Beloved Warrior

by Patricia Potter

“We are going to make you even bonnier than you already are,” Felicia announced as she brushed aside Carmita and started pulling away the pins that held Juliana’s hair in place.

  THE great hall filled with voices and laughter and drunken toasts.

  It seemed every Maclean within riding distance had appeared. Platters and platters of food—beef and mutton and fresh fish from the sound—appeared in endless procession.

  Two Macleans played their fiddles, and another played bagpipes.

  Patrick felt a fraud as he accepted greetings and toasts and good-natured teasing. They all seemed genuinely happy to see him, and he might well be bringing death and destruction down on their heads. He had been foolish, and arrogant, to believe he could be their savior, that he could lead them to defeat the Campbells, only to find his brother had brought peace through other means.

  A Maclean stood, held up a tankard and sloshed drink on the table as he said drunkenly, “To Patrick, the new laird. May he be as wise as Rory and as brave as Lachlan.”

  There was a question in the toast, obvious to all. He knew that as firstborn he inherited the properties, but the honorary title of laird was a distinction won only by consent of the clan.

  Rory started to stand, but Patrick put a restraining hand on him. “They are right to question,” he said. “It is their lives and those of their families.”

  Patrick toasted the clan, aware of all the eyes on him and the questions behind them.

  He was also only too aware of Juliana’s presence, of the electricity that darted between them like lightning. She’d been seated next to him. Rory’s doing, no doubt. His brother seemed oblivious to the problems ahead and quite determined to bring about a union. Even as he silently cursed Rory for doing so, he could not deny the pleasure that ran through him when he saw her tonight.

  She wore a blue velvet gown that emphasized that entrancing shadow of violet that ringed her irises. A necklace of sapphires circled the lovely neck he had so recently kissed. He recognized it as one that once belonged to his mother.

  Felicia had been standing next to her, an innocent smile on her lips. Too innocent.

  “Another toast,” one man yelled from down the table. “To the Maclean, and thanks be to God who brought him home.”

  The table erupted into drunken shouts.

  “And brought a bonny lass as well,” shouted another.

  Patrick turned and saw the flush on Juliana’s face. She appeared fascinated with the noisy scene. The ribald comments seemed not to bother her, and her eyes sparkled like stars on a clear night. She’d taken only a few sips of her wine, one far better than the Spanish wine aboard the Sofia.

  He, too, was careful. He did not know how he’d lost control today. He did not intend for it to happen again, and that meant he had to stay away from her. She was a fever in his blood.

  There was one last toast. Then the guests stumbled out. Patrick stood, more clearheaded than he really wanted to be. Juliana stood as well.

  He should escort her back to her room. But he was only too aware of what might happen. Instead, he bowed. “Thank you for supping with us,” he said, keeping his voice as emotionless as possible.

  God in heaven, but she was beautiful. Juliana searched his eyes.

  “I have to return to the ship,” he said, glad for an excuse. What would he use for an excuse once the ship was at the bottom of the sea and his fellow oarsmen scattered? “Diego will accompany you to your room.”

  “Diego?” she repeated.

  “Aye, unless you do not trust him.”

  “I trust him more than anyone here,” she struck out, disappointment and even anger obvious in her eyes. “I will be delighted with his escort.”

  He found he cared little for her response. In truth, it was a body blow. He simply nodded and left, strolling quickly toward the stable.

  There was a half moon, light enough to ride without harming his mount. He remembered every inch of the road that ran from the keep to the deep natural harbor.

  He would ride like the devil tonight, then row himself to the Sofia. Perhaps that would exorcize some of his demons.

  “HE cannot keep his eyes off you, you know,” Diego said as he faced her at the door. The Maclean who had become his shadow was not far behind him.

  “You are mistaken,” she said. “He always leaves me as soon as he can.”

  Diego threw back his head and laughed.

  “He cannot tolerate me.”

  His brows raised. “Then you have no eyes, senorita. He wants you, and that terrifies him.”

  “Nothing terrifies Patrick.” It was the first time she’d used his given name. It had come so naturally to her lips. She wanted to say it again.

  Diego just grinned at her. “Good night, senorita. I do not believe Patrick Maclean will have one tonight.” He opened the door and stood aside as she stepped in. She heard him whistling as he walked away.

  She closed the door and leaned against it. Carmita had not yet returned. She surmised that she might be helping in the kitchen now that Patrick Maclean had left the keep and her mistress was safe.

  Safe.

  It had meant a great deal to her several days ago. A week ago. But now her world had changed. Certainly her view of it. Two weeks ago she might have been horrified to be seated at the front table within direct sight of nearly one hundred people, some drunk and many half-naked.

  Yet there had been a warmth and companionship that filled her heart. She tried to compare it to the coldly formal meals she’d shared with her mother and father. No, not shared. Her father had dominated the discussion or sat in disapproving silence. All the servants feared him, where here servants were part of the family, and the soldiers were free even to question the laird. The music, too, was new. The pipes were haunting, but the fiddles joyous and free.

  She felt free. It was odd indeed that as a prisoner she felt a freedom of spirit she’d never known before.

  If only Patrick Maclean felt that same freedom.

  Chapter 20

  NEITHER the ride nor the rowing did anything to cool the heat Patrick felt.

  A stable lad had ridden with him to return his mount, but he hadn’t been able to keep up with the reckless ride along the road. Not exactly reckless, Patrick assured himself. He would do naught to harm his mount, but he needed that cold wind and sense of freedom.

  And he knew the road well. He’d ridden it enough at night when raiding Campbells. In his mind, as he had rowed those past six years, he’d traveled every foot of that land, recounted each raid and how he would lead the Macleans in the future.

  There were to be no raids on Campbell lands now.

  He was a warrior without battles to be fought.

  He joined a startled MacDonald, who had returned earlier, then shared cups with him and the men as they passed their last night on the Sofia.

  Several of the crew were engaged in games of chance with the coin he’d brought earlier. Felix, the man he’d made second mate, joined them, a cup in hand. “I did not believe you,” he said haltingly. “I did not believe you would make good your words.”

  “I still have not,” Patrick said. “Only part of them.”

  “But now I have faith.”

  “You, Felix? Faith?”

  “Si, senor. You were right about the ship. It must go. I wish to go back to Spain someday. I could not have done so if we were taken in this ship.”

  “Why go back?” Patrick asked.

  “I have a wife there. Two sons I have not seen in many years.”

  “Do others feel as you do?”

  “Some,” he said. He shuffled his feet. “Uh . . . did you mean what you said about needing sailors?”

  “Aye, but you will have a fine purse.”

  “It . . . I want to send it to my wife . . . if you can find a way.”

  Patrick nodded. “I can find a way. Where is she?”

  “Barcelona.”

  “It will be done. And I am sure my brothers can use you. They plan on
buying a third ship, and you are a good sailor.”

  Felix shuffled again. “Even if I am Spanish?”

  “You are a good sailor, Felix, and a natural leader when you wish. I would want you.”

  Felix stood a little straighter. “Will you . . . captain . . .”

  “Nay,” he said. “I have had enough of the sea for now.”

  “Will you stay here?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Only until I am sure that all believe the Sofia was lost at sea.”

  “They will.” Felix moved away.

  He drank much of the rest of the night. Denny appeared and stayed by his side. He refused anything to drink.

  Denny, Patrick knew, was another problem. Though Patrick saw growing comprehension in his eyes and thought Denny was far more aware of events than many thought, he still had not spoken, and Patrick did not know where he belonged. If, indeed, he belonged anywhere. Patrick knew he could not abandon him.

  Denny. Manuel. Diego. What was he going to do with all of them?

  And especially Juliana. Even the name was lovely. Soft. Lyrical. Beckoning.

  He drank another tankard of wine, regretting that it was Spanish rather than the French wine at Inverleith. Then he had a third. Surely that would block the scent and sight and feel of Juliana from his mind.

  Unfortunately it had the opposite effect. Early in the morning, the noise of celebrating oarsmen faded.

  “Go to bed,” the MacDonald said. “I must go to bed. I have a long ride ahead in a few hours.”

  Lulled by wine, Patrick made his way to the captain’s cabin and fell on the bed. He needed sleep. He needed his wits about him. Tomorrow—nay, a few hours hence—would prove a challenging day. Still, his body ached with need, and his thoughts remained dominated by the lass with the unusual eyes, soft voice and mighty fist.

  THE moving of men to shore went quickly the next morning.

  Rory arrived with the fishing boats before dawn. It wasn’t long before every oarsman was on shore and walking toward Inverleith.

  Archibald and Douglas guided them, and other Macleans made sure none wandered off the road. Rory and Patrick, the MacDonald and Denny stayed aboard and readied the ship for the short sail to the middle of the sound, where the water was at its deepest.

  Patrick welcomed the hard work of raising the sail. He hated the bloody ship and had no regrets at its loss. When the flap of the sheet caught, he climbed the mast to unleash it. Then he looked out over the hills of Inverleith. From where he perched, he saw the keep in the distance and beyond that the Island of Mull, where another branch of Macleans lived.

  He stayed there for several moments as Rory steered the ship toward the site they’d chosen. Then Patrick climbed down. Rory tied the wheel steady. MacDonald was on deck with several axes and they started chopping down the masts.

  The four of them—Patrick, MacDonald, Denny and Rory—climbed down to the hold. Rats scattered as MacDonald held the lantern high before lowering it to the floor. They made several small holes so they would have time to set a blaze, then leave in the longboat.

  “Number One,” MacDonald said, “you strike the first blow.”

  Number One. He closed his eyes. He heard the sound of the hammer beating out the strokes, the whistle of the whip just before it struck skin. He even heard the groans and cries of dead men.

  He lifted the ax and struck with as much might as he had in his body. It pierced the decking but did not break through. Then Denny struck and then MacDonald.

  Each stroke was liberating. Six. Nine. Twelve. Then a hole appeared and water seeped in. MacDonald grabbed the lantern and they climbed up to the main deck.

  Patrick gathered gunpowder from the cannons and spread it about the ship, then cut portions of the sheets to feed the flames. He ordered the MacDonald and Denny into the boat. “You go, too, Rory,” he said.

  Rory hesitated.

  “Go,” Patrick commanded.

  Rory reluctantly went to the side of the ship and climbed down.

  Patrick took one last look and then threw the lantern down and watched the flames follow the gunpowder to the sheet. There was a whoosh of flame, and he climbed down the rope ladder and onto the boat. The four of them rowed away as the fire took hold. The entire ship became a fiery inferno, then the bow slipped into the water and the Sofia disappeared.

  “RIDER coming.”

  Rory hurried out the door of Inverleith and quickly mounted the stairs to the top of the great stone wall. He signaled to those below him to move Patrick’s oarsmen into the great hall.

  Although all had worn mismatched britches and shirts on their arrival from the ship, the Macleans had tried to clothe the oarsmen in something more similar to Highland garments. Even then they looked different from the Macleans. And the Moors . . . there was no disguising their difference.

  Rory looked out toward the rider. He was still some distance away, but Rory immediately recognized the white horse. He winced. Of all times for Jamie Campbell to make a visit. He was not sure Patrick was ready for that.

  Thank God his older brother was out riding off his demons again. How long before he would return?

  Patrick had surprised him. Rory remembered his older brother as a loner who had been focused, as he had been, on training and arms. He had been gone several years, fostered by a Highland family known for their skill in battle, and when he’d returned he had far surpassed Rory in swordsmanship and archery.

  It was as if Patrick feared friendship would soften him, yet he had fought their father’s poor leadership. Their father’s lack of trust in his oldest son had driven Patrick away.

  Since his return a week ago, he’d seen a different Patrick. There was still a sense of isolation, of aloneness, about him, and yet Rory noticed the bond he had with the oarsmen, an understanding that excluded Patrick’s brothers and others. He saw the gentleness with which he introduced the man called Denny, the exasperated tolerance he offered Diego and the almost paternal concern for Manuel.

  He even had a way with the mostly silent and sullen Moors.

  But Rory wasn’t sure that new tolerance would extend to a Campbell.

  Patrick had been growling today, and Rory was pretty sure he knew why. After they scuttled the ship, his brother had gone for long rides and spent most of his time with the oarsmen. He had taken meals with them, spurning the upper table.

  Only rarely did his brother allow his eyes to turn to the bonny senorita, who also tried to avoid looking at him. He knew exactly what both were feeling, because he had experienced the same madness only five years earlier.

  He and Felicia had even plotted to bring them together, but thus far every effort had been foiled. His brother seemed to know exactly what he was doing, though he had said naught.

  Rory knew his brother worried about both his own and Juliana Mendoza’s presence at the keep, that it might endanger the Macleans. Certainly the Scots had been weakened since Flodden and could not afford another war with either the English or French. How far would Margaret go to protect her subjects, or how far would she go to appease the English?

  If anyone learned what had really happened to the Sofia.

  The best way to avoid that was a marriage between Patrick and Juliana Mendoza. Senorita Mendoza would disappear within marriage and become a Maclean. They could create a story for her accent. She could pass as Scottish with her fair coloring and gray eyes.

  He never would have suggested it if he had not seen the smoldering attraction between the two of them. It was obvious to anyone with eyes. And Rory rather fancied having still another nationality for a third Maclean bride.

  After seeing the blow she had inflicted on his brother, Rory knew Juliana would fit quite well with Felicia and Kimbra. There was also a kindness about her that he admired. Juliana and Kimbra were spending time with Denny. Reading to him. Trying to get reactions from him. Trying to discover whether he had a family.

  And Manuel, who more than once tried to steal some silver, obviously car
ed deeply for her.

  The rider reached the gate.

  He thought about walking down and speaking to him outside the gate, but Jamie had saved his life and Lachlan’s. Once a hated Campbell, he was now Rory’s closest friend. Rory would certainly trust him with his life or that of any of his family.

  They might well need him.

  He waved at the Campbell, then quickly descended the steps and waited as the massive gate opened. Jamie dismounted and grabbed him by his shoulders, his fingers tightening in a gesture of friendship. “Since when have you started to lock your gates again?” he asked, his gaze wandering about the courtyard.

  “Brigands,” Rory said. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

  “Did they do any damage?”

  “Nay. We chased them off but they could return.”

  “One of my Campbells was courting a Maclean. He saw a ship burning.”

  “Must have been fog.”

  Jamie’s brows blew up. “Are you nae going to invite me in for a drink after my long ride?”

  That was the last thing Rory wanted to do, but he feared Jamie would not take it well if he were denied hospitality. But the hall was filled with an assortment of villains, and his brother had no fondness for Campbells.

  Mayhap Jamie could help them. He’d always had the queen’s ear. Margaret was still a young woman, and Jamie, even well married, was a fine-looking lord who now was laird of the most important and influential clan in Scotland.

  But that decision would have to be his brother’s.

  Jamie’s gaze seemed to see right through him. “Something is odd, Rory. I am not going to leave until I find out what. If you have trouble . . . if you need more men, you can have some Campbells.”

  “You came alone, though you thought we may have been invaded?”

  Jamie hunched his shoulders together. “I have more Campbells not far away.”

  “God in heaven,” Rory said. “That’s all I need.”

  Jamie looked offended.

  “Let us have that drink,” Rory said. “But avert your eyes when you go in.” He had no choice. He knew Jamie. Knew how he spent months on the English border, looking for Lachlan after Flodden Field. He did not give up.