Sapphire Dream (29 page)
Authors: Pamela Montgomerie
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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—”
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