Tangled Hearts (5 page)

“But Meg inherited her healing magic from her mother, not Boswell.”

Ewan watched the windows along the side that Dory resided. “It glows like the same blue light, though.” He shook his head. “She must be related to Meg and your mother by blood in some way.”

“That would mean I’m related to the lass,” Searc commented.

“Aye,” Ewan said. “Best think of her as a sister then.”

…

Dory sunk low in the perfumed water. Never before had she felt something so luxurious. Warm, fresh water surrounded her in the small wooden tub. She leaned her damp head on the edge, letting her now-clean hair cascade to the floor to start drying on the white linen at the base of the tub. She’d bathed daily on board ship, but that had usually entailed a swim in the cold ocean or a sponge bath with captured rainwater. Once when she’d been ill, before she knew what her magic could do, Captain Bart had wiped her down with warmed water when she couldn’t stop shaking from the chills. But even that hadn’t felt anything like this decadent treat.

“I may never emerge,” she whispered behind the screen she’d set before the warm hearth. Her new friend, Jane, was lucky indeed to be able to enjoy this upon request.

Dory slid the jasmine-scented soap, which had been supplied with the tub, over her arms. Tiny soap bubbles joined in little groups along the surface, broken only by the twin islands of her bent knees. One by one she lifted a leg and lavished it with sweet soap.

The bedchamber door opened. “Dory? Where are ye?”

“Ewan?” she squeaked and submerged until her chin touched the filmy surface. “I’m taking my bath.”

“Still? Ye’ve been in here an hour. What are ye doing?”

She couldn’t see his shadow because the fire threw light on the canvas screen. But his voice was close. “It takes time to wash long hair.”

She heard him sniff. “Smells like a blooming garden in here.”

“’Tis the soap. I like it.”

His boots clipped along the floor boards as he neared. Her gaze scanned the area around her tub, instinctively searching for a weapon. Blast! She was completely vulnerable.

“Do you need something?” she asked. The water was starting to cool and she’d have to get out soon. Her finger pads were wrinkled.

“Ye will need help dressing?”

“Not from you.” Her heart pounded and she inhaled deeply. The very thought of him helping her from the bath, in all her nakedness, brought the heat of the tub to her cheeks. “See if you can find a maid to help me.”

“I am yer husband, lass.”

Dory gasped as he stepped around the screen. “What are you…? Leave here!” She flicked her foot toward him, splashing him with a volley of perfumed water. She splayed hands over her barely covered breasts. Half an inch and they’d be exposed.

He laughed as he dodged the wave. “Is that the best ye have, lass?”

“You wouldn’t be laughing if I still had my blade.” She lifted her dripping arm from the water. His eyes seemed to run the naked limb’s length all the way to her shoulder. The laughter faded to a much more intense look. What he failed to notice was the bar of soap in her fist.

Wham
! The block hit him in his chest. By the devil! The man didn’t even flinch, and she’d used all her might. Although she was in a sitting position and couldn’t put her weight into it. She should have aimed for his forehead.

She glanced around but there were no further impromptu weapons nearby. She crossed her arms and waited to see what he’d do next. “I’m not getting out until you leave.”

He chuckled. “I suppose no mermaid wants to show her tail.” He frowned at the wet mark on his shirt, turned, and clipped back into the room. “I will change and wait for ye in the hall.”

She let out a long exhale and shivered in the cool water. Keeping her eyes on the edge of the screen and her ears piqued for movement, she stood. Water sluiced down her body and she grabbed the bath sheet, tucking it around her. She picked up the lovely smelling soap. A rich house like this wouldn’t miss a single bar. As she bent over, the long bath sheet tangled around her foot at the same moment the other foot hit the slippery spot where the soap had hit before it bounced.

Before she could even scream both legs flew out from under her, and her arms flew up as she fell on her backside, colliding with the canvas screen, and knocked it flat. Hair flung far and wide, Dory lay staring up at the high, beamed ceiling.

“Are ye all right?” Ewan asked, his footfalls announcing his run to the rescue.

She yanked the damp sheet up to cover her breasts before his face came into view over her. Had he seen her naked? How could he not have seen her naked?

“I’m fine,” she answered, her head tipped in order to see him. She knew her face flamed but refused to acknowledge it. She’d learned early on while living with a rowdy group of men that she couldn’t act embarrassed unless she wanted to be teased forever. If she ignored it, often they couldn’t tell she blushed at all.

“Ye look very red. Are ye sure ye’re well?”

So much for that tactic. Dory pushed up, clinging to the sheet, and stood. “I… I am…”

Ewan’s shirt was off. Muscles sculpted his chest into a perfect figure of a man full of hard-earned strength. Broad shoulders tapered to narrow hips where his trews slipped low, well below his navel. The shadows and lines of scars along the tanned skin added to the display, changing him from a mere chiseled man into a…

“Warrior,” she whispered.

“Warrior?” he repeated. His forehead creased slightly.

“Never mind,” she said and waved one hand. She glanced down and realized the thin material had molded itself to her damp form. She walked away, plucking at the bath sheet, and hoped it wasn’t sticking to her generous backside. Her curves had been a constant nuisance as she tried to blend in with the crew.

“Is it time for supper?” she asked and snatched up one of the dresses Jane had her maid bring. With all the hooks and tapes, she had no idea how she would cinch it up. “I need help to get into this.”

Ewan thankfully threw on a dry linen shirt. “I know enough about getting a lady out of her garments, I’m sure I can get ye into them.”

She snapped around, her tongue ready to call him the rogue he must be. The man stared, one eyebrow raised, waiting with a mischievous half grin. What a devil!

Was he trying to infuriate her? Instead of taking the bait, she matched his grin. “How fortunate.”

Dory padded toward the tub where the screen still lay flat. “If you would be so kind…”

“So shy, my bride.” He tsked and set the screen upright again. “Don’t slip on the drippings. Ye seem to have a penchant for finding yourself in dangerous positions.”

Dory let her forced smile drop as soon as she was behind the screen. She laid the gown over a tapestry-covered chair and swooped the cambric linen chemise over her head and let it slide down to her ankles. For a moment she wiggled in the soft material, finer than any undergarment she’d ever worn. Next came the quilted bodice and the stiff canvas stays. She combed through her curling hair with her fingers before emerging.

“Oh, dear husband.” She turned. “Could you please cinch me?”

His fingers were warm against the bare skin below her nape as he moved her heavy hair to one side. Nimble and strong, they laced and tightened as quickly as any maid.

“There.” His hands fell on her waist. “So small, lass. We need to see ye fed.”

She turned. Being the weakest had always been an annoyance of hers when she couldn’t lift nearly as much as the men on board. And the thinner she looked, the more her hips and breasts revealed her sex. “There is nothing wrong with my girth. On board we don’t eat sweets and candies, and as part of the crew, I carry my share of the work.”

“’Twas a compliment, lass.”

Lips pursed, she withdrew to the screen to pull on the forepart underskirt of a blue-green fustian. A damask, blue kirtle settled over the underskirt with an opening to show off the forepart’s needle-stitched design of flowers.

Bloody hell! There were too many layers to women’s costumes—just another trap to hinder women in a man’s world. She yanked up the sleeves and fastened them at the shoulder where a small roll of fustian hid the hooks. The waistband Jane had sent was made of a darker silk to match the threads in the forepart, where a little knife for stabbing food was linked to the band. It was only a few inches long, not lethal enough to be hidden in her dress. A cross, a small thimble, and a scented silver pomander of cloves clinked against it. She stepped out from the screen to look in the polished glass.

Her hair was still a mess of riotous curls, but the costume was beautiful. She could almost pass as a lady in it. She felt the hint of a stroke on her hair a moment before Ewan’s face came into view in the mirror. The grin was gone, replaced with something darker.

“Ye’ve lived with seamen yer whole life. How is it that ye haven’t been sold or taken?”

Not the flattering remark she deserved. Granted, Dory didn’t appreciate flowery talk and fake promises of love that the whores in port seemed to crave, but the man certainly didn’t know a thing about telling a girl she looked nice.

“If that was your attempt at complimenting a lady, you are bloody awful at it, Scotsman.”

“Ye look… lovelier than any lass I’ve seen,” Ewan said slowly. “Too lovely for an unprotected lass to be surrounded by pirates and not be taken or compromised.”

Compromised? Dory’s cheeks burned. “I have a very strong and protective family,” she said low. “And I’d slice anyone stem to stern if they touched me.” Compromised, indeed!

Rap! Rap!

Ewan pivoted toward the door. “Aye.”

“Supper will be served in the main hall in half an hour,” rang a servant’s voice through the door.

“We will attend,” Ewan answered.

Heels clipped down the corridor.

Dory stroked her hair with a brush and glanced at the light filtering in the narrow, paned window. She’d just have enough time to brush her hair and secure it under the ridiculous French hood that matched. Wouldn’t Captain Bart howl with laughter if he saw her? He’d tried to get her to wear the lady’s hood since she had grown into a woman, but Dory had always preferred a simple woolen cap over a long braid. And on the open sea, she wore men’s clothes—not these confining straps and skirts.

“Pandora…” Ewan started.

“Dory. Only Captain Bart calls me Pandora, and only when I’ve created a disaster.”

“The cursed box of mischief does suit ye.”

She scrunched her face at him. “I know the legend. So does Captain Bart, and since I came with my own little box left by my mother, he named me after the gods’ first created woman. But I don’t appreciate the implications of the name.”

He grinned, though his eyes remained wary. “Dory then, I meant to tell ye before when I came in. I think the lady Jane is a royal. If what I heard is not just overconfident relatives, yer new friend could one day be Henry’s queen.”

“But he has a queen.”

“He threw off his first queen for Anne Boleyn. I don’t know how she stands in his affection. It is vastly known that the English king is not loyal to one woman.”

“Loyalty is everything, in a crew, in a family, and especially in a king for the good of his country. How could a man turn on his wife?”

Ewan’s grin slid into a frown, the light dimming in his eyes. He shook his head with a brief jerk. “I don’t know, but it happens.” His shoulders tensed and he paced across the room. “But if Henry sets his heart on Jane, she could help ye win yer family’s freedom.”

Dory’s fingers bent the hairpin she’d been holding. Could she be so lucky? She stared in the polished glass as the opposite side of luck’s wheel struck her. If the poor woman couldn’t give King Henry VIII a legitimate heir once he married her, by the devil, what would happen to her?

Chapter Four

13 October of the Year our Lord God, 1517

My dearest Katharine,

The Scots and the French are talking alliances again which drives Henry mad. He will be only thinking of war and heirs, not assassins. Wait for my signal and deliver it to our contact. Soon the Tudors will be no more.

Your ever lasing love,

Rowland

“Your cargo smells most foul.” The Seymour named Thomas spoke from far down the table that still held the remains of a five-course supper. “Who is the unlucky bloke?”

Though the man spoke to Ewan, Thomas’s eyes watched Dory continually. Bloody Englishman, thought he could trifle with my wife. Not that she was his wife, but the Englishman thought she was. Did he think Ewan couldn’t see? There were a multitude of lit candles and oil lamps filling the richly dressed room with light.

“A traitor to yer king,” Ewan said with more force than was required with the thick tapestries and portraits muffling the sounds in the manor. All eyes turned toward him, including a set of gray that looked like storm clouds tinged with the blue hue in her gown. The rich fabrics and fashionable design suited her, though she’d probably prefer to wear sailor’s trousers.

“His name?” the other brother, a serious man named Edward, asked.

“Rowland Boswell of Rosewood Manor,” Ewan answered and took a bite of the candied plums. A few gold-tipped curls framed Dory’s face, having escaped her hood. As she bent, one brushed along her smooth cheek.

“Boswell. Hmm… I knew the man. Ran in various circles at court,” Edward said. “Beady-eyed, thin.”

Ewan nodded. It was good that they’d decided to keep Dory’s relationship with Boswell quiet. He watched her stab her meat, the point scraping the plate. She mumbled an apology and Jane smiled at her. For all her beauty, Dory looked about as comfortable as a sheered lamb with a rash.

“You will want to be on your way soon then,” Thomas said. “To deliver the body before he completely turns to mush.”

“Thomas,” Jane chided. She pressed a napkin to her lips as if his statement had soured her stomach. “Not for the table, please.”

“We will leave on the morrow,” Ewan said and watched Dory imitate the napkin press to her lips. Smart lass. She watched Jane’s every move and practiced. Goblet up, silent sip, goblet down, gentle wipe of the lips.

“So soon?” Jane asked, her eyes wide. She glanced at Dory who smiled at her with a little nod. Jane seemed to relax. Could Dory truly help the woman with the herbal drink? Or would she use her magic? It certainly could turn her suicide mission into something plausible if she befriended someone who had the king’s attention.

“Before we leave,” Dory said timidly. She was definitely playing a role. “Perhaps my lady Jane could show me the beautifully maintained gardens here at Wulfhall.”

“Certainly,” Jane said with a genuine smile.

Thomas shrugged and sipped more wine, his scrutiny of Dory’s charms not yet sated.

Ewan’s hand fisted under the table. “I would love to see yer fine gardens as well,” he said. “I don’t often leave my lovely bride’s side.” He looked pointedly at Thomas. “I am rather jealous.”

“Aye,” Edward chimed in. “The Scots are a barbaric sort.”

Ewan smiled at the insult. “Aye, barbaric, hot headed, and quite lethal.”

“You would do best then to keep the lady Dory locked up while at court,” Thomas said with an acerbic chuckle.

…

“You will drink this everyday for a fortnight,” Dory whispered and handed a list of herbs and a small bladder of the remedy to Jane. “Make it fresh every other day. This is enough to get you going.”

They sat on a cold stone bench in a secluded alcove surrounded by the early spring roses. The sun was setting quickly, surrendering the world to shadows. Birds dipped among the blooming apple trees scattered on both sides of the pebbled walkway, chirping as they sought their nests.

Jane studied the list. “This will cause me to menstruate?”

Dory nodded, though that was only part of the woman’s problem. “Yes, but you must also use this paste. I learned it from a wise woman in the Caribbean islands.” She handed the wide-eyed lady a linen wrapped tightly around a paste of mashed cherries and flour. “Rub this on your abdomen at night and let it sit until it dries and cracks off. It will warm the womb and make it inhabitable.”

“I should use just what you have in here or do I need to make more?”

“This should be enough. It is powerful medicine.”

Jane nodded.

“Now,” Dory said, taking Jane’s hands, “I would have us pray together for the healing to be blessed by God.”

“Yes, for the love of England and his majesty, please let me conceive a healthy heir,” Jane whispered, her head bowed.

Dory glanced around to make certain they were alone. She couldn’t let Ewan catch her using magic or he might not help her in London. But she also couldn’t let this generous woman walk into danger when she could help her. Dory watched carefully to ascertain Jane’s eyes were closed and laid one palm flat on her back. Upon contact she sensed the woman’s dormant ovaries and blocked tubes. As she was, there would be no way for her to conceive. Dory had met a woman like this in port once, an aging woman who desperately wanted a baby.

Dory concentrated on the power she felt radiating out from the birthmark on her wrist. It tingled when her magic stretched through her whole body, warming her middle. Strange how people thought of her as having two separate powers when her magic really did the same thing, moved the smallest of bits. In the body the bits were parts of blood, flesh, or bone. In the air the bits were water or the tiniest specks of air.

She focused the power as a long line of blue light penetrating into the praying woman, through Jane’s back down into her abdomen, filling the ovaries with blue light and imagining the tubes open and healthy. Jane’s uterus felt normal, though thick with stagnation. Dory imagined it clean and ready to house a growing baby. She certainly couldn’t create life, but she could prime Jane’s body for growing it.

“What mischief are you about?”

Dory’s eyes snapped up to see Thomas Seymour striding close. He stared at her hand as she snatched it into the folds of her skirts.

“We were but praying, brother,” Jane answered smoothly. Dory felt her shove the remedies past her foot farther under the bench.

“I thought…” He pulled on his beard and rubbed his head. “A trick of the sunset, perhaps.”

“Aye, the sun can deceive the eye.” Ewan’s voice, from the other side of the alcove, brought Dory’s head around. His hard eyes bored into Thomas. Definitely hostile.

“Which is why I was recalling the ladies before the twilight made the garden paths uneasy,” Thomas countered with clipped politeness. He held out his arm and Jane stood dutifully.

“Don’t forget the fragrance I made for you,” Dory said and pressed the clay vial into her hand.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you for allowing us this evening at Wulfhall.” She looked at Thomas and retrieved the fertility paste. “Which is why I made the perfume and this mask for the skin. It makes it so very soft.”

“I had no idea you were so endowed, my lady,” Thomas said with genuine appreciation.

“My wife has a vast array of talents,” Ewan said. Even though it had been a compliment, his eyes narrowed at Dory. He obviously suspected her of using magic. Bloody hell, had he seen her hands glowing in the evening light?

They walked back together, two pairs linked arm in arm to the great hall where Jane and Thomas said goodnight. Either they went to bed remarkably early or they had family business that didn’t include entertaining near strangers.

Dory could tell Ewan’s head and neck ached, probably from the tension, as they walked slowly toward their room. “Are you… is something wrong?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said and her stomach knotted. “Seymour has been sniffing around ye far too much.”

“Sniffing?” She stopped at their closed door and drew in a breath. Maybe he wasn’t angry with her.

“Like a dog after a juicy bone.” He frowned. Barring her way, he glanced inside the room to ascertain that whatever could strike was not there. He stepped back, waiting.

“After ye,” he said.

He must be playing the part of husband or gallant knight. She’d never been treated so. Did women always walk into a room first? Captain Bart never let her be first or last, preferring her to stand between two loyal brutes.

Inside the fire was lit, giving the room a glow and warmth. She moved to the bed where several costumes were laid out.

“Jane bade me take the gowns,” she said, running her fingers along a satin ribbon. The woman had been very generous even though she said the gowns were last season and not to be missed. She’d even passed on two chemises and a night rail. Dory had never had such bright gowns, or a night rail. Captain Bart had made her wear a long tunic at night as soon as she started getting curves, but nothing as delicate as the white linen gown embroidered with rose buds. Will would probably laugh if he saw her in it, but it would feel lovely against the skin.

She turned and found Ewan staring at her. “Yes?”

He swallowed. “I… need to check on Searc. Tell him that we will leave just after breakfast. Ye took care of helping Jane?”

She nodded and held her breath. Would he ask her if she’d used magic? She’d lie of course, but the thought felt unpleasant. “Things will work much smoother now.”

He shook his head slowly, jaw tense. “I will leave ye to disrobe then. Do ye need help?”

The hooks and ties down the back would take forever on her own, and since he was a self-proclaimed expert at removing ladies from their clothing, she nodded.

“Yer frown is fierce,” he said as he twirled his finger for her to present her back. “And yer back is as stiff as my… sword.”

Did the man live in a world of euphemisms and innuendos? Or did he just like to make her blush? She didn’t flame up nearly as much with the raucous crew of the
Queen Siren
. Maybe because they’d become brothers and uncles to her.

“A wife doesn’t appreciate hearing that her husband knows all about getting a woman out of her skirts.”

He laughed and leaned closer. “We aren’t married,” he whispered, his breath warm on her neck. Shivers ran down her skin, making her shoulders pinch upwards.

“Doesn’t matter,” she snapped and walked out of his reach once his fingers reached the bottom.

“How doesn’t that matter? We aren’t—”

“Don’t you have horses and Searc to see to?”

Dory moved behind the screen. She sat on the edge of the chair and after a long pause, she heard the door shut and let her shoulders slump. One by one she plucked the hooks that held her sleeves up and let them slide down her arms.

Ewan Brody. What was it that made her so irritated when he was around? Yet she didn’t want to seem lacking in his eyes. Will teased her, too, yet she let his jabs roll off. Something about the Highlander made his opinions stick.

Dory groaned and laid her forehead on her knees. She cared what he thought of her. Blast!

…

Ewan walked through the evening air toward the barns to check on Searc before bunking down somewhere. Something was bothering the lass… Not that he should really care. She was a pirate, although she’d definitely made a point before—weren’t they all pirates to survive in this world? And she was a witch, although she went to mass and prayed to God; not some fire-dancing demon. His jaw ached from frowning.

“That bad?” Searc asked from his corner of a paddock of hay where he’d laid out his plaid. “Perhaps you’d like to switch places with me and keep Boswell company.”

Ewan inhaled, his lips curling back at the stench of rotting flesh.

“It seems he’s scared off all the other stable hands,” Searc said. Even the cat had gone, probably hunting. Maggie, his dog, stayed by his side.

What a loyal companion. Maybe he should find a dog. “’Tis Dory. She seemed angry at me though I’m not sure why.”

“Did you mention her girth?”

“I did mention that she should eat more and she did seem upset by that.” Could she be that sensitive?

Searc shook his head and groaned. “Did you not just tell me to stay away from the topic?”

Ewan stood, stretching his shoulders. “So now the student is trying to teach the master.”

“Master? I hope you didn’t call yourself that in front of her,” Searc said. “I might be young compared to you, but even I know lasses don’t like that talk.”

Ewan shook his head. “It’s bloody not important. We will see her to London, find her a decent place to stay, and get her an audience with King Henry. But that’s it. We need to get back to Scotland before Henry and James decide to war officially and we end up prisoners in this damnable hot country.”

“Aye, I think I will always smell rotting flesh now when I think of England.”

“With Boswell’s stench, everyone should keep far away from here tonight. Sleep. We leave just after dawn when it is polite to say farewell to the lady, Jane.”

Ewan walked back toward their room. It was a comfortable room that didn’t smell like a rotting corpse. In contrast it smelled like a flower garden, and it made perfect sense to sleep in it even if Dory didn’t seem inclined to share.