Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  Tears blurred her vision as a fragile, pounding joy burst within her chest.

  “Papa.” She took a step toward him, then another, and knelt before him. His strong arms pulled her so tight she was certain she would never breathe again. And she didn’t care.

  She was shaking all the way to her bones as she clung to him. At last. She’d found him at last. Tears coursed down her cheeks.

  “Brenna.” Malcolm was pulling at her. “We must be away.”

  She pulled back, but her father held her, gripping her arms nearly until they hurt. “Let me look at you, Brenna lass. You’ve grown bonnie and strong, the very image of your mum.”

  “And she’s got your stubbornness,” Malcolm hissed as Hamilton unlocked her father’s chains. “Come. Both of you.”

  Brenna wiped her cheek on her shoulder. “I missed you so much.”

  As Hamilton and Malcolm helped him to his feet, he lurched drunkenly, pain flashing over his face.

  She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s been flogged. You’ll have to open the door for us.”

  “Okay.” But as she turned, she suddenly realized what was missing. Or who. “Where’s Rourke?”

  “He’ll be right back,” Hamilton said. “Get the door, Brenna.”

  But he wouldn’t be right back. A sick feeling sank to her stomach as she peered into the dungeon, seeing the shadow skirting the far wall, heading slowly toward the circular stair she’d descended with the tour only a week ago. She knew exactly what he was up to. The same thing she’d meant to do herself.

  He was going to try to kill the Earl of Slains before the earl could kill her.

  God, she loved that man. But she would personally throttle him if they got out of there alive. This wasn’t his fight. If he failed, his death wouldn’t change anything. Hers would at least end the prophecy’s curse.

  “Brenna . . .”

  She swung around to face them, these three men she would give her life for. Malcolm and Hamilton had her father propped between them.

  “He’s going after the earl,” she told them.

  “He canna—” Malcolm began.

  “He’s trying to save me. I can’t let him do it. It’s not his fight.” She couldn’t run and leave him to die. Not that he wasn’t a fine fighter, but good grief, the castle was overflowing with bluecoats. Besides, she’d saved him before by distracting his opponents. Maybe she could do it again.

  Hamilton held out his hand. “Brenna, you can’t—”

  “Get my father to safety.”

  “I’ll go after Rourke,” Malcolm said.

  Brenna shook her head. “I can’t hold Papa up. He needs your strength, little brother. I’m not going to be any use to him. You have to get him to safety. And I have to do this.”

  “Brenna, nay,” her father said, his voice strained. “I forbid it.”

  Brenna met his hard, terrified gaze. “Papa, the prophecy demands I do this. It’s my destiny. And it will end no other way.”

  The pain in his eyes tore her apart. “I have waited for ye for too long to lose ye now, lassie mine.”

  “I know. But if it were you instead of me, you’d face this head-on, right?”

  “But you—”

  “Am I right?”

  Her father sighed, frustrated and angry . . . and resigned. “Aye.”

  “She has the Cameron fight in her, Da,” Malcolm said. “I’ll have to tell you how she greeted me after twenty years,” he added ruefully.

  Brenna leaned forward and kissed her father’s prickly cheek. “I love you.” She turned to look at Hamilton, then Malcolm. “All of you.”

  “Ah, lass,” her father said, his voice brimming with misery. Then he squeezed her hand and released her, his voice growing strong and demanding. “Come back to me, Brenna. The prophecy says you’ll defeat him and ye will, aye?”

  Brenna flashed him a watery grin. “He won’t know what hit him.”

  “Go with God,” Malcolm said a few minutes later as she saw them through the door into the cave.

  She closed the door behind them, then swiped away her tears and steeled herself for what she had to do. The prophecy would end tonight one way or the other.

  Brenna crossed the dungeon, keeping to the outside walls as she’d seen Rourke do. But she’d barely made it halfway along that first wall when a voice erupted from across the room, sending her heart into her throat.

  “If you’re servicing one of us, lass, you’re servicing us all.”

  Her heart sank to her stomach as a tall, blue-coated figure stepped out of the shadows and started toward her.

  NINETEEN

  “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”

  Rourke froze at the sound of Brenna’s voice resonating through the dungeons.

  She sounded cold. Haughty. “I’m a guest of the earl’s. And though I seem to have lost my way, I am quite certain he will not appreciate your thinking otherwise.”

  Nay, she was to have been safely away by now. Hamilton should have gotten her out of here.

  He braced himself against the stone wall of the stair. He’d been so close, already past the first turn, undetected.

  “Forgive me,” the guard replied, his tone stiff. “I will escort you back to the—”

  “That’s her!” another man shouted. “That’s my mermaid!”

  Rourke’s last hope of keeping her out of the fray sank like a stone in his belly. He eased back down the turnstile stair as Brenna’s words rang over the stones.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s her,” insisted the second man. “She said the earl sent her to entertain us. You can entertain me now, lassie.”

  Rourke turned the corner just as the soldier grabbed Brenna around the waist. The wildcat slammed her head back, catching her unwary captor in the nose. As the foolish man reared back, she spun and kneed him hard in the ballocks.

  The lass was magnificent. And near certain to get herself killed.

  Drawing his sword, Rourke lunged forward and took out two of the guards before they realized what was happening. Only two more stood between him and Brenna’s tormentors. He took on the two at once, parrying every blow, getting in an occasional thrust with little success.

  Sweat rolled down his temples, his pulse thudded as he fought to reach her. He had to get her out of here.

  But as he fought, a sound reached his ears that sunk his heart to his boots. The echo of multiple heavy footsteps descending the stairs. The swish of a dozen swords being drawn.

  Brenna yelped and he saw she’d lost her fight and was being held, a blade pressed to her throat.

  “Drop your weapon or she dies,” her captor yelled.

  “Rourke, no!” No fear glittered in her eyes, only fire and determination. She’d intended to face the earl this night, as he had. And it seemed that was precisely what they were going to do.

  Bluecoats swarmed into the dungeon. The fight was over. Rourke backed away from his opponents. When neither made a lunge for him, he dropped his sword to the stone floor. Three guards lifted their sword points to his throat. A single move and he’d seal his death.

  The captain of the guards circled around him, eyeing him with interest. “Who are you and how did you get in here?”

  Rourke clenched his jaw, his only regret that he’d failed to save Brenna. If only Hamilton had taken her when he left. But his wildcat had a mind of her own.

  “I’m Brenna Cameron.” The lass’s voice rang through the dungeons, clear and loud. “And he’s Rourke Douglas, Viscount Kinross. The Earl of Slains is expecting us.”

  Without warning, the hilt of a sword slammed into the back of his skull and darkness swept him away.

  Brenna gasped as Rourke fell. He couldn’t be dead. Please don’t let him be dead.

  “Brenna Cameron, eh?” The bluecoat who’d hit Rourke walked toward her, studying her with cold eyes. When he reached her, he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, bri
nging sharp stinging tears to her eyes. “How did you get in here?”

  She’d never tell. They’d find her father and the others, and she could not let that happen. Especially when she’d known from the moment she entered this castle she would probably die here tonight.

  But as his knife pricked her throat, threatening to slice her open, cold terror iced through her veins.

  A voice yelled from behind her. “Alex Cameron’s gone.”

  The leader yanked her hair harder. “Tell me how.”

  “Magic.” She bore her hatred into him with her eyes. “I’m a witch, or hadn’t you heard?”

  The coldness in the man’s gaze slowly turned to wariness as his eyes moved from the empty chains where her father had been, back to her. He released her slowly and took a step back, but his expression remained hard.

  “If you hurt another of my men, your friend will die.” Brenna nodded, rubbing her stinging scalp. Rourke wasn’t dead.

  The bluecoat motioned toward the stairs with his knife. “Move.” To his men he said, “Take Kinross, too.”

  Brenna climbed the stairs, all too aware of the soldiers at her back dragging Rourke’s limp body between them. There was no escape, not with Rourke out cold. Had she signed their death warrants by trying to fight a war she could never win?

  Bluecoats surrounded her as they made their way through the dark and silent hall to another set of stairs. Finally reaching the top, the bluecoat leader rapped on a heavy door. When the door swung open, a large hand shoved her inside.

  “Tell the earl we’ve got Brenna Cameron here to see him.”

  The servant nodded, lit one of the tapers on a nearby candelabra, then hurried through a far door. To fetch the earl, she presumed. While they waited, one of her guards used the single taper to light the rest of the freestanding candelabra and its twin, standing on the other side of the large, intricately carved wooden table.

  The room slowly brightened, revealing a large, richly decorated room covered in wood paneling and lined with more than a dozen framed portraits. The earl’s ancestors?

  Rourke’s captors dragged him into the room behind her, then knelt to bind his hands and feet with a thick rope. Brenna watched him, desperate for a twitch or a sliver of tension that would reassure her he was alive. But she knew he must be, or they wouldn’t bother to tie him.

  It would be far better for both of them if he remained unconscious until after the earl was through with her. She didn’t want him to have to watch her die. Nor did she want him trying to fight to save her, because he’d only wind up getting himself killed in the process.

  She couldn’t bear to be the cause of his death, too.

  As the minutes piled up and the earl didn’t come, her pulse began to lose a bit of its urgency. After looking for her for twenty years, she’d have thought he’d be anxious to get his hands on her, but maybe the guy was a sound sleeper. It was, after all, the middle of the night.

  Finally, after what seemed like at least an hour, the far door opened and she realized what had taken so long. He’d dressed for the occasion.

  Into the room walked a man who looked like he’d stepped out of an old French painting. Dressed in the fashion of Rourke and his uncle, times ten, he wore a deep green brocade jacket trimmed in gold bows. The bows were everywhere—hem, sleeves, shoulders. On his head, he wore a huge velvet hat, also trimmed with bows, and on his feet, square-toed buckled shoes with a good three-inch heel.

  Long black ringlets framed his face and hung halfway to his waist, not quite concealing the wisps of gray hair that poked out from beneath.

  His eyes, as they focused on her, were clear and cruel even as they flashed with cunning delight.

  “Brenna Cameron. At last, we meet. You’re every bit as bonnie as your mother.”

  As he strode toward her, his lips curled in a hard smile, a flash of ivory burst from the room behind him in the form of a naked girl. She couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen. Scratch marks striped the girl’s breasts and blood streaked her pale inner thighs, filling Brenna with fury.

  One of the bluecoats stepped into the girl’s path, blocking her way. She screeched and tried to dart around him, but he snagged her around the waist and hauled her against him, both his meaty hands sliding over her bruised flesh.

  Brenna started forward, unable to stand by and watch this horror, but the guard beside her snared her wrist. As she whirled on him, knee at the ready, she suddenly found the tip of a knife pricking the underside of her chin.

  The earl flicked his wrist at the naked girl. “Tie her to my bed.”

  As the child was hauled, screaming and kicking, back to the bedroom, Brenna’s fists clenched at her sides. “I see you make a habit of warring on girls.”

  This monster had to die. He had to die.

  The earl flicked his fingers at her causing her gaoler to push her forward. Close-up, the earl looked older, his fleshy face well lined. His cruel eyes looked her up and down, taking on a lecherous gleam that had her blood turning cold.

  “The seer did not tell me you would grow to be a beauty. Before I kill you, I will take you thoroughly. As will all of my men.”

  A chorus of pleased grunts rumbled through the room.

  Panic flared. Death she could handle, it was rape that would destroy her.

  Another flick of that weathered hand. “Put her on the table and hold her.”

  With the knife still at her throat, she couldn’t fight, could do nothing but submit as guards seized her arms on either side.

  Brenna met the earl’s gaze, her own hard and challenging. “Are you so afraid of me that you can’t even rape me without the help of your guards?”

  The man’s jaw clenched and unclenched, sending the wrinkles writhing like snakes through his skin. Slowly his face flushed red.

  “Release her.”

  “But . . . my lord,” the bluecoat leader said. He’d seen her fight.

  The earl threw the guard a look of disdain. “Do not touch her again unless she tries to escape. This is between her and me and none will interfere.”

  The blade left her throat as the guards on either side of her melted away. Brenna was left facing her greatest nightmare. Fear lapped at her courage, freezing the air in her lungs. She struggled against it, taking deep, ragged breaths as she desperately tried to calm herself.

  This was it. Her only chance.

  She fought against the terror, gathering her hatred for the man standing before her. The Earl of Slains. The bastard who’d ordered her killed when she was five. The monster who’d had Rourke’s parents killed and destroyed the lives of both of their families. The asshole who’d forced her to flee, stealing her home, her family, her entire world.

  He might rape her. He’d likely kill her. But she wasn’t going down without one hell of a fight.

  Brenna braced herself as the earl approached, his eyes glittering a little too brightly. Too late, she realized the hand coming for her was swinging in a fast arc. The backhand across her face sent her flying. She crashed to the floor, head ringing, her face on fire. As she pushed herself to her feet, she touched her face and felt the sticky dampness of blood.

  The jerk had cut her with his ring.

  She knew she should have signed up for those karate classes. Self-defense was all well and good, but she seriously needed a better offense. Her hand reached for the knife strapped to her thigh, then stilled. No matter what the earl said, she couldn’t believe his guards would let her stab him. No, she had to get closer before she revealed she was armed. She had to get close enough to do what she did best.

  Brenna thought of the pirate she’d downed in the hold of Rourke’s ship. Heaven help her. How could she pretend with this man?

  What good will it do anyway? part of her cried. He was going to kill her one way or the other. Stopping the rape wouldn’t save her. There was no escape.

  It didn’t matter. She wasn’t giving up. And she sure as hell owed the Earl of Slains something to remember her by
.

  Brenna closed her eyes and raked her hair back off her face. “I don’t know why I’m fighting you,” she breathed, making herself ill from the sexiness she managed to inject into her voice. “I want you. We’re two of a kind, you and I. Craving power.” She swept her eyes down to his crotch, then back up again. “And I crave yours.”

  The asshole’s eyes near to ly popped out of his head, then slowly filled with lust.

  Brenna cupped the undersides of her breasts, lifting them, unsure what else to do to make it look like she wanted him. Beneath her skirts, her knees shook so hard she was starting to get nauseous. If she wasn’t careful, she was going ruin the whole sham by vomiting.

  “Take me,” she cooed. “Let me feel your power.”

  Yeah, she was definitely going to throw up.

  The other guards were making low noises deep in their throats. One was cupping his groin. Great. While Slains just stood there, his men were going to jump her.

  Finally, the earl started toward her on those high heels, his tongue sliding out to lick his thin, disgusting lips.

  Brenna kept her hands on her breasts and tossed her head, running on pure instinct now. No plan, no thought beyond the driving need to take him down in any way she could.

  “Take me,” she whispered huskily. This was not exactly how she’d envisioned ending her life . . . sounding like some back-lot porn star.

  Closing the distance between them, he brushed aside her hand and grabbed her breast. “I’ll take you, lassie. I’ll take you and drive you up, then slit your throat while you scream your release.”

  The flowery words every girl longed to hear.

  “If you must,” she breathed. Then she reached up as if to kiss him and instead, drove her knee hard into his groin.

  “You wee bitch!” His fist shot out, catching her deep in the gut, stealing her breath.

  She wanted to kill him so bad she shook with it.

  She needed her knife. As the air started to ease back into her lungs, she grabbed the hem of her skirt and dug out the small blade. If she went for his neck . . .