Beloved Warrior by PATRICIA POTTER Read Free Book Online Page A

Carmita joined them, tears flowing down her face.
    It seemed irreverent to pray with a dagger clutched in her fingers. Instead, she made a vow. She would use the dagger on someone else before herself.
     
As Patrick made his way along the corridor of the ship, the elation of being free from his fetters warred with his need for retribution. He felt nothing but contempt for a captain who had hidden while his crew was being slaughtered. Neither he nor any of the oarsmen had seen Mendoza during the fighting.
    Patrick wanted to be the one to kill him.
    Three oarsmen stood outside the cabin, their nearly naked bodies covered with blood, their hands holding clubs. Ready—nay, desperately wanting—to do what he planned to do. It was a good sign that they had obeyed him in this one thing.
    “He is mine,” he said.
    Manuel held a sword nearly as tall as he was, and stood, rocking on his feet. He flashed a quick, feral grin. “I thought we would die.”
    “We may still do that,” Patrick said grimly. Unlike the others, he knew the dangers that lay ahead. He’d been thinking of them ever since Manuel had given him the nod that started it all.
    Scotland. They had to go to Scotland. He had to go home. Once there, he could help the others return to their homes.
    That meant sailing hundreds of miles with men who knew nothing about sailing a ship, and himself with hell-ishly little knowledge. Now he wished he had paid more attention when his father sent him with one of his ship’s captains to learn about the sea. He had resisted every moment of it. He’d wanted to be a soldier, not a trader.
    Now he was about to be the sailor he’d never wanted to be.
    He pounded at the door and shouted through it. “Open or we will break down the door.”
    Silence.
    Then he heard the sound of a bolt sliding from inside, and the door opened.
    Mendoza appeared, arrayed in an elaborate uniform, defiance in his eyes, but fear was there as well. He moved out into the hall and closed the door behind him.
    “Aha, the captain of murderers,” he said.
    Patrick almost admired his bravado. But he remembered the times Mendoza walked above them, seeing the welts and rips on men’s skin, the bodies that were far too thin to drive his ship.
    Familiar hatred welled in him.
    Particularly when Mendoza glanced around with the same contempt he had shown the oarsmen before.
    “My crew?”
    “Muerto,” Patrick said coldly.
    “You will all hang,” Mendoza said viciously.
    “You will not be around to see.”
    Mendoza looked at the sword in Patrick’s hand, then raised his own. If he’d been a coward earlier, he obviously intended to fight now that he had no choice. He knew he was going to die today, either by Patrick’s hand or by that of the bloodstained and bloodthirsty men behind him.
    Patrick stared at the man he hated above all others, then parried the man’s first stroke of the sword. He had no shield. Nor did his opponent. It was metal against metal, skill against skill, and Patrick knew instantly from the way Mendoza moved and held his sword that the Spaniard had the advantage. Mendoza had not been in chains for six years, did not have the stiffness of movement. Patrick, though, had the will.
    Patrick was aware of the gathering number of oarsmen watching him, daggers or clubs in their hand, ready to finish the job if Patrick couldn’t. But Patrick also knew he had to win to keep the confidence of a crew made up of thieves and murderers as well as prisoners of war. He had to have that confidence to get home.
    He tried an experimental thrust. Mendoza skillfully parried it and lunged at him. Patrick parried that stroke, moving backward until he felt the wall blocking farther motion in that direction. He moved to the side as he feinted and lunged. Sheer will fueled his weakened body.
    Mendoza defended against the attack easily enough, but Patrick saw surprise on his face. It was obvious that Mendoza had expected a fast kill against a slave.
    Patrick