Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Her throat tightened as she remembered his agony during the surgery. As stoic as he had been, he had felt pain as acutely as any Irishman she’d ever known.

  Weren’t enemies supposed to be . . . different?

  But no. He was human, warm and alive and breathing. He had hopes and fears, dreams and visions, and somewhere, people who cared about and loved him. He was no different than she was—except he’d been born in a different place.

  Deirdre swallowed against the lump in her throat.

  “I’m sorry, Christian,” she whispered, her heart aching. “God help me, I’m so sorry . . .”

  She lifted his hand and held it to her cheek, seeing his face, the pulse beating at his throat, the magnificent, muscled expanse of his chest—and remembering how safe she’d felt when he’d gathered her against it and let her cry all those weeks ago when the men had been about to whip her.

  She reached out and touched his bandaged shoulder, then placed her hand directly over his heart, feeling it beating steadily beneath her palm. Then, unbidden, her gaze moved downward, to the covers that draped his hips.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. She did not have to lift the blankets to know he was naked beneath.

  His tortured confession—that he was unable to function as a man—suddenly came back to her. And as for your precious virtue, you needn’t worry about me compromising it, Miss O’ Devir. I have been unable to feel anything for any woman since my wife died, and you, I can assure you, haven’t a prayer of stirring lusts I no longer have.

  What was wrong with him that he lacked this . . . ability? What possible defect could he have? And who, God help her, would ever know if she lifted the blanket for a wee second, just to see for herself what this horrible defect was?

  She bit her lip and shot a nervous glance toward the door. What if Hendricks came? What if Evans looked in on them? What if—

  No. It was late. No one would come. It was just her, and Captain Lord.

  Go ahead. Look. He’ll never know . . .

  Swallowing hard, Deirdre reached down and, gingerly gripping the blanket between her thumb and forefinger, lifted it.

  ###

  Emily.

  He braced himself, even though he knew it was the nightmare in all its horrifying familiarity; he heard the same noises downstairs, crept from the empty bed, descended the stairs, and paused behind the door. He heard her laughter and saw the two bodies entwined; he heard his own howl of rage and saw the intruder, terrified and cowardly, fleeing.

  This time, Christian vowed, he’d bloody well kill the bastard.

  But this time, the nightmare was different.

  Her voice rang out behind him, pleading and desperate. “Christian, no! Let it go! You know what will happen if you don’t! He’ll throw the lantern and there’ll be a fire! I’ll die, Christian, and this nightmare will haunt you for the rest of your days!”

  She knew about the nightmare? Confusion drove through him. The hall seemed unreal and fantastic, and beneath his feet, the cold marble floor surged back and forth, not unlike the deck of a ship. Yes, it was a dream. But if he kept going, it would become the nightmare.

  “Don’t do it, Christian!”

  He paused, hearing her lover fleeing the house; then, with a fierce cry, Christian turned and ran back to that closed door, knowing this would be the only chance he would ever have to forgive her, put an end to the nightmare—

  He flung open the door and saw her.

  “Christian,” she said in a husky dream-voice.

  His mouth fell open and the breath caught in his throat. He stumbled back against the doorframe, shaking badly.

  She was lying on the sofa. Her legs were open, her eyes were hungry, and she was naked.

  Waiting for him.

  ###

  Deirdre hadn’t meant to do more than just peek at him, and briefly at that. She hadn’t meant to do more than just look at his maleness for a moment, to see what it was about it that made him unable to function.

  She had only seen one man naked, and that had been this one, at the beginning of this eventful voyage, but she had seen stallions, she had seen dogs, she had seen cattle and sheep—and yes, she had heard stories.

  Unable to function, he’d implied.

  And her words: Useless as a man.

  He’d been right.

  There was no big secret beneath the covers, nothing to hold one’s breath over, and with an odd, empty feeling of sadness, she stared at the limp and flaccid flesh that lay nestled in the patch of hair between his thighs.

  Useless as a man.

  She felt pity for Captain Lord, and then anger that she felt the pity. He had told her the truth. There was no way that this sad bit of pale flesh could ever do a man’s work, like the proud stallion with the feisty mare. What lay beneath her gaze was slack and still.

  Her breath came out on a sigh. Slowly, she peeled the blanket back, farther and farther, finally laying it across his knees and exposing the whole of his loins to her blushing gaze. Pity, that such a proud and handsome specimen of a man—even if he was English—was so . . . deformed.

  But here was the proof.

  She reached down, thinking to pull the covers back up over his groin, but instead, her fingers strayed to the limp curve of flesh.

  It was warm; quite so, in fact. Holding her breath, she nervously glanced at its owner’s face. He didn’t move. Bolder now, she looked back at the thicket of springy hair, slid her fingers into it and then, carefully, beneath the male flesh. She stared at it; then she stared up at his still face; then she stared back at the warm flesh in her hand, and felt it give a little quiver.

  Deirdre’s brows drew close in a frown. Slowly, she passed her thumb over the warm flesh, and felt it quiver once more.

  She gave a little start and glanced at his face, her own cheeks flaming red. He was deeply asleep; no doubt the tremor she’d felt against her suddenly moist palm was nothing more than some perfectly normal body function, or, perhaps, a twitch from a dream.

  Her heart began to pound loud enough to echo in her ears. She bit her lip, held her breath, and touched the limp flesh again, wondering at its soft and velvety texture.

  Again that involuntary tremor.

  “Oh, my . . .” she breathed, frowning. It felt different; a bit warmer, maybe, a bit firmer. She stared hard at it, wondering, in the lantern-lit gloom, if there was something suddenly different about it; then her eyes widened.

  Heat washed over her face. She wasn’t imagining things. That alien bit of anatomy was not only warmer, not only firmer—it was bigger.

  The captain sighed softly in his sleep, and then groaned. But Deirdre was no longer looking at his face. Frozen, she cupped the growing—yes, it was growing—length of him in her hand and watched, mesmerized, as it began to transform itself before her very eyes, growing stiff and hard and hot in her hand.

  And large.

  Very large.

  “Oh, dear,” Deirdre said, her cheeks hot.

  Replace the covers. Get out of here before he wakes up. Now, before, before—

  But transfixed, she couldn’t move.

  ###

  Emily.

  Her hair was dark and glorious, spread out over the arm of the sofa, trailing halfway to the floor. Her thighs were open with invitation, the dark patch of hair at their center glistening, eager, and damp; her arms were raised, her eyes hungry.

  His felt himself stirring.

  “Come to me, Christian . . . you know he never meant anything to me . . . it is you I love, you I want . . . this is your only chance, darling. Your only chance to say goodbye before I leave you forever . . .”

  “No, please . . . Don’t go . . .”

  “Christian, darling, you know this is a dream. . . . I’m dead, remember?”

  No, not dead. No dead woman looked like she did. Tears stung his eyes, that he should be given this chance to make things right after all these years, even if it was a dream, even if the woman on the sofa was not the soft
and shy Emily he had married, but a sultry vixen with the eyes of a courtesan. With a helpless groan, he went to her, shedding his robe and letting it slip to the floor as he fell to the sofa with her.

  Wake up, Christian . . . it’s a dream . . .

  No. He fought the tug, the pull, to awaken.

  His body hardened in response to her. Her arms came up to touch his shoulders, rove down his back, skim over his buttocks. “There now,” she breathed, her voice warm against the curve of his shoulder. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t chase after him? Aren’t you glad you came back to me?”

  “You’re . . . this is a dream.”

  Her hands were on him, sweet and gentle, yet harsh where they needed to be, when they needed to be. One moment feathery and grazing; the next, bold and exploring. Desire rocked through him, and he sprang to life in her hands, tightening in soundless pleasure, his breathing harsh, his heartbeat filling his ears.

  Such gentle hands. Such soft hands.

  He groaned, and broke out in a sweat. He felt the fog swirling around him, and in that weird way of dreams, the scene shifted and she was suddenly above him, no longer Emily but someone else. He couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t matter, for his eyes were closed. He couldn’t hear her voice, but that didn’t matter, either, because it was a dream. The only thing that mattered was that she was loving him, and he, tortured, hardened and alone, had not been loved by anyone for so very, very long . . .

  She was pulling at him now, stroking him, cupping him and rubbing him between her hands. He gritted his teeth, and his eyes rolled up behind tightly clenched lids.

  “Dear God,” he said roughly, one hand gripping the sheets. “Dear God, please don’t stop.”

  ###

  “I won’t,” Deirdre said.

  Her cheeks burned hotter than summer in Hades. Her eyes were wide and staring, her breathing thick and measured. Strange feelings gathered in the pit of her belly, burned between her legs, and she felt a spreading moisture there that only increased with each movement the captain made on the bed beneath her, with every rasp of his tortured breath, with every twitch of his legs, his hands, his—

  No limp and flaccid piece of sorry flesh, this! Dear heavens, the thing filled her hand and defied the span of her encircling fingers; it was hard as marble, proud and stiff and tall, and with every brush of her thumb across the engorged head, it jumped.

  A pearl drop had gathered on the blunted tip, gleaming in the lantern light. Deirdre stared at it for a moment, then recklessly smudged it over the velvety cap.

  He moaned, still in the throes of sleep, and his head moved restlessly on the pillow.

  Heady excitement surged through her. She had brought him to this state. She would give him this gift of confidence, and prove to him that there was nothing wrong with him, despite what he believed. She would show him, make him understand, that he was far from being “useless as a man.”

  Encircling him between thumb and forefinger, she squeezed him gently. His breathing quickened, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

  “Yes . . .” he murmured thickly.

  Deirdre smiled, watching his face, the harsh mouth that was now slack with passion, the eyes that moved rapidly beneath his lids.

  “Please, don’t stop . . .”

  She tightened the circle of her fingers, feeling the answering heat in her own blood, in the thundering of her heart against her ribs, the flooding dampness between her thighs.

  “Don’t stop . . . please . . .”

  She couldn’t stop even if she wanted to. Breathing as hard as he, she stroked harder . . . faster . . . velvet over steel, up and down, faster, faster—

  He suddenly stiffened and cried out in his sleep, his body convulsing in great, mighty shudders, and as she froze in terror, wondering if she’d killed him, something warm and wet spurted over her hand, her wrist, her arm, his belly.

  The gray eyes shot open.

  Her heart was thundering. Her blood was racing. She jumped up and took an involuntary step backward, away from that confused stare . . . a stare that reflected recognition, horror—and then raw, bone-chilling fury.

  Chapter 19

  “By God, woman, have you no shame?” Christian roared, mortified, as he came suddenly, and rudely, awake. Snatching the blanket, he hauled it up over his thighs and snarled, “Go, leave me!”

  “Ye can order me to leave, Captain Lord, but I doubt ye’re as strong as ye’d like to think ye are,” she said, with a pointed glance at his bandaged shoulder. “I’m staying.”

  “You will leave now, by God, or I’ll toss you out on your bloody ear!”

  “I only looked because I wanted to see what ye meant when ye said ye were useless as a man—”

  “You said I was useless as a man—I merely said I couldn’t function as one!”

  “—and I did what I did because ye asked me to!”

  He froze, his eyes narrowing. “Asked you to?”

  “Aye. Ye not only asked me to, ye told me not to stop.”

  He set his jaw and turned his face away, his lips a slash of anger. Deirdre pushed the chair aside, moved closer to the bed, and sat down beside him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her chin came up and bravely, she met his angry, accusing glare. “But I thought I could help ye, especially since ye’ve been goin’ on so about how deformed ye are—”

  “Deformed?” he thundered, bolting upright. “Deprived, madam, but, I can assure you, not deformed!”

  “Ye don’t have to be yellin’ at me! I just wanted to see what was wrong with ye, so I could . . . so I could help ye to get over it . . . And now I think there be somethin’ wrong with me, because my—my—oh, I ache in funny places, and—”

  Christian swore roundly. Then, damning himself for a weak fool, he gathered her close, his fingers tangling in her curls. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  “No, I am. I never meant to make ye feel bad, Christian.”

  “You didn’t. You made me feel . . . good.” He felt her arms going hesitantly around his neck, and shut his eyes in defeat. “There is nothing wrong with you . . . Deirdre. What you are feeling is simply a healthy female attraction and response to the male species, a feeling no doubt exacerbated by the shocking spectacle your virgin eyes have just witnessed.”

  Against his neck, she whispered, “Do you . . . do you have these feelings, too?”

  “Yes, I have them, too . . . for all the good they do me,” he said bitterly.

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “They do me no good, Deirdre, because I . . . because I—” He set her back and looked away, too ashamed to meet her questing gaze. “Oh, the devil take it, because I cannot function as a man!”

  She stared at him, at the proud, hawkish profile, the sharp cast of his nose, the lips that were compressed in a slash of pain and humiliation. “But wasn’t that a manly thing ye just did while ye was sleepin’?”

  “Aye,” he said tightly.

  “Then ye must be able to function quite well as a man.”

  “I was asleep!” he snapped, as though that explained everything. “Awake, I fear I cannot sustain that—that state long enough to—” He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “This is most uncomfortable for me to discuss. I have my pride, and you are making a shambles of it by forcing me to admit that I am . . . that I am . . . impotent.”

  “But what just happened—”

  “I told you, I was asleep!”

  “Why can’t ye do such a thing awake?”

  “Because a certain jealous specter of my past—my dead wife—will not allow it.” His eyes were raw with anguish and shame. Then he saw the confusion on her face, and his manner softened. He took a deep, steadying breath. Quietly, he said, “You see, Deirdre, there is nothing anatomically wrong with me.” He sighed, and pointed to his temple. “It’s all in here. My . . . my jealous specter, if you will. As long as I blame myself for the death of my wife, I am of no use to any woman.”

  The silence
hung heavily between them. Topside, the sound of voices drifted down to them, and the deck began to slant as the frigate leaned hard over onto the opposite tack. Deirdre looked down at his hand, lying stiffly atop the blanket, and reached out to take it in her own.

  He did not pull away.

  “Ye are of use to me, Captain Lord, whether or not ye can . . . function.” Against her hip, she felt the hard ridge of his thigh, and it took all of her will not to reach out and touch it, just to see how hard and muscled it was.

  He didn’t answer, only the sudden tightening of his fingers over her own indicating that he’d heard.

  “Christian?” she said softly.

  He looked up, his eyes tortured, his mouth a grim line of pain. “You are too young, too innocent, to speak of such things,” he said sharply. “Now go, leave me, while I still have my pride and you, the remains of your innocence. This discussion should not be taking place . . . it is . . . it is improper.”

  “Nay, Christian, it should be takin’ place. It should’ve taken place a long time ago.”

  “By God, just go, before I lose my patience as well as my damned dignity.”

  Her chin came up and she faced him defiantly. “And yer heart, Captain? ’Tis innocent I may be, but I’m not stupid. I know the look a man gets in his eyes when he sees a woman he finds bonny. D’ye think yer Emily has robbed ye of even that? No, the only thing she’s robbed ye of is yer confidence. I don’t believe for an instant that she’s made ye as useless as ye’ve led yerself—and, for a while, me—to believe. Oh, no, I think ye can function as well as any man.”

  “This is not a subject I care to discuss.”

  “What, are ye afraid, then?”