Master of My Dreams (12 page)

The captain straightened up. For a long,
terrifying moment he said nothing, though he’d gone white around
the mouth and his eyes began to blaze. With shaking hands, he
slowly, carefully, set a pair of navigational dividers atop the
chart.

Then he turned his gray stare on his
assailant.

Teach looked away.

The big Jamaican bosun, faithful as ever, was
suddenly there at his captain’s side. Christian lowered his gaze to
the chart, his expression carefully veiled, though inside he was
shaking. “Hendricks,” he said tightly, without looking up, “please
have one of your mates escort Mr. Teach to the brig, and station a
marine at the door.” Cool and detached, he took a pencil from
Wenham and made a notation on the chart. “As soon as we are well
under way, I shall require all hands to lay aft to witness
punishment.”

“The
brig
?” someone yelled.

“Hell, that ain’t fair!”

“How come he gets to go and not me?”

Christian lifted his head, wondering if the
girl had knocked something awry inside it with the force of the
blow. They
wanted
to go to the brig?

What the devil was wrong with these
people?

He shook his head, trying to appear unfazed.
The movement only reminded him of the headache that raged behind
his eyes and the jagged cut high on his temple, carefully hidden
beneath the periwig.

He felt the sailing master staring at him.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Wenham?”

“Er . . . no, sir.”

“Then prepare to loose heads’ls,” he
snapped.

Rico Hendricks, wearing a silver whistle
around his thick neck, had returned and now stood several feet
away. “I checked everything, sir,” he said respectfully. “No signs
of foul play this time.”

“Thank you, Hendricks.” He turned to the
sailing master. “Get the ship under way, Mr. Wenham.”

Moments later, the frigate came alive as
pipes shrilled, orders were passed, and the seamen, goaded by
Hendricks’s threats and the reminders of the rattan, scurried to
carry out their captain’s order. And if they hustled so, it was not
in deference to their captain’s authority, but in hopes of being
the first from their watch to escape below—where Delight waited in
the “brig.”

“Heave short.”

Forward, men gathered around the capstan,
throwing their weight against it to the song of a chanteyman.
Slowly the cable leashing
Bold Marauder
to the land began to
chink and clank as it came up through the hawseholes, dripping mud,
water, and weeds.

Christian’s eyes narrowed.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir.”

He tensed, remembering yesterday’s debacle.
“Loose tops’ls, Mr. Wenham. Smartly, please.”

The orders were repeated. Again came the
shrill of pipes, the drum of pounding feet, and then the flapping
thunder of canvas dropping from aloft.

So far, so good.

“Man the braces, please.”

Christian set his jaw, keenly assessing the
crew’s efforts.
Frightfully incompetent,
he thought grimly.
But men were scurrying aloft, sails were filling with wind, and the
frigate was beginning to fidget. He nodded smartly to the sailing
master.

“Up and down, sir!” came the cry from
forward.

“Break her out,” Christian snapped.

The anchor came wearily free of the sea,
dripping mud and water and glistening in the sun.
Bold
Marauder,
impatient, heeled over and began to thread her way
carefully between the other vessels, her shadow sliding over them
with stately grace. In the near distance, buildings shone in the
morning sun, their windows glowing with pale, lemony light.

Christian gripped his sword hilt, waiting for
something to break, something to foul, something to go awry. But
the frigate continued slowly forward, finding speed, finding
confidence, and slowly, he began to relax. Elliott would find no
fault with him this day.

He glanced up at the masthead pennant,
wincing as pain stabbed through his aching head. The urge to slide
his fingers up and touch the gash at his temple was hard to resist,
but he was determined not to show even that bit of weakness in
front of the crew. The blow had been a nasty one, but soap and
water, his periwig, and the shadow of his hat hid such things from
inquiring eyes whose owners would be quick to mock and snicker.

They were almost out of the harbor now.

“Hold her steady, Mr. Wenham.”

High above, the canvas made great, billowing
curves that stole wind and sunlight both as
Bold Marauder
pushed toward the mouth of the harbor, where Christian could see
several spectators standing on the headland.

Beside him, Wenham was also staring ashore,
grinning and waving his hand in farewell to a group of doxies.

“See to your ship, Mr. Wenham!”

The sailing master looked at him, his eyes
blank.

Firmly, Christian said, “In future, I would
prefer to see more speed and skill in setting the sails. Starting
tomorrow, I intend to make you all practice it until such maneuvers
are performed to, and beyond, my satisfaction.”

He thought he heard the master groan.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wenham?”

“Er, nothing, sir. Just a frog in my throat .
. .”

Some of the crew began filing below. Others
moved out along the yards, coiled lines, sheeted sails home, or
yelled encouragement to each other. His eyes critical, Christian
watched them, finding their performance sloppy but acceptable.
Perhaps they could do better; in all likelihood, they could not.
But at least the bloody buggers hadn’t dared to sabotage the ship
today. A hard smile touched his mouth. Perhaps there was hope for
them after all. And when they returned to England, the crew of HMS
Bold Marauder
would be something the king himself would be
proud of.

That, he vowed on his very life.

Forward, the anchor was catted amidst a
chorus of blasphemous oaths, and Christian sighed in relief as
Bold Marauder
showed her heels to Portsmouth.

They were free. On their way.

His smile broke into a downright grin.

And then he saw the tomahawk, savagely
impaled in the wood of the mast, and the smile faded abruptly from
his lips.

###

At the appearance of the first tar—a blushing
boatswain’s mate holding his hat in his hands while Arthur Teach
towered impatiently behind him—Deirdre decided that the brig was
the last place she wanted to be.

Embarrassingly aware of the hot stares that
she herself, clad in the scarlet gown of crushed velvet, was
receiving, Deirdre hastily made her excuses and fled into the
bowels of the ship. She stumbled through gloomy darkness, and
finally ducked into a small chamber that could only be the
surgeon’s domain, where she sat huddled against the curved timbers
of the hull.

Beneath her, she felt the ship moving. They
were leaving, about to cross an ocean under nothing but God’s will
and Captain Lord’s command, and she would probably never see
Ireland again. Tears stung her eyes, and swallowing hard, she
hugged her arms around her legs and bent her brow to her knees.

Ireland.

But she was not alone. She had her bag of
Irish mementos beside her. She had her cross, a powerful reminder
of the courage that had been
Granuaile
’s. And, she thought,
running her fingers over the sensual red velvet of the gown, she
had her pride.

Just touching the lush fabric reminded her of
how wanton it made her look. Unbidden, she thought of the English
captain.

What would
he
think if he saw her in
it?

She made a noise of despair, wishing she’d
killed him while she had the chance—as she had vowed, for thirteen
long years, to do. Maybe she didn’t have her ancestress’s warrior
blood in her veins after all. Maybe the dog had distracted her from
her purpose when it had skittered to the captain’s aid. Maybe she’d
misjudged it when she’d tried to take his head off with his own
sword. After all, it
had
been dark in the cabin . . . it was
easy to miss what should have been an easy target.

But then that other thought came to her,
cold, unwelcome, and rebellious.

Maybe she hadn’t really
wanted
to kill
him.

No, no, no, nothing could be further from the
truth! For thirteen long years she’d kept his face alive in her
memory, only so that she could destroy him. Of course she wanted to
kill him! She just hadn’t had the chance.

But she
had
had the chance. While
she’d stood over him, watching him toss in the fitful throes of a
nightmare, he’d never been so vulnerable. She could have plunged
his sword into his black heart and ended it right then and there.
She could have gone back after knocking him senseless with the
pitcher and shot him with his own pistol.

But she had not.

And in her heart, she knew that she didn’t
have it in her to murder anyone.

Maybe she didn’t have Grace O’Malley’s
strength after all.

She stared morosely into the gloom of the
small space in which she found herself. Beneath her, and around
her, the motion of the ship grew more pronounced and she tried not
to think about it leaving the relative safety of the harbor and
heading out into the Channel. She tried not to think about the fact
that she was about to cross three thousand miles of ocean. And she
tried not to think about the fact that she might never see her
beloved Ireland, ever again.

Ireland.

She took a deep, steadying breath, reached
into her canvas bag and withdrew the little bottle of seawater,
taken from the beach at Connemara.

From home.

She set it down at her feet, drawing courage
from its nearness.

Yes, they must definitely be into open sea
now. The frigate’s movements were no longer gentle and rocking, but
a longer, deeper surge as it began to meet the long, rolling
combers coming in off the ocean. Moments later, the deck tilted
over as the vessel tacked, and the little bottle of water went
rolling across the deck into the darkness. Deirdre, panicking,
scrambled to find it. Then the ship righted herself, slowly,
sickeningly, and she was flung hard against the hull, banging her
elbow in the process.

She swore roundly, trying to find the
bottle.

And froze.

From somewhere had come a noise. Not the
squeak of a rat. Not the steady creak and groan of timbers.

But footsteps.

Her head jerked up, her curses ceasing
abruptly. “Skunk?”

The footsteps were coming closer. They were
not heavy enough to be Skunk’s footsteps. Not heavy enough to be
Ian’s, even.

These were different. Precise, measured, and
purposeful.

A door opened somewhere, and the dim glow of
a lantern touched the dank timbers around her. She pressed back
against the curve of the hull.

The footsteps came closer, steady,
determined. The light grew brighter. The footsteps stopped a few
feet away, and looking up, Deirdre saw only the lantern.

She couldn’t see a face. She couldn’t see a
form. She couldn’t see anything—just that raised lantern and, below
it, a dark blue coat and long, hard-muscled thighs clad in white
breeches.

The lantern lowered, and a man’s face shone
cold above it.

Captain Lord’s.

Chapter 10

“I suppose,” he murmured, “that I should have
known better than to trust my crew to carry out the simple order of
removing you from this vessel.”

Deirdre swallowed hard, unable to speak. Raw
terror tingled up her spine. Her every muscle tensed for flight,
but she was frozen, pinned beneath that chilling gray stare.

His face glowed amber in the flickering light
of the lantern, and he looked impossibly tall and frightening from
where she sat huddled against the hull. She saw his gaze moving
over her, taking in the wild black curls that lay in disarray over
her shoulders, the upthrust roundness of her breasts, the cut of
the scarlet gown—and the gown itself.

He stared at it, his eyes narrowing, as
though the sight of her in it displeased him, and displeased him
greatly. She didn’t like the look in those eyes. There was no heat
there. No warmth. And certainly no admiration for the seductive
picture Delight assured her she’d make in it. Nothing but coldness,
and a controlled lack of emotion that frightened her.

Somewhere in the darkness, a rat
scurried.

“You are fortunate, dear girl, that my
conduct is dictated by the high esteem I have for the phrase
‘officer and a gentleman.’ Were it not, I can assure you that you
would be a very sorry creature indeed.”

Deirdre wished she could shrink up in a
little ball and roll into a crack in the deck flooring.

“Why are you still here?” he demanded. “This
is a warship. No place for an Irish harlot.”

“I may be Irish, but I’m no harlot!”

He was still staring at her gown as though it
was something that had crawled out of the bilge and wrapped itself
about her body. “Are you not?”

“How I despise ye,” she murmured. “I wish I’d
killed ye when I’d had the chance.”

“Ah, yes, that. I am trying very hard to
discern the reasons for your hatred of me. My crew’s, I
understand—they have no wish to abide by my strict codes of
discipline and authority. Because I know the cause of their enmity,
I can address it. Yours”—he finally lifted his gaze from her
much-revealed bosom and impaled her with his glacial stare—“I don’t
understand. That’s exceedingly unfair, don’t you think?”

Her hand came up, unconsciously, to touch the
cross.

“When I address you, I expect an answer,” he
said coldly.

“I’m a guest on this ship, not one of your
crew that you can order around!”

“Guests are invited. You, dear girl, are
nothing but a stowaway, and a damned troublesome one at that.”

“Then turn the ship around and take me back
to Portsmouth!”

“And chance a repeat of yesterday’s debacle?
Certainly not. We’re underway, and the next landfall we make, God
willing, will be Boston. In the meantime, you will come with
me.”

He reached down to haul her to her feet, and
Deirdre, wide-eyed, shrank back against the curve of the hull.

For a long moment he simply stared at
her—then he carefully withdrew his hand. “Do you honestly think
that I intend to harm you?” he asked harshly.

The way he said it touched something deep
inside her, shamed her, and Deirdre turned her head away, refusing
to meet the captain’s eyes. He remained unmoving; then, slowly, he
lowered his tall body down to the deck across from her, wincing a
bit as he stretched his legs before him and leaned his back against
the stout leg of the surgeon’s operating table.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly.

Suddenly he was no longer frightening.
Suddenly he was no longer her worst nightmare. Suddenly, she was
more confused than ever. Deirdre refused to look at him. She could
feel his gaze upon her, though he said nothing.

“I may be many things,” he continued, “but I
am not a man who would ever harm a female.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him
slowly, carefully, reach up and remove his hat. She saw something
else out of the corner of her eye, too, and horrified, she turned
her head to look. Lantern light caught the purple swelling at his
temple, the cruel gash, and the dark area of newly dried blood that
made a stark contrast to the whiteness of his periwig.

The sight of the wound filled her with guilt
and self-loathing. She’d be damned, though, if she’d let him know
it.

“So, did ye come down here to punish me?”

A smile touched his lips, one with a trace of
warmth, perhaps even humor, and in that fleeting instant, Deirdre
saw again the man who had bent down and soothed the frightened
little girl she’d been thirteen years ago; she saw a man who,
without that stuffy periwig and harsh demeanor, might actually be
quite handsome.

Quite handsome indeed.

“You’re a poor excuse for a murderess, you
know. Perhaps you should take lessons from Mr. Teach.”

“Why? It doesn’t look like he’s been
successful, either.”

“True enough. And he
will
have to be
punished, I daresay.”

Unbidden, her gaze traveled up the proud
breadth of his chest and shoulders, the handsome planes of his face
. . . the purple-and-red gash at his temple. She winced, and it was
all she could do not to reach out and soothe the wound with the
gentle touch of her finger. “If Mr. Teach is to be punished . . .
why not
me
?”

“You were frightened. You acted in self
defense. Mr. Teach, I’m afraid, was far more determined and
calculated in his efforts to dispatch me.”

“Ye think the sword nearly taking yer head
off wasn’t determined or calculated?”

“I think, foundling, that had you truly
wanted to kill me, you would have found a way to succeed.”

“I’m going to try again,” she vowed, trying
to convince herself. “And again and again.”

“In that case, I will consider myself duly
warned.”

“I mean it! I
will
kill ye!”

“Well, then, I guess I
will
have to
punish you.”

“You can’t punish me if ye’re dead.”

He sat there on the deck flooring, gazing
calmly at her, his eyes inscrutable. She gazed back, trying to hold
on to her anger and failing miserably. Something passed between
them, something deep and gentle and unspoken.

Deirdre looked down, finding a sudden
interest in a knot of wood near her knee.

The captain remained silent.

“Does yer head hurt so very much?” she
ventured, at last.

“I daresay, I’ll survive.”

“I nearly
did
kill ye. Any other man
would be angry. Vengeful. Why not you?”

“Vengeance serves no noble purpose. And
besides, how could I be angry with you?” He gave a fleeting smile,
as though humor was something he was unaccustomed to. At her
confused look, he added, somewhat jokingly, “My dear girl, I am
plagued by nightmares. They make it hard for me to find rest, let
alone sleep. Thanks to you, this was the first time in five years
that I’ve slept so soundly.”

“Do ye want me to be hitting ye again,
then?”

He actually laughed. “The rest is not worth
the headache, thank you. And the next attempt on my life will have
to merit a punishment, I’m afraid. Poor Mr. Teach is already in the
brig, awaiting his.”

She made a sudden choking noise.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“He’s in the
brig
?”

The captain frowned. “Pray, what is it about
this brig—”

“Nothing!” she cried too hastily. “Nothing
a’tall!”

The gray eyes narrowed.

“’Tis where the crew hid all of my—my
personal belongings,” she sputtered. “Ye don’t want to be going in
there. Ye see, I—I—” She cast about quickly for the first thing to
come to mind and colored furiously. “I have my . . . menses.”

His face went as crimson as her gown. “
And
Mr. Teach has been brought there?
”

He jumped to his feet, his long stride
already carrying him across the room. Too late, Deirdre saw the
bottle of precious Irish seawater, rolling back, now, across the
deck flooring. Too late, she saw that his path would take him
straight toward it. Too late, she knew that he would never see
it—

She cried out just as his foot crunched down
on the glass.

“What the devil—”

Deirdre scurried across the little room on
her hands and knees, her hair spilling over her shoulders. “My
water
!” she said brokenly, desperately smearing her hands
into the sad, spreading pool of moisture as though she could scoop
it back up. But it was too late. She turned anguished eyes upon the
captain. “Look what ye did! That was my
water
!”

“What?”

“Ye broke my water!”

Christian stared at her, thinking she was
quite mad. He clenched his hands at his sides in confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he bit out, not knowing what he
was apologizing for.

“Ye don’t understand!”

“You are correct, I do not. But I can assure
you, we have plenty of water both inside and outside of this ship,
I can certainly procure more for you—”

“
It’s not the same!
” She swiped at a
tear. Another. “That was seawater . . . from . . . from—” She
turned away before he could see her tears beginning to fall—
“
Ireland
. . . ”

Christian stood helplessly. He had never felt
more awkward, confused and taken aback in his life. And as he
stared at her unruly curls, his gaze fell again upon the cross—a
heathenish ornament etched with a Celtic design and studded with
emeralds. His frown deepened, became a scowl. Something tickled his
memory, something distant, yet close, something he was very close
to recalling but couldn’t quite grasp . . .

That cross. That hair. Those eyes—

Ireland.

Dear God above.

He stepped backward, horrified as the
realization of just who this young woman was—

Thirteen long years,
she had said
yesterday, and he hadn’t picked up on it.

Thirteen long years
, she had said, and
he’d thought she had been an old paramour that he’d unwittingly
jilted.

Thirteen long years
—and she had come
back to settle the old score between them.

“Dear God, forgive me.” He moved toward her,
one arm outstretched, disgusted with himself for not having
recognized her earlier.

“Get away from me, ye filthy English
dog.
Just
get away from me
!”

In a flash, his hand snaked out and plunged
into her hair, anchoring her head so that she couldn’t move. He
forced her head up, studying her intently.
Yes,
he thought,
in stricken dismay,
it is she. That same little Irish girl whose
brother I press-ganged.

No wonder her animosity

No wonder her vow to kill him.

She glared at him, trembling beneath his hand
but unwilling to back down.

“Now, I understand,” he said softly.

“What?”

“I know who you are, foundling.”

Her eyes defied him.

“You’re the little Irish girl from Connemara
. . . the one with the pony . . . Thunder, I believe his name was?
The same little girl whose brother we took with the press gang, the
same little girl who—I see—has not forgiven me these many years,
but has returned to avenge that wrong.”

She shut her eyes as though she couldn’t bear
to look at him. Thirteen long years dropped away, and he was once
again the anguished lieutenant, doing a deed he had no stomach for,
following an order he had no choice but to obey. Thirteen long
years dropped away, and she was once again the frightened,
grief-stricken little girl. Thirteen years dropped away—and came
full circle.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked,
harshly.

She only opened her eyes and glared at him,
accusingly.

“I never quite forgave myself for what I did
to you that day. It has been a source of great torment for me . .
.”

“Torment? Ye lie! I’ve heard yer nightmares,
I’ve heard ye call out in his sleep, and it isn’t the memory of
what ye did to my family back in Connemara that tortures ye.”

He stared at her, taken aback. “I beg your
pardon?”

“I’ve
seen
the miniature of some
red-haired hussy that ye keep like a shrine on yer desk! ’Tis not
yer despicable deeds toward an innocent Irish family that torture
ye, but yer dear, darlin’
Emily
!”

The color drained from his face. “Do not
speak her name.”

“Emily, Emily,
Emily
!” she spat,
taking twisted pleasure in hurting him and cruelly mimicking the
tortured words of his nightmare. “‘I didn’t mean it, Emily. Dear
God, please don’t take her—’”

He stepped back, away from her.

“Emily . . . oh, God, Emily,
please
don’t die—’”

He remained frozen, and she saw raw anguish
in his eyes before the cold, frosty mask of indifference was in
place once more. “It would seem,” he ground out, his voice harsh
and emotionless, “that my sympathy toward you was grossly
misguided. My apologies.”

And with that, he picked up the lantern and
moved toward the door.

“Don’t come near me again, or I
will
kill ye!”

He paused, turned, and regarded her for a
long moment. “As you wish, my dear.” His eyes were carefully
veiled, the long, pale lashes masking any emotion he might have
felt. “I will gladly stay away from you. In fact, the next time I
consider doing you a kindness, I will resist that urge.”

She glared up at him, angry, confused, and
upset. “A kindness? What possible
kindness
could ye possibly
think to bestow upon me?”

The English captain picked up his hat and set
it down atop his periwig, covering the bruise at his temple once
more. “The coast of Ireland will soon pass far off our starboard
beam.” His voice turned hard. “Forgive me, but I merely thought
you’d like to see it a final time.”

Then he turned smartly on his heel, tromped
through the sad puddle on the floor, and was gone.