Devil May Care

by Unknown

  “Hold on,” he called, hugged her to him, and leapt across the space.

  “Bloody hell!” Dory screamed. Her thighs hit the giant horse’s side, and she doubled over the saddle, her stomach against the hard leather. For a moment she couldn’t draw a breath, and the man didn’t give her a chance to try.

  “Siuthad!” he yelled and the horse leapt away from the pyre. She blew her recovered breath out in a long scream. The horse’s hooves churned under her face where she hung as they raced through the mud. She clenched her eyes shut. The man cursed when she began to slip from the balanced position across the horse’s back and clamped his hand on her buttocks to keep her from falling off.

  “By the devil, get me down from here!” she shouted, but every time she tried to raise her head, she’d start to slide off and the man’s hand found her buttocks again. Dory drew in ragged, fitful breaths as she slammed over and over against the horse charging through the continued rain. She’d have to mend bruised ribs if they galloped much longer. Mud splattered up from the road, speckling her face and hair that hung halfway to the ground.

  I’m going to fall! Damn, I’ll be trampled!

  “Stop! Let me down!” she managed to yell between jounces, but the legs kept churning up mud. Dory spit some of the dirt from her mouth. A pebble flew up and hit her forehead. “Ugh!”

  After a few minutes the rider slowed and guided them off the road into the forest. The horse’s sides heaved in and out as it stood still, hooves rooted to the ground. “Let me up,” Dory demanded between her teeth and arched her back to lift her head. Once again the man’s hand pushed against her rump. “And get your hand off my arse.”

  In a swift motion, granite-like hands cinched her waist and hauled her upright. Stars danced in front of her view over the horse’s head, and she took some deep breaths.

  “Ye kept falling off Gaoth. Although ye have a rather lovely—”

  “Bloody devil,” Dory hissed. She slapped the tangled mass of hair out of her face so the man could see her famous glare, the same glare that made naval officers swallow their stupid offers of rescue.

  She twisted around and…gazed straight into his eyes. Not only did he smell of clean air, he held the sun as a spark in his blue eyes. For a heartbeat, her irritation turned to shock. She blinked hard and tried the glare again.

  His classically chiseled face was only a lean away from hers. His solid jaw, roughened with stubble, supported a strong mouth that seemed given to smiles. Cropped wheat-colored hair, darkened by the rain, lay tucked behind perfectly symmetrical ears. But the most arresting parts of the whole visage were the scars: one along his cheek, a nick beneath one eye, and several along his forehead. He’d fought hard in his life. He shook his head and scattered the raindrops.

  Dory blinked and refocused. “What the devil were you doing back there?”

  The man’s easy smile faded, replaced by confusion and a hint of annoyance. He reached toward her face and rubbed a thumb across her cheek. “Saving that lovely arse of yours.”

  She jerked away. “I was handling the situation.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Ye were? It seemed to me that ye were about to be cooked.”

  “The rain was putting out the flames.”

  “Ahh,” he answered with a mock nod as if that explained everything.

  “I…” Don’t be so showy, echoed in her mind and she grimaced. “I had it under control.”

  He stared incredulously. “Under control? Ye were tied to a burning pyre.”

  Dory glanced at his lap. “You’re Scots, aren’t you? I can tell even without your skirt.”

  The man frowned. “Kilt.”

  She flipped her hand and turned around to dismount, but the man encircled her until she could feel his rock-hard chest against her back.

  “I’m not letting ye run off in the middle of a rainstorm with a frenzied pack of villagers holding torches and hanging ropes hunting for ye.”

  “I can take care of myself.” She always had before.

  Without another word, the warrior clicked his tongue and the horse shot into a brisk walk between the trees.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Are ye Pandora Wyatt?”

  “Sometimes.”

  He grunted. “And ye are squatting at Rosewood Manor.”

  “Not squatting. Residing within.”

  “Ye own Rosewood Manor?”

  Dory didn’t answer. She tried to contain the quaking that threatened to give her away. Inside she shook with… everything. Not just rage, although it was the only emotion she’d admit to. But a cold dose of fear prickled through her bones. Loneliness, desperation mixed with a terrible unease that she wouldn’t be able to help Captain Bart in time. And despite England being the land of her origin, she knew nothing about it. She’d rather pull off a rescue in the cannibalistic jungles off the Americas.

  “Ye’re cold,” the man said near her ear, and flipped a woven blanket from off the back of his horse to drape around her. They rode through the forest in silence. The warrior led them to the back of the manor and around the side.

  “They’ll look for me here,” she whispered, unwilling to break the quiet.

  “They won’t get through me,” he boasted, his deep voice rumbling over his own whisper.

  She rolled her eyes, though he wouldn’t see them, and let out a tiny snort. The man’s arrogance rivaled Captain Bart’s. He was certain he could save her, too. Unfortunately that’s what had thrust her father and his first mate into London Tower.

  For all his warnings about not being showy, Bartholomew Wyatt hadn’t stopped himself from showing off in front of an English captain to get him away from her, as if she couldn’t take care of herself. Captain Bart hadn’t known there was a bloody battalion waiting outside the tavern in Villa de la Vega.

  Dory had been mistaken for one of the whores and was left behind to warn the crew. Loyal to her father, yes, but foolish enough to hand themselves to the executioner in a rescue attempt on the Tower of London? No. They would wait for word on board the Queen Siren off the shores of England’s west coast, but wouldn’t step foot on English soil. No, it was up to Dory to save Captain Bart and her friend, Will. She’d arrived at Rosewood earlier in the week in hopes that Rowland Boswell would be thrilled to meet his unknown daughter and help her influence the release of the captain. His servants gone and his house abandoned, she’d sought to make allies within the town.

  Big mistake.

  The warrior stopped his horse in the shadows along the outside of the bailey wall at Rosewood Manor. Dusk had come quickly with the dark clouds, even though the rain was nothing more than a drizzle now. Agitated voices rose from inside. By the devil! The villagers must have seen her escape through the deluge. They were determined to see her burn. The warrior put a finger to his perfectly shaped lips as if she needed reminding to be quiet. Bloody arrogant Scot!

  Even if she couldn’t help in the conventional way, she still had power, and didn’t even need to utter a word. Dory inhaled deeply, finding the core of her heat. The power tickled and churned inside, like a roiling ball begging for release. When she felt her birthmark tingle on her wrist she exhaled, rotating one finger discreetly in her lap.

  The wind picked up where her gaze rested, just outside the gates. With her first breath, leaves that were stuck together in wet heaps from the autumn shed spun and lifted. She blew a second exhale from her lips, sending hats and an untethered bonnet soaring above the wall. Several gasps and a scream cut through the restless air. She smiled as the next exhale blasted wind through the gates. Easy and quick, the effort barely tired her. It was a skill she’d been practicing since she was a small girl on Captain Bart’s knee, helping to speed the Queen Siren through dead waters. Just breathing, nothing showy, nothing that could be blamed directly on his little girl.

  The small group of villagers hurried from the bailey. The shadows of dusk hid her and the warrior well, but she froze anyway, leaning back into the Scot’s stu
rdy chest. His heat warmed her immediately. Odd that she would feel so comfortable against a stranger.

  “So…” the warrior whispered, his breath just a scant shiver from her ear. “Ye are a witch.”

  Chapter Two

  1 August of the Year our Lord God, 1517

  Dearest Katharine,

  My rose is red for certain. Yours is white. Tell our contact that the Plantagenet movement will rise again, this time together. To be involved at a ruling level in the new government, he must prove his worth.

  Forever yours,

  Rowland

  Beautiful even ruffled, and absolutely tempting. Ewan could easily believe that she was an enchantress with her flashing eyes, trim-yet-womanly figure, and long wild hair. Had she controlled the weather with her breaths? Could a lass be so powerful yet shiver against his chest? He knew there was magic in the world. He’d seen it in Searc’s mother and Meg, but they could only heal illness or injury.

  She shivered again and his arms came around her. “What are ye?”

  The woman inched a silver chain from the front of her laced bodice. Up from her cleavage came a simple cross. A flat locket, also on the chain, clinked against it as she held them up before Ewan’s face. It was dark there in the shadows along the wall, but he saw an engraved “W” on the locket.

  “I am no Satan-loving witch, warrior,” she said softly, but the words were full of spirit. “I go to Catholic mass when I can find one at port.”

  “At port?”

  “Or if we happen to capture a chaplain, I make certain he’s treated well and then he likes to pray for us.” She nodded, causing a tumble of curls that were pinned haphazardly to the top of her head to block her eyes. She huffed and brushed them from her face.

  “So… ye capture clergy?

  “Listen. Scot—”

  “Ewan Brody.”

  “Listen, Ewan Brody, I pray to the same God you do. I’m a good Catholic girl.”

  Ewan shook his head. “Keep that to yerself, lass. Queen Anne has been burning good Catholics as of late. And she’d love to get her hands on a good Catholic witch.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she snapped and threw her leg over to dismount. Would she try to run off? With her untamed loose curls, tantalizing figure, lovely cheekbones, and pert nose, Ewan could imagine her melting off into the woods like a wee fairy. He wondered what color her tresses would be in the sun. She hesitated as she stared down the length of Gaoth, then bravely pushed off, landing on her rump in the wet leaves.

  “Blast!” She stood and brushed her lovely arse. “Bloody tall horse.” She shot his warhorse a glare and trudged toward the open gate, one hand gliding silently against the stone wall.

  Ewan prodded his horse’s sides, and Gaoth plodded behind her. Ewan scanned the dripping, dark forest. No villagers in sight. They rounded the corner into the bailey and stopped. Searc stood by his horse near the wagon rubbing its nose as Dory approached him.

  “Who are you?” she asked and reached her hand under her skirts. Did the lass carry a weapon pinned to her leg? She muttered and let her muddied ruffles fall.

  “I’m Searc Munro from Munro Castle near Loch Tuinn in the Highlands.” Searc glanced at Ewan.

  “And I am Ewan Brody, second in command of the Macbains, from Druim Castle in the Highlands. We are visiting Rosewood Manor on our way to Hampton Court in London.” He shrugged but couldn’t help grinning over the lass’s indignant snort, as if she didn’t care one whit who they were and couldn’t wait to kick them out.

  “You have no right to be here.” She paused and looked between them, her long, wavy hair swaying around her trim waist. “Is Hampton Court near the Tower of London?”

  “I’m not certain.” Ewan stepped closer, within arm’s reach. “We have permission to stay at Rosewood Manor. This is Rosewood Manor, home of Rowland Boswell.” He pointed to the carved rose symbol on the double doors to the manor.

  “I’m very aware of that. Rowland Boswell is my father.”

  Ewan’s gut tightened. Her father? She was a witch and her very father was the devil himself. How could someone so bonny come from the monster who threatened Lady Meg as well as all of clan Macbain and the Tudor dynasty?

  “Yer father?” Searc asked. His eyes widened as he glanced at the cart.

  She nodded. “I was born Rebecca Mereworth Wellington…” She paused as if they should recognize the name. Rubbing the back of her neck, she continued. “My mother was the heiress to the Mereworth fortune when her parents died without male issue. Rowland Boswell had vowed to wed her when I was conceived, but she died crossing the channel after giving birth to me.”

  “Making ye the heiress to the Mereworth fortune,” Ewan finished. Maybe the lass was more Mereworth than Boswell. Her eyes were dark like Boswell’s and she had a slender build, but everything else that sculpted her into a lovely woman had no resemblance to the corpse they’d been hauling through England.

  “The Mereworths seem to have died out, from what Captain Bart has found. He thinks the crown stole their modest store of moneys.”

  “And Wellington?” he asked.

  “My mother’s married name.”

  “She was married to a Wellington when she conceived ye with Boswell?” Ewan asked to make everything clear.

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, breasts that were hard to ignore as they were just the right size for a man’s hand. Och, but he missed the Druim lasses.

  “All that you need to know is that I’m Rowland Boswell’s daughter and therefore, I’m entitled to stay at his home.”

  “So why are ye here?” Ewan asked. “Yer father isn’t home.”

  “I’ve come to seek reconciliation with him.” She looked between them. “Have you seen him of late, or know where I might get word to him? There is an urgent matter I must speak with him about.”

  “So…” Ewan said, trying to clarify. “Ye are a Catholic non-witch with magical gifts who is also an heiress to a possible English fortune, an illegitimate child of Rowland Boswell. And you said something about stopping at ports.” He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Her frown smoothed into a sincere smile, her eyes sparking with mischief. “And I’m a pirate.”

  Ewan’s world stood stark still, and he was entranced by the curve of her red-hued lips, her smile changing her lovely features into pure beauty. Then her words registered. He erupted in laughter and turned to scrub hands over his face as he looked to Searc, who stood with his jaw open.

  “Ye, Pandora Wyatt or Rebecca Mereworth Wellington…” He shrugged, not certain what to call her.

  “Dory,” she said.

  “Ye, Dory, are the most complicated woman who’s walked God’s earth.”

  “Complicated?” She laughed and the musical quality flitted about the silent bailey. “That will do. Aye, Scots warrior, I am complicated. Beware.” She rounded her fingers as if they were talons. “I scratch, too.”

  The wind whipped up with her laughter and he wondered if it was natural.

  “If you do not know the whereabouts of Rowland Boswell,” she said, sobering. “I have packing to do before the villagers rally their nerve to hunt for me. I’ve waited long enough for my father.” She muttered this last bit and strode toward the front double doors.

  Ewan was about to stop her, but as she walked past the covered wagon she halted. Searc moved fast, but not before Ewan saw a very pale, waxy hand sticking out from under the bulky tarp.

  “The wind shifted the cover,” Searc huffed.

  “Who…?” Dory’s lips formed a tight O as she paused on the word. She swiveled to fix Ewan with a sharp stare. “There is a dead man in my father’s bailey.” Her glance shifted between them and then back at the covered lump in the wagon. “By the devil,” she whispered. “Now the villagers will think I’ve killed a man. I don’t have time for this.”

  “Nay,” Ewan answered and stepped forward.

  The wind shifted uneasily. She wrinkled her nose and flipped the cover back, e
xposing Boswell’s head.

  “Nay!” Searc yelled as if he expected her to swoon there on the spot.

  Indeed, the body was nothing for a lady to view. The man had been dead for months, kept frozen in a cave acting as a temporary crypt until the snows melted enough for them to respond to King Henry’s summons. Patches of gray and black lay like dark pocks on Boswell’s cheeks and neck, and his skin looked wet as if it were sweating or melting off his skull.

  Ewan held his hand up to keep Searc from rushing forward. So far Pandora Wyatt hadn’t reacted like any normal lass. Despite her trembling on his horse, Ewan doubted very much that she had ever swooned.

  “Has he been frozen?” she asked. In the darkness, a faint blue glow seemed to emanate from her clutched fists. It looked like the glow that Meg used to heal.

  “For most of the winter,” Ewan answered. “English heat has thawed him considerably. Ye do know that ye’re glowing?”

  She squashed the light in her hand, extinguishing it like a taper, and looked at him like she had no idea what he was talking about. Searc remained by the wagon, unmoved by her show of magic. He was certainly used to his mother, Rachel Munro, healing villagers with her blue light. By now Ewan had seen Meg’s own magic work miracles. But this woman wasn’t blood-related to either, was she?

  “Who exactly was your mother?” he asked.

  “Lady Katharine Wellington of the very influential Wellington family south of London. They are often at court and have great manors, titles, and lands,” she said as if reciting a memorized litany. She stood tall, her nose tipped slightly in the air.

  Ewan looked to Searc, who shook his head. “I’ve never heard the name.”

  “Was she related to Isabelle Boswell, Rowland Boswell’s legal wife?” Ewan asked.

  She blinked, the moonlight reflecting along her high cheekbones and giving her eyes an even darker shadow. “I know very little of my true parents. My father does not know I survived my mother’s death. I am the long lost daughter come home, even if he isn’t here.” She tilted her head. “Now…please remove this poor man from my bailey before I am accused of more mayhem.”