Authors: Pamela Montgomerie
Sapphire Dream (25 page)
“Och, Cousin,” Kerrie exclaimed. “You’re a fine-looking man.” She turned to Brenna with a grin. “Is he not?”
All Brenna could do was nod as her gaze met Rourke’s and held.
Kerrie laughed. “I’ll return forthwith.” She patted Rourke’s sleeve and disappeared out the door.
Brenna drank in the sight of him. “You do look wonderful, Pirate.”
“And you.” His silver gaze slid slowly over her gown, then up to her face and hair. Raw male appreciation sparkled in his eyes. “As bonnie as ever a woman born.”
Brenna stood and ran her hands over the slick softness of her silk skirt. “It’s a pretty gown.”
Rourke crossed the room and took her hands. “Aye. The dress is bonnie.” He lifted one hand and kissed her knuckles. “But ’tis the woman who steals my breath.” No laughter tugged at his mouth. No teasing. The heat in his eyes told her he meant every word.
Hot awareness shimmered through her. A blush warmed her cheeks. “Thank you. That’s quite a compliment for someone with a fat lip.”
His mouth quirked into a small half smile and he cupped her jaw, running his thumb, featherlight, across the cut. “Your lips are perfect, lass.
You
are perfect.”
You
are perfect.”
Her heart jolted even as she shivered at the sweet intimacy of his touch. His warm, male scent wrapped around her.
“You smell good, Pirate.”
His smile deepened as he dipped his head to kiss her.
“Enough of that,” Kerrie scolded. “I havena finished her hair and your uncle James awaits you both in the Laird’s Hall.”
Rourke pulled away, his hand lingering on her cheek, his eyes liquid silver, filled with promise. Kerrie pushed between them and he stepped back, but didn’t go far. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood beside the hearth to watch.
“Sit ye down, lassie.” Kerrie ushered Brenna back to her stool. “ ’Twill take but a moment.”
Kerrie chattered about the fuss being made over the evening’s supper as Brenna met Rourke’s gaze in the mirror. The heat in his eyes melted her insides until she thought she’d slide off the stool into a single puddle.
“There, now,” Kerrie declared. “Ready at last.” She turned to Rourke. “And a fitting companion to you, Cousin.”
As Brenna stood and turned around, Rourke crossed to her and held out his arm.
She smiled at him cheekily. “I never thought I’d see you playing the part of the gentleman.” She’d meant to tease him, but the shadow that stole across his face told her she’d said the wrong thing.
Rourke escorted her in silence down one turnstile stair and up another to a large, sumptuously appointed room. The walls were covered in rich red, trimmed in gilt, and adorned with all manner of crests and shields and weapons. In the center of the room stood a massive dining table, beautifully set with silver utensils, china plates, and crystal goblets.
People milled about, talking and laughing until they noticed the two of them standing in the doorway. The room quieted. One by one, all heads turned their way. Rourke’s hand tightened its hold on hers, which was tucked into the crook of his arm.
A stately looking older gentleman, dressed similarly to Rourke, with a wig of long black curls, came toward them. His bearing contained an aura of power and aged masculinity, but in his eyes, she saw only kindness. And joy.
When he reached them, he broke into a grin and slapped Rourke on the back. “Good saints, it’s good to have you back, lad. I feel years younger just looking at you.” The shadows of melancholy dulled the edges of his smile. “The image of your father, you know.”
He turned to her, his grin turning bright again as he took her hand and bent low over it.
“Your taste in women is as fine as my brother’s was, Kinross.”
“The Lady Marie, Uncle.”
“Charmed, my lady. I am most pleased to welcome you to Picktillum.” His gaze swiveled back to Rourke. “As pleased as I am to have the viscount back where he belongs.”
Brenna’s gaze flew to Rourke. “
Viscount?
”
Viscount?
”
She felt him stiffen.
Rourke’s uncle chuckled. “He didna tell you?”
“Uh . . . no. He must have forgotten to mention it.”
“ ’Twould seem he has forgotten much of his heritage.” He slapped Rourke on the back once more. “ ’Tis time we ate, aye? We will talk over dinner.” He led the way to the table and motioned for Rourke to take the large chair at the head.
Rourke stilled. “Nay, Uncle. That seat is yours.”
“Only while you were away, lad. I’ve merely been keeping it warm.”
Brenna could feel Rourke’s tension as if it were her own. He didn’t want to be the laird of Picktillum, let alone the viscount. He hadn’t even wanted to come home. She wished she knew why.
Rourke gave in and seated her on his right, then slowly took the large chair at the head of the table. The rest of the assemblage sat, then burst into conversation as if nothing had happened.
Moments later, the far doors opened to the wonderful smells of roasted meat. Servants carried platter upon platter into the room, circling the table as they served the diners with silent precision.
Impressive
, Brenna thought. She eyed the variety of dishes with delight, though her eyebrow rose over a platter of small birds, fully cooked with heads and feathers attached. A special treat to celebrate the homecoming of the lord, or the usual dinner fare? She wondered if she’d have time to explore the kitchens before she left. She was dying to see how they prepared the birds.
, Brenna thought. She eyed the variety of dishes with delight, though her eyebrow rose over a platter of small birds, fully cooked with heads and feathers attached. A special treat to celebrate the homecoming of the lord, or the usual dinner fare? She wondered if she’d have time to explore the kitchens before she left. She was dying to see how they prepared the birds.
This was her first real taste of seventeenth-century cooking. What had passed for meals these past few days hardly counted—beef jerky, cheese, and oatcakes.
She served herself from a platter of fragrant roast lamb. “Now
this
is food.”
this
is food.”
Rourke nodded, but there was no anticipation in his expression, no pleasure in his eyes. He remained tense and rigid.
Beneath the table, she patted his knee, then dug into the sumptuous meal. Brenna marveled at the strangeness of some dishes and the utter familiarity of others, intrigued by the food almost as much as the people. The women were beautifully gowned, their dresses all on a par with the one Kerrie had loaned her. The men were dressed in the same style as Rourke, about half sporting wigs like his uncle’s.
She felt strangely detached as she watched them, as if she weren’t part of the scene at all, but only viewing from the audience. She still found it hard to fathom she was in the past. Everything was so strange, yet so real.
Beside her, Angus reached for something and knocked his goblet over, sending red wine halfway across the table. In the opposite direction from her, fortunately. He cursed roundly, then glanced at her, abashed.
“Beg pardon, my lady.”
Brenna swallowed a laugh at the normalcy of the accident. Yes, their clothes were different, and the castle lacked many of the amenities she was used to—running water, electricity, cable TV. But people were still just people.
Some were so much more.
Her gaze turned back to Rourke, who was attacking his meal as if it would be his last. At least nerves hadn’t affected his appetite.
“Well, Kinross,” Angus said, mopping up the wine with his linen napkin, “where have you been? Have you truly been at sea all this time?”
Every head at the table swiveled toward Rourke expectantly.
Brenna turned her attention back to her meal, not wanting to add further pressure. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him put down his fork and knife with hands that appeared surprisingly steady.
“I will say this but once.” His deep voice resonated down the table, accompanied by the clink of two dozen knives and forks being set on the china.
Brenna set down her own utensils and put her hands in her lap, not about to be the only one eating. She jerked, startled, at the feel of Rourke’s hand covering hers under the table. She turned her palm to his and their fingers laced. Their gazes met in unspoken accord.
He needed her. The knowledge squeezed her heart.
“I fled the fire, all those years ago, but Slains’s soldiers spotted me and gave pursuit.”
Brenna looked at him, surprised. She’d thought the earl was only after her.
“Somehow I made it to Aberdeen, but I’d not been there three days when I was set upon by a pair of scala wags and carried aboard one of the ships docked in the harbor. I was one of a score of young lads kidnapped to be sold as servants in the Colonies.”
Brenna hadn’t even realized her grip on his hand had spasmed until she felt him squeeze her back in return.
“ ’Twas my fortune that a week into the voyage small-pox struck the ship. I didna succumb to the disease, but many aboard the ship died. Those of us in the hold were released to help sail the vessel, and the captain took a liking to me and kept me on board after we docked in the Colonies.”
“And you remained at sea, then?” Angus asked.
“Aye. A sennight past is the first I’ve walked on Scottish soil since.”
“You should have sent word,” Rourke’s uncle said, a hint of reproach in his tone.
Rourke squeezed her hand briefly, then released it. “I was but a lad when I left Picktillum. Ten years old. By the time I was grown, and free to set my own course, I had responsibilities too numerous to name and too important to walk away from. My parents were dead. I believed my home and all those I loved were gone. I put the past behind me.”
There was something about the shift of his eyes and the slightly defensive tone of his voice that made Brenna think he wasn’t telling them everything.
“I regret that you thought me perished all these years.”
And that was the crux of it, she realized. He didn’t. He hadn’t wanted to be found. He’d
wanted
them to think he was dead. But why?
wanted
them to think he was dead. But why?
The silence of the room suddenly erupted, everyone talking at once.
“Some say you’re a pirate, my lord.”
“You could have sent word, Kinross.”
“Where is this ship of yours?”
Rourke narrowed his eyes in that way she’d seen him do when he wanted to scare his crew. “I am not a pirate. Nor am I Viscount Kinross, Laird of Picktillum. The lad who was to inherit that title died twenty years ago. The man who grew up in his stead is a sailor. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
But his cool glare was having no effect on his family. They continued to watch him with warmth and curiosity.
Brenna laughed to herself. Why would that cold stare work on these people? Half of them had eyes the same pale color as his.
She could feel his tension, feel the slight shift in his body that told her he was getting ready to leave the table, to flee his relations if they didn’t back off.
As much as she sympathized with him, she couldn’t let him do it. He had
family
. Precious, precious family. And all he wanted to do was run from them. He needed to work out whatever was bothering him, but leaving wasn’t the way to do it.
family
. Precious, precious family. And all he wanted to do was run from them. He needed to work out whatever was bothering him, but leaving wasn’t the way to do it.
“My lord,” several people said at once.
The sudden tension in his body told her he was getting ready to rise, so she grabbed his knee, holding him down and turned to his uncle across the table from her.
“This meal is the best I’ve had in ages,” she said loudly, drowning out most of the questions. “Did the ingredients come from this estate?” She flicked her gaze to Rourke and back to his uncle.
A flash of impatience darkened the older man’s eyes, then disappeared as his own gaze swung to Rourke. When he turned back to her, he gave her a quick wink before launching into detailed accounts of the estate’s workings. He was a good man, Rourke’s uncle.
She felt Rourke’s tension ease, but when she would have pulled her hand back, he caught it and held fast. His eyes held a hint of laughter over the capture, but also gratitude. And her heart swelled until she thought it would burst.
Oh, she wasn’t ready to be in love. Not with this man. Not here.
Because there was nothing in it for her but heartache.
Rourke checked the passage outside Brenna’s bedchamber for the third time since he saw her to her door. The sun was now long set, the castle asleep. Except for him. He could not sleep for worrying about her. He’d spoken with Angus and his uncle, warning them of Cutter, begging them to be on guard for such a visitor.
The castle was closed tight and well guarded. None would get in uninvited. Still, he worried.
He would go to his death with the image of Brenna draped across the soldier’s horse engraved upon his mind. The icy terror lingered still and probably would for days to come.
He would sleep in the chamber with her, and most happily, if not for the damage it would do to her reputation. He would not have his uncle and his kin believing her of ill repute even if she would be leaving this world for her own in a very short time.
A pain twisted his heart.
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