Beloved Warrior Page 7

  No one came forward.

  “Cook?”

  Two raised their hands.

  “Fishermen.”

  One stepped forward.

  “You’ve repaired nets?”

  “Aye.”

  “Now you will repair sails.”

  One by one he discovered talents, or lack of them. Those who had none he asked to serve as apprentices to someone who had a skill.

  “We haven’t agreed on a captain,” Felix complained. “Nor have we agreed on the women.”

  Diego stepped forward then. “The women can bring money. And protection. Papers show the woman is meant to be the bride of a wealthy English lord,” he said. “If anything goes wrong with the Scot’s plan, we have her to bargain with. The English would pay for her freedom. But not if she has been spoiled.”

  Patrick was startled at Diego’s intercession. He’d heard some of the crew talk about pirating. Mayhap the prospect of treasure could keep the oarsmen from raping the two women. Diego was proving to be a man of many talents.

  “As for captain,” Diego continued, “you would not be free if not for this man. Many of you saw him kill Mendoza. He is a warrior and he knows navigation. We need him. I suggest we name him captain and accept his offer.”

  “Aye,” the MacDonald agreed.

  “How do we know he has what he said in Scotland?” persisted Felix.

  “Spaniards will not be welcome in Scotland,” said another.

  “You will have to take my word,” Patrick said simply. “It is all I have.”

  More translation. More mumbling among the crew.

  “We will have to work together,” Patrick said. “You will have to learn to sail. You will learn skills. There could be places on our ships if you need work.” He prayed silently that the Macleans still had ships. Or that the family, as he knew it, even still existed. He was making promises he might not be able to keep.

  He would solve that problem when he returned home. If he returned home.

  “I say we follow the man that freed us,” someone said in French.

  A translation, then a chorus of agreement.

  Felix was silent but Patrick saw the displeased expression on his face.

  “It will mean discipline,” he said. “I expect orders to be obeyed.”

  Heads nodded.

  “The first is to ration the food and wine. Some of you who ate too much are probably feeling sick now. Eat small amounts until your stomachs are used to food again. You can eat all you want the rest of your life, but you must be careful now.”

  A few reluctant nods of agreement.

  “You will often work as hard as you did on the benches. You may have to row again if we lose the wind.”

  He heard grumbling. “There is no other choice,” he continued. “I promise you that you will not row as slaves. There will be no whip. You will not be chained or forced. And, if we make it . . . you will be free.”

  The grumbling subsided and Patrick saw grudging acceptance.

  “Diego,” he said, indicating the man next to him, “will be my first mate. He looked at Felix.“The MacDonald will be quartermaster. Felix will be second mate.”

  Felix’s scowl gave way to a surprised grin.

  “Does anyone here know about stores?”

  A hand went up when the translation was made. It was a man of obviously Moorish descent. He was a man who had every reason to hate not only Mendoza, but every other man aboard the ship.

  “Choose someone and ration the food.”

  Felix stepped forward. “What do I do as second mate?”

  “Enlist those willing to work on the sails. We need men healthy enough to climb the rigging.”

  A few moments later, the men dispersed to perform various tasks. Diego glanced at Patrick. “Felix?”

  “He’s a leader. Better to have him on our side than his own.”

  Diego smiled. “This will be an interesting voyage, senor.”

  AFTER Patrick satisfied himself that Diego could keep the ship steady and on the course he’d plotted, he went below.

  The women would be terrified. The older one was defiant but she hadn’t been able to hide her fear. The other, little more than a child, had obviously been struck speechless with fear.

  He told Diego to ring the ship’s bell if he was needed, then hurried down to the captain’s cabin. He found a bottle of wine miraculously overlooked during those first moments when the oarsmen entered. Clutching it in one hand, he went to the cabin that housed the women. Manuel and two other men sat cross-legged, playing dice.

  Manuel scrambled up.

  “Sit back down, lad,” Patrick said in Spanish.

  He knocked, then turned the knob and entered without awaiting an invitation.

  Mendoza’s niece—Juliana, according to Diego—stood defiantly. She had changed from the nightclothes she’d worn earlier. The gown was an elaborate one, a royal blue that made the most of her eyes. Another act of bravado. Of defiance. He saw the battle in her eyes now, making the violet rings even more startling.

  “Juliana Mendoza?” he asked the woman.

  “Si,” she said. “Carmita is only a child. I beg mercy for her.”

  He thought immediately that she had probably never begged before. “None for yourself?” he asked.

  “Would it do any good?” she asked in Spanish.

  “It might,” he replied in the same language.

  “You speak Spanish,” she observed.

  “Not by choice.”

  He saw by the way she flinched that she heard the bitterness in his voice.

  He saw himself in her eyes. Though he had washed blood away with saltwater, he was naked from the waist up and his wet breeches clung to him. He knew his back was a mass of scar tissue, and he hadn’t taken time to wash his beard or hair. He suspected she remembered the blood splattered over him several hours ago.

  “You did not answer my question. Would you beg for mercy?” It was a cruel question, but he was disturbed by his reaction to her, by the way heat had started to rise inside him. The snug trousers became even tighter.

  “For Carmita, or myself?”

  “Both.”

  Her face flamed. Her hand went up to her hair and he noticed the pins there.

  He reached out and took them from her hair, causing it to fall in wavy ringlets nearly to her waist. “Nay, lady. You will not have another chance to wound me or my men.”

  “Your men?” she asked.

  By all that was holy, she was lovely with her hair flowing down her back and her eyes sparking.

  “Aye,” he said coldly. “I have control of the ship.” Keep a distance.

  “What have you done with the crew?”

  “Sent them to hell,” he said grimly, “if there is any justice.”

  “All of them?” she said in a horrified voice. “No one lives?”

  “After months of beatings and starvation, the men were not feeling merciful,” he said.

  Her hands trembled, the only sign she was terrified.

  She followed his glance and buried her hands in the folds of her skirt. “What of Carmita?” she asked in a soft voice. “She is but a child.”

  “What, senorita, would you do to protect the girl? I assume she is your maid.”

  “She is my friend, and my responsibility, and I would do a great deal to protect her.”

  “Lie beneath me?” he taunted. He did not like the attraction he had for this spawn of the Mendozas. “It has been a long time since I have had a woman, much less a lady of rank.”

  Her face paled.

  “Would you, lady?” he persisted. “It was easy enough to sink a knife in me. I seek repayment by sinking something of my own in you.”

  He was immediately shamed by the comment, but her coolness—even contempt—had spurred it.

  He moved toward her. She didn’t flinch. “Murderer.” She spat.

  “You are not helping your young friend’s cause. And it is not murder when you are fighting
for your life.’Tis your uncle who murdered. Over and over and over again.”

  JULIANA forced herself to return his stare. She was determined not to show the terror she felt, but she feared the trembling of her hands might well do it, instead.

  She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing more.

  Her heart had almost stopped when he entered the room and she saw it was the tall prisoner who had killed her uncle. Her blood ran cold.

  Despite the fact he no longer wore the loincloth that had revealed so much, his wet breeches revealed far more than she wanted to see. And though most of the blood was gone, she remembered it all too well.

  El diablo! His eyes were as soulless as before.

  He held a bottle of wine in his hands.

  She struggled not to show fear even as he insulted her and mocked her and tried to frighten her.

  Tried? Holy Mother, he succeeded.

  She quickly raised her gaze to where a piece of cloth had been wrapped around the wound she’d inflicted. Other pieces of cloth were wrapped around his arm. Then her gaze went to the bottle in his hand.

  “I should live,” he said, acknowledging the gaze, “unless it festers. That would be most unfortunate for you since I am the only one standing between you and a hundred bitter and lustful men.”

  She did not answer. Instead she couldn’t take her gaze from the heavy scarring around his wrists. The trousers were not long enough for him and she saw similar scarring around his ankles. Like before, his chest was uncovered, but now there was no blood to cover the scars.

  “Can you sew?” he asked unexpectedly.

  “Si.”

  “Then you will sew up the wound you inflicted.

  She started at that.“There is a doctor onboard.” Then her mouth tightened in grim line. “You killed him, too?”

  “Not me, though I would have liked that honor. There’s a lad outside. The doctor used him in not very pleasant ways,” he said, watching as realization reached her eyes.

  He stepped to the door, opened it and glanced out. “Manuel, fetch some water. Heat it.”

  “I have . . . never attended a wound,” she said when he finished speaking.

  “If you can sew, then you can do what is needed.” He paused. “Remember what I said. Only I stand between you and the crew. And I will stand there only if you make yourself useful.”

  Her back straightened. “Useful?”

  “I will find various ways, senorita. Can the girl cook?”

  The woman shook her head. “She is a lady’s maid.”

  “I . . . used to help in the kitchen,” Carmita stuttered, obviously taking his words to heart.

  His gaze turned to the girl and he softened his voice. “No harm will come to you,” he said softly. “I swear it.”

  Then he turned back to Juliana. She was painfully aware he had not included her in that oath.

  He untied the bloodied cloth from around his chest. She had to suppress a shudder when she saw it. Had she really done that?

  “Manuel, the lad I mentioned, is bringing some hot water. You have sewing needles and thread?”

  She turned to Carmita, who carried the small sewing box to fix any small rips. “Carmita?”

  Carmita stood, wavered slightly. “The man who brought us here took it with him.”

  “There must be someone with more knowledge about wounds,” Juliana protested once more, a note of panic in her voice.

  “Nay,” the devil said. “I wish you to do it.” His cold eyes bored into her as if he could see her soul. “And I would recommend you doing your best.”

  His tone sent shivers through her.

  A knock at the cabin door was a welcome respite. The Scot opened it and the slight lad she’d seen several days earlier entered, placing a bucket of water near the door. Like her captor, he had scars around his ankles, and his eyes were nearly as cold.

  “Manuel, ask the Spaniard where he put the lady’s sewing kit and fetch it for me.”

  “Si,” he said.

  After the boy left, she gazed at the Scot. “You are the leader?”

  He bowed slightly. “At the moment.”

  “You have the advantage. You know my name. How?”

  “The Spaniard found the marriage papers in your uncle’s cabin. Ah, to wed one of the most important families in England. I am doubly blessed to foil those plans.”

  “You have not told me your name.”

  “Nay, I have not,” he agreed in English.

  She responded before she thought. “Why? Had you blackened it before becoming a mutineer and pirate?”

  He smiled and she realized she had made a mistake.

  “So you do speak English.”

  “Si, some,” she responded.

  “Why pretend otherwise?”

  She shrugged.

  “Do not to lie to me again,” he said harshly.

  She said nothing.

  “I would also advise you not to anger me at this particular moment,” he added darkly.

  He went to her trunk and selected a white chemise. He tore it into strips, then opened the bottle of wine. She tensed.

  Instead of taking her, though, he poured the contents of the bottle on the wound.

  He did not even flinch, though his face hardened to where it could have been a marble statue.

  Juliana shivered. She saw a muscle jump in his throat, and knew the pain was probably agonizing. He turned slightly and she saw his back, the deep scars. Some old. Some obviously recent. Very recent. She had not seen them before. He’d been too covered with blood. His own and that of others.

  What had he done to deserve such punishment? Her uncle had said the galley slaves were criminals. Murderers.

  Yet this man was no common murderer or thief. He spoke well and appeared a leader, one strong enough to keep a mob from ravishing Carmita and herself. Was he saving them for himself?

  She guessed he was Scottish from the burr in his voice, though he also spoke Spanish. His face and eyes gave nothing away except for that brief, unguarded moment when he’d tried to comfort little Carmita.

  He poured more wine into the wound, then took a couple deep sips of what was left in the bottle.

  The lad slipped inside the door again, carrying the small box with Carmita’s needles and threads.

  “Should I stay?” the lad asked.

  “Nay.” A faint hint of softness in his voice again. “Get some food and clothes.”

  The boy looked up at him as if he were a saint. “I would rather stay, sir,” he said in rough Spanish. “She might stab you again.”

  Juliana bit her lip against hysteria. This small lad protecting the devil?

  The devil looked down at him and one side of his smile crooked into a half smile. “Aye, lad,” he said. “Ye may stay.”

  Juliana took the box. She had worked on tapestries. It had been one of the womanly skills forced upon her. But human skin? A shudder ran through her body.

  She looked at the lad. “Can you hold the skin together?”

  The lad looked at the man she consideredel el diablo.

  “Si,” her captor said, and the boy pulled the skin together as Juliana pulled thread through the needle’s eye.

  She said a silent prayer, then stuck the needle through his skin. He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. She looked up and his eyes were fixed on something in the far distance.

  In and out. In and out. She had to wipe away blood as she worked. Then she was done. He looked down at her workmanship. Nodded.

  “The other two now,” he said, motioning to his arm.

  Again she sewed. Despite her fear of him, she felt his pain with each stitch and wondered how he bore it so stoically.

  Then she was finished. He had her tie a strip of linen from her underdress around his chest, then his arm. He stood, and she followed.

  She could not take her gaze from his face. Though covered with a red beard, it was lean and hard and merciless. All angles, she noted. He was probably suffering ho
rribly, but neither his face nor his eyes reflected it.

  What would happen now?

  He surprised her by going to the door.

  “I have a ship to sail,” he said.

  “To where . . . ?”

  “That is not your concern,” he said.

  “It is,” she protested.

  “Be content to be alive,” he said.

  Then he left her to ponder that statement.

  Chapter 9

  PATRICK thought he was used to pain. It was humbling to find he wasn’t. Or mayhap it was the loss of blood from the injuries on his arm and chest, but he stumbled as he returned to the captain’s cabin and studied the charts.

  The ship seemed to be sailing well enough, but if they encountered a storm . . .

  He had many lessons to teach, though he certainly was not a master mariner himself. He could but hope for fair weather or they all might be doomed. Either way, it was a fate no worse than what they could have expected from the oars.

  At his father’s insistence, both he and Rory spent two years at sea. Trading had been the clan’s livelihood for nearly a century. Patrick had not loved it as his younger brother had. Rory had a feel and love for the sea that Patrick did not. The sea had assuaged his brother’s loneliness. It had deepened Patrick’s.

  Loneliness had left its mark on each of the three brothers Maclean. They all had different mothers, and each one had died within a few years of marrying their father. The old laird had been unable to find a fourth, all the eligible women and their families being all too aware of the Campbell curse that decreed no Maclean bride would live long.

  Patrick, like his youngest brother, had vowed not to marry and perpetuate the curse, and had, instead, turned his energies toward war, where he sold his services. Only Rory had married, and within a year he had lost his wife in childbirth. His youngest brother planned to go into a monastery, but his father had prevented that. Instead, Lachlan had retreated into books, much to their father’s anger.

  Patrick had watched Inverleith sink into gloom and despair, and his father refused to give him any authority to combat it. In frustration, he left, the last meeting with his father explosive.

  Do not think of the past. Nothing could change it. Only the future could be changed. Freedom lay only days ahead if he could remember enough of what he’d learned during those two years at sea.