Devil May Care

by Unknown

  “Do you?” she asked the Scot as Ewan continued to disencumber himself of as much armor as he could. The shoulder plates and breast plate, the gauntlets. He threw them all toward Lawrence who was, by now, running to get away from the onslaught of metal. The audience laughed, unappreciative of the death that lurked in Ewan’s eyes. Searc handed Ewan the sword Lawrence had abandoned.

  “Aye, it was cut just before he rode. He and Searc would have checked them prior for normal wear.”

  Dory felt the twist of her power, pushing against her middle, waiting for her release with a breath. But O’Neil was a moving target and her logical mind bristled with warning. She’d likely kill Ewan too at such a distance and possibly everyone else, especially those encased in metal. She wanted to scream.

  O’Neil charged back across the field, his sword ready to strike. Wind picked up the dust, funneling it at his face. The sound of the thunder overhead and the hooves drowned out all the extra noise around her.

  A touch on her arm at her wrist, where the dragonfly mark stood, caught her attention. The Scot swore and stood behind her.

  “Say Amen, now,” he ordered low. “Now.”

  O’Neil had escaped the onslaught of dirt and added his own helmet to the littered field. His sweaty hair hung around his sneer as he swung at Ewan from atop his horse.

  “Amen,” she whispered.

  “Loud,” he gritted.

  “Amen!” she shouted, cringing as Ewan blocked the downward slice. Good Lord! He had no shield. Searc had run back into the stables, probably looking for it.

  “Now pray,” the Scot demanded and nudged her.

  She pointed her fingers together in prayer. “God, please save Ewan.”

  “He’s actually doing quite well all on his own,” the Scot said, his voice less tense though still wary. “It’s a good thing he was trained by the best.” It was a boast.

  She spared him just a glance. “Are you a cousin of Ewan’s?”

  “More like a brother.”

  The Scot certainly looked as large as Ewan, or perhaps the Highlands built all their men like mountains.

  “What is your name?”

  The Scot tipped his head. “Caden Macbain of Druim.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be having a baby any day now?”

  The hint of a grin relaxed his face. “My wee wife says it will be some time yet.”

  Dory turned back to the field just in time to see O’Neil wield his horse around for another run at Ewan. The pirate laughed.

  “Bloody bastard,” Dory whispered.

  Caden leaned toward her ear. “Ye are being watched closely, lass. What is yer name?”

  “Dory.”

  Ewan followed O’Neil with his body and gaze. The trumpeter kept repeating his call. “The devil won’t stop, he wants him dead,” she whispered.

  “I’d wager the desire is mutual.”

  Dory wanted to shake the Scot for not understanding the seriousness of this. “He’s not on his horse. It isn’t fair.”

  “War isn’t fair. It just is.”

  Dory huffed and gripped the fence. Ewan had evaded the trampling hooves once more and fought from the ground. Caden’s heavy hand fell on her shoulder, a silent command to wait and see, but she could barely stand still. She clung to the fence with her fingers, holding her weak legs under her. What if he died? Her heart beat so fast it shook. Or was that her hands? It was all she could do to keep her magic from bringing on a monsoon. She kept it primed, ready to pierce, but knew that it was a last resort.

  Again O’Neil raced toward Ewan. The trumpeter seemed to have given up. Dory glanced at the royal stand, but only Jane sat with her ladies, no king. Was he in the stables? Couldn’t he demand a halt? Or did the tyrant enjoy the unfair sport like a Caesar watching a gladiator chewed on by lions?

  “The devil,” Dory said, not caring who heard her. Without obvious warning, O’Neil pushed forward toward Ewan’s unguarded back, full momentum in his swing. Ewan stood still, his sword ready, listening, waiting.

  Dory stood frozen, unable to blink or turn away or gasp as the strike descended. Ewan raised his sword at the last moment on a swivel and duck that caught O’Neil under his arm where the armor gaped.

  A guttural howl shot out from the field as O’Neil let his horse carry him toward the stables.

  Caden snorted. “The combatant is no warrior.”

  “He’s a pirate,” Dory said. “The worst kind.”

  “There are different kinds?” he asked, but she didn’t answer.

  Ewan jogged over and picked up his discarded helmet. “Where are ye going, O’Neil?” he yelled, his words stark as those watching hushed. “Are ye creeping away like the coward ye are?”

  O’Neil turned his mount with his still-functioning hand. Ewan threw his sword to the dirt, just the helmet in his palm. “Do yer best, coward,” he taunted. “Or do ye only fight lasses and bairns?”

  “Taste my blade, you bloody bilge rat!” the man cursed.

  He leaned forward as Ewan tossed the helmet a foot in the air and caught it easily. Sweat and dirt caked his hair. Scrapes marked his face. O’Neil let out a fierce cry spiking a chill down Dory’s spine. He charged.

  Ewan stood his ground, the helmet the only thing in his hand.

  “Pick up your bloody sword,” she urged from the fence.

  “Ever read the bible, lass?” Caden asked. She didn’t answer, just watched. “The story of David and the giant?”

  O’Neil was three strides out when Ewan raised the helmet, pulled back, and snapped his arm, chucking the heavy metal visor at O’Neil’s head just before diving into a tumble out of the way. The projectile hit the pirate’s face.

  “Aye, Ewan never misses his mark,” his almost-brother said, a dark pride in his voice.

  The audience gasped as O’Neil tumbled off his charging horse. The draped stallion galloped around the ring to the stables. Ewan picked up his sword and advanced.

  O’Neil’s squire ran out with his cutlass. The bastard carried it everywhere, its rubies glittering out from the hilt. It promised blood for those who refused to kiss it. She’d seen children made to kiss it.

  “Strike him down before he rises,” Dory whispered.

  “He won’t do that,” her Scot’s shadow said.

  “He should.”

  “Too much honor flows in his veins, lass.”

  The clash of steel brought Dory’s gaze back around. Caden was right—Ewan had waited. Damn! Honorable often meant dead. She clenched her eyes shut. Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.

  She could tell that Ewan had been injured, probably internally from the slower strikes he took at O’Neil. Sweat dampened the hair at his temples, but his face remained detached, like a mask of strength.

  Caden’s features were tense and one touch of his hand told her his pulse had increased. Ewan must be hurt.

  O’Neil laughed flamboyantly as he danced around a more central Ewan. The fall seemed not to have harmed him overmuch, though a trickle of blood came from a cut on his brow and he continued to hold his injured right arm close. She knew he could fight with either. He wove and parried, yet at every hit Ewan’s sword rose to block him.

  It seemed like Ewan was making smaller and smaller movements. His muscles bunched under the linen of his shirt, and she scanned it for blood.

  “Caden?”

  “He’s conserving energy, lass.” Even with the explanation, Caden looked tense.

  “Can ye do more than whip up a wind?” he said in her ear.

  Ewan stepped forward unexpectedly, his blade faster, catching O’Neil’s ear.

  “Blast!” O’Neil yelled but couldn’t stop to investigate the damage. His right hand was useless and he fought with his left.

  “Yes, but deadly strikes are not accurate.” She let some of her magic bubble out into a series of thunder.

  A few ladies quit the field while others with extremely interested companions stayed, though they eyed the sky nervously.
/>   “Ye have healing powers, too?”

  She stared hard at him. “Get me to Ewan if he falls.”

  His lips tightened but he gave the briefest of nods, so brief she almost wondered if he had.

  Ewan stumbled, dropping and then picking up his sword in time to block O’Neil’s downward strike.

  “He’s weakening,” Dory said, worry paining her words.

  Caden made a noise in his throat. “He’s feigning.”

  “How do you know?” she asked and watched Ewan grimace as deflected another blow.

  “He’s fighting with his left arm.”

  “And he’s right-handed,” she breathed.

  O’Neil grunted with each strike and began to turn slower, just barely meeting Ewan’s sword. With a toss Ewan changed back to his right hand, and the battle’s tempo rose. Dory clasped her hands as Ewan beat down hard and quickly against O’Neil, cutting him here and there, almost teasing him with flashes of blade.

  “Blast,” Dory whispered. “What is he waiting for?”

  “A mistake.”

  The more tired O’Neil became, the louder he cursed colorful oaths that made women blush and men frown. Sweat caked O’Neil’s hair, dripping down his face as he met Ewan’s offense. And then… O’Neil tripped and Ewan thrust, skewering the pirate through his armor into his side. O’Neil crumpled into the dust.

  “Was it a mortal wound?” Dory asked and rose up onto the fence once more.

  The trumpeter blew, stopping Ewan from striking again. Damn honor.

  Ewan glanced her way, his gaze finding hers but then moving to Caden. Worry played about his eyes, perhaps for Caden’s wife. Dory felt Caden move and caught the slight shake of his head, which was enough to release Ewan’s stare to return to her. He wiped his forehead with his arm.

  Ewan stood removed while four squires ran out with a blanket looped around two poles to trot O’Neil off the field to the surgeon. The trumpeter blew and the remaining audience cheered. Ewan walked toward Gaoth, who stood with Searc, waiting on the other side of the field.

  A step before the horse, as if moving like lightning that wasn’t her own, an arrow shot from the sideline. Dory screamed as Ewan was lifted off the ground by the force, landing on his back, the arrow sticking from his chest.

  …

  He’d felt the punch of an arrow before, but never straight into his chest. He’d taken off the plate armor with its sharp edges and weight, but it wouldn’t have mattered. A long bow beat armor any time. All this flew through his mind as if time slowed. His feet kicking out in front of him as he was lifted into the air.

  The landing hurt worse, the thud of his body on the hard dirt, the arrow tearing through his chest as the tip was slammed inside. He fought for consciousness as cold permeated his body, numbing him. Och, to die now… nay, not now, Dory needed him. He couldn’t abandon her. Faces appeared over his own. What were they saying?

  The face of an angel appeared in the narrowing circle of sight. Her lush red lips moved, tears sat in her gray eyes. A curl slid across her flushed cheek. Och how he wanted to touch it, to brush it back from her face and catch her tears. An angel should not need to weep.

  The angel closed her eyes and warmth flooded him. His breath hitched in his chest as the heat burned. Fire erupted, fire and burning as the arrow left his body. More heat. He tried to blink open but his lids felt stuck. The convoluted garble of sounds began to coalesce into words.

  “What is she doing?”

  “’Tis unholy.”

  “Her hands look blue!”

  Ewan shook away the unnatural sleep and opened his eyes. Dory swayed over him, crimson covering her hands and bodice. Someone gasped. “He lives! Holy Lord, she raised the dead!”

  “Act as if you’re dead,” Caden’s order came close to Ewan’s ear in Gaelic.

  Ewan’s heart slammed in his chest as Dory slumped across him, but he closed his eyes.

  “Stay still,” Caden ordered, and Dory’s weight was lifted from him. “A gurney!” Caden yelled. “My countryman’s been shot and his wife has swooned. Make way!”

  “My father and Donald are after the shooter.” Searc’s voice huffed like he’d been running. “Is he… ?”

  “Near death,” Caden finished in English. He switched to Gaelic and lowered his voice. “Sometimes it’s wiser to remain still than leap into battle.”

  “But I saw her do magic over him,” someone insisted off to the left. “Her hands, they turned blue over the wound. Check for the hole.”

  Ewan felt a blanket rest over his chest.

  “Fool,” Caden said. “I saw nothing of that. A trick of the sun, perhaps. He is injured. Let us get him to a surgeon. I have his wife.”

  Several hands pushed and rolled Ewan onto a stretcher as he concentrated on being deadweight despite his impulse to leap up and carry Dory to safety. He wanted to hold her against him, reassure her he was whole thanks to her, support her while she recovered. And tell her once again that he loved her, this time in English so she could understand him. But they were being watched, judged, and her best chance for survival and escape was for him to remain shot through.

  Who the bloody hell had shot him? One of O’Neil’s crewmates? Someone assigned by Henry himself? James Wellington? The possibilities were many, but right now none of that mattered. Only seeing Dory out of there safely mattered.

  Pebbles crunched underfoot as several men carried his weight.

  “This way,” Caden called from up ahead.

  “Hold there,” came another authoritative voice and the men slowed. Bloody hell! Cromwell.

  “I must get my countryman to the surgeon,” Caden said, his low voice a warning flag. “This way,” he insisted.

  “I wish to see the wound,” Cromwell said.

  “There is no time,” Searc said.

  More footfalls thumped around him.

  “Blast, is he dead?” It sounded like Gavin’s voice. How many Highlanders were there with Caden?

  “His chest is rising.” That was definitely Donald.

  “Enough,” Caden ordered in Gaelic.

  “Lower him and open his shirt,” Cromwell ordered and immediately the men lowered Ewan to the ground. Bloody hell!

  “Are ye trying to kill him, man?” Caden growled. “We need to get him away. He’s been shot!”

  “I am not just a man,” Cromwell said slowly, viciously. “I hold the power of the king and I demand to see this man’s chest. Now.”

  Caden swore loud in Gaelic and Ewan felt his sword placed alongside his arm. It was a silent signal to be ready, but he had no idea what exactly would be waiting for him once he opened his eyes.

  Ewan groaned and squeezed his eyes, blinking.

  “He wakes!” one of the carriers called out.

  “What… what happened?” Ewan asked as he took in the faces of Englishmen, guards actually, surrounding him. Caden had stepped back, still holding Dory against his chest. He had to get her out of there.

  “You were shot straight through,” the man beside a frowning Cromwell answered.

  Ewan met Caden’s gaze. “Siuthadaibh,” he said. “Searc knows where to go,” he finished in Gaelic and glanced at the lad who had already started fading into the crowd. He nodded to Ewan. Good lad. He’d make sure Caden knew how to get Dory to Captain Bart. Ewan had given Searc the address where her father and Will were staying while in the stables before the tournament.

  “Check his chest,” Cromwell said and a man drew the blanket off Ewan. The breeze felt cold with the blood-soaked shirt clinging to his body. A frayed hole sat in the center over Ewan’s heart. Och, it had been a mortal wound. Dory really had brought him back from the edge of death. She’d risked everything in front of everyone to save him. He wouldn’t let her pay for it with her own life.

  “Siuthadaibh,” Ewan urged them to leave again and pretended to double over in pain. His hand reached under the blanket bunched at his side for his sword. The firm, rounded pommel fit into his palm. He slid his
hand down to the grip, the hilt a perfect, familiar weight. He waited. Caden met his gaze and gave him a brief nod before blending away into the surrounding throng as Ewan groaned again.

  “Show your chest,” Cromwell demanded.

  Bloody hell! Ewan knew, even without looking beneath his shirt, that his chest was whole. Dory would be blamed and he’d be arrested, all because he was still breathing.

  Cromwell nodded to two guards who moved forward to grab Ewan’s arms. Before the guard could reach him, Ewan rose, his sword pulling free of the blanket. The crowd jumped back, gasping at the tell-tale blood soaking his shirt. Aye, he should be dead or at least completely unconscious and waiting for God’s angels—or the Devil—to take him away. But there he stood, his arm strong, his heart wild with the obvious danger.

  “Get back!” he ordered and the crowd widened, encircling him. Unfortunately the guards were listening to Cromwell’s orders instead of his and stepped forward.

  “Move aside!” A Scottish brogue beat from behind the rabble and Alec charged into the middle.

  “Bloody hell, Alec,” Ewan cursed in Gaelic. “Get out of here. They’re out for blood.”

  Before he could answer, Searc plowed his way inward as well, his own sword overhead. Screams mixed with cheers as the commoners flocked to watch the battle that had bled off the tournament field.

  “Searc wouldn’t leave you,” Alec said, his back against Ewan’s. “And I’ll be dead before I leave my son.”

  “Dory?” Ewan asked and surprised a too-close guard by nicking his shoulder. The man retreated, grabbing his arm where it bloodied his shirt.

  “On Gaoth with Caden to the address you told me,” Searc said in Gaelic. “Donald and Gavin follow.”

  “You should be, too,” Ewan said as the lad shuffled behind him, but the tightness of his stomach relaxed at the thought of Dory escaping.

  “Find the woman,” Cromwell called out as if he’d just realized she was no longer in the vicinity.

  Too late, Ewan thought and his jaw unclenched. Finally able to slough off his worry over her, he could now concentrate on the situation spiraling into a tangled mess before him. All that was left to do was get the hell out of there.

  Ewan’s gaze took in the eight guards surrounding them, a strategy forming with the details of his foes. Two overweight and already huffing for breath. One with a nicked shoulder who’d switched his sword to his non-dominant hand. Three with hesitant thrusts. One yelling for more help. And one before him that looked like the only one trained with a weapon.