Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  He would not wait. If luck was with him, his former bosun was fast asleep and Rourke’s approach would go unheeded. If not . . .

  He edged toward the narrow opening, silent and tensed for battle. Though he listened, he heard no sound.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped around the corner and into the narrow opening of the cave.

  The crack of a firing gun exploded from the rocks.

  He felt fire rip through his side a half breath later. Searing pain tore through him as he gripped the wound at his waist. His hand came away slick with blood.

  Bloody hell. And why had he thought luck, which had deserted him all his life, would appear this day?

  Because she’d said she loved him. Because with her love he had, for a fleeting, foolish moment, thought all things possible.

  “Kinross!”

  “My lord!”

  His kinsmen rushed around him.

  His side burned as if the man had used a torch instead of a gun to wound him. Blood soaked his shirt and the top of his pants. He knew with an instinct born of many battles that this wound would be his last.

  He would not survive. But neither would Cutter.

  Waving off his kinsmen, he lunged into the cave, gun drawn, sword high.

  A flash of silver caught the daylight. Rourke parried the thrust barely in time, nearly crumpling from the agony the movement caused. The clash of steel upon steel rang in the narrow confines, echoing with the pounding of the blood in his ears. His eyes, narrowed with pain, could barely make out the form of his bosun.

  “You’re as good as dead, Captain,” Cutter sneered. “’Tis no more than you deserve.” He fought hard. Too hard.

  Rourke struggled to meet every thrust, every blow. “Why, Joshua? Why did you turn over my ship?”

  “They paid me well, Captain. I’d not have needed the money had you made me first mate after McNeil died. ’Twas my right to be mate. Baker is half the sailor I am.”

  “Aye. There are few your equal upon the sea. But you’ve never been loyal to me, Joshua. Mr. Baker was.”

  Cutter turned and thrust, catching Rourke in the thigh.

  Rourke stumbled, barely righting himself in time to parry a blow to his head.

  Cutter laughed. “I would have been most loyal to you had you shared your earnings with me.”

  “ ’Twas you, wasn’t it, who took the gold last spring?”

  “Aye. You would not share it, so I did it for you. What need you with so much? You already had the ship. And any lass who caught your eye. You horde your gold like a miser.”

  Rourke clenched his teeth against the twin fires burning his side and his leg. “I shared more than half of every take. I was more than fair, more than generous. But that wasn’t enough, was it?”

  “You should have made me your partner. I was the best sailor you had. The best! You should have made me your mate. Split your earnings in half with me. And me alone!”

  “Why?” Rourke gasped. His strength was draining fast. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out, but he must. He could not let Cutter win. Brenna.

  “Because it was my right. I should have been born to wealth. I should have been captain of my own ship. Not you. You had it all—too much for one man. Too much!”

  Marshaling the last of his strength, Rourke swung in, catching Cutter’s arm, drawing blood, but doing little real damage.

  His sword was growing too heavy. Nay. Hold on.

  “But you haven’t got it all now, have you, Captain? You’ve nothing. I’ve taken it all. Your ship. Your crew. And now your life. When I’m through with you, I’ll take care of the bitch, Brenna Cameron. I saw you carry her into your castle. I know she still lives. But she’ll not live long, I vow it.”

  Nay. He could . . . not . . . let Cutter win. Brenna. He had to save Brenna.

  With a final effort, he swung at Cutter’s head. But his strength had all but given out. An upward thrust from Cutter tore Rourke’s blade from his hand. It was over.

  Nay, it is not.

  He felt the heaviness of the gun still clenched in his left fist.

  “Brenna Cameron will die, mark my words,” his bosun snarled.

  Rourke raised the gun with a trembling arm. “You are wrong, Joshua. She will not die. But you will.”

  He aimed for the sailor’s face and pulled the trigger, sending the man straight to the hereafter.

  His strength gone, he sank to his knees in a haze of pain, knowing he, too, was headed straight for the fiery pits of hell.

  THIRTEEN

  “My lady! My lady! Ye must awaken!”

  Brenna felt a hand on her shoulder, shaking her out of sleep. Pushing herself onto her elbow, she squinted at the intruder. “What’s the matter?”

  The young servant wrung her hands. “’Tis the viscount! He’s been shot.”

  “The viscount?”

  “Kinross.”

  God, she needed caffeine. Her brain clicked with a horrified snap.

  Rourke.

  Her eyes flew open and she sat up abruptly. “How? Where?”

  “I dinna know. The old laird said to fetch you.”

  “Oh, no.” Brenna jumped out of bed, realizing too late she was stark naked. She grabbed for her shift and pulled it on, as the servant handed her the corset from last night.

  Brenna shook her head. “No time.” She grabbed the deep green silk and pulled it on. As the servant tried to button her, Brenna pulled on the soft kid slippers that went with it.

  “That’s good enough.” Brenna started for the door.

  “But, my lady. I’ve only begun the buttons.”

  “You got the top one. The dress will stay on.” She wrenched open the door and raced down the stairs and into the bailey to find a horse saddled and waiting, two riders mounted beside it, one of them Rourke’s uncle.

  “He is asking for you, Marie. We will take you to him.”

  Asking for her. Not good. So not good.

  One of the men helped her mount, and the three took off.

  They hadn’t gone far when they came upon a group of Douglas kinsmen gathered about something in the road.

  “Rourke.”

  “He tried to return,” the man beside her said. “But he couldna make it.”

  Brenna pulled up and slid off the horse, then raced to Rourke’s side and knelt beside him in the mud. He was conscious, his pale gaze fixed on her, his eyes shimmering with pain. His entire right side, from the waist down, was soaked in blood.

  He reached for her.

  Brenna took his hand, struggling not to cry. “What happened?”

  His hand, always so strong, so sure, shook with the weakness of a child’s. “Cutter. He’s dead.”

  “He shot you.”

  Rourke swallowed. Grimaced. “Aye. From the shadows of the cave. I killed him.”

  “You fought him after he shot you?”

  He squeezed her hand. “He would ha’ come for ye, Wildcat. The man had lost all reason. Ye had become Lucifer to him. The devil to be vanquished.”

  “You could have died.”

  “Ah, lass. I am dying. There is naught to be done. The wound is too great.”

  She shook her head, her own hands beginning to shake. Dear God, she couldn’t lose him. Not like this.

  “You’re not going to die. You can’t, Rourke. We need to get you a doctor.”

  She looked around her at the grief-stricken faces. Why didn’t someone do something? A wildness tore through her, encased in a steely calm.

  She pointed at Angus. “Get a doctor.” The man looked at her like a loyal dog wanting to please, but with no idea how to do it. “A physician. A surgeon. Someone.”

  He shook his head, clearly not understanding.

  “Then give me your shirt.”

  “My . . . ?”

  “Now.”

  Angus whipped his shirt over his head and handed it to her.

  “Help me lift him. We need to stop the flow of blood or he’s going to bleed to dea
th.”

  Rourke squeezed her hand. “ ’Tis done, Wildcat.”

  “No, it’s not! I’m not going to let you die.”

  If only Hegarty were here. He could . . .

  The sapphire. He’d used its magic to heal her leg.

  She reached up and closed her fingers around the familiar coolness of the silver. The chain was too short for her to take off and there was no clasp.

  She ripped open his shirt and laid her head on his chest to get the stone to touch him.

  “Heal him.” Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision. The soft fur of his chest tickled her nose. The metallic scent of his life’s blood filled her nostrils even as the gentle rise and fall of his chest reassured her he was not yet dead.

  “You can’t die, Rourke. I need you. I love you, dammit.”

  She felt his hand in her hair, felt the soft rumble in his chest as he spoke.

  “Find Hegarty. The Wellerby cottage in Monymusk. Make him send you back.”

  A sob caught in her throat as fear wrapped around her heart. She needed Hegarty now. Not later.

  She kissed Rourke’s bare chest and pushed herself to her feet.

  “Hegarty!” She shouted to the winds as tears slid down her cheeks. “He needs you, Hegarty! He’s dying.”

  “Wildcat.”

  “Hegarty. Please.”

  Brenna felt Rourke’s hand tugging at her skirt. She sank onto the ground beside him.

  “He canna hear you.” His face was drawn taut, his mouth pinched with pain, but his eyes were warm and sure. He took hold of her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are strong, lass. And bonnie. So bonnie. Dinna be afraid.”

  Her chin began to tremble as she gazed at his beloved face. “I can’t lose you.”

  “You would ha’ left me behind when ye returned to your home.”

  “It’s not the same thing. You’re supposed to be at the helm of some ship somewhere. Not . . .”

  Behind her, one of the men shouted, “A rider!”

  Brenna heard the faint clopping of horses’ hooves before she could blink the tears from her eyes enough to see.

  She stood as a horse and rider trotted down the road toward them. The rider’s legs swung freely, several inches above the stirrups, his hair a riotous shock of red.

  “Hegarty.” Never was she so glad to see anyone in her life. She closed her eyes and sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.

  The little man dismounted and scurried to Rourke’s side. His keen gaze traveled over him from head to toe as he knelt as his side.

  “ ’Tis bad, Pup.”

  Rourke’s brows lifted briefly in resignation. “Aye. Too much even for you, my friend.”

  Hegarty shrugged. “For me, mayhap.” He turned his gaze on Brenna, looking pointedly at her throat. “But not for the stone.”

  Rourke shook his head. “Nay, Brenna. Dinna give it to him.” His voice was growing weaker. “He willna give it back. Ye’ll ne’er go home.”

  Hegarty held out his hand to her, his gaze somber. “ ’Tis the only way to save him.”

  Brenna reached for the pendant, her fingers closing over the beloved, familiar smoothness of the silver.

  “If I give it to you, you must give it back.”

  “Nay.” Hegarty’s expression turned hard. “Its return is the price you’ll pay for saving the lad.”

  Nay. The word echoed through her head as an icy numbness spread through her limbs. You’ll never go home.

  But she must.

  She couldn’t stay here, she couldn’t live in this place where people shot at her and aimed knives at her heart. This place with no hot showers, no hospitals, no Star-bucks. She had people counting on her to return.

  Her father . . . what if he hadn’t known where Janie had taken her? What if all this time he’d been looking for her, mourning her loss? What if he was waiting for her to find him?

  Rourke grabbed her skirt. “Dinna give it to him, Wildcat.”

  But it was Rourke’s only chance at survival. Her life or his?

  As she watched, Rourke’s body went limp, his eyes wide open.

  No. She grabbed his arm and shook him. “No!”

  “Brenna,” Hegarty coaxed, his palm open before her.

  She turned her shocked gaze on Hegarty. “He’s dead.”

  Hegarty grunted. “Then ye’d best hurry, lass.”

  The words pierced her grief and her focus snapped to his weathered face. Hegarty could still save him.

  She grabbed the necklace. “The chain won’t fit over my head. You’ll have to cut it.”

  “Grasp it with both hands and will it gone from your neck.”

  “Will it . . . ? You mean wish it?” She grabbed the sapphire in one hand and the chain in the other. Go to Hegarty.

  And suddenly it was in her palm, the chain unbroken. Magic. The hair rose on her arms. All these years, she’d worn magic without ever knowing. She shoved it at Hegarty.

  He laid the silver pendant on Rourke’s chest, then placed his hand over the worst of the wounds and began to chant, the same strange melody she remembered hearing that first night aboard Rourke’s ship.

  She stroked Rourke’s hair, waiting, afraid to breathe, afraid to hope. Tears ran steadily down her cheeks as the song went on and on. Others gathered around, drawn out of the castle, drawn to the spectacle. The air grew thick around them. Thick as a fog, yet clear, almost shimmery.

  The sapphire began to glow.

  Magic. Her heart pounded in her chest as the power of unnatural forces filled the air. He was so pale. So still. So . . . dead.

  “You can’t die,” she whispered, stroking Rourke’s hair. “You have to come back to me, Rourke. I need you.”

  As Hegarty’s song continued, Brenna reached for Rourke’s hand and raised it to her mouth. “Don’t leave me.”

  Pressing the back of his hand to her cheek with one hand, she felt for a pulse at his wrist with her other, but could feel nothing. Despair settled over her, crushing her beneath its heavy fist. It wasn’t working. Not even Hegarty could perform such a miracle.

  Hot tears turned to wrenching sobs as she clasped Rourke’s beloved hand between both of hers.

  She felt something.

  A tightening, almost a spasm, in his hand. His eyes swept closed.

  Her heart suddenly thudding, Brenna searched desperately for his pulse.

  And found it. Her eyes widened at the faint, thready rhythm that tripped beneath her fingertips. Joy swept through her.

  “He lives,” she whispered, and laughed, a small, choked laugh.

  A cheer went up along with whispers of witchcraft and magic, but Hegarty continued his chanting, ignoring them all.

  Minute by minute, Rourke’s pulse grew stronger beneath her fingers until it fairly thrummed in his veins. Brenna squeezed his hand in hers and pulled it up to her lips as she gave thanks over and over.

  Hegarty quit chanting abruptly. He plucked the necklace off Rourke’s chest and placed it over his head as if it had always been large enough to fit him.

  “He will survive, though he has need of deep rest.”

  Brenna’s gaze followed the sapphire as it disappeared into the little man’s shirt and felt her first shaft of fear at what she’d done.

  “You can’t leave me here, Hegarty. You’ve got to send me home.”

  To her surprise, he leaned forward and cupped her chin in his weathered hand, his eyes kind. “There are all kinds of homes, lassie. The trick is finding the one where you belong.”

  “But . . .”

  He released her and went to his horse, and one of Rourke’s cousins helped him mount. With a brief wave, Hegarty rode off into the shimmering mist and was gone.

  Just like that, he’d given her back Rourke’s life and taken her own.

  An icy shock tried to steal her breath, but she shoved it away. She couldn’t deal with that now. Not yet. Rourke was her first priority.

  His pulse remained strong, his breathing even and calm. She
lifted his torn shirt and stared at the small scar in his side, now puckered and healthy. A chill shivered down her spine. Beside him, in the dirt, lay the small metal ball that had shattered his body and nearly stolen his life. The bloody gash in his pants revealed nothing but a scar.

  Brenna was beginning to shake. She looked around her at the slack-jawed faces until her gaze met Rourke’s uncle’s. “We have to get him back to the castle.”

  The older man nodded slowly, then came to kneel before his nephew. “Does he live? Does he truly live?”

  Brenna reached for his hand and pressed his fingers into Rourke’s pulse.

  The man looked at her, eyes wide and glistening. “ ’Tis a miracle.”

  “Yes. Hegarty’s good at those.” But at what price?

  Four men carried Rourke back to the castle using a long length of plaid as a makeshift stretcher. Brenna walked beside them, the ground rocky and harsh beneath her soft kid slippers.

  Tendrils of panic slid over her skin. Everything she’d ever known was out of her reach now. Her home, all her possessions, her friends. Everything.

  An icy coldness invaded her body, shock echoing through her head.

  Rourke was alive. Concentrate on that. He’d been dead and now he wasn’t. That was all that mattered.

  But, oh my God, she’d lost everything else.

  She barely noticed where they were going, paying little attention as they crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The men laid him on the bed and one of the serving maids started toward him as if to remove his bloodied clothing, but Brenna blocked her path.

  “Leave him.” She met Rourke’s uncle’s gaze. “I’m staying with him until he wakes up. He’s going to need a lot of rest. Then he’ll feel fine.”

  “You seem certain.”

  “I am.” She had firsthand knowledge of Hegarty’s healing process. Magic. Now the magic was gone. The magic that would have sent her home.

  She pressed her fist against the sudden piercing ache in her gut. She couldn’t live here.

  The older man nodded and turned for the door. “I will send someone to bring you meals and whatever else you require.”

  This can’t be happening.

  She started to thank Rourke’s uncle and realized he’d already left. She was alone.

  Her fingers interlaced, squeezing until her knuckles turned white. Rourke would help her. Once he woke up, he’d find Hegarty and make him send her back.