Beloved Warrior (36 page)

Jamie broke in. “My guess is they would travel to Glasgow and down to Carlisle, then ride to the Middlesbrough.”

“Edinburgh is the easier route,” Rory interjected.

“They know you are in Edinburgh,” Jamie protested.

Patrick swore under his breath. He tried to think as Diego would. The man must know he would come after him. “He will come through Edinburgh,” he said with more certainty than he felt. “’Tis the fastest way. He will hope you sent someone else and it would take the usual four or five days.”

“One of us should ride ahead to the road from Carlisle just in case,” Rory said.

“Us?” Patrick raised an eyebrow.

“I am at fault.”

“Someone should be at Inverleith,” Patrick said, “and you should not be involved with this.”

“Aye, I am involved,” Rory replied softly. “I cannot sit home again. Duncan and Archibald can take care of Inverleith now that the Campbells are no longer enemies.”

Patrick hesitated, fought with himself. He did not want to entangle the Macleans further in his problems. But he’d learned in the past days the guilt that Lachlan carried about the death of their father, the guilt that Rory felt for not being at Flodden Field. They’d all needed healing.

Patrick finally nodded.

“Denny will go with us. He can fight like the devil, and he might remember something. I think he had a feeling about Kingsley, that he remembered something, but . . . it seemed to flicker away like the light of a candle.”

“I am going as well,” Jamie said. “I’ve been at the English court, negotiating on the behalf of the late king. I have acquaintances on both sides of the border.”

Patrick had no illusions about the next few days. Despite the current negotiations between Scotland and England, they could all be seized as spies. And if his role in the
Sofia
’s disappearance was discovered, he would have a very short future. As would anyone with him.

He saw the determination in their eyes. His brother’s. Jamie’s. His old enemy. His throat suddenly felt thick.

“Lachlan may still be at the Charlton’s tower,” Rory said, moving toward the door. “He is strangely fond of the old bandit. It is not far out of our way.”

“Could she do it?” Rory asked suddenly. “Could she convince them the ship sank?”

Patrick shrugged. “She is not adept at hiding her feelings, and God knows what Diego will do or say.”

“You know nothing about him?” Rory asked.

“Nay. He is wily in avoiding questions, but I did not think he would do this.”

“Would he harm her?”

“If he does, he is dead.”

Without more words and afraid his emotion might show, Patrick picked up his saddlebags and strode out, the other three behind him.

He was no longer alone.

 
 
D
AYS passed in a blur. Juliana and Diego rode day and night, Diego frequently selling and buying new mounts. They rested only when they could not continue on. When rain came, Diego would find shelter, once in a small inn where he slept in the common room and she in a room with another woman. They posed as brother and sister traveling to see a dying relative, and she covered her face with a scarf when they encountered anyone. She was scarred by the pox, Diego said, and in every encounter the person quickly averted their eyes.

Privately, he treated her as an indifferent brother, looking to her most essential needs but sharing little else with her, particularly any information about himself.

Time was essential to the plan. The ship would already be almost two weeks late. How long would it have taken Diego and her to find their way to the Tees River and Handdon Castle after the ship was blown off course and foundered on rocks?

Though she’d often ridden in Spain, she’d never before been on a horse for hours upon hours, and every bone in her body ached. She could barely sit upright, yet Diego continued to push forward. She could not do less.

The exhaustion was numbing. Which was well. She could not bear to think about what she was leaving. She did not want to think that she would never see Patrick Maclean again. Never feel his warmth. The thrill of his touch. The comfort of his arms. The exquisite feelings he stirred in her.

They talked little, and she was grateful for that. Diego was more distant than she had ever seen him, his eyes cool and his manner stiff.

It had already grown dark when they approached a village. “According to your map,” he said, “we should be on or over the English border.”

They had been skirting the main road connecting the two countries for the past day. They had passed through Glasgow, then Carlisle before turning east toward Middlesbrough. The Earl of Chadwick’s castle, Handdon, was just south of Middlesbrough.

He stopped his mount outside an inn. He took one look at her. “I will try to get rooms for the night.”

She was too tired to protest.

Six days had slid by since they’d left Inverleith. She knew that only because of the nights.

He returned. “They have rooms. A private room for you. I will share space with others.”

He offered her his hand and she slid down. He caught her and lowered her to her feet, steadying her. His gaze searched hers, then that odd smile returned. “I did not believe you would do so well, Juliana, or that any woman could.”

Too weary to come back with a witty reply, she did not say anything. Instead, she covered her face with the scarf and hood of her cloak. The pox, Diego had explained.

He took the saddlebags he’d purchased and surrendered the horses to a stable lad along with a coin. “Take good care of them.”

The boy had weighed it in his hand, then bobbed his head. “I will, your lordship.”

Diego led the way upstairs, placed the saddlebags inside and closed the door. For the slightest moment, she stilled.

“The innkeeper said we are at Newcastle upon Tyne,” he said. “Handdon Castle is another hard day’s ride from here.”

“They are all hard days’ rides,” she said.

A knock came at the door and a barmaid entered with two cups of wine and a large plate of food, including beef and bread and potatoes, and set it down on the table in the tiny room.

Diego nodded and handed her a coin, then sat down. They’d had nothing but bread today.

She could hardly keep her eyes open. She wished for a bath. For clean clothes, but that would not fit the picture they wished to present to her future husband and his family.

But then Kingsley may not want her at all after her tale. She would have traveled many miles with a man not her husband. She would appear in a dress that she would claim was begged. Diego was wearing the seaman’s trousers and shirt he had taken from the cabin of one of the
Sofia
’s officers and had purchased leather bands to cover manacle scars on his wrists. She was quite certain he could lie his way through any questions.

“We can always return,” Diego said, reading her thoughts.

“No.”

“They would welcome you back.”

“What about your reward?”

He shrugged. “One does not always win.”

“Then why did you come with me?”

His dark eyes turned onyx. He did not answer.

“Diego?” she said. “Is that your real name?”

“No,” he said, stretching back in a chair and taking a long swallow of ale.

“What is it then?” She had grown more and more curious about her enigmatic companion. He had fine manners when he chose to display them. Good speech. He spoke several languages well. Yet he could also lapse into the guise of a sailor or servant almost immediately.

“Diego does well enough for now.”

“Do you have family?” she persisted, now that he had said more than usual. She suspected it was the same exhaustion that wracked her.

“No one that recognizes me,” he said without emotion.

“But
they
exist?” she persisted.

“Curious thing, are you not?” he said with a trace of a smile.

“I like you,” she said.

He flashed that sardonic smile at her. “Like?” he said as if tasting it. “Distressing word, that. I think I would prefer hate or despise or . . .”

“Why?”

“‘Like’ is bland, senorita. Lifeless. I do not like being bland.”

“You have naught to worry about,” she said, surprised at how relaxed she was feeling, even if she was tired to the bone.

When he didn’t reply, she persisted. “If you do not care about the money, why are you here?” she asked again.

He took another swallow of wine. “Perhaps because your Patrick is the only man I have ever admired. He and his brothers.”

“Then why . . .”

“I agree with you, senorita. He will never be safe—none of us will—unless it is believed the
Sofia
went down during a storm. You offered the perfect solution. I knew he would not agree. He has too much honor.” He said it almost as if it were a curse.

She swallowed hard. She was astonished at his statement, the admission that he cared about anything, but then she could not help but be irritated by the fact that he so easily agreed to offer her as a sacrifice, even if it had been her plan. Juliana realized all those emotions contradicted each other, but she was too weary to try to unravel them.

“Ah, you are distressed.” The amusement was back in his voice.

“No,” she denied.

“Or perhaps I have my own scheme,” he tantalized.

Her curiosity won against her indignation. “I do not understand.”

“Rest assured, I do not intend to throw you to the hounds. I have a grudge against men like the Earl of Chadwick as well as the Mendozas.”

Another twist. Another riddle. Before she could reply, he stood.“’Tis time for me to go and claim my place with fellow travelers. We leave at sunrise.”

Before she could stop him, he left, closing the door softly behind him and leaving her to ponder his words.

Still dressed, she lay down on the dirty bed. Diego had surprised her once again tonight but she was too weary to solve his riddles. She would think about that tomorrow. Her thoughts turned to Patrick. The sharp edge of loss sliced through her heart. She recalled the first time she saw him on the ship, and the terror that had swept through her. He’d been the ultimate warrior then. He still was. But now that image was tempered by the gentleness of his touch, his instinct to protect.

That was the image that held steady. Pain twisted inside as she envisioned a future without him, without all those exquisite feelings he’d aroused. Without the feeling of belonging he brought to her.

Emotions tore at her as she closed her eyes.

She was doing the right thing. He would be safe after years of the worst kind of hell. She would make it so. That was all that mattered.

 
PATRICK, Rory and Denny reached Thomas Charl-ton’s tower fortress at midmorning on the second day. Jamie and Denny had swung southwest to intercept the road from Carlisle. To Patrick’s surprise, Denny reluctantly agreed to accompany Jamie. The border was too dangerous for lone riders.

They planned to meet at Hartlepool, a village near the River Tees. It was large enough, Rory said, to have several inns. He was familiar with the entire northern English coast where he’d engaged in smuggling French wines.

Patrick was now well versed on the first not-quite-cordial meeting between Rory and the Charlton. They had, in truth, almost killed one another. Relations healed, however, with the wedding of Kimbra, the Charlton’s favorite healer, and Lachlan.

Charlton told them what he knew about the Earl of Chadwick and said Lachlan had traveled to London to learn more about him and his son, the Viscount Kingsley. He was obviously curious about the questions. Lachlan had apparently told him little.

“A business proposition,” Rory said simply. “We want to know who we do business with.”

“Smuggling?” the Charlton said with a sly grin. He had at times bought his own share of illegal goods from the Macleans. “Young Kingsley is not above it, but I would be wary of trusting him. He would betray ye in a second and take everything.”

“So I have heard,” Rory said. “And his father?”

“’Tis said the old earl is still mourning the loss of his oldest son. He is ill, and Kingsley has assumed much of his authority. I hear he is trying to establish himself with King Henry’s court.”

“And he is doing so,” Rory said. “He has been in Edinburgh on behalf of Henry. He left about the same time we did.”

“Devil ye say. He is at Handdon?”

“Or on his way.”

“Be careful, Maclean.”

The Charlton loaned them fresh horses and clothes. “Ye would not go far in England in those plaids,” he said.

“Are there many inns between here and the River Tees?”

Charlton’s gaze was even more curious but he refrained from asking questions. “There is one on the road from Carlisle. One about five leagues south, and then several in Newcastle.”

“My thanks,” Rory said. “I will see that the horses are returned.”

“I will take your mounts in trade,” the Charlton said, failing to keep a degree of eagerness from his voice.

“We will discuss that later,” Rory said, and Patrick realized his brother had no intention of surrendering his beloved horses for the small, sturdy animals they were being offered.

They lingered to have a meal, then started out again. They should be well ahead of Diego and Juliana, but Patrick was not going to take chances. They would check every inn, and any other dwelling. If she had arrived, word would have started to travel. A bride rescued from the sea would be irresistible.

And if they hadn’t, he planned to make sure they did not.

 
 
J
ULIANA and Diego left the inn at daybreak. She had tried to comb her hair but in the damp air it refused to do as she wished. She braided it instead.

Their pace remained steady. She smelled the salt air as they neared the coast. In Spain, she delighted in it. Here, she resented it. It brought her closer to a marriage she feared and farther away from Patrick. Even if she was turned away by Kingsley, there could be no union with the Maclean. The past would always haunt them and be a threat.