Beloved Warrior Read Online Free Page A

be of little help if they encountered a hostile war ship.
    “We should be safe,” he said. “But do not shine light when it is not necessary.”
    She retreated to her cabin and tended to her maid, who had not been able to keep a morsel down. But in her mind she still heard the pound of the drum and the lift of oars and the ocassional cry of pain. She still felt the fury of the oarsman. She knew the image would haunt her sleep.

Chapter 3
    ATRICK leaned his head on the oar’s shaft and tried to rest. Every bone and muscle in his body screamed in agony.
    Don’t think about the pain. Think about survival.
    If Manuel’s nod meant he could steal the key, they had little time. Things had to happen, and happen quickly. There would be no time to second-guess or ponder the consequences. The problem was that after hours of rowing, none of his fellow oarsmen were in any shape to overtake their burly guards.
    Mayhap the nod meant nothing at all. Just false hope. The other rowers were a mixture of Christians, Jews and Moors. They came from a variety of countries and spoke a dozen different languages. They were here as prisoners of war, heretics in the eyes of Spain, Spanish criminals. And as rowers, they were even less than that.
    They had been so brutalized and starved, some of them would sell their mothers for an extra piece of stale bread. Many couldn’t communicate with each other except by grunts and shared pain. He was unsure of most of them but, hoping for a chance to escape, he’d tried to build some trust in those around him. Sometimes he gave a piece of his bread to someone who needed it more than he did, or a sip of his water when he believed another’s throat was burning more than his.
    But beyond these three benches, he wasn’t sure how the others would react.
    He prayed they wanted freedom as much as he did.
    The light that slivered through the openings for the oars faded. The oil lamps on both ends of the deck were dimly lit. The grate overhead had been closed and neither air nor light filtered through.
    For a moment, he recaptured the image of the woman staring down at him.
    Ach, but it had been a long time since he’d seen a woman, particularly one as bonny as this one. Just one glimpse had captured her in his mind. Hair the color of dark gold and the most unusual eyes he had even seen. Gray, or were they blue? Edged by violet.
    He tried to banish the image. The devil knew it would do him no good. Still, he ached at the sight of her. Six years now in the galleys, longer than any man here. The painful swelling under the loincloth, though, told him he hadn’t entirely forgotten some things.
    He felt a touch at his shoulder and he swung around. Manuel was two rows back with a bucket of beans and an armful of tin plates. Plates were always collected after the meal because the guards were fearful of them being used as weapons.
    Patrick glanced around. The eyes of the oarsmen were fixed on the slow progress Manuel made down the aisle. Patrick studied the fixed gaze in the lad’s eyes, the bruises on his arms.
    His body tensed as Manuel drew nearer, moving slowly and cautiously. There were a hundred oarsmen, and he had to be careful not to spill a drop, lest he incur a beating.
    Finally Manuel reached him. Patrick took a plate while Manuel filled it and passed it down the bench. Then a second.
    Manuel lowered his head as he cautiously filled Patrick’s plate. “I have it,” he whispered in Spanish. “A la noche.”
    Tonight!
    He nodded slightly.
    “Sleep,” Manuel said in broken English. “Guards sleep.” With his hand he gestured placing something into a cup. If Patrick understood correctly, Manuel had drugged the wine.
    Even better. Apparently he’d been able to steal some opium from the surgeon. Manuel had told him the surgeon used the drug on occasion.
    “Gracias,” Patrick said, his eyes indicating the plate.
    Manuel moved on, his back obviously tense. He also moved as if in pain.
    Patrick swore to