Beloved Warrior (32 page)

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.

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.

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?”

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?”