Sapphire Dream
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
Teaser chapter
Praise for Sapphire Dream
“[Sapphire Dream] takes off like a rocket and never slows down as Brenna and Rourke face danger—and the seventeenth century proves to be far more complicated, sexy, and rewarding than Brenna could have dreamed. One of the best time-travel romances I’ve ever read.”
—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney
“A terrific time-travel romance. Twists and turns abound as feisty Brenna Cameron fights her destiny, danger, and the sexy pirate who claims her as his from their first dramatic meeting. Edge of the seat suspense, heart-stopping passion, and poignant emotion make Sapphire Dream a fantastic, roller-coaster read. I dare you to put it down before you finish it!”
—Award-winning author Anna Campbell
“Take one feisty heroine, a to-die-for Scottish hero, a dash of magic, and an author that knows how to mix them to perfection and you have Sapphire Dream—an action-packed, passion-filled tale by a master storyteller. Pamela Montgomerie delivers a story that will keep you turning the pages, rooting for Brenna and Rourke, and closing the book both reluctant to leave this pair behind and anxious to see what Ms. Montgomerie will deliver next. An excellent read!”—Award-winning author Laurin Wittig
Praise for the novels of
Pamela Montgomerie writing as Pamela Palmer
“[A] romantic, magical, and terrifying story. A compelling debut.”—Library Journal
“[A] tale of supernatural danger and spine-tingling suspense . . . Pamela Palmer twists the supernatural tension, then twists it again in this story of ancient magic and newly minted love.”
—USA Today bestselling author Rebecca York
“I loved this story! Pamela Palmer certainly delivers a riveting out-of-the-ordinary tale of paranormal suspense and romance. I couldn’t put it down.”
—USA Today bestselling author Robin T. Popp
“Scary, sexy, and with a truly disturbing villain . . . A real page-turner.”—Laura Anne Gilman
“Exciting . . . Combines sexy characters with an intense, riveting plot.”—Romantic Times
“The enchanting magic, passion, and danger hold the reader spellbound during every totally captivating scene . . . Takes paranormal romance to unbelievable heights.”
—CataRomance
“The characterization, motivation, and development of Autumn and Kade are marvelous . . . Edgy, yet charming—that last due to the exceedingly likable heroine.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Solidifies Pamela Palmer’s place as one of the top up-and-coming authors of the paranormal romance and dark fantasy genres! Without a doubt, Dark Deceiver ranks among the top books I’ve read.”—CK2S Kwips and Kritiques
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
SAPPHIRE DREAM
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Pamela Palmer Poulsen.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-10409-5
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BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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For Laurin. Cheroo!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Allison Brandau for finding this manuscript among the slush and falling in love with it. All along, it was waiting for you.
To Helen Breitwieser, for everything.
To the many people who helped me birth this book: Laurin Wittig, Anne Shaw Moran, Denise McInerney, Kathryn Caskie, Elizabeth Fedorko, Alicia Rasley, my 99er sisters, and the wonderful men and women of the Washington Romance Writers.
And to my family for always being there.
ONE
THE NORTH SEA,
OFF THE COAST OF SCOTLAND,
1687
Rourke Douglas held fast to the capstan, the rain soaking his shirt as his frigate, Lady Marie, pitched in the gale. Lightning slashed through the storm-darkened sky, threatening to tear the masts apart. Over the roll of thunder, the eerie sound of Hegarty’s chanting rose from the hold of the ship, making Rourke’s flesh ripple with unease. Magic rode heavy on the air.
A high wave broke over the deck’s wooden planks in a shower of seawater.
“Close the hatches!” he barked to his crew. “Secure the guns!”
“We’re too close to the shore, Captain!” His bosun, Joshua Cutter, lurched into place beside him, his pitted face sharp with disbelief and a challenge Rourke was tiring of. “If the wind turns, we’ll be dashed upon the rocks.”
Rourke scowled. “Then we shall hope the wind doesna turn, shall we not, Mr. Cutter? Return to your post and hold our position!”
The bosun blanched, took a step back, then whirled and hurried away.
God’s blood, if they survived the storm, he’d have a mutiny on his hands. As much as he hated to admit it, Cutter was right. But he’d made a vow to Hegarty to hug the shoreline until the night was through. E
ven if it meant damning his ship and everyone on board.
A gust of wind caused the ship to lurch hard to starboard. Rourke braced himself, holding tight.
“Order the sails furled, Mr. Baker!” he shouted to his hapless first mate. If they did not soon roll the sails up tight against the growing gale, they’d capsize. If they survived this storm, he’d happily hang Hegarty from the highest mast for manipulating him into this dire predicament.
Through the rain Rourke could just make out the rugged shoreline of his native Scotland—a sight he’d not seen since he was ten and never intended to see again. He must have been deep in his cups the night Hegarty secured his promise to go back. Naught but a sail-by, Hegarty had assured him. No need even to make port. A simple trip.
As if anything concerning Hegarty could ever be simple. Not until they arrived had the dwarf told him the ship must remain perilously close to shore for a day and a night. He’d not explained why. They both knew all too well.
The prophecy.
His gut twisted and rolled as if mimicking the churning sea. He should never have let Hegarty force him back here.
“Captain!” the pilot cried. “We’re being pulled toward the rocks!”
God’s blood. “Unfurl the mizzen!”
The ship leaned heavily as the wind caught the single sail. His promise be damned. But even as he braced to issue the orders to set full sail, he knew it was too late. A second sail would cause them to lean too far into the frenzied waves, capsizing the ship.
The rain slashed across his back in a pelting, stinging torrent. This was Hegarty’s fault. He rued the day he’d ever laid eyes upon the little man, yet without him he’d be long dead. Hegarty was a rock in his shoe, gifted with abilities no man should possess, but Rourke owed him. Too much.
A loud crack challenged the thunder.
“Mast down!” shouted the bosun.
In grim disbelief Rourke watched the mizzenmast crash to the deck, shredding rigging and splintering deck boards.
As crewmen scurried to secure loose rigging, Hegarty appeared, cursing and stomping up the stairs from belowdecks. The dwarf wore Rourke’s best waistcoat like a tunic, his wild mane of red hair dragging with the weight of the rain. He put his head down against the strengthening gale and made his way toward Rourke.
The ship pitched and Rourke grabbed the dwarf before he could be swept overboard. “Look at my ship! You’d damn well better be through.”
“ ’ Tis a poor day for magic.” Hegarty glared at him as if he blamed him for calling down the storm. “We must stay until it’s done.”
“No more. We’re through here. If we survive this storm, I’m making a new heading straight back to the West Indies.” And buying that plantation on the Isle of St. Christopher he’d been eyeing. He’d bloody well had enough of the sea.
Hegarty clung to his wrist, his small fingernails digging ridges into Rourke’s skin. “Today is the day, Pup. She must come to us. The prophecy will unfold at last.”
The words twisted like a dull blade in Rourke’s gut. “And I would be far, far away when it does. I promised to bring you back and so I have. On the morrow, I’m leaving, with or without you.”
Hegarty regained his footing and smiled with that infuriating surety that always boded ill.
Rourke shook his head against the canny look in the smaller man’s eyes. “You’ll not pull me into this, Heg. I was not named in the prophecy. Only her.”
“Named? Not precisely.” Hegarty continued to smile, unnerving him.
“Dammit, man, you’ll not involve me. ’Tis you who is determined to set this disaster to flight. Why can ye not leave well enough alone?”
“Well enough for whom?” The dwarf’s smiled disappeared, his dark eyes flashing as he pressed the tip of his finger into Rourke’s soaked chest. “Naught will be right until the prophecy unfolds. It will unfold, Pup, and it will involve ye whether ye like it or not.” He flashed Rourke a smile of such certainty that the hairs rose on Rourke’s sodden flesh. “Now release me so that I may return to the business at hand.” He patted Rourke’s chest. “Do not look so grim, lad. Ye’ve been waiting for this all your life, whether you know it or not. You’ve been waiting for me to find Brenna Cameron.”
CASTLE STOUR,
NORTHEAST SCOTLAND,
PRESENT DAY
A fine tension ran the length of Brenna Cameron’s spine as the tour guide’s thickly brogued voice echoed off the dungeon walls. Electric lights in the shape of medieval torches lined the dank space, illuminating display cases of gleaming swords and lances. Tourists—nearly two dozen of them—milled about, studying the weapons that seemed to infuse the low, dreary room with an air of ancient menace.
Brenna shoved her hands into her jacket pockets as she wandered among the families and traveling couples, pretending an interest she didn’t feel. She needed to blend in and look like one of the tourists. She couldn’t afford for anyone to guess the real reason she was here. Not yet. Not until she found him.
“Imagine these kitchens as they would ha’ looked in the sixteenth century, before the fire, before this space became the castle’s dungeons.” The guide motioned dramatically, his bald head bobbing with each word. “Imagine the tables fillin’ every bit o’ space. The hen wife pluckin’ the fowl, the turnbrochie turning the roasting spit over the fireplace. Pots and cauldrons a-steamin’ and a-bubblin’ with stews and broths.”
Brenna’s fingers closed around the roll of peppermint Life Savers in her pocket. She pulled it out and popped one candy in her mouth with not-quite-steady hands. Aunt Janie had whisked her out of Scotland when she was five, then died when she was ten, leaving her with nothing but the sapphire pendant around her neck and the title of the man responsible for their flight—the Earl of Slains. He lived here somewhere, in some part of this partially restored castle. And she wasn’t leaving until she found him and confronted him about what he knew.
On her deathbed Janie had made Brenna promise to return to Scotland for her twenty-fifth birthday. Unfortunately, Brenna didn’t remember the name of the town or village where she’d been born. She remembered almost nothing from those early years. The earl was her only clue.
The guide motioned the group to follow, then started for the far corner, away from the stairs. Brenna sighed, her patience stretching thin. She needed to find the earl, or at least identify the way into his private living quarters. That wasn’t likely to happen down here in the dungeons.
She’d tried to contact the earl from home to ask what he knew about her, but his swift, emphatic response had startled her. Stay away. If he’d claimed not to know her, she’d probably have let it go. The last thing she wanted to do was reopen the deeply buried wells of loneliness and hurt she’d lived with after Janie died. Yes, she’d promised Janie to return to Scotland for her twenty-fifth birthday, but really . . . who would know, or care, if she didn’t?
But the earl clearly knew who she was. And she was determined to know why. Was she due an inheritance he didn’t want to part with? Was her arrival likely to be an embarrassment in some way? Well, too bad. She needed to know who she was and why Janie had taken her away from everything she’d known. She needed to know what had happened to the father who’d loved her.
Once the group gathered, the guide continued his speech. “During the excavation of these kitchens, an amazin’ discovery was made in this pantry.” He led them to a small alcove in the far back corner, reached in, and pulled a light cord. “A hidden door that opens onto a passage out to the cliffs.”
The guide ducked into the low-ceilinged pantry and motioned those closest to follow. Brenna was caught by the surge and pulled deep inside the small space.
“The door dates from the original construction over four hundred years ago,” the man continued. “The first Earl of Slains conquered the castle soon after it was built, but apparently never learned of the door. During the mid- 1600s, the kitchens were moved to the outer ranges and this space turned into a prison, or du
ngeon. In 1687, during the time of the third earl, the castle was destroyed. A fortune in weapons went up in flames—weapons hidden here during the Covenanting Wars. Had the earl and his people known of this passage, the weapons would surely have been moved to safety.”
Brenna glanced toward the door, wanting out of the press of people, but for the time being she was going nowhere. While she languished in his dungeons on this never-ending tour, the earl was probably driving off in his chauffeur-driven Bentley for parts unknown.
“How did the castle burn?” a young Brit asked, his hair fanning from his head in long spikes.
“ ’ Tis said a pirate and his lady attacked the third earl and set his castle aflame.”
The young man laughed. “Did they best him?”
“Och, aye, though he was not greatly missed. A bad one, the earl was.” The guide ran his hand over one of the shelves. “Can ye see the door?”
No sooner had he uttered the words than the wall behind him swung inward, causing one of the attached shelves to hit him in the shoulder. A small girl of six or seven poked her head through the opening. Short red hair framed a gamine face liberally sprinkled with freckles.
The guide clutched his chest overdramatically. “Ah, Lintie, lass. Ye stole ten years from my life, ye did.”
The girl giggled. “The earl’s using the observe-tory. You canna be coming in.” With that, she closed the door.