Devil May Care

by Unknown

  “M’lady,” a servant said behind her and both Ewan and Searc rose. “His Majesty, King Henry, wishes to know who the young lady is.”

  “She is my wife,” Ewan nearly growled.

  Dory forgot to exhale. His lie was stated with such intensity that she nearly believed it herself for a moment. She’d never marry, but playing the part with the handsome Highlander for awhile could prove very interesting.

  “I am Ewan Brody and am at court as representative of Meg Boswell Macbain,” he continued. “I have brought Rowland Boswell and proof of his treasonous intent against the king and his daughter, Mary.”

  The servant looked at Dory. “And what is the lady’s name?”

  She felt Ewan’s body tense as it brushed hers. Would they throw him in the Tower if he drew his sword? Blast it! No more people would be sent to the Tower on account of her.

  “I am Pandora Brody, wife of Ewan Brody of Scotland,” she said before Ewan could do anything foolish on her account.

  The servant turned and a lady across from Dory set her goblet down, her assessing eyes taking her in. “I am Lady Beatrice Pembroke, wife to Richard Pembroke. Have we met before?”

  “My husband and I have only just arrived in England.”

  The woman glanced down Ewan’s well-built form and a small grin curved her reddened lips. “My, the rugged land up there certainly breeds large warriors.”

  “Watch your tongue, woman,” a handsome older man behind her said. “Else you find your way to the Tower for treasonous appreciation of our neighbors to the north.”

  She slapped at his hand on her shoulder. “Oh, Richard.”

  He smiled and gave a little nod to Ewan, Searc, and to Dory, then stopped. His easy smile faded as his eyes widened. “Good Lord,” he whispered.

  “Richard? This is my husband,” she introduced him to Dory rapidly. “Richard, sit down. You don’t look well.”

  Richard Pembroke had paled enough to resemble the expensive white bread being chewed along the table. “No, no, I am fine,” he said to his wife but kept his eyes on Dory.

  “Is there a problem?” Ewan asked, his voice deep and smooth. It sent a chill down Dory’s back. She’d heard lethal warnings before and Ewan’s was definitely that.

  “God’s teeth.” The elderly man swore and glanced down the table. “Is Wellington here tonight?”

  “I do not know, dear,” his wife answered, still looking worried over her husband’s shock.

  Ewan scraped his chair back as if to stand and she felt Searc move closer to her other side. The two Highlanders were being either protective or paranoid—she wasn’t sure which.

  “Again…” Ewan’s words came slow and deliberate. “Is there a problem, sir?”

  “What goes on below the salt,” came a voice from the top. “It looks vastly more interesting than what is going on above.”

  A round of titters and chuckles erupted. Dory gulped against her arid mouth as the king stood up at the head to get a better view.

  “You are so young,” Sir Pembroke whispered. “’Tis impossible.”

  “Richard, please.” His wife pulled on his arm. “The king looks on.”

  “We’ve had enough rude staring for one night,” Ewan said and took Dory’s hand.

  “Wait,” Pembroke said.

  “Ho there!” Henry called. “Truly, I must know what has made our affable Lord Pembroke out to be pale as a ghost.”

  Dory rose next to Ewan, but there was no escape, not when the king’s eyes had fastened on them. The clip of his heels marked his progress down the table. There was a hesitation in the man’s gait.

  Searc mumbled something in Gaelic that sounded like a curse.

  England’s King Henry VIII strode, a grimace with each pull of one leg until he stood beside them, his mood fouled by pain. The man was tall and broad, full of strength both physical and of the spirit. His presence commanded attention and respect, and his sharp eyes captured everything, passing judgment without hesitation.

  And he was judging them harshly, most likely due to his leg. Dory lowered into a curtsy, thankful the skirts hid her legs, which had no idea what to do but bend at the knees. She bowed her head, her hands clasped before her. “Your majesty,” she murmured just as Captain Bart had schooled her.

  “Rise, my lady,” the king said and caught her hand. Upon contact she sensed that the tissues around an open wound were tainted so she sent a pulse of healing magic to his leg. The pulse of power was brief so he wouldn’t notice, but it should deaden the pain radiating from the angry flesh. Her gaze flickered to Ewan, but he couldn’t have noticed.

  The king’s ruddy face relaxed as she stood. He smiled at her, his eyes finding her low neckline.

  Ewan stepped up and took her hand. “Yer majesty. I am Ewan Brody of clan Macbain from Druim in the Highlands. This is Pandora Brody, my wife.”

  Richard Pembroke coughed, nearly choking as he stared at her chest. “The locket,” he said, and looked as if he were going to grab it.

  Ewan whisked her behind him so fast, she felt dizzy.

  “What are you about, Pembroke?” Henry asked.

  “The insignia on the locket.” He pointed at the space where Dory tried to peek over Ewan’s shoulder. “It is the Wellington crest and she…”

  Thunder echoed outside. Ewan squeezed her hand and she tried to breathe evenly.

  “Spit it out, man!” Henry boomed.

  “She looks every bit like Katharine Wellington, James Wellington’s sister by marriage lost at sea over two decades ago.”

  If there happened to be someone not looking at her before, they were now. Everyone along the table and standing in the room, including servants and the king, scrutinized her.

  “It is as if she is a ghost,” Richard whispered.

  Several gasps followed.

  “I assure ye, my wife is no ghost,” Ewan nearly growled, causing two men to draw short swords near the arched doorway.

  “Why is a Scot in my court?” Henry asked.

  Ewan withdrew the royal missive from his jacket. “As summoned, yer majesty.” He presented it with a curt bow of his head.

  Henry scanned the script. “You do not look like Meg Boswell.”

  “My chief, Caden Macbain, and Lady Macbain are about to be blessed with their first child. I volunteered to bring the traitor’s body down to yer majesty.”

  “Is that the smell near the back stables?” a richly garbed man said from up the table.

  “Lady Macbain is Meg Boswell?” Henry asked.

  “Aye, the wedding was performed by clergy and witnessed.”

  “And apparently quickly consummated,” Henry said, his frown softening as several chuckles resounded around the table in appreciation of his jest.

  Henry took Ewan’s measure. What he found made him frown. “I will see the evidence that my advisor was a traitor. If there is lacking proof, I will consider my friend murdered and you will stand in for Lady Macbain as we decide your punishment.”

  Dory’s breath hitched. Would Ewan be thrown in the Tower also?

  “Ye may check the body, sire. Rowland Boswell died on his own of physical exertion as he tried to find these letters hidden in a Highland cave. Rugged terrain and a poor heart.” Ewan shook his head. “There is not a mark on him.”

  Henry frowned, not liking that his threat had been shrugged off with logic. “Regardless, you are a Scot.”

  “Are we at war?” Ewan asked. His face was strong, an eyebrow raised in challenge. Didn’t he know that kings didn’t like to be challenged, especially before the court?

  “Perhaps this will be the start,” Henry said and cocked his head.

  A puffed up man stepped forward. “I would caution—”

  Henry held up a ringed hand and the man stepped back.

  “To start a war with the very family who foiled the plans of a traitor, who had planned to murder ye and the Princess Mary—”

  Several ladies gasped.

  Ewan continued, “seems�
�”

  “Untimely,” Dory interjected with a smile. This king needed his feathers smoothed. When he looked over at her she lowered her eyes, but glimpsed his open appreciation of her appearance first.

  Ewan tried to step before her again, but she pinched his hind quarters in warning.

  King Henry was like all the cocky pirates she’d met growing up. They needed smiles from fair ladies to distract them from murder and mayhem. But unlike the anonymous rogues playing and fighting at port, Henry VIII had power to do much more than merely murder and rob one person. He could murder and rob a whole country.

  “Perhaps my husband…” She pinched Ewan again, who annoyingly didn’t even flinch. Again. “…perhaps Ewan could go over the letters of evidence with your…” She didn’t know what her lines were since she was improvising without the bloody script. Her gaze drifted to the man who’d stepped forward earlier. “Your helper.”

  Henry chuckled. “Hear that, Cromwell? You are my helper.”

  “I do believe your majesty is beyond help,” another of the court said and strode forward to take the letters from his king. The king’s mirth bubbled out on a loud laugh with the others following a heartbeat after.

  “You may be right, Charles,” Henry agreed with a broad grin.

  Dory breathed and smiled, the tension broken in the room. Yet Ewan still kept a rigid stance. She touched his fisted hand. All his muscles were gathered to spring if needed. Did he really think he could battle his way out of a great hall filled with angry Englishmen defending their king?

  The king held out his arm to her. Bloody hell! She couldn’t refuse it. Dory placed her hand on the king’s arm with a glance over her shoulder. The look on Ewan’s face was pure death. A look like that would surely cause a war. Hopefully the king wouldn’t be told of the way Ewan’s eyes had hardened to regicide as Henry led her away.

  “Do watch your step, m’lady,” Henry said and pulled her into his side as they walked up the table. He led her toward an arched doorway. “Perhaps you would appreciate the fine view of the rose garden.”

  “Here she is, James! Now tell me that isn’t Katharine’s twin?” Richard Pembroke was back and had towed a tall man with him.

  Henry rolled his eyes, but stopped.

  “By the good Lord’s grace,” the tall man whispered, his gaze raking her form but fastening back onto her face. “Who are you?”

  “This is Lady Brody, recently from Scotland,” Henry answered.

  “She’s married to a Scot,” Richard Pembroke added. “Your maiden’s name?”

  She swallowed. What had she said before? The simpler the lie, the easier to remember and stay consistent. Think!

  “I was raised off the continent, sir,” she answered, stalling. Certainly someone would remember if she made up a new maiden’s name.

  “You aren’t Katharine,” James Wellington said. “Her eyes are too dark, Richard, and of course my brother’s wife would be two decades older. But—”

  Richard pointed to her open neckline. “She has the Wellington crest on her locket.”

  “Where did you get that?” James nearly grabbed the silver oval, but a look from Henry stopped his advance in midair.

  A commotion back at the table told Dory that Ewan wasn’t yet ready to let her play her part on her own. She sighed softly. Something had to be done and apparently she looked too much like her mother to hide in an alias.

  “I was born at sea, sir.”

  Richard gasped.

  “My mother died soon after. She left me this locket.” She wedged her nail in the crack and opened. “It holds a likeness of her.”

  “It’s Katharine! She’s a Wellington!” Richard cried, and the whole room erupted in murmurs. “As if from the grave.”

  Several gasps followed.

  “As I said before, my wife is no ghost,” Ewan nearly snarled. The armed men in the doorway took a step forward.

  Thunder boomed overhead, causing a few squeaks among the ladies. Dory breathed evenly to rein in her powers. Ewan couldn’t possibly know that she was the cause. Bloody hell! She needed to control herself.

  William Spencer walked into the room and his eyes widened as he surveyed her in full court apparel like her mother would have worn. Apparently he was another who had known Katharine.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, her voice carrying, yet femininely weak. “Do you know who I am then?” She leaned a little heavier on the king’s arm. “I’ve wondered my entire life.”

  With that she let her knees, beneath the heavy skirts, buckle.

  “She swoons!” Henry called and tried to break her fall, but she felt the pain in his leg as he twisted toward her and knew he would drop her. There was no helping it now. In less than a heartbeat she squeezed her eyes, expecting the bruising pain when her hip hit the stone floor.

  “Dory.” She heard Ewan’s whisper as he caught her beneath her arms.

  “I have the lady,” Henry said, a note of warning under his breath.

  “I have my wife,” Ewan countered and hauled her up against him. Before she could even smother a gasp, he lifted her under the knees. She let her head droop against his chest, her heart beating hard like cannon fire.

  “She’s Katharine’s child, she must be,” Richard said.

  “Katharine died at sea with the child she carried,” James Wellington insisted.

  “Her body wasn’t recovered. Perhaps she birthed the baby first. She has Katharine’s locket,” William Spencer said.

  “I’m taking my wife to our rooms.” Ewan’s strong voice sliced through the conjectures. Thank the stars; she certainly needed to get away from all this. Even though she’d known about her mother, she had no idea people would react so strongly.

  Ewan strode out of the hall, clutching her close to his chest so that only her long skirts brushed the wall as he passed. What drama! Dory would have laughed over the spectacle if she weren’t in a swoon. She quivered and Ewan’s arms tightened around her.

  “Are ye awake?” Ewan whispered.

  She gave the briefest of nods against him and sensed his muscles relax, his breathing slow. Had he worried about her?

  Down the hall he walked, his boots and those of another, probably Searc, clipping along the stone floor. Dory felt his muscles tighten around her, the glorious strength in his step while easily carrying her weight. He pushed into their room and lowered her atop the soft mattress.

  She opened her eyes.

  He stared down at her, lines wrinkling his forehead. “Ye are well? That was all a ruse?”

  Was it? She’d certainly felt dizzy.

  “Of course it was,” she answered and folded her hands across her cinched waist, smiling.

  Ewan didn’t look convinced, but finally shook his head.

  “Completely complicated,” he murmured and turned to Searc to rattle off a long string of Gaelic.

  Searc answered, gave her a brief smile, and left.

  “Where is he going?”

  Ewan poked at the fire to light it again. “To the stables to see what he can find out about yer uncle.”

  She nodded. “I have an uncle.” Though not by blood.

  Ewan turned from the hearth. “So far I’ve confirmed that your mother was a Mereworth before she married John Wellington. With luck, no one knows that Boswell was the one to sire you.”

  “A bastard and daughter of a traitor.” She sighed. It didn’t look like she’d have a good life in England. Once she figured out how to free Captain Bart and Will from the Tower, she’d go back to the Queen Siren. That was her home. Where she belonged, and would be safe. Why, then, did her chest hurt as if she held her breath?

  Ewan sat down next to her where she’d moved to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “We are not our parents,” he said and stared straight ahead. “We make our own choices and control our own actions.” He shifted his gaze without moving his head. “Besides, now ye are Dory Brody.”

  A little laugh came from her and she huffed. “And how
is Dory Brody going to get two pirates out of the Tower?”

  Ewan turned his face toward her. He took a long breath, his eyes softening. “I suppose they are yer only family, aren’t they?”

  “The only ones that matter.”

  His eyes were concerned. The scar on his forehead stood out under the short hair framing his strong features, and a small cleft sat in his chin. Would his children carry the same adorable divot?

  “I understand wanting to save family,” he said, those kind eyes hardening with his frown. “It eats at ye, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded. Had he scooted closer? He seemed only a lean away, one little push and she’d feel his lips on her own. A kiss—what would it hurt to have another kiss? Would it be as warm and delicious as the one at Wulfhall?

  She leaned in.

  He stood. Dory would surely have fallen on her face if she hadn’t planted her hands in front of her on the bed. Only then did it register in Dory’s head that someone was knocking on the door. Blast!

  “Who is it?” Ewan demanded.

  “Tilly, m’lord, sent by Lady Pembroke for the king to see how the sweet Pandora fares.”

  Ewan pulled the door open but held a short sword behind it. The tall, kind maid he’d hired to attend her stood there. She glanced in and smiled as if relieved when she saw Dory on the bed.

  Dory slid off and righted her skirts. “Please, Tilly, let the king know I am well, though tired from the shock of finding out I am a Wellington.”

  “She is a Brody now,” Ewan added.

  “I will tell m’lady and she will inform his majesty.” The maid bowed and turned back down the corridor.

  He shut the door and set his short sword by the bed.

  “You act as if we are in hostile territory,” Dory said and padded over to the growing flames to warm her hands.

  “Don’t doubt that we are, lass. The English court is full of venom. Ye either play the part smartly or ye get bitten.”

  “You’ve been here before?”