Master Of My Dreams (Heroes Of The Sea Series)

by Danelle Harmon

  “Faith, that’s kind of you, madam, but I really couldn’t—”

  “I insist! Jared is at the shop right now, but he’ll be home shortly. Meanwhile, you must come in and tell us what our gallant Navy is doing to protect us from these horrible rebels.”

  “Yes, Captain Merrick, you simply must!’’ Delight echoed, eyeing him appreciatively, suggestively, hungrily, from behind her mother’s back.

  No man could resist such an invitation, not even a king’s officer. And so it was that Brendan found himself ushered into the Foleys’ house, a pale and wan Deirdre trailing in his shadow.

  ###

  It was hours later and Deirdre, seated morosely beside Brendan and listening to the effusive Delight babble on, was as miserable, lonely, and homesick as Christian had feared she would be.

  Outside, the night pressed against the windows, and the fire in the hearth did little to dispel the sense of loneliness that pervaded her very soul. Wind moaned under the eaves, made the flames waver and jump in the grating. Home had never seemed so far away. Christian had never seemed so far away. It was almost as if both belonged to another time, another place.

  “Deirdre? Are you all right, lass?”

  She glanced up at her cousin, whose mirthful eyes were dark with worry. “Aye, Brendan. Just . . . just a wee bit homesick, ’tis all.”

  She looked down, her heart raw and aching.

  “Why, I’ll bet you’re just missing your handsome Lord and Master,” Delight chirped, shooting Brendan a bold glance from beneath her lashes. The look went unnoticed by her mother, who had gone to the hearth to ladle more stew from the pot, and her father, who had been subtly studying the naval officer all during supper.

  Brendan laughed, ever his cheerful self. “No, she misses Ireland,” he said, noting the canvas bag in her lap. “Don’t you, Deirdre?”

  “Oh, let the poor girl alone, you two!” Mrs. Foley scolded with mock sharpness. She plunked a steaming bowl of beef stew down and reclaimed her seat. “She’s been across an ocean, traveled all day, and is probably tired to the bone. No wonder she’s feeling poorly!”

  Poorly was not the word for it, Deirdre thought, picking up her spoon and trying to pretend she had an appetite. And both of them were right—she missed Christian as much as she missed Ireland.

  She took a deep breath and took a spoonful of the stew. It tasted as it should, but the yellow, coarse bread that accompanied it was dry and tasteless. She stared down at it, hating it as much as she did everything else in this awful place.

  Beside her, Brendan reached down and squeezed her hand. She looked up and saw a reassuring twinkle in his russet eyes, a mirthful grin on his lips. Imitating her dejected look, he gave her a black scowl, turning down the corners of his mouth and lowering his eyebrows until she couldn’t help but smile. But her response was short-lived, and as soon as he turned back to his meal—and Delight—Deirdre was again staring down at her lap, her eyes on her bag of Irish mementos.

  Oh, Christian, she thought. If only I was with ye right now, safely wrapped in yer strong arms and snuggled against yer big, warm chest . . .

  She poked at her stew, making herself take a few bites so she wouldn’t appear rude. Outside, it was awfully black, the darkness thick and alien and hostile. The wind shook a loose pane against a casing, and a cold draft whispered across the wide-boarded floor and curled around her ankles.

  American stew. American darkness. American wind.

  American cold.

  Her hand tightened around the bag in her lap, and she took a deep, steadying breath.

  I want to go home.

  She was able to keep her composure throughout the meal, knowing that the time would soon come when she could be alone, free to feel the misery of her heart without having to put on a brave face. Beside her, Brendan was already beginning to fidget, and she knew that soon he would leave, abandoning her in this foreign, unfriendly land with a family who ate strange food and talked with a strange accent.

  “You all right, Deirdre?” Delight asked gently.

  Deirdre nodded quickly, too quickly, and tried to smile. Delight’s father glanced at her. No doubt he was angry that he had another mouth to feed. He had barely said two words to her all night, instead watching Brendan and her with a look in his shrewd blue eyes that did nothing to make her feel welcome.

  Talk went on, with the elder Foleys idly inquiring what the Navy was doing to quell smuggling, and Brendan giving bland answers that disclosed nothing. And all too soon, the steam stopped rising from the stew, the flames began to die in the hearth, and Deirdre caught her cousin glancing repeatedly at the shelf clock standing on a nearby table. Raw loneliness filled her, and she felt a momentary stab of panic.

  Don't go, Brendan, she thought desperately. Oh, please, don’t go and leave me here all by myself . . .

  But the dreaded moment finally came. Brendan gave a great sigh, complimented Mrs. Foley on the meal, accepted a chunk of cornbread carefully wrapped in linen for the “trip back,” and picked up his black, gold-laced hat.

  Deirdre followed him outside. “Oh, Brendan, I wish ye wouldn’t leave me here,” she said forlornly. “I can’t bear it, truly, I can’t.”

  “Faith, Deirdre, such carrying-on! ’Tis not the end of the world, you know!”

  “This place is awful. Everything’s different, no one is friendly, and I just want to go home. In fact, the sooner you and Christian can find Roddy—”

  “Yes, Roddy.” Her cousin reached down and gently grasped her upper arms, his eyes, for once, serious and dark in the pale starlight as he gazed down at her. “I know you told me on the ride out here that you came to Boston to find me, so that I could help you find your brother, but faith, Deirdre, that’s not going to be as easy as you may think. He could be anywhere.” He sobered further. “Even dead.”

  “I know that, Brendan. But I promised Mama that I would find him and bring him home to Ireland so she could rest in peace. I’ve got to at least try.”

  “Yes, I suppose you must,” he said resignedly. “Just don’t get your hopes up, Deidre. I’d hate to see you get your heart broken.” He embraced her tightly, his arms closing around her shoulders. He had grown taller, stronger, even more handsome since she’d seen him last, but he was still the laughing, beloved cousin she remembered so well—and, he carried the blood of Ireland in his veins, the brogue of Connaught in his voice, the soul of Connemara in his heart.

  Home.

  She clung to him, unwilling to relinquish him to the night, blinking back quiet tears of pain as their parting grew closer by the moment. She did not want to be alone out here in this cold and wretched place, with strangers. She did not want him to leave.

  And she ached for Christian. Oh, God help her, did she ache . . .

  “Well, Brendan, if anyone can find Roddy, ’tis you and Christian,” she said at last. “I have faith in the two of ye.”

  “Yes, and I’m sure that Captain Lord will be here just as soon as he can get away. He’ll help you find your brother, I’m certain of it.”

  She stared at him. “Aren’t ye goin’ to help?”

  He shook his head. “Sir Geoffrey is sending me back to sea tomorrow, to cruise the north shore and make sure things don’t get out of hand there.” He saw her stricken look and touched her cheek. “But I won’t be gone forever, lass. When I come back, I promise to help find Roddy.”

  “D’ye think he’s still alive, Brendan? Do ye?”

  A shadow passed over his face. “Thirteen years is a long time, Deirdre.”

  “He’s alive,” she declared, raising her chin. “I feel it in my bones. We’ll find him, Brendan, ye just wait and see. Christian already promised he would do everything in his power to get him back for me. He feels responsible, as it was his press gang that took Roddy in the first place, but I don’t hold him accountable for it anymore. He was just doin’ his duty.” Fire flashed in her eyes. “Nay, Brendan, ’twas the Navy’s fault, and it’s up to the Navy to return my
brother to me!”

  He looked down at her, his eyes affectionate, his face beloved and dear. “Ah, lass, you certainly have the determination of our Grace O’Malley in you, don’t you?” He smiled and walked with her toward the waiting carriage. “And now I must go. Can’t keep the admiral waiting, you know.”

  On sudden impulse, she flung her arms around his neck, clinging tightly to him. They embraced each other for a long moment, she wearing her homesickness on her sleeve, he well used to this strange land and uncharacteristically silent as he pondered all she had told him over the course of the afternoon. Finally he stood back and with a reassuring grin, reminded her that Christian was not so far away, and then climbed swiftly up into the carriage.

  Moments later, it was fading into the night.

  Deirdre stayed out on the half-frozen lawn until the horse’s hoofbeats had faded and the carriage’s lanterns had shrunk to mere sparks in the distance. At last they were gone altogether, and she was alone.

  Her shoulders drooped, and she took a deep, shaky breath. Finally, she turned and trudged back into the house and up the narrow wooden staircase to the room that Mrs. Foley had prepared for her. Someone had brought her bag of Irish mementos up and placed it on the little stand just inside the door. The bed was neatly turned down, waiting. She retrieved her bag, pulled a thick, heavy quilt from the bed, wrapped it around herself, and went to the window. After much tugging, she managed to get it open. Cold night air swept in. She sat down on the bare floor and gazed out into the night, imagining her beloved cousin traveling somewhere out there in the darkness, away from her—and toward Boston, where everyone she now held dear in this world, seemed to be.

  “Oh, Christian,” she murmured, staring out into the darkness. Before leaving the frigate, she he had taken one of his shirts from his sea trunk and stuffed it into her bag; now, she pulled it out, pressed it against her lips, and breathed deeply of his scent. The heartache that had been building all evening grew unbearable. “Please, come and get me. Please, oh, please, don’t let me rot out here.”

  Stars twinkled above the treetops and low-lying hills. Wood smoke lay heavily in the air and wafted through the window on crisp, breezy puffs of cold wind. Just cross the road, the windows of a tavern glowed orange in the darkness. Figures in silhouette moved back and forth behind the panes.

  Was Christian aching for her as much as she was, for him? Had the elderly admiral forgiven him? Was his shoulder causing him pain? What was he doing right now? She hugged the shirt to herself, feeling the tears welling behind her eyelids, in the back of her throat. In her lap was her precious bag of Irish mementos, and she touched it, her fingers moving over the odd lumps and bumps and knowing each shape in the darkness.

  Far, far off in the distance, a dog barked, the sound lonely and sad in the night.

  How far away from her now was Brendan? A mile? Two?

  She reached into the bag and found the soft clump of wool from an Irish sheep. That tiny connection with home—so near, and yet so far—brought a piercing ache to her heart, and she bent her head, burying her face against the canvas bag to try and hold back the tears.

  Home. Where was it? In which direction did it lie?

  She looked up into the night sky. Alarm spread through her when she could not find the North Star. Dear Lord, were the stars that shone over this godforsaken place different from those that stood over Ireland? Shivering with cold, Deirdre clutched the tuft of wool and leaned far out the window, craning her neck and peering up at the peaked roof of the dark house.

  There. The North Star, beloved and familiar, like an old friend. Choking relief swept over her, and she shut her eyes in silent gratitude. Thank God. That, at least, was reassuring. She leaned out the window once again, contorting her body at an unnatural angle so that her face was turned homeward.

  At that moment a gust of wind came up, tearing the wool from her hand. She cried out and make a mad lunge toward it, but the lonely white tuft drifted off into the darkness, dancing on the wind, fading away until it was swallowed by the night.

  Far away, the dog barked again.

  Stricken, she pressed steepled hands to her mouth as hot, salty tears finally began to course down her cheeks and over her fingers. “Oh . . . oh, dear God, no . . .

  Ireland.

  Another piece of it gone.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees, bent her head, and, clutching Christian’s shirt to her heart, wept until she could weep no more.

  ###

  “Heavens, Deirdre, what was all that bumping and thumping going on up there last night?” Delight asked at the breakfast table the next morning. She stuffed a spoonful of strange yellow pudding into her mouth and reached for the pitcher of tree sap—which, Deirdre had been told, was called maple syrup. “I thought the house was going to come down!”

  Deirdre raised her head. She had not found much rest last night, and she knew it showed in her face. Only when she had made some adjustments to her bed, then fiercely hugged Christian’s shirt in her arms and pretended she was hugging him, had she been able to find sleep.

  Mr. and Mrs. Foley were regarding her curiously. Outside, sunshine was bright across the land, making the low-lying hills in the near distance look as purple as the Twelve Bens back home. Deirdre’s cheeks flamed, and sheepishly, she murmured, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep anyone awake. I was . . . movin’ the bed.”

  “Moving the bed?”

  She stared down at her hands, suddenly embarrassed. “I wanted it to . . . to face Ireland.”

  Even the stern and stoic Jared Foley was hard pressed to keep his lips from twitching in amusement.

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. Foley exclaimed. “You have got to be the most homesick young lady I’ve ever known. You’ll just have to meet our Irish friend soon. Perhaps that will make you feel better.”

  “Irish friend?” Deirdre asked, suddenly brightening.

  “A seafarer, just like your man,” Delight said, her eyes glinting.

  “What?” Mr. Foley asked, peering at Deirdre from over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “You have a suitor?”

  “Oh, he is most handsome,” Delight said. “He masters a ship, is that not so, Deirdre?”

  “Aye,” Deirdre said proudly.

  Mr. Foley put down his fork. “Which one?”

  “His Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder. Christian is a king’s officer. A captain in the Royal Navy.”

  “I see.” Mr. Foley exchanged a quick glance with his wife and, picking up his fork, cast his gaze back down toward his plate.

  “Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

  “No, Deirdre.” Mrs. Foley patted her hand. “Not at all.” Again she glanced at her husband. “We should like to meet him sometime. Wouldn’t we, Jared?”

  “Aye,” he grunted, attacking his hasty pudding.

  Deirdre looked at them, wondering what she had said to upset them. Certainly, the mood around the table seemed to have suddenly changed. She glanced at Delight, hoping to find an answer, but her friend was looking down, smiling, and picking a bit of shell from her eggs.

  The sudden silence was uncomfortable. Bending her head, Deirdre picked up her fork and, shunning the strange hasty pudding, went for the more familiar eggs instead.

  They weren’t from an Irish hen, but at least they didn’t taste any different.

  Perhaps there was hope here, after all.

  ###

  Despite Sir Geoffrey’s assurances, and Christian’s desire to race off to Menotomy at the first chance he had, it was two days before he could get away from his duties. Meetings with his admiral and General Gage to discuss rebel movements, and the presentation of his bold plan to net the Irish Pirate, kept him near his command. But by the third morning, when he awoke bleary-eyed, lonely, and exhausted, he knew he could delay no longer.

  Tildy, leaving her growing puppies sleeping in a pile, had climbed into bed with him, but though her presence was a small comfort, no one could take the place of h
is beloved Deirdre. Every time he’d rolled over and looked at the pillow, he imagined his Irish girl’s thick, spiraling black curls spread over it, her innocent purple eyes gazing at him with adoration. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her until he was forced to sleep alone.

  How had she fared through the nights? The poor mite was probably homesick as hell, out there all by herself in an unfamiliar countryside with people she didn’t know. Anger swept through him at the unfortunate circumstances that had separated them. He rose from his bed. There was no sense in allowing her to suffer any longer.

  Mechanically, he went through the motions of washing, shaving, dressing. He packed a bag with a few civilian clothes, then chose his finest shirt, his dress coat, and his gold-tasseled presentation sword. He made a handsome picture as he appeared on deck, and could not have been more pleased with the smartness and ceremony with which his men saw him over the side.

  They stood by the hammock nettings, watching his gig carry him across the sparkling harbor, threading its way between the other anchored warships.

  “Something’s troubling our Lord and Master,” Hibbert said, as though no one else had noticed.

  “Aye, he’s in a bad way. The Old Fart must ha’e given him a good setting-down the other day,” Ian said, glaring at the huge flagship that shimmered in her own reflection.

  “It ain’t his fault none of us knew Delight was up there,” Skunk muttered.

  “Elwin says the Old Fart was so mad he was spitting nails.”

  “Should’ve let Delight work her charms on him,” Teach growled, joining them. He held a flintlock pistol in his hand, and was cocking the empty weapon, pulling the trigger, cocking the weapon, pulling the trigger, his annoyance obvious and beginning to become annoying in itself. “Might’ve done the Old Fart a world of good.”

  “She tried,” Elwin said, scowling at Teach, then picking at a callus on his finger. “But it was Deirdre, not Delight, who got the old crust softened up enough that he finally quit raging at our Lord and Master. Never saw anything like it. Had him eating out of her hand, she did.”