Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  The ship nosed into a swell, and a huge sheet of spray drove over the rail and drenched his coat. He heard someone howl with laughter before Ian’s sharp reprimand abruptly silenced him.

  He ignored them, though his gray eyes narrowed and a vein throbbed at his temple. Let them have their little fun. They’d learn, soon enough, that his patience for putting up with nonsense was limited. Squaring his shoulders, he strode to the wheel, keenly aware of the hostile glances the two helmsmen bestowed on him as he studied the compass.

  Wenham was right. Ian could have left the frigate on the starboard tack for another hour.

  He glanced at his first lieutenant, thinking to mention the matter to him. But there was such a hopeful look in Ian’s eyes, such an anxious look about his mouth, that Christian, despite his black mood and better judgment, decided to let the matter go.

  He saw Skunk, his grimy hair caught in a long pigtail at his nape and hanging between his beefy, tattooed shoulders. Several of the other troublemakers—Teach among them—stood nearby, carefully upwind of the big gunner. Skunk’s gaze was on Christian. So was Teach’s, Wenham’s, and that of every tar from bowsprit to poop.

  Watching him. Judging him. Searching for some flaw in his character, some weakness they could exploit. Christian smiled, though his jaw tightened and his sharp gaze raked over them with the keenness of a well-honed blade. They would find no flaw to attack, no weakness to exploit.

  And, he thought wryly, no blemish upon his behavior. Regardless of how or why the Irish girl had ended up in his cabin, he had not taken advantage of her.

  He cast an appraising eye over his command. Ian had seen fit to at least try to make the frigate look smart after the buffeting she’d taken during the past two and a half weeks; her sails were drawing well; the guns were lashed down tightly and sparkling with spray; the men were bright-eyed and ruddy-cheeked, and all turned out in proper uniform, and the decks—

  Christian’s jaw fell open and his eyes widened in shock.

  “Mr. MacDuff!”

  The big Scotsman’s head jerked up at the sharp tone of the Lord and Master’s voice and instinctively he tightened his elbow over the bagpipes. “Yes, sir?”

  Christian was staring, incredulously, around him. “Who had the morning watch?”

  Ian paled. “Er . . . uh, no one, sir . . .”

  “No one? And who has the watch now, Mr. MacDuff?”

  “Er . . . Mr. Rhodes, sir,” Ian said lamely. “Er … why, sir?”

  The crew exchanged nervous glances, wondering what had so riled their captain.

  They soon found out. “By God, look at these decks! Torn cordage, seaweed, slime—why, this is an embarrassment, not only to me, but to this ship!”

  Nobody moved.

  He glared at his officers, the anger in his eyes causing them to take an involuntary step backward. “What the bloody deuce is the matter with you all? This is a king’s vessel! Take some pride in that fact, and in yourselves!”

  They stared at him, totally uncomprehending.

  “This is a king’s vessel!” Hibbert mimicked, smirking.

  “Silence, the lot of you!” Christian roared, his eyes hard beneath the shadow of his cocked hat. He took a deep breath and willed control into his tone. “Mr. Rhodes, set your people to scrubbing, and when they have finished, have them wash down the deck with seawater and vinegar.”

  A low grumble of protest swept through the crew as the sharp scents of frying pork wafted up from the galley and drifted on the wind. “But, sir,” Ian ventured, trying to intervene, “what about breakfast?”

  “Breakfast will keep, Mr. MacDuff. In future, perhaps the crew will remember that if they wish to break their fast on time, such mundane tasks as scrubbing the deck are to be performed before sunup!”

  Such a threat was enough to send even Skunk running for a mop. Christian watched the crew attack the job with a vengeance. Another small victory in this little war, he thought smugly. And he hadn’t even had to enlist the help of his bosun.

  Speaking of Rico . . .

  He descended the quarterdeck companionway and strode among the men, moving upwind of Skunk. The gunner was attacking the grime from beneath the hulking shadow of a cannon, grumbling as he scrubbed. Rhodes looked over at Christian, his eyes contemptuous. Hibbert, his back toward him, was supervising a group of swearing, laboring seamen, his hands on his hips, his uniform unacceptably filthy. Christian set his jaw and, coming up behind the youth, clapped a hand over his scrawny shoulder.

  “Mr. Hibbert?”

  The midshipman whirled, paled, and shrank back.

  “Have you seen my bosun?”

  Hibbert’s face changed, becoming smug. “Aye.”

  “That’s aye, sir, and don’t you forget it lest I box your ears and send you to the damned brig!”

  “The brig? I would like that, sir—”

  Too late, Hibbert realized his mistake. The Lord and Master’s cold gray eyes narrowed. The ship quieted, the mops stopped, and only the hiss of spray at the bows broke the sudden silence.

  “The brig. ’Twould seem that is a most popular area of the ship, is it not, Mr. Hibbert? Pray, is there something down there that is escaping my attention?”

  “N-no, sir! Not at all!”

  “We shall see,” Christian said coldly, and abruptly turned on his heel.

  The crew froze. As one, every seaman, every warrant officer, every petty officer, every marine, watched him go, each man’s eyes desperate, anxious, and stricken.

  The Lord and Master was headed for the hatch. The Lord and Master was going to find Delight. The Lord and Master was going to put a swift and abrupt end to any chance of enjoyment this cruise might harbor.

  For the crew of HMS Bold Marauder, it was the beginning of the end.

  ###

  Down into the bowels of the frigate he went, descending hatches, moving down companionways, his stride never faltering.

  The brig. It loomed up in front of him, its door shut tight. Without pausing, the Lord and Master drew his pistol, lifted the latch, and, placing a palm carefully against the door, pushed it open.

  He blinked once, twice.

  The pistol fell from his hand and glanced painfully off his toe.

  On the walls—and ceiling—were enough mirrors to send his reflection back at him from every point of the compass. On the deck was a rich purple-and-red carpet strewn with pillows. In the middle of the room, draped in sheets of dark red satin, was a bed.

  And reclining on the bed was a woman.

  She was reading aloud, in French, and did not see him. But he saw her. Wickedly long, shapely legs, bent at the knees and lazily spread to reveal enough of her to make his face flame with heat. Black garters that disappeared beneath the hem of a short shift. Long fingernails tapping the book, and a sultry, husky voice that was meant to be felt, not heard.

  If Captain Christian Lord was stunned by the discovery of what the “brig” contained, he was downright shocked by the discovery of what its occupant was reading. For he understood French, and understood it well, and what the woman was reading was no dignified work of an educated scholar.

  “‘. . .after tying your man up, preferably to all four posts of your bed with a length of rope’—hmm, being a ship, that should be an easy commodity to come by!—‘move your tongue over every square inch of his skin, thoroughly wetting him and then blowing coolly upon the wet areas until he is hot and hard and begging for release. Work every area of his body, moving your tongue slowly into the folds of his ears, sucking on his earlobes, and then letting your tongue drag down his neck, over his shoulders, lapping his nipples, even the inside of his navel. It is very important to pay particular attention to this area before proceeding to his—’” She stopped, lowered the book, and without faltering, purred, “Why, hello, Captain Lord. Do come in and join me. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He stared, his mouth agape, his body unable to move.

  “What, is our bold and handsome comman
ding officer shy and inhibited?” She laughed, a rich, husky, throaty sound that immediately made his blood start to heat up, then set the book aside and came to her feet in a single fluid, feline movement.

  She crossed the room in a slinky, sinuous float, her eyes never leaving his. In their blue depths was an invitation that had his heart pounding long before her nails even touched his waistcoat, his shoulders. She dragged them seductively down his chest, flicking them around each gold button and undoing them as she went. “Aah, such a handsome uniform . . . a sea warrior you are, no? Such a brave and noble man you must be . . . here, darling, let Delight show you how much she appreciates brave and noble men . . .”

  Christian recovered enough to shove her away. “How the bloody hell did you get aboard my ship?” he thundered.

  “Lo, I just love a man when he’s angry,” she purred, sauntering around behind him and letting her hand rove down his spine. “Makes my love-juices flow, no? Here, darling, take my hand and let me lead you to my bed . . . I do need someone on whom to practice my new techniques . . .”

  “Get away from me!”

  “Ta, Captain, you hurt poor Delight’s feelings with such words! You do not have to act the part of a gentleman with me, you know? Let me touch you . . . let me taste you . . . let me do things to you with my tongue that you wouldn’t dream could be done. Wouldn’t you enjoy the feel of my lips around your cock, Captain? I know just how much pressure to exert in order to give you the most enjoyable release . . . Do you know, I have sent lesser men than you to the petite morte. Come, let me play with you . . . I’m very good, you know.”

  The Lord and Master was turning purple. “Rico!” he bellowed hoarsely as her hand slid over his breeches and flickered suggestively, boldly, across his groin.

  “Dear Rico, you just missed him . . . he left here quite, quite exhausted . . . do you know, I have just the lady for him when we reach home.”

  “Home? Damn you, we’re going to the colonies, not France!” He caught her hand and stared, horrified, at her probing fingers. “By God, this is a king’s ship!”

  She wrestled her hand free. “Yes, darling, I know . . . but the king’s proud officers need their just rewards, too, no?”

  Long, skillful fingers toyed with him through the breeches, and angrily he caught her wrist once more. “Damn you, I asked you how you got aboard this ship!”

  “Why, Captain, I merely asked and your men brought me aboard. They took pity on me, you see, because I needed passage home to Boston.”

  “Boston?” he roared, shoving her hand away from his groin.

  “Yes, darling, Boston. Had you fooled, no? I’m not French, I’m American, though I’ve lived in a little village in Normandy with my husband, God rest his soul, for these past three years . . . after his death I went to Paris, where I spent the past eight months learning the finer techniques of pleasuring a man, though if dear Papa knew, he’d surely get apoplexy, if not something far worse. He thinks I’ve been in mourning, so if you run into him when we get to Boston, please, do not tell him.”

  He gaped at her, unable to move, watching in frozen fascination as her probing fingers skimmed with shivery expertise over his slowly rising tumescence.

  “You see, Captain, furthering my education was the only way I could think of to make myself competitive, as all the ladies back home want the same man I mean to snare for myself. I had to learn things they did not, so that I would have the advantage over them.”

  “Advantage?”

  “Yes, darling, advantage . . . You see, I was once kissed by a dashing rogue there, a handsome scoundrel who calls himself the Irish Pirate, and I will do anything, anything, to get him into my bed and firmly entrenched between my legs . . . Captain Lord? Captain Lord, are you all right?”

  His mouth had gone slack with shock.

  “Come, my handsome captain, you simply must lie down, no? You have grown pale, and if you fall here, you may hurt yourself. Lo, you are so big and strong I do not think I could lift you . . . though, if you prefer, I would be most happy to practice a little something right here. Have you ever heard of pattes d’araignee, Captain? Most do it only with their fingers, but I have grown most skillful with my toes . . .

  “My God,” he said, coming to his senses and shoving her away once more. “This—this is madness!”

  “Madness? Ah, Captain, you won’t know madness until you spend an hour with me.” Her hand was touching him once more, the pressure of her fingers growing stronger and sending bolts of feeling pulsing through his loins and into his blood. “Ah, you like that, no, Captain? Yes, it is a pleasure spot that will bring even the strongest of men to his knees.”

  He backed up, trying desperately to escape. “You cannot stay here, by God!”

  “Then by all means, my sweet, let us go to your cabin instead. Surely, ’twill take the pressure off our poor little Irish girl, no? She is so innocent and naive, why, you should have seen the shock on her face when I gave her that gown to wear . . . poor little thing, I thought she would faint dead away!”

  I have to get out of here, Christian thought, beginning to panic. Desperately, he caught her hand and yanked it up and away from him, wincing as her other hand slid out to run dangerously up the inside of his thigh. Swearing, he caught that one, too, and shoved her forcefully away. “This is a king’s ship, madam, and I will not tolerate such lascivious behavior! I give you ten minutes to get out of that ridiculous attire and into a proper gown, and if I don’t see you up on deck within the hour, so help me God, I’ll make you rue the day you met me!”

  She pressed her body against him, rubbed her bare foot up the back of his calf, and, tilting her head back, allowed her lips to curve into a sensual, feline smile. “I should dearly love to come on deck, Captain . . . I do need to find myself some rope . . .”

  “And furthermore,” he thundered, forcibly holding her at arms’ length, “you can collect your belongs and prepare to move them! I’ll not have a floating brothel aboard my command, do you understand? This is a—”

  “Yes, darling, I know. It is a king’s ship and you simply must uphold the standards that are set for you.”

  “Do not try my patience, woman!” Releasing her, he moved toward the door. “And do not think to toy with me, do you understand? I’ve had a damned bellyful of conniving women! For the rest of this hellish voyage, you will confine yourself to the cabin next to mine, and the Irish girl whose innocence you so obviously disdain!”

  He snatched up his pistol, spun on his heel, and stormed off, more angry—and aroused—than he’d ever been in his life.

  A crew who was determined to make his life hell, an Irish girl who crept into his bed, and now, an American brat aspiring to be a French whore.

  Hell and damnation, would this bloody voyage end soon enough?

  ###

  Crunch, crunch . . . sniffle, crunch, crunch . . .

  Deirdre O’Devir yawned and stretched as soft whines and strange noises slowly penetrated the blissful haze of her slumber.

  She turned over and drew the blankets up over her shoulders. Her hand slid across the sheet, where dim memories of a hard, warm body still lingered. There vas no warmth there now, and slowly, lazily, her eyes drifted open.

  Crunch, crunch . . . sniffle, crunch . . .

  The dog, she thought. No doubt Tildy was gobbling up one of the treats the captain was fond of giving her, a fact that would soon have her even fatter than she’d been prior to whelping her litter.

  “Go away,” Deirdre mumbled sleepily, her fingers tracing the wrinkled sheet where the captain’s powerful shoulders had left an indentation. A slow, languorous smile of contentment curved her lips as she gazed drowsily at the spot. Then she jolted awake as the memory of last night drove through her.

  “Dear God,” she breathed, a flush of horror pinking her cheeks. “I spent a night in the Lord and Master’s bed . . . with him . . .”

  Her face grew feverish. Her nipples tingled unexpectedly, shocking her.
/>
  Crunch, crunch. Sniffle, sniffle. Crunch . . .

  Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Deirdre rolled onto her back and stared up at the deckhead. Sudden, shameful images drifted into her mind and she shut her eyes against them. She had grown up in the countryside; she knew what stallions did to mares, what roosters did to hens. What had the captain done to her during the night, after she’d fallen asleep? Or, worse, this morning when he woke and found her nestled in his arms?

  What if he—she gulped and swallowed—took me?

  Surely she would have awoken . . . wouldn’t she?

  Biting her lip, she shut her eyes and drove her hands beneath her shirt, touching trembling fingers to her breasts and running her palms over her ribs, the crests of her hips, down the outsides of her thighs. Everything seemed as it should be. She didn’t hurt anywhere, and if he had done that to her, surely she’d be aching somewhere . . . wouldn’t she?

  Heat burned her face and caused her heart to slam a wild tattoo against her ribs.

  “Oh, sweet Mary,” she murmured, clasping the cross in atonement for a sin she didn’t even know if she’d committed.

  But the dream images were there, vivid, colorful, and erotic. Dreams, or—she gulped, the blood beating hot in her face— memories? Dampness gathered between her thighs as the wicked images burned through her mind . . . of the captain’s hands skimming her breasts, cupping them . . . his fingers grazing the swollen nipples, and squeezing the soft mounds as his mouth came down to suck at one hard crest, then the other . . .

  She shut her eyes and bit down on her lower lip.

  . . . Of his hands, fanning down the curves of her waist, the tautness of her belly, the supple flesh of her inner thighs, the dark junction of moist curls between them—