Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  The sun beat warm on her shoulders. Too warm, so she turned with leaden feet and returned to the coolness of the cave. As she sank down onto the rock, her gaze caught the contents of his bundle, wrapped loosely in his discarded pants. He’d left her the food. And her soap.

  She pressed her fingers to her closed eyelids.

  He hadn’t betrayed her. She hated the way he’d handled it, but she knew deep down he’d done it to protect her. He was captain of his ship, used to giving orders. She wasn’t used to following them, which he knew all too well by now, so he’d avoided the confrontation altogether.

  He’d come back for her.

  If he could.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she first heard it. Faint thunder, but continuous . . . and moving closer.

  Horses. More than a couple. Three? Maybe four?

  Brenna jumped up and moved toward the mouth of the cave, then stopped. She needed to stay hidden. The pirate knew where to find her. If he wasn’t one of the riders, she didn’t want to be found.

  The pounding of the horse’s hooves grew stronger, echoing the beating of her heart. They sounded as if they were coming straight for her.

  She dug out her knife.

  Please let them go by and not see the cave.

  She heard the horses slow, stop. But there were no voices, no sound of men at all.

  Moments later shadows darkened the mouth of the cave and three men stepped into the opening, swords drawn. Two wore blue coats. The third man faced her, an evil, leering grin slicing across a heavily pock marked face.

  Cutter.

  Rourke rode toward Monymusk, his heart heavy as iron. Brenna’s green eyes, clouded with confusion, brittle with the knowledge of betrayal, haunted him.

  He’d had to do it. There had been no other way.

  But the knowing brought no relief to the hollow ache in the pit of his stomach.

  As guilt rode his shoulders, he vowed to make it up to her by finding Hegarty and convincing the wee troll to send her back where she belonged. He knew he could do it. He’d want his sapphire, of course, but Hegarty could take her there himself, then return with his gem. And Rourke would insist he did. Brenna needed to be away from here. He wanted her safe.

  Ahead rose the familiar sight of the town where he’d spent so many hours as a lad. Here he’d gotten into his first fistfight at the age of seven and stolen his first kiss from pretty Isobel McPherson at the age of nine. Here his mother had taken him for sweet treats and his father had bought him his first knife.

  Here, burning with vengeance over a minor injustice, he’d brought the evil of the Earl of Slains down upon them all. The lad within him who was to inherit Picktillum had died that day, twenty years ago. Rourke had spent two-thirds of his life keeping him buried. He was not resurrecting him now.

  A pox on Hegarty for his meddling. For all his strange and sly ways, Hegarty poked and prodded him like the worst of fishwives. Indeed, there were times when he’d likely not have survived if Hegarty hadn’t appeared, weaving in and out of his life at critical moments.

  His knuckles turned white on the reins as he urged the horse forward. He would not find Hegarty by standing out here. And he would not be rid of the ghosts of his past until he accomplished what he’d come for.

  As he rode toward the village, he stopped a tall youth leading a cow.

  “Slains’s soldiers. Are they here?”

  The lad’s eyes widened. “Nay. Are they comin’?”

  “Aye. I fear so.” Had he gotten here ahead of them? As ready as he was to fight Cutter to the death, it was far better to snatch Hegarty and be away before the soldiers’ arrival.

  “Och, ’tis a dark day, then.” The lad tugged harder on the cow’s lead, hurrying away.

  As Rourke continued toward the village, he wondered if he’d truly beaten them here or if the trap they’d laid for him was farther out. They were likely watching the roads into town. The main road from the east, in particular. But Rourke and Brenna had circled around and Rourke had entered town from the west. They’d not have been expecting that. Mayhap his fortunes were beginning to turn.

  The village bustled with activity, people scurrying about their business before the dark clouds on the horizon dumped their rain. Monymusk was much as he remembered, though smaller somehow. He’d grown since then.

  Without giving conscious thought to his destination, Rourke found himself before the door of Jamie McBean’s, his favorite shop as a lad. Memory crashed over him. He wanted nothing to do with the place, but even as the thought pounded through his brain, his hands and knees urged his mount forward, directly toward the shop. As if pulled by an invisible force, he dismounted and tied up his horse, then climbed the stairs to the merchant’s.

  A small bell tinkled as he pushed through the door. Memories assailed him with the familiar scents of new linen, tangy cinnamon, and spun wool. His gaze took in the shelves stocked high with fabrics in every weight and hue. Everything from ribbons and buttons to caps and spectacles lined the shelves. A glass case in the back was filled with sweet candies as it always had been.

  He had a sudden vivid memory of walking into this shop, his father beside him—the viscount and his whelp. The shopkeep had treated them like royalty, offering Rourke a piece of candy—a cinnamon drop, his favorite.

  The memory was painful, but strangely pleasing, for he’d long ago banished such thoughts from his mind. The good years. The happy years. Long, long gone.

  The shopkeep of his memory stepped out of the back, wiping his hands on his apron. He’d aged much over the intervening years. His once dark hair was now white and thinning. But as he adjusted his spectacles and peered at Rourke, he somehow seemed the same as he’d always been.

  “Can I help ye?”

  “Mr. McBean.”

  “Aye.” The man squinted, eyeing him with faint recognition. “Do I know ye?”

  Rourke suddenly regretted speaking the name aloud. “Nay. I’m looking for a man. He’s—”

  “Rourke,” the man said suddenly, a grin blooming on his weathered face, revealing large gaps in the rows of his teeth. “It’s ye, isn’t it? All growed up. We heard ye was alive.”

  Before he could answer, he heard the sound of footfalls on the steps outside. Grabbing his sword, he turned as a matronly woman entered the shop behind him.

  “Maggie!” McBean exclaimed. “Ye’ll ne’er guess—”

  Rourke shoved his sword back in its scabbard and hooked his arm around the old proprietor’s shoulders. “I have need of a word with ye.” He led the man into the back of the shop.

  When they were out of earshot of the store, he turned the man to face him. “No one must know I’m here.”

  “Are ye in trouble, lad?”

  “Aye, in a manner of speaking. I’m looking for a man. A dwarf, about this high.” He held his hand even with the bottom of his rib cage. “Red hair. You’d know if you’d seen him, aye?”

  The proprietor scratched his chin. “I havena seen such a creature, but I’ll ask around for ye, if ye’d like.”

  “I havena much time.”

  “Yer sure he’s here?”

  Rourke sighed. “He told me to meet him here, but nay. I’m sure of nothing.”

  The shopkeep started toward the front, motioning Rourke. “Maggie will know. Maggie McCloud knows everything that goes on in this town, oft before it happens.”

  With reluctance, Rourke followed him back to the front where the wide-girthed woman admired a collection of ribbon. She looked at Rourke with great interest as McBean approached her.

  “Have ye seen any strange little men in town in the past days, Maggie? This lord is searching for a redheaded dwarf, if ye can be believing such a creature exists.”

  The woman eyed Rourke with interest. “A lord, are ye? Och, and ye have the Douglas eyes.” She peered at him suspiciously. “Are ye of the castle then?”

  “Nay,” Rourke said curtly. If he was not careful, the entire village would
soon know of his arrival. “The dwarf, mistress. I would know if you’ve seen him.”

  “Well, now, I’ve seen no such creature.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Though ’tis said there’s something strange going on at the Wellerby cottage. For two nights now, passersby have heard laughter and cackling, and strange, eerie singing, but when they’ve knocked, Old Inghinn refuses them in. Says she’s entertaining none but herself.”

  Rourke turned to the merchant. He remembered the cottage. “Is hers still on the north road?”

  “Aye. Ye’ll know it by the red door.”

  Rourke thanked him and leaned close. “Say naught, I beg of you.”

  Mr. McBean nodded unhappily. “ ’ Tis time you came home, laddie.”

  Rourke shook his head. “I cannot.” He turned, and with a polite nod to the matron, left the shop, the bell tinkling after him. Keenly alert for signs of Cutter or the soldiers, he mounted and kept to the side streets as he made his way through the town.

  The Wellerby cottage stood much as he remembered. As a lad, he’d heard it said a witch lived there. A fitting place to find Hegarty, to be sure.

  The red door stood open. A toothless old crone perched on a stool out front, beneath a large elm, plucking a hen. Two cats played at her feet.

  “Excuse me,” Rourke said when he reached the low, gated wall. “Are ye Inghinn, perchance?”

  The woman eyed him balefully. “And who would be askin’?”

  “I’m looking for a friend. A man by the name of Hegarty. About this high, red hair.”

  “I havena seen anyone.” She went back to her plucking.

  “Old mistress, if ye do meet such a man, will ye tell him Rourke got his missive and awaits him? ’Tis most urgent I find him.”

  To his surprise, she met his gaze. “What stone does yer lass wear?”

  “My lass?”

  “Aye.”

  Stone? Of course. Hegarty had been here. “A sapphire, mistress.”

  The woman nodded. “’Tis time that one returned, though I’ll have Hegarty’s hide if’n he doesna get me my amethyst. You’ll be coming inside, then, to await his return.”

  Rourke went through the gate. “He’s not here?”

  “Nay. He’ll return this eve.” She eyed him sharply. “Where is the lass?”

  “Safe.”

  Before the red door she stopped and looked at him with shrewd eyes, a touch of pity in their depths. “Nay, lad. She’s not.”

  “I assure you . . .” But even as he said the words, cold seeped into his veins. The woman before him was a friend of Hegarty’s with all his unnatural ways. A witch.

  “You know she’s not safe.”

  “Aye.”

  His blood turned to ice.

  Without a word he turned and ran for his mount. Cutter and the soldiers weren’t awaiting him as he’d expected. They must have been trailing them.

  Brenna.

  He vaulted into the saddle and urged the horse into a run. Dirt flew out behind as they shot down the lane. Brenna was well hidden. Cutter wouldn’t find her. Please don’t let them find her.

  Villagers ran for safety as he rode at a full gallop back through the center of town. Never had the miles passed so slowly as they did as he raced back toward the hills. Finally, he reached the track leading to the cave and noted the recent marks of multiple horses. His heart plummeted.

  Rourke drew his sword, rode up the path, and dismounted, approaching silently. No sound met his ears. He swung into the cave. Empty.

  “Wildcat!”

  But even as the word echoed off the walls, he saw it. The large pool of fresh blood lying on the floor.

  “Nay.” They had not killed her. He would not let it be so.

  She had a knife. Maybe she had sorely injured one of her attackers before being dragged away. It was her attacker’s blood he saw. Not hers.

  It cannot be hers.

  But as he scanned the cave, he caught sight of her knife lying discarded, clean and unused. He could not even hope she’d gone after him, for not far from the knife lay the food he’d left with her. And her soap.

  His throat ached with despair. His fingers closed around the soap and he lifted it to his nose to drink in the clean scent of heather that had enveloped her that day. The joy in her eyes at the simple gift swam in his memory, mocking him.

  Fury, raw and primitive, rose up to choke him. He’d been a fool to leave her alone. Unprotected. In a fit of self-loathing, he threw the soap against the wall, shattering it, then strode from the cave.

  Cutter would die this day. They all would, every last man.

  He leaped onto his mount and took off in a spray of dust, vowing to find her. He’d not give up until she was back in his arms.

  Even if there was naught left to be done but bury her.

  ELEVEN

  The wind slashed at Rourke’s face, whipping his hair into his eyes, driving stinging rain across his cheeks as he rode his mount hard over the moors. The tracks that led from the cave had skirted the main road and cut toward the northeast. He continued in the direction the tracks had begun, though now the rain obscured any sign of the horses. All he could do was pray he followed correctly, for the alternative was not worth thinking about.

  His hands clenched the reins tighter, his palms sore from the bite of the leather. His jaw ached. His heart thudded, pounding a desperate beat in rhythm with the racing horse.

  Brenna. Brenna. Brenna.

  He had to find her before the soldiers reached the Earl of Slains. Before they killed her.

  If she wasn’t dead already.

  Guilt devoured him. He deserved to hang, to be drawn and quartered, his entrails shoved down his throat. Brenna’s cry would haunt him for the rest of his days. Rourke, don’t do this! Please don’t leave me here like this. He’d seen the fear in her eyes just before it dissolved into a warrior’s promise of vengeance. But he’d ignored her demand as he had her plea, arrogantly sure of the rightness of his actions. He’d left her tied and helpless.

  No, not helpless. The wildcat had taken down half his crew with her bare hands. She was never helpless.

  He clung to that thought like a drowning sailor to a useless splinter of driftwood. He’d seen the blood. Blood her knife had not drawn.

  As the landscape before him rose in a gradual slope, he rode on. Cresting the hill, he saw movement far below.

  Blue-coated riders. Soldiers.

  The rain grew stronger, slashing sideways as if even the wind sought to punish him. Drops obscured his vision.

  He swiped the water from his eyes as he urged his mount faster. Three horses. Only two riders, and neither of them Brenna. Or Cutter.

  It was not them. He’d not found them after all.

  Despair crashed over him like a storm wave.

  Where is she?

  He was soaked to the skin and chilled from the inside out. These were not the soldiers he sought. But even as the thought went through his head, he noticed something curious. The third horse was not riderless. Across the saddle hung a third, blue-coated figure.

  Lifeless.

  Hope flickered within him. Could the blood in the cave belong to the dead soldier? The hope was doused moments later as he caught sight of a flash of white bobbing near the knee of one of the riders. A lady’s cap still upon the head of the lady.

  Brenna. He was sure of it. But she was as limp and lifeless as the dead soldier draping the third horse.

  Blood pounded in his head. Denial flashed quick and hot through his brain. She was not dead.

  But even as the denial sliced through him, so did the rage, white-hot, liquid fire.

  He urged his mount into a full gallop and raced down the hillside, the wind lifting the edges of his sodden plaid, sending the last remnants of the stinging rain over his thighs. He pulled his sword and lifted it high as bloodlust raced savagely through him, making him feel as wild and barbarous as his Highland ancestors.

  One of the soldiers must have heard him for
he turned, spotted him, then called to his companion. As the soldier holding Brenna urged his mount into a run, to escape, the other turned to fight.

  Rourke gave free rein to the war cry that had been building in his chest since he saw them. His enemy pulled his gun and fired, but the shot went wide. The soldier drew his sword instead.

  Rourke could ill afford to fight the man. Not with Brenna’s captor disappearing with her over the next rise. He shoved his sword into his scabbard and pulled his gun.

  He had one chance, one shot.

  He aimed at the soldier who’d tried to kill him, and fired. Rourke did not miss. The man flew from the saddle and plummeted to the ground. His now riderless horse danced skittishly into the mount carrying the dead soldier.

  Without slowing, Rourke shoved the spent gun into his belt and took off after Brenna and her assailant. He bent low, urging his mount on, cresting the rise to see them below. The distance slowly closed between them.

  The wind blew wet strands of hair across his face as anguish tore another cry from his lungs. “Brenna!”

  If she were conscious she would have heard him. He prayed for some sign that she had, for some movement, but saw nothing to give him hope.

  He started to draw his sword, then hesitated. How was he to swing with Brenna’s prone form within his striking arc? Every thrust, every strike, would endanger her.

  But even as he slammed his sword back into its scabbard, deciding he could not risk it, the soldier circled his mount to face Rourke’s oncoming charge and he had no choice but to defend himself.

  The soldier raced toward him, his face alight with battle, his sword held high, Brenna’s lifeless form across his lap. The clash of metal against metal rang over the heath as Rourke parried blow for blow. He was stronger than his opponent, but never had he fought with such fear that his blade stroke would be too long, would pierce that which he did not intend. The sooner he ended the clash, the better.

  With a quick, hard swipe, he knocked the sword out of the soldier’s hand. But the man was quick. Before Rourke could finish what he’d begun, the soldier pulled his dagger and raised it, point down, over Brenna’s back.