Sapphire Dream (Berkley Sensation)

by Pamela Montgomerie

  Brenna’s heart stopped beating for an instant before taking off like a flock of doves. She’d found him.

  The guide let an expletive escape under his breath. “The one time I don’t want him to be around.” He shrugged. “That was the earl’s granddaughter. Apparently he’s chosen to use the cave this morn. I’ll not be able to show you the tunnel.”

  A chorus of disappointed murmurs filled the small space as the guide motioned them out of the pantry. Brenna hung back, taking off her jacket in a sudden flush of nervous heat. As the tourists disappeared out the pantry door, Brenna whirled and grabbed one of the shelves, swinging the hidden door open. She slipped through and closed it behind her, holding her breath as she waited for someone to reach through and snatch her back.

  The sound of small, bare feet raced away from her, down the long, primitive tunnel that wound through the rock, echoing the pounding of her heart. The musty smell of damp stone enveloped her in the dimly lit space.

  She took a deep, unsteady breath, pushed away from the wall, and started into the cave, stepping lightly, silently, over the uneven rock. Her pulse raced. Her scalp grew damp with sweat at the prospect of confronting the earl. But she wanted to know, dammit. She needed to know why she’d been abandoned.

  Her father had loved her. She was sure of it.

  Her fingers reached for the comfort of the sapphire at her throat as the only memory left to her of those early years brushed over her. He’d held her in strong arms, tight against his chest, as the winds of a brewing storm whipped her straight auburn hair in a frenzy around her face. She’d laughed at the feel of it. His answering laughter had rumbled in his chest, filling her with joy. Then he’d lifted her high, twirling her once as he grinned at her with pure adoration.

  She remembered the rain had started, and he’d tucked her against his chest, shielding her as he’d run for cover. Keeping her safe.

  He’d loved her, dammit. He’d loved her. Why had he let Janie take her away? Why hadn’t he come when she’d needed him?

  He would have. If he’d been able. With the wisdom of an adult instead of the hurt of an abandoned child, she knew that now. The fact that he hadn’t come had something to do with the Earl of Slains.

  And she intended to get to the bottom of it.

  Voices carried to her from deep in the tunnel, one deep, elderly, and angry. She rounded the final corner and saw him. His bent shape stood in silhouette against the upside-down Hershey’s Kiss shape of the cave’s mouth, the freckled girl, Lintie, standing before him.

  “How many times have I told you to stay away from the tourists? If I catch you again, I will take my cane to your backside, lassie!”

  Lintie darted away from him, out where raindrops bounced on a small patch of rock that extended beyond the cave’s mouth like a porch. The child climbed onto the rusted iron railing that encircled the ledge, then threw her grandfather a mulish expression and jumped, disappearing over the edge.

  Brenna gasped, her heart in her throat, and ran for the rail.

  “Who are you?” the elderly man demanded as she brushed past him.

  “The girl . . .” She’d seen the treacherous cliffs and jagged rocks as she’d driven the coast road. The child couldn’t possibly have survived such a fall. But as Brenna lunged for the rail, she heard the unmistakable sound of little girl laughter, and the tightness eased from her chest.

  She peered over the rail to find the child sitting on an outcropping of rock, her face tilted up, her mouth open, catching raindrops. Behind her, the rock slid off into a crude, precarious path amongst the sharp, knifepoint turns and crevices of the cliff face.

  The secret cave had a secret path.

  “Who are you?”

  Brenna whirled to face the distinguished-looking white-haired gentleman. The earl. He had to be. Anger and nervousness flared within her in equal measures as she prepared to open what she expected to be an ugly can of worms.

  She strode out of the rain and back into the cave as the man moved toward her, the clip of cane on stone echoing over the rock.

  “You’re the Earl of Slains.”

  “I am. And you’re trespassing.”

  “I have a reason. You had something to do with my being sent to America as a child. I want to know what.”

  He peered at her suspiciously. “And who would you be, then?”

  She hesitated, watching him carefully. “I’m Brenna Cameron.”

  His reaction was far more than she expected. The earl’s eyes widened. His cane clattered to the floor as the color drained from his face.

  My God. Had she somehow inherited his castle out from under him?

  The earl’s expression changed abruptly, his pale face flooding red as he took a menacing step toward her. “Out!” His voice cracked with the effort of shouting. He stumbled forward and picked up his cane, then brandished it at her. “Get her out of here!”

  Too late, she saw the angry-faced guide rushing toward her from the tunnel. She swung her gaze back to the earl, holding her ground against the threatening cane.

  “No. You can’t do this. You owe me an explanation.”

  But the guide grabbed her by the arm and roughly yanked her away. Brenna struggled against his hold, shouting over her shoulder, “Tell me what you know!”

  The earl’s hoarse voice followed her as the guide hauled her away. “You burned this castle three hundred years ago, Brenna Cameron. You’ll not do it again!”

  Brenna stared at him. “What?”

  But the guide had his orders, and within minutes she found herself standing in the rain, on the wrong side of the castle’s thick doors. Dammit.

  Brenna was still debating her next move as she prepared for bed that evening, pulling on her Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt and flannel sleep pants with the curly-tailed monkeys. With a yawn, she climbed under the soft down comforter and lay in the semidarkness, tracing the cool silver that encircled the sapphire at her throat until she slowly drifted to sleep.

  In her dream she was little again, held tight in her father’s arms.

  Brenna.

  She heard his voice as if from afar. Suddenly he was gone. She was alone. No. Terror welled up, threatening to choke her.

  Papa.

  Then she glimpsed him, far off, enveloped in mist. She ran toward him. The pounding of her bare feet on the uneven ground echoed the thudding of her heart. He waited for her, tall and strong, smiling at her with boundless love. But as she reached for him, the mists swirled around him, stealing him away.

  No!

  “Brenna!” The voice echoed as if in her room.

  Brenna opened her heavy lids and blinked sleepily. The light from a streetlamp cast shadows in the room, but there was no one there. She’d been dreaming. She closed her eyes, snuggled under the covers, and drifted back to sleep as the silver grew warm against her throat.

  As the sapphire began to glow.

  TWO

  “The captain’ll kill us if’n he catches us with whiskey in the hold.”

  “I’ve only taken a nip, mate. He’ll never miss it. Come on.”

  Brenna stirred from a deep sleep at the sound of the rough male voices. Men. In my room.

  She bolted upright, heart pounding, then stared around her in a wash of disbelief. Gone was the quaint and quiet inn. Sounds bombarded her ears—hammering, the cry of gulls, the rhythmic splash of water. As her gaze took in the unlikely sight of a storeroom piled high with wooden barrels, crates, and sacks, the floor rolled gently beneath her as if she were on a boat of some kind.

  A boat? She blinked at the suffocating confusion. This had to be a dream. But a host of disgusting odors assailed her nostrils—old meat, fish, outhouses—and she knew with a chilling certainty she wasn’t dreaming.

  Something had gone terribly wrong.

  A single shaft of sunlight poured down from the stairwell into the middle of the shadowed room—or ship’s hold. Against the light, two dark forms descended, then stopped suddenly. With a feeling of drea
d, she felt their gazes upon her.

  “What ’ave we ’ere, Gordy?”

  Brenna scrambled to her feet, her hand brushing the flannel of her monkey pants. With a jerk of disbelief, she fisted her hand in the soft fabric and looked down. I’m still in my pajamas. On a boat. And not dreaming.

  What in the hell was going on?

  Gordy released a low cackle. “Looks like we got us a stowaway.”

  Her mouth went dry as she stared around her. Was this the earl’s doing? Had he somehow drugged and kidnapped her? Sold her to slavers or something?

  Right. The real explanation was probably much more boring. Like she’d started walking in her sleep again.

  Oh, crap. Her hotel was only a block from the docks. The last time she sleepwalked, she’d been thirteen and woken on the slide at a nearby playground—in the middle of the night. No one had seen her that time. This time, she hadn’t been as lucky.

  She pressed her palm to her forehead in rank embarrassment. How was she ever going to explain this to whoever was in charge? The captain? Especially if they’d already set sail.

  What a nightmare.

  But as she started toward the men to try to explain her wayward wanderings, they reached the bottom of the stairs and turned where she could see them clearly. Her steps faltered.

  They were dressed in rags. There was no other word for it. Torn and stained shirts and vests. Loose-fitting pants that were filthy and threadbare. The bald man wore a patch over one eye, while his companion sported stringy hair to his shoulders, a dirty handkerchief covering the crown of his head, and a gap where one of his front teeth should have been. Knives and wicked-looking swords hung from each man’s waist.

  They looked like pirates. Old-fashioned pirates too perfectly horrible to be real.

  Her brain scrambled for an explanation. Actors. Somehow she’d wandered onto a movie set in her sleep. That would certainly explain the pirates. But if the matching pair of lecherous grins blooming on the two thugs’ faces were fake, these two deserved Oscars.

  A burst of fear sent adrenaline surging into her bloodstream, clearing her mind and making her heart pound. If these two were actors, they had a lot more than memorizing dialogue on their minds.

  The bald one, the one called Gordy, stepped toward her, his one-eyed gaze glued to her chest. “Looks like we got us a wench. Better ’n a nip any day.” He reached for the ties holding up his pants, proving her instincts were dead on.

  Oh God. An icy memory washed over her, turning her to stone. Another time. Another male fumbling with his pants as she lay pinned and helpless.

  Her stomach clenched with raw terror. Her mind jerked into overdrive. There was a way out of this. There had to be a way.

  If she could just think of it. And find the courage.

  Brenna took a deep breath. Okay, she knew what she had to do. She pasted what she hoped would pass for a sultry look on her face, praying her fear wouldn’t leak between the cracks of her smile, and turned her back to glance at the approaching man coyly.

  “Well, well,” she cooed, her voice shaking only a little. “I was hoping for a strong, handsome man.” No lie there. Preferably one in a police uniform with his gun drawn on these lowlifes.

  She forced herself to sidle closer just as Gordy’s pants dropped around his ankles. Her stomach clenched at the sight of his aroused flesh, and she struggled to hide her revulsion.

  If she failed . . .

  She wouldn’t fail. She couldn’t.

  Brenna edged closer and turned her shoulder. Batting her eyes at him, mentally counting one, two . . .

  As he grabbed for her waist, she slammed her elbow into his nose. Gordy reared back and howled. His feet tangled in the pants around his ankles and his arms shot out and began spinning like windmills as he tried to keep his balance.

  Brenna didn’t wait for him to regain his equilibrium. She shot toward the stairs, praying she could dash past Stringy Hair, but he caught her from behind. As he pulled her back against him, she kicked him hard in the knee with her bare heel.

  “Blimey!” He half yelled the word in her ear, his large hands squeezing her waist painfully. Throwing her head back, she slammed into his nose and he released her with a howl.

  Brenna leaped onto the wooden stairs, taking them two at a time, sprinting for the ship’s deck and safety. But as she raced onto the deck and into the sunlight, her steps slowed at the incredible sight before her. Shielding her eyes against the brightness, she stared at the masts criss crossed with rigging like giant spiderwebs against the blue sky.

  Somehow she’d sleepwalked onto an old-fashioned sailing ship. A tall ship they called them at home.

  A pirate ship.

  Then again, guys dressed in pirate costumes probably wouldn’t be filming aboard a World War II destroyer. Her gaze slid from the masts to the men staring at her. An entire crew as realistic-looking as the two in the hold.

  The hammering abruptly ceased. The dull thump of boots on the stairs behind her echoed into the unnatural silence that blanketed the deck. She tensed for the director’s angry shouts, scolding her for ruining the take.

  Her gaze scanned the cast, looking for the film crew. The cameramen. The makeup artist? Producer? Her gaze jerked from one side of the ship to the other. Water boy?

  The warm breeze lifted her hair as a chill slid down her spine. Everywhere she looked she saw pirates. And every one was staring at her with lust in his eyes. As if in slow motion, they started toward her, climbing down from the rigging, crossing the decks. Moving deliberately, menacingly, like a pack of wolves.

  Her pulse thudded in her ears. What was the matter with these guys? Her gaze skirted over the leering faces even as her heart tripped and raced. They looked for all the world like real, live, cutlass swinging . . .

  Oh God. This couldn’t be happening. She was not in the clutches of pirates.

  Reenactors.

  The word landed in the middle of her fears like a big, fat life ring and she grabbed hold of it with both hands. Of course.

  They were simply a bunch of grown men playing dress up. Men did it all the time. In her part of the States, they usually reenacted the Civil War, but over here, why not pirates? They probably had boring day jobs like meter reading and auditing.

  “Who’s in charge? I need to speak with your . . . captain.” The boat rocked, forcing her to scramble to keep her balance. A rough deck board scraped against her bare toe as gulls soared overhead, casting shadows on the deck.

  “Aye now, I be thinking you’ll be speaking to me first, missy.”

  Brenna whirled toward the voice to find a man striding toward her, his long face badly pockmarked, his eyes cruel.

  “Who are you people?” she demanded. “You need to let me go.”

  His grin sent fear sliding through her like cold mercury. “And why would I be doing that?”

  Her gaze darted toward the others as she desperately searched for an ally. Surely someone would help her. But to a man they watched her without humor, without sympathy. Leering eyes, every one. Stalking the prey.

  Her.

  She had to get off this hell ship.

  Her monkey pants flapped against her legs in the warm breeze. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the coast not too far away. She could swim it. She’d swum in college, though only in pools. The ocean water would be rough and freezing, but it wasn’t like she had many options. A brisk swim or gang rape. Gee, let’s think about that.

  As the pockmarked pirate closed the distance between them, she put up her hands, palms out. “Look, I don’t know how I got here—I don’t even know where here is—but I don’t want any trouble.” That line might actually work if she were six foot four and aiming a pair of semi-automatics.

  “This’ll be no trouble at all, missy.” The pirate grinned and started unbuttoning his pants, filling her with pure terror.

  Jesus. She wished they’d quit doing that.

  Lunging sideways, she dodged his quick g
rasp and ran for a break in the thick wall of men. But the men saw her intent and closed in. As she tried to dash between them, one foul-smelling pirate caught her wrist and hauled her against him.

  The first pirate followed, pulling a long, nasty-looking knife. The blade flashed in the sun, momentarily blinding her.

  “I claim her. She’s mine until I tire of her.”

  The one holding her whipped out a knife of his own. “You’ll not be getting ’er first, Cutter. She’s mine now.”

  Brenna struggled against the punishing hold, taking quick breaths through her mouth against the man’s stench. But as the two men circled one another, she found herself dragged along like a toddler’s favorite stuffed rabbit.

  Out of the corner of her eye she caught the quick flash of a blade. Her captor screamed and released her, his knife clattering to the wooden decking along with two of his fingers and a thick splash of blood.

  Brenna stumbled back, fighting down the bile rising in her throat.

  Reenactors gone mad.

  Cutter shoved his bloody knife into the scabbard at his waist and lunged for her. Brenna twisted out of his reach, choking on her fear. These men were crazy. They were going to kill her. Rape her, then kill her.

  A flash of red orange burst into the circle and lurched to a stop. A dwarf. A stocky little dwarf, his face lined and leathery, his hair springing around his head like a fireball. He looked familiar, like an actor she’d once seen on television.

  He rushed in front of her, turning as if to shield her. “Leave her be, Cutter, you no-good sea swine.”

  She could have kissed him. A champion at last, if a little on the short side. But Cutter just sneered. With a backward sweep of his hand, he knocked the dwarf to the deck. Brenna gasped, but the small man scampered to his feet and raced away without a backward glance, taking her only hope of rescue along with him.

  Cutter went back to unbuttoning his trousers as his gaze raked her from head to foot. Terror pounded through her body and she backed up, right into the arms of one of the pirates. This man didn’t grab her as the other had, but shoved her back at Cutter, clearly in no hurry to lose his fingers. Brenna struggled to catch her balance and failed, falling into Cutter’s waiting arms.