Devil May Care Read online

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.

  He rounded a corner and nearly ran a maid down.

  “Pardon, m’lord,” she said on a gasp and blinked her almond-shaped eyes at him. She was quite bonny, curvy with her hair caught beneath a white servant’s bonnet.

  “’Twas my fault, lass,” Ewan said and watched her smile. The sparkle in her eyes as her gaze took him in gave her a mischievous look. Och, but she was ripe for plucking. Searc’s words about guarding the English lasses from his prowess made him smile. Perhaps a quick tupping was what he needed to stop him from thinking so much about the crazy woman right now in his room. “What’s yer name, lass?”

  “Charlotte.” She giggled and something about the sound irritated him.

  He smiled anyway. Perhaps he was tired from the ride south. “Well, Charlotte. Thank ye for a lovely bump in the hallway.”

  She giggled again, and he bowed his head slightly and walked on.

  Ewan stepped just inside the room and closed the door silently behind him. Dory slept, her long hair spread across a pillow, and he watched the gentle rhythm of her breaths. Even with uncertainty and intrigue the lass was able to surrender to comfort. Did she ever have nightmares?

  He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked to the fire and removed his boots, then unlaced his shirt while staring at the flames. Despite the luxury, he’d rather be sleeping under the stars than under an English roof.

  The whisper of a bare foot on wood threw him into action. He pivoted, catching her thin wrist and wrenched the small blade from her fist. He whipped the knife away from them and it clattering against the hearth stone.

  A gasp. The fresh scent of jasmine and spearmint on warm breath. The soft contours of a woman. Dory. He forced his muscles to relax, but didn’t release her.

  “It’s not wise to sneak up on me,” he said, his voice rough, severe. “I forget about being polite then.”

  “I see that,” she whispered back, and swallowed. She wore a thin white ankle-length gown with rosebuds enticin
g a glance at the dipped neckline. He let his gaze slide down her body, pausing on the dark contrast of her breasts, all the way to where her little toes curled upon one another.

  “I didn’t know ye acquired a new weapon, wife.”

  “I’m not your wife,” she spit like a kitten caught by the tail and struggled to escape his grasp.

  “That doesn’t matter.” He used her same words from before on her.

  “You devil!” She yanked her arms, trying to break loose. He caught sight of a brown shape on the back of her wrist. In the soft glow of the fire it looked like a dragonfly. His breath hitched as he recalled the dragonfly birthmark on Meg. Rachel Munro said she had one, too.

  She had to be related somehow, but now wasn’t the time for that round of questioning. “Why’d ye attack me?” he asked instead.

  “You impotent bastard of a dandy with the clap and a pock-marked whore,” she seethed.

  When she stared defiantly, he released his grip on her arms and she moved instantly away. The fire shone bright behind her, making the silhouette of her legs apparent through her night rail.

  “You must be prepared when we go to court,” she defended.

  “In my own rooms?”

  “Captain Bart’s been attacked in his own rooms.” She nodded. “You must always be ready, else one day you’ll find a blade pierced through your throat.”

  “Ye have a very warrior-like attitude for a lass.”

  “I was raised aboard a pirate ship.”

  “Again, how did ye survive that exactly?”

  She walked back to the bed where he’d thought she’d been sleeping. “I made myself useful.”

  Useful? How would a woman be useful on a ship unless she was on her back? The thought gripped his gut so tight he nearly grabbed it. Useful! The word shot hot fury through his blood.

  “Useful how?” he managed to grit out, his voice controlled.

  She perched on the end of the bed so her legs dangled, not quite hitting the floor. She flipped her hand. “I’m a talented climber.”

  “Climber?” Was that some sexual term he wasn’t aware of? Though, he probably knew them all. He’d even invented a few of his own.