Deirdre, her cheeks flaming, was already reaching for the door. “Thank ye, Delight. Ye . . . ye made some things clear in my mind, ye did.”
Delight just shrugged and smiled brightly. “Well, anytime you want advice, you come here to me. And when the time comes for you to lure the Lord and Master into your bed, you just let me know. I have all kinds of devices to make the task go easy for you, no?”
On that note, Deirdre went scarlet and fled the brig, Delight’s amused laughter ringing in her ears.
###
Emily.
His wife came to him, as she had nearly every night for the past five years, waiting until he was deeply asleep before inflicting this same hell upon him that he was doomed, it seemed, to never escape.
Christian’s blood went cold, and he trembled, curling himself beneath the blankets and hearing himself whimpering deep in his throat. But there was no hiding. No escaping.
“Emily?” He was dreaming, he knew he was dreaming, but nevertheless it was all happening again, just as it had that long-ago night in the distant English countryside, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to change it. He reached out for her in the darkness, knowing, of course, that he would find her side of the bed empty.
He swung himself out of bed, the floor cold against his feet. After so many months at sea, he was used to a rolling deck, not cold marble, plush Persian rugs, and a solid floor that did not move. But no, he was not aboard his ship, but at home at the fine country estate in Hampshire that had been in the Lord family for centuries.
He stood for a moment, swaying in the darkness and getting his bearings. Everything about this room felt cold—not unlike the way she had behaved toward him since he’d dropped anchor in Portsmouth a week before.
“Emily?”
He stumbled along, slightly disoriented, the rich, ornate furniture with which she had filled their bedroom looming as huge, dark shapes in the gloom. The furniture was ugly and far too grand for his tastes, but she had wanted it, and it wasn’t in his heart to deny her.
“Emily?” he said again, beginning to grow worried. With her legs crippled from a childhood illness, she couldn’t have gone far. He paused, listening. From downstairs came the steady tick, tock of a clock; from beyond the window, the shriek of a night bird. Land sounds, unfamiliar to his mariner’s ears. Outside, an owl hooted, once, twice.
Dread snaked up his spine. Where the devil was she?
It was as his hand groped for a flint that he heard it: from downstairs, the tinkle of her laughter.
He froze, the blood chilling in his veins.
His hands were shaking as he tried once, twice, to light a candle. Shielding the flame and gripping the candle so hard that his knuckles went white, he crept out of the room and down the twisting marble staircase.
Voices came drifting through the hall. “Really, James, I prefer it when you touch me there . . . oh, yes, there. Oh . . . oh, yes . . .”
Shock paralyzed him . . . And then—anger that blinded him to all thought, all reason, all caution. He rushed forward. His foot slammed into the parlor door and sent it crashing back against the wall.
And by the dim glow of a candle, he saw it all. Emily, her hair spread beneath her on the sofa, her long, frail legs opened wide, her thighs wrapped around her lover’s back as he pumped and strained madly above her.
With a hoarse cry, Christian charged forward.
###
Deirdre O’Devir awoke with a start.
Something had roused her. She sat up in bed, her heart pounding
The Lord and Master.
Through the canvas screen, she heard him thrashing in his bunk, his hoarse cries blotting out even the ceaseless moans of the wind and sea outside.
Deirdre flung the covers aside, left her cabin, and stepping over the snoring sentry posted just outside the captain’s door, padded on silent feet across the checked canvas that covered the deck planking.
This cabin offered the only windows on the ship, and through them, she could see that the storm clouds were parting. The full moon shone brightly, and by its silver glow, she saw the English captain writhing in torment in his bed. The sheets were twined around his legs, sweat sheened his chest and his mouth was open in a silent scream.
She stared down at him, the barely remembered face of her brother rising up before her eyes to remind her of her forgotten vow.
Kill him, Deirdre . . . Kill him . . . remember what he did to us. To you and mama . . . Remember your vow, Deirdre!
“No!”
She clapped her hands to her ears, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head as she tried futilely to push the images away, to block them out.
Kill him.
Never would she find the Lord and Master more vulnerable.
“I won’t!” she cried, clawing at her cheeks.
“Emily . . .” he moaned brokenly, his voice no longer a plea, but deteriorating into awful, choking sobs that tore at her heart. “Dear God, Emily . . .”
Her hands shaking madly, Deirdre took a deep breath and picked up the brass dividers that lay glinting in the moonlight on his desk.
Then she moved toward the bed.
###
“I’ll see you in hell, by God!”
Christian dove forward, hearing his wife’s scream as her lover lunged to his feet and fled from the room. Blinded by rage, Christian pounded after him, her desperate voice echoing behind him.
“If you weren’t at sea all the time, you wouldn’t have forced me to take a lover! If you were half the husband you ought to be, I would never have strayed! Dammit, Christian, don’t do it!”
Black, all-consuming rage. . . . His breath roaring through his lungs . . . The man’s pale, naked form rounding the corner into the hall, racing through the elegant drawing room, stopping only long enough to snatch a lamp from the wall and hurl it at Christian with all his strength—
The room exploded into flames. Fire whooshed up the curtains in a deafening roar, sending Christian reeling back, away from the wall of intense heat. The rugs went up in an inferno, and savage, hungry flames charged up the fine paper that covered the walls.
In minutes, the house was ablaze.
Servants, clad only in their nightgowns, raced past, screaming. Christian pounded back down the hall, hearing the roar of the fire behind him. “Emily!” he screamed hoarsely. “Emily, dear God, where are you?”
The parlor was empty.
Thick, choking whorls of black smoke blinded him, driving the breath from his lungs. Heat blasted against his skin, his eyes, singing his hair. Coughing, he stumbled and raced on, the flames chasing him as he tore madly through the house in a desperate search for his wife.
“Emily!”
Pounding up the stairs, he crashed into the bedroom and found nothing. He half ran, half fell, down the spiraling staircase, and it was only then that he heard her screams of terror.
“Christian! Christia-a-a-a-a-an!”
Where was she? Frantically, he kicked open doors that were already in flames. He bolted through rooms crackling with heat and engulfed in fire. The acrid stench of burning fabric, plaster, and wood seared his nose and the flames clawed at him like a live thing.
Her voice rose to a shrill scream. “Christia-a-a-a-an!”
There, huddled in a heap at the far end of the hall, he saw her, her frightened face glowing orange in the leaping flames, her frail body lying where her crippled legs had finally given out.
He raced headlong down the burning hall, her screams of terror guiding him through flames that tore at his face, smoke that stung his eyes and filled his lungs.
“Christian!”
He was almost there. Almost there! Another few feet and—
With a sudden bellowing roar, a wall of timbers crashed down around him in an exploding inferno of showering sparks and leaping flame, forever separating them.
Emily! . . .
He heard her unholy, dying screams.
Then nothing
.
###
Deirdre stood above the captain, helpless, the brass dividers forgotten. Any thoughts of avenging Roddy fled her mind as his writhing body finally quieted and he curled himself up amidst the twisted sheets, his arms over his face, his broad, strong, back to her. She was about to flee back to her own cabin when she realized that an awful sound was coming from him: harsh, racking sobs that were so desolate, so full of raw anguish that her own heart felt like it was being torn asunder.
Tears welled up in her own eyes and she stared down at him for a long moment, seeing the Lord and Master as none of the others aboard the frigate had seen him.
Alone, tortured—and defenseless.
And suffering in a way that no person should ever have to suffer.
Deirdre swallowed hard. Then, her heart aching for him, she peeled back the blankets, slid gently in beside him, and wrapped her arms around his heaving shoulders, holding him tightly until at last his breathing grew soft, his muscles relaxed, and his anguished sobs faded until there was nothing but the sheen of tears upon harsh cheeks that shone silver in the moonlight.
Chapter 14
Dawn’s light, pale and pink and shimmering upon the sea, shone through the salt-streaked stern windows and probed the expanse of the cabin.
Christian opened his eyes.
Above, the deckhead and beams glowed softly in the morning light. He heard footsteps crossing the deck, and lan MacDuff’s gruff orders to lay the frigate over onto the other tack. Everything was well. Everything was as it should be.
Except for the woman asleep in the bed with him.
He sat up with a start and stared down at her, sudden heat pulsing through his blood. “What the devil?”
He reached out a hand to wake her, and paused, stricken by her beauty, unwilling to disturb her even as he wondered what on earth had possessed her to crawl into bed with him. Thick black curls framed her face, webbed her cheeks, tangled in lashes the color of charcoal. They tumbled around her neck, swirled around white, delicate shoulders, and danced across the pillow. Beneath the blankets, he could see the curves of her figure blatantly outlined, and his throat went suddenly dry.
He pushed the blankets back and tried to crawl out from behind her, but he could not do so without waking her. The narrowness of the bunk only made the endeavor that much more difficult, and the Irish girl seemed determined, even in slumber, to capitalize on that fact. Looking down, Christian saw that her arm lay curled at her side, her fingers only inches from his nakedness. In dismay, he felt himself stirring.
The Lord and Master swallowed hard, as helpless as a square-rigger caught all aback.
She was wearing nothing but baggy trousers and a long shirt, probably borrowed from one of the midshipmen. It had ridden up during the night; now it lay bunched and twined around her waist, exposing a flat, creamy belly and more of her bosom than was decent. He had thought the scarlet gown to be vulgar. Now he realized that with such a shape as hers, it wouldn’t matter what she wore.
Desire. It tore through his loins, cruel, uninvited, unwanted. It caused him to grow stiff and swollen, and he heard his breathing coming faster, felt himself breaking out in a fine sheen of sweat that wilted the sheets where they touched his skin.
The girl sighed softly in her sleep, unconsciously nestling closer to him until her fingers, resting in the pale, wiry hair between his legs, lay a mere two inches from his throbbing shaft.
He froze.
Tried to get his breathing under control.
Lust. It was nothing but lust, he told himself. Emily might have done him wrong, but she was his love, his only love, and always would be. He would not betray his wife by allowing his head to be turned by this scrawny, spitting, Irish girl, who probably wasn’t a doxy after all—but who could definitely mean the swift and sorry ruin of his career if he got tangled up with her.
The girl moved again, and her fingers brushed his nakedness. Christian clenched his teeth together, biting back the groan that rose in his throat. The sensation filled him with longing—and with despair, for he alone knew that he could not carry out the love act itself.
Not with Emily still coming to him every night. Not with Emily’s face still rising up before his eyes at the first hint of desire for another. Not with Emily’s death still filling him with raw, torturous guilt that he had been unable to save her . . .
But his wife’s long-dead face did not appear in the haunted rooms of his mind as he tentatively reached out and, holding his breath, touched the Irish girl’s black, spiral-curling hair. It was coarse, wiry, as willful as her spirit, and just as wild. His thumb began a gentle caress, crushing the lock in his fist, as something huge and painful welled up in his chest. He gently laid the long curl over her shoulder, his gaze straying down her softly rising bosom to follow the chain that lay slackly around her neck. The cross, glinting in the dawn’s light, rested atop the swell of one breast, mocking him with its blatant reminder of their differences in religion.
He was Anglican.
She was Irish Catholic.
There were those who would frown upon a highly respected naval officer taking a papist to wife. There were those who would think her coarse and unsuitable as the bride of an English nobleman. There were those who would have nothing but contempt for her. Christian tightened his lips. Damn them, damn all of them who would put her, the only woman he’d so much as even looked at since Emily, out of his reach.
And then he realized where his thoughts had been leading.
Wife.
“Dear God,” he murmured, dragging a hand through his rumpled hair.
Bride. . .
He shut his eyes, and broke out in fresh sweat. Control yourself, Christian. You are an officer.
An officer. A gentleman. As such, he was supposed to conduct himself in a stellar manner. To do otherwise would be to bring disgrace upon his king, his country, and the uniform he wore with such pride. The embarrassing debacle of Portsmouth, and being found in such a compromising position, still rankled, and rankled deeply. Another such incident could bring about his ruin.
Desperately, he glanced at the box beneath the stern windows that the ship’s carpenter had made for Tildy and her puppies. The babies were still asleep, but sensing her master’s stare, Tildy raised her head and looked at him, seeming to grin.
“Ha, ha,” the little spaniel seemed to say. “Now what are you going to do?”
His swollen arousal now lay stiff and hard against the sleeping girl’s knuckles. He tensed and shut his eyes, hating himself for not getting up and making a swift exit from this bunk, this cabin. How he wished she’d move that little hand closer; how he longed to feel her soft, whispery touch moving over his aching length, stroking it, coaxing it harder and higher, until—
Sudden, violent anger slammed through him.
What the devil was he thinking? Cursing, he crawled out and away from her, no longer caring whether or not he woke her. She remained asleep. Breathing hard, he stood naked on the slightly angled deck and tried to rein in his thoughts.
His desires.
He stared out the stern windows. The sea was deep and blue and ruffled by wind, its reflection dancing against the deckhead like sunlight through a thousand diamonds. He passed the back of his wrist across his brow, then clenched his fists at his sides as his gaze crept, unbidden, back to the girl.
He was damned, he thought, damned to hell and beyond. Turning, he rushed through his morning ablutions, cursing when the razor caught his chin and raised a trickle of blood. He grabbed his wig, arranged the rolled curls over his still faintly bruised temple, and donned his uniform with a haste he hadn’t shown since he’d been a fourteen-year-old midshipman who, cocky after his first night with a cheap doxy, had shown the bad sense to arrive late for his watch.
His mood black, Christian stuffed his shirttails into his breeches, grabbed his coat, and slammed out of the cabin without a backward glance.
###
“Er, Ian? I really thin
k you ought to have let her go for another hour or so before tacking,” Wenham said, scratching his ear as he peered up at the set of the sails with a critical eye. Bold Marauder was quite comfortable, driving along on a larboard tack under reefed topsails and courses, but he knew that the Lord and Master would have the hands piped for sail drill as soon as he came on deck.
That would mean, of course, that the men would have to go aloft to reset the sails for the second time this morning. Wenham groaned. Why work the crew any more than needed? he thought, watching the thin curl of smoke that rose tantalizingly from the galley funnel as his stomach growled in anticipation of breakfast.
Ian puffed out his chest. “The captain left me in charge, Thomas,” he said, hoisting his bagpipes and squeezing the bag beneath his brawny elbow. The big Scot missed the looks of alarm that spread amongst those standing nearby, for Ian’s talents at playing his instrument had not improved in the slightest. “And I think it was time tae tack, so doona question my wishes!”
Rhodes, leaning against the rail, rolled his eyes as Ian stormed off. “The captain!” he sneered with a derisive glance at the hatch. “If he were any sort of commanding officer, he’d be up here on deck, seeing to his ship!”
“Prob’ly fussin’ with that stupid wig,” Skunk remarked.
“Or feeding treats to that sap-eyed dog,” Elwin spat.
Hibbert, who’d spent a very educational hour in the company of Delight Foley, gave a sly grin. “Or tumbling the Irish girl.”
A dark shadow fell over the deck. “That will be all, Mr. Hibbert.”
Hibbert’s head shot up, the blood draining from his face at the sound of that icy, dangerous voice. Abruptly, the officers snapped off guilty salutes; then all turned hastily away and pretended to be engrossed in their duties.
Master Of My Dreams (Heroes Of The Sea Series) Page 14
