Beloved Warrior

by Patricia Potter

  A seed of anger had sprouted inside since he’d walked out of the room after those magical moments. She suspected he felt guilt about bedding her. She knew now how worried he was about his clan.

  But no longer would she be treated as a possession—or a toy—rather than the person she was. She had seen the respect given Felicia and Kimbra. It was new to her, and she wanted at least a small portion for herself. She wanted to make decisions as they made decisions. Most of all, she wanted to be valued. She did not feel valued by Patrick; instead she felt an inconvenience that he very reluctantly desired.

  She did not intend a senseless rebellion, however.

  Juliana would do nothing to hurt the Macleans. She would not be party to more injustice to Patrick, but neither could she leave her mother victim to her father’s rage.

  She had one possibility. She had to go to Handdon Castle, the family seat of the Earl of Chadwick and his son, Viscount Kingsley, in Northern England, and she had to do it in a way that no blame would come to Patrick or the Macleans.

  She realized the idea was full of peril. When she arrived in England, if she made it to England, would Kingsley realize she was no longer a virgin? Would he want her if he did? If not, what would be her future? A convent, no doubt. Her father would demand no less.

  But others would be safe.

  She had to hurry. Felicia was to leave in a few hours. How could she discuss Felicia’s escape from Inverleith years earlier without giving her own plan away?

  She wished she could spur her horse and ride away now, but that, of course, was impossible. Her mount was an elderly and placid mare and Patrick’s swift mount could easily overtake her.

  No, she would have to be sly. Unfortunately, she had little experience with being sly.

  “You are plotting something,” Diego said with sly amusement.

  “What could I be plotting?” she asked.

  “I am not sure, but something. You have an expressive face, senorita, and now it is a study in concentration.”

  “Or are you just used to plotting yourself?” she said sharply. “I am not sure why you are staying.”

  “I like the Macleans,” he said simply. “There is nothing left in Spain for me, and after months on the bench, I have no wish now to go back to sea.”

  His reply surprised her, especially by the fact that there was no amusement in his voice, no sardonic undertone.

  “No family?” He had always puzzled her. From his speech and the way he carried himself, he was obviously well born and well educated. Yet she had watched him with the other oarsmen and with the Maclean soldiers. He became one of them. If anything, he was a chameleon.

  “No,” he said in a voice that discouraged further comment.

  Could she use him in some way? Prevail upon him to help her? She would have sworn he’d been a gentleman. He had at times protected her, just as Patrick had. How much allegiance did he have to Patrick and the Macleans?

  She was, in truth, startled that the Macleans had allowed him to stay. He could be dangerous to them, and yet he seemed to fit into the clan. His hair was the same dark color as Rory’s and his English carried only the slightest accent.

  But what did he want? And how much could he be trusted? By the Macleans? By her?

  “And so you are not plotting?” he asked with that ironic amusement that distinguished him.

  “Why should I?”

  He shrugged. “Why? I do not know. There is . . . a certain fire between you and the Maclean. And I understand you were not overwhelmed with desire to see your prospective husband.”

  “You are imagining things,” she retorted. “The Maclean has little interest in me other than the fact that I present a problem.”

  He chuckled. “You could not be more wrong, senorita.”

  Juliana did not answer, though she wanted to know more. Diego was a puzzle and she did like to solve puzzles. He could also be of assistance to her.

  He was watched. She knew that. Just as she was. He, too, had been given a horse that appeared slower and older than the others. Despite his apparent freedom, he, too, was imprisoned within the walls of Inverleith by the locked gates. She had also noticed a Maclean was usually by Diego’s side or nearby.

  He knew. He had to know, but he did not seem to take offense. But would he want to escape this comfortable prison as he had so wanted to escape the galley? Despite his words about the Macleans, he had a restless quality about him, like a wild animal who could not be easily confined.

  She would continue to test him. She might be able to convince him to help her, if she failed with Felicia.

  PATRICK could not take his eyes from Juliana as she conversed with the Spaniard. Not for the first time, he questioned his decision to allow Diego to stay.

  An ugly jealousy hardened inside him, just as it had with Jamie’s quick glances toward her. Unreasonable. Unsettling. He wanted to ride up to them and order Diego away. He wanted Juliana’s eyes to light with pleasure at seeing him and the appealing blush to spread across her cheeks. He wanted to hear her soft, melodic voice and touch her warm skin.

  It had taken every ounce of will he had to stay away.

  And now he was convinced that the only way to do that was to follow Rory’s advice. “You should go to court with Jamie. Announce you have returned home and will take your place as laird of the Macleans.”

  Lachlan had agreed this morning. “Word undoubtedly has spread that you have returned. You should publicly assert your rights, and your loyalty to the young king. Proudly. With nothing to hide.”

  Still, he’d hesitated.

  “You can meet this . . . Kingsley for yourself,” Rory had said, tempting him. “Lachlan is right. You have to present yourself as leader of the Macleans. You fought with the French, you were imprisoned, then fell ill. No one will question that.”

  Patrick thought he was probably right. He had been sold as a body, not an individual. He doubted his name was recorded by the Mendozas. Since the moment he’d been taken aboard, he had been a number.

  If anything went wrong and he was discovered as an oarsman on the ship, he could claim he lied to his family. And he would put distance between himself and a temptation that was becoming stronger every moment.

  He would be leaving Juliana here. Alone. With the Spaniard.

  Kimbra would be here as well. In the past few days, he had learned a healthy respect for his quiet sister-in-law. There was no hiding the love she felt for Lachlan, nor the pure joy in her eyes when she was with her daughter, as well as with Rory’s children. There were depths to her that appealed to Patrick.

  The trip to Edinburgh would be best for all, he assured himself. Juliana would be well protected here. She would have Kimbra for company while he learned more about Kingsley. According to Jamie, there were unsavory rumors about him. If he could be discredited in some way, mayhap there would be no search for, of interest in, his missing bride.

  A slight hope, he knew, but it was the only one he had for solving the problem of Juliana, allowing her to make the choice of returning to Spain or staying here at Inverleith.

  For the first time, he admitted to himself how much he wanted the latter. Wanted her to stay.

  He’d thought never to marry because of the curse. It was so deeply embedded in the Macleans that he’d never considered the possibility, especially after the death of Rory’s first wife. He still remembered Maggie’s joyful laughter and the cries the night she and her bairn died. They had racked his soul for years.

  But mayhap Rory was right. Mayhap the curse had ended with his marriage to a Campbell. Mayhap there had never really been one. Just tragic coincidences.

  FELICIA was placing clothes into a trunk when Ju-liana appeared at her door. “Juliana,” she exclaimed with delight. “Come in.”

  Little Patrick was tottering around, dragging a wooden horse on a rope. Maggie was asleep on the bed, her red hair curling around an angelic face.

  Juliana nearly tripped over the wooden horse, then could
not resist a smile at Patrick’s grin.

  “They both are beautiful,” she said.

  “Aye, if a bit wild.”

  “And you are leaving?”

  “Aye, Janet needs me now.”

  “You have welcomed me. I wanted to thank you before you left.”

  Felicia’s glance sharpened. “Come sit with me,” Felicia said, sitting on the huge bed that dominated the room.

  Juliana complied, dodging young Patrick as she did.

  “You are not happy here,” Felicia said, her gaze searching Juliana’s.

  “Were you, when you were a prisoner here?”

  “Nay. At first I was terrified of the wild Macleans. I was told they were the devil incarnate.”

  “And then?”

  “You know parts of the story. I was kidnapped because his Macleans thought I was Janet Cameron and would make a good bride for Rory. He wanted none of it. He’d lost two wives already because of the curse. At least he halfway believed that.” She looked quickly at Juliana. “You have heard of the curse?”

  “Si,” Juliana said.

  “I feared that if I told him I was a Campbell, he would kill me and even deepen the feud between the families. Then I came to know him and fell in love. But I knew if he discovered I was a Campbell, he would be . . . repelled. So I ran away.”

  “How did you do that?”

  Felicia’s eyes sharpened. Studied her for a few moments. Then she sighed. “I asked Douglas to take me for a ride. I pretended to fall. When he dismounted to see whether I was injured, I grabbed his horse—and mine—and galloped off.” She paused, then said slowly, “I do not think it will work again.”

  Juliana bit her lower lip, wondering how much she should say. It was obvious that she had not been sly at all.

  Felicia gave her a sympathetic smile. “Do you love him?”

  “I . . . he is a stubborn donkey.”

  Felicia laughed. “Aye, just like Rory. They both think they know best for everyone. Stubborn. Prideful. Rory has improved . . . a little. Now Lachlan, he is different.”

  “It is not only myself,” Juliana said. “My mother is in Spain. She is half English and my father has always despised her for it, though he has used her family to increase his wealth. If this marriage fails to happen, he will have no reason to keep her alive. He could marry again, a Spanish woman, with a good dowry.”

  The laughter left Felicia’s eyes. She took Juliana’s hand with hers. “I had no one,” she said. “No one but Jamie. My mother and da died when I was but a baby, and Angus Campbell took me in. But there was no affection, not then.”

  “Help me,” Juliana pled.

  “I might be convicting Patrick,” Felicia said. “Rory would never forgive me.”

  “I would say the ship wrecked along the English coast. I was the only survivor.”

  Felicia stared at her with bemusement. “You would have a very long and dangerous journey, then you would have to be very believable. I do not wish to insult you, but you are not a good liar.”

  Juliana had to smile at the statement. And Felicia had not said no. Had not run down to tell Rory or Patrick. Not yet. A glimmer of bittersweet possibility opened.

  “I can be,” she said. “If I can leave these walls.”

  “What about Patrick? He is in love with you.” She said it with such certainty that Juliana nearly believed it.

  “He wants nothing to do with me.”

  “Nay, he fears, as Rory did, to love. That thought tears down everything they believed.’Tis a hard thing for a proud man to admit.”

  “Even if it were true, I am a danger to him here. And my disappearance might mean death to my mother.”

  “Such terrible choices.”

  Juliana realized from the tone in her voice that Felicia had probably made terrible choices herself. She waited.

  Patrick had left the wooden horse and played wooden spoons against the table.

  Juliana wondered what it would be like to be as content as Felicia appeared to be. She doubted she would ever know.

  “Be sure you know what you are risking,” Felicia said softly. “It is a long way to England, and then your tale would have to be convincing. If you fail, many could die.”

  “They may, if I do not.”

  “I tried to save people, too, and it never quite worked the way I planned,” Felicia said. “I almost lost Rory in the doing, as well as Jamie and Lachlan. Plans that look noble and easy are usually neither.”

  “I do not know what else to do.”

  Felicia gave her a quick hug. “Think very carefully. You have a good heart, Juliana, and I think Patrick is in need of one.”

  Felicia’s gaze met hers. Her eyes were warm. Sympathetic. How sympathetic?

  Juliana took a deep breath. “Will you help me?” she asked.

  “Nay,” Felicia said softly. “I cannot betray Patrick as soon as he returned. Neither he nor Rory would ever forgive me. Even if I were willing to risk that, I do not think it can work.”

  Juliana stood. “You will not tell them . . .”

  “Nay, I will not do that, either.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Felicia hesitated, then said, “You know he is leaving tomorrow for Edinburgh?”

  Juliana felt sick inside. She shook her head.

  “Men can be such fools,” Felicia said. “Don’t let that make you one.”

  Juliana nodded. Then she left before she said more. She was on her own.

  PATRICK managed to stay away from Juliana most of the day. He rode escort with Felicia until she was well away from Maclean land. He remembered the old trails where once they raided Campbell cattle. The paths were overgrown now.

  He arrived just as the evening meal was ending. Juliana was nowhere to be seen, and a servant told him she was taking her meal in her room.

  Was she ill?

  He found himself running up the steps.

  He knocked, then opened the door without waiting. He wasn’t accustomed to such panic.

  But then she hadn’t left his thoughts since he’d left her earlier. He’d been curt, even rude, as he tried to control his jealousy and the maddening impulse to grab her and claim her as his own.

  She was in a night robe, her glorious hair falling down around her shoulders. Dishes that looked nearly untouched sat on the table.

  “You may go,” he told Carmita.

  Carmita looked at her mistress, who nodded, then scurried out the door.

  “You did not go down to supper.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  “Are you ill?”

  “No.”

  “Did Diego offend you in some way?”

  “No,” she said with a smile that made him bleed inside.

  He shifted from one foot to another. “If you are well, then . . .”

  “I am.”

  He felt like a great oaf. He wanted to reach out and clasp her to him. God’s teeth, but she looked magnificent. She was angry, he knew that, and he suspected he was the cause of that anger.

  “Lass . . .”

  “I understand you plan to leave tomorrow with Jamie Campbell.”

  “Aye.”

  “Were you going to tell me?”

  “Aye . . .” Nay, he had been planning to sneak away like a thief because he knew exactly what would happen if he tried to say farewell.

  “You wish me to stay and wait for you to return. You do not care that I would worry. About my mother. About Carmita. You.”

  He took a step forward. Her eyes were spitting fury now.

  “Juliana ...”

  “You keep me captive, you bed me, you ignore me, you leave without a word.”

  Through the fury, he saw the deep wound he’d inflicted. He had thought to protect her by staying away. An error. One among many.

  He reached out but she backed away.

  “No,” she said.

  “I did not want to hurt you more, lass,” he said. “There could be a child. And I could be hanged. I
. . .”

  “Will not give me choices. Go,” she said. “Go to Edinburgh and play your dangerous games.”

  A tear ran down her face and she wiped it away angrily.

  He touched her cheek with his thumb and caressed it. She went rigid.

  “I have to do this, lass. When I come back . . .”

  He saw something in her eyes he did not like. A secrecy that had not been there before.

  Bloody hell how he wanted to kiss her. He ached all over with wanting her.

  He leaned down and kissed her lightly. “I never meant . . .”

  Then her arms were around his neck and the kiss turned into something wild and desperate and hungry and yearning all at the same time. He felt every bone in his body turn molten.

  But despite her response, he knew this was not the time. Not for him. Not for her. He had left her once after lying with her. He could not do that to her again.

  His kiss turned gentle, then he let go. Her eyes were dazed. His throat constricted.

  He turned and left as if the devil were after him.

  Chapter 27

  DENNY appeared in Patrick’s room that night. He stood awkwardly, obviously wanting something.

  Patrick offered him a cup of wine.

  Denny shook his head and waited, his eyes anxious.

  “Do you wish to leave Inverleith?” Patrick asked.

  Denny shook his head.

  “Stay?”

  Again a negative shake of his head.

  “You want to go with us tomorrow?”

  Denny nodded this time.

  Patrick hesitated, too surprised to say anything. Kimbra had told him that she thought Denny understood everything that was going on, that he listened and absorbed, but then tried to melt into the shadows.

  Patrick wondered if one reason for his silence had been the rules on the ship. Silence had been enforced. The oarsmen knew that talk meant punishment. Some simply lost the habit. And then mayhap Denny had no past upon which to rely.

  He studied Denny. While on the bench, his eyes had been dull, his actions slow, but now Patrick wondered how much of that had been an act while he was trying to comprehend what had happened to him. Now, with his beard shaved and his hair cut cleanly, he had the look of an aristocrat. His movements, though, were still slow and cautious, as if he were always trying desperately to find something familiar.