Beloved Warrior (16 page)

Patrick set the pace, drinking in every familiar sight. He glanced toward the rock that had caused the Maclean so much grief. It was high tide now, and the rock was covered. But he saw it in his mind.

Then he dismissed everything from his mind but the fresh crisp breeze that smelled of heather and the hills dotted with cattle. Timeless hills of tragedy and pain and blood. And too-brief moments of happiness.

Around a curve, and then there was Inverleith.

He was unprepared for the impact. If moments ago he feared he was devoid of emotion, now it hit him. As he neared the stone wall and the towers rising behind it, memories flooded back. Good and bad. Mostly bad. Inverleith had a history of tragedy. He felt his soul bleeding.

He slowed his horse to a walk, all his senses drinking in the sight of the home he’d both loved and hated. The stark rock towers rose in isolated splendor. Despite his longing over the past years of captivity, Inverleith had never seemed home before. It had been a cold, loveless place. Why had he so wanted to return?

Today it did not look quite as lonely as they rode through open gates. Or as bleak. Mayhap because of three bairns playing on the ground with a large dog that looked more bear than canine. Laughter floated in the air. It had been a long time since he’d heard laughter there.

Before he could dismount, Lachlan was off his horse and running to the door. Patrick heard him shout, “Rory,” several times before a tall, dark-haired man walked out. The children playing outside stood and stared at Patrick, the newcomer.

Lachlan stood back without saying anything as Rory glanced at his younger brother quizzically, then, following Lachlan’s gaze, turned to the man on horseback.

Patrick dismounted and stood next to the horse as he watched Rory’s face. The expression changed openly. Puzzlement at first, then stern lips relaxed and creased into a wide smile as he strode toward Patrick.

“Patrick?” His voice was disbelieving.

“Aye, it would appear so.”

Rory stood there, emotion roiling in his eyes. “I . . . we . . . have all prayed for this day.”

“I did not think you were strong on prayer, Rory.”

“You remember that? I did not approve of a God who put curses above prayer.”

Patrick did not take a step forward, unwilling yet to embrace a brother he barely knew. They had trained together as children, then as young men, and their father had fostered competition between them, ridiculing the one who lost. And then . . . he could not forget the unpaid ransom.

Rory apparently had no such reservations. He stepped closer, not with the exuberant welcome that Lachlan had offered but with a hand outstretched. “It is good to see you, Brother.”

Patrick took it, then looked over the castle and the children. The gloom of years ago was gone. Men were milling around, talking excitedly.

Rory stooped and urged the children to come to him. “This is Audra,” he said, introducing the older lass. “She belongs to Lachlan and Kimbra. These two are mine. Maggie is two, and . . . the lad is Patrick.”

Stunned, Patrick could only stand there and stare at the boy.
Patrick?

“Sir?” the boy who had no more than five years asked anxiously.

“This is your uncle, Patrick,” Rory said. “You are named after him.”

Patrick stooped to the lad’s height. “I am happy to meet you.”

“I, too, sir,” the lad said.

Patrick stood. “He has far better manners than I had as a lad.”

“Than either of us,” Rory said with a proud grin. “But beware.’Tis only a temporary pose.”

Patrick hesitated, then started to ask the questions that had been plaguing him for years. “You are laird?” he asked.

“Only until you returned home. I always hoped . . .” He stopped suddenly. “What happened to you? Where have you been?”

“I was taken prisoner by a Spaniard. A ransom was asked,” he said, watching Rory’s face. He knew what Lachlan had said. He wanted to hear Rory’s words and watch his face.

“When?”

“Seven years ago. Mayhap a little less.”

Rory looked puzzled. “I would have been at sea then, but I know Fa would have paid anything to have you back. He always talked about how you were the best of us.”

“He said the same of you.”

Rory gave him a quizzical look. “He always did take pleasure in playing us against each other. That is one reason I went to sea. But he would have paid anything to get either of us back. If for no other reason than the fact that the Campbell had only one son.”

Patrick considered the words. His brother was right. His father would never give the Campbell the satisfaction of seeing him lose a son.

“Mayhap he did not receive the message,” Rory said.

“Several were sent,” Patrick said coldly. “Refusals were returned.”

Rory must have seen the suspicion in his face. “Come,” he said, “let us speak in private.” He turned toward the door and Patrick followed him through the hall to the office Patrick’s father had once occupied. The great hall had greatly improved since the day he’d left. Fresh rushes covered the floor and the windows fairly glowed where once they had been coated with dirt.

“Things have changed,” Patrick noted.

“Aye, due to my wife.”

They reached the room that had served as an office for Inverleith for decades.

Then they stood awkwardly. Patrick had years of bitterness behind him. “Douglas? Is he still here?”

“Aye, he is still steward. And Archibald. But Hector was lost at Flodden Field.” He looked directly into Patrick’s eyes. “What happened when the ransom was not paid?”

“I was sold as a galley slave.”

Rory paled. “How long?”

“Nearly six years to my count. Mayhap longer. I was the longest surviving oarsman.” He paused, then added, “We took over the ship off the coast of Spain. Every last one of us could be charged with mutiny.”

“The crew?”

“Dead,” Patrick replied flatly.

It was a risk saying that much. A hint to the Scottish crown, to England, and there would be a price on his head. And Inverleith would be his brother’s.

Rory nodded, his face inscrutable.

“I have a ship full of Moors and Spaniards and a few French. As well as a Scot. The ship should be scuttled. Do we still own a ship?”

“Three of them.”

“Are any in port?” Patrick persisted.

“One is in Glasgow, being refitted.”

“Is it ready to sail?”

“It can be,” his brother conceded.

“I want it.” It was a challenge thrown out. He should be laird, though he knew well enough that the title came by clan acceptance, not by inheritance. Rory had it now. Part of Patrick longed for the warmth he saw in his brothers’ eyes, but he had known betrayal too many times in the past years.

“You have it,” Rory said simply.

“You do not know why.”

“It does not matter. They are more yours than mine.”

A gradual warmth started to fill him. Mayhap he had been wrong about Rory. And his father. “I promised to take them where they want to go. Most wish to go to Morocco. I also told them we would buy the cargo to pay those who choose to go home on their own.”

“Then it will be done.”

“Once we destroy the ship, they must have a place to stay.”

Rory raised his eyebrows them. “Moors at Inverleith?”

“Aye. I would not be alive without them.”

“Then they are welcome.”

“There is a rich cargo,” Patrick said.

“What is it?”

“Fine silks and lace, mostly. And Spanish wine. There are some jewels intended as a dowry. Some gold coins. We can transfer the goods here, then load them on one of your ships.”

“
Our
ships, Brother,” Rory corrected.

But even with his assent, Rory frowned, and Patrick realized the idea of scuttling a ship was abhorrent to his brother. Rory loved the sea, and it was hell on earth to Patrick.

“We can all be hanged as mutineers if anyone learns what happened. Every man aboard knows that. They wanted to take the ship and turn to pirating, but the
Sofia
has only two small cannons, and only a few know much about sailing. We almost did not make it here.”

Rory raised his eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, you hated every moment you spent on the ship.”

“A premonition,” Patrick said.

A smile tugged at his brother’s lip. “Mayhap it was. As for the other, aye, we have funds to pay for the cargo. We have done well with trading.”

“There is one thing more,” Patrick said.

Rory raised an eyebrow. “As interesting as the others?”

“Two women. A Spanish lass and her maid. They should not have been aboard.”

Something flickered in his half brother’s eyes. Something like amusement. “Is she bonny?”

“If you like Spaniards,” Patrick said cautiously. “She is the niece of the captain of the ship. A man who did not deserve to live.”

“You intend to keep her here forever?”

“I donna know,” he said, lapsing into the language he knew as a lad. “I just know we cannot let her return to tell what happened, nor do I wish to be responsible for her death.”

“How do you know all the others will keep their silence?”

“Because they are as guilty as I for murder and mutiny,” Patrick said, watching his brother. He lowered his voice. “No one will risk returning to the life we escaped.”

“It will be difficult to keep such a large ship a secret. Someone else might have seen it come up the sound.”

“We painted over the name. I hope someone will believe it a smuggler.”

“You propose then to keep the lady and her maid prisoner.”

“Aye. Until we can decide what to do.”

“We have had some experience with that,” Rory said, the side of his lips tugging upward. “I will have a chamber prepared. I do not know, though, what my wife will say about it.”

“Say about what?” A woman charged through the door like a gust of wind, then stopped abruptly when she saw Patrick. Her gaze went to his beard, the stained clothes, then back to his face. “I heard there was a strange ship. . . .”

She was a slip of a lass with flaming red hair and dark blue eyes that sparkled with curiosity.

Rory pulled her close to him. “This is Felicia, my love and mother of two wild bairns. Felicia, this is Patrick.”

Her eyes opened wide. Then she flung herself into Patrick’s arms. Against his best intention, he put his hands on her shoulders. To create a wall, he told himself, but she would not allow that. She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Rory and Lachlan will finally be content,” she said in a voice filled with what sounded like bliss.

He stood totally bewildered. Surely she would not wish to give up her position. But he saw only welcome in her eyes.

She was enchanting. Not beautiful in the accepted manner but full of life and, from the look of her eyes, laughter. She filled the room with pure joy.

“Do not make me jealous, love,” Rory said. He moved over to his wife and put an arm around her possessively. “He has two ladies he wishes us to keep captive.”

To Patrick’s astonishment, Felicia Maclean’s laughter filled the halls of Inverleith.

PATRICK could only back away and regard his sister-in-law with astonishment and mayhap a bit of horror.

Had his brother married a madwoman?

The lass must have deciphered his expression, because the laughter stopped, though the smile in her eyes remained.

“You must forgive me,” she said, “but you see your brother held me prisoner here for some weeks.”

“Why?”

“His men were looking for a bride for him,” she explained. “They thought they were taking Janet Cameron. They took me, instead.”

He remembered Janet Cameron as a young lass. He’d even thought about making her his wife until the death of Rory’s first wife reminded him of the curse. No woman—none with reason—would wish marriage to a Maclean.

He searched Felicia’s face for any resemblance to Janet Cameron’s blond hair and delicate features, but there was none. “And who might you be?” he asked.

Rory’s arms went protectively around his wife.

“A Campbell,” she replied.

Patrick stiffened. A sudden suffocating darkness swept over him as he sought reason from the statement. Hadn’t Lachlan just told him the Campbells killed his father? Hadn’t they all experienced the devastation to Maclean soldiers and lands over the years? Hadn’t they buried enough Macleans who died at Campbell hands? He’d sworn a blood oath against them. As had his father.

And in their absence, his brother had betrayed both of them by marrying one.

The feeling of betrayal seeped deep in his soul.

“A Campbell?” He knew his voice had hardened.

“Aye,” Rory said steadily.

Patrick’s gaze pierced his brother. “You would betray Fa? All of us?”

“Not betrayal, Patrick. It was time for the feud to end. Time to bury that bloody curse for all time. I did not know she was a Campbell when I fell in love with her, and then it did not matter. She has the bravest and most loving heart of any woman. She saved my life, and Lachlan’s. King James himself blessed the union.”

“I care not if a king blessed the union.” He turned to look back at the lass. She was slender and small, and it was difficult to imagine her saving his brothers’ lives. “I am grateful that she may have had a hand in aiding you in some way, but to wed . . .”

“I would have agreed with you years ago, Patrick. But Felicia has won the hearts of every Maclean.”

The lass, Felicia, did not move. Did not flinch. The laughter left her eyes, though. “I would like to think your father would be pleased to have grandchildren. Happy ones,” she said.

“Fa would not have permitted it.”

“Fa did not permit very much,” Rory said. “I remember how and why you left. His hatred harmed this clan far more than the Campbells. Would you wish it to continue until we were all gone and dead?”