Read Online Beloved Warrior by PATRICIA POTTER - Free Book Online
Authors: PATRICIA POTTER
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“I need him.”
His voice was as cold as the Scot’s had been.
She had sensed the hatred in her uncle’s cabin, but this was very personal.
She had to break through that hatred. Despite the fact that he, too, was covered with blood and still bound with broken chains, there was an aristocratic feel to him as well as to his speech. Surely he was—had been—a gentleman.
Beg.
She couldn’t. Perhaps more of her father was in her than she thought. These men, despite how they had been treated, had killed her uncle and, as far as she knew, every other living soul on the ship.
She wasn’t going to beg before them. She suspected even if she did, it would do little good.
She was alone on a ship full of men determined to obtain revenge and freedom.
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
His voice was as cold as the Scot’s had been.
She had sensed the hatred in her uncle’s cabin, but this was very personal.
She had to break through that hatred. Despite the fact that he, too, was covered with blood and still bound with broken chains, there was an aristocratic feel to him as well as to his speech. Surely he was—had been—a gentleman.
Beg.
She couldn’t. Perhaps more of her father was in her than she thought. These men, despite how they had been treated, had killed her uncle and, as far as she knew, every other living soul on the ship.
She wasn’t going to beg before them. She suspected even if she did, it would do little good.
She was alone on a ship full of men determined to obtain revenge and freedom.
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
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