by Unknown
“The lines up the sails. If one snapped in battle or storm, I could climb right up there even with the lines swaying. Most of the crew wouldn’t, being afraid to be thrown in the sea.”
“So ye weren’t…”
“Afraid? No. I can swim and… storms don’t frighten me.”
Afraid wasn’t what he was going to say and luckily she’d stopped him from finishing his question. Otherwise she’d probably be flinging something at him now. A shoe, another blade, a chair.
“I also played whore.”
“What?” Ewan shot upward.
“In port, if the men wanted to meet with a contact or just needed supplies, I would dress the part and go with them so the real whores would leave them alone. The women there have a certain code of ethics so they won’t intrude on another’s prize if she’s already won him.”
Ewan’s breathing came rapid, his body ready to battle, and it took several moments for her words to penetrate the rage numbing his brain to all but vengeance.
“’Twas why I was left behind when Captain Bart and Will were taken. Will kissed me farewell as if I worked there in port.”
“Who is this Will again?”
“A crew member. A good friend. He’s being held with Captain Bart in the Tower.”
He should probably esteem this Will’s quick thinking to save Dory, but his method was not appreciated. Ewan took a long, even breath.
“So,” he said and took a step closer to stand before Dory where she sat. The front of her dipped neckline showed the gentle slope of her collarbone. “So ye climb and ye play…” He just couldn’t say the word. “Ye can act.”
“I also cook stew and help sew the nets and of course…” She moved her hand above her head.
“Change the weather?” he guessed.
She nodded. “When needed. If there’s no wind or if a distraction is required, but I won’t do it here.”
“Yer ability could land ye and us in more trouble than it’s worth,” he reminded her.
She huffed. “I know, I know. I won’t break my side of the bargain as long as you don’t break yours.”
“I said I don’t abandon lasses.” He sat next to her. The fire crackled in the hearth across the room. “Ever send lightning bolts down?”
She couldn’t stop her grin. “Only at really bad ships.”
“Which ones are they?” He leaned back on his elbows and took in her beautiful features.
She turned her face away from him to look at the fire, but not before he caught the sudden muting of her spirit, a slight slumping of her shoulders. “The ones that profit from human suffering.”
“Doesn’t that fit the definition of all pirates?” He didn’t know what he wanted from the jab. But her fury was better than the sadness he’d glimpsed.
“There are different degrees of suffering,” she answered and climbed onto her knees to crawl back up to the top of the bed. She flipped the quilt over her legs. “The bed is amazingly comfortable,” she said as she wiggled and smoothed the blanket up to her ears.
“I’ll sleep by the fire.”
Her gaze found his, eyebrows pinched. “That would be foolish when you have a chance to sleep in luxury.”
She turned on her side facing the outer wall, dismissing him.
“Ye don’t mind if I share a bed with ye?”
“If you intend me harm, you could do it from the hearth nearly as easily.”
True, but strangely practical for a lass.
“Also,” she continued, her voice muted by the covers. “I sleep with a blade, and I can send you to hell with one lightning bolt.”
…
Ewan sat beside Dory on the wagon seat. The wind teased and dropped her curls around her face to dip inside the wool blanket at her shoulders. Her smooth cheeks were rosy from the chill in the damp air. Dark lashes framed curious, assessing eyes. Every blink was beautiful.
Searc led them into the bailey of Hampton Court where Henry VIII was in residence on the outskirts of London. The drizzle had continued all the way from Wulfhall and seemed to match the lass’s anxiousness.
“Gerald,” the older Englishman who met them called to a lad. “Take the wagon with its stench to the far back stables, and then see to their horses.” He studied Ewan. “You are from the Highlands?”
“Aye. Here as summoned by King Henry.”
He frowned but examined Ewan’s missive. “I will see about getting you on the king’s schedule.”
Dory stood in the seat. Ewan jumped down, rounded the horses, and caught her before she could fall face first into the mud. She gasped and he let her slide down until her new slippers touched the ground.
He held her close, savoring her softness against him. “Would the lady prefer to be carried?” he asked near her ear and inhaled the floral scent that clung to her ever since her bath at Wulfhall.
“Never,” she whispered.
“A lady wouldn’t want to dirty her slippers.”
“Blast,” she cursed. “Go ahead then.”
He chuckled as he hoisted her up against his chest, his arm under her knees, and strode across the bailey. Searc followed and let the cat leap out of his arms. It disappeared around the side of the large court house with the wagon and the dog.
They stepped into the dark entryway. Ewan’s eyes adjusted quickly to the low light given off by the wall sconces placed at regular intervals on the stone walls.
“No fear of mud here,” Dory said lightly with a forced smile. He took his time lowering her. As she stepped away, her heat was quickly replaced by cold, and he frowned.
“Your name, m’lady?” the man in the entryway asked, his eyes narrowed.
“Pandora… Brody, though people call me Dory.”
“You two are married?”
“Aye,” Dory said quickly before he had time to respond.
Och! She seemed to like playing the part of his wife—and if he wasn’t careful, he could become too comfortable with the role, as outrageous as that thought was. He would never burden himself with that responsibility, preferring to live his life alone. Families had a way of falling apart and he would be damned before he lived through that pain again.
“We travel with our cousin.” Ewan indicated Searc, who gave a curt bow of his head.
The man didn’t take his gaze from Dory. “Yet you are not Scottish. You are English?”
“Yes, though I lived overseas in the Caribbean most of my life.”
The man pinched his lips. “You look very familiar. What is your given name? Perhaps I know your relations.”
They had planned to use his name as her last. He hadn’t bothered to supply her with another.
“Bristol,” she remarked smoothly as if she’d known it all her life. Och, but the woman could lie. Did she carry a whole arsenal of half-truths and fabrications ready to use? Could she be tricking him even further? Tension gripped him shoulders as he watched her gentle act.
“Pandora Bristol,” the man put together and shook his head. “Don’t know of any Bristols, but… you look so familiar.”
“And ye are?” Ewan asked.
“William Spencer, manager of Hampton Court.”
Dory looked up at the high ceilings and peeked into the rooms beyond where cozy fires sat in large hearths. “A huge responsibility no doubt,” she said, causing the man to puff up.
“Especially when the king is in residence,” he said.
Dory mimicked his nod with serious composure, her nervousness seemingly gone.
“If a room could be found, I would like to see my wife warm and rested,” Ewan broke in.
“Yes, of course.” The man turned and they followed.
A servant met them in the corridor. “He will show you to a room,” Spencer said. “I will inform cook that there will be two more for dinner.”
“Three,” Dory corrected before Ewan had a chance. She pulled Searc to stand even with them and leaned her head momentarily on his shoulder. “Our cousin.”
Searc c
ertainly looked pleased. Ewan pulled Dory gently in front of him and placed his hands on her shoulders. If she felt like leaning on anyone, it would be him.
Spencer huffed softly. “And another room, then. Though with most of the court here, the remaining rooms are small.”
“A bed and a roof over our heads will do very well,” Dory said, playing the demur, appreciative lady quite well. A smooth liar, a convincing actress. Aye, and a witch, pirate, traitor’s bastard daughter, and a possible heiress. Dory Wyatt’s list of complexities continued. How the bloody hell had he gotten himself tangled up with her?
They followed the servant up a wide staircase and down a corridor to stop before one of many ornately embellished doors. “The main meal for the day will be served at the next bell when the sun is halfway down to the horizon.”
“Thank you,” Dory said and gave the servant a nod. The man looked startled and left with Searc on his heels.
“Ladies at court don’t bow their heads to servants.”
“I will remember,” Dory said and surveyed the room. “Even more luxurious.” She turned on the soft heel of her slipper. “Do you think I can request another indoor bath?”
Ewan kept his grin in check. “I am most certain. ’Tis Spring and I hear the English bathe then.”
The smile lit her eyes as she bounced on the balls of her feet and clasped her hands. She almost looked like a child with a sweet, except this was no little lass. This was a grown woman with softness and curves like the rolling hills back home.
“I’ll have a bath sent up for ye, wife,” he stressed.
“We should continue the ruse in case Jane comes,” she said, her words coming quick in defense.
“I suppose it is safer,” he said slowly. “I can protect ye at night. Court is dangerous during the day as well. ’Tis best ye stay in the room.”
“I can’t find out about my family if I stay in here.”
“For right now, we’re keeping your identity a secret.”
“I’ll investigate quietly. I introduced myself as Dory Bristol.”
“Aye, but that Spencer fellow seemed to think he knew ye. Did ye ransack his ship or suck his house away in a tornado?”
Dory threw her slipper at him. It smacked him in his chest and thumped on the floor boards.
“Aiming for my heart, lass?”
“You are lucky, sir, that my dagger is across the room in my satchel.”
“That blade isn’t a dagger,” he said, his grin fading as he thought of the blade she’d attacked him with the night before. “It’s a sghian dubh.” His stomach knotted on the Gaelic words.
“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 conversati
on 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.