Tangled Hearts (18 page)

“Or ye could die, or worse.”

She didn’t need to ask what was worse. She’d seen it in the faces of those children rescued from slave traders. “My death would be worth it if O’Neil is stopped.”

Ewan grabbed her shoulders, turning her to him. “Nothing,” he all but yelled in her face. “Nothing is worth yer death.”

She glared back in mute defiance as he met it with an equal strength. He blinked long and exhaled, his voice lowering back to a normal volume. “If ye’re dead… ye will hurt yer father who will most likely kill me if harm comes to ye. Charissa will have no champion, and I’m thinking that there are a great number of children who still need ye alive to save them. Is all that worth the life of one bastard?”

“I didn’t say I was just going to sacrifice myself,” she said, breaking out of his hold on her. “We will just go down there, kill him, and scoot right back.”

“I think ye know this O’Neil character better than that,” Ewan challenged. “He doesn’t seem like the type to just let a lass saunter in, kill him, and walk back off his ship. Dory, ye need to think these rash plans through.”

“You think too much.” She plucked a bun off the serving tray Tilly had brought.

Ewan ran a hand down his face like he’d rather scrape off his own skin than deal with her. The motion reminded her much of the captain.

“Look,” he said, walking toward her. “Ye have power, a lot of it.” He grabbed his long sword that he’d polished that morning. She watched the muscles stretch the linen of his shirt as he hefted it upward. Stepping back with it, he braced his feet apart so that the steel balanced in his hand like an extension of his well-toned body.
Slash
!

The blade hummed through the air as he sliced it downward, turned, and carved into an invisible foe, a lethal blow for certain. “But if ye don’t think, don’t hone that power.” He let the tip of the sword dip until it struck the rug. The devil wasn’t even breathing heavy! “It will do little good.” He raised the blade up again. “Yer power could kill innocents, ye being one of them.”

Dory found herself sitting, the bun on the floor. She breathed again, her whole body taut. Ewan Brody was amazing! She’d never seen power like his. The promise of death in his swing was undeniable. She’d been around sword play all her life, but he was different, power restrained, tuned into lethal beauty.

He looked at her like it was her turn to throw something back in their volley. She couldn’t even remember his last comment. Her mouth a desert, she pushed the tip of her tongue through to wet her lips. His focus moved to her mouth. “Swing your sword again,” she said.

One of his eyebrows rose. He breathed in and shook his head slowly.

“Please,” she said, turning the command into a request. That one word seemed to freeze him more solid than any ice storm she could have created. “Please,” she whispered. Her breath hitched in her tight throat as he lifted the steel length. His strength sent a bolt of molten energy snapping through her.

Ewan tossed the long sword from one hand to the next, its weight perfectly balanced. He moved then. A step one way, a step the other, a sure thrust, a deadly pivot as the blade sang again. The muscles of his arms, shoulders, and back flexed within the thin linen of his shirt. The rhythm seemed as natural as breathing for him. She could easily imagine him in battle, a swarm of warring Scots falling to his blade.

Dory’s stomach tightened into a coil, her blood rushing about her in a frenzied heat. She stood as she watched him maneuver with the grace of an angel of death. He stared at her as he rotated, his eyes hard like his body, centered directly on her face. Another slash cut the air in half and she heard the gasp before she even knew it had left her mouth.

Ewan stepped closer, his sword still moving in controlled arcs. If only his shirt was off, she’d be able to watch the ripple of his muscles contract with each shifting of weight. Just the thought rolled another wave of heat through her. She exhaled long and wind whistled down the chimney, flattening the flames for a heartbeat.

He stopped, lowering the sword, his chest rising with the exertion of his practice. She moved toward him slowly. “There’s no child in the room,” she whispered. “I’m ready for my lesson.”

Thunder rumbled deep outside. She took another step into his chest, hoping very much that he would respond.

A deep growl-like sound came from within him as the hilt of his sword thudded on the thick rug. His hands caught her head, fingers threading desperately into her hair. His mouth met hers in a crush. She could feel his blood surging, muscles contracting, eyes dilating, everything to match her own. Together they were pure power—his physical, hers magical.

Ewan lifted her from the rug without breaking the kiss and Dory wrapped her hands around the back of his strong neck as he carried her across the room. When she felt the bed cushion her backside, she yanked at the base of his shirt, pulling it out of his trews and tugging his laces undone. She grazed his lower half and felt a giddy fear bubble inside her. She must have stiffened because he pulled back to look in her eyes.

“Ye’re afraid,” he said, his breathing ragged like he was holding back a dam of flood waters.

Oh no! He wasn’t backing out of this. She shook her head fast. “I trust you.”

His face was fierce. “I don’t take virgins to my bed.”

He started to back away, but she grabbed his shirt front. Yes, she was afraid, but more so of him stopping. He hesitated but continued. Blast it! Dory slipped her foot upward to stop his retreat from behind. With quick fingers born of desperation, she plucked open his trews and reached inside, wrapping her hand around his length. He was large and hard, velvet over steel.

“I’m not your typical virgin,” she said and moved her hand. “And you said you’d teach me.” She trembled a bit inside, but continued.

He groaned low and leaned over her on the bed, hovering, pushing her backward with his closeness. His arms came down on either side of her head on the fur coverlet.

“Ye play with fire,” he said, his voice harsh.

“Yes, yes I do,” she said. Adela was right. A woman could control a man like this.

Ewan’s hands slid along her aching body, making it throb even more. It was like the worst sickness within her, but instead of pain, pleasure moved her body, making her arch against him, wordlessly begging him to touch her everywhere.

Just when she thought she’d swoon, his lips left hers to trail hot down her neck as his hands parted her bodice. Dory yanked again on his shirt and in one sweep Ewan raked it off over his head, letting it sail to the floor, his body glowing from the fire in the hearth. She ran her palms over the skin, splaying fingers through the light curling of hair across his chest. He bent to taste the hollow of her throat and continued downward.

The chill in the room battled against the heat of her skin and he edged her chemise down. His mouth followed. Dory gasped as he loved her breasts, palming, pinching, and sucking. Her body took on a mindless rhythm, bending and arching.

“Ewan,” she breathed, and his hands worked her skirts down over her hips and off. His own pants followed. Her eyes rounded at the sight of him, large and erect. He watched her, waiting. Did he search for fear? Could he possibly stop now?

Dory kept her gaze locked with his as she scrunched up her chemise. She yanked it over her long tangle of curls and tossed it off the side of the bed. She stretched back down, spreading her hands over her head to fan out her hair on the furs. “Come here,” she said.

“By God, ye’re amazing.” Ewan swore and moved over her, capturing her lips once more. He came down against one side so that his hand was free to wander her body. He stroked along her, sending chills of pleasure. Dory’s body felt hot inside, hot and achy. His fingers dipped low and she moaned against his lips. Her kisses became wild, demanding, and he met each one with a force of his own. He tasted her, loving her mouth, mating with her tongue until she felt like she might come undone. He stroked her below, an increasing rhythm until she crushed against his hand, moaning. His knee nudged her legs.

“Ye are so wet and hot, lass,” he breathed, and she slid her legs out in the tickling furs, her toes digging into them, curling as the sensations tortured her. Ewan continued to stroke, building her fire with torturous, knowing fingers. She felt the burn like a separate power, like a different kind of magic, billowing out and rushing along her middle to her limbs and the very ends of her fingers and toes.

“I ache,” she moaned and he answered her with more sweet torture. It was as if she were being consumed with throbbing pleasure from the inside out. She tore her mouth from his to breathe. He slid his mouth along her neck, to her breasts once more.

Dory ran her fingers down over his broad shoulder and back. Her nails scratched helplessly along his skin as if she needed to claw her way away from the leaping fire, yet she didn’t want to escape. The heat swirled inside like a cyclone, tightening, growing, tightening, thickening. With each rub of his fingers, her heart beat faster and the muscles of her body quivered.

“Ewan! Bloody… Ewan!” A wave of pleasure exploded from her center, pulsing through her as she panted.

“Aye, lass, ’tis good, isn’t it?”

Her hair rubbed along the fur as she nodded vigorously. He kissed her, slanting across her lips, devouring her. He smiled down as he positioned himself over her. “Now for something even better.”

She felt him against her, guiding himself inside. Forearms on either side of her head, Ewan looked deep into her eyes. “
Bean bainnse
, ye are mine,” he ground out and pushed into her.

Pain shot through her middle, utter shock to her sensitive body. She gasped and lightning shot down outside the window, splitting the world with a deafening
CRACK
!

Chapter Twelve

5 May of the Year our Lord God, 1518

Dearest Katharine,

I am beginning to believe that not all of my letters are reaching you. Has our contact received his? I post his with a different courier, one away from home. Yes, I am very happy you are with my child. Does John suspect? Why would James question you about the babe? Does he question your loyalty to the Wellington family?

Your loving servant,

Rowland

Ewan stilled within her, fully embedded. His whole body urged him to withdraw and plunge. It took all his willpower to remain motionless. Dory breathed under him, her soft, slim form becoming stiff.

Never take a virgin to yer bed, his good friend, Caden, had warned him. Unless she be yer bride.

Dory blinked, her eyes glassy. “We don’t fit.”

One side of his mouth turned up in a half grin. “We will.”

Ewan tried very hard not to move even though her beautiful breasts seemed to beg for further attention. Caden was right—virgins were difficult to love. He leaned down and kissed Dory, gently across her eyelids, the tip of her nose, and then her mouth, which had grown cold. He licked and teased to the side of her neck, his palm catching the heaviness of a breast again, strumming and rubbing until he felt her legs move against his.

“Bloody hell, Dory,” he groaned at the pleasure. He thought he caught a quick glow of blue but wasn’t sure. “Tell me I can move soon.”

“Am I hurting you?” she asked.

“Nay, lass, but ye’re killing me,” he said on another groan. She smiled then, a small turning up of her lips. It was all the permission he needed with her body still wet and snug around him. He moved, retreating and surging slowly.

“God’s teeth,” she breathed. “Better.” She moved, pressing back with each slow thrust.

Ewan strained above, trying not to harm her, but Dory kicked her legs up around his hips, squeezing him to her. She grabbed onto his shoulders, rising up to meet him. Her passion flamed back to life under him. Her lips parted and she threw her head into the pillows, exposing the long column of her throat. He raked open kisses across her skin and increased the pace. He caught her hands at the sides of her head, linking his fingers through hers. She shivered against the furs, though not from cold, not with the heat she was giving off.

Every muscle in his body coiled, taut and ready. Leaving her one hand, he reached down between them, and Dory shuddered. Thunder cracked outside the window. Wind whipped down the chimney, feeding the fire into a bright inferno. And the fire inside them ignited.

“Mine!” he yelled. “Ye are mine.”

The waves of flame inside Ewan flooded out with his oath. Dory answered with her own moans, her body clasping him, crushing into him. The roar of his blood sang out like pure power, unending strength, and fierce determination.

“Mine,” he whispered as they slowed. He looked into her eyes. She needed to know, whether she felt it or not, she was marked now. Dory Wyatt was claimed.

“Mine?” she asked. “Yours?”

Ewan moved to the side, and pulled her into his arms so that her head could rest against him. It felt right having her there. Different from any other woman. Her hair tickled against his chest as she tried to turn and look at him.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“Ye are mine now, my woman. I thought ye should know.”

She propped up on his chest. The darkness from the storm had moved off, leaving a bright afternoon light streaming through the glass panes. He reached up to thread his fingers through her hair. Soft, a light earthy gold with strands of sun shot through.

“Is that some sort of marriage proposal?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

He gazed back. “I claimed ye. We are wed then, in the Highland way.”

“W-wed? I didn’t say ‘I do.’” She sat up in the bed, her legs folding under her. She didn’t bother to pull the covers up and her perfect breasts jutted out, moving with her hand motions as she talked.

“I may not know much about real marriages and weddings, but I’m pretty certain it requires both parties saying ‘I do’ or ‘I will’ or something like that.” Her words had risen until the statement ended in a squeak.

He tried to pull her back to him but she kept her place. He sighed and threw a fur around her shoulders. “Ye slept with me, gave me yer maidenhead. That means ye’re agreeable,” he explained and rose to retrieve a cup of water.

“I…” she stuttered and stopped. Once again he was reminded of an outraged kitten.

“Ye were agreeable.” He smiled, but kept his chuckle inside as he handed her a cup and watched the heat of rage building in her. Could she shoot lightning through the window? Maybe he should take cover.

“I asked you to teach me about swiving, not wed with me!”

“Swiving means something different in the Highlands.” He didn’t mention that he’d slept with many willing lasses in the Highlands and hadn’t wed with a single one. Though he’d never claimed any of them, either.

“I’m not from the Highlands,” she said, “and we are not wed.”

“Everyone here knows us as wed.”

“That’s a farce!”

He shrugged. Dory almost crackled with her anger. Eyes snapping, teeth bared, she was naked and draped in a fur. Utterly enticing. If he attacked her now, she’d most likely score his back again. The woman was full of passion, and he’d only just pried open the lid a bit. Inside there was treasure; he was certain. Until then, he just had to ensure she wasn’t going to leave, thus binding her to him had made sense. That’s why he’d claimed her. Greedy for more and determined to keep her.

“Ye may consent in words if ye’d like, but it’s not necessary.”

Dory clutched the fur around her and strode to the press, grabbing out a pale blue kirtle and bodice. “Not necessary,” she grumbled. “That’s slavery. You can’t just go around making someone yours.”

Thunder rumbled again outside. Ewan yanked his shirt back on over his head and motioned to the window. “Ye’re wrecking someone’s day.”

She huffed and growled at the same time. “You’re lucky you’re not outdoors or you just might find yourself dead by lightning strike.”

“Then ye’d be a widow.” He shook his head. “Jane didn’t include widow’s garb.”

“Errr,” she rumbled and stepped into her skirts, yanking them up over her chemise.

He strode to her and pulled her into his arms before she could speak again. She tipped her head way back in order to meet his gaze with her stormy eyes.

“I’m sorry if ye don’t feel the same.”

“I didn’t say that,” she snapped.

One eyebrow rose. “Oh?” What else was there to say? He wouldn’t give her a chance to get out of this, at least not right now, not when he’d felt her heat, her heart beating against his own.

“You tricked me, Ewan Brody,” she said.

He noticed her slight blush. Was she remembering how he’d said those same words to her? He turned her slowly in his arms to tighten her stays. His fingers slipped the small buttons into place, sealing away her luscious skin.

“It wasn’t my intent,” he answered and released her. It hadn’t been. She’d wanted to swive and he’d wanted to taste her skin, slide against her silky form, spread her hair across the furs, and her legs under him. Simple instincts. He frowned. Claiming her hadn’t been his intention, either. “I’m sorry if I tricked ye, but what’s done is done.”

“Then undo it!”

The passion in her eyes sapped his reasoning. He was about to grab for her again when someone knocked on the door. He cursed and strode to it.

Charissa and Tilly stood in the hall, the child with a tray of food.

“Good, good,” Tilly praised. “Now bob your head and ask if you can bring them their midday meal.” Tilly looked at Ewan as she spoke. She smiled just enough to make Ewan wonder if the maid had been listening at their door. “Since they missed it in the great hall.”

Charissa practiced the words and Ewan took the tray from her little hands. How could a child so thin hold up something like a full tray of food?

“Thank you,” Dory said and smiled at Charissa. “You have a great mentor in Tilly.”

Charissa nodded.

“She’s doing quite well with the mending, too.” Tilly snatched up Dory’s torn chemise that lay abandoned on the floor by the very rumpled bed.

Dory turned bright red as Tilly then instructed the child on how to remake the messy bed.

Tilly stopped when she got to the side that showed the evidence of Dory’s lost virginity. “I think it is time to have these washed instead,” she said and stripped the sheets.

“I need to find some fresh air.” Dory walked out of the room. It took even more self-control than before not to go after her, but the lass had been through a lot. Perhaps it was best to give her some space to think things through.

“Odd weather we’ve been having,” Tilly said. “I hope it doesn’t rain on Lady Wellington.”

“Lady Brody,” Ewan said.

“Pardon me,” Tilly said nervously and curtsied low as if he’d growled. Had he? He forced himself to smile, feeling a sickening in his gut at the fear that leapt into the maid’s eyes. He uncurled his fists and strode across the room. Bloody hell! He was losing his controlled life. He’d come to London to deliver a traitor; that was all. But on top of that he’d just claimed a complicated, ungrateful, and absolutely the most tantalizing witch, pirate, English heiress ever made. She’d thundered in, upsetting his simple life.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed low as he realized that he didn’t mind at all.

…

Claim me like I’m some prize to be snatched up
! Dory sat with her back to Charissa where Tilly taught her to weave her hair.
Bloody damn blasted thief.

She grimaced as a tangle snagged around Tilly’s fingers. The woman pulled and apologized, but Dory just sat still, thinking about that afternoon.

Surely she hadn’t meant to give herself to Ewan in marriage. And what type of foolish, flimsy marriage was that without the blessing of a priest or witnesses? He must be mad or an idiot to think she’d believe that she was really wed to him just from swiving.

Swiving. She felt a blush heat along her neck. Somehow what they’d just done seemed different than the rutting Adela had described. Perhaps swiving wasn’t the right word for what they’d just done. Loving, perhaps? The blush prickled her cheeks.

Love was for fools. Captain Bart had always warned her that only dim-witted girls believed words of love from a man, especially a man who wanted to swive.

Although Ewan hadn’t said anything about love, had he? Her lips pinched tight. No, he’d just bloody claimed her. If she’d been a true lady, one who had proper lineage, honorable parents, would he proclaim his love for her then? Not just claim her like a Scottish barbarian.

“How do you keep all those pieces from slipping through your fingers?” Charissa asked as Tilly wove Dory’s hair.

“She yanks, that’s how,” Dory said sourly and Charissa giggled. That was three giggles so far. The child was already learning to laugh again.

“Sorry ’bout that, Lady Brody,” Tilly said. “Your waves are like silk and have a mind of their own. I think they just want to be free.”

Free?

“I don’t think freedom actually exists here in England,” she said.

Tilly patted her shoulder as if she knew what was troubling her. But how could the woman know anything of her troubles? For all she knew, Dory was just a new bride who’d finally consummated her marriage to a huge, strong, outrageously virile warrior.

“There,” Tilly said. “Though it would look lovelier if you weren’t scowling like someone had stomped on your satin slippers.”

Dory huffed and stood, feeling the weight of her hair balanced around her head to trail in soft waves down her back. She moved toward the polished glass near the fire.

“You are the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Charissa said.

The new costume had come from Jane with a simple note.

It worked. I am well and will be visiting Hampton Court soon. Let us meet then.

My love,

Jane.

Apparently her woman’s flux had come, transforming her into the heir maker she hoped to be.

Dory dropped her heavy skirts in place and looked at her reflection. The midnight blue velvet bodice curved inward at the waist to drape over the silk kirtle. Silk braid framed the lines of the snug bodice, its neckline dangerously low. A hint of lace from her chemise topped it, to make a man wonder what lay beneath. Stitching in gold thread pierced the velvet in intricate patterns of swirls and vines ending in cream colored lace that edged the bodice against the dark blue of the full silk skirts.

Dory ran a finger over the pattern in gold. She’d never seen anything so beautiful before. She hoped that no child had been made to sit and stitch to create the perfection.

Her eyes rose to take in her hair and face. Seed pearls and silk ribbons wove among her curls like a crown upon her head. So beautiful that Dory would refuse the typical hood. What would Ewan think? Dory turned from side to side. It didn’t look like her, not even when she put on a dress to play whore in port.

“Some say coal around your eyes makes them more mysterious,” Tilly said, “but I think you are perfect without any of that goop and soot.”