Master Of My Dreams (Heroes Of The Sea Series)

by Danelle Harmon

  ###

  “Easy with those crates there, lads,” the Irish Pirate said, anxiously watching as the men, toiling in the rain, struggled to load the heavy crates aboard the sloop as quickly as possible. The transfer was happening swiftly, silently, competently, as it had been done countless times before, as it would be done countless times again. Boats, struggling in the swells, moved back and forth between the hove-to merchantman and the little sloop, their crews cursing and damning the wind and the rain. Above, the flapping topsail sent down a continued shower, and rigging banged noisily in impatience. A single lantern, set in the shrouds a foot above Roddy’s head, provided the only light, and now it shone harshly upon the dark, bearded faces of men grown hard by living just beyond the reach of the law.

  “One more trip and that’ll do it, Cap’n,” said a seaman, grinning up through the darkness as his boat nudged against the rocking hull. He reached up and caught the wet line one of his mates tossed down, then hauled himself nimbly up the side.

  “Good,” Roddy said, glancing nervously out into the night. A feeling of doom weighed heavily in his bones, and he would be happy when the exchange was done and he was safely back in Menotomy. “Just hurry the bleedin’ hell up, would ye? ’Twill be dawn by the time ye laggards’ve finished.”

  His good humor spurred them into even more haste, and a half hour later, the boats were back aboard, the merchantman was slipping away into the mists, and the crates of guns were being transferred to the hold.

  Roddy wiped the rain from his face with the back of his hand, envisioned Delight’s silky thighs spread beneath him, and, accepting a hot mug of buttered rum, went aft to join his first mate by the tiller. Already his spirits were on the rise, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the staysail was backed, the sloop turned, and wind began to swell the big mainsail. The mists were clearing, filing away out to sea as though being towed by an invisible force, and he could see stars beginning to shine dimly through the lingering vapors and sliding in and out of the fuzzy haze.

  “’Twill be a fine mornin’, eh, Stubs?” he said to the one-eyed, scar-faced thief who’d escaped debtors’ prison only to find his fortune at sea.

  “Aye, Cap’n. Stars are comin’ out.”

  “In more ways than one, me lad, in more ways than one!” Roddy said, thinking of the woman he had once known as Dolores Ann and now knew as Delight. He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the gloom.

  “Should I douse the lantern, Cap’n?” asked a seaman just coming up from below.

  “Nay,” Roddy said with an impatient wave of his hand. He gazed out into the darkness. More stars were crystallizing through the fading mists now, growing sharper and brighter as the night cleared. ‘There’s no one out here but us.”

  “Adams is going to be singing our praises for sure,” Stubs said, accepting a mug from a passing seaman. “Christ, this is getting easier and easier. The Royal Navy just ain’t what it used to be!”

  “Well, with such incompetent dolts as Captain Lord to head it, what d’ye expect? He’s probably out combin’ the seas off Cape Cod, the fool!”

  Several nearby seamen hooted with laughter. Stubs slapped his thigh, and Roddy raised his mug in a mocking toast.

  “To the Royal Navy and its ships o’ fools!”

  “Aye! A pox on the whole bloody lot of ’em!”

  Harsh guffaws rolled out over the decks. Pipes were passed. More rum was poured; some was spilled.

  And aft, the stars began to go out as a tall, dark shape rose menacingly out of the darkness behind them.

  But no one saw the giant squares of canvas blotting out the heavens.

  No one heard the increasing roar of water as the bows of a mighty frigate swallowed the little sloop’s wake.

  And no one happened to look around to notice.

  “I’ll drink to that!” Roddy cried, his eyes dancing. “A pox on the England, a pox on its ships, and a pox on Captain Christian Bloody Lord, whose inability to capture the dreaded Irish Pirate will land him straight in the annals of history as the biggest fool the Royal Navy ever bred!”

  At that very moment, the night blew apart in a deafening roar of thunder and flame as the Royal Navy’s finest—which had been silently trailing its quarry for the last quarter hour—opened fire. In one deadly salvo from her bow chasers, the mighty Bold Marauder smashed the mast from the little sloop and left her staggering helplessly in the water.

  In disbelief, Captain Roddy O’Devir picked himself up from the deck where he’d been thrown, and watched as the powerful frigate slid out of the darkness, her guns glinting in the starlight. He saw men behind their big muzzles, waiting for their captain’s signal to fire. He saw marines gathered along the rail, their muskets trained down upon his shattered decks. And he heard the clipped voice of the English commander and knew that he had just made the most grievous error of misjudgment in his career as a mariner—an error that would probably cost him his life.

  “This is His Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder! In the name of the king, heave to and prepare to receive boarders! You are all under arrest!”

  A grievous error indeed.

  The voice belonged to that same fool whom Roddy had just scorned, a man who, he realized with a sinking heart, had turned out to be no fool at all.

  Captain Lord.

  Chapter 29

  “Deirdre!” Delight’s voice, shrill with panic, cleaved the darkness. “Deirdre, wake up! Oh, God, the Lord and Master caught Roddy! He caught Roddy!”

  Instantly awake, Deirdre sat up just as Delight, crying bitterly, threw herself into her arms. Outside, dawn glowed upon the horizon, and gray light filled the room. “Paul Revere just brought the news, Deirdre! Your Englishman caught him after he made the trade, and saw the whole thing. Roddy’ll hang for this, Deirdre! He’ll hang!”

  Deirdre began to swing herself out of bed, but Delight was hysterical. “Oh, Deirdre, you have to do something, anything, everything in your power to get the Lord and Master to release Roddy! There’s no one but you he’ll listen to, no one but you who can persuade him to let Roddy go!” Her fingers bit into Deirdre’s shoulders. “The man loves you, Deirdre! He’ll do anything you ask!”

  Deirdre embraced the other girl, trying to calm her. “Aye, Delight, he will. Now stop yer cryin’. Christian made me a promise that he’d find my brother and return him to me to make up for press-gangin’ him all those years ago.” She smiled, serene in the face of her friend’s panic. “So see? ’Twill be no problem a’tall. I’ll just go to Boston, tell Christian who Roddy is, and he’ll let him go.”

  Deirdre crawled out from beneath the covers and padded across the room to stand at the window. The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, the dawn strikingly vibrant upon the eastern horizon. Ah, Christian, she thought, hugging her arms to herself. There was no reason to be upset, no reason to fear that he wouldn’t honor his word to return Roddy to her. Thank God, actually, that it had been him and not some other Royal Navy captain who had apprehended Roddy!

  “Oh, Deirdre, how can ye be so sure?” Delight wailed. “Captain Lord is a king’s officer! He values nothing as much as duty, loyalty, and service. What if he won’t listen to you?” She burst into wild sobs. “Oh, God, what if he won’t listen?”

  Deirdre’s head came up, and she touched the ring. “He is to marry me, Delight. He will listen.” She turned confident eyes upon her friend. “I promise.”

  ###

  The puppies whimpered in their box, tiny white blobs of fur that crawled over each other and pushed against their mother’s belly as they suckled greedily at her milk-swollen teats.

  Christian sat backward in a chair watching them, his chin resting upon his wrists, his wrists resting on the top rung. His coat was slung carelessly over a neighboring chair, and his fancy, gold-laced hat was hooked atop one of its posts. Stripped down to waistcoat, shirt, and breeches, he gazed sightlessly at the puppies, trying to glean some small sliver of joy from their antics.

  To no a
vail.

  He had been working on a report to Sir Geoffrey all morning, and sheer exhaustion had forced him to take a break. He had not slept in two days, and his body was crying for rest. But he was afraid to close his eyes and give in to the sleep his body craved, for in his heart he knew that the nightmares would return.

  Somewhere beneath him and deep within the frigate’s hold was the man who was his Irish girl’s lover. That he had succeeded in outsmarting and apprehending the rascal brought Christian no sense of triumph. Revenge had been empty, hollow, meaningless. There hadn’t even been any action, for the Irish Pirate’s sloop had mounted only a few swivel guns that would have been ridiculously ineffective against the strapping might of a king’s frigate. The tall, defiant-eyed sea rogue had surrendered without a fight, knowing that any attempt to defend his ship against Bold Marauder would only result in needless bloodshed.

  Now the rebel crew was in a Boston gaol, the Pirate himself locked in what had once been the playground of Delight Foley. Christian was taking no chances. He dared not send the notorious smuggler ashore for fear that the angry mobs would storm the gaol and free their hero. But those same people who might storm a gaol would think twice about approaching a thirty-eight-gun frigate.

  His chin on his wrists, he stared dully down at the puppies, not seeing them, but Deirdre. He thought of how she had tenderly dug the musket ball from his shoulder, how she had loved him with her body, how her eyes had shone so brightly when he’d given her his ring.

  To think that her actions had been superficial and false; to think that it wasn’t him she loved, but another.

  The pain that ravaged his heart was a hundred times worse than anything he’d endured at the hands of Elwin Boyd’s surgery. It hurt such that he could not sit here and think about it. He rose from the chair, picked up a puppy, and returned to his desk. There, he sat, carefully positioning the baby in his lap so it would not fall, and retrieved his pen. Exhaustion made his movements forced and mechanical. He dipped the quill in the inkwell and willing the weariness from his brain, tried to continue with his report. In his lap, the puppy fell asleep, contented and warm. Christian’s head drooped, the fair hair falling over his brow. His eyes flickered shut, opened again, and jerking his head up, he dipped the quill in the inkwell once more. He was just starting the next page when he heard the stamp of a musket against the deck outside his door. A moment later it opened, and Ian MacDuff, with Evans standing grim-faced behind him, stepped inside.

  “Prisoner’s asking tae see ye, sir.”

  The lieutenant held his hat respectfully in his hands, and the scent of his damp clothes permeated the confines of the cabin. Christian looked up and blinked, his eyes heavy and aching with exhaustion. In his dazed, numbed state, it took a moment for him to realize that someone had spoken to him.

  Cradling the sleeping puppy, he got to his feet and moved across the cabin to place the baby with its mother. Ian took a step forward, thinking to assist his captain, for the Lord and Master looked to be in a sorry state indeed.

  “Are ye all right, sir?”

  “Aye, Ian. Never felt better.”

  “If there be anything ye want tae talk about, doona hesitate tae ask . . .”

  Christian paused. He stared dumbly at the bulkhead, his throat working. Then he raked a hand through his hair and looked at the lieutenant. “Thank you, Ian. I shall remember your kindness, but I fear that talk will not aid me in the slightest.”

  “The Irish lassie, sir?”

  Christian said nothing.

  “I know ye be missing her, sir, but ye’ll be back together soon, now that ye’ve accomplished yer mission—”

  “You do not understand!” Christian’s eyes were suddenly blazing. Then his voice softened, became dead and lifeless once more. “Forgive me, Ian. I have no right to be sharp with you, none at all.” He put his hands on the back of a chair and looked down, his eyes bleak. “After I went to Menotomy to call upon her—and ask for her hand in marriage—I—I saw her in the arms of another man.”

  Ian’s mouth fell open and his hat dropped from his hands. “Another man, sir?” His face went slack with shock. “Why, she loves you. She wouldnae do such a thing—”

  “It was the Irish Pirate, Ian. And the memory of her standing in his arms shall go with me into my grave.”

  He looked at Ian, his eyes raw with anguish. But the big Scot had no words of comfort, nothing from his own vast experience with the bonnie sex to relieve the pain of his commanding officer. “’Tis sorry I be, sir . . . I had no idea.”

  Christian turned away. “Thank you, Ian. Your concern will not be forgotten.”

  “I’ll let ye be, then, sir,” Ian said, quietly, sensing his captain’s need to be alone. “But please do think about getting some sleep before ye have tae face the Old Fart. And I’m sorry for disturbing ye . . . I just thought ye’d want t’ know the prisoner’s demanding tae see you.”

  “Damn the prisoner. He can bloody well rot for all I care.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll tell ’im that.”

  “Please do, Ian.” Christian was aching with fatigue, his heart a raw wound whose pain was rivaled only by the incessant throb of his shoulder. Dimly, he was aware of Ian moving away and down the passageway, roaring for Skunk and Teach as he went.

  Soon the news would be known throughout the ship. Soon every man aboard would know that he’d been neatly deceived by a lovely Irish girl with innocent purple eyes. But he found he was too tired to care. Too tired to fight the anguish, the pain, the pity that would surely come his way.

  And the nightmares.

  Too damned tired . . .

  He stumbled to his bed and swayed on his feet with exhaustion.

  Sleep.

  He sat down and slowly bent to take off his shoes.

  Sleep.

  He was out before his head hit the pillow, and sure enough, the nightmares found him.

  Only this time, the treacherous dream-woman who betrayed him was not the woman he had once wed, but the one that he had hoped to.

  Deirdre.

  ###

  The summons to repair aboard the flagship Dauntless came shortly before noon, and Christian was gently shaken awake by a hand on his shoulder. He clawed his way out of the fog of oblivion, opened his eyes, and saw Rhodes standing there, the silver wings of his black hair shining in the sunlight coming in through the stern gallery.

  “Sorry to wake you, sir. Sir Geoffrey just sent his flag lieutenant across with orders to come aboard Dauntless. He wishes to speak to you about the Irish Pirate before dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Christian said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

  “Aye. He’s throwing a big celebration aboard the flagship in your honor. Gage will be there, and so will a host of other dignitaries.”

  Christian swung out of bed, alarmed to find himself in clothes that were now on a level of unkemptness with Hibbert’s worst.

  Rhodes added, “Gage wanted to give the party at his residence in Boston, but Sir Geoffrey thought it unwise, given the, er, present state of the townspeople.”

  “State?”

  “Aye. The people are in an uproar, sir. You caught their hero. Adams and Hancock are stirring up the rabble with rousing speeches. Warren is demanding the prisoner’s release. A fight broke out between one of our majors and a crowd of rebels, and there was a near riot in the streets. Our troops are doing all they can to contain the situation, but the people are screaming for your head on a platter, and that’s putting it mildly.”

  Christian sighed. “Very well, then. I shall be up shortly.”

  Rhodes’s eyes grew uncharacteristically sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear about the girl, sir.”

  “Thank you, Russell. You’ll understand if I do not wish to discuss her.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  His face solemn, Rhodes went out. An hour later, Christian had bathed and dressed. He left his cabin and went on deck, clad in his finest dress uniform and carrying his gold-ta
sseled presentation sword.

  The sight that greeted him nearly did him in.

  Seamen clung to the rigging, holding their hats to display their respect for him. Officers lined the rail, standing stiffly at attention. Even Hibbert had taken pains over his appearance. Whistles shrilled, drums rolled, and Bold Marauder's people saw their captain over the side with a smart and moving salute that swelled his troubled heart. He blinked to cover his emotion, for he knew that they were trying their best to cheer him in the only way they could.

  Even the gig’s crew was smartly turned out, the oars rising and falling in perfect unison as the seamen rowed him through the harbor toward the towering hulk of the flagship.

  Christian kept his eyes straight ahead lest someone see the anguish there—and thus missed the tiny rowboat that passed him just off to starboard, carrying a young woman with spiral-curling black hair toward the proud and mighty Bold Marauder.

  “Christian!” she yelled, standing up in the boat and waving her hat before Jared Foley or Delight could pull her back down. “Christian!”

  She saw his back go rigid, but the handsome sea officer never turned.

  “Christian!”

  The little rowboat tipped dangerously in the water as Deirdre fought to keep her balance. He did not turn to acknowledge her, and sudden worry filled her. What was wrong? Why was he ignoring her? Dazed, she sat back down and stared at Delight. “He went right by me,” she whispered. “Sweet Mary, he didn’t even turn around, and I know he heard me!”

  “I fear we’re too late,” Jared grunted as he saw the admiral’s side party preparing to welcome the British captain aboard the flagship with all the fanfare due a hero. The shrill of whistles cleaved the air, mocking their hopes of securing Roddy’s release. “Your fine English sea officer has done what he came here to do, Deirdre—apprehend the Irish Pirate. It appears that he has no further use for you, or for anything but the glory such an accomplishment will bring him.”