Beloved Warrior Read online

  Men who had been without women.

  Men who could not afford to leave a living witness to mass murder.

  Chapter 7

  PATRICK blessed the weather as the Sofia sped across the sea, as if—like its passengers—it had been released from bonds. Winds filled the sails and swept away the early morning fog as the ship moved farther from land.

  But the two women presented the devil’s own choice.

  He’d never expected to take the ship. He thought he would die in the attempt and therefore pushed aside that glimpse of the woman. Only her scream had reminded him of her presence and the danger she presented.

  He had no compunction at killing those who had enslaved him and beaten him. Or profited from it. But women? A woman and a mere slip of a lassie?

  Patrick stood at the helm, his feet hugging the deck and his body rolling with the rhythm of the ship. He reveled in the clean bite of the salt air, the fresh scent of freedom. He had grabbed a pair of ill-fitting breeches from a mate’s cabin, then returned to the captain’s cabin—and his vital charts—before joining the Spaniard at the helm.

  Patrick would need someone to relieve him at the wheel, and the Spaniard seemed to hold the greatest promise. Though he admitted it to no one, Diego seemed to have more experience than anyone else on the ship.

  The Scot also had potential. A man as tall as himself and larger despite the meager rations, the MacDonald had been charged with safekeeping the food stocks and spirits, as well as evaluating the motley crew upon which Patrick’s life depended. Patrick wanted to know the skills of each man. Had any sailed before their captivity? Had any cooked? Did any have knowledge of medicine? Were there warriors among them?

  Now that all the chains had been struck, he’d watched as each reacted to his freedom. Some were raiding everything they saw. Others were destroying what they could. Then others recognized they had not won their freedom yet and asked what they could do.

  So far no one had really opposed his orders, but Patrick knew they’d had no time to fully realize their newfound freedom. Or the dangers that continued to lie ahead.

  According to the charts, they had been traveling up the coast of Spain. They were probably near Brest and the English Channel. He had to change course to avoid England and reach the Hebrides Islands.

  Most of all they had to avoid Spanish warships, the French and privateers. They might well be challenged, even flying the Spanish flag. The next two days would be crucial.

  That led to the next problem. The two women.

  What to do with them?

  He did not trust the oarsmen. Too many were maddened by rage and deprivation. Many had not been near a woman for years, himself included. He could not deny his own reaction when he saw the two of them. One huddling in a corner, the other ready to kill him.

  Because she feared him. He had seen the terror in her eyes despite her attack on him. She was beautiful, or mayhap he had been celibate too long. Her eyes were an unusual color—the blue-gray of a summer dawn ringed by violet—and her hair, pulled back in a long braid, was a dark gold, like the color of wheat. Her back had been rigid with defiance.

  But she hadn’t quite controlled the shaking.

  What in the hell was he going to do with her?

  He didn’t know if he could control the oarsmen. God knew they had gone through enough hell to corrupt them all. And she was a danger to every one of them.

  The women—if freed—could hang them all. There were few countries, including Scotland, that condoned mutinies and piracy, no matter the reason. Crews were often not treated well, and one mutiny might lead to others.

  “Senor?” The Spaniard asked. “You are worried?”

  “We should all be worried.”

  “The women?”

  “They are a complication,” he said.

  “You are understating the matter,” the Spaniard said, looking at the cloth that Patrick had tied around his wound.

  “They are safe now?” Patrick added.

  “For now. Two men are guarding the cabin. Manuel is there also. I threatened them with a fate worse than death if anyone went inside.” Diego put his hand on the sheathed dagger at his side. “They believe me.” He hesitated, then said. “What do you propose to do with them?”

  Patrick shrugged. “God’s blood if I know. I don’t make war of women. I will not have rape, not even of a Mendoza. But there’s a hundred angry men on board who have been without women for a long time. They also know those women represent a danger to all of us.”

  The Spaniard’s eyes lit with amusement. “A problem I will enjoy watching you solve. Harder perhaps than taking this ship with chained, starved men.”

  Patrick did not care for his amusement. He took his gaze from the Spaniard and turned it toward the sea ahead.

  “There is something else, el capitán,” Diego said slyly.

  “Aye?”

  “I found some papers in Mendoza’s cabin. The senorita is his niece and traveling to England to marry an English lord.”

  “Who?”

  “The son and heir of the Earl of Chadwick.”

  Patrick groaned. Not only would the Spanish government be enraged, but now the English one as well. He fought rising apprehension and instead turned his attention to his companion.

  “Is your only name Diego?” he asked.

  The humor disappeared from the Spaniard’s eyes. “Just so.”

  Patrick accepted the answer. Probably many of the oarsmen wanted their names forgotten.

  “Take the wheel,” he said.

  The Spaniard looked at him questioningly.

  “I want to see how you handle her.”

  Diego took the wheel.

  “Feel it,” Patrick told him. It had taken all of Patrick’s strength to keep it on a steady course. The Spaniard was smaller than he was.

  The Spaniard spread his feet, his linen shirt blowing against his back. Apparently the Spaniard had taken his garments from Mendoza’s cabin.

  Diego handled the wheel well, if not masterfully, and Patrick wondered if the man was testing him as much as he was testing the Spaniard.

  Satisfied the Spaniard could manage the ship, Patrick passed among the crew, grateful they were too busy enjoying their freedom to ask where they were going. He hadn’t had the heart to tell them they may have to take their places on the benches again if the wind died.

  If the wind died . . .

  So much to do, and the danger still so high.

  THE more time passed, the more terror festered and grew.

  Exhausted by weeping, Carmita slumped in a corner, her hands shaking and every word a wail.

  Juliana had tried to comfort her, had held her in her arms for some time, then decided she was not going to surrender with a whimper.

  She started to scour the cabin for a potential weapon. The Spaniard had done a very good job. She found little that could be used as a weapon.

  There was no window toward the sea, even if she had been wont to throw herself out. But suicide under any circumstances was a sin. Would it be a sin to allow herself to be raped? She had few illusions that she would outlive this voyage unless the ship was engaged by either a Spanish or English warship. She was, in truth, surprised that she had not been immediately ravaged and killed.

  Ravaged. She closed her eyes as fear renewed its hold on her. I will tend to her myself, the giant had said. A giant with a body covered with the blood of her uncle and countrymen. A man with a fearsome countenance and angry, contemptuous eyes that roamed over her as if she were a sow to be bought and butchered.

  She shivered. Surely there was something she could do. She would hide behind the door and strike him with . . . something.

  Only there didn’t seem to be something.

  The Spaniard had taken everything that could possibly be turned into a weapon. The silver. Glass. The steel mirror. Even the chair. He had gone through her trunk, searching even through personal garments to her great humiliation. He had been thorough.


  She was left with a bed nailed down and several pieces of clothing remaining in her trunk. Surprisingly, he had left her small box of jewels. He had seemed not to care about them. At least not now.

  She sat on the bed. The cabin had been a refuge during the first days of the voyage when the first mate had eyed her with such open lust. Now it was a prison for the condemned.

  Juliana tried to block her memory of the mutineer. His eyes. If they truly revealed the soul, she could not expect mercy. She’d been mesmerized by them days ago, much as she’d heard a person could be by a cobra. Now that she saw them more clearly, nothing dampened that fear. It was difficult to describe them by color. Light brown mixed with gray and a moss green. But the shades were eclipsed by an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.

  How had he taken the ship? She didn’t doubt that he was responsible, that he was the leader. All had deferred to him despite the greed and lust in their faces. Even the Spaniard obeyed, and she doubted whether he bent to many men.

  What crime had he committed to bring him to this ship?

  She shuddered to guess. Her uncle had called them criminals, murderers and infidels. They had proved they were murderers. What else had they been? Or what had her uncle turned them into?

  The last thought was truly chilling. She remembered the scarred backs, the thin, wiry bodies. They would have no pity for a Mendoza, not when no one had had any pity for them.

  She knew only one thing. She would never see home again.

  “Madre,” she whispered. Would her mother ever learn what had happened to her?

  She paced, then sat, then paced again. Think. There had to be something she could do.

  Drunken laughter came from outside the cabin. The sounds sent new waves of terror through her, and she saw Carmita cower, a whimper coming from her mouth. With all her heart, Juliana wished she had brought someone else with her. Someone older who had already lived long years, someone who had known love.

  If only she still had the dagger.

  That thought led back to her thrust hours ago. How badly had she wounded the leader?

  Would he want his revenge?

  Her comb. The pins for her hair.

  Could she use those to defend herself? Or would it serve only to infuriate the mutineers more?

  Yet it was not in her nature to wait meekly. Her mother had submitted meekly. She would not. She rummaged in her trunk for her box of hair ornaments. She had placed the pins there last night when she had braided her hair for the night. She couldn’t remember the Spaniard taking them, but then she was comforting Carmita part of the time. She found the box and opened it. Jeweled combs lay on top of the pins.

  She was puzzled that he had not taken the combs and the jewels, but perhaps that would come next.

  It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that he’d left the pins, probably thinking them innocent enough. A woman’s vanities. She took them out and laid them on her palm. Ten pins, half of them studded with tiny sapphires.

  Long. Not very sharp. But better than nothing.

  She looked down at her garments, aware again that she was still in the nightdress and robe she had donned when her uncle had fetched her a few hours ago.

  A few hours?

  More like a lifetime.

  She undid her braid, and her hair fell around her face. She looked at Carmita. “I need your help.”

  Carmita sniffed and stood.

  “Arrange my hair so I can take out the pins easily,” she said.

  Carmita’s eyes widened. “You would not attack them again?”

  “I will do what I have to do,” she said.

  Carmita’s hands shook as she took a comb and ran it through Juliana’s long hair, then started twisting it into a knot, using the pins to hold the heavy strands in place.

  More than enough pins.

  “Now help me dress,” Juliana said, glancing up at her young maid. The girl’s tears had dried.

  “Which gown, senorita?” Carmita asked.

  “The blue one.”

  “The best one?” Carmita asked in a shocked voice. It was to be the one Juliana was to wear when meeting Viscount Kingsley and his father, the English earl.

  “Si. I will show them no fear.”

  “They will ravish us. Then kill us.” The tears were back.

  Juliana put her arms around her. “God will protect us,” she whispered, hoping with all her heart she was right.

  In case He didn’t, she would have the pins.

  Chapter 8

  “WHEN can we have the women?” Patrick stopped pouring salt water over his body. He had washed off as much blood and filth as he could, but he thought with dark humor it would take weeks—mayhap years—to finish cleansing himself.

  He straightened and turned toward the oarsman who’d just spoken. Four others flanked the man, giving their support.

  Felix had sat in front of him on the bench. He was a thief, if the brand on his face held true.

  “You won’t,” he replied curtly.

  “Keeping them for yourself?”

  “Nay,” he said. “But the women will not be harmed.”

  “No orders anymore. No one tells us what to do now,” Felix asserted. He was obviously spoiling for another fight.

  “Nay? You prefer being back on the bench?”

  “We voted. We want our turns with the women.”

  “Who voted?”

  “Us,” the oarsman standing behind Felix said in a rough voice.

  “Ah, us. And where do you think us is going without someone who knows how to sail this ship?” Patrick said softly. “You want to go ashore in Spain with that mark on your face?”

  Felix touched the scar. “We been gone from Spanish waters these few days.”

  “We are a few miles off the French coast,” Patrick said softly. “You think they will welcome a branded Spaniard?”

  “We do not take orders now. We are free.”

  “Believe that and ye are a fool,” said the MacDonald from behind Patrick.

  “Si,” added Diego, moving to Patrick’s side. Denny, who had been his shadow since the takeover, joined them.

  Fury crossed Felix’s face.

  “It is time for talk,” Patrick said. “I want everyone on deck.”

  The men who had confronted him stood their ground, belligerent.

  Diego seemed able to communicate best with most of the oarsmen. Patrick turned to him. “I want everyone but those guarding the women and the captain’s cabin up here.”

  Diego hesitated, glancing at the rebellious oarsmen. Then he looked back to Patrick, his eyes measuring the Scot and Denny. Finally he nodded, but not before casting a warning look at the rebellious men.

  “We should have a vote,” grumbled one of them.

  “Si,” said another.

  “Do you want to captain this ship? Do you know navigation?” Patrick challenged them. “Do you know how to raise and lower a sail, or turn a ship? Know how to avoid rocks and shallows?”

  “Looks easy enough,” Felix said.

  Patrick stepped back. “Take the wheel.”

  Felix stepped out and sauntered over to the wheel. The ship was already bearing to the right without a hand steadying it.

  “You are going toward France at the moment,” Patrick said. “In an hour you will see the hills. In another five, the ship will break up on the rocks. Turn the ship back into the wind.”

  Felix took the wheel. He couldn’t move it. After struggling for several seconds, it started to turn. “What . . . where do I . . .”

  “You decide. To the north are English warships. France is to the northeast. Both would hang mutineers. Or worse.

  “Or,” he continued, “you could just head out to open sea until the wind dies and supplies disappear. The ale will be gone as well. You will die of thirst. Or starvation. This ship is not provisioned for a long voyage.”

  The ship listed starboard. His companions, already unsteady from spirits, slid toward the
rail and grabbed a rope to keep from going overboard.

  Patrick took the wheel back and straightened the ship. “There is too much sail for the wind.”

  “What gives you the right to be master?” Felix tried to reestablish his standing among his comrades as more and more of the oarsmen came on deck and stood uneasily. Some staggered. Two were still in their loincloths.

  “I have sailed before,” Patrick said, refusing to take offense. None of them really knew each other despite being confined together for months, in some instances years. “Two years learning navigation and the sea. I have never captained a ship, though, and I would be willing to sail under any man here who has.”

  Diego joined him as the last of the oarsmen appeared on deck. He repeated the words in Spanish, and then in halting Arabic. Patrick repeated them in French.

  No one stepped forward.

  “We are mutineers in the eyes of the world.’Tis no matter that we were slaves, many unjustly. All countries fear mutiny on their ships. No country will welcome us.”

  “Where do we go then?”

  Now it came. “Scotland. I propose that we sail to the shores of Scotland. My family there owns ships. We will sell the cargo, then scuttle the Sofia. Our ships will take you wherever you want to go with enough gold to keep you in rum and women for years.”

  He waited as his words were translated. Some nods. Some frowns. Some expressions of agreement. Some of angry rebuttal.

  “The women,” one pointed out. “If they live, they can tell what happened.”

  The men were right. That was the dilemma that had plagued him since he found them in Mendoza’s cabin.

  “I swear they will not.”

  “How can you do that?” asked the man who had taken the wheel.

  “My life is as much at risk as yours. I will not release them until I am absolutely sure. If not, then . . .”

  He left the threat dangling in the wind, then quickly changed the subject. “How many have served aboard a ship as a sailor?”

  Three men stepped forward. To his surprise, Felix was one of them, although it had been obvious he’d never handled the wheel before.

  God help him. Only a total of three had any experience at all, other than rowing.

  “Can anyone help the blacksmith?” he asked.