Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  Brenna stared at him, brows creased in disbelief even as she forgot to breathe. I’m hearing, but definitely not comprehending.

  She grabbed his forearms as he released her. “What do you mean, destroy? Financially?”

  “No.”

  “You can’t mean I’m supposed to kill him.”

  “Aye. You are.”

  Brenna gaped at him. “Me?” The idea was absurd. There was no denying the man deserved to die, but she was the last person anyone should expect to be his assassin. Not unless a man could die from a knee to the groin. But she suddenly remembered the earl in her time railing at her. You burned this castle three hundred years ago, Brenna Cameron. You’ll not do it again!

  Whoa.

  There had to be a mistake. That was the only explanation. She wasn’t the right Brenna Cameron. Hegarty must have flipped through some kind of cosmic phonebook and picked the wrong woman.

  Rourke was already making his way back toward the door.

  “I’m not the one you want, Pirate. I can’t be.”

  He stared out at the street, then turned and eyed her meaningfully. “You wear the sapphire.”

  She squinted in confusion as her fingers went to the small pendant at her throat. “I’ve had this forever. What could it possibly have to do with . . .”

  Rourke’s body tensed, and he levered himself back into the shadows and motioned her down. Someone was coming. She squatted low in the coal bin and pulled Rourke’s jacket over her head as the sound of heavily booted feet drew near.

  EIGHT

  Brenna’s pulse set up a reggae rhythm in her ears, nearly blotting out all other sound as she huddled in the coal bin. The worst of it was not knowing what was going on. She couldn’t see a thing but black. Black coal, black skirt, black jacket over her head. Her heart was beating too fast, too hard.

  She heard the muted thud of footsteps enter the smithy. Her breath caught and held, the heat and musty wool smell of Rourke’s jacket filling her lungs. Even if it weren’t like a sauna in here, she’d be sweating from the sheer fear that discovery was only seconds away.

  Footsteps moved closer.

  Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

  Through the thudding in her ears, she heard movement, then the crash of metal on metal. Swords.

  Don’t you die on me, Pirate.

  At least now she knew where to find Hegarty. Monymusk, wherever that was. But how would she get there without Rourke? How would she survive without him? In the interminable hours since she’d arrived in this place he’d become more than her guide. He’d become an ally and a champion—something she’d sorely lacked in her life. Even now, if he died here, it would be protecting her.

  The blacksmith’s hammer joined the noise of the swords, the clanging outside synchronized almost perfectly with the ringing of the metal . . . almost as if the hammering were designed to mask the sound of battle.

  Brenna eased up and lifted the jacket until she could peek over the top of the bin. Not six feet away, the pirate and a bluecoat were going at it in earnest, thrusting and parrying with deadly skill. The pirate would win. She had to believe that.

  A shadow darkened the doorway. The flash of steel and the blue of the man’s coat made Brenna’s heart sink. Two against one. Rourke had told her to stay hidden, but once they killed him, they’d almost certainly find her. Hiding wasn’t going to save either of them.

  She surreptitiously peered around, her gaze snagging on the poker sticking out of the forge. For a second, she hesitated, heart thudding violently. But she couldn’t let the pirate die. She threw off the jacket, slipped out of the coal bin, and ran for the poker. At the last minute, Brenna snatched up a rag before grabbing the scalding handle, as she’d seen the blacksmith do. As her hand closed around it, one of the bluecoats shouted and started for her.

  Staring at the brute, who was twice her size and armed, she wondered what in the world she’d been thinking. She couldn’t possibly beat this man. An idea came to her. Lifting her skirt with one hand, she turned and ran the other way, around the forge until she was behind Rourke’s opponent. Swinging with all her might, she slammed the hot poker across the back of the bluecoat’s head.

  He yelped with pain and whirled on her. As his swinging sword stopped at the top of its arc, Rourke’s blade erupted from the bluecoat’s throat in a shower of blood.

  “Wildcat!” Rourke yelled. “Behind you!”

  She heard the heavy footsteps of the brute and turned, swinging her poker, but he caught it easily with an upward thrust of his sword and sent it flying from her hands into a pile of rags by the door.

  The bluecoat’s sword came at her again, aiming for her neck. Brenna tried to jump back, but her foot caught in her skirt, and she went down, catching the tip of the sword on the jaw. As she hit the ground, the pirate leaped over her and took on the soldier, sword to sword.

  Brenna scrambled to her feet, her jaw burning, damp warmth sliding down her neck. A flash of light caught her attention and she turned to find the poker had set the rags on fire.

  As she watched, Rourke lunged toward his opponent, backing the bluecoat into the quickly growing blaze. Too late, the earl’s man realized his mistake. With a scream, he turned and ran from the smithy’s, tearing the smoldering coat from his back.

  Rourke leaped for her and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the back door. “Are ye hurt?”

  “Just a nick.” She touched the stinging wound and felt the damp stickiness of blood. “I think.”

  Rourke eased out the door, sword drawn and ready, then opened the door wider for her to follow.

  Rabbie and half a dozen townsmen were running toward them, carrying buckets. Water for the fire, no doubt.

  Rabbie saw them and ran over, his face drawn. “One of the soldiers is searching for you in the church. The others and your scalawag are watching the south and west roads out of town. No one is watching the east.”

  “My thanks,” Rourke said. “When I am able, I will send money, for what little good it will do. You helped us and we brought ruin upon you. I am sorry.”

  Rabbie’s expression lightened a little. “Dinna fash yourself. ’Tis no more than what happens every time the earl’s soldiers come.”

  “You’ll have one less to worry ye, then,” Rourke added with a rare bit of rueful humor.

  “Bye, Rabbie,” Brenna said.

  “God be with ye both. May he deliver ye to safety.” The young man turned and rushed into the back door of the smithy’s.

  Rourke helped her mount, then leaped atop his own horse and they hastily left town. Brenna held on to the reins for dear life, terrified she was going to crash the beast, or at least fall off. But she did neither. Riding seemed to come more naturally to her than she’d expected. She glanced back at the curl of smoke rising into the sky. No sirens rent the air, no fire trucks roared to the rescue. If the townspeople didn’t get the fire under control soon, they could lose their whole town.

  She was beginning to feel like one of those cartoon characters with the black cloud hanging over his head, bad luck following him everywhere he went. Her black cloud was beginning to resemble a hurricane.

  He’d almost had them.

  Rourke gripped the reins of the agile gelding with frustrated fingers as the animal raced across the open moors. Beside him, Brenna rode with determination, if little skill.

  The wind blew through his hair, doing little to cool his battle lust. God’s blood, he’d been ready to take them all. He’d been ready to take Cutter. He’d heard the horses from inside the merchant’s and knew the earl’s soldiers had arrived. If Brenna hadn’t interfered, he’d have taken them down, one by one.

  Instead, her shout had turned his blood to ice. Never had he felt anger and fear in such measure at the same time. They could have killed her.

  If she’d stayed where he’d left her—where he’d ordered her to remain—he’d have cast down Cutter and the earl’s soldiers once and for all. But she’d refused his direct com
mand.

  She’d sought to save him.

  A strange heaviness shifted within his chest, pinching his heart. She’d risked her life for him. And then she’d done it again, breaching her hiding place in the coal bin to attack one of his opponents when he’d been outnumbered. Indeed, she had fought beside him, protecting his back as best she could. His pride tried to protest the affront to his ability, but he could muster no real resentment.

  An unwelcome wash of soft emotions flowed over his skin, slipping into his pores, making him feel. Warmth. Gratitude.

  He fought the unwanted feelings like he would any foe, refusing to let them weaken his defenses against the darker emotions he kept at bay—the soul-crushing guilt that he had carried with him all these years.

  The familiar need to escape swept over him. He wanted only to return to the sea where the turmoil of his past would no longer swirl around him, threatening to suck him into oblivion.

  But intertwined with that need was a new one, equally strong and growing stronger with every hoof beat. A driving need to smite his traitorous bosun and the rest of the soldiers who would drag Brenna to her death.

  He’d find Hegarty and turn her over to him in a thrice, but not until they were safely free of their pursuers. Then he would live the rest of his bleak life without her.

  Turning, he caught one last glimpse of the town, now crowned by a wreath of black smoke. Either the fire in the smithy had not been controlled, or the soldiers had set flame to additional buildings in their quest to find Brenna. The prophecy’s claws had torn asunder yet more lives, adding to his guilt that he’d inadvertently been an instrument in that destruction.

  They backtracked east until they came to a shallow burn, then followed it for nearly half a mile, riding through the water, hiding their tracks. As they crossed the open moor, turning slowly toward Monymusk, he soundly cursed Hegarty, knowing precisely why the little troll had chosen the place.

  Above the village of Monymusk stood Picktillum Castle, Rourke’s childhood home. A place to which he would never return, no matter how hard his uncle begged. His life there was through, destroyed on a dark day twenty years before.

  If Hegarty thought to lure him to Picktillum, he’d be sorely disappointed. Not even for his gold and the Goodhope Plantation would he ever again set foot in his home.

  When he’d pushed them as long as he could without rest, he led the horses into a copse of pines growing beside a small, sparkling loch.

  “Are we stopping?” The raw hope in Brenna’s voice made him smile.

  “Aye.”

  “Hallelujah.” She dismounted. “I had no idea it was so hard to drive one of these things!”

  “Drive?” He led both horses to the water’s edge.

  Brenna sank to her knees beside him. Her straight fall of russet hair had fallen loose beneath her cap, framing a face and neck liberally streaked with both coal dust and blood. And still she was the bonniest woman he’d ever seen.

  She dipped the hem of her skirt in the water and began to wipe the soot from her face. “I like it so much better when you’re driving the horse and I’m just a passenger.”

  As did he. He missed the feel of her pressed close behind him, her breath soft in his ear, her hands locked at his waist. He wanted her that close again, but this time facing him as she had in the stable, their clothes discarded . . .

  A flare of heat roared through him, and he dunked his head, needing to extinguish the fire. The cool water closed over his scalp and face, doing little to cool his ardor. Never had a woman had such a raw effect on him. Lifting his head, he shook his wet hair, spraying them both.

  Brenna gave a small shriek and backed away, laughing. “You’re worse than a dog.”

  He was unsure why he felt this lightness of heart when their situation was so dire. When so much had gone amiss this day. It was her. How had the bane of his existence become the one woman who could make him smile?

  Brenna made a sound of dismay. “I forgot your wig. And your coat. They’re still in the coal bin.”

  “ ’ Tis no account. I dinna like the wig.”

  He reached for her, pulling her back down beside him, then tilted her chin up to take a look at the cut the soldier’s blade had inflicted. The wound was shallow, little more than a nick, as she’d said. He brushed the soft skin beside the cut with his thumb.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “A little. No big deal.”

  The movement of her lush mouth intrigued him, enchanted him. His thumb moved, tracing the fullness of her bottom lip as his gaze moved to her eyes—eyes alight with a fire that set his blood aflame. Slowly, he cupped her face and drew her closer, allowing her to flee, yet coaxing her forward. Her green eyes flicked up to his, uncertainty rimmed in desire. To his surprised delight, she reached for him, pressing her soft palm to his cheek, and met him halfway.

  He’d meant to take it gently—nay, he’d meant to not touch her again at all—but the moment he tasted her, he was lost. And so, it seemed, was she.

  The kiss turned frantic. He drank of her, his mouth open, devouring, needing her with a violence that set his limbs to quaking. Brenna melted against him, strength and softness, her mouth opening to his seeking tongue. His hands swept up her back as she filled his senses, her taste at once sweet and infinitely arousing, her scent a strangely heady combination of coal dust, sea nymph, and pure, captivating woman.

  As her hands slid around his neck, her breasts pressed against him, nearly sending him over the edge. Memories raged through him—her perfect breasts gleaming in the morning sun, the feel of her tight sheath as he’d driven into her in the dark of the stable.

  His palm found her breast, pulling a moan of pure bliss from his throat. So soft. He needed . . .

  Brenna wrenched out of his embrace and pushed him away, lips swollen with passion, her eyes shadowed.

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered, stumbling to her feet.

  Rourke stared at her retreating back, aching as if his lungs had been ripped from his chest, as if she’d kicked him in the ballocks. He clenched his fists at his side. He was a fool to touch her, to want her like this.

  He dunked his head into the cold water a second time, holding it there until the fire that raged in his loins cooled to a low burn and his lungs begged for air. Finally, he pulled himself out and squeezed the water from his hair. The woman was destroying him in more ways than he’d believed possible.

  She stood gripping her elbows, staring into the distance, looking lost. As if he were the one who’d pushed her away and not the other way around.

  After he saw to the horses, he untied the rolled plaid that held the items he’d bought in town and laid it on the grass. Brenna came to stand beside him as he opened it.

  “What does my necklace have to do with the prophecy?”

  He sighed wearily and met her gaze. The woman had no mercy. “Lift your skirts.”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  He made impatient lifting motions with his hands, then reached for the small weapon tucked in the plaid. “ ’ Tis a lady’s knife for your thigh. Sharp enough to cut a man’s throat.”

  Emotions flitted across her expressive face. “The way to every woman’s heart,” she said dryly.

  “Have ye ever wielded a knife?”

  She shook her head. “At the dinner table or the cutting board. Never as a weapon.”

  “Then ye need to learn. This knife is not meant for fighting, but for defending yourself. The reach is not enough to take on a full-size blade, but ’twill slice a man’s throat. Or slide with ease through his heart.”

  “Lovely.” She lifted fistfuls of faded black skirt.

  Rourke pressed the scabbard against the soft fabric of her breeks, high on her thigh, and fastened the small belt around her leg. Even through the breeks he could feel the tightness of her thigh . . . and the softness. Memory of the way those thighs had cradled him as he thrust into her crashed through him anew, and he fastened the buckle with s
uddenly unsteady hands and pushed back, silently swearing.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulled two apples and a pair of oatcakes from his small stash, and handed her one of each.

  “Dinner, as it were,” he said, then rolled up the plaid again.

  “Thank you.” She stared at him a moment as if waiting for him to answer her question, then finally gave up and went to sit on a nearby rock to eat.

  Rourke rose, a tight knot of frustration making his movements quick and jerky as he retied the bundle to his saddle. As much as he’d like never to speak of the prophecy again, there were things she needed to know.

  He picked up his food and went to sit beside her. “The sapphire is how Hegarty found you.”

  She met his gaze, her eyes confused, her fingers going to her necklace. “I don’t get it. I’ve always had this. How could Hegarty have anything to do with it?”

  “The stone is magic when in the proper hands.”

  “Hegarty’s hands.”

  “Aye. I believe he used the sapphire to heal your leg.”

  They ate in silence, then Rourke rose and went looking for a chunk of wood suitable for carving. He pulled out his own knife and sat once more beside her.

  She glanced at him. “Who is Hegarty? What is he to have magic like that?”

  “I dinna ken,” he said, peeling the bark from the wood in long strips. “He is what he is. Most times a pain in my arse.”

  “He reminds me of Rumpelstiltskin.”

  His hand paused. “Of who?”

  “A character from a story. A mischievous little man who makes magic.”

  “Aye, that sounds like him well enough. In truth, he’s not a bad sort as long as you dinna mind his thievery. He has a liking for clothes . . . other people’s clothes.” The knife caught his finger as it was wont to do, drawing a prick of blood. “Whene’er I’ve had a need for him, he’s come.”

  “There’s a lot to be said for having someone like that.” There was an emptiness in her voice that tugged at him and he felt a pang of sorrow for the small lass she’d once been. “Who made the prophecy?”