Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  “But he loves his country more,” the man said, resting on the oars and watching as the blue-and-white-clad officer scaled the great tumble home of the mighty flagship.

  “No! He wouldn’t cast me aside like this, Mr. Foley! He just wouldn’t!”

  “I beg to differ, Deirdre.” The printer’s eyes gazed hopelessly into hers. “He just did.”

  Chapter 30

  The elaborate dinner that Sir Geoffrey threw to celebrate Christian’s success had been more fitting for a king than a mere naval captain whose latest accomplishment was just one more in a series of triumphs that marked a long and decorated career. Despite Sir Geoffrey’s praise and General Gage’s pleasure, Christian was glad to see the evening finally come to a close.

  Tired, weary, and wanting nothing more than the solitude of his own cabin, he left the flagship to the piercing shriek of the side party’s salute and the stamp and clatter of Sir Geoffrey’s marines. Now, with the sea wind driving the unpleasant scent of pipe smoke from his uniform, he stared longingly toward the glimmering lights of the frigate he called home.

  In the darkness, he saw figures moving on her decks, along her gangways, gathering at her rail. His coxswain called up to the frigate to alert the watch to his arrival, and the decks became a flurry of activity. The gig moved into the orange reflection that sheeted the water around the ship’s hull, passing beneath the long bowsprit and the figurehead crouched just beneath it.

  The crew hooked onto the frigate’s main chains, and he leapt the short distance. But as he made his way up the black, forbidding side, he suddenly wished he were back aboard the admiral’s flagship, where there were no memories to haunt him—and no nightmares waiting to torture him the moment he closed his eyes.

  Christian pushed open the door to his cabin, and was not in the least bit surprised to find her waiting for him.

  She was sitting on his bed, her thick curls scattered over her shoulders. Tildy’s puppies were cradled in her lap and all but lost in the voluminous folds of her skirts. Lantern light framed her face and hair in a soft, heavenly glow.

  “Christian,” she whispered brokenly.

  “Get out.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Did you hear me?” he snarled. “I said, get out!”

  They stared at each other, his eyes blazing, hers wounded and sad. She made no move to leave, and he didn’t trust himself to touch her. A tantalizing bit of ankle peeped above her mud-spattered shoes, and he turned away, furious that she could still arouse his interest after the treacherous way she’d treated him.

  The silence stretched on, until her eyes filled with tears.

  “Why?” he asked, his voice tortured. He slammed his fist against the bulkhead and felt pain explode in his wounded shoulder. “For God’s sake, Deirdre, why?”

  She stood, carefully put the puppies back with her mother, and turned to face him. “I might ask the same of you, Christian.” Her eyes were tragic. “Does glory mean so much to ye that ye’d abandon those who love ye?”

  “What?”

  “Ye gave me yer ring, asked me to become yer wife— then ye pretended I didn’t exist. I didn’t do anythin’ wrong, but ye ignored me when I called to ye in the harbor, treated me like I wasn’t even there.”

  He glared at her, his eyes blazing. “Why the bloody hell should I have acknowledged you?” he roared, ripping off his hat and hurling it to the table. “After what you did to me!”

  “I did nothin’ to ye! ’Twas you who treated me like I didn’t exist!”

  “Oh? And who is the one who is already cuckolding her future husband, eh?” he snarled, frightening her with the intensity of his anger. “Who was the one who professed to love me when all the time her heart belonged to someone else? Who was the one who worked so damned hard to win my trust, then betrayed it with no care for the consequences?” Her face went white with shock, confusion. “Don’t sit there and pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! You came here to try to save your damned lover, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  “My . . . my lover?”

  “A plague on you for your bloody deceit! The game is up, Deirdre! I knew you’d come to me today with some wicked plea to release him, and that’s the only thing you haven’t disappointed me in, so help me God!”

  “Christian,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears, her voice trembling with hurt, “I have no lover ’cept you.”

  “How dare you stand there and lie to me!” He clenched his fists at his sides, his mouth a slash of anguish. “I saw you in the bugger’s arms, by God! I bloody well saw you, Deirdre, so forget trying to tell me there’s naught between you and him! I know now why you came to America. I know now why you finally consented to stay with Dolores or Delight or whatever the cursed hell her name is. You did it so you could be close to him! I should have figured it out before—you’re Irish, he’s Irish—by God, you even look alike—”

  “Christian.”

  She walked slowly across the cabin toward him. Her face was very white, her eyes very purple, her lower lip very red and swollen where she had caught it between her teeth. The cross glittered from the folds of her shirt, a shirt, he saw now, that was achingly familiar because it was one of his. Damn her. Damn her to hell and beyond.

  She came right up to him and stopped. He caught the scent of her soap, her damp woolen waistcoat, her rain-washed hair. Tentatively, she reached out and placed one hand upon the gold insignia of his sleeve, the other against his thundering heart. His jaw hardened and he clenched his fists at his sides, every ounce of will straining to hold his temper in check.

  “The Irish Pirate is not my lover,” she said flatly. Her eyes held his, beautiful, brilliant, and brimming with unshed tears. “How could ye even think I’d betray ye like that, Christian?” Her throat worked, and big, fat droplets began to roll down her cheeks. “’Tis you whom I love. You. And it hurts me that ye have so little trust in me that ye’d think I’d do anythin’ to ever hurt ye . . .”

  “I—saw—you,” he gritted out, shutting his eyes and turning his head so he wouldn’t have to look at her. “Damn you, Deirdre! I didn’t go back to Boston after I left you the other night! I turned around and took a room in the tavern across the road so that I could spy on the Foleys’s activities.” He ignored her widening eyes. “Sir Geoffrey had intelligence that they were rebels. Gage’s spies learned there was to be a patriot meeting that night, and given that it was my task to apprehend the Irish Pirate, and that he was suspected to be in league with the rebels, I felt it prudent to learn all I could.” He tilted back his head, unable to look into her eyes, unable to stand the soft pressure of her palm lying against his heart. “But never did I expect to see you, of all people, standing out in the road embracing the bastard. I saw you, Deirdre. I saw you hug him, kiss him, give him one of your precious Irish mementos.” His eyes darkened with anguish. “Damn you, I saw you . . .”

  For a long moment she said nothing. Then she gave a heavy sigh and, trembling, bent her head until her brow rested against his crisp lapels. “Aye, that ye did, perhaps,” she said slowly. “Ye saw me in the arms of the Irish Pirate, I’ll not be denyin’ it. And I’ll not deny that I love him, too, but not as a lass loves her man, as I do you.”

  “What other bloody way is there to love a man?”

  “A moment ago,” she whispered, “ye said that the Irish Pirate and I look alike. Did ye ever stop ’n’ consider that I might love him not as a lover . . . but as a brother?”

  He stared at her for so long, his heart seemed to stop beating. The breath caught in his chest, and speckles of darkness danced across his vision. Her words hung heavily in the room, and her eyes were steady, unwavering, questing.

  “Did ye ever stop an’ ask yer prisoner what his real name is?” she asked gently.

  “Dear God . . .”

  “And did ye ever stop and recall the face of the lad yer press gang took from Connemara all those years ago, Christian?”

  He shut h
is eyes.

  “Did ye?”

  “No,” he murmured, kneading his forehead. “Oh, dear God, Deirdre—”

  More tears were tumbling down her cheeks. “I would never, ever do anythin’ to hurt ye, Christian,” she whispered, reaching up to knuckle her eyes. “But to think that ye trusted me so little as to think I would, breaks my heart.”

  He collapsed into a chair, his eyes anguished. “Why didn’t you tell me, Deirdre? By God, why didn’t you tell me the Irish Pirate was your brother?”

  “I didn’t know he was my brother until I saw him at the Foley house,” she confessed. “And I haven’t seen you since ye left that evenin’. How was I supposed to tell ye?” She came closer to him, her hands tightly clenched together, her lips white with pain. “And would it have made a lick o’ difference if I had?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Would ye still have gone after him, Christian?”

  He stared at her, then looked away.

  “Would ye?”

  He set his jaw. “I am a king’s officer, Deirdre. I had no choice but to go after him.”

  The breath left her chest in a deep, ragged sound of defeat and despair. Slowly, she said, “And does that mean that, as a king’s officer, ye can do nothin’ to free him?

  Emotion warred in his face, and he raked a hand through his hair. Then he lunged to his feet and began to pace. “I must abide by my duty to king and country, Deirdre.” At the windows he turned, his eyes dark with torment. “I cannot release your brother. He is an enemy of the Crown and therefore must be punished for his activities against it.”

  She raised her chin. The hope was fading from her face, and terror began to fill her eyes. He turned away, unable to look at her. “They will hang him, Christian.”

  He whirled. “By God, Deirdre, what am I to do about it? I can do nothing to help him, not now!”

  “Ye could just let him go.”

  “And face a court-martial?”

  “No one has to know about it.”

  “I am a king’s officer, Deirdre! You don’t understand, damn you!”

  “Oh, I understand, all right,” she said bitterly, her wounded eyes flooding with fresh tears. “Ye speak of duty and gallantry and being an officer and a gentleman. Aye, ye’re an officer, all right, and a fine one at that—but ye’re no gentleman. Yer word, yer honor, are as hollow as a rotten oak.”

  She moved toward the door, her face tight, her chin high. His hand flashed out and caught her arm. “What do you mean?”

  “Ye’re no gentleman,” she said. “A gentleman always keeps his word. Ye promised, Christian, that ye’d help me find me brother. Ye promised to return him to me, but now ye’re goin’ back on yer promise. Ye’re goin’ to stand mutely by and let him hang, just so ye can gather all the glory yer Navy can bestow upon ye. Another medal for that fine and decorated chest, another step up the ladder to promotion. Aye, ye’ll be an admiral someday, I’ve no doubt. But if it’s men like you who make admirals, then I pity England.”

  “Deirdre—“

  She pried his ring from her finger and held it in the palm of her hand, lamenting all that it had meant, all that it could have meant. “I’ve no wish to marry ye now, Christian. I’ll not have a man who lacks honor, a man who breaks his word to the woman he wants for his wife.”

  “Deirdre, please, let me explain—”

  “There’s nothin’ to explain, Christian. Ye made me a promise to help me find me brother. Ye found him, all right But if he is hanged and put to death for believin’ in a cause that in his heart is righteous and just, then ye’ve taken him from me not once, but twice.”

  He stood, paralyzed, only his eyes moving as they flickered to the ring.

  She turned and walked slowly to the door, choking on tears while she ached for him to say the words that would bring her back to him, the words that would keep her from walking out of his life, the words that were the only thing standing between Roddy and a hangman’s noose.

  The words that, once uttered, would mean a lifetime of happiness for both of them.

  She paused, her hand on the door latch while her eyes beseeched his. “Let my brother go, Christian. Please . . . say ye will. I beg of ye . . .”

  He set his jaw and turned away.

  Taking a deep, shaky breath, Deirdre plucked the ring from her palm, laid it on the table, and quietly left the cabin.

  Chapter 31

  “Captain, sir?” Midshipman Robert Hibbert stood in the doorway, his gaze probing the cabin’s gloomy darkness until he spotted his commanding officer sprawled in his chair. The Irish girl had left a week ago, and the Lord and Master had been down here ever since; now the captain stared dejectedly at a half-empty bottle of brandy, one arm cradling Tildy, who sat in his lap and regarded Hibbert with sad eyes.

  In their box, the puppies whined pitifully.

  “Captain?” Hibbert repeated, stepping into the cabin.

  Slowly, Christian raised his head. His eyes were lifeless, bleak, his untouched breakfast congealing on a plate near his elbow. “Pray, what is it, Hibbert?”

  The young midshipman frowned at sight of the brandy bottle. “Uh, Mr. MacDuff’s respects, sir, and says to tell you a barge is setting off from the admiral’s ship and heading this way. Sir Geoffrey is in it, sir.”

  “Thank you, Hibbert.”

  The Lord and Master remained unmoving, staring dejectedly out the stern windows at the gray, rain-pocked sea.

  “Uh, begging your pardon, sir, but don’t you think you might want to, uh, maybe make yourself look, uh . . . presentable?”

  The gray eyes remained fixed on the sea. “Have a care to whom you’re talking to, Hibbert.”

  “I am, sir.” The midshipman drew himself up and smoothed his own smartly pressed uniform. “But this is a king’s ship,” he said pointedly, “and we wouldn’t want our captain taken aback.”

  Christian turned his head and stared at the boy. Then he looked down at his own uniform. He wore only his shirt and breeches, and both were badly rumpled and in need of a wash. A large spot of spilled brandy—or was it rum? he couldn’t remember—stained his shirt front, and his hair was rumpled and unqueued. He swallowed hard and looked at his hands, gripping the edge of the table. “Thank you, Hibbert.”

  Drawing himself up, Hibbert swelled with pride. “I’d be happy to help you buckle on your sword and clean up the cabin,” he offered, with a fleeting glance at the bottle of brandy. “Ian says we have maybe ten minutes before Sir Geoffrey reaches us. It’s windy out there, and his crew’s having a hard row.”

  “Yes, of course,” Christian said woodenly. He got to his feet, swaying a bit unsteadily. He could feel the midshipman’s worried eyes upon him. He was not making a very good role model for the young officer, or for any of his men.

  And he didn’t give a bloody damn.

  Topside, he heard the side party being mustered as the crew prepared to receive the admiral. Shaking his head to clear it, Christian set Tildy back down with her puppies, and, pouring a pitcher of water into his basin, plunged his hands beneath the surface and scrubbed at his bristled face.

  Hibbert saw his predicament immediately. “Would you like me to shave you, sir?”

  The tired smile was answer enough. Christian sat down and closed his eyes, allowing the lad to lather his face. From above, he heard Ian’s gruff voice coming down through the skylight as he ordered the side party into position.

  “I know you’re feeling poorly about the girl,” Hibbert said suddenly, bravely, as his captain’s eyes opened to regard him with anger. “And we’re all proud of you for outsmarting the Irish Pirate and bringing him to heel.” The razor moved over Christian’s chin. “But don’t you think you might just consider letting the man go? I mean, I’ve talked to him, and we’ve been playing cards with him every night—”

  "What?”

  “He’s really a nice fellow, Captain O’Devir. Not a criminal at all, sir, but a man who believes as strongly in his ideas a
s, and pardon me for saying so, sir, you do in yours.”

  “He is a treasonous rebel and traitor to his king,” Christian snapped, “and do not forget it!”

  “Aye, sir.” The razor scraped over Christian’s cheek, but the youth’s hand was surprisingly steady. “I know you think you can’t let Captain O’Devir go, because we might be angry with you, but we held a meeting, sir, and we don’t want to see him hang.”

  Christian seized the midshipman’s wrist. “Why the hell does everyone on this bloody planet seem to think I can just release the scoundrel? Such decisions are not mine to make! And, by God, this is a king’s ship. I have a code of honor and duty to attend, and so do the bloody lot of you.” He shut his eyes, cringing as he heard the bosun’s whistles shrilling on the deck above. “Besides,” he added in a gentler tone, “I can’t just release him. You know that, Hibbert.”

  “I know, sir. But you’ve got to do something . . . We know you’re loyal to the king; we know you’re loyal to this ship and the flag that flies above her decks. But in the end, who wins if the Irish Pirate is hanged? No one. The rebels are still going to transport arms to Concord, and everyone knows that Gage will soon have to move against them.”

  “Hibbert, you show a devilish amount of wisdom for one so unadvanced in years.”

  “And pardon me, sir, but you show a devilish amount of stubbornness for someone as advanced in yours.”

  “Pray, go to hell.”

  The midshipman laughed, wiped the razor clean, and toweled the streaks of lather from his captain’s austere face. “Well, sir, I just wanted you to know that we won’t think any less of you if Captain O’Devir . . . escapes. And—” He paused, looked away, and then, unflinchingly, met his captain’s hard gaze. “I know this has been a long time in coming, sir, but I have to say it. You’re the best Lord and Master we’ve ever served under . . . and we only want to see you happy.”