Authors: Patricia Potter

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Scottish

Beloved Warrior (10 page)

BOOK: Beloved Warrior

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In and out. In and out. She had to wipe away blood as she worked. Then she was done. He looked down at her workmanship. Nodded.

“The other two now,” he said, motioning to his arm.

Again she sewed. Despite her fear of him, she felt his pain with each stitch and wondered how he bore it so stoically.

Then she was finished. He had her tie a strip of linen from her underdress around his chest, then his arm. He stood, and she followed.

She could not take her gaze from his face. Though covered with a red beard, it was lean and hard and merciless. All angles, she noted. He was probably suffering horribly, but neither his face nor his eyes reflected it.

What would happen now?

He surprised her by going to the door.

“I have a ship to sail,” he said.

“To where . . . ?”

“That is not your concern,” he said.

“It is,” she protested.

“Be content to be alive,” he said.

Then he left her to ponder that statement.

Chapter 9

PATRICK thought he was used to pain. It was humbling to find he wasn’t. Or mayhap it was the loss of blood from the injuries on his arm and chest, but he stumbled as he returned to the captain’s cabin and studied the charts.

The ship seemed to be sailing well enough, but if they encountered a storm . . .

He had many lessons to teach, though he certainly was not a master mariner himself. He could but hope for fair weather or they all might be doomed. Either way, it was a fate no worse than what they could have expected from the oars.

At his father’s insistence, both he and Rory spent two years at sea. Trading had been the clan’s livelihood for nearly a century. Patrick had not loved it as his younger brother had. Rory had a feel and love for the sea that Patrick did not. The sea had assuaged his brother’s loneliness. It had deepened Patrick’s.

Loneliness had left its mark on each of the three brothers Maclean. They all had different mothers, and each one had died within a few years of marrying their father. The old laird had been unable to find a fourth, all the eligible women and their families being all too aware of the Campbell curse that decreed no Maclean bride would live long.

Patrick, like his youngest brother, had vowed not to marry and perpetuate the curse, and had, instead, turned his energies toward war, where he sold his services. Only Rory had married, and within a year he had lost his wife in childbirth. His youngest brother planned to go into a monastery, but his father had prevented that. Instead, Lachlan had retreated into books, much to their father’s anger.

Patrick had watched Inverleith sink into gloom and despair, and his father refused to give him any authority to combat it. In frustration, he left, the last meeting with his father explosive.

Do not think of the past.
Nothing could change it. Only the future could be changed. Freedom lay only days ahead if he could remember enough of what he’d learned during those two years at sea.

Concentrate.
Remember the lessons learned so many years ago. Remember the stars, the navigation tools. A hundred lives depended on those lessons.

Hours later, he felt the rhythm of the ship change. A surge in speed. He put the charts back down and went topside. The sun’s last glow was diffused behind clouds of crimson and gold. A treacherous beauty, like the woman below. He’d hoped for stars, not clouds. He might be able to navigate by the former.

Diego was at the wheel, looking relaxed there. Patrick suspected that many things came easy to him. His speech, his knowledge of language, his quick understanding of what needed to be done, told Patrick that Diego was no ordinary oarsman.

“Senor,” Diego said, “the wind seems to be quickening.”

Patrick agreed. The sea seemed rougher as well. The last thing he needed now was to confront a storm with an inexperienced crew. As much as he wanted to sail as far away as possible from the Spanish coast, they had to trim sails and strike the topsails. The sailing lessons would begin now.

He sent a man after Felix. He might as well learn now how well his makeshift crew took orders.

To his surprise, Felix appeared almost immediately with a group of men behind him. He and one other man nodded when Patrick asked if they knew how to trim sails. Felix and the men followed Patrick’s instructions as they practiced.

Not quickly, not even competently. But they got it done. Patrick gave the wheel to the Spaniard, who had appeared back on deck and climbed up in the rigging to secure the sheets, hoping those below were watching and learning.

When Patrick returned to the deck, he was met by Felix.

“We did well, me and my mates,” Felix boasted, his pride at his status clear on his face.

Patrick nodded. “Aye,” he said. “You did, but we will have to work faster. A storm is brewing. Teach as many as you can to handle the sails.”

Felix paused, shifted from one foot to another. “I . . . well, should not have . . . questioned . . .”

“You had every right. You are a free man now.”

“You really meant that we can go anywhere we want when we reach Scotland?”

“Aye,” he said. “I will do my best to help.”

Felix nodded, accepting the words. Again, Patrick hoped he could fulfill the promises he made.
Let there be a family left. A clan left. Ships.
The
Sofia
rolled to the leeward side, and he took the wheel. “Get some rest,” he ordered Diego.

Diego gave him a hard stare. “What about you?”

“After you.”

“We need you awake,” Diego said.

“I want to get home,” Patrick said simply.

“I heard about Flodden Field,” the Spaniard said. “What if there is nothing there now? What about the promises?”

“My family has an uncanny way of surviving. The men, anyway,” Patrick replied dryly. “I meant it when I said I would help every man who helps me.” Then he went on the offensive. “You said you had not sailed before. You have.”

“Have I?” Diego asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Aye, no one could take the wheel as you did without having done it before.”

“A small smuggling bark,” Diego said. “A coastal vessel. Nothing like this. And I wanted to see how good you were,” he added without apology.

“You were a smuggler?”

“Among other things.”

“Navigation?”

Diego shook his head. “We followed the coastline.”

“Is that why you were sent here? Smuggling?”

Diego shrugged without answering.

Patrick was not going to pry. He had his own regrets. He asked only because he had to know what skills were available to him.

“Do you really believe we can make Scotland without detection?” Diego asked.

“Did you really think we could escape those chains?” Patrick asked in return.

“You are saying nothing is impossible.”

“Aye, I have to believe it.”

“How much sailing did you do?” Diego asked.

“Two years, and that was more than ten years ago.”

“As a captain?”

“Nay. Not even a mate. I was there to learn. My father owned several ships. He thought all of us should learn about the ships and trading. I was a reluctant student.”

“But you learn well, I think. I thought you made a mistake with Felix earlier, but he is surprising me.”

“He’s a troublemaker,” Patrick said. “But he will now fight to keep his authority and to prove he should have had it earlier.”

Diego shook his head. “I wouldn’t have taken that chance.” He paused, then said, “You said
us
earlier.”

“Aye, I have two brothers.”

“Will they agree to your grand plan to help a ship full of mutineers?”

“I am the heir. My father is laird, contrary as the devil, but he will honor the word of his son.”

“When did you leave?”

“More than eight years ago. I spent one year fighting with the French before being taken by the Spanish.”

“They say many Scots died a year ago on the border.”

“My father would have been too old to go and in too poor of health. One of my brothers wanted to go into the church, and the other captained one of the ships. He hated Inverleith.”

“Inverleith,” repeated Diego. “It has a fine sound to it.”

Patrick didn’t reply. Inverleith was a fine place if not for the feud with the Campbells and the bloody curse that had haunted generation after generation.

He adjusted the wheel slightly to make the most of the wind. The Spaniard lingered, and Patrick understood. He wanted to be sure, or as sure as possible, that going to Scotland was a good choice.

Diego glanced down at the linen bandage around Patrick’s waist. “Someone made a pretty bandage.” There was a question in the statement, though not a direct one.

“The Spanish woman sewed the wound.”

“And the cloth?”

He hesitated, then said, “Her chemise.”

The question persisted in the Spaniard’s eyes.

“She and her maid are unharmed.”

“You are more courageous than I. I do not believe I would allow her around me with a needle.”

“I was prepared this time.”

Diego’s eyes hardened. “If they live . . .”

“I know. Everyone on the ship will have a price on his head.”

“The older one . . . she is
muy bella
.”

“She is a Mendoza,” Patrick replied.

“
Si,
but she looks more English than Spanish.”

Now that Diego mentioned it, Patrick had to agree. The light hair, the blue eyes and pale skin—all spoke of England.

Even if she were part English, it would change nothing.

She was a danger to every man on this ship. So was the wisp of a lass with her.

He had lived with that every moment since he discovered them. What rotten, bloody luck. There shouldn’t have been passengers. Not on a slave ship. What had been so bloody important about this marriage?

The Earl of Chadwick’s son. The heir apparent.

He tried to remember if he’d heard the name mentioned before. Something tickled in the back of his mind.
Chadwick.

“Have you eaten anything?” Diego asked.

Patrick welcomed the interruption. He didn’t want to think of the fearful women in the cabin below. He didn’t like the fact that he had probably deepened that fear even more.

“Nay.”

“I will have someone bring something. There is bread, better than what we had, even some fruit.”

“Fruit?” Holy Father, but how long it had been since he’d last had fruit. He had feared losing his teeth to scurvy.

Diego’s lips turned into a tight smile, or as close to one as Patrick had seen. “Fruit,” he repeated.

“Aye, bring me some.” He paused, then added, “Have Manuel take some food to the women. He’s the least threatening.”

“Si,”
Diego replied.

“Then get some sleep. Take the first mate’s cabin. I will send someone for you when I tire.”

Diego raised an eyebrow. “That should not be long.”

“You haven’t had any more rest than I have.”

“I am not sure of that. I saw that exchange between you and Manuel. How long had you planned this?”

“He mentioned a few weeks ago he might be able to get the key from the blacksmith. Then he was able to steal a few drops of a sleeping potion from the physician.”

“He paid a price for it,” Diego said softly, and Patrick realized he, too, had been aware of Manuel’s life.

Patrick only nodded. He suspected Manuel had to pretend, had to fool the doctor into believing him harmless.

Diego left, and Patrick concentrated on the wheel. Felix and the other two oarsmen who said they’d been sailors moved around him, showing others how to work the sails and tie knots. Others were washing blood from the decks.

He stood, his feet braced against the deck, once more relishing the feel of the wind. He hadn’t felt it in too many years. Even the clouds gathering above couldn’t dampen the pure exultation of being his own man again.

But something about the Spaniard nagged at him. He gave very little away, and Patrick realized he had extracted more information from Patrick than he had given.

Was he an ally or merely biding his time to see how events went?

Exactly how much seamanship did Diego really have?

Even worse, he really didn’t get a sense of what the Spaniard wanted to do about the women.

But then he didn’t know what to do with them, either.

The image of the two women deviled him again.

Later. He would worry about that later.

WHEN the door to her cabin opened again, Juliana’s heart jumped. She and Carmita exchanged glances.

Hours had gone by, and Juliana decided to pass the time by teaching Carmita a few English words. Juliana feared that if something happened to her, Carmita would be helpless.

She despised the fear that bubbled inside her, the remembrance of the hard, cold eyes of the leader.

But instead of
el diablo
, the boy named Manuel entered, his hands carrying plates of food and a pitcher.

“
Capitán
Maclean said to bring this to you.”

“
Capitán
Maclean?” She could not stifle the mockery.

The lad glared at her, put the tray of food down and turned to go.

“Wait,” she said, knowing she’d made a mistake.

The boy hesitated.

“You were not an oarsman?” she exclaimed.

The boy ignored her.

“Do not go,” she implored, hating the sound of begging in her voice, but she desperately needed information.

He turned, his eyes going to Carmita.

Juliana didn’t like that expression, as if he knew something they should know, but didn’t.