Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  “I do trust you will discard that ridiculous attire and dress yourself appropriately,” Christian remarked dryly. “You test the limits of my patience with the beard, but I cannot abide both. Choose one or the other, Mr. MacDuff, and we will get along famously.”

  Taken aback, Ian stared at him, for he’d expected a sharp reprimand for both the beard and the plaid. Eyeing the captain warily, he pulled out a chair, his gaze falling upon the screen that divided the day cabin from the captain’s sleeping area. Was the Lord and Master keeping the young Irishwoman in there? He grinned slyly; if so, the knowledge would be wonderful fodder for the lads back in the wardroom . . .

  Ian glanced up—and found the gray eyes quietly assessing him. His grin promptly faded. He returned the stare with innocent defiance, trying in vain to discern the strengths and weaknesses behind the captain’s cold eyes. The Lord and Master was a handsome man, but Ian was not jaded into thinking that was all he was. He recognized, and respected, the power in his new captain’s shoulders, the intelligence behind his eyes, the determination in the set of his mouth, the discipline reflected in the scrupulously neat and clean state of his uniform.

  As for weaknesses, Ian MacDuff could discern none.

  He felt the first twinges of alarm. He and the crew might not have an easy time of it, winning their ship back from such a man as this.

  “Despite the debacle of this afternoon, I appreciate that you managed to restore the ship to sailing condition in such a timely manner,” the captain said. “It was more than I expected of any of you.”

  “Why . . . thank you, sir.”

  The captain smiled faintly, but his gaze remained cold as it settled unnervingly on Ian. “Mistakes do happen, do they not?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Of course, they only happen once. Twice, and they are put down to incompetence—and incompetence, we all know, has no place on a fighting ship.”

  “Aye, sir.” Ian said again.

  “I am sensible to the fact that this afternoon’s doings were no accident, Mr. MacDuff. I know you would all be quite happy to see the last of me, but I can assure you that I won’t be as easy to dislodge as my predecessors have been.”

  “But sir, we don’t—“

  “However, I am willing to forgive what happened earlier. The mistake, of course, was mine, and mine alone, for trusting my command to a crew whose strengths and weaknesses I’ve yet to discern—and whose loyalty I’ve yet to secure. But mark me, I will not make that mistake again. Tomorrow I will carry out a complete inspection of this vessel before we weigh. We will leave Portsmouth under my hand”—he eyed Ian coldly—“and I expect your cooperation in seeing that our people behave in an organized, well-disciplined fashion.”

  “Aye, sir,” Ian repeated, beginning to squirm.

  The captain leaned across the table, poured brandy into two glasses, and pushed one toward Ian. “In any case, I did not summon you here to chide you for the events of this afternoon.”

  Ian bolted the brandy, growing more and more nervous under the captain’s flinty stare.

  “I summoned you, by God, because I would like an explanation as to who is responsible for bringing that trollop aboard my command!”

  Ian nearly choked on the liquor. “T-trollop, sir?”

  “That deuced Irishwoman, damn you!”

  Thank the gods he hadn’t been referring to Delight, Ian thought in dizzy relief. Surely he would’ve confiscated her and put her aboard a proper merchantman for the passage back to America—

  “Answer me, Lieutenant!”

  “I, uh . . . doona ken, sir.”

  The captain only glared at him, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

  “Honestly, sir, ’tis tellin’ ye the truth I be! I doona ken who the lassie is! Ye see, sir, we was havin’ an argument when all of a sudden there she was, all dressed as a laddie and begging for us tae let her sign aboard!” Quailing beneath the captain’s icy stare, Ian grabbed the brandy bottle and dosed himself with more of the liquor. “I didnae ken she was a ‘she,’ sir!”

  The gray eyes narrowed.

  Ian gulped his brandy. “Next thing I know, ye was wantin’ tae get the ship under way, and, well, with all the, um, accidents, sir, things got a wee bit tense. The steerin’ went, a fight broke out, and we hit the admiral’s flagship—” He grabbed the brandy bottle. “The lad—I mean, the lassie—well, they just needed a scapegoat tae blame for it, so they turned on her—”

  “And I suppose you don’t know her identity, either, eh, Mr. MacDuff?”

  “No, sir, never saw her before in my life!”

  “And, to your knowledge, has anyone else aboard this vessel?”

  “I doona think so, sir. She’s as much a mystery to us, sir, as she is tae you.”

  The Lord and Master stared at him for a long time. Finally he blew out his breath, refilled the brandy glasses, and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll likely regret it, but I daresay I believe you,” he said quietly.

  “I wouldnae lie tae ye, sir.”

  “No, Mr. MacDuff . . . I don’t think that you would.” He took a sip of his own brandy, then continued. “Tomorrow, we weigh. But before we do, you will remove that girl from this ship and see that she is safely put into the care of the fellow who owns the Spindrift Tavern.” He shoved a purse across the table. “This should see her on her way handsomely, I should think.”

  Ian looked down at the money, stunned by the Lord and Master’s generosity. “Ye be wantin’ me tae do that tonight, sir?”

  ‘Tomorrow morning, Mr. MacDuff.”

  “But I have the watch then—”

  “Then see that Mr. Rhodes escorts her ashore. Perhaps, as an officer, he’ll even find a way to behave like one.” He rose to his feet, the interview concluded. “That is all, Mr. MacDuff.”

  ###

  Behind the canvas partition that divided the sleeping area from the main cabin, a very homesick Deirdre O’Devir lay unmoving in the big bed, fiercely clutching her canvas bag of Irish mementos that the sailor named Skunk had returned to her. The ship, tugging at her anchor, rocked gently beneath her.

  He had kissed her. He, her enemy, had put his wretched English lips against hers and kissed her.

  And she had allowed it.

  Maybe, in some odd and awful way, even . . . enjoyed it.

  She put her hands over her eyes and pressed hard, as if she could banish the memory. In the other part of the cabin, she could hear the captain speaking quietly to his nervous lieutenant. Damn him! Damn his poxy hide to hell and back! Why did he have to go and be nice to her, when she was trying her best to kill him?

  She wiped her hand across her lips, but it could not erase the hard, masculine feel of him, the taste of him, the answering fire in her blood that even the memory evoked.

  “I hate ye,” she murmured, staring up at the dark and shadowy bulkhead. “I should’ve killed ye when I had the chance.”

  But she had not been able to do it. She remembered his face, calm and unflinching beneath the mouth of the pistol as she’d prepared to put a ball between those steady gray eyes. Thirteen years of fantasizing about the moment—and she hadn’t had the courage to pull the trigger when that chance had finally come.

  Coward!

  Steady and calm, those eyes . . . until she’d swung the weapon on his little dog. She would never have harmed the spaniel, of course, and her reaction had been one of startled surprise. But what shook her to her very core, what confused her past all understanding, was the fact that the Lord and Master seemed to care more for his pet’s life than for his own. What sort of man was he?

  She was growing more confused by the moment. If only she had never left Ireland. If only she were back home right now, safe in the little cottage she’d known since birth.

  If only he wasn’t out there, she could get up and go to the stern windows and find the North Star.

  Then, at least, she might know which direction home lay in.

  Beyond the screen, she heard th
e slam of the door as the Scottish lieutenant took his leave . . . the sounds of the captain moving about . . . the murmur of his deep voice as he spoke to the little spaniel . . . the sound of him moving across the cabin.

  He was standing directly over her.

  Deirdre froze, feigning sleep and hoping he couldn’t hear the sudden, wild thump of her heart. That thump seemed to crash to a stop as he lifted a thick tress of her hair, then gently placed it back across her shoulder. He stood there for what seemed a long time; then he gave a deep, ragged sigh and she heard him moving back through the darkness toward his day cabin.

  Trembling, she rolled onto her back and stared up into the gloom. Her heart was beating so hard she could barely hear her thoughts over it.

  Ye have to kill him, ye know. He’ll go back on his word and touch ye with his dirty English hands . . . again and again and again.

  Her hand crept out, seeking the canvas bag, and finding, within it, her flagon of Irish air. She pulled it out and held it close to her heart, taking comfort from its nearness.

  He'll touch ye . . . and ye won’t deny him.

  She swallowed tightly, suddenly cold and afraid. Kill him? She had already bungled the first two attempts. But the pistol would’ve been too merciful, the sword too bloody. There were other, less gruesome methods of disposing of an enemy . . .

  Yes, that was it. She just hadn’t found the right, the most fitting, method of carrying out her vow. That was why she hadn’t been able to kill him.

  Wasn’t it?

  From the darkness, she heard the rustle of clothing as he shed his clothes and readied himself for bed. A sudden wicked image of what he must look like, naked, surged into her mind and horrified at the direction of her thoughts, she squeezed her eyes shut. From the near darkness came a squeak of leather as he lowered himself down on the bench seat at the window, the murmur of a quick prayer, and the snap of his fingers.

  She frowned. Snap of his fingers?

  Then she heard the drum of claws upon the floor, a happy bark—and the captain’s soft crooning as he comforted the little animal and the two of them settled down for the night.

  He sleeps with the bleedin’ dog?

  She lay back against the pillows, listening to him toss and turn until his breathing grew heavy and rhythmic in the darkness.

  She had never been more confused in her life.

  Chapter 8

  Lieutenant Ian MacDuff returned to the wardroom, feeling flattered, confused, guilty—and torn.

  They pounced on him like a school of piranhas.

  “So wot did ’is bloidy Lordship say, eh?”

  “Did ye get yer comeuppance, Ian?”

  “C’mon, man, out with it! What’d the bastard say?”

  Ian waved them off. His eyes troubled, he turned and picked up his bagpipes. Oh, how he wanted to tell them all about his meeting with the Lord and Master! How he wanted to bask in all the attention it would get him! But a sobering thought kept him from doing so.

  Lieutenant Ian MacDuff did not want to betray his new captain.

  The man had given him what no other commanding officer aboard HMS Bold Marauder ever had—forgiveness.

  And, the chance to redeem himself after making a serious mistake.

  Ian’s chin went up a notch higher. He, Ian, was the frigate’s first lieutenant, and his captain needed him.

  The others pressed close, their faces eager, their eyes bright with excitement.

  “C’mon, Ian, what did the bastard say to ye, eh?”

  “Did the admiral knock him down a peg or two?”

  Even Delight raised a perfect golden brow, her silky gaze sliding down the length of his torso, pausing at his groin, and making him feel as though she could see right through his plaid. “Yes, Ian, sweet,” she purred seductively, “do tell us . . .”

  But Ian turned away. “Aw, shear off, laddies!” he muttered, the good-natured tone of his voice belying his troubled eyes. “He just wanted tae find out who the boglander lassie was, ’tis all.”

  “Aw, Ian, there must be more to it than that! What did ’e say?” Skunk persisted, giving a great, toothy grin.

  But the big lieutenant was already on his way out the door, taking his bagpipes with him.

  “Well, now, what d’ye make of that, eh?” Skunk said, frowning and shaking his head.

  “I don’t know, but I sure don’t like the looks of it.”

  ###

  “Emily . . . Dear God, Emily, no . . No!”

  The tortured cry penetrated Deirdre’s sleep, bringing her quickly awake. For a moment she lay staring into the darkness, confused and disoriented, the sheets fisted in her hands, her bag of Irish keepsakes pressing comfortingly against her thigh. Then she remembered. She was on the king’s frigate Bold Marauder, and lying in its captain’s bed.

  The Lord and Master.

  He didn’t sound so high-and-mighty now. In the darkness she could hear his harsh breathing, the sound of his tossing and turning, and the little dog’s soft whimpers—whimpers that the captain never heard, whimpers that he never heeded.

  “Poxy, bleedin’ bastard,” she muttered, flinging herself onto her side and clapping her hands over her ears. But it was no use. She could still hear the sounds of his torment. And now even the little dog was growing distraught, her whimpers progressing into nervous whines until there was a light thump, the sound of claws against the decking, and a cold wet nose against Deirdre’s arm.

  The animal’s plea for her help was unmistakable.

  Tight-lipped, Deirdre pushed aside her canvas bag, swung her legs out of the bed, and, grabbing a blanket to ward off the cold, marched through the darkness and into the day cabin. The spaniel followed her, pressing anxiously at her heels. Moonlight streamed in from the stern windows. Shapes materialized out of the dusky gloom: the desk . . . a bowl and pitcher set on a little stand . . . the captain’s cocked hat, resting beside it—

  And the captain himself.

  There were dreams, and then, there were nightmares. This was a nightmare, and a bad one, too, by the looks of it. He lay on the bench seat, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest, as formidable and strong as she’d figured it would be, bare and damp with sweat in the moonlight. He looked vulnerable, and all too human in that vulnerability, and as she stared down at him, Deirdre felt an unwelcome softening within herself, because enemies were not supposed to look human.

  “Emily . . . please, come out . . . You can’t die . . . I won’t let you die!”

  Deirdre took a step back.

  “Emily, dear God, where are you? Emily!”

  Never had she heard such raw, broken anguish in a man’s voice. It was awful to listen to, terrible to witness, and in that moment, Deirdre wanted nothing more than to flee the cabin, and the ship, and run all the way back to Ireland. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t take her eyes off this wretched picture of suffering as his head thrashed on the pillow and he writhed in a torment only he could know. Finally, he flung his arm over his eyes once more, and his hoarse cries faded until only his lips moved, mouthing words that were known only to him.

  Slowly, silence returned to the cabin. Then, from beneath his broad wrist, Deirdre saw a silver, glistening track of moisture leading down his cheek.

  Another, and barely discernible in the silence, the sounds of his weeping.

  She pushed her fist against her mouth. She had never heard a man cry before. It was an awful sound, one of agony and suffering.

  And she hoped to never hear it again.

  Stricken, Deirdre stood there for long moments, until the awful sobs finally began to fade. His fist clenched once, twice, the knuckles showing white in the darkness. Then his hand opened, and something dropped to the deck flooring with a dull thud.

  Deirdre leaned down to pick it up, and saw that it was a tiny portrait of a woman.

  This Emily person?

  Then he kicked his feet, and the sheets dragged down his torso.

  Jesus, Joseph, and Mary—


  He was stark naked.

  Her eyes widened, and she abruptly dropped the miniature, her face flaming, before fleeing back to her bed. There, she lay staring up in the darkness, her chest heaving, her mind stamped with the image of what she had seen. She heard his breathing grow deep and rhythmic once again; she heard the little dog yawn, and jump back up to join her master, and she should have been able to finally get back to sleep. But no. There was no way she could sleep, when all she could see was that last, wicked picture of the captain’s strong and handsome body, helplessly caught in the throes of a nightmare that only he could see.

  That strong, handsome, and naked body.

  She swallowed tightly, once, twice, again. She flipped onto her stomach, dragged the pillow over her head, and tried in vain to block out the sound of his breathing . . . and the thought of that powerful body, sprawled in the darkness such a short distance away.

  Naked.

  Deirdre punched the pillow, hoping the noise would rouse him enough that he might cover himself. He didn’t stir. She punched it again, muttered an oath into the warm stuffing, and bit back a scream of frustration.

  Nothing.

  Finally she tossed back her coverlet and stormed across the cabin. Reaching down, she picked up the sheets he’d kicked off and flung them over his naked body.

  He bolted upright, blinking.

  Oh, Almighty God.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Suddenly afraid, Deirdre backed up. “N-nothing!”

  He raked a hand through his rumpled hair. “Do you always make it a habit to watch a gentleman while he sleeps?”

  “Do you always make it a habit to sleep in the nude?”

  “How I choose to sleep is no concern of yours.” He swung his legs from the cushion, gained his feet and straightened to his full height, completely awake now, tall, forbidding, and most definitely dangerous. Any vulnerability he’d shown in the grip of his nightmare was long gone; this man was angry, he was formidable, and Deirdre was suddenly very, very afraid. Unbidden, her gaze darted down, and she gasped as she caught sight of his maleness. Dear God in heaven, was it possible that that part of him was growing larger, taller, straighter, thicker? And . . . it was standing up!