Sapphire Dream (5 page)

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Authors: Pamela Montgomerie

BOOK: Sapphire Dream
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A dull pain throbbed behind his left temple as he lowered the spyglass and tossed it back to his crewman. Hegarty had found her. The bloody little troll had found Brenna Cameron.
The pounding of the carpenters’ hammers echoed across the deck, doing little to ease the ache in his head. He moved to the port rail and scanned the cliffs in the too near distance. If the wind turned against the ship, it’d be dashed on the rocks for certain. They were too close.
And anywhere within a three days’ sail of his native land was too close. At the first port he would put Hegarty and the woman ashore. Then he’d sail directly for the Isle of St. Christopher and buy the Goodhope Plantation. He needed it, he realized. He needed solid ground under his feet. Some place to call his own. Some place far, far from Scotland.
‘Twas a good plan, if fate would but smile upon him for once.
As if in answer, a scuffle broke out amongst the miscreants he called a crew, his bosun in the thick of it.
“She bested ye, mate!” Gordy cackled as he and Cutter circled, hands at their sides. “No sense pretendin’ it didn’t ’appen. We all saw the way she near ripped off yer ballocks.”
Cutter’s face grew more contorted by the second. The words might be true—the lass was no lady and had fought like a guttersnipe—but Cutter was not one to lose . . . at anything. He’d expected to be made first mate upon the death of the former mate three months ago, but Rourke had never fully trusted the man. In truth, he’d never sought the loyalty of any of his crew. Their respect, yes. And most especially their trepidation, for his was a crew that knew no master but greed, lust, and that most powerful of emotions—fear.
But his former mate had given him loyalty nonetheless, as had Mr. Baker. Rourke had assigned Baker the job, though he was ill-prepared to be first mate. The man was as afraid of the crew as the crew was of their captain. Still, it was better to have a loyal hand at his back.
Rourke sighed, weary of the ever-present fighting. It was like captaining a pack of ill-mannered dogs.
“I’ll kill you,” Cutter spat.
“Now, Mr. Cutter.” Jules stood well out of the reach of the fight. “ ’ Tis no shame in it. She bested us in the hold when we found her. Near broke my nose, she did. And Gordy won’t be standin’ any straighter’n you for another sennight, I vow.”
Cutter whipped out his knife and slashed at Jules, missing his chest by a hair’s breadth. Jules pulled his own blade.
The time had come to end this. Rourke needed every able hand to mend his ship. He could not afford to lose a man to a brawl.
The clash of steel upon steel rang over the deck as Rourke put two fingers between his lips and gave a shrill whistle. The onlookers jumped and dispersed, but the combatants were locked in battle. Jules glanced up and blanched as his gaze met his captain’s cold glare.
But Cutter seemed unaware of his arrival. He fought like a rabid dog, his lip curled back, his eyes wild. His chant of “I’ll kill you” slowly changed to “I’ll kill her.”
Rourke’s blood went cold. He pulled his sword and entered the fray. With a single upward swipe, he parted the men’s swords. Jules leaped back, allowing Rourke to take on Cutter unchallenged. The man lunged for Rourke, seemingly oblivious to the change in opponents. He wanted blood and cared not whose.
Rourke knocked Cutter’s sword out of his hand, then sheathed his own and rammed his fist into the man’s jaw. The blow sent Cutter sprawling.
Rourke stood over him, his eyes cold. “If the lass lives, she has my protection, aye? You willna go near her again.”
Cutter sneered as he rose slowly to his feet. “I know why she’s here.”
Rourke stared at him, dread pooling in his gut. Cutter couldn’t know. Could he?
But now was not the time. He’d pursue the comment later, when his ship was no longer in danger. “Mr. Baker!”
His first mate scurried to him, looking more mouse than man. “Aye . . . my lord?”
My lord.
Rourke clenched his fists against the violent urge to choke the man. “I am not a lord.”
“But . . .” His voice wobbled with terror.
“Hoist the plague flag. If they query us, we’ve two sick with the scourge belowdecks.”
“But . . .”
“ ’ Tis a bluff, Mr. Baker. Be gone with ye.” He turned his hard gaze on Cutter and the rest of his crew. “To your posts, the lot of you!”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hegarty emerge at last. The little man moved toward him looking weary but satisfied, his mane of wild hair bobbing in the sea breeze.
Hegarty wiped his brow with his sleeve. “She lives.”
The news brought both relief and dread. “For how long?”
The dwarf’s eyes shone with a mischievous glint. “Now, Pup, you know I’m a fine healer.”
“I want her away, Heg.” He heard a thread of desperation in his voice and cleared his throat to cover it. “Do what e’er you must, but do it off my ship. I will set you ashore at the first port.”
“Ah, lad, she may not be well enough to travel that soon.”
Rourke saw the gleam in the little man’s eyes. “Nay. You’ll not involve me in this.”
“You have always been involved, Pup.”
“ ’ Twas accident, nothing more. ’Tis about her and her alone. The prophecy has naught to do with me.”
Hegarty met his gaze with sharp devilment. “She’ll need a champion if naught else.”
Rourke’s gut tightened. “You’ll not foist her on me.
You
are her champion. ’Tis
you
who’ve been waiting for her, not I.”
Hegarty looked at him with eyes that were unusually serious and far too wise. “The prophecy affects us all. Naught will be right again until its words become truth. Now I’m off for a wee bit o’ sleep.” He looked at Rourke sharply. “Leave her be. You can see her when she’s full recovered.”
Hegarty left and Rourke turned back to the work at hand, clearing the deck of storm debris alongside his men. But though he worked on deck, his thoughts remained firmly in his cabin. Hegarty’s voice had made it clear he didn’t want Rourke going near her. The question was, why?
His curiosity got the better of him, and he crossed to his cabin and slipped inside. He found it silent and still except for the wooden birds swaying at the ceiling. His gaze went to his bunk and the lass lying still as death. A strange blue glow emanated from the hollow at her throat. He narrowed his eyes and moved closer.
The glow came from the stone that hung from the chain about her neck. His scalp tingled, the hair rising on his arms. He took a step back, chilled to the marrow of his bones.
Hegarty’s doing.
He’d avoided the prophecy for a score of years. Now it stalked him again, the evil mist washing over his ship ready to choke the life out of him.
She had to go. As soon as they reached port, he was putting her ashore.
He needed air. But as he turned toward the door, the lass began to thrash in her sleep, her head tossing one way, then the other. Rourke hesitated, then moved toward her, drawn against his will.
She appeared fragile, ethereal. How could this be the wildcat who had taken down three of his crew? Yet she was. He’d seen her attack Cutter himself. His admiration grew, thick and unwelcome, as his gaze drank of her strange beauty.
The words
Hard Rock Cafe
and
Washington, D.C.,
were emblazoned across her chest, woven into the soft fabric of her bodice—a bodice that clung to gentle curves, revealing every tip and swell of what lay beneath. He forced his eyes to move past those enticing peaks, to the outline of long legs beneath the plaid blanket Hegarty had left half covering her.
Her breeks, made of queer fabric, peeked above the blanket. Small, cheerful monkeys smiled at him, at odds with the gash that might, even now, steal her life. His gaze returned, moving upward past the glowing sapphire to the paleness of her finely boned face framed by shiny red brown hair. Her features were regular and pleasing enough, but it was her mouth that drew his attention. Ripe and full, it was a mouth made for a man’s kisses.
He swore at his body’s unwanted stir of interest, but found himself unable to tear his gaze away from her. It was like being mesmerized by a pistol aimed at one’s face. Until he set her ashore, he would do well to stay away from her—as far as possible. She was trouble, this one. And he’d already seen enough trouble to last a lifetime.
Her lids fluttered, opening slowly to reveal green eyes clouded with confusion. She blinked, tilting her head toward him. Their gazes met and she bolted upright.
Belatedly, he realized the sapphire’s glow had winked out.
She scooted to the back of the bunk, her eyes at once sharp with fear, yet hard as steel, like those of a feral animal trapped and ready to fight for its life.
He backed away. “Be calm, lass. I’ll not harm ye.” He’d thought her bonnie in sleep, but awake, her eyes snapping with intelligence and life, she stole his breath.
With her gaze fixed on his face, she kicked off the blanket. In one fluid move she slipped off the bunk and lunged for the door, but Rourke was quicker. He blocked her attempted escape, forcing her back toward the bunk. Her gaze darted from him to scour his cabin, then back again, and he knew she searched for a weapon.
“Easy, Wildcat. You’re safe enough.”
She eyed him with disbelief. “Right. You’re just an eccentric cruise director.” She spoke strangely, with words he didn’t recognize and an accent he couldn’t place but found disturbingly pleasing to his ears. “And . . . what? . . . Your friend cut off my leg to welcome me to the ship?”
She froze, her startled gaze locking with his even as realization punched him in the stomach.
“My leg,” she breathed.
As one, their gazes dropped to the ragged edge of her breeks where Hegarty had completed the rending of fabric that Cutter’s knife had begun.
She backed up and sat hard on the bunk, then jerked her knee to her chest to examine the appendage in question. A wicked scar now ran from her shin around to the fleshy part of her calf. Not a wound—
a fully healed scar
.
Chills rippled over his scalp.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her mouth open in shock. “How long was I asleep?”
He shook his head, feeling a need to clear the shock from his brain even as he quashed the need to run. “A few hours.”
She paled, a shiver tearing through her. “
How?
”
Rourke swallowed hard. “ ’ Twas Hegarty’s doing.” At her look of confusion he held his hand out, palm down. “The wee man.” He stepped toward her.
She scooted back. “Don’t come any closer.”
“I’ve said I’ll not hurt you.” He heard the harsh edge in his voice and smoothed his words so as not to frighten her more. “I wish only to see your injury.” He took a small step toward her and was pleased when she did not retreat farther.
Her chin went up, challenge flashing in her green eyes. “What is this? Where am I?”
He took another step and watched her visibly tense. “The
Lady Marie
.” He said the name softly, willing her to calm. “My ship.”
“How did I get here?”
“I dinna ken.” Again that look of confusion, and he realized she was as confused by his Scots as he was by her strange words. “I do not know. You must ask Hegarty.” He eased onto the edge of the bunk, careful not to lean toward her. He motioned to her, gentling his tone. “I would see your leg.”
Her chest rose and fell with agitation, her gaze sharp and distrustful, but she slowly straightened her leg toward him.
With careful, deliberate movements, he took the smooth warmth of the limb into his hands and lifted it onto his lap. His mouth went dry. She was naught but flesh and blood, he reminded himself. He’d seen enough of her blood to know. He ran his thumb over the puckered length of scar, pink and white with health . . . and age.
“It doesn’t hurt.” Her voice was tight with disbelief. She leaned forward and touched the wound herself, her fingers brushing against his.
She looked up at him, her eyes at once terrified and bewildered. “How did he fix it?”
Rourke met her gaze, then looked away. “Hegarty’s a skilled healer.”
“Skilled or not,” she snapped. “Wounds don’t heal in hours. And this one was a doozy.”
His admiration for her rose another notch. He could sense her fear, yet she met him with anger. “Aye, the wound was formidable. You bled enough for three men. My crew is still scrubbing the deck of your blood.”
His thumb traced the scar, his palm brushing the strange smoothness of her skin. The feel of her warm flesh beneath his hand sent a shaft of desire bolting through his blood, causing his fingers to curl into the silken firmness of her calf as need to explore that slender expanse of leg nearly got the better of him. He swore and pushed her leg off his lap, then rose and paced away from her.
“Who are you?” she demanded. In a bare whisper she added, “
What
are you?”

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