Beloved Warrior by PATRICIA POTTER

heard the shouts of elation and knew her uncle was dead. Elation for a man’s death! She was sickened by it.
    She moved away from the door. There was no good place to hide. No room under the bed. No cupboard. Only two chairs, a trunk and a table overflowing with charts. She and Carmita looked at each other, and she saw her own fear reflected in the young girl’s eyes. She took Carmita in her arms, holding tight.
    Fists pounded on the door, and she knew she had only seconds before it slammed open. She stiffened, the dagger her uncle had given her held tightly in her fingers. She may be cornered but she would not die like a rabbit.
    She shoved Carmita down between the bed and the cabin wall. “Stay there,” she said. At least she might divert them from Carmita, as her uncle had tried to divert the mutineers from her.
    Her blood froze as the door crashed open and blood-smeared bodies crowded inside, grabbing at whatever they could find.
    Then one reached out for her, a blood-stained finger touching her hair.
    She couldn’t stop a scream from rising in her throat and shattering the air. She clutched the knife, ready to thrust the blade into her heart. Then she hesitated.
    I don’t want to die!
    Suddenly the man holding her was swept away, and another stood before her. A giant of a man, covered in blood, his eyes as cold and hard as any she had ever seen. Eyes she’d seen before. Eyes that had been filled with fury when he had looked up at her just a few days earlier. She remembered every feature of that face. It had haunted her.
    She tried to hide the panic she felt. Though other oarsmen remained in the cabin, she could not take her eyes from him, nor from the blood dripping from two wounds in his arm.
    From her uncle’s sword?
    He was so dominant she was only slightly aware of other naked forms devouring her with angry, hungry eyes.
    God help her, he looked like el diablo himself.
    She forced her glance away and toward the door. Then she raised her eyes back to the savage before her, trying desperately to keep upright when her legs wanted to fold beneath her.
    Fissions of pure terror ran through her. This was the end of her life. The only question was how she would die. And how soon.
    She tried to control the trembling in her legs. In her hands. Do not drop the dagger. Not now. Show him that she could die as well as her uncle had. With a weapon in her hand.
    He stepped closer, hard, cold eyes running over her as if she were a prize cow.
    Then to her surprise, he asked, “Senora Mendoza?” His voice was hoarse and she heard a slight burr in it.
    She didn’t answer. She didn’t want him to hear the tremor that undoubtedly would be in her voice.
    Should she claim to be her uncle’s wife? Or daughter? Or just an innocent passenger? There were documents. She knew her uncle had the marriage contract with him. But would they find them? Read them?
    She shook her head.
    “Senorita?”
    His eyes pinioned her against the wall. “Who are you?” he finally asked in Spanish. He spoke it well, but the burr in his voice was thick.
    A Scot?
    He took another step toward her, and instinctively her hand went up and she slashed out at him, striking his chest. Just as it did, his left hand caught her wrist, tightening around it, forcing her to drop the dagger.
    Blood flowed from the gash on his chest.
    He looked at it with surprise, his large hand holding her small one tightly.
    She would die now.
    Instead, he thrust her into the arms of another near-naked man. “Lock her in up in a mate’s cabin. Make sure she has no weapons.” There was a slight hint of wryness in his voice that startled her.
    Another man shouted from behind him. “There is another one, Scot. Behind the bed.” Then the speaker grabbed Carmita. The girl fought back as the brigand leaned over and tried to kiss her.
    “Stop,” said the Scot sharply, and to her surprise the man did.
    Still another oarsman pushed to Juliana’s side. “I will take her, Scot. Teach