Tangled Hearts (6 page)

He rounded a corner and nearly ran a maid down.

“Pardon, m’lord,” she said on a gasp and blinked her almond-shaped eyes at him. She was quite bonny, curvy with her hair caught beneath a white servant’s bonnet.

“’Twas my fault, lass,” Ewan said and watched her smile. The sparkle in her eyes as her gaze took him in gave her a mischievous look. Och, but she was ripe for plucking. Searc’s words about guarding the English lasses from his prowess made him smile. Perhaps a quick tupping was what he needed to stop him from thinking so much about the crazy woman right now in his room. “What’s yer name, lass?”

“Charlotte.” She giggled and something about the sound irritated him.

He smiled anyway. Perhaps he was tired from the ride south. “Well, Charlotte. Thank ye for a lovely bump in the hallway.”

She giggled again, and he bowed his head slightly and walked on.

Ewan stepped just inside the room and closed the door silently behind him. Dory slept, her long hair spread across a pillow, and he watched the gentle rhythm of her breaths. Even with uncertainty and intrigue the lass was able to surrender to comfort. Did she ever have nightmares?

He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked to the fire and removed his boots, then unlaced his shirt while staring at the flames. Despite the luxury, he’d rather be sleeping under the stars than under an English roof.

The whisper of a bare foot on wood threw him into action. He pivoted, catching her thin wrist and wrenched the small blade from her fist. He whipped the knife away from them and it clattering against the hearth stone.

A gasp. The fresh scent of jasmine and spearmint on warm breath. The soft contours of a woman. Dory. He forced his muscles to relax, but didn’t release her.

“It’s not wise to sneak up on me,” he said, his voice rough, severe. “I forget about being polite then.”

“I see that,” she whispered back, and swallowed. She wore a thin white ankle-length gown with rosebuds enticing a glance at the dipped neckline. He let his gaze slide down her body, pausing on the dark contrast of her breasts, all the way to where her little toes curled upon one another.

“I didn’t know ye acquired a new weapon, wife.”

“I’m not your wife,” she spit like a kitten caught by the tail and struggled to escape his grasp.

“That doesn’t matter.” He used her same words from before on her.

“You devil!” She yanked her arms, trying to break loose. He caught sight of a brown shape on the back of her wrist. In the soft glow of the fire it looked like a dragonfly. His breath hitched as he recalled the dragonfly birthmark on Meg. Rachel Munro said she had one, too.

She had to be related somehow, but now wasn’t the time for that round of questioning. “Why’d ye attack me?” he asked instead.

“You impotent bastard of a dandy with the clap and a pock-marked whore,” she seethed.

When she stared defiantly, he released his grip on her arms and she moved instantly away. The fire shone bright behind her, making the silhouette of her legs apparent through her night rail.

“You must be prepared when we go to court,” she defended.

“In my own rooms?”

“Captain Bart’s been attacked in his own rooms.” She nodded. “You must always be ready, else one day you’ll find a blade pierced through your throat.”

“Ye have a very warrior-like attitude for a lass.”

“I was raised aboard a pirate ship.”

“Again, how did ye survive that exactly?”

She walked back to the bed where he’d thought she’d been sleeping. “I made myself useful.”

Useful? How would a woman be useful on a ship unless she was on her back? The thought gripped his gut so tight he nearly grabbed it. Useful! The word shot hot fury through his blood.

“Useful how?” he managed to grit out, his voice controlled.

She perched on the end of the bed so her legs dangled, not quite hitting the floor. She flipped her hand. “I’m a talented climber.”

“Climber?” Was that some sexual term he wasn’t aware of? Though, he probably knew them all. He’d even invented a few of his own.

“The lines up the sails. If one snapped in battle or storm, I could climb right up there even with the lines swaying. Most of the crew wouldn’t, being afraid to be thrown in the sea.”

“So ye weren’t…”

“Afraid? No. I can swim and… storms don’t frighten me.”

Afraid wasn’t what he was going to say and luckily she’d stopped him from finishing his question. Otherwise she’d probably be flinging something at him now. A shoe, another blade, a chair.

“I also played whore.”

“What?” Ewan shot upward.

“In port, if the men wanted to meet with a contact or just needed supplies, I would dress the part and go with them so the real whores would leave them alone. The women there have a certain code of ethics so they won’t intrude on another’s prize if she’s already won him.”

Ewan’s breathing came rapid, his body ready to battle, and it took several moments for her words to penetrate the rage numbing his brain to all but vengeance.

“’Twas why I was left behind when Captain Bart and Will were taken. Will kissed me farewell as if I worked there in port.”

“Who is this Will again?”

“A crew member. A good friend. He’s being held with Captain Bart in the Tower.”

He should probably esteem this Will’s quick thinking to save Dory, but his method was not appreciated. Ewan took a long, even breath.

“So,” he said and took a step closer to stand before Dory where she sat. The front of her dipped neckline showed the gentle slope of her collarbone. “So ye climb and ye play…” He just couldn’t say the word. “Ye can act.”

“I also cook stew and help sew the nets and of course…” She moved her hand above her head.

“Change the weather?” he guessed.

She nodded. “When needed. If there’s no wind or if a distraction is required, but I won’t do it here.”

“Yer ability could land ye and us in more trouble than it’s worth,” he reminded her.

She huffed. “I know, I know. I won’t break my side of the bargain as long as you don’t break yours.”

“I said I don’t abandon lasses.” He sat next to her. The fire crackled in the hearth across the room. “Ever send lightning bolts down?”

She couldn’t stop her grin. “Only at really bad ships.”

“Which ones are they?” He leaned back on his elbows and took in her beautiful features.

She turned her face away from him to look at the fire, but not before he caught the sudden muting of her spirit, a slight slumping of her shoulders. “The ones that profit from human suffering.”

“Doesn’t that fit the definition of all pirates?” He didn’t know what he wanted from the jab. But her fury was better than the sadness he’d glimpsed.

“There are different degrees of suffering,” she answered and climbed onto her knees to crawl back up to the top of the bed. She flipped the quilt over her legs. “The bed is amazingly comfortable,” she said as she wiggled and smoothed the blanket up to her ears.

“I’ll sleep by the fire.”

Her gaze found his, eyebrows pinched. “That would be foolish when you have a chance to sleep in luxury.”

She turned on her side facing the outer wall, dismissing him.

“Ye don’t mind if I share a bed with ye?”

“If you intend me harm, you could do it from the hearth nearly as easily.”

True, but strangely practical for a lass.

“Also,” she continued, her voice muted by the covers. “I sleep with a blade, and I can send you to hell with one lightning bolt.”

…

Ewan sat beside Dory on the wagon seat. The wind teased and dropped her curls around her face to dip inside the wool blanket at her shoulders. Her smooth cheeks were rosy from the chill in the damp air. Dark lashes framed curious, assessing eyes. Every blink was beautiful.

Searc led them into the bailey of Hampton Court where Henry VIII was in residence on the outskirts of London. The drizzle had continued all the way from Wulfhall and seemed to match the lass’s anxiousness.

“Gerald,” the older Englishman who met them called to a lad. “Take the wagon with its stench to the far back stables, and then see to their horses.” He studied Ewan. “You are from the Highlands?”

“Aye. Here as summoned by King Henry.”

He frowned but examined Ewan’s missive. “I will see about getting you on the king’s schedule.”

Dory stood in the seat. Ewan jumped down, rounded the horses, and caught her before she could fall face first into the mud. She gasped and he let her slide down until her new slippers touched the ground.

He held her close, savoring her softness against him. “Would the lady prefer to be carried?” he asked near her ear and inhaled the floral scent that clung to her ever since her bath at Wulfhall.

“Never,” she whispered.

“A lady wouldn’t want to dirty her slippers.”

“Blast,” she cursed. “Go ahead then.”

He chuckled as he hoisted her up against his chest, his arm under her knees, and strode across the bailey. Searc followed and let the cat leap out of his arms. It disappeared around the side of the large court house with the wagon and the dog.

They stepped into the dark entryway. Ewan’s eyes adjusted quickly to the low light given off by the wall sconces placed at regular intervals on the stone walls.

“No fear of mud here,” Dory said lightly with a forced smile. He took his time lowering her. As she stepped away, her heat was quickly replaced by cold, and he frowned.

“Your name, m’lady?” the man in the entryway asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Pandora… Brody, though people call me Dory.”

“You two are married?”

“Aye,” Dory said quickly before he had time to respond.

Och! She seemed to like playing the part of his wife—and if he wasn’t careful, he could become too comfortable with the role, as outrageous as that thought was. He would never burden himself with that responsibility, preferring to live his life alone. Families had a way of falling apart and he would be damned before he lived through that pain again.

“We travel with our cousin.” Ewan indicated Searc, who gave a curt bow of his head.

The man didn’t take his gaze from Dory. “Yet you are not Scottish. You are English?”

“Yes, though I lived overseas in the Caribbean most of my life.”

The man pinched his lips. “You look very familiar. What is your given name? Perhaps I know your relations.”

They had planned to use his name as her last. He hadn’t bothered to supply her with another.

“Bristol,” she remarked smoothly as if she’d known it all her life. Och, but the woman could lie. Did she carry a whole arsenal of half-truths and fabrications ready to use? Could she be tricking him even further? Tension gripped him shoulders as he watched her gentle act.

“Pandora Bristol,” the man put together and shook his head. “Don’t know of any Bristols, but… you look so familiar.”

“And ye are?” Ewan asked.

“William Spencer, manager of Hampton Court.”

Dory looked up at the high ceilings and peeked into the rooms beyond where cozy fires sat in large hearths. “A huge responsibility no doubt,” she said, causing the man to puff up.

“Especially when the king is in residence,” he said.

Dory mimicked his nod with serious composure, her nervousness seemingly gone.

“If a room could be found, I would like to see my wife warm and rested,” Ewan broke in.

“Yes, of course.” The man turned and they followed.

A servant met them in the corridor. “He will show you to a room,” Spencer said. “I will inform cook that there will be two more for dinner.”

“Three,” Dory corrected before Ewan had a chance. She pulled Searc to stand even with them and leaned her head momentarily on his shoulder. “Our cousin.”

Searc certainly looked pleased. Ewan pulled Dory gently in front of him and placed his hands on her shoulders. If she felt like leaning on anyone, it would be him.

Spencer huffed softly. “And another room, then. Though with most of the court here, the remaining rooms are small.”

“A bed and a roof over our heads will do very well,” Dory said, playing the demur, appreciative lady quite well. A smooth liar, a convincing actress. Aye, and a witch, pirate, traitor’s bastard daughter, and a possible heiress. Dory Wyatt’s list of complexities continued. How the bloody hell had he gotten himself tangled up with her?

They followed the servant up a wide staircase and down a corridor to stop before one of many ornately embellished doors. “The main meal for the day will be served at the next bell when the sun is halfway down to the horizon.”

“Thank you,” Dory said and gave the servant a nod. The man looked startled and left with Searc on his heels.

“Ladies at court don’t bow their heads to servants.”

“I will remember,” Dory said and surveyed the room. “Even more luxurious.” She turned on the soft heel of her slipper. “Do you think I can request another indoor bath?”

Ewan kept his grin in check. “I am most certain. ’Tis Spring and I hear the English bathe then.”

The smile lit her eyes as she bounced on the balls of her feet and clasped her hands. She almost looked like a child with a sweet, except this was no little lass. This was a grown woman with softness and curves like the rolling hills back home.

“I’ll have a bath sent up for ye, wife,” he stressed.

“We should continue the ruse in case Jane comes,” she said, her words coming quick in defense.

“I suppose it is safer,” he said slowly. “I can protect ye at night. Court is dangerous during the day as well. ’Tis best ye stay in the room.”

“I can’t find out about my family if I stay in here.”

“For right now, we’re keeping your identity a secret.”

“I’ll investigate quietly. I introduced myself as Dory Bristol.”

“Aye, but that Spencer fellow seemed to think he knew ye. Did ye ransack his ship or suck his house away in a tornado?”

Dory threw her slipper at him. It smacked him in his chest and thumped on the floor boards.

“Aiming for my heart, lass?”

“You are lucky, sir, that my dagger is across the room in my satchel.”

“That blade isn’t a dagger,” he said, his grin fading as he thought of the blade she’d attacked him with the night before. “It’s a
sghian dubh
.” His stomach knotted on the Gaelic words.