Beloved Warrior Page 12

His thoughts turned to the women. He tried to think of them as one. Not as a wisp of a girl named Carmita and a slim, brave lass named Mendoza.

  He had no more than dismissed the thought of them when he saw horsemen riding toward him. They all wore the Maclean-dyed plaids.

  The sight stirred something strong and proud inside him. Mayhap the Scottish heart of Patrick Maclean did beat strong yet.

  They stopped, and one of the small band approached on horseback. The air of authority proclaimed him the leader.

  “You are on Maclean land. Your purpose here?”

  Patrick barely remembered his younger brother. Lachlan had been a stripling lad then, a dreamer with his head in a book. He was no lad now. Nor a dreamer, from the hard set in his face. His brother looked lean and strong, and his blue eyes steady as he regarded the scene before him.

  Had Lachlan really changed that much? Patrick wondered.

  His brother’s eyes narrowed as if trying to place him.

  How many years since they had last seen one another? Eight? Nine?

  “Do you nae recognize a brother?” Patrick asked softly.

  The young man jerked in the saddle. His eyes widened. Then he dismounted with a bound.

  “Patrick?” He stared at him for a long moment, incredulity in his eyes. “It cannot be.”

  “The devil protects his own.”

  “Nay, not a devil. Mayhap an angel,” his brother, Lachlan Maclean, said as he approached, his lips stretching into a broad smile. There was a confidence about him that had never been there before.

  “If so, it was Lucifer,” Patrick said, not quite certain about the sincerity of the welcome.

  Lachlan continued to inspect him for a moment, disbelief in his face. Then he placed a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “God’s blood, but we thought you dead.”

  He looked past Patrick, his gaze lingering on the Moors who had rowed the ship’s boat in, then to the Spanish galleon.

  “Spanish?”

  “Aye.”

  “A story that needs telling.” Lachlan stepped back and studied him again. “But now I must get you to Inverleith.” He paused, then added, “I cannot believe what my eyes are telling me. You have changed much, Patrick.” His eyes rested on the scarred wrists.

  “As have you,” Patrick said, his own gaze studying his brother. Now he saw a slight scar along the side his face. “When I left you were little more than a boy who hated training. I see you have some scars of your own now.”

  “Aye. At Flodden Field.”

  “I heard of it. And the others? My father? Rory.”

  Lachlan went still.

  “Fa has been dead since two years after you left,” Lachlan said.

  “What happened?”

  “He was killed in a raid.”

  “By a Campbell?”

  “Aye, but because of me.”

  Patrick knew he should feel something. Had he been so numbed over the past few years that all his emotions were dead? He should feel sorrow at the death of his father. Instead he absorbed the news silently, almost without feeling.

  Mayhap grief would come. Joy at being home again. Emotions seemed alien to him at this moment. He had turned them off for seven years. It had been necessary to survive. He’d swallowed pride, anger, grief. Buried them.

  Forever? The thought clenched his stomach. Never to feel again?

  His father had been dead all these years, and he hadn’t known it. He should never have left. But what was done was done. “I had feared the Campbell slew them all. Or that all had fallen at Flodden Field. The Spanish taunted me with it.” He paused. “Was it as bad as I heard?”

  “Aye, it was. King James died along with the best of Scotland. We lost many fine Macleans.”

  “Then Fa was alive when the demand for ransom came?”

  “Ransom?” Lachlan’s brow furrowed. “There was no demand for ransom. Most certainly it would have been paid.”

  “It was not. I was wounded and taken prisoner at the Battle of the Garigliano near Naples. A ransom was demanded. My captor said he sent several written demands.”

  Lachlan looked puzzled. “We received none. Fa would have done anything to have you back. But there were no demands. By God, Patrick, you should know we would have paid it, even if it took every pound we had.”

  His gaze met Patrick’s and Patrick saw no guile in it. No lies. But repeated demands had been made. How was it possible that none had reached Inverleith?

  Had his brother become a liar as well as a warrior?

  “And Rory? Where was he?”

  “He was at sea when our father died. It took two years to reach him and fetch him home. He loathed doing so, but I was of no value to the clan. I was no warrior, and I had little trust. His return turned out well enough, because he found a bride and now has two bairns.”

  “And what of the curse?”

  “That, too, my brother, is a long story and mayhap Rory should be the one to tell it.” His gaze ran over Patrick’s rough sailor’s shirt and pants. “We need to get you back into a plaid,” he said. Then his gaze caught the scars around his wrists. Lingered there.

  “’Tis nothing,” Patrick said.

  Lachlan nodded. Then grasped his arm. “We have prayed for this.”

  “We?”

  “Rory and myself. Fa before he died.”

  Lachlan put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. He was of a height with Patrick but did not have his larger frame. “Come,” Lachlan said. “Meet your Macleans and come home with us. Rory is at Inverleith, and he will rejoice at seeing you.” He paused, then added, “I have a wife now, a daughter, and a babe waiting birth.”

  “You always said you wanted to be a priest.”

  “I did not think I could marry. Or live up to father and you and Rory.”

  “What changed?”

  “Many things. Come now.’Tis time to get you into an honest plaid. You can ride Callum’s horse.” Lachlan paused. “The ship? The crew?”

  “Are mine,” Patrick said to relieve any apprehension. More explanations could come later.

  Patrick went to the Macleans on horseback. Each one dismounted and greeted him. Some he remembered, some he did not. He took the proffered mount.

  Then he turned back to the men waiting at the boat. “Take the longboat back,” he told Diego. “My brothers live, and I will come aboard tonight with news.”

  “Do you wish me to return to the ship?”

  “Aye.”

  He would have preferred to have the Spaniard at his side, but he was needed more on ship. Strange that he felt more comfortable with the Spaniard than with his own brother. But then Diego had shared hell with him.

  Patrick watched as the oarsmen rowed back to the Sofia. Then he turned to his brother, who had appropriated a horse from the Maclean named Callum. He remembered a Callum. A towheaded lad then. “Is Jock your father?”

  “Aye,” Callum said, obviously pleased to be recognized.

  “He is well?”

  “Nay. I lost him at Flodden Field.”

  “Och. I remember him as a good soldier.”

  A slow smile filled Callum’s face.

  “Come,” Patrick said. “Ride behind me.”

  “I can walk.”

  “Nay. The horse looks like a sturdy fellow.” Patrick mounted and offered his hand to Callum, who swung up behind him.

  It had been a long time since Patrick had been in the saddle. Far too long. He looked at the men who surrounded him. They had apparently come to confront whatever invaders had come to their shores. Now they were swinging their horses around him in a gesture of protection.

  Too few, Patrick thought. What if he had been a Spanish raider with armed brigands?

  What if they had been Campbells?

  The clan had grown careless while he had been gone. He would remedy that soon enough.

  Patrick set the pace, drinking in every familiar sight. He glanced toward the rock that had caused the Maclean so much grief. It was high ti
de now, and the rock was covered. But he saw it in his mind.

  Then he dismissed everything from his mind but the fresh crisp breeze that smelled of heather and the hills dotted with cattle. Timeless hills of tragedy and pain and blood. And too-brief moments of happiness.

  Around a curve, and then there was Inverleith.

  He was unprepared for the impact. If moments ago he feared he was devoid of emotion, now it hit him. As he neared the stone wall and the towers rising behind it, memories flooded back. Good and bad. Mostly bad. Inverleith had a history of tragedy. He felt his soul bleeding.

  He slowed his horse to a walk, all his senses drinking in the sight of the home he’d both loved and hated. The stark rock towers rose in isolated splendor. Despite his longing over the past years of captivity, Inverleith had never seemed home before. It had been a cold, loveless place. Why had he so wanted to return?

  Today it did not look quite as lonely as they rode through open gates. Or as bleak. Mayhap because of three bairns playing on the ground with a large dog that looked more bear than canine. Laughter floated in the air. It had been a long time since he’d heard laughter there.

  Before he could dismount, Lachlan was off his horse and running to the door. Patrick heard him shout, “Rory,” several times before a tall, dark-haired man walked out. The children playing outside stood and stared at Patrick, the newcomer.

  Lachlan stood back without saying anything as Rory glanced at his younger brother quizzically, then, following Lachlan’s gaze, turned to the man on horseback.

  Patrick dismounted and stood next to the horse as he watched Rory’s face. The expression changed openly. Puzzlement at first, then stern lips relaxed and creased into a wide smile as he strode toward Patrick.

  “Patrick?” His voice was disbelieving.

  “Aye, it would appear so.”

  Rory stood there, emotion roiling in his eyes. “I . . . we . . . have all prayed for this day.”

  “I did not think you were strong on prayer, Rory.”

  “You remember that? I did not approve of a God who put curses above prayer.”

  Patrick did not take a step forward, unwilling yet to embrace a brother he barely knew. They had trained together as children, then as young men, and their father had fostered competition between them, ridiculing the one who lost. And then . . . he could not forget the unpaid ransom.

  Rory apparently had no such reservations. He stepped closer, not with the exuberant welcome that Lachlan had offered but with a hand outstretched. “It is good to see you, Brother.”

  Patrick took it, then looked over the castle and the children. The gloom of years ago was gone. Men were milling around, talking excitedly.

  Rory stooped and urged the children to come to him. “This is Audra,” he said, introducing the older lass. “She belongs to Lachlan and Kimbra. These two are mine. Maggie is two, and . . . the lad is Patrick.”

  Stunned, Patrick could only stand there and stare at the boy. Patrick?

  “Sir?” the boy who had no more than five years asked anxiously.

  “This is your uncle, Patrick,” Rory said. “You are named after him.”

  Patrick stooped to the lad’s height. “I am happy to meet you.”

  “I, too, sir,” the lad said.

  Patrick stood. “He has far better manners than I had as a lad.”

  “Than either of us,” Rory said with a proud grin. “But beware.’Tis only a temporary pose.”

  Patrick hesitated, then started to ask the questions that had been plaguing him for years. “You are laird?” he asked.

  “Only until you returned home. I always hoped . . .” He stopped suddenly. “What happened to you? Where have you been?”

  “I was taken prisoner by a Spaniard. A ransom was asked,” he said, watching Rory’s face. He knew what Lachlan had said. He wanted to hear Rory’s words and watch his face.

  “When?”

  “Seven years ago. Mayhap a little less.”

  Rory looked puzzled. “I would have been at sea then, but I know Fa would have paid anything to have you back. He always talked about how you were the best of us.”

  “He said the same of you.”

  Rory gave him a quizzical look. “He always did take pleasure in playing us against each other. That is one reason I went to sea. But he would have paid anything to get either of us back. If for no other reason than the fact that the Campbell had only one son.”

  Patrick considered the words. His brother was right. His father would never give the Campbell the satisfaction of seeing him lose a son.

  “Mayhap he did not receive the message,” Rory said.

  “Several were sent,” Patrick said coldly. “Refusals were returned.”

  Rory must have seen the suspicion in his face. “Come,” he said, “let us speak in private.” He turned toward the door and Patrick followed him through the hall to the office Patrick’s father had once occupied. The great hall had greatly improved since the day he’d left. Fresh rushes covered the floor and the windows fairly glowed where once they had been coated with dirt.

  “Things have changed,” Patrick noted.

  “Aye, due to my wife.”

  They reached the room that had served as an office for Inverleith for decades.

  Then they stood awkwardly. Patrick had years of bitterness behind him. “Douglas? Is he still here?”

  “Aye, he is still steward. And Archibald. But Hector was lost at Flodden Field.” He looked directly into Patrick’s eyes. “What happened when the ransom was not paid?”

  “I was sold as a galley slave.”

  Rory paled. “How long?”

  “Nearly six years to my count. Mayhap longer. I was the longest surviving oarsman.” He paused, then added, “We took over the ship off the coast of Spain. Every last one of us could be charged with mutiny.”

  “The crew?”

  “Dead,” Patrick replied flatly.

  It was a risk saying that much. A hint to the Scottish crown, to England, and there would be a price on his head. And Inverleith would be his brother’s.

  Rory nodded, his face inscrutable.

  “I have a ship full of Moors and Spaniards and a few French. As well as a Scot. The ship should be scuttled. Do we still own a ship?”

  “Three of them.”

  “Are any in port?” Patrick persisted.

  “One is in Glasgow, being refitted.”

  “Is it ready to sail?”

  “It can be,” his brother conceded.

  “I want it.” It was a challenge thrown out. He should be laird, though he knew well enough that the title came by clan acceptance, not by inheritance. Rory had it now. Part of Patrick longed for the warmth he saw in his brothers’ eyes, but he had known betrayal too many times in the past years.

  “You have it,” Rory said simply.

  “You do not know why.”

  “It does not matter. They are more yours than mine.”

  A gradual warmth started to fill him. Mayhap he had been wrong about Rory. And his father. “I promised to take them where they want to go. Most wish to go to Morocco. I also told them we would buy the cargo to pay those who choose to go home on their own.”

  “Then it will be done.”

  “Once we destroy the ship, they must have a place to stay.”

  Rory raised his eyebrows them. “Moors at Inverleith?”

  “Aye. I would not be alive without them.”

  “Then they are welcome.”

  “There is a rich cargo,” Patrick said.

  “What is it?”

  “Fine silks and lace, mostly. And Spanish wine. There are some jewels intended as a dowry. Some gold coins. We can transfer the goods here, then load them on one of your ships.”

  “Our ships, Brother,” Rory corrected.

  But even with his assent, Rory frowned, and Patrick realized the idea of scuttling a ship was abhorrent to his brother. Rory loved the sea, and it was hell on earth to Patrick.

  “We can
all be hanged as mutineers if anyone learns what happened. Every man aboard knows that. They wanted to take the ship and turn to pirating, but the Sofia has only two small cannons, and only a few know much about sailing. We almost did not make it here.”

  Rory raised his eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, you hated every moment you spent on the ship.”

  “A premonition,” Patrick said.

  A smile tugged at his brother’s lip. “Mayhap it was. As for the other, aye, we have funds to pay for the cargo. We have done well with trading.”

  “There is one thing more,” Patrick said.

  Rory raised an eyebrow. “As interesting as the others?”

  “Two women. A Spanish lass and her maid. They should not have been aboard.”

  Something flickered in his half brother’s eyes. Something like amusement. “Is she bonny?”

  “If you like Spaniards,” Patrick said cautiously. “She is the niece of the captain of the ship. A man who did not deserve to live.”

  “You intend to keep her here forever?”

  “I donna know,” he said, lapsing into the language he knew as a lad. “I just know we cannot let her return to tell what happened, nor do I wish to be responsible for her death.”

  “How do you know all the others will keep their silence?”

  “Because they are as guilty as I for murder and mutiny,” Patrick said, watching his brother. He lowered his voice. “No one will risk returning to the life we escaped.”

  “It will be difficult to keep such a large ship a secret. Someone else might have seen it come up the sound.”

  “We painted over the name. I hope someone will believe it a smuggler.”

  “You propose then to keep the lady and her maid prisoner.”

  “Aye. Until we can decide what to do.”

  “We have had some experience with that,” Rory said, the side of his lips tugging upward. “I will have a chamber prepared. I do not know, though, what my wife will say about it.”

  “Say about what?” A woman charged through the door like a gust of wind, then stopped abruptly when she saw Patrick. Her gaze went to his beard, the stained clothes, then back to his face. “I heard there was a strange ship. . . .”

  She was a slip of a lass with flaming red hair and dark blue eyes that sparkled with curiosity.

  Rory pulled her close to him. “This is Felicia, my love and mother of two wild bairns. Felicia, this is Patrick.”