Authors: Pamela Montgomerie
Sapphire Dream (24 page)
Rourke gripped her tighter as people gathered around them like paparazzi on a movie star. She half expected them to start whipping out cameras . . . or shoving pens and paper at him for his autograph. The tension running through him told her he expected even worse.
This wasn’t the fairy-tale homecoming it might look like from a distance. She didn’t understand what was going on, but she did know the man who held her—the pirate who could set his crew to cowering with a single look—was edgy as a new waiter the first night on the job.
The lord of the castle was not happy to be home.
A man pushed his way through the crowd toward them, the same one who’d first shouted from the wall. Tall and thin as a needle, he moved with the tightly controlled movements of a well-trained athlete.
He slapped Rourke on the back. “Welcome, old friend. Your uncle will be most pleased ye’ve returned, as we all are.”
“I would speak with him,” Rourke said tightly. “But first I must see to my lady’s well-being. She’s injured and in need of a dry gown.”
“Then come.”
“Rourke!” A very pregnant woman in an expensive-looking red gown pushed through the crowd and grabbed his arm. “It
is
you.” She slugged him on the upper arm. “How could ye not have told us where ye were? All those years ye let us think the soldiers had kilt ye.”
is
you.” She slugged him on the upper arm. “How could ye not have told us where ye were? All those years ye let us think the soldiers had kilt ye.”
“Kerrie, ye’ve still an arm on ye, lass.”
Brenna watched tears fill the woman’s eyes—eyes the same pale shade as Rourke’s. She was pretty, with delicate features and blond curls to die for.
“Where were you, laddie?”
“ ’ Tis a long story.” Rourke’s tone was weary, yet filled with affection.
“One you’ll be telling us right enough.” Kerrie dashed at the tears on her cheeks and peered at Brenna with both curiosity and welcome. “Is this your wife?”
“Nay.” The word came out like a shot. “She is . . . the Lady Marie.”
Brenna caught her breath on a laugh. He’d named her for his ship. Now
that
was a switch.
that
was a switch.
Kerrie peered at her bruised cheek and clucked her tongue. “Thrown from a horse, were you?”
“Aye,” Rourke said.
Clearly, he wasn’t ready to enlighten his family about either her or their situation, just as he’d failed to enlighten her about
their
existence. Was he intentionally keeping secrets, or just being a man?
their
existence. Was he intentionally keeping secrets, or just being a man?
“I thought the castle burned.” Rourke carried her across the courtyard, accompanied by what seemed to be half the population of Scotland. She felt the brush of his rough stubble against her hair as he looked around.
“The south range went up,” Angus said. “But the storm kept the fire from spreading to the towers.”
Brenna could see no sign of a fire at all. High stone walls surrounded a courtyard far smaller than Stour’s. Or, at least, far more crowded. Then again, the Stour she’d seen in the twenty-first century had been a ruin. Other than the single restored tower, nothing had been left of it but the stone.
Picktillum was still in its heyday, a fully functioning castle. Against the inner walls stood more than a dozen small buildings, almost like a small village tucked within the castle’s walls. But these structures, made of wood, wouldn’t survive the centuries. By her time, nothing would be left but the stone shell. If that.
They entered the nearest tower by way of a long outdoor stairway. Rourke swept her into a dimly lit entryway, then followed Kerrie up a narrow, curved stairwell off to the right. As the stair turned and turned, Brenna was suddenly very glad she didn’t have to walk. She was getting vertigo just being carried.
Finally, they moved into a hallway to the open door of a pretty blue and yellow bedroom. An old-fashioned four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room, hung with floral bed curtains. The walls were covered in cheerfully elegant yellow and white wallpaper.
The room had a slightly old and musty smell as if it hadn’t been used in a while. Then again, without central air and heat, maybe it smelled this way all the time.
Kerrie turned to them. “This will be Marie’s room, Cousin. I will fetch clothing for the both of you. Will your own things be following you?”
“Nay. We have naught but what we wear.” He looked down at her. “Would ye like a hot bath, Wildcat?”
At her gasp of delight, a smile lit his eyes, crinkling the corners for the space of a couple of seconds.
Kerrie put her hand on Rourke’s arm. “I’ll have baths sent up to both your chambers. Since you’ve admitted she’s not your lady wife, you’ll not be sharing her chambers, my cousin.” She laughed and turned away. “Put her down and come along, Rourke. Though I should call you Kinross now. I’ll show you to your chamber.”
“I’ll be there forthwith. I would speak with my lady alone.”
Kerrie turned back, her mouth opened as if to argue. Then her gaze moved between the two of them, and she rolled her eyes with a wry smile.
“Aye, have your time alone. I’ll send for the baths.”
Brenna smiled at the woman. “Thank you, Kerrie.”
Kerrie grinned at her, tears suddenly sparkling in her gray eyes. “ ’ Tis a great day, this. A muckle great day.” Then she turned her pregnant bulk and made her way from the room, closing the door behind her.
As the latch clicked, Rourke buried his face in Brenna’s hair. She felt an earthquake of a shudder rip through him.
“That bad, huh?” She reached up and stroked his hair.
“Aye.”
“You never intended to come home, did you?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Instead, he carried her to an upholstered chair before the cold fireplace and lowered her carefully, then went to tend the hearth.
She watched him, admiring his strong profile, the jut of his chin, the line of his straight nose. He was a good-looking man. An amazing man, really. A sea captain. A warrior. Yet there was something in the bend of his shoulders as he lit the already-laid fire that made him seem lost somehow.
“Why haven’t you ever come home, Rourke?”
“I dinna wish to speak of it, Wildcat.” Despite a heavy dose of weariness, his voice brooked no argument. He turned to look at her. “Dinna tell them who you are or where you’re from. I dinna think any of my kin would hurt you, but I’ve not been here for a long time and there may be those loyal to Slains. In the morn, I’ll seek Hegarty.”
Brenna nodded, waiting for the familiar rush of relief at the thought of finally going home, but all that came was a trickle. Gumming the flow was a pervasive melancholy at the thought of leaving the pirate. She couldn’t stay here. She didn’t want to stay here. But the thought of never seeing him again lodged like a rock beneath her breastbone. As badly as she wanted to go home, she had a feeling she’d be leaving a piece of herself behind.
Once he had the fire going, Rourke came to squat in front of her, his gaze doing a serious inspection of her face.
“How do ye fare?”
The concern in his voice was mirrored in his eyes. His worry warmed her. It had been a long time since anyone had worried about her.
“I’m okay. My head hurts, but not too bad.”
Rourke nodded, his eyes shadowed. He rose and scooped her up, then settled on the chair with her on his lap. He pulled her head against his shoulder, silently willing her to settle against him as he stroked her hair.
Tears pricked her eyes at his gentleness, at the sweet caring of his touch, and she melted against him in absolute trust. If only she could stay here, just like this, forever.
“After your bath I wish ye to rest until I fetch you for supper. We’ll go down together.” Something in his tone told her that facing all those people over the dinner table was going to be an ordeal of the first order for him.
She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek, needing to return some small measure of the comfort he offered her.
“They love you, you know.”
She felt a faint tremor go through him as he looked down at her. “Aye. ’Tis the worst of it.” His gaze searched hers as if he sought answers to questions he wouldn’t ask.
Lifting her head, she reached up and framed his lightly stubbled face, a face she was coming to adore. As she leaned toward him, he met her halfway. The kiss was chaste and exquisitely gentle. A mere press of lips, yet so much more. It was as if they were joined beyond the physical. As if in this simplest of touches they’d opened a small conduit between their innermost selves.
She felt him shudder and gather her tight against him, his body shaking with emotion she didn’t understand, an emotion all the more powerful for its desperate silence. He needed her, as she needed him. But it was a need that went beyond the flesh. He clung to her as if she alone could save him from his demons.
Tears stung her eyes. Her chest filled with emotion until she could hardly breathe for the pressure. And she knew.
She’d fallen in love with a pirate. A man from the wrong century. A man who could never be hers.
God help her.
TWELVE
Brenna watched in the mirror as Kerrie’s clever hands slowly transformed a twenty-first-century assistant restaurant manager into a woman who belonged in a painting in an art museum. Less the bruised cheek and fat lip, of course.
Kerrie had found a beautiful gown for her to wear—a green silk that was a bit low-cut, but which set off her complexion to a T. Forget the painting. She felt like a princess.
Kerrie had shooed the servant away and now rolled fat locks of hair on an old-fashioned curling iron, one she’d heated beside the hearth instead of plugging into an electrical outlet. The woman was warm and funny, regaling Brenna with tales of Rourke as a small boy. He’d always been too serious, she said, as if weighed down by his looming responsibilities from a tender age.
“How long have you known my cousin?” Kerrie asked as she set the iron beside the now roaring fire and began to pin Brenna’s hair in place.
Long enough to fall in love with him.
Denial raced behind. No, she didn’t love him. She was just . . . dependent upon him. That was all. This kind of thing happened to kidnap victims all the time. It was documented. Plus, he was a nice guy who just happened to be incredibly attractive. No wonder she thought she was in love with him.
Even if she were, it wouldn’t matter. They had no future. She was going back to her own time, and he had eyes only for the sea.
Brenna realized Kerrie was still waiting for an answer. “I haven’t known Rourke long. I became separated from my . . . guardian . . . and he’s helping me track him down.”
The woman was too curious by far. She’d kept Brenna company while she bathed, firing off questions worthy of a FOX News reporter. Where was Brenna from? Who were her kin? Were she and Rourke . . . involved? So far, Brenna had either managed to come up with false answers—she was Lady Marie Osmond from Castle Utah—or dodge the questions with vagueness, but she couldn’t keep this up forever.
“I’ve not heard of Castle U-tah,” Kerrie murmured as she worked Brenna’s hair. “Is it far from here?”
“Very.” She had to get the woman onto a different track. “So, when was Picktillum Castle built? I’d love to know its history.”
Kerrie complied and rambled away as she finished dressing Brenna’s hair, giving Brenna a welcome respite from the interview.
Brenna closed her eyes, letting Kerrie work. She was feeling better, having slept most of the afternoon after the most wonderful bath of her life. The tub had been small and the water cooler than she preferred, but after her dip in the freezing cold stream, it had felt like heaven.
Kerrie had woken her when she brought a gown and accessories to dress her for supper. More clothes than Brenna had ever worn at one time, with all the under whatchamacallits and outer thingamajigs. Surprisingly, the thing she’d been most worried about—the corset—wasn’t bad. Really nothing more than a long, stiff bra. It was snug, but not uncomfortably tight.
Kerrie was still talking when a rap sounded at the door.
Brenna turned and gaped as Rourke ducked into the room. He was breathtaking. Dressed in what she supposed was the height of current fashion—pants that ended just below his knees, thin socks that molded to his muscular calves, a royal blue coat that fell to midthigh—he looked the part of the gentleman pirate. More handsome than any movie star. He’d shaved and bathed and his thick hair now hung loose and clean around his shoulders.
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