Beloved Warrior (20 page)

“Patrick said you were on your way to get married,” Felicia said. “Are you in love with the man you are to marry?”

It was a personal question, and one Juliana did not feel required to answer.

Felicia’s smile retreated a bit.“’Tis a personal question, I know, and I have no right to ask it. But you see I was to be married when the Macleans abducted me. I believed Rory a monster. The Macleans and Campbells had been feuding for many, many years and I was told they were barbarians. Worse even than that. Women killers. So I know how you must feel. Afraid and angry and lost.”

“You were taken captive?” Juliana could not keep the surprise—and interest—from her voice.

“Aye. Except when I was brought here, the keep was a place of sadness and tragedy and despair. I was terrified, but I could not show it. I kept trying to escape. I can warn you it is very difficult. But I want you to know we understand and would like to be your friends, and we will not let anything happen to you.”

The words had run on and on, but the sentiment was there. So was that piece of knowledge:
I kept trying to escape. I can warn you it is very difficult.

She said difficult but not impossible.

Felicia seemed to know what she was thinking. “Both Rory and Lachlan believed Patrick dead these past few years. It means everything to them that he is still alive. And now he will be laird. They will not go against Patrick, and I would do nothing that might bring harm to him.”

Something hard lodged in Juliana’s throat. Her only knowledge of marriage was that between her mother and father, and that certainly had nothing of the warmth she heard in Felicia’s and Kimbra’s voices, nor the loyalty inherent in Felicia’s words. There was no envy, or greed when they spoke of an older brother returning to take what had been theirs. Only gratitude.

“You speak English well,” Kimbra noted.

“My mother is English.”

“That explains your coloring then,” Felicia exclaimed. “You look more Scot or English than Spanish.”

Juliana did not reply. She did not want tears to show and they might well do that if she talked about her mother. Instead she determined to seek more information from Felicia. Exactly how had she tried to escape? And how did she become a Maclean bride? The more she knew about the Macleans, the more chance she had to escape them.

“Your husbands seem nothing like Patrick Maclean,” she said. “They are . . . pleasant.”

“My husband can be an ogre,” Felicia said. “It runs in the Maclean family.”

“It does not,” Kimbra said heatedly. “Lachlan is the gentlest of souls.”

“He does sing rather well,” Felicia admitted with a grin on her face. “You must ask him,” she said to Juliana. “He canna say no.”

Juliana’s head swam. She’d had few friendships with other girls, who always had
duenas
with them. Her father did not approve of most of them. Too bold, he’d said. But these two bantered like old friends.

“I think we should allow Juliana some rest,” Kimbra said. “And some privacy.”

Felicia flushed. “Kimbra’s right. We do not often have visitors, particularly someone our age. I hope you will join us for supper tonight. I know you must be tired, but there are so few new faces, and I wish to hear all the news from Spain.”

Juliana was torn. Part of her wanted the company that was offered, the warmth that was so very evident. But would it not be surrendering to the enemy, no matter how charming?

“Si,”
she said.

PATRICK Maclean had not been at supper, and the meal had been painful.

Juliana had been the focus of stares, both hostile and curious. Word of what had happened to Patrick Maclean had obviously traveled quickly, as well as her relationship to the man the Macleans held responsible. Her uncle had enslaved him, and that, she gathered, was the worst thing that could ever happen to a proud, free Scot.

But even without the stares, she felt uncomfortable. She was accustomed to supper with her mother and father and sometimes with a small circle of her father’s friends and business associates. This . . . custom of dining at a table with some forty men dressed in various forms of plaid and baring naked legs was . . . unsettling. She continually saw in her mind Patrick Maclean in his plaid, recalled the pure masculinity and power—and magnetism—she felt coming from him.

Even the memory sent warm and tingly feelings through her. Feelings she not only did not want, but greatly resented.

Despite the courtesy and friendliness offered by Kimbra and Felicia, and even Rory, they were Scots holding her against her will, and their loyalty was to Patrick Maclean, not to her.

She retired early, but then Kimbra and Felicia knocked at the door.

“We . . . Felicia and I . . . want to see the ship,” Kimbra said. “We thought we might go tomorrow before they finish unloading it. Would you like to go with us?”

The offer stunned her, but the suggestion of a ride—going outside the great walls of Inverleith—was heady.

“What about your husband? Will he agree?”

“Aye, if we take someone with us,” Felicia said apologetically.

Juliana quickly accepted the offer and the two left to check on their children.

The invitation for a ride was welcome for several reasons. A diversion from thoughts of Patrick Maclean. A chance, perhaps, to escape, or at least learn something that would help her in the future.

Then what would she do? Where would she go? To London and her promised husband? Try in some way to return to Spain? How would she explain her survival without condemning the Maclean, Manuel, the Spaniard and others?

Sleep was restless that night, and she had little appetite for the meal to break fast. Still, she was ready and eager when Felicia and Kimbra appeared at her door. Both wore plain riding clothes. Like her, neither wore hats, and she felt a moment of kinship with them.

Felicia gave her a piece of apple. “For Duchess,” she said, and the three of them went down the stone steps to the great door and then to the stables. Five horses had been saddled, including a great black stallion.

Juliana tried to hide the longing she felt as she watched him move restlessly. Kimbra went up to him and gave him a handful of apple, and he nickered for more.

“Greedy one,” Kimbra whispered. Then a pretty child of perhaps eight years emerged from the barn with a big black dog following. “This is Audra,” Kimbra said. “My daughter. The dog is Bear and this great fellow here is Magnus.” Her hand ran along the head of the black stallion.

Audra curtsied nicely. “My mother said you are Spanish,” she said. “I have never met anyone from Spain.”

She was a lovely child, her eyes much like her mother’s with their serious regard.

“And I had never met anyone from Scotland until a few weeks ago,” Juliana said, kneeling so that her eyes met Audra’s.

“I am not from Scotland,” Audra corrected solemnly. “I am English.”

“Then you will have to tell me about England. My mother is English, too, but I have never been there.”

“I like Inverleith better,” Audra said.

“Come, love,” Kimbra said and lifted her daughter on a small white mare before turning back to Juliana. “The chestnut is Duchess. She’s a royal lady, but slowing down and, despite her name, very amiable.” Then Kimbra led the black horse to a mounting block and swung easily into the saddle. A stable lad appeared at Juliana’s side, laced his fingers together and offered the locked hands to Juliana.

Juliana stepped into them and swung her leg over in a movement far more awkward than usual. She waited while Felicia mounted, then Rory Maclean joined them and mounted the last horse.

Her spirits fell. She had hoped there would be only the three women and she’d immediately eyed the black as the most swift of the mounts. Her mind had already been plotting ways to steal him.

She knotted her hands around the reins and purposely sat like a bag of potatoes. Felicia guided her horse to one side of Juliana, and Kimbra to the other. Protectively, Juliana thought, even as guilt crept into her thoughts.

Audra rode ahead with the Scot accompanying them while the dog named Bear remained at their heels.

All of Juliana’s hopes of escape vanished.

She looked toward Kimbra. “Where is your husband?”

“Lachlan decided to ride to Glasgow, to make sure the ship arrives here as quickly as possible.”

“How far?”

“The way Lachlan rides, two days,” Felicia replied.

“Which way is it?”

The two wives exchanged glances.

“West.”

“You are surrounded by water?”

Again an exchange of glances as if they weighed what to say.

But then Felicia pointed out at the water. The
Sofia
was just ahead.

Juliana saw a tall man in plaid jump from the fishing boat as it approached the shore and help pull it up. She felt a sudden warmth pooling inside.

Part of her wanted to kick her heels in the side of her mare and run. She knew it would be useless. Duchess had a fine gait, but Juliana knew it was nothing compared to the other horses with them. By purpose.

Instead, she waited for the Maclean’s reaction to seeing her there.

 
IT neared late afternoon of the second day before the last barrel of wine was lowered to a fishing boat and rowed to shore. The crew grew surly, uncertain whether Patrick would indeed pay them for the cargo. He had resisted doing it until the entire contents had been unloaded for fear that once the gold was in hand, some might try to sail off.

But now it was time. He had left a few barrels of wine on board. Once the crew was paid, they would break out the barrels in celebration. Then when the oarsmen were happy, the Macleans would take them ashore and scuttle the ship. Rory had said the great hall had already been prepared with fresh rushes for the oarsmen until the Maclean ship arrived from Glasgow.

He watched as the last barrel left the ship.

MacDonald appeared at his side. “We are done.”

“I am in your debt,” Patrick said. “I know you wanted to go home three days ago.”

“Aye. I have a wife who does not know I still live. But I know not what I’ll find there, and the gold may help.”

“If you ever need anything, I hope you will turn to me.”

“You say you are in my debt, but I would still be chained on that bench if ye did not start the revolt. So I make the same offer to ye. If ye ever need my assistance . . .”

Patrick nodded.

“I will stay until you return, then I would be grateful for a fast mount.”

“You will have it. I would have you meet my brothers first, though, and have supper. You can leave at first light.”

MacDonald hesitated, then nodded his assent. “How much will each man’s share be?”

“I thought seventy pounds each. That would be a total of nearly seven thousand pounds. Rory says we have that sum on hand.”

“It is generous. Most of these men have never held more than a pound in their hands.”

“I worry about that. I do not want them gambling or killing each other.”

“I will tell them what they will receive,” MacDonald said, “but ye should wait to distribute it until your ship takes them to Morocco.”

“I will give them several pounds immediately, with a promise of the rest,” Patrick replied. He did not want any taking it into their minds to head toward Edinburgh. He needed them all out of Scotland.

“I will see this last load to Inverleith,” Patrick said, “and bring back some funds.”

He went over the railing and quickly climbed down the rope, dropping into the fishing boat.

Once the boat was ashore, he jumped out. Eight Macleans approached to unload the last of the cargo while one remained with the horses. Patrick lifted a barrel and carried it to the wagon, relishing an effort that would bring him closer to ending this ordeal.

He wiped sweat from his face and looked up. Five riders approached.

One was Rory. Another was young Audra. The other three were women, including—bloody hell!—the graceful figure that had haunted him far too frequently, the one he had tried to avoid these past three days by staying aboard.

And, God help him, she looked more enchanting than he remembered.

 
THE Scot looked startled when he saw her. That was one consolation. She suspected he wasn’t usually surprised.

He came over to her, his gaze lingering on her face.

“You are being treated well?”

“
Si,
except that I cannot go where I wish to go.”

He turned his cool stare toward his brother. “I did not say she could leave Inverleith.”

“We have not left Inverleith,” Felicia replied tartly.

He wanted to say something else. Juliana knew it from the look on his face, but he shrugged. “I will ride back with you.”

Then he turned to Audra. His eyes seemed to soften. For a moment he looked almost paternal. “Audra,” he acknowledged, then glanced up at Kimbra. “She has the look of you,” Patrick said and bowed slightly. “Miss Audra, you ride very well.”

“Thank you,” Audra said solemnly as she looked from Rory to Patrick and back again. “I am pleased you returned,” she said in that solemn voice that charmed Juliana.

Patrick actually smiled. “I am pleased as well, lass.” Then he turned an admiring eye toward Kimbra’s mount. “He is a fine horse. I saw him in the stables and asked to take him but was told he belonged to you.”

Kimbra’s cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew anxious.

“Do not worry,” Patrick Maclean said softly. “I usually do not take what is not mine.”

Then his eyes returned to Juliana, and she nearly melted under his gaze. She tried to compare this man who spoke so gently to a child and reassuringly to a woman he barely knew with the nearly naked man covered with blood. He was all warrior then. Now . . .