“My cousin, Brendan.”
“America is a big place, Miss . . .”
“O’ Devir. Deirdre O’ Devir.” She watched as the fat little dog suddenly appeared and jumped up into the captain’s lap, turning once, twice, around on his blanketed lap before settling herself into a ball atop his legs. It didn’t escape Deirdre’s notice that he slid a hand beneath the dog’s body, trying, perhaps unobtrusively, to warm it. “Amerikay may be big, but I already know that Brendan is in Boston. Like you, he serves with the Royal Navy. He’s the only family I have left . . . I’m hopin’ he can help me find my brother.”
At mention of Roddy, a shadow passed across the captain’s stark face and he reached again for his glass.
“I hate to disappoint, Miss O’ Devir, but it will not be so easy for your cousin to just leave his ship in order to assist you in your endeavors. Common seamen and crew cannot just come and go at will—“
“Brendan’s no common seaman. He’s a captain, and he can come and go as he pleases.”
The captain raised a pale brow. “A captain, you say? What ship does he command?”
“I don’t know. But he’s in Boston, and he’ll help me.”
The captain pulled his hand out from beneath the dog’s body and began stroking her fur. “Perhaps,” he said, gazing down at the spaniel, “I may be of some assistance, myself . . . ”
“You?” She gave a bitter laugh. “You were the cause of all this to begin with, I don’t need or want yer help, Captain Lord.”
“That is a pity. I am quite happy to give it.”
“I bet ye don’t even remember me brother. Or what might’ve happened to him.”
“We pressed a lot of men over the years, Miss O’ Devir. You are correct in that I don’t remember the fate of one Irishman taken into the service well over a decade ago. Some desert. Some fall overboard. Some succumb to disease or the rigors of life at sea, some end up beached following injury. Forgive me, but I have no recollection of your brother, especially as I was transferred from that ship to another within a month of our trip to Connemara.”
“So ye’re sayin’ it’s a lost cause?” she asked, not willing to admit defeat.
“Not at all, but finding your brother, or what has become of him, will present certain challenges that may require more than just the well-meaning help of your cousin. I know you loathe the sight of me, but three officers, one of them highly placed, have a far greater chance of successfully locating your brother than just one Boston-based captain alone.”
“Three?”
“Well, do not forget, Miss O’ Devir,” he said, with a little smile. “My brother is an admiral. He has access to information that your cousin and I do not.”
Deirdre eyed him with suspicion and the faintest beginning of hope. He was making it awfully hard to maintain her hatred toward him, and even harder to remember her vow to kill him. She pursed her lip, watching him quietly petting the spaniel. “Ye’d really help me, then?”
“It would be the least I could do to atone for my insult against your family, Miss O’ Devir.”
He was still stroking the spaniel’s fur. Swallowing hard, Deirdre looked down at that hand, the chapped skin and raw, red knuckles that were a quiet testimony to the hours he had spent up on the wet, open deck, in a storm, in the middle of winter on the open Atlantic, trying to keep this ship, and all who were aboard it, safe. Before she could help herself, she found herself reaching out and gently placing her own hand over his.
“Maybe I won’t kill ye after all,” she murmured, with a little smile of her own, and on an equally dangerous impulse that surprised herself as much as it did him, leaned down and dropped a kiss on his harsh cheek.
He stiffened and shut his eyes, and for the briefest moment, his hand, still cold and sticky with sea-salt, closed over hers in something like desperation. For an equally brief moment, Deirdre felt sure that he was going to kiss her.
But no. He released her, the moment was—thankfully—gone, and Deirdre, confused and shaken, fled the cabin for the safety of her own.
Chapter 13
She awoke in Rhodes’s cabin, in Rhodes’s bunk, and in total darkness.
Alone.
Outside, the storm rumbled in fury, the deep, reverberating tremors of thunder shaking the very timbers of the ship.
Deirdre couldn’t see the lightning, and somehow, that was worse. Against her shoulder the bulkhead pressed, cold and damp, and she realized, in the disorienting darkness, that the frigate was heeled hard over on her side.
She could hear fresh torrents of rain whipping across the deck above. Beneath her the ship rolled heavily, creaking, groaning, and straining in the pounding seas. Shivering with cold and fighting panic, Deirdre reached out, groped for her canvas bag and, pulling it close, wrapped her arms around it and pressed it to her madly pounding heart.
Thunder crashed again, close, very close, and the bunk vibrated eerily against the bulkhead.
In pitch blackness, she swung out of bed and, gripping the bunk, balanced herself as the frigate rose, seeming to hang suspended before crashing down into a seemingly bottomless trough with a force that nearly knocked her off her feet.
Terror filled her. Wind screamed, and the ocean roared just outside and she decided that if she was going to die, it wasn’t going to be down here, trapped all alone in a tiny cabin in the dark. Timing her movements with the violent ones of the ship’s own, she stumbled toward the door, sick with fear and desperate for the comfort of someone, anyone—
Him.
It opened just before her hand hit the latch.
He stood there, holding a lantern, his eyes panicky, his face pale.
“Thank God you’re awake . . .”
For one brief, crazy moment, she almost flung herself into his arms with relief; instead, she clutched the doorframe as the frigate rolled, and crashed yet again into another trough, making Deirdre wonder how much of a beating the ship could take before she broke apart and sent the lot of them to the bottom of the Atlantic. “Of course I’m awake,” she snapped. “If we’re all goin’ to die, I’m not about to meet me maker with my eyes closed.”
“It’s Tildy,” he said, seizing her wrist with an urgency that scared her. “Will you come have a look at her?”
“Tildy?”
“My dog.” He glanced anxiously over his shoulder, back toward his cabin. “There’s something wrong with her. She’s hiding in the corner, panting . . . she’s staring into space and whining—” His throat worked, and for a brief moment, she wondered if this cold, taciturn Englishman who had himself so tightly under control, was going to fall apart before her eyes. “Forgive me, but I did not know who else to summon.”
“Let me get me coat.”
She tossed the heavy garment over her gown and clung gratefully to his arm as, with a sure-footedness that she herself lacked, he guided her back to his cabin. The wind shrieked in demonic fury outside, and why he wasn’t terrified that they were all going to die was beyond Deirdre’s comprehension. Then he pushed open the door to his cabin and held the lantern aloft, and in its dim glow, Deirdre saw the little dog lying wedged into a corner, her eyes large, dark pools of fear and pain.
The instant Deirdre saw her, she knew what was wrong.
“She’s dying, isn’t she?” the captain said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “My God, I knew I should never have subjected her to the rigors of a ship—”
“She be whelpin’,” Deirdre said flatly.
“What?”
“Havin’ puppies.”
“Puppies?”
“Aye, puppies.” Despite herself, she couldn’t help but grin at his stricken, helpless look. “Animals often pick storms to be birthin’ their wee ones,” she said, kneeling down to stroke the spaniel’s heaving sides. “Why don’t ye be gettin’ me some blankets so I can make her comfortable?”
“Puppies . . .”
“The blankets, Captain?”
He stumbled as the ship pitched
violently beneath him and suddenly seemed to recover. “We can’t have puppies here! This is a King’s ship!”
“I don’t think ye have a choice, and neither does yer bleedin’ king. Now get me the blankets,” she commanded, sliding her arms beneath the dog and lifting her gently as the captain grabbed a blanket from his bed and hastily spread it on the deck against the bulkhead.
Deirdre lay the spaniel carefully down. She was aware of the captain’s gaze on her back, grateful, worried, and yes, relieved. He, proud commander of a warship, had turned to her in his hour of need, humbling himself and placing his trust in her abilities. Hers. She was suddenly assailed by feelings she couldn’t explain, and as he came up to stand behind her, leaning over her like a protective father, she felt the searing heat of his body against her own and flushed hotly.
Turning, she snapped, “Really, Captain . . . this won’t be a pretty sight. Go have yerself a tot o’ rum or somethin’.”
He pressed closer, his worried gaze fastened on the laboring dog. “I’ve seen plenty of blood in my life.”
But when Tildy’s whimpers progressed to sharp cries of pain and the first tiny puppy emerged some twenty minutes later in its pink, bloody sac, the mighty Lord and Master went as white as his shirt.
Deirdre glanced behind her to see him leaning heavily against the bulkhead.
“If yer goin’ to be faintin’, I’d appreciate it if ye’d do it elsewhere,” she said, cleaning the pup with a soft cloth and placing it against the warmth of Tildy’s belly. But he didn’t move, and when Deirdre looked up at him, she saw something in his eyes that swept in under her guard and went straight to her heart. The captain was gazing at her with eyes that were warm, caressing, and full of gratitude.
Eyes that sought a place in her heart and made it respond to him in ways that made Deirdre suddenly warm, too warm, beneath her clothes.
Something caught in her chest and she looked down at the pup, recognizing the feeling for what it was. A thawing. A sudden rush of feeling for this man who was her enemy, this man she had professed to hate, this man who was causing her more confusion than she had thought a body could possibly hold.
“Aye,” he murmured shakily. “Perhaps I shall go relieve the officer of the watch.”
She tried to hold on to her resentment toward him. But it was no use. She gazed down at the little white dog and softly, murmured, “Yes, do. And perhaps when ye come back ye’ll have a whole new family to welcome.”
He said nothing, just looking at her for a long, quiet, moment; then he picked up his coat and left the cabin, his footsteps quickly lost to the howl of rain and wind and storm. Deirdre took a deep, shaky breath and shut her eyes, and beneath the frenzied shriek of the wind outside, she heard the soft, kitten-like mews of the tiny puppy, this stalwart evidence of new and abiding life oddly comforting and reassuring in the midst of the tempest that roared around them. She had witnessed the miracle of birth before—many times, in fact—but never had it seemed so precious, so holy, so achingly beautiful.
A sudden warmth flooded her and she hugged her arms to her breasts, thinking again of Captain Lord, and the way he had looked at her just before he had left the cabin. But just then, Tildy stiffened in pain and crying, began to push out another tiny form, leaving Deirdre no time to ponder the new and confusing feelings of her heart.
An hour later it was over and the spaniel, exhausted, was quietly licking the three little newborns who sucked greedily at their mother’s swollen teats. Deirdre, her eyes misty with emotion, reached out and touched each tiny, squirming body. For a brief moment Tildy lifted her head and seemed to smile in gratitude; then the little dog’s head fell back to the blanket, and with a heavy, satisfied sigh, she closed her eyes.
Deirdre rose to her feet. Her work here was done. Fighting the violent tilt of the deck, she staggered to the door, opened it, and in the gloom, permeated only by a crazily swinging lantern, saw Evans blinking sleepily.
“Summon yer captain and tell him he’s the proud da o’ three wee babes,” Deirdre said. Then, with a last glance over her shoulder at Tildy, she turned and stumbled back to her cabin, where she fell, exhausted, into her bunk.
###
The storm continued for a week, pounding the frigate and battering her beneath mountainous waves and blinding sheets of rain, snow, and sleet. The pumps labored day and night to rid the bilge of water that streamed down through the hatches and came in through seams that were hard-pressed to stay tight against such an onslaught; some of the men got seasick, and the crew, still wrapped in their drenched clothes, tumbled into their damp hammocks after their watches, cold, wet, and too tired to do more than close their eyes and succumb to their exhaustion.
As for the captain himself, he was grateful for the storm. It kept his tormented mind occupied, for with the ship demanding every bit of his attention, he had little time to think of the girl he no longer trusted himself around, the girl whose eyes followed him wherever he went, the girl who was managing, somehow, to vie with his beloved Emily for the affections of his tightly guarded heart. Such feelings unnerved him and he began to go out of his way to avoid her, until the dark purple eyes grew confused, and then angry with hurt.
But he had no choice. She was too young for him. She was too innocent for him. He had done her a grievous wrong thirteen years ago, and it was far safer for both of them if she hated him. He preferred that she hate him. But as the second week dragged by, he found himself pausing for long moments outside her cabin in the dead of night, laying his palm against the wood as though he could reach inside and touch her warm skin, her hair, her softly beating heart.
Then he would turn away and stumble wearily to the loneliness of his own cabin—and the nightmares that haunted his troubled sleep—never knowing that, only several feet away, the Irish girl pined for him as much as he did for her.
###
The storm did nothing, however, to put a damper on Delight Foley’s business; indeed, she found such twisted and convoluted motions on the frigate’s part a boon to her inventiveness when it came to sexual pleasure—and positions. A true connoisseur of carnal ecstasy, Delight loved her adoring flock of lusty seamen, though she vehemently proclaimed that she would only allow Skunk near her if he dragged a bar of soap on deck with him during a particularly violent bout of rain.
Two and a half weeks after they’d left Portsmouth, Deirdre finally sought out Delight.
“Deirdre, cherie!” The girl grinned and flung the door open wide. A pungent blast of French perfume hit Deirdre in the face, nearly choking her. “Do come in! I was just reading about a new position in my manual—here, have a look!” Flushing hotly, Deirdre pushed the book away, for lately her own thoughts had been dominated by the captain—and with strange, wicked notions that brought odd tinglings to her more womanly parts.
“Delight . . . I have to talk to ye.”
“Lo, Deirdre, I just knew something was troubling you. You’ve been so quiet lately. Sit down right here,” she said, patting her bed, “and tell Delight what the problem is.”
Deirdre eyed the scented sheets, the spread of red satin— and took the chair instead. She hung her head and twisted her hands together, suddenly uncomfortable and shy.
The other woman came to her, put her hands on her hips, and tilted her head to one side. “Let me guess,” she said brightly, tapping a nail against a pearly tooth. “It’s our handsome Lord and Master, no?”
Deirdre’s cheeks flamed and she looked away. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, wretchedly.
“Lo, Deirdre, when you’re older you will learn how to hide the lust in your eyes. It’s plain as day when you talk about him, that you feel for the man.”
Deirdre stared down at the floor. “I don’t want to feel for him. He’s English. He press-ganged my brother and brought years of pain to my family. He’s cold and emotionless and he has nightmares that keep me awake half the night. I want nothin’ more than to hate him, but I can’t.” She made a helpless motion
with her hands. “Saints alive, Delight, what am I goin’ to do? I can’t stop thinkin’ about him.”
Even now, she thought of her reaction last night when he had come into his cabin as she’d been feeding Tildy. The lantern light had shone down on each glimmering strand of his hair, making the damp, slightly wavy locks so pure and pale a gold they were almost silver. His hair was the color of beach sand on a hot day, curling boyishly behind his ears and at his nape, and she had almost forgotten herself and reached out to touch it just to see if it was as soft and crisp as it had looked. . .
She looked up to find Delight gazing at her with a knowing expression on her face. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
“Love?”
“There’s no use denying it, sweetie. He’s a fine man, strong and chivalrous, though a bit too righteous and noble for his own good. But mark me, there are none finer on this vessel, perhaps none finer, even, in England. You want my advice?” She laughed. “Set your sights on him, cherie. He is a good catch, your man.”
Deirdre dragged her head up. “But, Delight . . . he’s not interested in me. I’m Irish. A commoner. He’s an English gentleman, master of a king’s ship, well learned an’ educated.”
“So?”
“He avoids me.”
“So?”
“He . . . he’s got rules he lives by, Delight. He’s . . . he’s an officer and a gentleman. I’m just—”
“The woman he could fall in love with.”
Miserably, Deirdre shook her head. “Nay. He’s in love with someone else. Someone called Emily.”
“Aaah,” Delight nodded, knowingly. “His dead wife.” She raised a brow at Deirdre’s surprised look. “Oh, don’t look so shocked! Rico told Ian, who told me. Happened five years ago, it did. The poor dear died in a fire. But really, Deirdre, do not let that stop you. Whatever his thoughts are toward his dead wife, she can’t warm his bed at night. You, on the other hand—”
Master Of My Dreams (Heroes Of The Sea Series) Page 13
