Untamed Hearts (A Highland Hearts Novella) (Entangled Edge) (3 page)

“Children?” Jonet glanced between them all. None of them had his eyes or the slope of his nose. “These are yer children?” The older ones were nearly half the man’s age.

“Ho now, I didn’t sire them. The little one kind of latched onto me.” To prove the point, the wee lass on his head squeezed her legs. “She definitely needs a papa.” He laughed.

“I’m not really a child anymore,” the older girl said with a frown. “I’m twelve and so is Stephen.”

“And ye are?” Jonet prompted.

“Margery. And if I’m anyone’s child, it would be Dory’s as she’s the one who helped me in London. Stephen belongs to Ewan because he rescued him from
The Raven
.”

“More like threw me overboard,” Stephen grumbled.

“But Dory,” Margery continued, “sent us to make sure you weren’t getting into trouble.” The girl gazed pointedly between Will and Jonet. Jonet swallowed silently. Did Will have a habit of getting into trouble with lasses?

“Just heading back that way.” Will trudged past her with the wee one leaning over his head to drape her curls into his eyes.

Ann elbowed Jonet as they followed. She jutted her chin out toward Will’s backside as he walked. “
Brèagha.”
Ann giggled softly, though Jonet doubted he’d understand her friend’s appreciative observation of his nicely toned arse. She snorted but continued to watch him walk with all the swaggering ease of a pirate, one with a beautiful wee lass who seemed to trust him completely. Children and animals were excellent judges of character. But if Will Wyatt was so trustworthy, why then did he make her heart pound like she was being hunted by a wolf?

As they neared the festival, Jonet noticed the rather large figure of the priest talking and nodding to Caden. The pious man seemed to be enjoying the spring festival.

Meg turned and smiled at them as they walked up, her hand under her large belly. “Jonet, so glad Ann found you. Father Daughtry is here, and we need to talk about the wedding.”

Chapter Three

Will stood at the bottom of the winding stone stairway in an alcove off the great hall of Druim castle. He squeezed Dory’s hand where it draped over his arm. “You know it isn’t official until the priest gives his blessing,” he said with a teasing grin. “I can sneak you back to the
Queen Siren,
and he’ll never find you.”

Dory huffed, but joy sat heavy in her tone. “He found me once; he’d just find me again.”

Will smiled fully at the sweet, simple happiness in his almost sister’s voice. He’d never heard her so blasted pleased before.

“Besides,” Dory said, “Ewan and I are already wed. Just making it official with the church.”

“I know the captain would wish he was here to see you in all that finery,” he said close to her ear. She looked at him, her eyes a bit glassy. “But I’m glad to escort you in his place.” He kissed her cheek.

Dory smoothed the beautiful blue gown she wore, a gift from the Lady Meg. “Just don’t let me trip and fall on my face in front of all those people,” she said, peeking out of the alcove.

“My last job of looking out for you,” he teased. “I’ll get you down the devilishly tricky aisle and then you’re all Ewan’s problem.”

She glared at him, but her eyes danced. Aye, she was thrilled.

As they entered the vaulted hall that Jonet and her friend had decorated with spring flowers and sweet-smelling herbs, Will scanned the crowd for those emerald-green eyes. Jonet stood beside Meg, but where Meg stared with a broad smile directly at Dory, Jonet’s gaze met his own. Having been caught, he thought she’d look away. When she didn’t retreat, a grin spread across his face. She was brave for a sheltered Highland girl.

Vows exchanged and country minstrels playing, Will stood watching the villagers dancing in long lines. Jonet had ducked outside with several of the ladies who were apparently sprucing up Ewan’s little cottage. A few other maids cast appreciative glances Will’s way. He gave two lovely ones his seductive grin, which sent them giggling, but then he turned to scan the room once more for dark tresses that seemed inclined to curl. Jonet hadn’t returned yet.

When the song ended, Will walked over to where Dory stood over a large book while Meg talked excitedly.

“This is the family lineage that Uncle Harold sent when he returned to England. His mother, my grandmother Joan, was a Mereworth, sister to Edward Mereworth, who was your grandfather on your mother’s side,” she said to Dory. “We can fill your name in right here,” she said, pointing.

“So…” Dory drawled out, “we have the same great-grandparents?”

“Aye.” Meg nodded with a huge smile.

“Did they have the dragonfly birthmark?” Will asked. Will remembered the little brown shape on Dory’s wrist from the time she was a baby. Ewan had explained during the journey that the women healers in the Munro and Macbain families all possessed the dragonfly mark.

“My mother did,” Meg said. “And Dory’s mother did. I’m assuming that it came through our mother’s lines as males don’t inherit the ability.”

“None of them?” Will asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Meg answered.

“Our great-grandmother,” Dory said, leaning over the old pages of the book, “was from Denmark?”

Meg nodded. “Margaret of Denmark was wed to Olaf.”

“Sounds like a Viking,” Ewan said, and Meg nodded. “My bride is rather uncivilized, lots of plundering.”

Dory glared at him, but he caught her in a kiss.

“Where did the rose ring come from?” Will asked and studied the family tree, etched carefully in a slanted, woman’s script.

Meg pointed to both sides of the page. “There were two, one handed down to my mother, which Boswell took from her.” Her smile faded. “The other one was made by Cromwell, and Dory’s mother stole it to prove he was a traitor. My uncle Harold said the rose ring in our family was from his father, Richard Brindle. He has always alluded their father was a secret Plantagenet who was hidden away from his true mother, Isabel, a Lancaster Plantagenet.”

“I wouldn’t show this to Henry VIII,” Ewan said, studying the lines. “Dory’s grandmother looks like a Yorkist Plantagenet, and Meg’s grandfather was a Lancaster Plantagenet. With that background, the Macbains, Munros, and Brodys could rule England.” He looked at Caden. “Ye might want to burn this.”

“Never,” Meg said and snatched it up, rolling it securely. “It will stay safely with me to be passed on to our children.” She moved her hand to her round belly.

“I’ll never let it out of Druim,” Caden swore, and Ewan nodded, both grim.

The old man playing the tabor drum in the corner rapped out a steady, slow beat, hardly a toe-tapping, celebratory song. It rather reminded Will of a funeral dirge, bringing down the festive atmosphere. What a shame if Dory didn’t dance at her own wedding. He grabbed an unclaimed tankard of sweet, Highland ale and wound his way through the crowd.

Three dowdy-faced, grizzled, old warriors sat near the minstrels, trying to tap along. The one with an eye patch yelled something at the trio in a surly tone. He reminded Will of old Pete on board the
Queen Siren
.

“That beat is about as fun as dead sails and a long way to go,” Will commented and took another swig.

“Aye, ’twill be a long night indeed unless Humphrey kicks it up,” one-eye said. He looked to Will. “I’m Old Kenneth. They are Bruce and Angus. We’re council to The Macbain.”

“Will Wyatt,” he gave his name with a nod. He set his tankard on the cool hearth mantle, grabbed another ale, and headed toward Humphrey.

“Care for a drink?” Will asked, and the man licked his lips. Sweat sat on his round forehead. “I’ll take over the drum for ya.”

“Do ye know how to keep a rhythm, lad?”

“The wenches have never complained,” Will answered, and the man burst into loud guffaws. It sounded like he repeated Will’s boast in Gaelic to the two others, and they joined in the mirth, giving the dancers a break while Will took Humphrey’s stool.

Will stroked his palm over the tightly skinned drum. It was several hand lengths wide with tall, wooden sides. He was used to playing two smaller drums held between his thighs on the
Queen Siren
, but he could find a rhythm with just one skin, plus the wood sides. The other two musicians watched him.

“Let’s see if you can follow this,” he murmured and started to tap on the drum with a roll of his hands, striking with the edges of his firm fingers. He picked an easy, quick rhythm. The three old warriors moved closer and nodded as the lute and pipe players began a lively tune. Will grinned with them.
Much better
.

“That’s got a pulse to it,” Angus yelled above the song.

Dory smiled broadly at Will from across the room, and he let loose with a more elaborate beat that would fit in with the other instruments. Playing was as easy as breathing to him. He’d been playing the drum since before Captain Bart had found him half-dead in the hull of a slave-trading ship. Once he was well enough to sit, Captain Bart said he beat on anything that would make a sound. His new father had placed him before an island drum, and he’d been thumping out rhythms ever since. Captain Bart called the music Will’s own brand of magic. All he had to do was start playing, and the crew’s squabbles would turn into a round of dancing and good-natured boasts about who could keep up with him.

He closed his eyes and let the varying pitches and side pats encourage the other two men to keep up. One laughed behind him, and Will kept going, enjoying the familiar heat in his arms from the movement. Someone in the room whooped, and he opened his eyes to find the room swaying. Most were performing a country jig, doing their best to keep his pace while laughing. Those not dancing were stomping their feet. Dory had raised her heavy skirts and was showing Ann, Meg, and a few other ladies how to roll quickly between their heels and toes. Meg plopped down in a seat but kept rolling her little feet while several others hopped with Dory.

Ewan and Caden watched with grins and tapped their own toes. “Ye know how to liven up a wedding,” Old Kenneth said and danced a little jig himself. Will kept going, at ease for the first time since they’d arrive the day before. Maybe staying on dry land for a while wouldn’t be as hellish as he’d thought.

Several children ran through the middle of the dancers, performing their own version of the jig. Margery took Charissa’s little hands, and they spun around together. Will looked toward the entry alcove. Large green eyes, framed by shining, midnight-colored hair, looked back. The woman’s luscious lips turned upward in an appreciative grin. Jonet Montgomery. The name rolled around in his mind like premium whisky warming his gut.

She tilted her head slightly, and her gaze shifted to his rapidly pounding hands. He almost slipped out of the rhythm as his throat constricted.
Bloody devil.
It was as if he were a nervous whelp performing for a girl he was sweet on. He shut his eyes and refocused on the tune coming from the pipes and lute. Little by little he slowed, signaling the end of the song to the two other musicians. The dancers would surely need a drink. With one final run through the rhythm, Will pattered out, ending with one big slap.

“
Mór!
” the third old warrior, Bruce yelled. “Grand! My heart’s thumping like I’ve been filching cattle from the Davidsons!”

“Ye haven’t done that in years,” Angus said breathlessly.

“Perhaps I best sit down then.” Bruce flopped back onto a stool by the hearth.

Will’s gaze followed Jonet as she joined Meg’s group on the other side of the room. A number of the children ran up to her before hurtling toward the kitchens, probably in search of some sweets.

“She’s bonny, ain’t she?” Old Kenneth said beside him.

Will nodded. “Do all those children belong to her? I didn’t think she was married.”

Old Kenneth took his measure. “Nay, not married any longer. Her husband died in a raid years ago. She takes care of the stray wee ones in the village. Is why she was trading kisses yesterday. I believe ye remember that.”

Will met the old man’s eye. “’Tis impossible to forget.” They stared at one another for a long second.

“Since Jonet has no one by blood here, the council and I, along with The Macbain, consider ourselves her family,” Old Kenneth said. “And we watch out for our family.” The old man was actually threatening him.

“Good,” Will said. “The woman doesn’t know how to throw a blade. She needs protection.”

Old Kenneth snorted. “Ah now, the lass is strong in spirit.” He tapped his chest. “She survived being kidnapped by an ogre last fall by feigning sleep.”

“Is the ogre dead?” Will asked, his voice as firm as his gut.

“Aye, had his throat eaten out by a wolf.”

“Lucky for the ogre. My revenge would have been more painful,” Will said low, and Old Kenneth chuckled. Will’s gaze rested on Jonet’s straight spine. The green costume fit along her waist and flared out at the hips into full skirts. A white bit of lace peeked out over her slippers. Her legs were probably long, shapely, and naked under those layers.

“Just keep in mind,” Angus said, having listened to Kenneth’s warning. “We won’t put up with a scoundrel tricking his way into any of our lasses’ beds.”

Dory said something, and Jonet turned and caught Will’s gaze. Aye, he wouldn’t be tricking his way into just any of the lasses’ beds at Druim. Only one bed would do, and it belonged to the unattached, strong of spirit, young widow, Jonet Montgomery.

“Warning taken.” Will grabbed his tankard from the hearth shelf and walked over to the ladies.

“Nice rhythm, Will,” Dory said, and the other ladies spoke over each other with compliments. “The
Queen Siren
must be quite dull without you playing there.”

“Pete will make do.” Will sipped some more of the honey ale.

“I was surprised,” Ewan said and slipped an arm around Dory, “that ye didn’t bring yer drums.” Ye played nearly every minute on board when ye weren’t hoisting sails and winding rope.”

“I didn’t think I’d be staying long enough to miss them,” Will answered. Jonet’s grin seemed to sink a bit, and she turned to grab a tankard off the table. Charissa came tearing through the room, laughing as Stephen chased after her. She wove between the people and swung around Will’s legs.

“I don’t think she’s going to let you go back,” Dory said as Will lifted the squirming four-year-old onto his shoulders, out of reach of Stephen’s tickles.

The boy handed a small square of raspberry tart up to her. “Oh, we’re going back,” Stephen said, his smile souring into an immediate frown. “We’re pirates, and pirates don’t take to land for long.”

Will laughed, and Jonet frowned at him. “I can’t believe ye’re encouraging the lad to be a pirate.”

“They are good pirates,” Dory explained quickly.

“Actually, not pirates at all,” Ewan corrected. “The crew of the
Queen Siren
rescues children from slave traders.”

“Aye, but we live like pirates,” Will countered proudly. “The best parts anyways.”

“Best parts?” Jonet snapped. “Would that be raping, killing, and stealing?”

Dory, Ewan, and the rest flipped glances between them, but Will had never minded an audience, especially when he was being clever or wicked. “I was thinking more of the dancing, cursing, and whor—”

“What Will means,” Dory cut in, “is that we enjoyed the freedom of sailing around the world, helping those in need without all the responsibilities that come with living in polite society. Isn’t that right, Will Wyatt?”