“Why would he do that when she had nothing to do with it?”
“Why do dogs bite?”
His eyes narrowed, and he frowned. “Is that why you agreed to this marriage? To please your father?”
She looked away from him. His eyes were too compelling. They demanded answers that she did not want to give. “Is that not how many marriages are arranged?” she countered.
After a moment’s silence, he continued, “Have you met the prospective bridegroom?”
“Nay, but my father and uncle assured me he is a fine man. And well favored,” she added.
“I saw the contract,” he said shortly. “Your father did you no favor, pledging you to a man you have not met.”
She was humiliated by the comment. And angered. He who had killed so many had no moral status to judge others. Not only that, Scots and English were mortal enemies. Of course he would think the worst of them.
Remember what your mother said, a traitorous internal voice reminded her.
But then she could not bear to think of that last conversation. She did not want to believe or think well of the man in front of her. He was too dangerous. Too deadly. Too foreign to all she knew.
“Pack,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I will return shortly, and you both will be rowed to shore.”
“And you?”
“I will stay aboard until the ship is unloaded,” he said.
A shiver ran through her. She knew not what to expect on land.
“My brothers will see to your protection,” he said. “You will nae be harmed.” He turned and left, leaving a void in the room, as if it had been drained of something vital.
“I do not want to go ashore,” Carmita said.
“The ship is no safer,” Juliana said. “At least there might be women at Inverleith. Someone who will help us.”
Carmita remained standing. “I want to go home.”
“We will,” Juliana promised. “We will. But for now we have to pretend to accept his . . . hospitality. We will find a way to England. I swear it.”
Carmita looked dubious but picked up the nightclothes Juliana had worn and started packing the trunk with her. A gown, the one still stained by blood despite Carmita’s efforts, was next. Her brushes and combs. A shawl.
He would stay here on the ship, he said. She was befuddled by the fact that the thought was most unwelcome. She still felt warm from his touch as well as an odd tingling in the most intimate parts of herself. He frightened her and attracted her at the same time. He had from the first moment she had seen him on the bench. That spark of rebellion had struck a chord inside.
What was wrong with her? He was a savage. A murderer. A plunderer. No gentle manners had he.
Yet there was something that radiated between them. Something compelling and irresistible. Or was it only her imagination? He did not even like her. In truth, he despised her for what she was. Spanish . . . betrothed to an English lord.
And she despised him.
She kept telling herself that as she and Carmita finished packing and waited for him to return.
Chapter 15
MANUEL stood the moment Patrick left the Span-ish lass’s cabin.
Patrick paused. “You have done well in protecting them,” he said. He had come to have a strong appreciation of young Manuel these past weeks.
But the sooner he got the lasses off the ship, the better. He’d been playing a dangerous game these past few days, trying to hold the crew together. He’d taken a risk leaving even for a few hours.
Now he had to do something that would test the oarsmen’s mettle, and he wanted the women safely off the ship.
The image of Juliana’s face had remained with him while he’d been at Inverleith despite all his attempts to distance himself from her. The uncertainty and even fear in her face drove directly into his gut. He was too familiar with slavery not to sympathize with her plight. She had gone from privileged lady to captive. He’d been trained to endure whatever came his way. She had not.
Och, but she was reaching somewhere in him he thought dead. He could not let that happen. Even if Rory and Lachlan no longer believed in the Campbell curse, he’d grown up with the certainty of it. He had seen his father’s second and third wives die and knew he had been cause of his father’s first loss—his own mother. He had lived with the guilt every day of his life.
Patrick was not going to risk a woman on his brothers’ assumption. Not that Juliana Mendoza would be interested in a former slave, nor he in a Spanish wench. She would run like bloody hell away from him if she had the chance, even though there was some kind of perverse attraction between them.
It was something he did not wish to dwell upon. He had to keep his mind on the immediate problems. He located MacDonald and the Spaniard, and they went to the captain’s cabin.
He quickly relayed the conversation he’d had with his brothers. A ship would be available to sail their companions to Morocco, which seemed to be the port of choice, even for the Europeans.
“They are getting impatient,” the Spaniard said. “Scotland is an unfamiliar place to them and they worry you will steal the cargo and have them killed.”
“Do you share that opinion?” Patrick asked.
“I am familiar with temptation,” the Spaniard said in his usual enigmatic way. “Nothing would surprise me.”
“And what would you do?” Patrick asked.
“Exactly what they are grumbling about.”
“Then why have you not left with ship and cargo?”
The Spaniard raised an eyebrow, then grinned. “My friend, MacDonald, would never allow it.”
“Bloody well right,” MacDonald said with a glower.
“The Maclean ship should be here in a week or two. In the meantime, my family will purchase the contents of this ship and divide the funds among the crew,” he said. “I will make sure it is a fair price, and I will take none of it.”
The Spaniard stood. “I will want to know the amount,” he said. “The total and the amount each man will get.”
“I would suggest each receive the same amount, regardless of what they did during the . . . revolt. Mayhap it is not the fairest way, but it is the best way to keep the peace.”
“It would not repay them for the price of the ship,” Diego persisted.
“A ship without men who know how to sail it is of no value,” Patrick replied. “It will be wrecked or sunk.”
“I know how to sail.”
“But you said you do not know navigation.”
“We could find someone,” Diego said, a smile playing around his lips.
He was baiting Patrick, who was having none of it. “Then do it,” Patrick challenged. “I will not ask my family to pay for the ship as well as the contents.”
“When will we unload?” MacDonald asked, ignoring the Spaniard. “I am riding home as soon as the ship is scuttled. I would like to be taking something wi’ me. I donna know what I will find.”
Patrick nodded. “Diego, you go with the women to Inverleith. They know you. You can do some of the bargaining if you wish. MacDonald and I will stay here until the ship is unloaded.”
“Your family will welcome a Spaniard?”
“Aye,” Patrick said.
“Then I will be delighted to accompany the senoritas,” he said. “Despite Senorita Mendoza’s unfortunate relatives, there is something about her . . .” His voice trailed off but the implication lingered.
Patrick shouldn’t feel the surge of anger he felt, nor the jealousy. She was nothing to him, and if she admired the Spaniard, so be it. In truth, it might solve a problem.
Hell, no!
He still did not trust the Spaniard—Diego—despite his assistance these past few days. There was something about him that did not inspire confidence, mayhap his refusal to answer any questions. But he was uncanny at getting things done.
In truth, he wanted the Spaniard gone. Hopefully to Morocco or some other faraway place. He had a feeling, though, that
the Spaniard was not going away any time soon.
Which brought him back to Diego’s last comment. Patrick wished there was someone else, but Diego and the Scot were the only two people the women really knew or halfway trusted. Except mayhap for Manuel.
“Manuel will go as well,” he decreed.
“You do not trust me,” Diego said.
“No more, I suspect, than you trust me,” Patrick replied.
“Ah, but you have me wrong. I trust you very much.”
“Which is why you wish to be present for any discussions about the ship’s cargo?”
Diego shrugged. “I am merely looking out for everyone’s interest.”
“Aye,” Patrick said, filling his voice with incredulity.
MacDonald interrupted. “I have a list of the contents of the cargo, including the dowry.”
“I will call a meeting after the women leave and tell the crew what is happening. Several of our boats will start unloading the ship this afternoon. When all is unloaded, we should take the ship out to the middle of the sound and scuttle it.”
“I wouldna be telling them tha’,” the Scot said. “They still have hope to take the ship.”
Patrick nodded. He did not like lying to the men, even by omission, but he did not need a mutiny at the moment. Any more than he wanted a reluctant—and appealing—prisoner at Inverleith.
But he had to get rid of the Sofia as soon as possible, or it would not matter what he wanted. A sighting by a Campbell, a ride to Edinburgh or London, and his future would be over. No matter that his brother’s wife was a Campbell, he would never entrust his life to one.
“’Tis time to get the women into the boat,” he said abruptly. “My brothers are waiting.”
“Your brothers do not object to surrendering a fortune?” Diego probed again.
“They know it is not theirs,” Patrick said shortly.
“That would not have deterred mine,” Diego said softly. Though the words were low, a hard bite of bitterness accompanied them.
Another small piece of a puzzle that was the Spaniard. Something to be explored later. But not now.
He left and returned to the women’s cabin. Manuel, as usual, was outside. “I want you to go with the senoritas to Inverleith,” he said. “Diego will be going as well. You will watch out for them.”
“Si,” Manuel said. “I watch very well.”
“I know.”
To his surprise, the lasses had packed everything and were ready when he returned. They were standing when he entered. Juliana had changed gowns to a dark blue one with a tight-fitting bodice and soft pleated skirt. The dark blue velvet turned the violet ring around her blue-gray eyes more distinctive. She wore an English hood and veil that drew her honey-colored hair back and allowed it to fall in ringlets down her back.
She was very much the lady, yet oddly vulnerable, and he realized she was using the clothes as a shield. She could not quite keep the apprehension from her expression.
“We are ready,” she said, chin held high.
He turned toward Carmita, who stood resolutely beside her mistress. She, too, had obviously donned her best garment. A clean, plain gray gown.
But he could not keep his eyes off Juliana Mendoza as he tried to control a sudden hastening of his heartbeat.
He forced his gaze away and picked up Juliana’s trunk and lifted it to his shoulder. Manuel took the remainder of her luggage. They went back on deck. Patrick used ropes to lower the trunk into the longboat, then waited as the lad scrambled down like a squirrel. Diego followed.
Then Patrick helped Juliana over the rail, her hand snug in his, as if it belonged there. Even as warmth spread through him, he could not help but notice the trim legs beneath her underdress. His hand continued to hold her arm as she clasped the rope ladder and swung for a moment, then pulled her hand away.
No timid miss here. She balanced on the ladder, then climbed down. Diego waited beneath, ready to catch her if she slipped, but she did not. The Spaniard’s hands wrapped around her waist as she reached the boat and he seated her in the bow.
Jealousy boiled inside Patrick as she said something to the Spaniard, a smile on her lips.
There had been no smile for him.
He tried not to let his discomfort show as he assisted Carmita over the rail. The young lass, who had been tearful most of the voyage, scampered down as well. Manuel was there to help her.
Patrick watched as the boat reached the shore. His brothers helped the two women out of the boat and assisted them in mounting the horses.
He continued to watch as they disappeared over the hill. He finally turned away, wishing he didn’t long to be with them.
JULIANA had tried not to show any weakness as she climbed down the moving rope ladder. Her skirts impeded her progress but she was not going to give the Scot the satisfaction of seeing her fear. Not again. Not ever.
Yet it had taken all her strength to release his hand. His touch burned through her, and his strength made her heart pound. She did not want to go without him, without the protection he had provided. She trusted him to a point, but she did not trust his clan.
She felt no more comfortable as the Spaniard caught her and lowered her to a seat. She had seen little of him since those first few days, and she had no sense of him. A Spaniard enslaved by his country. What had he done to warrant that?
The Scot had said he’d been a prisoner of war. But the Spaniard did not have that excuse. She did not trust him, though now washed, he was well favored in looks. His dark eyes laughed, mostly, she thought, at himself. His lips formed far too easily into sardonic smiles.
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 gla
nce 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.
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