Tangled Hearts (7 page)

“Skee… an…dew,” she repeated, her brows furrowed.

“It’s smaller than a dagger, made to be concealed, lethal to throw.”

“It fits my hand.”

“It’s called ‘black’ in Gaelic,” he said.

“Because the handle’s black?”

He shook his head, his lips tight. “It’s easily hidden on a person, a person with black intent.”

She gave him a little glare. “Perhaps my intentions are black. ’Tis a good blade for me.”

He headed to the door and tapped the bar with his fist. “Lower it when I leave. Only open the door for the servants with the tub and me. Don’t trust anyone.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

Ewan closed the door and waited in the corridor for the bar to drop. “Dory, bar the door or ye won’t be having yer warm bath.”

The thick oak muffled a curse and he heard a thump. The other slipper. He grinned. “That wasn’t the bar.” Another colorful curse penetrated the door, but he finally heard the heavy bar fall into place. He may never get back in there, but at least she’d be safe. For now.

Chapter Five

26 November of the Year our Lord God, 1517

My dearest Katharine,

I caught Isabelle at my desk yesterday. She’s been punished for her impudence and will not be walking the halls for at least a week. For all her meekness, she has a stubborn heart. She spends her days doting on the babe but I see vengeance in her eyes. I have her family ring so she is of no use anymore.

I hear Henry is planning the Yuletide celebrations. Find out where he plans to stay and hunt. The forest gives easy cover.

Your everlasting love,

Rowland

“You’re the loveliest lady at this house, I do think.” Tilly, the maid Ewan had sent with the bath, looked over Dory’s shoulder in the polished glass. The woman was well versed in every detail of a woman’s dress. She’d cinched and tied and fluffed every inch of Dory’s costume.

Dory turned this way and that to survey the effects of proper fitting and hair weaving. She wore another blue creation from Jane, but this one displayed roses in the fine gold stitching along the bodice. The soft chemise underneath poked just above the satin ribbon along the low neck line. The stays underneath pushed the swell of her breasts upward where the lace teased along her skin. The locket that Dory wore on a chain lay exposed in this low-cut costume. It was her only piece of jewelry, and rested just above her ample bosom.

“Aye, lovely,” Tilly said, hands on her hips. She frowned. “Stay close to your husband, m’lady, else some blackguard pulls you into the shadows.”

Dory nodded. “Thank you for your help. I would pay you for your services—”

Tilly held up a hand. “Master Brody paid me in advance. I will come back in the morning.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips at the idea of having to repay Ewan. “Would you happen to know if my other costume could be cleaned and dried?” She indicated the gown folded over the chair by the fire.

Tilly scooped it up. “I will see it done.” She held it out and surveyed the mud splatters, then whisked out of the room with a farewell. Almost as soon as the door closed, it opened again.

“Yes, Tilly?” Dory turned, her skirts flaring out in a soft wave of damask. Her breath caught.

“The door wasn’t barred,” Ewan said but his rebuke seemed to trail off.

“Tilly just left.”

“Tilly?” he asked, his face blank.

“The maid you sent? I have the coin to repay you. Thank you for sending her.” She smoothed her hands down her costume and turned in a circle.

“Certainly,” he said with an appreciative smile that sent a flood of heat to her face. Her heart pounded beneath her skin and she inhaled fully, making Ewan’s gaze drop to the much revealed expanse of skin above the neckline.

“Do I fit the part?” she asked.

Ewan’s eyes trailed over the entire costume to end back at her face. “Aye. But they,” he tipped his frown toward her breasts, “do not seem to fit.”

She glanced down. “Tilly assured me that all the ladies expose such skin.” She returned his frown.

“Perhaps ye will be sick this evening.”

“Not after spending an hour getting into this and having my head stabbed while she pinned my hair. After all that, someone is bloody hell going to see me!”

“I see ye,” he said and trailed another glance down her length.

Dory ignored the flush his perusal had sparked and grabbed the small matching jacket on her way toward the door. Ewan caught up and tucked her hand into his arm as they strode along the corridor.

The grand hall was long and large enough for three narrow tables with space between for the serving help to carry platters and pitchers about the room. Windows along the wall were paned with glass and reflected the gaiety. The sun had gone down hours ago and the large hearths at either end were lit to ward off the chill of early spring. Hundreds of candles sat in circular chandeliers and sparkled as if alive with stars.

Searc met them at the entrance wearing a new shirt, and looked quite handsome. King Henry’s guests turned toward them as they entered, and she was grateful for Ewan’s strong arm. Though she’d never admit it.

Ewan strode confidently across the polished floor as minstrels played in the corner and a low level of polite conversation cocooned the hall away from the night surrounding it. A cultured chuckle of laughter punctuated the murmurs. Were they laughing at her? Could they tell that she didn’t belong here?

Dory swallowed and slowed her gait. Ewan frowned and bent to her ear. “Do ye wish to go back to the room?”

“I could escort ye back,” Searc suggested.

“Nay, I will,” Ewan insisted.

She shook her head, feeling a loose curl tickle along her bared neckline. It was all she could do not to tug on the embroidered chemise to cover more of her chest. The devil! She’d rather jump into a school of sharks, but she wouldn’t be a coward and run.

Ewan and Searc procured three spots on the low end of the table, below the salt cellar in the middle that marked the hierarchy at court. They were just above servants but still permitted to dine, though Dory doubted she’d be able to eat much with her nerves flipping her stomach. She forced herself to breathe long, even exchanges, and sat with the dignity of a true lady.
I’ve played a whore before. I can play a lady.

A trumpet blew somewhere in the castle, and Dory almost dropped her spoon in the venison stew. She gripped it hard. A scraping of chairs echoed in the hall and Ewan helped her stand.

“Put the spoon down,” he whispered.

She almost threw it back in the soup. She glanced sideways—every head was bowed except the one belonging to a man standing at the very top, a man staring directly at her.

Caught! Dory dropped her chin. The red-haired, bulky man bedecked in velvets and jewels could only be one person.

“His majesty, king of all England, France, and Ireland, King Henry!” a liveried man near the door called out.

“Sit. Eat. Make merry,” the king called, which heralded another scraping of chairs as courtiers resumed their seats, though the conversation came back in hushed tones.

This didn’t sound like any “making merry” that Dory knew. There was no drum to accompany a foot-stomping rhythm of the lute. No half-sodden dancers leapt up to take turns showing their fancy footwork amid a chorus of good-hearted jeers. She released a sigh as her heart sank a bit and sipped at the cool wine.

“Ye’re not eating,” Ewan said close to her ear.

No she wasn’t. She missed her family so much it hurt. Perhaps she should feign sickness. She moved the spoon to her mouth and sipped the heavily seasoned broth like the lady across from her. A servant filled her goblet with wine and she drank it quickly. She needed a little lightness to help her through dinner.

“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.