Beloved Warrior (19 page)

Once in the boat, she clasped Carmita’s hand as they neared the shore.

She did not know what to expect. Certainly not the warm welcome she received from the two men in plaid. Neither looked like her captor, but both, like him, were startling in their features. One had dark hair and dark amused eyes. The other had sandy-colored hair, several shades darker than her own, and the most striking blue eyes she’d ever seen.

Blue eyes that were gentle, unlike her captor’s cool ones. The latter stepped up and lifted her from the boat so her skirts would not get wet. The Spaniard looked surprised, then did the same with Carmita.

“Senorita,” the younger Scot said as he set her down. “My brothers and I offer the hospitality of Inverleith. Be assured you will be safe and comfortable.”

“And a prisoner,” she said dryly.

“A problem we hope to solve,” he said with a quick smile that had none of the Spaniard’s secrets.

On the surface, he was as unlike his brother as two men could be. His eyes were warm, his smile real. Now that she was closer, she saw a scar along the side of his cheek and saw that his arm was held at a slightly awkward angle, though it had been strong enough in lifting her.

A warrior as well.

Her eyes turned to the taller of the two, the dark-haired man who stood watching her with eyes that seemed to invade her every thought. He bowed slightly. “I am Rory Maclean. The gallant brother is Lachlan. But I echo his words. You will be safe and welcome at Inverleith.”

“Even if I choose not to be there?”

“Aye. I am not sure of all the circumstances yet, but the Macleans do not harm women.”

“At least not by intent,” Lachlan corrected, the smile spreading as the two brothers seem to share a secret.

She did not care about that. Nor their welcome, though it came as a surprise. In the past days she had worried more and more about her mother. About what her father might do when he realized his plans had been thwarted. When her mother believed her only child to be at the bottom of the sea.

She could not stay here.

But she would pretend otherwise until their guard was lowered. Then she would make her escape. From a man who intrigued her far more than he should, and a situation that could end in disaster for the one person she loved above all.

She smiled and curtsied slightly. “Carmita”—she tossed a glance at her friend—“and I appreciate your welcome.”

The Spaniard stood at her side. “I am Diego,” he said. “My young friend here is Manuel. Maclean said we were to go with the senorita.”

“You are welcome as well,” Rory Maclean said. “We had several rooms made ready at Inverleith.”

It was the older Maclean who helped her onto a saddle, and Lachlan Maclean who helped Carmita. Then he turned to Manuel. “You can ride with me. Diego can take the horse Patrick rode.”

Then they were riding along the coast. Rory paced his horse beside hers.

They had brought a pretty gold mare for her, and despite all her concerns, Juliana found herself enjoying the ride. The gait was easy and the mare responded to her slightest touch. The cold edge of the wind had warmed with the midday sun and it cast trails of gold across the sea.

Now from land, the hills did not look as barren as they had from the sea. Small purple blooms covered the hills. Sheep and heavily coated cattle grazed contentedly. The dark-haired Maclean—Rory—rode with easy grace next to her.

She took these moments to memorize the terrain, the distance to the keep she’d seen as they sailed past. She saw several small fishing boats and some slightly larger boats, but nothing else. Then they reached the peak of a hill and she gazed at the high walls of Inverleith.

The keep stood on a point and overlooked the sea. Two towers rose up beyond the stone walls.

A shout came from inside the keep and the gates opened as they rode toward them.

The courtyard was full of activity. Men were training with arms. Sacks were being carried into a shelter that must be a barn. Women were drawing water from a well.

Several lads took the reins of the horses. Rory Maclean dismounted and came over to her, offering his hand, then caught her waist as she slid off.

The woman who had been looking on walked rapidly over to them. She wore a plain blue-gray gown and a lace cap. “Welcome to Inverleith,” she said. “I am Kimbra, Lachlan’s wife,” she said with an accent far different than that of the three brothers.

Then another woman joined them. The newcomer had flaming red hair and dark blue eyes that sparkled with good humor. “And I am Felicia, Rory’s wife. We will do all we can to make you comfortable.”

Juliana doubted a prisoner had ever been greeted so effusively by her captors. If she had not been so worried about her mother, she might even have been amused by it. Now she considered it only an impediment, though her fear faded.

She nodded with no compulsion to do more, considering the fact that she was here against her will. Or perhaps she should befriend these Maclean wives, hoping to have sympathetic ears and perhaps even someone who would help her. At the very least, she had to get word to her mother that she had not been lost at sea.

But then her father would know the ship arrived safely somewhere, and she knew he would turn the earth upside down to find her. She also knew what that might mean to the Scot, to the Spaniard, to the others who had taken over the ship.

But her mother . . .

Her mother would have no one. Juliana could not even think of her pain when she heard . . .

She had to get word to her. Somehow she must.

PATRICK threw all his energies into unloading the ship. He did not want to think about Juliana Mendoza and what he was going to do about her.

Much less what he
wanted
to do.

Rory had appropriated all the Maclean boats, most of them small fishing boats. Scores of Macleans—some Patrick recognized and others he did not—appeared to help with the unloading. They stared at the Moors, and the Moors stared back, then they all started working together.

Lachlan had decided to ride to Glasgow and captain the ship back to the sound. It would take at least a week as they would have to round the north of Scotland.

As the oarsmen loaded the boats waiting beneath, the Scots rowed the boats to shore, where others passed the items from one man to another until they reached a wagon drawn by two large horses.

Arriving in the first boat, Rory swung up the ladder and asked Patrick to show him through the ship. He lingered in the captain’s cabin and went through the charts before folding them up and taking them with him. “These are better than any we have,” he said.

Then Patrick took him down to the oarsmen’s deck. It still smelled of sweat and blood, and chains lay in the aisles where they had been discarded. Red stains colored the wood planking.

Rory gazed around. “My God, Patrick. How long were you here?”

“Six years to my counting. One year in a Spanish dungeon.”

“Och,” Rory exclaimed. “How did you survive?”

“I was too angry to die.”

He pointed to a bench in the middle, right beneath the grate that now stood open. “My position for the six years. The strongest always had the outside seat.”

“When did you take over the ship?”

“Two days out of Spain.”

“Who navigated?”

“The Spaniard and I.”

“You hated the sea. I remember the arguments you had with Father.”

“Aye, I wanted to be a warrior, not a merchant. During the past few weeks, I fervently wished I had paid more attention.”

“Why are you are willing to stay aboard now? Ride home with me. Lachlan and my Macleans can see to the unloading.”

“Nay. I made promises. I intend to keep them.”

“Is that the only reason?” Rory’s gaze seemed to see right through him.

“Aye,” he lied. The truth was that he wanted the woman out of sight and hopefully out of mind. “I have lived simply these past few years,” he continued. “A good bed might undo me.”

“Are you sure it is not the woman?”

“She is Spanish,” Patrick said roughly. “And she knows I killed her uncle. She believes me a barbarian.”

“Then let her see otherwise.”

“I am what I am,” Patrick said. “One year of war, one year in a Spanish dungeon and six years on a galleon. Those years did not break me, but they took my soul.”

“I do not believe she thinks so. Her gaze lingered on the ship.”

“Because she feared leaving it.”

“Mayhap,” Rory said.

“In any event, she is promised.”

“My wife was promised to someone else,” Rory said. “Promises without love are meant to be broken.”

“You forget the curse,” Patrick said. “I cannot.”

“I do not forget anything,” Rory said. “I lost two wives. But I believe my marriage to Felicia broke the curse. We have had no more deaths of young wives in the past five years.”

Enough!
He could not fathom the changes. Nor did he want to. He had lived these past six years to exact revenge. That goal had kept him alive. And now he was being told that the world had turned upside down.

“Tell me about the Spaniard,” Rory said.

Patrick shrugged. “He says much. And little. I know we could not have survived without him, but I don’t like what he hides. I truly do not know whether he can be trusted.”

“Your life depends on it. That he can be trusted and the others.”

“Hopefully they will soon be at the other end of the world. I know I can trust MacDonald. And Denny. But I do not know what the Spaniard plans to do. Or where he’ll go. I believe he did some smuggling along the Spanish coast. Beyond that . . .”

“You said he was a seaman. Mayhap we can use him on one of our ships.”

“I would not trust him as a captain, and I do not think he would take a lesser position.”

Rory met his gaze directly. “Do you really believe no one will discover what happened?”

“Aye, if not for the women. They are the complication.”

“You were a prisoner of war. You had every right to escape.”

“You know the law as well as I do,” Patrick said. “There is a reason for it. Too many crews do not like their captains, particularly when the discipline is harsh. The only thing that keeps them in check are the mutiny laws.”

“We will figure something,” Rory said slowly, then smiled. “We just cannot let Felicia become involved. Her plots are far too complicated. They invariably lead to disaster.”

Despite the words, there was so much love in his brother’s eyes, an ache formed in Patrick’s throat. He was thirty and seven years, yet he’d never known the kind of tenderness he saw in Rory’s face, had never allowed himself to feel more than momentary lust.

“We had better get back on deck,” he said. “I do not want to spill any of the goods into the sea.”

Rory’s eyes held his for a moment, then he nodded. “You won’t go back with me, then?”

“Nay, not until the cargo is unloaded.”

They climbed up the stairs from the benches. Once on deck, Rory took a deep breath of fresh air.

“It is a hell ship,” Patrick said flatly.

“Aye,” Rory said. “You are right. She should be burned.”

“If the Campbells see . . .”

“Neither the Campbells or Camerons will say anything,” Rory said. “Jamie Campbell is a friend and is now married to Janet Cameron. The three clans are united, especially since Flodden. We lost too many to a common enemy to lose more by fighting amongst ourselves.”

“’Tis hard to consider a Campbell naught but a foe.”

“I had my problems with that as well,” Rory said. “But he saved Lachlan’s life after Flodden Field. He wouldn’t give up looking for him.”

“Trust does not come easily to me,” Patrick warned. “Someone betrayed me to the Spanish. I suspect it was a Campbell. There were several fighting with the French.”

“We will find the truth of it.”

He hesitated, then clasped Patrick’s arm. “It is a fine thing to have you back.”

Patrick watched as Rory descended the ladder and jumped into the fishing boat with its small sail. His brother raised an arm to him in farewell.

Patrick turned away. He did not want or need emotion. They weakened a man. Locking away those feelings had enabled him to survive these past years. He needed to keep them in control now so he would make no mistakes. He had survived far too long to die at the end of a hangman’s noose.

 
JULIANA felt a visitor in a very strange world. If a prisoner she was, she was certainly a privileged one. It seemed that no one could do enough for Carmita and herself.

She had never met anyone like Felicia and Kimbra, nor had she ever been in a residence like Inverleith. Yet from the moment she walked into the great hall and saw the clean rushes, the tapestries lining the walls, the portraits on the walls, she felt not a prisoner but an honored guest in a place that seemed oddly familiar.

How could that be?

Her home in Spain was totally different, a place of space and light, not massive walls of rock. And yet . . .

Perhaps it was the chattering of her two companions who seemed as close as sisters, though their speech, temperaments and coloring were profoundly different. The one who said she was Rory’s wife practically danced as she walked. Her smile was broad, and her eyes were full of laughter as if she cherished every moment of life. A child of two or three pranced behind her, an echo of her joy.

The other, Kimbra, had a broad English accent, more like Juliana’s mother’s, and serious eyes. Her smile was slower but just as welcoming. And her warmth seem to encompass someone she barely knew.

Juliana was determined not to let them disarm her. They were obviously protecting their brother-in-law, and their goal was opposite to hers.

Felicia had led the way to a large chamber filled with fresh flowers and a bright blue covering on the bed. Pillows decorated two chairs, and a door led to an alcove for Carmita.