Beloved Warrior (15 page)

She went over to the boy. Though he had the form of a child, his eyes were nearly as hard as the Scot’s.

Her fingers brushed his hair back. The skin was broken and he’d bled profusely. She would need to stitch it and would need Carmita’s help as well. The move to the other cabin would have to wait.

So would her fears.

THE hills of coastal Scotland had never looked so welcoming.

Patrick looked over at the green hills and uttered a prayer of thanks. It was a prayer he hadn’t made in more years than he could remember.

At daybreak he’d glimpsed the Firth of Clyde on the Scottish coast and hours later the Sound of Jura. Now Patrick glued his eyes to the coast, watching for the firth that led to Inverleith.

Kilil joined him at the helm. With his neatly trimmed beard, he was almost unrecognizable from the man on the bench.

“We are nearly there?” Kalil asked.

“Aye.”

The Moor’s dark eyes searched his face. “We have trusted you.”

Patrick nodded.

“We want the ship,” Kilil stated. “Not only the Moors, but many of the others as well. We would sail to Morocco.”

“Think about it,” Patrick urged Kilil. “Think what will happen if you take the
Sofia.
You can change her name, but there is no hiding the fact that she is a Spanish galleon. The seas are heavily patrolled approaching Morocco because of piracy, and you have but two small cannons. The crew would not be large enough to combat a storm like we saw days ago, much less an English or Spanish or French warship.”

“I know all you say is true,” Kilil acknowledged. “But then none of us believed we would reach your country. Freedom and hope are mighty swords.”

Patrick knew that was true. And he could not deny to others what he had won for himself. “Do you know enough navigation?”

“We have been learning.” He paused. “I hope to persuade the Spaniard to go with us.”

Diego was called the Spaniard by nearly everyone. Despite the fact there were other Spaniards aboard, he had become
the
Spaniard.

“He is free to do as he wants,” Patrick said. “But for the safety of all, we should unload the cargo and scuttle the ship. Then none of us should mention this again.”

“My brothers . . . they want to return home. To our desert,” Kilil persisted. “This is not our land. We will not be welcome, even if no one learns about the
Sofia.
We, more than others, may well end up as slaves again simply because we are different.” Then he said with more force-fulness, “We are grateful, but we will take the ship. We have learned much these past weeks.”

“Not enough,” Patrick said softly. “You will never survive the voyage, and I doubt the Spaniard will go with you. He is a practical man.”

“We can force him.”

“Can you? We almost did not make it here, and I know these seas. He does not.” He paused. “I can offer you a better way home.”

“I do not understand.”

“We are a seafaring family. My father will purchase the cargo and take those who wish to leave to Morocco or the coast of Spain. Each would have an equal share of the cost of the
Sofia
’s cargo.”

“You give us your oath?”

“I have not been home for more than eight years. There has been a great battle between my country and England. But if there is a ship left, anything left, I swear you shall have it.”

Kilil hesitated. “And if there is not?”

“If I cannot provide passage for you in one of our ships, I will myself navigate the
Sofia
for you,” he said slowly. “I will sail you home.” It was a painful offer. He would be returning to sea in a vessel he hated. But he could not take his freedom at the cost of freedom for those who had helped and trusted him.

“And the cargo?”

“The cargo should fetch a good price and I think it should be divided equally among you, either in Scotland or in Morocco. I hope the Macleans can purchase all or a portion of the cargo and distribute the funds equally between all the oarsmen. I suspect not all wish to go with you.”

After a long moment, Kilil nodded. “You are not like other infidels.”

“In truth, at one time I would have said there was nae a good Moor,” Patrick shot back. “I have reconsidered.”

“A lesson hard learned for both of us,” Kilil said as he walked away.

Patrick spotted the entrance to the Firth of Lorn. He gave orders to turn the sail. He would pass Campbell land, although Dunstaffnage, the Campbell ancestral home, was farther down the firth on the Isle of Lorn. Word would travel that a Spanish galleon had sailed through.

He just hoped no one would believe it.

Campbells.
Rage rose in him at the very thought of them. They had come close to destroying the Macleans. Were they still raiding Maclean lands?

Did the Macleans still hold Inverleith? Was his father alive still? His brothers?

His stomach churned, not from the sea this time, but from nerves. So much depended on the next few hours. The
Sofia
passed the rock on which one of his ancestors attempted to drown his Campbell wife, an act that had brought misfortune on the Macleans for the past century.

They sailed past Inverleith, the towering keep that overlooked the sound. Despite his lengthy absence, it looked much the same. Had he really expected it to be different? To his surprise, he felt a skip of his heart at the sight of the massive walls and two towers.

He ordered the anchor dropped in a natural harbor several furlongs from Inverleith. The Macleans would have seen them by now. They would be gathering, probably trying to decide how best to confront a Spanish enemy.

The longboat was lowered. Twenty men could crowd inside but he took only ten oarsmen, the Spaniard and himself. He left the MacDonald to keep peace aboard.

Once on land, he knew eyes watched him. The coast was always watched by Macleans. And he most certainly would be regarded with suspicion. He wore the clothing of a Spaniard sailor. He had not had time nor the inclination to shave in the past weeks. He doubted anyone would recognize him as Patrick Maclean. He doubted he would have recognized himself.

His thoughts turned to the women. He tried to think of them as one. Not as a wisp of a girl named Carmita and a slim, brave lass named Mendoza.

He had no more than dismissed the thought of them when he saw horsemen riding toward him. They all wore the Maclean-dyed plaids.

The sight stirred something strong and proud inside him. Mayhap the Scottish heart of Patrick Maclean did beat strong yet.

They stopped, and one of the small band approached on horseback. The air of authority proclaimed him the leader.

“You are on Maclean land. Your purpose here?”

Patrick barely remembered his younger brother. Lachlan had been a stripling lad then, a dreamer with his head in a book. He was no lad now. Nor a dreamer, from the hard set in his face. His brother looked lean and strong, and his blue eyes steady as he regarded the scene before him.

Had Lachlan really changed that much? Patrick wondered.

His brother’s eyes narrowed as if trying to place him.

How many years since they had last seen one another? Eight? Nine?

“Do you nae recognize a brother?” Patrick asked softly.

The young man jerked in the saddle. His eyes widened. Then he dismounted with a bound.

“Patrick?” He stared at him for a long moment, incredulity in his eyes. “It cannot be.”

“The devil protects his own.”

“Nay, not a devil. Mayhap an angel,” his brother, Lachlan Maclean, said as he approached, his lips stretching into a broad smile. There was a confidence about him that had never been there before.

“If so, it was Lucifer,” Patrick said, not quite certain about the sincerity of the welcome.

Lachlan continued to inspect him for a moment, disbelief in his face. Then he placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “God’s blood, but we thought you dead.”

He looked past Patrick, his gaze lingering on the Moors who had rowed the ship’s boat in, then to the Spanish galleon.

“Spanish?”

“Aye.”

“A story that needs telling.” Lachlan stepped back and studied him again. “But now I must get you to Inverleith.” He paused, then added, “I cannot believe what my eyes are telling me. You have changed much, Patrick.” His eyes rested on the scarred wrists.

“As have you,” Patrick said, his own gaze studying his brother. Now he saw a slight scar along the side his face. “When I left you were little more than a boy who hated training. I see you have some scars of your own now.”

“Aye. At Flodden Field.”

“I heard of it. And the others? My father? Rory.”

Lachlan went still.

“Fa has been dead since two years after you left,” Lachlan said.

“What happened?”

“He was killed in a raid.”

“By a Campbell?”

“Aye, but because of me.”

Patrick knew he should feel something. Had he been so numbed over the past few years that all his emotions were dead? He should feel sorrow at the death of his father. Instead he absorbed the news silently, almost without feeling.

Mayhap grief would come. Joy at being home again. Emotions seemed alien to him at this moment. He had turned them off for seven years. It had been necessary to survive. He’d swallowed pride, anger, grief. Buried them.

Forever?
The thought clenched his stomach. Never to feel again?

His father had been dead all these years, and he hadn’t known it. He should never have left. But what was done was done. “I had feared the Campbell slew them all. Or that all had fallen at Flodden Field. The Spanish taunted me with it.” He paused. “Was it as bad as I heard?”

“Aye, it was. King James died along with the best of Scotland. We lost many fine Macleans.”

“Then Fa was alive when the demand for ransom came?”

“Ransom?” Lachlan’s brow furrowed. “There was no demand for ransom. Most certainly it would have been paid.”

“It was not. I was wounded and taken prisoner at the Battle of the Garigliano near Naples. A ransom was demanded. My captor said he sent several written demands.”

Lachlan looked puzzled. “We received none. Fa would have done anything to have you back. But there were no demands. By God, Patrick, you should know we would have paid it, even if it took every pound we had.”

His gaze met Patrick’s and Patrick saw no guile in it. No lies. But repeated demands had been made. How was it possible that none had reached Inverleith?

Had his brother become a liar as well as a warrior?

“And Rory? Where was he?”

“He was at sea when our father died. It took two years to reach him and fetch him home. He loathed doing so, but I was of no value to the clan. I was no warrior, and I had little trust. His return turned out well enough, because he found a bride and now has two bairns.”

“And what of the curse?”

“That, too, my brother, is a long story and mayhap Rory should be the one to tell it.” His gaze ran over Patrick’s rough sailor’s shirt and pants. “We need to get you back into a plaid,” he said. Then his gaze caught the scars around his wrists. Lingered there.

“’Tis nothing,” Patrick said.

Lachlan nodded. Then grasped his arm. “We have prayed for this.”

“We?”

“Rory and myself. Fa before he died.”

Lachlan put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. He was of a height with Patrick but did not have his larger frame. “Come,” Lachlan said. “Meet your Macleans and come home with us. Rory is at Inverleith, and he will rejoice at seeing you.” He paused, then added, “I have a wife now, a daughter, and a babe waiting birth.”

“You always said you wanted to be a priest.”

“I did not think I could marry. Or live up to father and you and Rory.”

“What changed?”

“Many things. Come now.’Tis time to get you into an honest plaid. You can ride Callum’s horse.” Lachlan paused. “The ship? The crew?”

“Are mine,” Patrick said to relieve any apprehension. More explanations could come later.

Patrick went to the Macleans on horseback. Each one dismounted and greeted him. Some he remembered, some he did not. He took the proffered mount.

Then he turned back to the men waiting at the boat. “Take the longboat back,” he told Diego. “My brothers live, and I will come aboard tonight with news.”

“Do you wish me to return to the ship?”

“Aye.”

He would have preferred to have the Spaniard at his side, but he was needed more on ship. Strange that he felt more comfortable with the Spaniard than with his own brother. But then Diego had shared hell with him.

Patrick watched as the oarsmen rowed back to the
Sofia.
Then he turned to his brother, who had appropriated a horse from the Maclean named Callum. He remembered a Callum. A towheaded lad then. “Is Jock your father?”

“Aye,” Callum said, obviously pleased to be recognized.

“He is well?”

“Nay. I lost him at Flodden Field.”

“Och. I remember him as a good soldier.”

A slow smile filled Callum’s face.

“Come,” Patrick said. “Ride behind me.”

“I can walk.”

“Nay. The horse looks like a sturdy fellow.” Patrick mounted and offered his hand to Callum, who swung up behind him.

It had been a long time since Patrick had been in the saddle. Far too long. He looked at the men who surrounded him. They had apparently come to confront whatever invaders had come to their shores. Now they were swinging their horses around him in a gesture of protection.

Too few,
Patrick thought. What if he
had
been a Spanish raider with armed brigands?

What if they had been Campbells?

The clan had grown careless while he had been gone. He would remedy that soon enough.