Beloved Warrior

by Patricia Potter

  “That often does not matter when a man has had a drink or two,” Jamie said.

  “That is exactly why I cannot wed.”

  Rory interrupted. “How would Queen Margaret react if she learned of it?”

  “It depends on the reaction of the English,” Jamie said.

  “The lady is promised to an English lord,” Patrick informed him.

  “Who?” Jamie asked.

  “Viscount Kingsley, the son of the Earl of Chadwick.”

  Jamie stilled. “You just complicated matters. Kingsley is one of England’s emissaries to Margaret.”

  Chapter 24

  PATRICK’S chest moved on a quickly withdrawn breath.

  “The son of the Earl of Chadwick is Viscount Kingsley? He is at Edinburgh?” Rory asked.

  “Aye. For the past month. An unpleasant fellow,” Jamie replied.

  “You have met him?”

  “Aye. He is said to be a friend of the Earl of Angus, who currently has Queen Margaret’s ear.”

  “Angus?” Patrick said with a snort of contempt.

  “You might be thinking of the old Angus,” Jamie said. “He died last year. The new earl is my cousin, but nae a friend. Margaret is guardian of James V, and Angus believes the way to become regent is to marry her.”

  “I see intrigue continues,” Patrick said wryly.

  “Aye. A battle wages between Angus, who leans toward England, and the Earl of Arran, who leans toward France.”

  Patrick considered what Jamie Campbell had said. When he’d left Inverleith years ago, James IV had been in control of Scotland, at least as much as Scotland could ever be ruled. He’d been a good king for Scotland. Fair, although he’d had his confrontations with the Highland chiefs as well as those in the Isles. He’d held many parliaments and had brought a rare unity to Scotland.

  Now apparently it could be ripped apart again, especially with a child king who had as a guardian a young woman who was sister to the English king.

  Jamie continued, “The opposition to Angus and his ambitions is led by the Earl of Arran, who wants to name John, Duke of Albany, as regent.”

  Rory interrupted then. “Arran has spent his life in France but he is cousin to the young king and would preserve the ‘aulde alliance’ with France.”

  Patrick thought how much he had missed in the past eight years. Even before that, though, he’d not been at court. Politics had not interested him, and Jamie’s father had been an advisor to James IV. That meant the Macleans had not been welcome there, and he’d had no interest in the intrigues.

  Now he had to learn as much about the court—and Kingsley—as possible.

  “Tell me more about the viscount,” Patrick asked.

  “I can just tell you the rumors. His father had been an advisor to Henry VII but retired to the country when Henry VIII was crowned. The son is trying to regain the privileged position and volunteered to act as emissary to the Scottish court. Apparently he was the younger son until his brother, the heir, died. Now he is more than making up for his change in fortune. He is as arrogant a man as I’ve seen.” Jamie’s face suddenly changed, and his mouth creased into a frown. “He was boasting about a marriage that would put him at the side of the king, just as his father had been.”

  A chill ran through Patrick.

  Jamie’s gaze caught his and held. “He is a bully, Patrick. Mayhap worse than that. I saw him beat a horse nearly to death because he lost a race. He will not be happy to see his plans foiled, especially foiled by a Scot.’Tis obvious he has contempt for us.”

  The chill deepened. What if he had not taken over the ship? He would never have known about Juliana and she would be readying herself for marriage with Kingsley.

  “I want to know everything there is to know about him,” Patrick said. “About his reputation in London, his relationship with the Mendozas.”

  “Lachlan can find that out,” Rory said. “Lachlan can mimic any accent, impersonate anyone. And he has friends among the English borderers, the biggest assortment of thieves and murderers in either country.”

  “I cannot ask him to do that. It would be dangerous, especially since he was at Flodden,” Patrick said.

  “He will want to do it,” Rory said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “We are brothers,” Rory said simply. “I would do it, except Lachlan would be far more effective.”

  “Are you accustomed to volunteering him?”

  Rory’s face paled. A muscle throbbed in his cheek.

  Puzzled, Patrick could only stare at him. He had not meant anything by the remark.’Twas only an attempt at lightness.

  Jamie’s expression was fixed. No sign of the amusement usually there.

  “I did not mean to . . . imply . . .”

  “Nay,” Rory said softly. “You did not know. Lachlan offered to take my place when King James marched south. I agreed because Felicia had just had another child and Lachlan had such guilt about father that he felt compelled to go. I feared he was dead for a long time, and I faulted myself.” A ghost of a smile returned. “I was afraid I’d lost two brothers.”

  “You would risk him again?”

  “Lachlan is uncommonly inventive. I do not know what you’ve heard about his capture, but a chess game with his English captor saved him. More than several times.” He grinned. “He is far more adept at ferreting out secrets than I am.”

  “If Kingsley is close to Margaret, then you are risking your lives if she believes you are protecting me. I cannot let you do that.”

  “I still have some influence,” Jamie said, “as does Rory. He and Felicia were married at court with the late king and Margaret as witnesses. I think Margaret has always had a soft place in her heart for him.”

  “Mayhap I should go with the Felicia. I will have been lost at sea with the others.” The thought was like a sword in his gut. He had found a family, he was sure of it now. They were all willing to sacrifice for him. The loneliness of all those years was gradually dissolving.

  “It’s no good now. Too many Macleans know you are here,” Rory replied.

  “What about Kimbra?” Patrick asked. “How will she feel about sending her husband into danger again?”

  “I think Kimbra will understand,” his brother said.

  “But I do not,” Patrick said.“I cannot let you two risk everything. Not for me,” Patrick said through a lump in his throat. He was not accustomed to the emotion flowing through him, nor did he know how to direct it. Anger had been there, and he’d learned to harness that, but this . . .

  “It is not only for you,” Rory said. “It angers me that Spain believes it can enslave our people without consequences. It is also for Juliana. I would not like her in the hands of Viscount Kingsley.”

  “We would be risking the entire clan,” Patrick replied. “Possibly two clans if Jamie’s part is known. The Earl of Angus would be only too eager to take us both down.”

  A noise came from outside the chamber door.

  The three looked at each other, then Rory strode over to it, opened it and looked around. He shook his head. “No one.”

  Patrick stood. “We should have locked the door.”

  “No one comes up here but a few servants, and they are totally loyal,” Rory said.

  Patrick nodded, but he did not have the surety that his brother did.

  “It is time to retire,” he said. “We can discuss it more tomorrow,” he said.

  “THE map!” Juliana exclaimed. In the aftermath of Patrick’s lovemaking, Juliana had forgotten all about the map she’d been trying to find. The map that she hoped would spark some response in Denny.

  “The map, Senorita Juliana?” Carmita asked as she paused in brushing her mistress’s hair. She had already helped Juliana undress after the evening meal.

  “I had meant to get a map of England from Rory Maclean to show to Denny. Perhaps he would recognize something. I was . . . distracted.”

  Carmita did not reply for a moment. Of course she knew
what had happened there. The bedclothing was stained. It was all Juliana could do to keep her gaze from staring at the bed and to keep her cheeks from blushing.

  “They say the ship is coming any day now,” Carmita said, looking away. “Manuel says it might be here tomorrow.”

  What would happen then?

  “What will happen to us, senorita?” Juliana’s thoughts were echoed by Carmita’s words in Spanish.

  “I do not know.”

  “Will they take us away?”

  Juliana could only repeat her previous answer.

  “Manuel said he wishes to go where we go.”

  Juliana looked sharply at Carmita. There was a smile on her maid’s face.

  “Has he said anything about his life?” she asked, truly curious.

  “He believes he has fourteen years, but he does not know. He had no mother or father. He grew up in the streets of Madrid.”

  Manuel was small in size, but Juliana knew he was much older in other ways. Carmita was sixteen. The two had been nearly inseparable since they arrived, except when their duties required them elsewhere.

  “I like it here,” Carmita continued, a thoughtful look on her face. “They are kind, and the Maclean has promised Manuel he would teach him English. Manuel will teach me. And I am learning to cook in the kitchen. The servants are not like those in Spain who feared someone may take their place.”

  “I truly do not know what the Maclean has planned,” Juliana said. “I know he will try to see us safe.”

  “And your marriage . . . ?”

  Her marriage. Her blood turned icy when she thought of it. She was no longer the virgin that was promised. After the last few weeks, neither would she be the meek maiden. She had fought for her life, and she would continue to do so.

  She would also fight for the Maclean.

  The latter thought startled her but she knew it was truth. She would do battle on his behalf. She thought of her uncle lying dead in the passageway, but she truly could not summon regret. After seeing the rowing deck, she had only contempt for him. And her father.

  But her mother . . .

  “Senorita?”

  Juliana brought herself back from her thoughts of Patrick. “I do not know what the future holds, but I will make sure you are safe,” she said. Patrick Maclean had to grant her that boon at least.

  Carmita finished brushing her hair, and Juliana stood in the night shift she wore.

  The map, Juliana reminded herself. Or perhaps it was just something to focus on, so she could avoid all the feelings roiling around inside.

  “Help me dress again,” she told Carmita. “The gray gown.”

  Carmita’s eyes worried. “It is late, senorita. He will probably be abed.”

  But Juliana was restless, and mayhap Patrick was with his brother. She was not sure whether he planned to sail with the remaining crew members to wherever they would go. She did not know where she belonged in his mind, in his heart. She had to know.

  “Carmita,” she said with unusual sternness.

  “Si,” Carmita said. “I will go with you.”

  “No. I will not be long.”

  Carmita did not look pleased, but she found the gray gown in the trunk. “Your hair?” she said. “It is down.”

  And so it was. But now that she had an objective in mind, she did not want to wait. She did not worry about someone outside watching her. She had the run of Inverleith as long as she stayed inside the walls, and she doubted she could get outside if she wanted. Every man or woman coming to or leaving the keep was stopped.

  In a matter of minutes, she was ready to go. Unwilling to spend the long time necessary to pin her hair, she merely put a cap on the top of her head and allowed the curls to tumble down.

  “I will not need you again tonight,” she said. “I can undo the ties on my gown.” She paused, then said, “You do not have to work here in the kitchen.”

  “But I wish to, senorita. I am learning to cook.”

  “You do not like being my maid?”

  Carmita flushed. “Oh si, senorita, but if they do not like me where we go . . .”

  “It does not matter what someone else likes or does not like. As long as you wish, you will be with me.” She truly hoped she could fulfill that promise.

  Juliana left the room. The corridor was empty. Patrick’s chamber, she knew, was to the left, just past the stone stairs. Rory’s was beyond his brother’s.

  She tucked a curl behind her ear, tried to affect an air of indifference for everything except the map and walked to Rory’s door. She knocked on the heavy wood.

  No answer.

  Perhaps he was with his brother. She returned to Patrick’s room. She thought about knocking, but mayhap he had gone asleep and she did not want to wake him. An excuse. She recognized it, but nonetheless she could not help herself. She turned the handle and it opened slightly. Then she heard the voices.

  She should close it again, or announce her presence, but the words seared themselves in her mind.

  “Tell me more about the viscount,” she heard Patrick ask. Her heart began to thud as she continued to listen through the crack. Then finally, Patrick’s voice: “We would be risking the entire clan.”

  He was willing to risk that for her. That and his brothers’ lives.

  She was not.

  She closed the door softly and turned, dashing toward the nearby steps and skipping down them. She was not ready to face Carmita again tonight.

  Figures slept on the floor of the great hall. The torches cast shadows over their forms. Several snored. She heard one groan. Someone remembering the horror of the galley?

  She opened the main door of the keep and slipped outside. The moon was full, and bright, though it ducked in and out of clouds. In a few days it would be but a thin slice and the night would be dark. She paused and looked around. Several fires were lit in the courtyard, and Macleans walked the outer wall. The great gate was closed.

  How could she leave? She had been allowed to go anywhere within the walls, but it had been made very clear she was not permitted outside the gate. She was trapped inside as surely as she had been locked in a prison cell. How had Felicia escaped when she was held prisoner?

  Juliana planned to find out on the morrow.

  She went inside the stable. One lantern was lit inside, and a sleepy-eyed Fergus blinked when she entered.

  “Miss,” he said. “I did not expect anyone this late.”

  “I could not sleep, Fergus, and decided to visit the horses.”

  He nodded, but his eyes were watchful. Obviously he had been told to be courteous but cautious.

  She went to the mare she’d been riding. Duchess. The mare nickered lightly and nuzzled her for a treat. She wished she had one, but instead promised she would bring one tomorrow.

  Another mare raised her head and nickered lightly as a foal nursed.

  “She is beautiful.”

  “Aye,” Fergus replied. He was staying at her side. Patrick’s orders?

  “They all are.”

  “The laird takes great pride in his horses, he does,” Fergus said. “All Macleans do. They say even the auld laird took care of his horses proper.”

  “Do Felicia and Kimbra ride much?”

  “Felicia not so often now with the bairns. Kimbra rides nearly every day on the big black gelding. She is a foine rider.”

  The informality between the laird, his family and his servants constantly amazed her. It was similar to that between Patrick and the oarsmen. There seemed no resentment, or superiority, on either side, only a commonality her father would despise.

  She turned her attention back to Fergus, who was still extolling Kimbra’s riding skills. “She brought the stallion from the border. Few others can ride the beast.”

  Her mind was running ahead of itself. Would Felicia tell her how to escape? Would Kimbra help her? Probably not.

  She had a thought that had been nagging at her for several days. There had to be a way to leave Inverl
eith and prevent any more damage to Patrick and the Maclean family. She owed him that. Her family had taken years from him, and unjustly. She could not live with herself if she were responsible for more grief.

  The foal finished nursing. The mare came over and Juliana stroked the soft muzzle. The horse nipped, but Juliana knew horses well enough to understand it was a gesture of companionship rather than hostility.

  She leaned over the gate and couldn’t stop the tears welling behind her eyes. She missed her own horse, Joya, terribly. Still, she wanted to stay here. She wanted to be part of this family where husbands loved their wives, where children played and warmth filled the stone walls.

  None of it was possible. She would only bring destruction down on Inverleith.

  Juliana knew it would be far harder to accept the marriage with a man her mother feared, and the Campbell despised, now that she knew life could be different. That there was love and respect and warmth between people, not just cold, cynical bargaining with lives.

  Still, she knew what she had to do. She had to save Patrick from his own folly in protecting her.

  She wiped away the tears with her hand and vowed there would be no more of them.

  Chapter 25

  PATRICK rose later than usual. Sleep had eluded him most of the night and when it did come, it was troubled. He couldn’t stop thinking of Juliana, the way she felt and looked and tasted yesterday. He still burned with want. Och, but he had been tempted time and time again to take the few steps to her chamber.

  She was close; too close.

  But the conversation last night had convinced him he had to keep his wits about him, and he could not do that with her. Nor could he leave her with child, not knowing her future. He despised himself for the lack of discipline, something on which he’d always prided himself.

  After the meeting last night, Patrick returned to his own chamber, then looked out his window down in the courtyard. He saw Juliana leave the stable, her slight, graceful figure unmistakable. Her head was bowed against the night wind.

  Her head was never bowed, not for anyone. How he’d wanted to go to her chamber, to warm her body with his. Then she entered the doors to the great hall. He imagined he heard her steps pause, then pass his door.