Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

Good grief.

  As Rourke knelt, hands on his head, she scrambled onto the coarse ground of the heath, her muscles tensed, every nerve in her body screeching as if she were running into the path of an oncoming car.

  “Excuse me! Could you point me in the direction of the nearest Wal-Mart? I seem to have misplaced my Nikes.” Did Wal-Mart carry Nikes? Like that mattered.

  The bluecoat and Rourke glanced at her and scowled in unison, the soldier’s gun never wavering from Rourke’s head. The pirate looked like he was going to kill her. The bluecoat turned, ignoring her. Guess the drowned rat look didn’t pose much of a threat . . . or much of a come-on. And she had too many clothes on for the wet T-shirt look to work.

  The man on the ground began to stir.

  She had to do something.

  She knew what they’d do in the movies . . . or California. If the assets weren’t showing through the shirt, then pull up the shirt.

  No. No way.

  The downed guard groaned.

  Oh, man.

  Taking a deep breath for courage, she gripped the two hems and pulled them up to her shoulders. And stood there, feeling like an idiot. The gentle breeze caressed her half-frozen nipples, but no one seemed to notice.

  “Hey!” If she was going to flash, she sure as heck wanted a little reaction. A girl had her pride after all.

  She started toward them. “I feel like I have seaweed stuck to me. Can you see? Do I have any seaweed stuck to me?”

  The pirate saw her first. His eyes widened. His face turned to stone. The bluecoat did a classic double take as his scowl slid right off his face.

  Brenna was beginning to wonder if the pirate was going to take advantage of the opportunity she’d provided him, when he finally moved. In a flash, the bluecoat’s gun went flying.

  She yanked the wet fabric down as Rourke and the bluecoat fought. Almost too late, she heard the sounds behind her and whirled to find the downed guard rising and pulling his sword.

  The pirate didn’t seem to notice. “Rourke!”

  But even as she yelled, he knocked the bluecoat clean out with a right uppercut to the jaw, then grabbed the man’s sword and met the charge of the second soldier.

  Brenna watched them in heart-pounding fascination. A real, to-the-death sword fight, not the choreographed kind she’d seen in movies. The two men moved with amazing speed and skill, each desperate to win, for to lose meant death.

  And the death had better be the bluecoat’s. She still needed the pirate.

  She glanced at the man lying prone and caught a glimpse of his gun. She should get it. Walk over there and steal it. But her feet wouldn’t move. It was like watching the scene, herself included, from afar.

  The pirate’s sword took flight. Fear propelled her forward and she ran for the gun. As her cold fingers closed around the strangely elongated pistol, she saw the pirate dive and roll, coming up with the sword in his hand.

  Nice. The guy could move.

  Kneeling in the grass, the gun heavy in her hands, she tried to take aim. The pounding of her pulse vibrated through her arms, making the gun shake. She didn’t dare shoot. Not only couldn’t she risk hitting the pirate, but she had no idea what she was doing. She’d never fired a gun in her life.

  There was a first time for everything, but this probably wasn’t it.

  Eyeing the prone guard uneasily, she remembered how the other had popped back up. He looked dead enough, even though he’d only been clipped on the jaw. Her gaze slid to his boots and she eyed them with more than a hint of envy. His feet didn’t appear to be much bigger than hers. He wasn’t wearing Nikes, but leather boots would protect her feet better than nothing, even if they didn’t quite fit.

  Brenna eased toward him, then gathered her courage and wrenched the boots off his feet, one at a time. Grabbing up the pair, she quickly retreated and put them on as she watched the sword fight. The two men were better matched than she would have thought. The bluecoat was wiry and fast, but the pirate was bigger and clearly stronger. He fought with a ferocity and purpose that had her thanking God he was on her side.

  She stood and tested the fit of the boots. They were a little big, but surprisingly not too bad. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw their owner lurch to his feet.

  These guys just wouldn’t stay down.

  He was swaying, looking dazed, but he pulled a knife from his belt, clearly intending to join the fray.

  Damn. She should have taken that knife when she had the chance. She hadn’t even noticed it. Though she’d spent a lot of time learning self-defense, she wasn’t in the habit of thinking in terms of life and death. Clearly, that was going to have to change. The pirate was good, but even he might not be able to handle two men at once.

  As the dazed guard started toward the fray, Brenna picked up the gun, gripped it in both hands, and took aim.

  I can’t do it. I can’t just kill a man.

  But wasn’t that exactly what the bluecoats meant to do to the pirate? And what about her? As soon as the pirate was gone, they’d turn on her as the pirates had done. She had no illusions about that. Especially after she’d flashed the one.

  Even so, her finger refused to pull the trigger. She had to do something! Thinking fast, she grabbed the gun like a mallet and started after her target, careful to stay out of his line of sight. She’d almost caught up with him when her toe caught on a rock and she tripped, a gasp escaping her throat. Though she caught herself and kept from falling, it was too late.

  The bluecoat whirled and slammed his fist into her jaw, knocking her off her feet in an explosion of pain. Brenna landed with a bone-jarring thud on a patch of hard ground.

  She tasted blood. He’d hit her.

  But as she tried to scramble to her feet, the hard weight of his bootless foot pinned her ankle to the ground. Above her, the bluecoat raised his knife and aimed it at her heart. The promise of her death shone in a man’s eyes for the third time in less than twenty-four hours.

  This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t real. How could she die when she wasn’t even supposed to be here?

  The man arched suddenly, a cry exploding from his lips as his face contorted with pain. His knife dropped harmlessly on the ground as he began to fall toward her.

  With a squeak of alarm, Brenna rolled out of the way, barely avoiding being crushed. As she sat up, she saw the dagger sticking out of the man’s back.

  Dead. He’s dead. Oh my God. She was going to be sick.

  Brenna stumbled to her feet as the pirate raced toward her. Behind him, the other bluecoat lay in a pool of blood.

  Dead. He’d killed them both. He must have thrown the knife to kill her attacker. Thrown it far. With deadly accuracy.

  Her forehead felt strangely hot, her hands cold, as she dabbed at her bloody lip, watching him run toward her. Her own shaking legs refused to move.

  The pirate reached her and grabbed her by the shoulders, his piercing gaze on her mouth. “Are ye hurt?”

  Shaken, yes. Hurt? “No, not really.” What was a bloody mouth compared to a knife in the heart? She swayed as the full reality of how close she’d come to dying hit her.

  “Easy, Wildcat. ’Tisna the time to swoon.”

  “I don’t faint.”

  With a nod, a hint of admiration gleaming in his eyes, he released her. “Good.” He grabbed the other bluecoat’s gun, knife, and boots, then propelled her toward the cliffs. “Come. We must be away. It’s early morn, but they’ll have heard the fighting.”

  As if on cue, she heard a shout. Turning back, she watched half a dozen men racing from the gates of the castle.

  The pirate grabbed her hand. “Run!”

  Pure fear lent her strength she badly needed. Dead bluecoats meant a noose if they were caught. Or worse.

  She certainly wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Not that she’d ever been in Kansas, but that wasn’t the point.

  As Brenna ran, the boots rubbed her feet in strange ways, promising nice, plump blisters—if she lived long enoug
h to feel them. At least the soles of her feet were cushioned against the sharp rocks.

  They reached the embankment and half ran, half slid down the boggy slope, finally reaching the tiny beach where they’d swum ashore. The pirate caught her hand and pulled her along the surf’s edge toward where the beach ended as the rocky cliffs met the sea.

  “Where are we going?” Surely he didn’t mean for them to swim again.

  “These cliffs are full of caves.”

  They left the beach, rounding the corner to wade through the surf that lapped the base of the cliffs. The pirate kept to the outside, breaking the force of the buffeting waves. Brenna kept her free hand against the cliff face, steadying herself as they walked, until the rock opened.

  The pirate peered into the cave’s mouth, but didn’t stop.

  “You don’t like that one?” she asked.

  “No.”

  They continued on, passing three more caves before coming to a large section of rock with large, gaping holes that reminded her of Swiss cheese. Holes formed from eons of water eroding the rock.

  The pirate pulled her into one of the holes, one with a roof high enough for him to stand. The cave was narrow, but deep, extending farther into the rock than the light could penetrate. If the soldiers came after them, they could well and truly hide.

  As Brenna leaned against the cool, dank wall, trying to catch her breath, her companion remained by the opening, watching. If she’d known this vacation was going to entail two-thirds of a triathlon, she’d have worked harder at her training before she left home. Her breathing was finally starting to even out again when the pirate whirled on her.

  “What did ye think ye were doing?” His voice was low, barely a whisper, yet as hard as his ice-colored eyes. His hair had come loose during the fight and now hung to his shoulders, brushing the shirt that clung to his muscular body—a body tensed with anger.

  “I told ye to run,” he growled.

  Brenna swallowed hard, but met his gaze. “Yeah, but you forgot to tell me where. He had a gun to your head. I had to do something.”

  His arm flung sideways as he made a harsh sound deep in his throat. “I fought them apurpose to draw them from ye. I would ha’ escaped them before we reached the castle.”

  Brenna scowled. “How was I supposed to know that?”

  “Ye were supposed to follow my command!”

  “Sorry, but I’m not used to following orders. I’m not one of your men, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Och, I noticed.” His gaze dropped to her chest, his scowl matching her own. “Ye shouldna have . . .”

  “What? Lifted my shirt? I admit it wasn’t the most lady-like thing I’ve ever done, but I had to do something. I had to get their attention.”

  “Aye.” As he met her gaze, his eyes took on a silver cast that made heat ripple over her skin. “You got their attention, Wildcat,” he said softly. “And mine.”

  The sudden intensity of his gaze set off tremors deep inside her that had nothing to do with fear. But when he stepped toward her, she put up her hands, warding him off.

  “Don’t even think about it, Pirate.”

  “I promise ye, I can think of little else.” His voice had turned husky and raw, sending shivers of awareness rippling over her skin. He took another step and another, stopping inches in front of her, his eyes gleaming silver.

  Her heart raced. He was too close. Too wild. She tried to back up, but there was no place to go.

  “I’m warning you, Pirate.” She fought to steady her voice as she pressed her palms against his chest and pushed. “Don’t mess with me.” But he didn’t budge. Her heart contracted as she wondered if she’d thrown in her lot with the wrong man after all.

  His hands rose to cover hers lightly. “Do you try your wee tricks on me, lass, I shall throw you into the surf to be snatched away by the earl’s soldiers.” His eyes were sharp with warning, but within their cool depths she saw a flash of humor, maybe even admiration.

  Keeping hold of her hands, he eased back, letting her fear fall away.

  Brenna watched him. “Would you really give me to them?”

  “What do you think?”

  Twice he’d saved her from Cutter, then dived into the frigid North Sea to rescue her, and not, as she’d originally thought, to capture her. And when the bluecoats caught sight of him, he hadn’t run as he could have. He’d intentionally given himself up to give her a chance to escape.

  “I think you wouldn’t. You’re a decent man, even though you insist on pretending you’re a pirate—”

  “I’m not a pirate,” he said evenly.

  Her gaze fell to his broad, calloused hands holding hers with surprising gentleness. “You’re not like your crew.” The thought of those beasts made her shudder. If one of them had come after her instead of Rourke, she’d be bleeding by now. Probably dead. “I think you’re a good man.”

  She’d known he wouldn’t admit it. Bad for the image and all. She half expected him to try to intimidate her again. What she didn’t expect was the bleakness that entered his eyes.

  He released her hands and turned away to peer out of the cave, his back rigid, a muscle working in his jaw. “I assure you, Wildcat. I am not a good man. Dinna make the mistake of thinking I am.”

  But as she watched his rigid back, she knew she was right about him. She felt it, deep down. But the bleak look in his eyes told her he’d done things he couldn’t live with. She’d seen him kill with ease. He might be a decent man at heart, but he was still dangerous. Very, very dangerous. She’d be a fool to forget it.

  They waited in tense silence for a long time. Brenna tried to listen for sounds of their pursuers, but she doubted she’d hear them over the crashing of the surf and the crying of the gulls outside the cave.

  As the tide came in, Brenna took off her boots and set them on the rock beside her. The water soon rose until it began to lap at her ankles. Finally, the pirate turned and motioned to her.

  “We must go. We’ll be trapped by the tide if we stay much longer.”

  Brenna grabbed her boots and stepped forward as the man held out his hand to her. She reached for him, feeling a sense of rightness as his calloused hand closed warmly around hers.

  She followed him out of the cave, the water now lapping at her knees with each roll of the surf. There was no sign of bluecoats.

  “They have to know we were hiding.”

  He nodded. “They know. ’Tis unlikely they care.”

  Her gaze narrowed with disbelief. “But we murdered those men.”

  “I did only what any man would do. They’ll not expend effort searching for a pair of half-drowned fisherfolk . . . if that’s who they’re believing us to be. Our going to ground was but a wee bit of heedfulness.”

  Rourke led her along the base of the cliffs, but no longer attempted to block her from the incoming waves, with the water so much higher. He kept tight hold of her hand while he braced himself against the rock face with his other. Finally, they reached another inlet, larger than the first, with a wide, grassy embankment.

  Gratefully, Brenna followed him out of the water and slowly up the hill. They each donned their stolen boots, then climbed carefully to the top, watching for a sign of bluecoats, but as they crested the cliffs, there was no one waiting for them. Thank goodness.

  Brenna looked back along the cliffs. Castle Stour glistened in the distance, a lone sentinel against the sea.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked. “I thought real castles usually had villages nearby where the lower classes lived.”

  “Most of the villages are inland, away from the sea, though the coast is dotted with port towns.”

  Brenna frowned. “That’s another thing. This is Scotland, right?”

  “Aye.”

  “What’s with the blue coats and helmets? I thought Scotsmen wore kilts.”

  “Kilts?”

  “You know, the plaids. I thought Scotsmen wore plaid.”

  “ ’ Tis a comm
on thing in the Highlands, but few wear the plaid elsewhere. ’Tis a poor man’s garb. Not quite civilized.”

  And it was civilized for the earl’s men to be chasing them down?

  They walked in silence, Brenna lost in her thoughts, the pirate’s gaze glued to the sea. A movement in the water caught her eye and she turned to see a seal slide onto one of the large rocks to sun himself. The mists had burned off by now and the sun was bright against the Carolina blue sky.

  The world looked so normal. So real. Breathing the salt air, the sun warm on her skin, she could almost forget she wasn’t in her own time. She’d always imagined the past as flat. Static. Black-and-white. The way it came across in textbooks. But, of course, it wasn’t. Nature had changed little, if at all. Gulls still swooped, the clouds were still white, the dirt still brown and, in some places, muddy. It was only the societies and trappings of men that would change from this time to her own. And maybe, to some extent, the men themselves.

  Her gaze went to her companion, to the honest-to-God pirate walking at her side. A man capable of both violence and gentleness. A man who had risked his life to protect her.

  How had a man like this wound up surrounded by the dregs of humanity? She’d love to ask, but asking questions about him would only invite his questions in return. And while Rourke seemed to accept that Hegarty had brought her here, surely he couldn’t know the little man had snatched her from more than three hundred years in the future. And telling him didn’t feel like a smart move. Her life depended on his sticking by her. She wasn’t going to do anything that might jeopardize that.

  They continued north in silence with no sign of the ship. As one hour followed the next, she could feel the pirate’s frustration mount, and her own right along with it. She kept up with his long strides as best she could, but the clunky boots were rubbing blisters on top of blisters.

  As gulls played in the midday sun, the pain finally became more than she could stand. Brenna stopped and pulled off the torturous footwear, staring at the oozing red welts on the top of each foot. She desperately needed a pair of socks and a box of Band-Aids. The wild grass was coarse beneath her bare feet, but better than the boots. At least for now. She grabbed the boots and ran to catch up to the pirate.