Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  The words Hard Rock Cafe and Washington, D.C., were emblazoned across her chest, woven into the soft fabric of her bodice—a bodice that clung to gentle curves, revealing every tip and swell of what lay beneath. He forced his eyes to move past those enticing peaks, to the outline of long legs beneath the plaid blanket Hegarty had left half covering her.

  Her breeks, made of queer fabric, peeked above the blanket. Small, cheerful monkeys smiled at him, at odds with the gash that might, even now, steal her life. His gaze returned, moving upward past the glowing sapphire to the paleness of her finely boned face framed by shiny red brown hair. Her features were regular and pleasing enough, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. Ripe and full, it was a mouth made for a man’s kisses.

  He swore at his body’s unwanted stir of interest, but found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her. It was like being mesmerized by a pistol aimed at one’s face. Until he set her ashore, he would do well to stay away from her—as far as possible. She was trouble, this one. And he’d already seen enough trouble to last a lifetime.

  Her lids fluttered, opening slowly to reveal green eyes clouded with confusion. She blinked, tilting her head toward him. Their gazes met and she bolted upright.

  Belatedly, he realized the sapphire’s glow had winked out.

  She scooted to the back of the bunk, her eyes at once sharp with fear, yet hard as steel, like those of a feral animal trapped and ready to fight for its life.

  He backed away. “Be calm, lass. I’ll not harm ye.” He’d thought her bonnie in sleep, but awake, her eyes snapping with intelligence and life, she stole his breath.

  With her gaze fixed on his face, she kicked off the blanket. In one fluid move she slipped off the bunk and lunged for the door, but Rourke was quicker. He blocked her attempted escape, forcing her back toward the bunk. Her gaze darted from him to scour his cabin, then back again, and he knew she searched for a weapon.

  “Easy, Wildcat. You’re safe enough.”

  She eyed him with disbelief. “Right. You’re just an eccentric cruise director.” She spoke strangely, with words he didn’t recognize and an accent he couldn’t place but found disturbingly pleasing to his ears. “And . . . what? . . . Your friend cut off my leg to welcome me to the ship?”

  She froze, her startled gaze locking with his even as realization punched him in the stomach.

  “My leg,” she breathed.

  As one, their gazes dropped to the ragged edge of her breeks where Hegarty had completed the rending of fabric that Cutter’s knife had begun.

  She backed up and sat hard on the bunk, then jerked her knee to her chest to examine the appendage in question. A wicked scar now ran from her shin around to the fleshy part of her calf. Not a wound—a fully healed scar.

  Chills rippled over his scalp.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open in shock. “How long was I asleep?”

  He shook his head, feeling a need to clear the shock from his brain even as he quashed the need to run. “A few hours.”

  She paled, a shiver tearing through her. “How?”

  Rourke swallowed hard. “ ’ Twas Hegarty’s doing.” At her look of confusion he held his hand out, palm down. “The wee man.” He stepped toward her.

  She scooted back. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “I’ve said I’ll not hurt you.” He heard the harsh edge in his voice and smoothed his words so as not to frighten her more. “I wish only to see your injury.” He took a small step toward her and was pleased when she did not retreat farther.

  Her chin went up, challenge flashing in her green eyes. “What is this? Where am I?”

  He took another step and watched her visibly tense. “The Lady Marie.” He said the name softly, willing her to calm. “My ship.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “I dinna ken.” Again that look of confusion, and he realized she was as confused by his Scots as he was by her strange words. “I do not know. You must ask Hegarty.” He eased onto the edge of the bunk, careful not to lean toward her. He motioned to her, gentling his tone. “I would see your leg.”

  Her chest rose and fell with agitation, her gaze sharp and distrustful, but she slowly straightened her leg toward him.

  With careful, deliberate movements, he took the smooth warmth of the limb into his hands and lifted it onto his lap. His mouth went dry. She was naught but flesh and blood, he reminded himself. He’d seen enough of her blood to know. He ran his thumb over the puckered length of scar, pink and white with health . . . and age.

  “It doesn’t hurt.” Her voice was tight with disbelief. She leaned forward and touched the wound herself, her fingers brushing against his.

  She looked up at him, her eyes at once terrified and bewildered. “How did he fix it?”

  Rourke met her gaze, then looked away. “Hegarty’s a skilled healer.”

  “Skilled or not,” she snapped. “Wounds don’t heal in hours. And this one was a doozy.”

  His admiration for her rose another notch. He could sense her fear, yet she met him with anger. “Aye, the wound was formidable. You bled enough for three men. My crew is still scrubbing the deck of your blood.”

  His thumb traced the scar, his palm brushing the strange smoothness of her skin. The feel of her warm flesh beneath his hand sent a shaft of desire bolting through his blood, causing his fingers to curl into the silken firmness of her calf as need to explore that slender expanse of leg nearly got the better of him. He swore and pushed her leg off his lap, then rose and paced away from her.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. In a bare whisper she added, “What are you?”

  He turned and met her gaze. “I am Rourke Douglas, captain of the Lady Marie.”

  She lifted a brow. “Pretending to be a pirate.”

  “I am not a pirate.” Though he didn’t doubt his crew would turn to thievery at the first provocation.

  “Are you a reenactor, then? A movie actor? You’re not for real.”

  He watched her, at once confused by her words and enchanted by the way her mouth formed them.

  “I assure you, I am as real as you.”

  “And I’m living in the Twilight Zone.”

  He heard the sharp edge of sarcasm, but could not understand her meaning.

  She stood and walked toward the small window behind his desk, her movements assured and graceful. After a moment, she turned and faced him with an intense wariness that bordered on fear. A fear she would hide.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I didna bring you.”

  “The dwarf.” Her eyes narrowed with confusion. “He said he did. But he couldn’t have. One little man did not steal me out of my hotel room.” She stepped toward him, her eyes beseeching. “You have to let me go.”

  “Aye.” It was his most fervent wish. “I will set you ashore as soon as we make port. Two to three days unless the winds becalm us.”

  She watched him as if waiting for him to grow a second head. “Just like that?” Her eyes began to sparkle dangerously. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll call the cops, or whatever you call them in Scotland, and have you arrested?”

  The wildcat was back. Her eyes speared him, her ripe mouth beckoned him. Desire hammered him hard. God’s blood. This was the last thing he needed—his body turning traitor.

  He reached for the door. “I will send Hegarty to ye when he awakens.” He had to get away before he forgot he’d once been a gentleman. Before he forgot he wanted nothing to do with her. Before he got sucked, once more, into the prophecy’s hell.

  “Wait! Don’t go!”

  But he ignored her frantic plea and escaped into the sunshine, bolting the door behind him.

  Brenna heard the click even as she lunged for the door. Grabbing the latch, she yanked, but the door wouldn’t budge. He’d locked her in.

  She whirled and faced the small room, heart pounding. Where was she? What in the hell was going on?

  It should have been a nightma
re, just a horrible dream. By all that was logical she should have woken up in the little room in Aberdeen. But she was still on the ship. As was the man with the pale eyes. And her scar . . .

  She sucked in air as panic rattled through her. This couldn’t be happening. She was not in the clutches of pirates.

  Her frantic gaze tore over her surroundings as she searched for a phone . . . or a weapon. The cabin was rustic, museum-like in its simplicity. No electricity, no bathroom, no phone. They were taking their reenactment to the extreme.

  Either they were insane . . . or she was.

  She rubbed the back of her neck and winced as her hand encountered the small welt from the attempted theft of her necklace. The dwarf had tried to steal it.

  Great. The dwarf was a thief, and the captain looked at her like he’d as soon drown her as save her. And they were the good guys.

  She searched the room, trying the desk and the chest at the foot of the bunk, but both were locked. Panic brushed at her nerves. She needed answers, dammit. What is going on?

  Her gaze took in the rest of the room as she searched for something. Anything. Pegs stuck out from the wall with costumes hanging from them. A vivid, sickening memory of the way the crew had looked at her had her grabbing one of the shirts and pulling it on over her T-shirt. As she rolled up the sleeves, she continued her perusal.

  Movement above caught her attention. Hanging from the ceiling were at least two dozen small wooden birds, each one different. Unpainted, roughly carved, and only a few inches long, they hung on thin lines and swayed with the movement of the ship. If she hadn’t been nearly sick with fear, they might have made her smile.

  She walked to the small window and peered out. The glass was coated with sea spray, but not so much that she couldn’t make out the rugged Scottish coastline dotted with small stone houses. She nodded, relieved. They were still close to shore.

  She might yet have a chance to escape.

  Sweat rolled down Rourke’s shoulder blades as he paced the deck waiting for the English frigate to pass. He’d ordered his crew to maintain their posts, for he could ill afford a battle and would give the English captain no reason to think he wanted one.

  Hegarty bounded out of the hold, his mane flapping like half a dozen sails in the breeze. Rourke watched him skip down the stairs into the galley. Preparing something for the woman no doubt.

  Those eyes of hers flashed in his mind—eyes that were at once vulnerable yet menacing. Eyes that called him to protect her, even as they warned him to protect himself. No lady, to be sure, yet what she lacked in manners she more than made up for in courage. She would need that courage. The prophecy would demand it.

  Slowly the English frigate approached them, but their heading left a safe distance between the ships, clearly not on a course to intercept. Rourke felt the relief sink into his belly like warm ale on a cold day. The plague flag had worked.

  “How many dead?” the English captain called.

  “Three stricken. Two dead.”

  “God have mercy on you.”

  Rourke lifted a hand in thanks, and the English ship continued on. When the ships were out of gun range, the tightly coiled tension eased out of him. The English had bought his bluff. Mayhap his fortunes were turning at last.

  “Captain?” Jules called. “It’s Mr. Cutter, sir. He’s gone to your cabin.”

  Rourke jerked, Cutter’s promise ringing in his ears. I’ll kill her.

  He took off at a sprint and burst through the door just as Cutter was raising his sword. The lass was trapped in the back corner of the cabin, poised for battle as if she could fight a steel blade with her bare hands. Or intended to die trying.

  Even as he took in the situation, Cutter’s sword began its deadly downward arc. An arc she would not escape.

  In one swift move, Rourke pulled his eating knife from his belt and threw it, burying the small blade deep in the back of Cutter’s sword hand.

  His bosun cried out as the sword veered toward the left, landing harmlessly a hand’s breadth shy of the lass. He swung toward Rourke, cradling his bleeding hand, his nose hanging at an odd angle, bleeding profusely.

  The wildcat had struck first, it seemed.

  Cutter stared at him, an animal’s madness in his eyes. “She dies. You both die.”

  Rourke slammed his fist into his bosun’s jaw, sending him crashing against the wall. Cutter had been with him for more than two years, a hard, mercurial man. Rourke would have set him ashore long ago had the man not been such a fine sailor.

  “Captain?” Jules asked from the entry.

  Rourke yanked Cutter up and shoved him at Jules. “Chain him in the hold.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  Brenna dashed past him and out the door so fast he had to lunge to catch her before she reached the stairs. But the moment he wrenched her back against him, he knew he’d made a mistake. She twisted in his arms, turning wild.

  Fortunately, he’d seen enough of the woman’s fighting ways to take precautions. When she tried to slam her knee into his loins, he deflected the blow and turned her sideways, locking her shoulder against him. A growl of frustration rumbled in her chest.

  “Be calm, Wildcat. I’ll not harm you. You have my oath on it.”

  Her clean woman’s scent wafted over him like a warm summer garden. He was suddenly aware of the feel of her in his arms. Too aware. The top of her head reached his mouth, her hair silky against his chin.

  “Let me go.” Desperation laced her voice as she struggled against him, unwittingly brushing the part of his anatomy most interested in becoming acquainted with her. Lust slammed into him.

  Nay. He would not let the woman affect him in that way.

  He pushed her back into his cabin, then released her as if she burned him. She spun to face him even as Hegarty pushed into the room behind him carrying a mug of foul-smelling brew.

  “What happened?”

  “Cutter sought his revenge on her for unmanning him. I’ve ordered him in chains.”

  “Ye should kill the blighter,” Hegarty said matter-of factly.

  Rourke made a noncommittal sound.

  The woman looked at him pleadingly. “I need air. I need a few minutes on deck to catch my breath.”

  “Nay,” Hegarty said. “Ye’ll not be going near that lot agin. ’Ave ye learned nothing?”

  She ignored Hegarty and met Rourke’s gaze, desperation growing in her eyes. “I don’t like closed spaces. Just a few minutes on deck. That’s all I’m asking. Surely I’m in no danger if you’re there?”

  Saints, but her plight tore at him.

  Hegarty must have read his thoughts, for he moved between them. “Get you back on the bunk, lassie. Yer brew’s await’n and ye’ll drink it now.”

  But Brenna Cameron wasn’t one to follow orders meekly. She held Rourke’s gaze as if grasping a lifeline. “Please.”

  Hegarty threw a hand in the air as he turned to him. “Ye let her on deck and yer crew will be all over her like dogs on a bone. Ye’ll be slappin’ ’em all in chains and then how will ye set this ship to sail?”

  Hegarty was right. He couldn’t risk it. She was dressed like a sailor and had no manners to speak of, yet even so there was something wholly feminine about her. A lush-ness to those slender curves that made his hands long to touch her again. She filled his senses. Stirred his blood.

  And had him vowing he’d not let his crew near her again. “Ye’ll remain here until we make port, lass. We’ll be at sea but another day or two, if the weather holds.”

  He watched frustration and dismay chase themselves across her expressive features. She released her breath on an angry sigh, then turned away. Hegarty ushered him out and closed the door behind him.

  Though she remained hidden in his cabin for the rest of the day and well into the night, she haunted Rourke’s every thought. Her courage in the face of near-certain death, not once but twice. Her strength. Her vulnerability. The warrior’s gleam that lit her gaze, and the desper
ation that laced her words.

  Above all he saw her face. That bonnie, green-eyed siren’s face.

  The face of his doom.

  Brenna woke to the sound of anxious shouting and the frenzied pounding of feet overhead. She sat up and shoved her hair out of her face, her sleepy gaze pulled to the little wooden birds swaying at the ceiling even as the strong, musty smell of the ship teased her nostrils.

  The pirate ship.

  Damn.

  This nightmare just wouldn’t end. And it wasn’t even morning yet. The light coming through the window was soft and new. Dawn, just before sunrise.

  The sounds above grew more frantic. The number of boots seemed to have multiplied.

  What was going on? Her eyes widened as hope lifted her high. Maybe someone was chasing the ship.

  Police.

  She swung her feet over the side and ran for the window even as a voice overhead yelled, “We’ll be dashed upon the rocks!”

  The captain’s strong voice carried clearly in reply. “Unfurl the mainsail and foresail. Tack south by south-east, Mr. Jenkins.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The hope that had lifted her so suddenly dropped her with a thud. Thick fog obscured her view, but she could make out the dark lump that had to be the coast.

  Suddenly, she understood. They’d drifted too close to shore. This was the chance she needed. This close, she could easily swim to freedom, even with the water freezing. But she had to get out of the cabin before the ship sailed. Which meant now.

  She needed a plan. An idea came to her and she raced for the water pitcher and tossed the contents into the corner, then ran for the door, praying the plan worked.

  “Help!” she cried, pounding with both fists. “Help me!”

  Her hands were nearly numb by the time she finally heard the lock click. Hegarty opened the door, the expression on his leathery face more suspicious than concerned. “What ails ye, lass?”

  Brenna opened her mouth, but the words got caught in her throat, so she pointed frantically toward the corner where she’d dumped the water. “A leak!” she managed. “Water’s coming in!” Hegarty’s eyes grew round and he scurried toward the corner. Without a backward glance, Brenna dashed out the door.