomfortable as English trews. What he wouldn’t give to wear his kilt again and ride Gaoth across the moor before Druim. But then he thought of Dory, warm, lush Dory. He certainly wouldn’t give her up for it. “So be it.”

…

Ewan examined the parchment Margery had left with their breakfast tray. “Captain Bart can’t find a ship to take them around the point to Barry,” he read.

Dory wrapped a fur around her shoulders and padded over to him to look at the crudely written note. It was Will’s handwriting. “They are still in London?”

Ewan nodded. “Here’s the address, but they’re heading out overland tomorrow if this other captain refuses them passage.”

“Will and Captain Bart do look like scoundrels,” she said and felt a little squeeze of pride. “It’s hard for others to trust them on board. Within a week, Captain Bart could take over if that were his intention. He’s a leader even when he’s not on the
Queen Siren
.”

Ewan threw a linen shirt over his head, covering all that glorious, bare muscled chest, and Dory frowned. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? You could certainly find a way to get to O’Neil without participating in the tournament.”

He brushed a kiss over her pouting lips. “I’m a warrior, in any way they wish to test me.”

“But you don’t usually battle with all that ridiculous armor.”

“True, but neither does O’Neil.”

Just the sound of the slave trader’s name knotted her stomach. “You might be riding against others, too.”

“Gaoth won’t let me fall.” He ripped a short length off the brightly woven plaid he’d brought from his home and wrapped it around her wrist.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“I’ve been warned that I will do better with the blessing of a fair lady. Lawrence said ye can tie that around my lance.” He chuckled at his jest.

Dory ground her teeth. She sat on the edge of a chair by the warm fire and watched him shoulder into a padded leather vest. It was his own, and her uncle’s squire had found him some armor that would fit over it.

“Gaoth might not have a choice if you get hit hard enough. I can’t imagine you getting up after falling from that beast.”

Ewan walked back over to her, his step strong, fluid, moving already with a predatory grace. “A good warrior knows how to fall.”

He could fall, and never get up—but he wasn’t taking this seriously. Just the thought made her eyes sting, and her heart pound high in her throat. She blinked the threatening tears down and glared at him.

He bent to look in her eyes, his hands on her shoulders. “If I die, take Margery and find your father. Alec will be in the crowd. He and Searc will help ye. Do it quickly before O’Neil gets to you.”

“Ewan, you’re serious! You think you could die today?”

He brushed a thumb across her cheek. “A warrior could die any day, ye know that.” His eyes were so blue. Lord, she could stare into them forever. “Ye’re a warrior, too, lass. Strong in spirit, cunning, and passion.” He leaned in and kissed her.

Dory’s fingernails bit into the leather arm plates already tied into place. The smell of clean leather and warm man filled her inhale.

“We will celebrate tonight,” he said, leaning his forehead against hers.

She would tell him then, claim him as he had claimed her, binding him to her irrevocably. She sent a quick flash of healing magic through his body, smoothing the new rub burns on his knees and the fingernail marks on his back. All else was in perfect, glorious, and virile health.

“What if I was keeping those to remind me of this morning?” His blue eyes sparked with lusty happiness.

She smiled. “I’ll replace them tonight when we celebrate.”

“Aye, lass.”

She touched his cheek and he was gone.

…

Dory strode alone toward the tilt field, and a flock of giggling ladies walked by her. She seemed to be the only woman unaccompanied. She twisted the thin strip of plaid around her finger and surveyed the crowd for Searc’s tall father. Ugh! What would she hold onto if she must give up the scrap?

“I can escort you, Lady Wellington.”

Dory whipped around, already reaching toward the blade strapped to her calf, when she saw that the smooth voice came from James Wellington. He smiled at her. Who knew his mouth actually worked that way?

“I can find a seat on my own, thank you,” she said and turned back toward the yard.

He kept even with her and spoke low. “Lord Brody told you that I want O’Neil dead, too, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” she replied without looking at him. Ewan had told her about their entire conversation yesterday, how he’d arranged for O’Neil to capture her mother. No wonder O’Neil had always hunted her. He thought of her as his possession.

“So we are on the same side, are we not? Let us cheer for your husband together.”

She ignored him.

“You do not like me, do you, Lady Wellington?”

She stopped and turned to him, her voice even and succinct. “You plotted to have my mother, and therefore me, sold into slavery. The only reason you call me Lady Wellington is because to call me something else would dirty your family name. Do I like you? What do you think?”

“You do speak what’s on your mind. Quite refreshing.”

She kept walking, James by her side. He kept up well for an older gentleman.

“Why aren’t you down in the mix?”

“An injury to my knee,” he offered for explanation and rubbed his right knob. “My physician thought I should rest it for a season.”

Dory trudged on, slightly ahead of James, to reach the stands that surrounded the tilt yard. She didn’t see a tall Scot anywhere, although the crowd was thick, extending way up into the treeline. Jane sat with a dozen feathered and frocked court ladies in the royal balcony. Henry was absent.

“Does the king ride in the tournament?” she asked, knowing James was still quite close.

“He has until his near fatal accident in January.”

“He’s not in the stands.”

James indicated a row of seats beside the royal box and Dory bullied her skirts into the small space to sit. He sat next to her, leaning uncomfortably close. He smelled of cloves with an undercurrent of unwashed body. “Henry is most likely down with the contestants, giving advice. He’d rather ride, but since he cannot, it would prove too upsetting for him if he were to just sit among the ladies.”

The day was clear, bright with a gentle wind. Flags flapped and laughter punctuated the excitement as well-to-dos and local commoners mixed to vie for good seats. They packed into the stands and stood five rows back around the perimeter.

“Have you ever attended a tournament?” James asked and nodded to Richard Pembroke farther down.

“No.” Dory strained to catch a glimpse of Ewan, but all the combatants were sequestered in the adjoining barracks that linked to the stables.

“You’ll see him when he rides out with the rest,” James said, interpreting her stretch.

A herald stepped out and blew a long, golden horn ornamented with a red triangle, Henry’s Tudor lion emblazoned upon it. The crowd cheered.

“Here they come,” James said annoyingly near her ear.

Dory felt a strong gaze to her right and glanced to find Jane watching her. She smiled when Dory looked, and Dory nodded and smiled back. Hopefully the woman would survive her relationship with Henry and deliver him a healthy son.

Dory raised a hand to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun. The riders charged out onto the field, the ones in front waving huge flags in different colors.

“The flags represent the families close to the court and those that will be riding,” James said. He pointed as one rode out holding a pole with a plaid sewn to it and chuckled. “I see Lawrence found a suitable flag for Brody.”

It certainly stood out from the rest as Searc jogged out with it. Dory frowned as several people pointed and laughed at the Highland wool, its heaviness making it flop more than fly.

She felt him pat her leg through the many layers of skirts.

“It’s all in fun, my lady. No insult intended.”

Dory snorted softly. Veiled insults and outright cruelty were part of life, but she didn’t have to accept or forgive it. A low rumble of thunder vibrated far off, making several people stare upward at the blue sky.

“I certainly hope that we don’t have a storm with all our best warriors draped in metal,” James said, staring at her. “It seems to attract lightning.”

Dory glanced at him, wondering if he believed the tales circulating about her being at fault for the wild weather they’d been experiencing. She’d tried to be more careful in London, but all it took was a suspicious comment and some fear to whip up a witch hunting mob.

“Although,” he continued and looked back to the field, “perhaps a lightning bolt aimed at O’Neil’s heart would be good.”

Was he actually asking her to strike the man dead? She wasn’t about to explain to him that everyone within the yard would probably be killed, too, from such a strike. Dory just turned her stare back to the flag-bearing riders as they formed a row before the royal box, their flags hanging down for all to appreciate.

“Now the combatants,” James said.

Two at a time, the armored riders trotted out. Some wore their helmets down to cover their faces; others held their helmets under an arm.

Finally! Dory sat on the very edge of her seat to see. Gaoth, trotted out of the stables, free of pageantry except for the brilliantly woven wool plaid that Ewan had brought on his journey south. Ewan rode with his helmet under an arm, sitting on Gaoth with ease and a stern face. She twisted the scrap tighter in the folds of her skirts.

“Lawrence will make sure Brody’s squire gives him the correct weapon for each battle,” James said.

“Each?” Her stomach tightened.

“First the joust. Then when an opponent is knocked off, if he can still walk, they fight on the ground with swords, battle axes, mace, whatever they desire. It’s a true simulation of battle on the field.”

“Do people die often?”

James shrugged. “Sometimes, though the king usually calls a halt before it gets that far. Or if someone loses consciousness or surrenders, the battle ends.”

Even dressed in all the shiny splendor, this venue was as barbaric as battles on the ship when there had been a dispute.

Ewan stopped Gaoth before the plaid flag. As each one nudged his horse forward, the crowd cheered for their favorites.

“Where’s O’Neil?” she asked.

“I believe he is the second to the far end, with the helmet already on. I don’t recognize the flag.”

Dory certainly recognized it. The colors might look Tudor, but the black outline of a bird on the field of red and gold matched the
Raven’s
ship flag. She was tempted to whip her blade through the air if he came closer. Of course with all that steel surrounding him, it would probably bounce off and she’d lose a perfectly good blade.

“My lady,” James said and Dory caught the glimmer of Ewan’s polished armor as he pressed Gaoth forward. Silence fell over the crowd as the massive steed stepped with barely controlled power. Ewan stopped at the edge of the tournament fence.

“Make way,” James called out and waved the two rows standing ahead of her to part. “Go on.”

Dory stepped down, refusing his proffered hand, to the fence. Gaoth’s large eyes stared at her and he sniffed her hand. Ewan lowered his lance toward her beside the beast’s large face.