Beloved Warrior (23 page)

He turned toward Manuel and Carmita. “You both are welcome to attend as well.”

Manuel’s gaze had gone from Juliana’s face to his. Thank God the plaid hid the swelling beneath.

He turned to Juliana. “I will come for you.”

He left without another word, stepped outside and leaned for a moment against the cold stone wall. He needed that chill. Bloody hell, he needed a swim in the cold water outside.

What had he almost done?

 
AFTER Manuel left the room as well, Juliana stared at Carmita with confusion. Her body was still experiencing physical sensations. She knew her face was probably rose-colored, or even bright red.

But she couldn’t scold Carmita, who so obviously was trying to be brave on her behalf.

“I am unharmed,” Juliana said. “I
can
take care of myself.”

But she was not quite so certain. Her insides felt as if they were on fire, and she tried to hide the tremors that still raked her body. Her eyes were probably glazed over.

“He is a devil, that one,” Carmita said.

Maybe so. How else to explain her reaction to him? Her mother had never told her about these kinds of reactions. That she would grow warm and tingly all over. That she would be filled with a great want.

Then why all the anticipation in her body? It was a puzzle that plagued her.

“You must help me dress,” she told Carmita to avoid any more questioning looks.

“The food, senorita?”

“I am not hungry, and there is the feast.” No matter how hard she tried, she could not keep the anticipation from her voice. She knew she should. She knew he had been fighting that attraction between them. That he disliked Spaniards and her family. He had reason. She also realized the danger he was in, and that she was part of it.

She knew all that, but still she could not help the excitement, the anticipation already stirring in her at the thought of seeing him again.

This might last only a minute of her life, but for now, she was willing to grab this moment of freedom, of a passion she’d never thought she would experience outside of books. She closed her eyes, recapturing that second when his lips pressed against her, the odd sense of
rightness
about it.

What would have happened if Carmita had not knocked?

She wanted to know. She wanted to experience it all before . . .

Slowly sense and sensibility returned. The brightness in the room dulled as if a candle flame flickered out.

“Now,” she told Carmita, “I want to look my best.”

But before Carmita could start, another knock came at her door and Felicia and Kimbra entered, flowers in their arms.

“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.

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.

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.