Beloved Warrior (25 page)

“What can I do?” Juliana asked.

“I have been reading to him, but I am not . . . good.” She lowered her head. “I’m still learning . . .”

The words trailed away as if she were uncertain whether Juliana would agree to help Denny.

But she did, eagerly. After that magical hour with Patrick Maclean, he had avoided her, often leaving the keep early in the morning and not returning until late. On the few occasions their eyes had met, she’d felt his gaze consume her. The heat puddled in her stomach, and she felt a yearning so compelling she thought she would die from it.

She welcomed the distraction of Denny. Not only did she need to keep herself occupied but it was a way to appease her own guilt. She still shivered when she remembered the sounds and smells from the rowing deck, the scars she had seen on so many of the oarsmen, and Manuel as well.

“I think Denny might have lost his memory, and speech, because of a blow. There’s a scar on the side of his head. Lachlan lost his memory when he was wounded on the head,” Kimbra said.

“For how long?”

“Weeks.”

“How long has Denny been like this?”

“Patrick said a year, mayhap more. Ever since he was brought to the galley.”

Juliana’s stomach clenched. No one seemed to blame her for the horrors of her uncle’s ship, but she did. She felt tainted by it. How could anyone not blame her? Her family was responsible for Patrick’s suffering. For the suffering of so many more.

“Is it the same as Lachlan then?” she asked.

“Lachlan was always able to speak. He just could not remember. I know nothing about wounds to the head. But Denny’s eyes take in everything. I am sure he understands our conversations. Patrick said he fought well when they overtook the ship and had undoubtedly been trained. If only we could get him to speak.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“He can stay here. Patrick has made that clear, but even if he hadn’t, neither Rory or Lachlan would turn him away.”

“You love Lachlan?”

“Aye. With all my heart. He is gentle yet brave. He loves my Audra as much as if she were his. I hope to give him another child soon.”

“You are not afraid?”

“The curse, you mean?”

“
Si.
”

“I do not believe in curses,” Kimbra said. “Even if I did, I would still take every day I could with Lachlan.”

Juliana swallowed a lump in her throat. Until coming to Inverleith, she had not known that love really existed between a man and woman. It certainly had not between her mother and father, nor had she seen it elsewhere. She had never expected any in her life, certainly not with Viscount Kingsley. The best she’d expected was that he would not be like her father.

“Patrick cares for you,” Kimbra said unexpectedly.

“No. He just does not know what to do with me,” she replied.

“He looks at you as Lachlan looked at me when . . .” Kimbra blushed then, and Juliana thought how pretty she was. And kind.

It was the kindness that prompted the statement. Patrick Maclean had ignored her these last few days. Ever since the kiss that turned her world upside down.

Even the thought of it sent heat coursing through her and took her breath away.

She tried to thrust it aside by reading to Denny. In the small drawing room, she would read something from the Bible, then hand it to Denny. She saw Denny’s eyes scan the words, even mouth them, but nothing came from his lips. He had never frightened her on the ship as the others had. Despite his scars and the fact he had been as bloody as the others immediately after the revolt, she’d not seen the hate and fury in his eyes that had been in the others’.

“I wish you could tell me where you are from,” she told Denny.

Kimbra rose suddenly. “Rory has maps. If we spread one in front of him and pointed out places, perhaps he could point to where he is from.”

Kimbra’s enthusiasm spurred her own. At last. Something to do. Something worthwhile.

“I will find him,” Kimbra offered.

“No, you stay with Denny,” Juliana said. Denny responded to Kimbra more than anyone. Juliana suspected it was because Kimbra had no connection with the ship.

She left the room and passed the great hall, then stopped suddenly.

A stranger stood with Rory. He was as tall as Patrick, and he was glorious. His hair shone like spun gold and his eyes were as blue as the Spanish sea. His bearing made it clear he was a person of authority, of rank.

His gaze focused on her, and his eyes widened in surprise as he studied her, open curiosity on his face.

Patrick emerged from the stable. His steps hastened as he saw her and he joined the two men. His back was stiff, his expression wary if not hostile. It was obvious he did not consider the man standing with his brother a friend. More like an enemy.

The newcomer said something to Rory, but she was too far away to hear. She knew, though, that it concerned her.

Patrick replied, again beyond her hearing.

This might be her chance. Her opportunity. She could fall on his mercy, tell him she had been kidnapped.

And the stranger might die.

Even if not, she knew she could not do it. Too many lives were involved. Would Rory fight for his brother? Would the newcomer die? Would the oarsmen, including Manuel and Denny and the Spaniard, pay with their lives?

Then the golden-haired man walked toward her. Patrick moved to step in front of him but he adroitly sidestepped him. He bowed and gave her a smile that was blinding. “Jamie Campbell at your service,” he said.

Then waited for an introduction.

And waited.

Rory finally said, “This is Anna, a friend of Kimbra’s, who is staying with us for a while.”

“Anna? A bonny name.” He looked at Patrick, who had been standing silent, a deepening scowl on his face. “She returned with you?”

“Nay,” he said shortly without explaining further.

The Campbell’s gaze returned to her. “You will have to visit my wife, Janet, and me at Dunstaffnage.”

“I do not believe she will have time,” Patrick said.

“Mayhap the lady should make that decision.”

“I have vowed to keep her safe,” Patrick replied, the insult not very subtle.

Jamie Campbell raised an eyebrow but let it go. “Believe it or not, it is good to have you back, Patrick,” he said mildly. “Your brothers have missed you, and I want nothing but peace with you.”

“They said you . . . saved their lives. I am in your debt.” Patrick’s voice told Juliana how difficult it was for him to make that admission.

“Nay, because they’d have done the same. Things have changed, Patrick, and both our clans are better for it.”

Juliana felt the tension in the air. She had heard the tale of Felicia’s and Rory’s romance, about the bitterness and hatred that plagued the two clans for a hundred years.

Rory broke in. “Tell us about Court. How is Queen Margaret, and who is her favorite now?”

“Not I, I fear,” the Campbell said. “She is getting too close to England. She will lose the support of most of the Highland clans. Or what is left of them.”

“And Spain?” Rory said. “Do you hear aught of their troublemaking?”

“They are seeking stronger ties with England. Advisors to Henry VIII are disappointed that Catherine of Aragon has not produced a male heir, and, since England’s treaty with France, he seems to be moving closer to King Louis.

There are even rumors that he may marry his sister to the French king.”

“God’s blood,” Patrick blurted out. “That would leave Scotland standing alone.”

“Aye, and the queen knows it,” the Campbell replied. “The clans know it as well. I cannot stomach Margaret’s new overtures to England myself.”

Juliana listened with growing apprehension. Her father seldom talked of politics in front of her. It was, he always said, the business of men.

“Spain is worried as well,” Jamie continued. “There is talk of more marriages, the need to bring more Spanish blood to the English court.”

Now she understood why her father and uncle wanted the marriage so badly. It was not only their business interests, but there was also a need to bind two nations closer together. Her father was a very distant cousin of the Spanish king, but he was a relation. He had royal blood, and therefore so did she, even diluted as it may be. Her father had only a minor claim to a title.

But it was an important connection if the Spanish king made it so. She froze. Was the marriage more important than she’d thought? If so, the danger to Patrick was far greater than either of them believed.

She should not care. She should care only about her mother. About those she had left in Spain. She should care about her uncle’s brutal death.

“We are boring the lass,” Jamie said, obviously mistaking her expression for tedium. She thanked the Holy Mother such was so.

She turned to Rory and tried to explain why she had intruded. “I . . . Kimbra and I are looking for a map to help . . .” She stopped suddenly.

“Help who?” Jamie Campbell asked, curiosity very plain in his face.

“Her daughter,” she quickly said. “We are teaching her about the world.”

“Young Audra?” Jamie said. “She is a wee charmer.”

“Aye,” Juliana said. It had been an easy word to adopt. “But the map . . .”

“I will find you one,” Patrick interrupted.

He nodded briefly to his brother, ignored Jamie and turned toward the great door of the keep, obviously expecting her to follow.

She did. Questions and emotions were bubbling inside her.

He led her up to her bedchamber. Carmita was gone, probably to the kitchen to help.

He closed the door behind him. “Your marriage?” he said. “It was part of a larger scheme?”

She did not pretend that she did not know what he meant. She had been as startled—and alarmed—by the conversation as he apparently was. Until the Campbell had mentioned Spain’s apparent interest, she had not considered her marriage any more than a business arrangement. “My father said nothing about the marriage other than the fact that he wanted stronger financial ties with the Earl of Chadwick. There was already a connection between our families. My mother was a distant cousin.” She hesitated, then added, “My father did say King Ferdinand approved of the match.”

“Why would he need to approve?” His question was harsh.

“I do not know, except . . .”

“Except?” he urged her.

“My father . . . is . . . he has blood ties to Ferdinand.”

A muscle leapt along his tightened jaw.

“But I cannot believe it was that important. We rarely saw him. It was a very distant connection.”

“Your father did not say your marriage was arranged at Ferdinand’s request?” His voice was tight.

“I thought it was my father bragging. He always talked about his connection with the crown, but we saw little benefit from it.”

“You did not tell me.”

“You did not ask. And I did not understand until . . . now.”

He turned away from her and went to the window and looked down. She followed him.

Rory and his friend were gone. Inside somewhere?

She felt Patrick’s tension beside her.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“That I have brought far more trouble to my clan than I thought,” he said. “Mayhap to Scotland itself.”

His voice was heavy with guilt, even anguish. He turned to her, and she saw glittering intensity in those usually curtained eyes. A knot of apprehension twisted in her stomach.

“No one will learn . . .” she started.

“More than a hundred people know what happened,” he said.

“They will be gone in a few days,” Juliana replied. “And their lives are at risk as well.”

“Some also like their drink,” he said. “’Tis easy to let something slip then. And others have seen the
Sofia
as well. Our Macleans. A Campbell said he saw a strange ship. And you, lass, cannot stay hidden here forever.”

She reached out and touched him. No matter he had tried to avoid her these last few days. No matter that she had known a terrible loneliness during that time. No matter that he had killed her uncle or foiled her father’s plotting.

Nothing mattered but his pain.

“You had no choice,” she whispered. “You would have died. As would the others.”

“And others should die now in my place? Scotland is nae so ready for another war.”

She already knew his sense of responsibility. He tried to deny it, but she had watched him with Manuel, the sweetness with which he tried to help Denny, the insistence that the oarsmen receive what had been promised. She knew not any other man who would have cared.

She could only share his pain now, not try to alleviate it, for she knew the latter would be hopeless.

“I can disappear. I can be Anna,” she said, trying to give him a smile, small as it may be. “I think my English is good enough to pass as an Englishwoman. And not many people have seen me. We were not active at court. My father was . . . said he was shamed by an English wife.”

She decided not to mention that her uncle had sent a miniature of her to the Viscount Kingsley.

“Why would you do that?” he said. “I killed your uncle. We stole your dowry.”

“A dowry I did not want, and an uncle I did not admire,” she said softly.

“And your mother?”

The question was like a knife stab into her heart. She could deny all, but that. The thought of letting her mother believe her dead caused her soul to bleed.

Her mother’s grief against the lives of so many?

He closed his eyes and his arms went around her, and they clung together in mutual desperation and anguish.

DESPITE his vows to keep away from Juliana, Patrick knew it was useless when he saw misery in Juliana’s eyes as he’d asked about her mother.