Free Tangled Hearts by Heather McCollum Page A

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 enticing 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.
    “The lines up the sails. If one snapped in battle or storm, I could climb right up there