Beloved Warrior

by Patricia Potter

  At least Patrick knew who he was, and he had brothers who, to his continuing amazement, had gathered around him in a protective wall.

  What did Denny have?

  Mayhap Edinburgh and new faces would prod memories. He could come along as Patrick’s or Jamie’s servant.

  Jamie. It suddenly struck him that he thought of the Campbell as Jamie. And the skies hadn’t fallen in.

  Mayhap a similar miracle would strike Denny.

  JULIANA watched the four—Jamie, Patrick, Denny and Lachlan—leave on horseback. She ached to go with them.

  Kimbra stood next to her. Felicia had left earlier with an escort.

  “I have done that many times,” Kimbra said. “Watch my heart ride away.”

  How much had she given away? Did everyone know she . . . had bedded Patrick Maclean? “Why are they taking Denny?” she asked to change the subject.

  “He asked Patrick to go. In gestures, if not words.”

  Juliana’s gaze continued to follow Patrick until he passed through the gate, then she tried to concentrate on what Kimbra had just said. She should not have been surprised. He showed an uncommon devotion to Patrick even while she’d witnessed that glimmer of intelligence in his eyes, his intense need to remember.

  Everyone was leaving. Patrick. Felicia. Denny. All but Rory, who meant to keep her prisoner.

  “I think his memories may be coming back,” Kimbra said. “Not many. It was like that with Lachlan’s head injury.”

  “But it has been much longer with Denny,” Juliana said. “Did not Lachlan regain his memory in a matter of weeks?”

  “Not all of it. That took months. And he had reason to want to remember. I think Denny had none. He woke up to slavery and beatings.”

  “I will feel guilt for that all my days.”

  “You should not. It was not of your doing.” Then she smiled shyly. “But I understand. When I heard my family was ordered to kill every Scot, wounded or not, I felt the same. A shame for being a part of it, even if I had no power.”

  She held out her hand, and Juliana grasped it. For the first time she did not feel alone. She knew the feeling could not, would not, last, but still the gesture touched her. Something else to remember.

  “I have not seen much of Lachlan,” Juliana said regretfully.

  “Everyone likes Lachlan. Yet he had his demons, just like his brothers had. I think at times he still has them.” She grinned suddenly. “You should hear him play the lute.”

  “I have heard your daughter. She is very good.”

  “Lachlan taught her. They are much alike, those two, even if he is not her natural father.

  Pain tore at Juliana’s heart. There was so much love in her expression, in the soft sound of her voice. This is what she wanted. She wanted it with all her heart and soul.

  She stepped away from the window. The riders were gone now, and the gates closed again.

  “I think I will go down to see the horses,” Juliana said.

  “Audra has been begging me to take her to the loch for a picnic,” Kimbra said unexpectedly. “Perhaps you can go with us.”

  “When?” Juliana said eagerly.

  “I will have to get Rory’s permission,” Kimbra said. “I will approach him later today.”

  “Thank you,” Juliana said gratefully. Whether or not she could use the opportunity to escape she did not know, but she wanted to go outside the walls and see more of the land.

  She left the chamber and walked out into the courtyard. She stopped when she saw Diego in the training area, fighting with a Maclean. They were using broadswords and though she had heard of his skill, she was startled at how good he was against a much burlier man. He never stayed still while his opponent advanced predictably. Diego neatly parried a strong blow, his shield taking only the edge of his opponent’s sword, then he sidestepped and brought his sword down on his opponent’s. The Maclean’s sword went skittering away.

  He turned his back, and the Maclean dove at him, bringing him down.

  She watched as fury crossed Diego’s face. He was wearing britches from the ship—her uncle’s if she was not mistaken—and a full, white shirt that contrasted with his olive skin and black hair. He was all grace and anger as he sprung up from the ground and turned. His fist hit the Maclean with such impact she could hear it where she was standing some distance away. The Maclean rose to his feet and took out a dagger. Fury crossed Diego’s face, an unforgiving anger that sent chills through her.

  He took the knife away with one blow to the wrist. The movement was so fast, she nearly missed seeing it herself. Then he used his fist to pummel the man to the ground before two other Macleans pulled him off.

  He stood, shook them off and strode away. She walked quickly to catch him. Blood spotted the shirt, and his dark hair fell onto his forehead.

  He turned suddenly as if sensing danger, then that sardonic grin filled his face. “Has no one told you not sneak up behind someone?”

  “I was not sneaking,” she said with as much dignity as she could summon. “I was watching you and thought I could help . . . with those wounds.”

  He looked down at his bloodied shirt and blinked. “It is a Maclean shirt. As for the wounds, I have had many worse ones.”

  “I know,” she said. “I am sorry for them.”

  “Do not be, senorita. None of it was your doing. In truth, you probably saved us all.”

  She considered that for a moment. “How?”

  “We were conveniently headed toward England, and you were a distraction to the crew.”

  They reached the stable. “They allow you to ride?” she asked.

  “Not alone.”

  “I still do not understand why you did not leave. You could have been free, had you gone with the ship.”

  “At the moment, being aboard a ship is not my idea of freedom, Juliana. I like earth beneath my feet.”

  It was the first time he had used her given name. Her obvious surprise brought a smile to his lips again. But it was not a pleasant smile.

  “I can call you senorita if you disapprove,” he said with a bite in his voice.

  “I prefer Juliana.”

  “Done, then.”

  He continued to the barn and she followed, not knowing why exactly.

  No, she did know. He had always puzzled her. Nothing quite fit. His speech was that of a gentleman, but there was a raw, wild streak in him. He spoke both Spanish and English and yet she had just seen him fight like a ruffian.

  They reached the stable and she watched him as he ignored her and murmured to the animals. They moved forward in their stalls, attentive. He seemed to have a way with them as he did with swords.

  Then to her surprise, he went to the back, where a bitch was nursing her puppies. He looked at them with a curious expression. “It amazes me,” he said, “how well she takes care of her puppies, even the runt.”

  “I think they are born knowing how.”

  “Si,” he said. “A talent some humans do not have.” He leaned down and picked up one of the puppies and rubbed its stomach. There was a gentleness about the gesture that so contrasted with the violence of a few moments earlier.

  Yet the words had an unemotional flatness. Unemotional. Unpitying. Full of implication. Yet now was not the time to pursue the subject. But maybe another.

  She turned from English to Spanish. “You did not really answer my question earlier. Why did you not leave with the others?”

  “I thought I did answer,” he replied in Spanish, though his expression indicated surprise. Then he looked around, saw a stable lad, and shrugged.

  “You did not wish to get on a ship again and you said you like the Macleans.”

  He did not answer, just eyed her cautiously.

  “I do not believe those are the real reasons. It would not have been that long a voyage.”

  “And the Macleans?” he asked.

  “You do not seem a sentimental person.”

  “Ah, I do not?”

&nb
sp; She wanted to stamp her feet. Getting a direct answer from him was impossible.

  “Will you help me?” she asked suddenly, tired of the fencing.

  He raised an eyebrow. “How?”

  “I want to leave Inverleith.”

  The eyebrow arched higher. “So you are plotting. You said not.”

  “It is important that I leave. I endanger everyone here,” she said. “You as well,” she added, appealing to his self-interest.

  “And so you wish to sacrifice yourself?” That irritating humor was thick in his voice.

  “It would be no sacrifice. I would go to a wealthy family and a marriage arranged by my father.”

  “And why should I assist you?”

  “I have some jewels. You can have them.”

  His eyes went cold. “And you believe I will take your thirty pieces of silver?”

  She knew she had made a mistake.

  “In truth, I do not know you well, at all,” she said. “But if you do not care about money, then you must care about the Macleans. And you must realize that you and I are both a danger to them. A Spaniard here at Inverleith—especially two of us—will be more than a little curious. Word will eventually travel. Any query could lead to Patrick’s death.”

  “This marriage . . . it is what you want?”

  She had not told him the circumstances of her betrothal. She hesitated, then said, “Si.”

  “I have no more freedom than you,” he said. “How do you suppose I can help?”

  “I think you are clever enough to find a way.”

  “And how would you explain your miraculous survival when your uncle, the crew and your dowry are gone?”

  “The ship went down in a storm. I survived because you assisted me. No one else did. My father would reward you greatly.”

  “I am a convicted criminal.”

  “Patrick said the . . . oarsmen were only known as numbers. You could take the name of one of the crew members.”

  “You have thought this out. Were you so sure I would help you?”

  “Nay. If you did not agree, I would go alone.”

  “I have not agreed, senorita,” he said.

  She waited.

  “You have not told me how you expect me to help you leave Inverleith.”

  “Kimbra has suggested a picnic. If you can manage a ride yourself at the same time . . .”

  “I will consider it,” he said.

  His face told her she would get nothing more now.

  “Gracias,” she said.

  “Do not thank me,” he said. “It is a wild scheme, and you are asking me to betray someone. . . .”

  His words trailed off.

  “I will tend those wounds,” she said.

  “No. I will do it myself,” he said. The look he gave her was anything but friendly. He was angry and she was not sure what she had said to make him so.

  She shivered. Would he tell anyone her plans? And why was he so angry?

  Even more important, why did she think she could trust him? Both in helping her escape and, just as importantly, getting her to London safely.

  She did not know whether he saw the questions in her face. She only heard his muttered curse in Spanish and then he left the stable without another word.

  Chapter 28

  LACHLAN rode both day and night after leaving Inverleith.

  He led a second horse behind him, and he switched mounts along the way. The extra mount would serve a second purpose: a gift for the irascible Charlton, one of the fiercest of the English border reivers and at one time Lachlan’s captor.

  He would need the Charlton’s help.

  Theirs was a strange friendship. Thomas Charlton had little use for Scots but a great love for chess. Lachlan had found he had a talent for the game.

  His mount now was a hobbler, a horse from the borders and a gift from the Charlton. Small and rough-looking, the animal was an extremely hardy animal that could travel over rough terrain for far longer than horses from the Highlands. In turn, his gift to Charlton was a Maclean-bred animal. Thomas Charlton, he knew, coveted them to crossbreed with his own.

  The journey had been bloody uncomfortable. It had started raining the day he left, and had not stopped during the past two days. He was wet and cold and tired when he arrived at the Charlton Tower.

  He heard the alarm being given. He rode close to the gate before the sentry recognized him and opened up.

  By the time he dismounted, Charltons had gathered around him asking about Kimbra. Then he strode toward the door. The tower had none of Inverleith’s grace or comfort. Unlike Inverleith, with its huge stone walls, the tower was a far less sophisticated dwelling. It depended on the great door for defense and the fact that defenders above could hurl hot oil and rocks at any potential raiders.

  Then the great door opened and Thomas Charlton limped out and held out his arms. Lachlan endured a rough embrace. “How is my Kimbra?” the Charlton asked.

  “Well, as is Audra,” Lachlan said with what he knew must be a foolish grin on his face. The thought of Kimbra always made him smile.

  But already the Charlton’s gaze had gone to the horse he led. “An extra mount?” he said, his eyes greedy.

  “Aye. A gift.”

  The Charlton went over to the animal and ran his hands along its flank. “A fine gift.” Then his eyes sharpened. “I imagine ye would like something in return.”

  Lachlan grinned. “Information.”

  “That is what I like about ye, Maclean. Ye speak bluntly. Come in. One of the lads will take the horses.”

  He followed the Charlton inside. The man was a bloodthirsty thief and bandit, but true to his own code. He would do anything for an ally or friend. But God help you if you were an enemy.

  Charlton led him to up the steps to his chamber. It was obvious that his host’s gout was no better than it had been before. But then he did not have Kimbra to mix the tea and poultices for it.

  As if reading his mind, the Charlton collapsed into the chair. “I should never have permitted the marriage,” he complained. “I need a healer.”

  “It just happens that Kimbra sent some leaves for a brew,” Lachlan said with a grin.

  “Need them all the time,” the Charlton grumbled. “Should have brought her with you.” He rearranged himself again. “Now what do ye want? Ye look as if you have been riding hard.”

  “I need information about the Earl of Chadwick and his son. He has property not far from here. You seem to know something about everyone.”

  “Why?” the Charlton asked.

  “I cannot give you the reason. I can only say it is important to me.”

  The Charlton speared him with his gaze. “I know ye dislike asking for help. It must be important.”

  “Aye.”

  “His lordship is in the north often now,” the Charlton said. “I hear he is ill.”

  “And his son?”

  “Ah, the viscount. A bad one, to all accounts. Took his brother’s place when Garrett was killed.”

  “How?”

  The Charlton shrugged.“’Tis said somewhere in Spain.” He paused. “A pity. He was well-liked on the border. Participated in our games. He was a good swordsman and was said to have honor. As for the new viscount, we hear rumors. Nothing to his credit.”

  “And his father?”

  “Like most lords,” the Charlton said with contempt. “Ambitious. Ruthless. One must be if one is to sit next to a king.”

  “Have you heard anything about their business affairs?”

  The Charlton shook his head. “They have ships but do no smuggling here, at least not with us. Not like ye,” he said ironically, referring to Lachlan’s occasional visits to the border on one of the Maclean ships. It had turned into a lucrative venture for both families with the added bonus that Kimbra could see her family.

  “They have a Spanish partner,” Lachlan said.

  “I am not surprised. It gives them entrance to ports the English might not have.”
/>   “Some of the ships are galleys powered by slaves.”

  The Charlton raised his eyebrows. “And ye do not approve?”

  “There are rumors that some may be Englishmen guilty only of being in the wrong place.”

  “I cannot believe that true of Chadwick. He regards his reputation too highly, and the crown would not look kindly on the practice. But his son . . . it is possible.”

  Lachlan shrugged. “That is what I wish to know.”

  Thomas Charlton raised his gout-swollen leg to a stool. “Ye wish to get rid of this Kingsley?”

  Charlton, despite his rough exterior and reputation as a reiver and bandit, had never been a fool, although he often liked strangers to believe the opposite. He had become head of the family through ruthlessness and kept his position because of loyalty.

  “I wish to know more about him, enough to destroy him . . . if he is guilty.”

  “I think ye are not that concerned with his guilt,” Charlton said.

  “If he is what you say he is, nay, I am not.”

  “God save me but I don’t want to be an enemy of the Macleans.”

  Lachlan winced internally. He had changed from the idealistic young man who’d wanted to be a priest, more than he’d thought. But he despised cruelty, and to think of sending Juliana to a marriage to a man like that made his stomach curdle. “We feel the same about the Charltons.”

  “Come and sup with us. We will plot together, ye and I.” The Charlton looked pleased at the prospect.

  “It is urgent,” Lachlan said. “I hoped you might have an ear somewhere in London.”

  “Ye wish to go?”

  “Aye.”

  “I will have horses and a guide at dawn tomorrow. I know exactly the person.”

  “Honest?”

  “Nay, the best thief in London but he knows everyone’s business.”

  “I knew you could help.”

  “Always at yer service,” the Charlton said with a grin that would do the devil proud.

  RAIN. Rain. Rain. Juliana had taken one of the puppies from the stable upstairs to Audra’s room.