"Terry McConnel - Highlander - Scimitar" - читать интересную книгу автора (McConnel Terry)

They had moved around the boot of Italy and were making the long run to
Spain, hoping to avoid arousing the unwelcome attention of the Turkish
corsairs. With the Knights no longer in Malta, every fishing boat was
regarded with suspicion, and the captain was feeling particularly
uneasy. His crew was mostly Spanish, and he was headed to a Spanish
port; it was as good as a bonfire to attract the attention of pirates.
There had to be an excellent reason, such as the cementing of a trade
alliance or the profit of a good cargo, to risk venturing out.

MacLeod knew all this; it had been common talk at court. Still, his
innate restlessness was enough to drive him on. Every day, now, he
realized again what it meant to be thirty-one years past his own death.
Back home, the men he had played with as a boy were dying of old age,
while he remained young and strong, never changing. Someday, he
thought, he'd be used to it. As yet, he was not.

So he did things impulsively. He took ship for Spain for no other
reason than that he was tired of Venice and the tide was going.
Somewhere there would be a battle, somewhere someone would hire his
sword and he could experience again what it was like to die without
dying, risk without risking anything really important. He was Immortal.

His friend d'Valenzuela was not. He was merely a decent drinking
companion (if one liked sweet wine), with a decent sense of humor about
him as long as he wasn't talking about mal de mer. He was there to
stand escort and keep Gioninno out of trouble.
The boy was forever clambering about the rigging, from which uneasy
perch he insisted upon looking for Turkish ships. Three times in two
days he had caused a small panic with false sightings, until the
captain, in an apoplectic fit, ordered him down. The only thing keeping
him from being thrown to the fishes, MacLeod thought, was his father's
share in the cargo. Even more annoying than Gioninno's puppylike
enthusiasm for pirates was his utter lack of reaction to the shifting,
heaving, eternally restless sea.

.And then there was Terezia. Sweet Terezia, standing at the railing and
looking over the sea as if she were without a care in the world. Duncan
slumped back against a convenient bulkhead and contemplated her: as free
of seasickness as her brother, a vision of loveliness he could
appreciate even as his gut churned: her lovely dark eyes, her slender
waist, her little hands, so soft against his forehead. She had been
ki-rid to him in his misery, even though he could tell that be-neath her
carefree smile she was harboring tension of her own.

It was the strain of being so far from home, of looking forward to the
marriage, he thought charitably, and he could gain merit himself by
giving her something else to think about. If only he didn't have to
disgrace himself in the doing!

"MacLAeod!" It was Gioninno. "You promised to tell me again about the