Devil May Care

by Unknown

  “Good morn, lass,” he drawled and gifted her with another kiss. “Time to rise.”

  She leaned in to him as he tried to turn away. “I’m sure I can make you rise,” she said. He laughed and rolled out of bed.

  “Ye already have.”

  “Come back to bed then,” she said and wiggled down in the sheets that still held their scent. She felt every little ache from their night of play. “The world can wait.”

  “Och, ye’re a temptress.” He shoved into his trews and brought the remains of the bread and cheese from the night before.

  As he bent in, she watched the muscles of his arms and shoulders cord, as if they readied themselves for the weight of his sword. Her mouth went dry and she reached for the water cup. How was it that just looking at him made her insides quiver? And the scars. They just about made her beg to lick them again like last night, tasting his prowess, his warrior’s might. Just thinking about them made her ache.

  “If you aren’t coming back to bed, put your blasted shirt on,” she growled and rolled out on the other side. She had to put some distance between them.

  “Och lass, ye need to do the same.”

  She smiled at the anguish on his face. Each step reminded her of the night before, keeping her smile in place as she shrugged into a clean chemise and found a day costume that would do.

  “I’ll check on the wee one and Tilly,” he said and kissed her quickly. Before he could turn, she grabbed his shirt, tugging him back for a longer, deeper farewell kiss. He had to adjust himself as he strode to the door.

  “Bloody English trews,” he cursed.

  She chuckled and ran a brush through the tangled mass of hair. The sun shot in with the dawn, and she sauntered over to the window. She smiled, a giddy flipping in her stomach, making it hard to breathe for a moment. Was that joy? Life was good, truly good. Maybe she should claim Ewan back. Wouldn’t that stop him from ever leaving her? Her smile faltered. Yes, she should claim him, and whatever it meant, it had to bind them even more. Could claiming be close to loving? Her heart leapt at the possibility.

  Dory’s glance caught the movement of a man in the gardens, pulling away her happy thoughts. He walked briskly away from two others who stood together in the corner by some tall bushes. Cromwell and O’Neil. They argued. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see the third man, but he was already gone. Stupid Cromwell. Didn’t he know that O’Neil was more than capable of murdering him there on the spot? Instead, the captain of her nightmares stood there, nodding as Cromwell gestured with his small hands.

  A soft rapping came at the door. “My Lady Brody?”

  Dory ushered Margery in. She set the girl’s tray of food down and gave her a gentle hug. “You slept well?”

  “Aye,” Margery replied and set about making the bed.

  Dory glanced out at the gardens, but they were empty. She paged through the copy of Boswell’s letters, trying to imagine what her father must have been like. He seemed completely enamored of her mother, but there was a sharp edge to some of his orders. He was detailed, intelligent, and cautious, though from what Ewan had said, he was the devil himself. How had he reacted when finding out his love and unborn child were gone?

  She sighed. Her hope of finding a kind, honorable family was completely squelched. She had her family on the Queen Siren, at least. James Wellington was her uncle, though he’d made no attempt to interact with her. Perhaps he thought she sought some of the family fortune. She didn’t, but more than the coins she took from Rosewood would be helpful so she could settle down somewhere. She wasn’t about to claim Boswell as her father, hoping to get any more of his money. She sighed and toyed with the corner of one letter. A few coins would be nice. Then she could have a lovely herb garden to tend. She’d always wanted to try that. And children of her own.

  Dory sat upright. Where had that thought come from? There were too many children in the world already. What type of children would come from her blood anyway? Her father was a traitor and her mother possibly, too. They were both adulterers, and she was a bastard. But Ewan’s child would be so special, so beautiful. She blushed.

  “Did Ewan tell you where he was headed?” she asked Margery.

  “To the training field to practice for the jousting tournament tomorrow.”

  “With swords and lances?” Dory asked, her pulse quickening. What if Ewan got hurt and she was stuck up in her room where she couldn’t heal him?

  “Tilly says they take it easier in training. Some even act weak so that others watching won’t know how strong they actually are. Does Lord Brody have much jousting experience?”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  …

  Ewan swung his blade, catching the breeze and slicing it through, his arms moving with skillful rhythm. Och but it felt good to train again. At Druim warriors devoted hours each day practicing battle moves, almost like dances, but much more deadly. The heft of the two-handed claymore required a different movement and only certain warriors had the strength to perform well with the weapon. He’d brought the long, honed blade as well as his regular battle sword. He planned to run through his exercises with both of them and then ride Gaoth with the lance. Although Highlanders didn’t joust for frivolity, they still practiced riding into battle with a lance. The tournament didn’t worry Ewan—he relished the chance to kill O’Neil. The bastard deserved to die.

  Ewan hefted the claymore, letting it fall with guiding muscles and spun to thrust it into an unsuspecting foe. His gaze settled in the distance on the bastard pirate captain as he returned the stare. O’Neil raised his hands in mock applause and spun to take up his cutlass. Aye, the devil would die.

  “You are going to kill the bastard?”

  Ewan spun, his sword at the ready. James Wellington stepped back, sleek eyebrows raised at the defensive threat. “Ho there, I’m unarmed.”

  Ewan lowered the tip. “’Tis dangerous to sneak up on a warrior in training.”

  “I wasn’t sneaking.” James laughed. “You were engrossed with staring down the pirate who wants my niece.”

  “I didn’t think ye claimed her as kin.”

  “As long as she doesn’t want more than the modest stipend I intend to give her from the family moneys, she can be my niece.” He lowered his voice and took a small step closer. “Though we both know she is not of my blood.”

  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 Katha
rine 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 in
to 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.