Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  He met her gaze, his expression sardonic. “’Tis no’ real, Wildcat.”

  Brenna gave him a wry smile. “So I noticed. But it doesn’t have to be alive to fly. If it’s made to catch the air, it’ll soar when you throw it.”

  He gave her a look that was a mixture of disbelief and keen interest. “Things fly in your time.”

  It was a statement, not a question. She searched his expression for signs that he was disconcerted by her comment—or by her—but saw nothing to warn her to keep silent and move away. So she did neither.

  “Yes, things fly. But they have engines. Power to make them soar. Sometimes, though, small objects will sail on the air if they’re made right. I used to make paper airplanes when I was in school. I have no idea if a small wooden bird could be made to soar.”

  His pale eyes sparkled with intellect and excitement. “Shall we find out?”

  Brenna laughed, as much with relief that he really seemed to be accepting her as by the pleasure in his eyes. “Why not?”

  A huge weight lifted from her shoulders. Finally, she could talk with him freely about the things she knew and had done. Though maybe she’d wait awhile before she told him about space travel. Or MTV.

  She looked at the small bird nestled in the palm of his hand.

  “Flatten the bottoms of the wings, but keep the tops rounded.” She met his gaze. “I don’t know a lot about flight, but I do know that much.” She’d taken so much for granted. Airplanes flew because . . . they just did. Who cared about the details so long as your flight arrived on time, with your luggage?

  He scraped the underside of the wings flat, then handed the carving to her. “Show me what to do.”

  The little bird was small and light, but solid. Would it fly without a propeller or rubber band? Or a turboprop jet engine? She knew paper airplanes, how to make them, how to launch them. Wooden birds were virgin territory.

  One way to find out. She held the bird as if she were launching a paper airplane, intensely aware of Rourke’s eyes upon her.

  “Here goes nothing.” She gave the crude little bird a good throw and watched as it arced up, rolled, and dove toward the earth in an unfortunate imitation of a rock landing on the hard ground with a snap.

  “Oh no.” She hurried over to find the little bird lying at an angle, its wing broken, held together by only a weaving of wood splinters.

  Rourke came up beside her.

  “I guess it was too heavy to fly after all.” She reached for the broken little bird.

  “Leave it.”

  “But—”

  “Leave it.”

  Brenna cringed at the coldness of his tone. She glanced at him in disbelief, but he was already turning away.

  “Pirate . . . Rourke. I’m sorry.”

  He ignored her and started down the hill toward the stream, his back stiff with anger.

  Brenna stared after him, totally confused. It wasn’t like she’d meant to break his toy. Surely he knew that.

  She watched from the stone circle as he came to a stop by the water’s edge, his arms across his chest. A conqueror surveying his land. But this conqueror’s shoulders were a little too tense, his head a little too low.

  As if he’d lost his prized possession and not simply one of a hundred birds he’d carved.

  Except he’d lost those birds. All of them. Along with his entire ship. His gold. All his possessions.

  He’d lost everything when he dove off his ship thinking to save her. The bird was merely the last straw. In three short days she’d all but destroyed his life.

  When Rourke finally returned to the campsite, he found Brenna asleep. She lay on her side, curled into a ball as if she were cold. Or miserable.

  Self-loathing washed over him.

  She hadn’t deserved that outburst. He wasn’t even sure where the anger had come from. He’d put little enough effort into the carving. The bird had only begun to take shape. He’d wanted to see if it would fly as much as she had; it wasn’t her fault it had broken.

  The anger had come from elsewhere.

  From the dislike he felt for being in this place of memories, for being so close to the place he’d once called home. And also for a place buried deep inside him, carried on a memory of another time. Another broken bird. A long-necked swan he’d spent painstaking hours carving as a birthday gift for his mother. He’d been but a lad when he’d watched selfish little hands break it the morning of his mother’s birthday, unleashing an anger and a need for vengeance that had ultimately called hell itself down upon his head, destroying everything and everyone he’d loved.

  He couldn’t fight the memories much longer. With every mile closer to Picktillum, he felt the hellhounds gaining on him. His own personal demons snapping at his heels.

  He had to end this and soon. Find Hegarty and get out of here before he went mad.

  As he sat down on the plaid, the lass rolled toward him in sleep. Her expression was not peaceful. Her dreams were not sweet this eve, of that he was certain. Likely she was dreaming of pig headed pirates.

  His hand reached out and lifted a strand of her hair. It was no longer as silky as when she’d first arrived, but still soft, the rich reddish brown was bonnie in the fading light.

  Brenna Cameron. The bane of his existence.

  For so long he’d blamed her. Yet when he thought about the few things she’d told him of her life in the future, he knew she’d lost as much as he. And more. Far more.

  She’d lost not only everything she had, but everything she’d known, when Hegarty called her through time. At least he understood the world in which he lived. And he stood a fighting chance of regaining what had been taken from him. She’d lost all.

  And he wasn’t certain Hegarty would give it back.

  She’d tried to share some of her world with him, teach him something he’d longed to know, and he’d thanked her with anger when the trial went awry.

  He tucked the errant strand behind her ear as he gazed down at the bonnie, yet troubled face that was becoming more familiar to him than his own, and far more dear.

  She hadn’t deserved his anger. It was the whirlpool swirling around them that made him crazed. But for the first time he realized she’d not cast him into the maelstrom—they’d fallen in together. She was not the cause of his troubles. She was as much a victim as he.

  More so.

  If the prophecy had ensnared him, so, too, had it ensnared her. They were in this together. Had always been.

  As he ran a finger over the line of her jaw, her hand reached up and took hold of his own, tucking it close to her heart. He closed his eyes against the flood of soft emotion that wove through him. His plan to send her home sank like a rock to the pit of his stomach.

  Brenna woke to the rising sun, squinting at the yellow orange orb with dismay. She never could sleep past sunrise, which presented something of a problem when the sun rose at 4:30 A.M. She didn’t need a watch to know what time it was. She’d arrived on the summer solstice . . . in both centuries.

  And it was too early to get up.

  She tried to get comfortable, but the stickiness was driving her nuts. Nothing like a saltwater bath to make a person feel gross. And she’d taken two of them.

  Rolling over, she was relieved to find Rourke sleeping soundly a few feet away. He’d stayed by the stream so long she wasn’t sure he meant to return. Two nights in a row, she’d driven him away. She’d tried to stay awake, to apologize to him for all the trouble she’d caused him, but sleep had overtaken her.

  He slept now on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, his other hand resting on the hilt of his long knife. If possible, he looked even more dangerous in sleep, his jaw clenched, his expression hard and uncompromising. She wondered if he was taking out an opponent in his dreams. He wouldn’t kill in his sleep, would he? A real concern since she was the only one within striking distance.

  With that not-so-calming thought she knew she’d never go back to sleep. She shifted again, feeling
like she had sand in her clothes. She probably did.

  On a silent groan, she sat up. He’d bought her soap—if she only had a hot bath to go with it. What she did have was the stream. Definitely not hot, but it was water, and at four in the morning, probably safe from onlookers. A combination she couldn’t resist.

  She grabbed the soap from where she’d laid it on her skirt and made her way down the slope to the shallow river. A cool breeze blew her hair into her face and she tucked the strands behind her ear, wondering at her sanity. That water was like ice—she’d tasted it last night.

  But the night had remained warm and the sun was already rising in a clear blue sky. She’d warm up soon enough. She’d go mad if she didn’t get rid of this stickiness.

  Scanning every direction for sign of an audience, she found only a couple of cows watching from the other bank, so she stripped off her T-shirt and monkey pants. As she slipped her fingers into the waistband of her hot pink bikini panties, she hesitated. They were nylon. They’d dry quickly enough. Leaving them on, she waded knee-deep into the gently flowing ice water.

  Freezing, freezing, freezing.

  Why couldn’t she have gone back in time to Jamaica?

  The soap didn’t lather like the ones at home, but it smelled wonderful and did the trick. Once she’d washed her body, she took a deep breath, more for courage than air, and sank all the way under the surface of the frigid stream.

  Sputtering with the cold, she worked the soap into her hair one hand at a time, careful to keep a good grip on her precious treasure. Finally satisfied she’d done all she could to exorcize the salt water and grime, she leaned forward and rinsed her hair thoroughly. As she squeezed the excess water from her hair, a movement at the top of the rise caught her attention.

  Rourke, his expression hard and angry.

  Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts and started to sink into the water to find some cover, but the water was just too cold. Embarrassment crawled over her skin. If only she could call her clothes out to her, but unfortunately, she’d never taught them that trick. Unless she wanted to risk freezing to death, she was going to have to tough it out and go fetch them herself.

  Dark memories of another time nipped at her courage.

  She could do this. He might be mad, but he wouldn’t hurt her. Even if he was stalking down the hill, his expression thunderous.

  As she started toward the shore, her stomach tied itself in knots and her breath began to come in quick, shallow pants. She’d barely stepped out of the water’s icy grasp when he reached her, looming over her, barely an arm’s reach away.

  With his long hair and his beard stubble, he looked thoroughly disreputable and more than a little dangerous. He won’t hurt me, she told herself over and over, but her pulse began to thud as he stared at her with those cold, pale eyes. “What do ye think you’re doing?” His gaze raked her near nakedness, sending a shiver of fear down her spine.

  Memories crowded her. Naked. Helpless.

  She forced back the rising fear and struggled to keep her shoulders back even as her arms remained locked across her chest. “I needed a bath. Why did you think I wanted soap?” The breeze wafted over her cold, wet skin, bringing back miserable memories of two nights ago when she’d been so cold she thought she’d die.

  Lifting her chin, Brenna tried to step around him, but he blocked her path. She managed a look of annoyance. “Can I get dressed before you rip me to pieces?”

  His expression remained hard. “Ye should have told me you were leaving.”

  “So you could watch me? Maybe join me?”

  His eyes narrowed, darkened, as his gaze slid over her, heat following the chill. He scowled. “Have ye learned nothing of the dangers of this world?”

  “Can we have this discussion after I get dressed? I’m cold, Pirate.”

  His gaze turned hot. Liquid. “Aye. I noticed.” He half choked the words as he reached for her, running his warm finger down the wet skin of her breast to the very tip where her hard nipple touched her arm. Her breath caught. Fire swirled low in her stomach, a heat that seemed forever ready to flame when he came close.

  Why was he so different? Why couldn’t she control her body’s response to him? A moment ago, she’d been half afraid of him, and now she was melting.

  “Ye need to be dry before you dress.” As she watched, bemused, he took off his shirt and began to pat the moisture from her cheeks. She stood rooted as the musky-smelling linen touched her neck, then her shoulders, slowly following the path down her arms she’d taken with her soap. As her skin flushed, she watched him, transfixed by the play of muscles across his broad chest. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the man. He was nothing but tight, hard muscle from the waist up. Below the waist . . .

  The thought made her legs go weak. She was sinking fast into a sea of sensation and heat. When he turned his attention to her breasts, she knew she was lost. He took an inordinate amount of time lifting one, then the other as he dried every inch.

  She longed to feel his hands grip her, craved the touch of his lips. But he was all business in his determination to get her dry. As he abandoned her throbbing, needy breasts, a small groan escaped her lips, drawing a very male smile from him.

  He made quick work of drying her back and abdomen, then knelt before her, encircling first one leg, then the other, lifting away the cold stream water with his shirt.

  Her gaze remained riveted on his bare chest, entranced by the hair that hung loose about his shoulders, mesmerized by his arms rippling with muscle as they worked to dry her legs. His handsome face tight with concentration, he could have stepped out of a fantasy. A very erotic fantasy.

  He ran the shirt up the inside of her thighs again and again, and she suspected the water dripping from her panties was thwarting him. With a growl, he dipped his head and ran his rough, warm tongue up the path the water drops had followed, nearly buckling her knees. Shards of excitement tore across her sensitive skin as his tongue reached the very edge of her panties.

  She gasped and grabbed his head, digging her fingers into his thick hair. A moment ago she’d been freezing. Now she felt only heat. And need. And wondrous anticipation.

  He didn’t disappoint her. His finger slipped beneath the elastic of her panties and pulled the slip of fabric aside. Then he pressed his lips against her, tasting her.

  “Rourke.”

  His tongue ran along the slit of her womanhood, then thrust inside her.

  Pleasure shot down her legs and up into her womb as his clever tongue moved, teasing her, driving her up. His whiskers scratched and tickled her sensitive skin as his warm fingers dug into her thighs, holding her tight. Her own fingers clung to his hair, her hips writhing against his mouth with unbearable need.

  As his tongue retreated, his mouth closed over the place where his tongue had been and began to suckle, driving her quickly over the top. She moaned and held on to him as wave upon wave of intense contractions tore through her, leaving her gasping with pleasure and disbelief.

  Without warning, the pirate stood and swept her into his arms. She looped her arm around his neck and buried her face in his neck as he strode purposefully back to their small camp at the top of the rise. He laid her down on the plaid, then knelt beside her and unbuckled his belt.

  He was going to try to make love to her.

  “Rourke, no.” Brenna scrambled to her feet, searching for her clothes. With dismay, she realized they were still by the water along with her soap. As she turned to fetch them, Rourke rose and gently took hold of her wrist, pulling her around to face him. If he’d been rough, she’d have fought him, but he exerted no force she couldn’t easily escape.

  He gazed down at her with a look of such longing, such sadness, she couldn’t pull away. “I know ye want me.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t. It’s just—”

  He stole her words as his lips covered hers in the sweetest of kisses, carrying her right back into the turbulence of
passion. His fingers slid down her bare back and inside the waistband of her panties, cupping her cold cheeks. Pulling her hips against him, he let her feel his hard arousal, making her want him as much as he wanted her.

  The kiss lost its sweetness, turning hungry. As her arms encircled his neck, his hands moved to cup her breasts. Her mind no longer functioned. She wanted. And the wanting was everything.

  He held her tight and lowered her to the plaid, following her down. Then he was on top of her, his hard arousal pressing against her abdomen through the fabric of his pants.

  Flashes of memory clawed at her. Fear leaped in her chest and she began to push at his muscled chest. She pounded on him with her fists, tried to kick him, to knee him in the balls.

  Rourke leaped off her, his lips full and reddened from her kisses, his expression one of total disbelief.

  Brenna scrambled to her feet, shaking.

  Clothes. She needed clothes. Some defense. Anything.

  She turned and grabbed the blanket off the ground, pulling it around her in a flurry of dust and dirt, then started for the hill. She needed clothes.

  Tears stung her eyes, blinding her. She didn’t even see the pirate until he blocked her path.

  “Wildcat?”

  She tried to dodge around him, but he stopped her, gripping her shoulders with a gentle firmness. As he touched her, she began to sob.

  Rourke stared at the woman before him in utter confusion. He knew women were hard to understand at times, but this one was beyond fathoming.

  He pulled her cautiously into his arms, afraid she would pull away at any moment, but she leaned into him, accepting his comfort.

  She’d been so ready for him, thrusting herself against his tongue, falling apart beneath his mouth. She’d wanted him. Until he’d been ready to make love to her. Once more she’d rejected him.

  Memory of her expression flashed in his mind. Not rejection. Fear. She’d been wild with it.