Sapphire Dream

by Pamela Montgomerie

  “Rourke. We can’t do this.”

  But his tongue replaced his lips and sent fire shimmering through her blood. His hands went around her, his palms sliding up her rib cage to cup her breasts. Her head lolled to the side, then fell back against his shoulder as she released a low moan.

  She was losing control faster than she could call it back, and couldn’t remember why she cared. Rourke’s hands were gentle as those clever fingers turned their magic to her breasts, kneading and caressing through the fabric of her gown.

  He nipped at her earlobe. “I want ye, Wildcat.” His voice was low and strained as he whispered against her sensitive flesh. “Let me ease your body in other ways.”

  Bad idea. Bad idea. The words kept going through her head even as she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck, demanding his kiss. Passion flared.

  Her senses swam in his taste, his scent, the feel of his hands roaming her body with barely controlled urgency. As one they rose, pulling off clothing with shaking hands until they stood facing one another, the firelight flickering over their naked skin.

  She stared at Rourke, at the play of light over the ridges of muscle.

  He covered her bare breasts lightly, reverently. “So bonnie. Yer the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Wildcat.” As one hand stayed on her breast, the other tracked lower, dipping between her legs. A single finger delved into her wet heat.

  Brenna groaned, melting from that erotic touch. She wanted more. Her fingers closed around his erection, eliciting a hard groan from his throat.

  “I need you, Pirate.”

  He kissed her hard, then swept her into his arms and strode the few feet to the bed. But instead of laying her on the mattress, he set her on the floor, lay down on his back, and tugged her onto him.

  Without hesitation, she straddled his hips and took him deep inside, riding him until they both lay sated and spent.

  Rourke’s hand stroked her back. The flesh where she lay on top of him was damp with sweat. But there was no room on the bed on either side for her to roll off of him. There would be no sharing this bed even if they wanted to, unless they stayed where they were, one on top of the other.

  Finally, she got up and pulled on her shift to act as a nightgown. Rourke spread a blanket on the floor and lay down, naked as she settled on the bed.

  “Sleep, Wildcat. Sleep well.”

  “You too, Pirate.”

  But as she curled up on the bed alone, she knew her dreams would be haunted by the emptiness stretching in front of her.

  The next morning, Brenna was strung so tight she was afraid she was going to snap. With every mile, as they drew nearer to Deveron House and the family she’d lost, her tension tightened another turn. If only she could figure out a way to get Rourke to give her another of those body-melting massages as she rode.

  She glanced at him and he met her gaze, his head dipping in a silent nod as if he sensed how nervous she was and reminded her she could do this. And he’d be right beside her when she did.

  That simple nod, and the warmth in his eyes, calmed her, settling her nerves. Why? Why did she need him so much? She feared he was a weakness she couldn’t afford.

  The miles passed at once slowly and all too quickly.

  “We are nearly upon it,” Angus announced a few hours later.

  Brenna’s heart cramped with apprehension. They were almost there. Home. Her father. Her family.

  What would they think of her? They weren’t likely to be pleased. Her manners were good for the society in which she’d been raised, but she remembered Aunt Janie harping at her constantly as a young girl about things that none of her friends were required to do or say. Things she was now certain she should have learned. If only she could remember what they were.

  As they turned off the main road onto a treelined drive, a strange excitement leaped within her. I know this place. The memories weren’t clear, only the knowledge that she’d been there before.

  Through the trees Brenna caught a glimpse of a house. A mansion. Her stomach knotted. She wanted to tell them to stop. Not yet. She wasn’t ready.

  What would they say? If only she could snatch up her cell phone and call first. Warn them she was coming.

  As they approached a turn, she knew suddenly it would be the last before the house came into view. Brenna held her breath, waiting for the first sight of home since she’d left so suddenly when she was five.

  She barely noticed as the men in front of her pulled up as they rounded the corner, so anxious was she to see her home. She pushed between them only to freeze as her gaze caught sight of what had stopped them. Ice congealed in her veins. Her head began to pound as emotions tore through her. Horror. Anger. Fury at the fates for letting her come so close before snatching it all away.

  Before her stood not the home of her childhood that she’d dreamed of and longed for all her life, but a singed, eyeless stone shell.

  Deveron House had burned.

  SIXTEEN

  “It happened recently,” Angus said. “The smell of smoke is still strong.”

  Brenna’s head pounded. Her chest felt as if it would explode. She wanted to scream. It’s not fair. She’d waited so long. So long.

  What if her father had died?

  She urged her mare forward, pushing between the two riders in front of her.

  “Wildcat,” Rourke called, but she was driven by a need and a fear that overshadowed everything else.

  She’d barely gone ten yards when her horse balked. Clearly, her mount did not share her desire to race toward the scene of this latest disaster.

  Rourke pulled up beside her. “She fears the smell of smoke.”

  Anguish tore through Brenna as she dismounted. “I have to know if he died.” She started up the dirt road on foot, half running, half walking, heart thundering in her ears.

  “Wildcat, wait!” His footsteps pounded behind her.

  The memory of Rourke’s tying her in the cave made her hackles rise and she swung toward him, feet braced, ready for a fight.

  “Don’t you dare try to stop me. This is my home. I have every right to find out what happened.”

  He met her gaze, his jaw clenched. Finally, he nodded. “I’ll tend ye.”

  She turned and continued toward the burned-out structure, her gaze taking in the charred grasses surrounding the mansion. Two trees that had stood nearby had been reduced to burnt timbers. It must have been a heck of a blaze.

  Please let him have gotten out.

  Deveron House was a huge, gray stone building, large and symmetrical with dozens of hollow windows laid out in neat, black-tinged rows. Chimneys popped out of the crumbling roof at regular intervals, while the front door hung askew, charred and broken.

  As they reached the stone stairs leading to the door, Rourke grabbed her arm.

  Brenna jerked him loose. “Don’t try to stop me.”

  “Think with yer head, Wildcat, not your anger. The floors will be unstable and the last of the roof looks ready to drop at the slightest provocation. Go around instead. There may be another way to see inside without endangering yourself.”

  Reason hadn’t completely deserted her. He was right, dammit.

  She brushed past him as she ran down the steps, then with angry strides crossed the charred grass to the back of the mansion. Behind the house, a low wall encircled an intricate garden, amazingly untouched by the fire. To one side of the garden a building stood, equally untouched, that looked to be stables. To the other side, a low-roofed wing jutted out from the back of the house that didn’t appear to be as badly burned.

  Rourke was eyeing the wing. “Wait here, Wildcat. I wish to see what’s there. If ’tis safe, we can go in together, aye?”

  She just stared at him as he strode away. He didn’t even hear himself. Stay here. Wait here. Be a good little girl.

  All she wanted to do was lop off someone’s head, preferably whoever set this fire. If it had been set. She supposed the house could have burned by accident.
But it seemed somehow fitting that the black cloud of disaster that was following her around had gotten ahead of her this time.

  She watched Rourke a moment longer, then turned and headed for the gray stone building she’d decided was a stable. As she rounded the corner, she saw one of the doors was ajar. Good. She wouldn’t have any trouble getting inside.

  “Wildcat!”

  Brenna growled under her breath. Her keeper had discovered she hadn’t waited where he’d told her to. Well, he could just go to hell. She slipped inside the stable doors, the light dim, her eyes all but blind until they adjusted.

  She heard a sound barely a second before a large, strong hand grabbed her arm. “Who are ye?” a harsh voice demanded.

  Behind her, the door swung wide and the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn filled the quiet stables. Rourke, coming to her rescue, no doubt.

  I don’t need rescuing, dammit! All the frustration, all the anger boiling inside her found a target, and she spun and slammed her knee into her assailant’s groin with bone-jarring accuracy.

  The man, who looked rather young now that her eyes were adjusting, let out a strangled yell as he released her and doubled over.

  Hah. Bull’s-eye. Skirts and all.

  “Drop your sword.”

  Brenna jumped back out of the reach of the man she’d just attacked as a second man stepped out of one of the stalls—a big man with a bigger gun pointed right at Rourke’s heart.

  Please God, not again. There was no Hegarty to save him this time.

  Rourke shoved his sword into his belt and raised his hands slowly. “We mean no harm.” His gaze flicked to the groaning man and then to her. “I mean ye no harm.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she muttered. Her gaze returned to the man she’d injured. He was young, she realized as he raised his head to glare at her. He was lean and looked to be rather tall, though it was hard to tell about his height when he was bent double.

  The wicked-looking knife at his waist caught her attention and she backed closer to Rourke. Her gaze swiveled to the man holding the gun. This one looked more like a line-backer for the Baltimore Ravens—broad face, mile-wide shoulders. Neither of the men were dressed like dandies, nor were they in rags. Just pants and shirts similar to the ones Rourke wore. On the linebacker’s head was a round, floppy hat with a sprig of some kind of wildflower pinned to it.

  “Who are ye?” the big man demanded, his gun still pointed at Rourke’s middle.

  “Rourke Douglas. Viscount Kinross.”

  The man’s eyes widened. Slowly he dropped the muzzle of his gun.

  “Are ye kin to Alexander?” Rourke asked.

  The man nodded slowly. “Aye. I am his nephew.” He nodded toward the victim of Brenna’s attack. “Malcolm is his son.”

  Rourke reached for Brenna and cupped her shoulder. “Ye may be wishing to apologize, Wildcat. Ye may have just ended your own family line.”

  Brenna looked at him with confusion. “I what?”

  “Ye’ve just unmanned your brother.”

  Her pulse leaped as her wide-eyed gaze went from Rourke to the man and back again. “My . . . ?”

  Rourke lifted his brows ruefully. “Brother.”

  “Oops.”

  “My . . . sister . . . is dead,” Malcolm grunted. He tried to straighten, then groaned and doubled over once more.

  She looked at the downed man with shocked dismay. Brother? I have a brother?

  “Brenna?” The elder of the two Camerons took a step toward her, his gun hanging at his side. “Is it truly you, lass?”

  Her scalp tingled as she met his searching gaze. “I’m Brenna Cameron.”

  Suddenly a grin broke over his face. “Aye, and I should ha’ known.” He laughed, a deep hearty sound, and glanced at Rourke. “He calls ye Wildcat. An apt name, for you were always a wild wee thing.”

  He took another step toward her. “You dinna remember me, lass, but I was a great favorite of yours once. Your cousin, Hamilton, I am. I’m ten years your senior and you tagged along after me like a duckling to her mam. I used to carry you on my shoulders when you got big enough to hold on. We were a pair, we were. I missed you heartily when you left.”

  A wisp of a memory teased her mind. “I remember.” She was starting to shake. “Hamilton. I called you Ham and Eggs.”

  The man chuckled. “Aye, you did, then you fell on the ground laughing at your own jest. Every time.” His eyes sobered, a sorrow entering them. “Where have you been, Brenna?”

  The enormity of the answer nearly overwhelmed her. I’ve been three hundred years in the future, driving a machine sixty miles an hour while listening to music played by a band that wasn’t there on my way home to watch people on the other side of the world from a small box in my cool living room during the heat of the summer. I returned home by flying over the Atlantic Ocean inside the belly of a great steel bird.

  “I’ve been lost,” she told him. “I didn’t know how to get home.”

  “But you’re here now. You’ve come home at last.”

  Brenna nodded, needing to ask the question she most dreaded. “I’m looking for my father. Is he still alive?”

  Malcolm growled.

  Hamilton’s face lost all sign of humor. “I canna say, lass. He was taken two days past by the earl’s soldiers.”

  The earl’s soldiers.

  This couldn’t be happening. Two days. Twenty years she’d waited to see him again, and she’d missed him by two days?

  “Why? Why did the earl take him?”

  “He wanted you. His soldiers threatened to set fire to the house, then slaughter all who escaped unless he gave you up. But you werena here.”

  She curled her arm around her middle, reeling from the words. “How many died?” Because of her. She hadn’t realized she’d swayed until Rourke grabbed her arm, righting her.

  “Thankfully, none. Alex convinced them you were not here and agreed to go with them in your stead. They still torched the house, but not until all had escaped unharmed.”

  Brenna heard the words as if from a distance, through a thick, blanketing mist of bloodred fury.

  She jerked free of Rourke’s supporting hold. “That goddamn son of a bitch.”

  Hamilton’s eyes widened.

  “She is no lady,” Malcolm gasped behind her.

  “They’re taking my father back to Stour. God knows what they’ll do to him. I’m going after him.” She whirled and pushed past Rourke and out of the stable into the muted sunshine.

  “Brenna!” Hamilton yelled.

  “Wildcat!”

  Rourke and Hamilton caught up with her before she made it to the back corner of the house.

  “Brenna, wait,” Hamilton said. “You dinna understand.”

  Brenna slowed only fractionally. “The Earl of Slains wants me dead,” she spat. “He’s wanted me dead for twenty years, ever since some idiot seer told him I’d cause his destruction. He burned Rourke’s castle and killed his parents when they tried to protect me. Now he’s torched my family’s home and taken my father until you give me up to him. This isn’t going to end until one of us is dead.” She shot him a hard look. “How am I doing so far?”

  “Aye, well, mayhap you do understand. But you canna simply go after him.”

  She picked up her skirts and strode angrily toward the front of the house. “Watch me.”

  Rourke grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Brenna, wait.”

  She glared at him, then flicked her gaze to his crotch. “You’re risking your posterity.”

  To his credit, he blanched only a little. “A battle such as this must be waged with care. I dinna deny your right to wage it, but—”

  “Since when?”

  He sighed. “I wouldna have ye rush in and get yourself killed.”

  She was shaking, the hatred choking her. But he was right. As much as she wanted to go in, knee swinging, she couldn’t take on an entire castle single-handedly.

  Her gaze went to her brother as he
hobbled toward them, leading two horses. In the muted sunshine, his hair shone as auburn as her own. A brother.

  Glimmers of memory curled through her mind. Little Malcolm leaning on the other side of their mother as she told them a bedtime story. His hand tucked into hers as they snuck out to the stables to watch the horses being saddled. His warm body tucked against hers in bed at night.

  Brenna shook her thoughts out of the past and turned her gaze from Rourke to Hamilton and back again. “I agree we need a plan. But the Earl of Slains is mine.”

  Malcolm scoffed as he joined them. “Yer naught but a lass. What can you do?”

  She glanced meaningfully at his crotch. “If I’d wanted to kill you, you’d be dead, little brother.”

  Malcolm scowled at her and stepped toward her as if he might strike her.

  Rourke moved between them. “Wildcat, he’s your kin. You’ll show him the proper respect.”

  Brenna clenched her jaw on the choking frustration. Malcolm was right. What could she do? If she could will the Earl of Slains dead, he’d be frying by now. But this wasn’t a battle of wills or brains. This battle required brute force and skillful wielding of a powerful weapon. And she sorely lacked both.

  Then again, she might just know something that even the Earl of Slains didn’t know. Something that could give her the ultimate advantage.

  “Maybe I can’t take on the earl. But I can help rescue my father.”

  “Nay,” Malcolm spat. “You will remain with the women where you belong.”

  “We will discuss this with the council,” Hamilton said.

  But the younger man was not appeased. “I am acting chieftain of this clan in my father’s stead. I make the decisions.”

  Hamilton clapped him on the shoulder. “Still, we must consult the council, aye, for of a certainty this affects us all.”

  “We should turn her over to the earl and be done with it.” The look Malcolm shot her was laced with hatred.

  Something inside her shriveled. What had she done?

  “Malcolm.” She wasn’t certain what she would say to him. She only knew she had to say something.