Devil May Care Read online

  Ewan pulled back and she nearly lost her balance. She opened her eyes to find his blue orbs staring back into her own. They seemed darker, serious and deep like the ocean she loved and respected. For a moment he just stared as if he, too, needed a moment for the world to right itself. He leaned forward near her ear and kissed the spot on her neck just below it.

  “As lovely as I imagined,” he whispered. “I will see ye later, wife,” he called out and headed toward the door. “Do take care with yer bath. I will be back to escort ye to supper.”

  With that he left the room.

  Dory stood stunned, and a tremble ran through her as she swallowed and touched her lips. They felt full, warm. She turned to peer into the polished looking glass. Aye, she did look tussled, just like a girl reeling from her very first kiss.

  …

  Ewan paused in the corridor, his hand against the rough rock of the wall. He’d meant to steal the kiss from her, had wanted to since he’d watched her climb the dark stairwell at Rosewood. After tricking him into helping her, he deserved a kiss. Despite her biting words and glares, her beauty intrigued him, and he’d wanted to know what she tasted like. When he’d seen her golden brown hair in the light of day, he’d wanted to bury his face in it. And now he knew how silky those gentle waves felt slipping through his fingers.

  He swallowed. She tasted like warm, sultry woman, but more than that. She was wild adventure, free spirit, and clever wit all rolled up into one exquisite package. He inhaled with smooth control. To talk about being wed with a lass should have sent off a battle cry in his mind. Instead he’d bantered about it. Bloody hell!

  He ran a hand along his stubbled chin. What at first seemed like his deserved prize had turned into something dangerous. Instead of satisfying his curiosity, the damn kiss just made him want more. That was dangerous, because she was trouble. From head to toe, Pandora Wyatt or Rebecca Wellington or Dory Mereworth, she was beyond complicated and right into full on danger. And he’d just jested with her and then kissed her.

  So soft. She was the spawn of Boswell. Yielding. She was raised by pirates! Delicious. She wanted to break into the Tower! Tantalizing. She was a bloody witch!

  Ewan growled low and strode down the hall toward Wulfhall’s great hall that adjoined the entryway. He should make certain Searc was out of trouble. If anything happened to the lad, Rachel Munro would have his entrails for breakfast. Searc was her last surviving son and heir to the Munro clan. His father had suggested he accompany Ewan to give the lad some experience in the world. Then Rachel had taken Ewan aside and told him just what she’d do to him if her sixteen-year-old son gained too much experience.

  Ewan was about to round the corner and stopped.

  “We were quite right to send the moneys back to him. If we want her to be queen she cannot come across as a royal whore.”

  Ewan recognized the voice of the man who’d questioned him when Jane brought them home. Edward Seymour, her brother.

  “Of course not, but he is so volatile since he injured his leg and then Queen Anne lost a son. I swear but it shouldn’t take much more for him to rid himself of her.”

  “Sending the moneys back may just be the impetus to do it. Thomas, he knows now that Jane’s price is marriage, and that she’s certainly interested. I reviewed her return note.”

  “Oh, that our dear sister would give him an heir.”

  “I will certainly drink to that.”

  “And pray.”

  “No doubt.”

  Ewan turned silently back the way he’d come. He’d find another exit to the stables. His mind tucked away the important snatch of conversation. Not only were they in the home of English aristocrats, they were sitting among potential royals that may or may not have King Henry’s ear. If Dory helped the young Jane, she could win the gratitude of the most powerful man in the English realm. There may be no need to scale the Tower’s walls if what he’d heard was true and not some overly ambitious brother.

  He found Searc napping in a pile of hay in the stables with the tabby cat curled under one arm. The dog jumped up and trotted around Ewan while he petted her. Ewan kicked the lad’s boot. Searc opened one eye and closed it again.

  “Since we seem to be here for the night and I’ve been demoted to stable boy,” the lad said, “I figured I’d catch up on the sleep I missed last night.”

  “Rest, but be ready to leave.”

  Searc opened his eyes. “Something amiss?”

  Ewan looked back toward the large manor house. “It seems we’ve fallen into a nest of English royal hopefuls. I don’t know if it means much for us, but it could be dangerous.”

  Searc sat up and glanced toward their horses. “I found a rock in Gaoth’s hoof, picked it out.”

  “Is he lame?” Ewan walked over to his stallion and ran a hand down his nose. He hadn’t been limping.

  Searc joined him there. “No, just rubbed red in the sole. It would be good if he could rest it tonight. Where is Dory?”

  Dory. Her name alone kicked Ewan’s stomach into a knot and rushed heat through his blood. “She’s bathing in the house. I think the woman planned to stay the night from the beginning.” He wouldn’t put it past her to manipulate their whole trip. She certainly wasn’t the weak lady in distress he’d originally thought.

  “The lass will feel better when she’s clean and rested. Maybe she won’t be so stubborn then. My mother is always more pleasant when she’s had a bath and a good night’s sleep.” Searc scratched the dog’s soft head. “I think I’ll call her Maggie, after a wee lass back home with fluffy hair.”

  Ewan raised one eyebrow. “I think being stubborn is in her blood.” He lowered his voice even though they spoke Gaelic. “What do you make of her magic?”

  “I’ve lived with magic all my life,” Searc answered, referring to his mother Rachel. “It doesn’t concern me. Are you afraid of the lass?” He grinned.

  “Nay! But before Meg I didn’t know it really existed. I’d heard rumors of your mother’s powers but thought they were exaggerated.”

  “’Tis common in women perhaps?” Searc asked.

  “Nay.” Ewan shook his head. “Most witch hunters create the charges they condemn people with. And Meg and Rachel don’t control the weather.”

  “If Meg’s father had actually been Boswell instead of Colin Macleod and she and Dory were half-sisters, there might be some connection,” Searc said.

  “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 h
er 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 fa
mily,” 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?”