Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  There had to be a way out of this. She had to find a way home.

  Her body began to quake. She couldn’t draw air into her lungs. Everything lost. Her apartment, her car. Her job.

  My life.

  Gone.

  The quaking turned into hard shivers and she sank onto the bed beside Rourke and curled up into a tight ball.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  “What have I done?”

  She was stuck in the past.

  Brenna paced Rourke’s bedroom. A fire crackled in the hearth, the low flames shadow dancing on the walls of the dark room. It was the middle of the night, but she couldn’t sleep. Her mind leaped from one thought to the next as her emotions pinged-ponged back and forth like a grasshopper trapped in a shoe box.

  Sometime during the night she’d begun to doubt Hegarty would ever be persuaded to send her home. He’d brought her here for a reason, to kill the Earl of Slains. And she wasn’t going to do it. Which meant she probably wasn’t ever going to leave. She’d better figure out a way to live here. But not here. Not Picktillum. She remembered too well what the black cloud that followed her had done to Rabbie’s village. She wouldn’t bring that destruction here. These people had been too kind to her to deserve that fate. Besides, this was Rourke’s home. His family.

  She picked up an apple left from dinner, needing something to occupy her hands as she crossed to the window alcove and back to the hearth in continual, endless pacing.

  No, she had to go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. America was out of the question. In 1687 there wasn’t much in the way of civilization there yet.

  Maybe London. Or even Edinburgh. Somewhere the Earl of Slains wasn’t likely to find her. She could go with Rourke when he left, and travel with him to another port. Somewhere safe. Then she’d find herself work in a kitchen.

  Staying with him wasn’t a possibility. Her fist pressed into her stomach against the knot of misery growing harder by the hour. Of all the times she’d felt lost and alone in her life, this was the worst. Always before she’d believed her dad was out there somewhere, looking for her. That someday he’d find her and take her home. Now she knew she was all alone. The only person on this entire planet who knew where she came from, who knew her at all, was Rourke. But he wanted to go back to sea, and she couldn’t possibly go with him. She’d learned firsthand what it was like being a lone woman aboard a ship full of pirates.

  She had to make a life for herself.

  Her fingers sank into the apple. She could do this. Ever since high school she’d worked in a restaurant doing one job or another. They might not have electric stoves or microwave ovens, but cooking was cooking. She could learn to make things the old-fashioned way.

  But even as she told herself she’d be okay, the shadows seemed to laugh at her. She knew nothing of this ancient, male-dominated world.

  So? She’d learn. She’d fought too long and too hard for her independence to throw it away just because of a little time displacement. A long time ago, she swore she’d never be dependent on anyone again. Somehow she’d manage, even here.

  The apple fell apart in her hands and she tossed the mess into the bowl and wiped her sticky hands on her skirt. Despite her pep talk with herself, fear spiked the air around her. This was a dangerous world, especially for a woman alone. If she was going to survive, she needed to learn to wield a sword and shoot a gun.

  She had to figure out a way to earn money. And buy things. And darn socks. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but people in the olden days always seemed to be darning socks.

  A cold chill seeped into her bones. No more cute novelty socks with cats or Christmas trees. No more malls to sell them. No more grocery stores with food lining every shelf. There would be shortages here: She might not always have enough to eat.

  Never again would she plop down on a comfy sofa in a well-heated room to eat ice cream and watch TV. Never again would she stand under a hot shower and shave her legs. Never again would she drive the Camry she’d saved to buy.

  How long would her beloved car sit in the airport parking lot, waiting for her, before someone finally towed it away?

  Oddly, it was the thought of her Camry that started the tears rolling. She sank onto the chair before the hearth as great sobs tore through her.

  No more cell phones or Girl Scout cookies or rock music. Forever out of her reach were her makeup and Nikes and bras. She couldn’t even reach for a Kleenex. Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she cried even harder.

  I want to go home.

  Her fingers sought comfort from the pendant that had always hung at her neck. But her fingernails scratched her throat, her fingers clawing at nothing. Even her necklace was gone. Her only link to the family she’d lost.

  Wrenching sobs tore through her for what seemed like hours, finally easing to hiccoughs, the tears subsiding to leave her eyes swollen and sore, her head throbbing.

  Exhaustion pulled at her mind and she rose stiffly, unbuttoned the top button of her gown, and let the garment drop to pool around her feet. She stepped out of it and crawled into bed beside Rourke.

  Rolling onto her stomach, she took his hand and pulled it close to her face. Enveloped in his warm, comforting scent, she finally fell asleep.

  The next morning, as the rain pounded on the castle’s many roofs, Brenna sat on the edge of the bed, watching Rourke. He hadn’t appeared to have moved during the night, neither did he move while she took a quick, cold sponge bath and dressed in a pretty pink day dress with the help of a servant.

  She stroked his forehead, letting her fingers linger on the reassuring warmth of his skin. Even in this deepest of sleeps he didn’t seem at peace. His expression wasn’t exactly tense, but neither was it calm, as if whatever demons hounded him when he was awake remained even now.

  A hard rap sounded on the bedroom door and she rose to answer, hoping it was another servant. Preferably one of the cooks this time. She’d confined herself to the room until Rourke woke up, but she was growing increasingly restless with nothing but her own morbid thoughts. So she’d turned to interviewing the servants. She’d thoroughly interrogated the girl who’d brought her breakfast, demanding to know where every one of the ingredients had come from and how the porridge had been prepared. The poor girl had stuttered and stammered that she was just a serving girl, not a cook.

  Brenna had asked her to send up one of the kitchen servants instead. So far, she’d talked to two, learning as much as she could from each.

  She had so much to learn, and since computers and libraries weren’t options, she was going about it the only way she could—asking questions.

  But when she pulled open the door, instead of another kitchen servant, she found two teenage boys struggling to hold a chest between them.

  “We’ve a delivery for the viscount, my lady,” one of them said, grunting with effort.

  Brenna stepped back, pulling the door wide for them. She eyed the chest with confusion and no small amount of wariness. Who knew they were at Picktillum?

  “Do you know who sent this?”

  As the boys set the chest against the wall, one of the pair nodded. “From the Wellerby cottage, the man said.”

  Wellerby . . . ? Hegarty.

  The lad withdrew an envelope from his coat and handed it to her. “This came with it. Feels heavy enough for a key.”

  As soon as the boys left, Brenna’s gaze moved to the chest. It looked like a classic pirate chest with its curved top and iron straps over aged wood. A pirate chest for the pirate. Go figure.

  The envelope began to get heavy in her hands, weighed down by her curiosity.

  The chest wasn’t hers. She had no right to open Rourke’s stuff. Then again, he couldn’t very well do it himself at the moment and there could be something important inside.

  Making her decision, she tore open the envelope and tipped it upside down to find a small iron key and nothing else. Not even a note. Kneeling before the chest, she unlocked it to find a true pirate’s
treasure. Gold coins. Tons of them.

  On top of the gold lay half a dozen small rag bundles.

  She stared at the wealth in wonder. So Hegarty had had Rourke’s gold after all. Rourke probably had enough here to buy himself another ship. If any small hope had lingered that he might not go back to sea, with this it was gone. Going back as a simple sailor might have given him a moment’s pause. But as captain of his own ship? No. It was what he was made for.

  Brenna lifted one of the little rag bundles and felt something hard inside. She carefully unwrapped it to find one of Rourke’s carved birds. A small falcon that she didn’t remember seeing hanging from the rafters in his cabin.

  She unwrapped a second and smiled. In her palm sat a squat little puffin. All he needed was some paint to make him come alive. She settled more comfortably before the chest and lifted out three more bundles until she had a small menagerie of birds sitting on the floor in front of her.

  One bundle remained. With curious fingers, she peeled back the yellowed rag . . . and stared. Goose bumps rose on her skin.

  A bird. It was just a bird.

  She swallowed, hard.

  A bird with a head that was merely an extension of its body. A bird with smooth, straight wings lying perpendicular to the torso with funny little knobs sticking out, one on each side.

  A bird with no feet and a tail that did not lie flat as a bird’s would, but rose straight up like a fin.

  She stared at the thing in her hand with reeling disbelief. “Rourke, you son of a bitch,” she whispered. “Who are you? What game have you been playing?”

  There was no getting around it. The crudely shaped carving was not a bird at all.

  She held in her hand an airplane.

  FOURTEEN

  Rourke blinked against the bright sunlight and yawned.

  “Are you okay?”

  He jerked his head toward the familiar feminine voice. Brenna. She was sitting on the side of his bed, dressed in a pretty gown the same blue as the sky, her sleek, red brown hair hanging loose and lovely around her shoulders.

  Her beauty made him ache.

  “Aye. I’ve gone to heaven, have I not, my angel?”

  He’d thought to earn a smile, but as he gazed into her eyes, he found not the warmth he’d come to know so well, but the cold eyes of a stranger.

  Rourke pushed himself up with effort until he sat on the bed. “What happened, Wildcat?” As he reached for her, she rose and stepped back as if avoiding his touch.

  “How much do you remember?” Her voice was tight. Controlled. Too controlled.

  His brows drew down as he fought through the murk of his memories. All he could see in his mind’s eye was Brenna’s blood. Nay, not Brenna’s. One of the earl’s soldier’s. He’d followed. Rescued her. Brought her to Picktillum.

  His gaze took in the familiar surroundings and he knew they were at Picktillum still. Here, in this castle, he’d made love with her. The memory enthralled him, the thought of her riding him, head thrown back in ecstasy. She’d enchanted him with her abandon and set him aflame as he’d never been before.

  A knock on the door had ended their time together.

  “Cutter.”

  Brenna nodded. “He shot you.”

  Shot. He remembered. His hand moved to his side where he’d been wounded. The traitor had blown a hole in his side. But he felt no pain. The wound was gone.

  “I should be dead.”

  “You were for a minute or two. Hegarty came.”

  “Hegarty.” He breathed the word and lifted his shirt until he could see his side, where the wound should be. There, just above his hip bone, was a small, well-healed scar. The hair rose on his arms as it had when he’d first seen the scar on Brenna’s leg. Hegarty and his unnatural ways. That damned sapphire . . .

  His gaze flew to Brenna’s neck. It was bare of the chain that had always been there. Anger sliced through him. “You gave it to him.”

  His tone was harsh and she answered in kind. “You would have died.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Gone.” Her mouth compressed into an unyielding line and she turned away. “We have to talk.”

  “Aye.” Brenna could no longer go home.

  He felt a swift stab of relief even as the knowledge settled like a rock in his stomach. The lass was his responsibility now. He couldn’t leave her at Picktillum, for the earl would only come looking for her, destroying everything and everyone in his path. As he had twenty years ago.

  No, Rourke would have to take her away. Far away.

  If only he still had the Lady Marie. If only he had his gold. But he would manage somehow. He would secure them passage on a ship to the West Indies, then barter for what they needed until he could find a way to earn coin enough for them to live.

  The rock in his stomach slowly crumbled and dissolved, a measure of relief taking its place as he worked through the problem. Brenna wasn’t going back. He would keep her by his side as together they made a life for themselves far away from the darkness that hounded them here.

  He gazed at her rigid back. “Wildcat. You needn’t worry, lass. I’ll take you with me. I’ll take care of you. Together we’ll ride back to Aberdeen—”

  She whirled and thrust her hand toward him. “We need to talk about this.” In the center of her palm was one of his old carvings. A chill stole over him. That carving. He thought he’d destroyed it years ago.

  “Where did ye get that?” he demanded.

  “Hegarty. He sent your gold. The carving was in the chest.”

  His gold. Returned at last. Now they would have money aplenty. They would buy the Goodhope Plantation . . .

  But the small carving rose like a stone wall between him and his plans. The demand in Brenna’s eyes sent dread curling dark fingers around his throat, cutting off his air.

  “I’ll explain later, Wildcat. I am still recovering, you ken?”

  Her eyebrows soared. She snorted softly. “I ken you’re recovered enough to make excuses. I want an explanation. Now.” Her voice was sharp, lacking any sweetness. She was a warrior once more.

  And he had not the strength to fight her.

  It was about damned time Rourke was awake. For more than a day she’d waited to confront him about what she’d found.

  Brenna sat at the foot of his bed, tapping her foot and watching him coldly. Since yesterday morning, she’d alternated between being furious and feeling utterly betrayed.

  How could he not have told me?

  Rourke moved back against the headboard, looking as weary as an old man despite the healthy glow to his skin and the clear vibrancy of his guilt-ridden eyes. He stretched his legs, brushing her hip with his bare toes.

  She scooted back, avoiding him. She’d thought she knew him, thought she understood what made him tick. Now she knew she’d never understood him at all.

  He nodded toward the carving. “What do ye think it is?”

  She shot him a scowl. “I know what it is. It’s an airplane. You’re from the future, too, aren’t you?” She searched his eyes, feeling betrayed all over again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His mouth twisted ruefully and he looked tired, exhausted, but she had little sympathy for him. He’d lied to her. Perhaps only by omission, but it was a huge omission.

  He closed his eyes as if to escape her glare. “I am not from your world.”

  His words sunk in as she cupped the small plane in her palm. “Then how did you . . . ?”

  Slowly, he opened his eyes and met her stare, his expression taught and tense, like a man about to face an operation without anesthetic. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the ceiling as if gathering his thoughts. Or his courage.

  Finally, he met her gaze with those pale, intense eyes. His tension bled into her. She was suddenly afraid she didn’t want to know what he had to say.

  “Brenna. You are not from that world where you grew up. You’re from this one. Ye were born here twenty-five years ago.”


  She heard the words, but their meaning eluded her. Born. Here? “You’re wrong.”

  “I told you about the prophecy, aye? You were little more than a bairn when the Cruden Seer named you as the one who would be the Earl of Slains’s downfall. Barely five summers, ye were.”

  Denial flashed hot and then cold. She pushed off the bed and strode into the window alcove, needing to escape. “I wasn’t born here.” She turned back to him. “You’re wrong, Rourke.”

  “Nay.” He closed his eyes, his expression taut. “’Tis time you knew . . . everything.”

  A pounding started in her ears. She didn’t want to hear this. She didn’t want to listen to this nonsense. Did he think she was a complete moron? She strode back to the bed. “I don’t know who you think I am, but I was not born in the seventeenth century. I know that much.”

  “Do you?”

  The pounding in her ears intensified. “Of course.”

  “You remember being four or five in that place?”

  Did she? She remembered coming to America. Before that, only a few flashes of memory. The man during the storm. A woman singing her to sleep. Riding a horse. She remembered now, there had been horses everywhere.

  Doubts began to slip in. She’d never found any evidence of her family in Scotland. No record of her birth. No record of anyone looking for her. When she’d gone in search of her family, the only one who had recognized her name had been the old Earl of Slains. You burned this castle three hundred years ago, Brenna Cameron. You’ll not do it again!

  An icy chill slid down her spine. It couldn’t be true.

  Rourke opened his eyes and caught her gaze. “Listen, Wildcat. Then decide, eh?”

  Brenna felt as if the ground was shifting beneath her feet and she sank onto the bed beside him. “I don’t want to hear this,” she whispered.

  “Aye, lass. I ken that. But hear it ye must. The time is past for you to know. The Earl of Slains was outraged that a bairn, a lass no less, was to be his destruction. He ordered you killed.”