Master of My Dreams (10 page)

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!

Terrified, she crept backward, toward the
door.

“Come here,” he murmured, softly.

Deirdre took another step back. Her hand
groped behind her—and came up against his desk, and a half-full
pitcher of water atop it.

Her fingers closed around the handle. With
all her strength, she hurled it at his head.

Too late, his arm came up to fend it off.
There was a loud crash, but Deirdre didn’t stay to see the results
of her actions. With a frightened cry, she dove through the door,
hearing behind her his groan of pain, and the sound of his heavy
body hitting the desk, then the deck flooring.

She was past the drunken marine, up the
companionway stairs, and halfway across the moonlit deck when
unseen hands caught her roughly by the shoulders and yanked her
brutally around. Instinctively, her hand came up to defend herself,
and was caught in a meaty fist.

Skunk.

“Hush, girlie, before ye wake up the whole
ship! Christ, I ain’t never heard such a racket in my life! Wot the
hell is goin’ on down there, eh?”

“Get yer hands off o’ me!” Deirdre cried,
wrenching free and away from him. Already, others were melting out
of the darkness: Teach, not quite so fearsome without his beard;
Elwin, the surgeon, stretching his chicken-neck as he tried to see
around him; Hibbert, the midshipman she’d scrapped with earlier;
Russell Rhodes, dark and sinister in the moonlight; and several
others whose names she didn’t know, and didn’t care to
know—including the voluptuous, well-endowed doxy.

“Where’s ’is bloody Lordship?” the big gunner
demanded, his eyes narrowing. Beside him, Hibbert stood gawking at
Deirdre’s bare legs, until Skunk cuffed him sharply in
reprimand.

“
Sleepin’,”
Deirdre shot back, with a
fearful glance behind her. “What else would a body be doing in the
middle o’ the night?”

“I might ask you the same question,” murmured
Ian MacDuff, emerging from below and holding up a large fragment of
the pitcher that Deirdre had just hurled.

She paled, and would have fled if not for
Skunk’s restraining hand on her arm.

“What’s this all about, Ian?”

“I doona ken, Skunk,” Ian said, frowning.
“Found our commanding officer in a rather sorry state.”

“Sleepin’?”

“Aye, most definitely,” Ian returned, taking
off his cap and scratching his head. He pointed an accusatory
finger at Deirdre. “For such a wee kitten, lassie, ’tis one hell of
a wildcat ye be!”

“I was only tryin’ to protect meself!”

Skunk wrapped a large, grimy arm around
Deirdre’s thin shoulders. “What’s yer name, girlie?”

Ian stepped forward, scowling. “Skunk—”

“Aw, piss off, Ian,” Skunk said, waving him
away. “This is important!”

“Deirdre. Deirdre O’Devir.”

“Well, Miss Deirdre, we already got us one
lady stowaway, might as well ’ave two. Ye can keep each other
company on the passage over. This here’s Dolores Ann Foley—”

“But I go by the name of Delight,” the woman
purred, flirtatiously touching Ian’s arm.

Deirdre stared at her. “Delight
Foley
?”

The woman—who, up close, appeared to be
several years older than Deirdre—gave a rich, husky laugh. “You got
it,
cherie.
As in
delight-fully
.”

“
Skunk
. . .” Ian tried again.

Skunk ignored him. “We knows Rhodes here has
orders t’ put ye ashore tomorrow, but we figure we can just hide ye
down below with Delight till we’re a ways out to sea, then bring ye
both out when it’s too late to head back to England. Ought to rile
the new captain nicely, eh? Hell, ’e’s gonna make our lives hell
for the next month, might as well return the favor!” The big gunner
laughed, elbowed his grinning mates, and leered down at Deirdre.
“By the way, we really admire yer attempts to end his Lordship’s
life, though ye
could
use some advice on how to kill
someone.” He grinned. ‘Teach here can help ye with that, eh,
Arthur?”

A chorus of guffaws went up.

“So, girlie, what d’ ye say?” Skunk prompted.
“Ye wanna stay with us or go back ashore?”

Deirdre thought of her cousin Brendan, whose
help she so desperately needed if she were to find her brother. “I
do have to get to Amerikay,” she said slowly. Then her eyes
narrowed. “But I’ll be warnin’ ye. If ye be thinkin’ to see me at
the same trade as Delight
Foley,
ye’ll find out I don’t need
lessons from Teach or anyone else about how to kill someone!”

“Nah, nah, ye’re quite safe. We won’t be
touching ye,” Skunk said, boxing Hibbert’s ears as the boy tried to
see down Deirdre’s shirt. “Now, if we can only get Ian here to quit
being such an old fart, we’d be all set.”

“I willnae be a part of this conspiracy!” Ian
raged, clenching his fists at his sides. “Ye hear me? Ye keep yer
bluidy schemes tae yerselves!”

With that he stormed angrily away, leaving a
confused silence behind him.

“What’s up with him?”

“Don’t know. He ain’t been ‘imself since the
captain had that private meetin’ with him.”

“He’ll come ‘round,” Skunk muttered
dismissively. “So what do ye say, girlie? Ye got anythin’ better to
be doin’ for the next month? We told ye
our
purposes. Now
why don’t ye come down to the wardroom and tell us
yours,
eh? You help us”—he grinned—“and we’ll help you.”

Deirdre stood unmoving. They were offering
protection and safe passage.

“Well?” Skunk said.

Far beyond the harbor, the first streaks of
dawn pinkened the cold eastern sky. Deirdre thought of her cousin
Brendan, a shining vision of hope, somewhere across the sea in a
distant land called America. She thought of her promise to her
dying mother, and of her beloved, long-lost brother.