Beloved Warrior by PATRICIA POTTER Page B

English.
    “Why am I so fortunate?” the Spaniard said.
    “They do not appear to understand English,” el diablo said.
    Juliana intended it to remain that way. A small advantage for her.
    “I want someone watching the cabin at all times,” el diablo added. “And make it clear that anyone touching her—either of the women—will fight me.” Then he turned and left.
    Oddly enough, his leaving frightened her. He had prevented a mob from attacking her. His motives might be vile, but he had given her a few hours of grace.
    A few hours of life. If that much. She had wounded him. What would he do to her in return? I will tend to her myself in good time.
    The Spanish oarsman bowed in a gesture that was ironic at best. “Senorita, you and your servant will come with me.”
    She paused at the door.
    The Spaniard looked at her curiously, then he took her elbow and guided both her and Carmita down the passageway. He reached a cabin door and opened it. Juliana knew it had been occupied by the first mate, the one with the leer on his face every time he’d looked at her.
    She did not want to stay there.
    “Not here,” she said in Spanish, wondering where that bravery came from. Her heart pounded frantically even as she said the words. “My cabin is two doors down.”
    His hand still firmly around her wrist, he nodded and continued down the corridor to her cabin. He opened it and she went inside.
    He followed her, his gaze searching the cabin for clues.
    “You are Mendoza’s mistress?”
    She stood there in shock at the thought. “He is my uncle. He was taking me to be wed in England.” She hated the fear she heard in her voice.
    The cool expression in his face did not change. She was only too aware of the noise made by the ends of the manacles he wore. She remembered how only hours ago she’d thought about these same men below and the sympathy she’d felt.
    Now she was the prisoner.
    She did not like it. The helplessness was terrifying.
    She watched as he went through her clothing. Blind terror returned. Despite his civilized speech, he wore only a loincloth and his body was marked with scars, new and old.
    “Sit,” he said, “while I search for weapons.” His gaze went to Carmita. “Both of you. I would not want to suffer what my companion did. You are fortunate he did not take revenge,” he said, then added thoughtfully, “though he may not be finished.” The words sent a new chill through her.
    She eyed the door as he went through her trunk.
    “Do not do it, senorita,” he said, obviously reading her face. “I should hate to hurt you. But I will if you try to run or hurt me as you did the Scot.”
    He didn’t sound as if he would hate it at all.
    “I was frightened,” she replied. “I only defended myself.”
    He frowned.
    “Who is he?” she blurted out.
    “The Scot?”
    “Si!”
    He shrugged. “I do not know, any more than he knows my name. The guards forbade any speech between us.”
    “But he leads you?” She had to know about the man who had her life in his hands. Perhaps she could turn the oarsmen against each other.
    But what good would that do her? She would still be on this ship.
    Time, she reminded herself. Time.
    “No one leads us.”
    “But you obeyed him.”
    “Because it suited me.”
    “You are Spanish?”
    “Si,” he said roughly.
    “Your name, senor?”
    “It no longer matters,” he said curtly.
    He finished searching the cabin, then straightened. “I would suggest you bolt your door, senorita, but open it when you hear the Scot. From what I have observed, he does not brook opposition well.”
    “What . . . will he do?”
    The Spaniard eyed her. “I do not know.”
    “You are Spanish. You would leave me to him?”
    “I am nothing, senorita. Your uncle made me less than nothing. I have no loyalty to Spain. Or liking for anything or anyone that comes from Spain.”
    “Why do you obey him?” she cried out desperately.
    “He can sail and navigate,” the Spaniard said.