Master of My Dreams (13 page)

Chapter 11

Topside, every mouth slammed shut as the Lord
and Master reappeared. Every eye followed him as he mounted the
quarterdeck ladder, crossed the deck, and strode to the frigate’s
big, double-spoked wheel.

And every man knew just what had him so
riled.

He had found the Irish girl.

The sailing master, standing beside him, took
one look at the fury in those cold gray eyes and said carefully,
“Course west by southwest, sir. Full and by.”

“Very well, Mr. Wenham. We will remain on
this tack until the end of the watch.”

“So, er, we’re not going to . . . uh, head
back to England?”

Christian raised a pale brow and regarded him
flatly. “Pray, Mr. Wenham, whatever for? Does your little Irish
stowaway rate so highly that she would interfere with the business
of a
king
’s ship? I think not.” He pulled out a chart of
Boston Harbor, laid it on the binnacle, spread the damp paper flat
with his palms, and stared down at it, his gaze roving over the
carefully drawn figures. “Since you are all so eager to keep her
here, you can begin inconveniencing yourselves by making
accommodations for her immediately. In fact, Mr. Rhodes may move
himself out of his cabin so the girl may move herself in.”

“H-his cabin, sir?”

Christian glanced up. “Yes, Mr. Wenham, his
cabin—the one next to mine, in case you don’t remember.” He let the
chart snap shut. “Now, where the devil is the bosun’s mate?”

Ian was just coming aft, his red beard
blowing in the wind. “I believe he went down to get Mr. Teach,
sir—like ye asked.”

“That was twenty damned minutes ago. Where
the bloody hell did he
go
?”

Ian flushed and looked away. “Uh . . . the
brig, sir.”

“Send Midshipman Hibbert to fetch the both of
them, this instant. In the meantime, please have all hands lay aft
to witness punishment.”

His words stunned the deck into silence.

“P-punishment, sir?”

“Pray, does everyone on this ship have a
damned speech problem today? Yes,
punishment
!”

Ian’s ruddy face paled. “But, sir, we’ve
never had a whipping aboard
Bold Marauder
before—’tis not
well the men will take tae it, sir!”

Christian gave a hard smile. “I do believe,
Mr. MacDuff, that is
my
problem, not yours.”

“But,
sir,
’tis startin’ a mutiny
ye’ll be! I beg of ye tae reconsider!”

“Do not challenge my orders, Mr.
MacDuff!”

Christian swung away and went to the weather
side of the quarterdeck, his head pounding, his mouth tight. He had
no right to take out his anger on the crew, especially not on Ian.
It was the girl who deserved it, that bedeviled, wretched,
Irish
girl. It was bad enough she’d had the audacity to stow
herself aboard a king’s ship,
his
ship; it was bad enough
that she’d tried twice to kill him. But she had insulted the memory
of his dead wife—and worse, had awakened feelings he’d thought he
no longer had. Even now his loins throbbed as he thought of her in
that obscenely low-cut, vulgar, form-fitting, scarlet . . .
gown
.

Damn her, she had no business making him feel
such things.
No one
did. It was Emily he’d loved, Emily he
would
always
love!

Behind him, he heard the shrill of pipes and
the sudden roar of angry protest as the crew, herded by Evans’s
nervous marines, began to head aft. Even from here, with the wind
in his face and half a deck to separate them, he heard their
words.

“Bloody son of a bitch, just who the blighty
hell does he think he is?”

“We ain’t never had no one whipped
before!”

“So much for yer damned hero worship of the
bloke, Ian!” he heard Skunk yell. “And so much for yer damned
praise for Admiralty for sending us Captain Christian Bleedin’
Lord! He’s a damned
fool
!”

“Cruel, high-bred, spawn of a whore! How dare
he think to whip one of ours, lads! ’Tis cause for mutiny, I say!
Mutiny
!”

The word caught like flame set to black
powder. “Mutiny!”

"Mutiny!”

Christian remained unmoving, even as cold
fingers of dread touched his heart. Their resentment was a live
thing, a rippling undercurrent of loathing that intensified with
each sweep through the men now gathering aft.

Calmly, he took one last look out to sea and,
turning abruptly, went back to the helm. “How fares the weather,
Mr. Wenham?”

The wind had risen, teasing the waves and
coaxing them high; now, white foam was breaking at their crests,
the spray flinging itself high over the frigate’s decks with every
dip and plunge of her bows. But the sailing master, his nervous
gaze darting to the angry, shouting mob, appeared not to have heard
the captain.

“Mr. Wenham, the weather, please!”

The big man was still staring at the massing
crew. “We’ll be in for a blow before nightfall, sir.”

Where the devil was Hendricks?
His
hand sliding beneath his coat to touch his pistol, Christian looked
up at the masthead pennant streaming so far above, then down at the
binnacle where the needle held steady on the compass card. He
nodded curtly, his eyes as gray and forbidding as the sky above.
“Thank you, Mr. Wenham. I shall keep that in mind.”

The bellowing of the seamen had reached a
deafening roar.

“Mutiny, lads, mutiny!”

“We’ll not let no captain get away with this,
Hero of Quiberon or not!”

“String ’im up to the yardarm and let ’im
swing!”

“Off with his bleedin’ head!”

“Mutiny! Mutiny!
MUTINY!"

Ian was there at his elbow again, his eyes
desperate. The big Scot took off his cap and held it nervously in
his hands, tiny beads of sweat beading on his brow. “Sir, ’tis
a-beggin’ ye I be tae reconsider the wisdom of having Arthur
whipped! We’ve nae had a murder aboard this ship, but if you insist
on going through with this”—he gulped and swallowed—“this—”

“
Folly,
Mr. MacDuff? Pray, do not
think to deny me the one bright spot in what has turned out to be a
hellish nightmare of a day.”

Ian exchanged a desperate glance at Wenham.
In Captain Lord, he had thought he’d finally found a commanding
officer he could look up to, a commander he could
respect
—but he’d been wrong.

As one, the two officers glanced at the aloof
face of the man who was about to sign his own death warrant, both
knowing that the moment the dreaded cat-’o-nine-tails slashed down
across Teach’s back, it would be all over.

Not for Teach—but for the Lord and
Master.

###

Hearing the rising uproar on the deck above,
Deirdre, frightened, grabbed an amputation knife from Elwin Boyd’s
box of instruments, picked up her skirts, and fled topside,
emerging, breathless, onto the frigid, wind-whipped deck.

Fighting to keep her balance against the
ship’s roll, she made her way to Midshipman Hibbert’s side and
grabbed his dirty sleeve.

“Hibbert! What’s happenin’?”

The youth swung around, gaping and flushing
at the sight of her in the blood-red dress. He saw the gooseflesh
on her arms and gallantly handed her his coat. Then, regaining his
composure, he said, “Our Lord and Master is about to prove his
stupidity, that’s what!” He watched as two frightened bosun’s mates
rigged a grating, their eyes darting between the captain and the
swelling masses assembled aft. “You wait, he’ll have a mutiny on
his hands before the hour’s up!”

Rhodes, passing, snapped, “He won’t last that
hour, mark my words! Soon’s that whip comes down on Arthur’s back,
it’s all over for him.”

Gasping, Deirdre turned toward the
quarterdeck.
Bold Marauder's
captain stood at the rail,
detached, aloof, and alone. Sudden, unwanted fear for him drove
through her heart, but she willed it away. Bleedin’ wretched
bastard, he deserved whatever he got!

He turned his head and saw her. Their eyes
met and held. She saw pain and anger in those cold depths,
detachment, and a total lack of warmth. There was no forgiveness in
those eyes. None at all.

Then he turned away, leaving something awful
and empty coiling in the deepest chambers of her heart.

A young midshipman, white with fear, came
running up from the hatch, a leather book in his hands. He pounded
up the ladder to the quarterdeck, remembered to salute it at the
last minute, and handed the book to his captain.

“The Articles of War,” Hibbert murmured
reverently as the Lord and Master’s deep, clipped voice began
reciting the unfamiliar words.

Aft, a man lunged forward, shouting, to be
quickly subdued by a marine.

The captain, unfazed, never looked up. At
last he closed the book, with a sound like a coffin being shut for
the last time, and handed it back to the nervous boy. Above, dark
clouds began to gather above the spires of the masts, but the
captain seemed oblivious to the threatening storm. His gaze met
Hendricks’s. “Bind the prisoner, please,” he ordered.

A horrible, terrifying roar arose from the
crew. Teach went wild as he was dragged, kicking and screaming, to
the grating. He twisted, his black eyes boring into the cool gray
ones of the captain. “You’re the scum of the earth, you vicious,
bleedin’ pig! So help me God, I’ll have your black heart on a
platter to feed to the sharks! I’ll have your head on a pole to
parade through the streets! I’ll have—”

Christian nodded to Hendricks. “You may
commence punishment.”

Teach was lashed to the grating—not by the
wrists, as was customary, but by the ankles, in what looked to be a
new method of torture.

Hendricks loosened the red baize bag and gave
it to his mate.

Teach went ashen, the sweat rolling in
rivulets down his brow.

And the captain, leaning on his sword with
his hands crossed loosely over the hilt, said nothing as the
bosun’s mate reached into the bag, shook it upside down, and stared
at that which came slithering out to fall upon the deck.

“What the hell . . .” the man said, looking
up as though he’d been the butt of a cruel joke.

For it was not the dreaded cat-o’-nine-tails
that lay there, but an oily pile of rags.

The crew, confused, instantly quieted. There
was no sound but the hiss of spray at the bows, the whine of wind
through the shrouds. In the shocked, ensuing silence, Rico
Hendricks threw back his head in laughter, bent, and casually
tossed one of the rags to a stunned Arthur Teach. Then he turned as
two bosun’s mates, sweating and swearing, dragged a huge chest
across the deck and up to Teach’s bound feet. With his foot,
Hendricks broke the latch and kicked the lid wide.

The crew stood frozen, motionless,
silent.

“God strike me,” someone murmured.

In the chest was a gruesome collection of
axes, pistols, knives, and boarding pikes. As the crew stared,
gaping with shock, the big Jamaican reached inside and handed the
first weapon he found—a boarding axe—to a bug-eyed and gaping
Teach.

Several feet away, the Lord and Master leaned
casually on his sword and watched with faintly smiling eyes.

And then the crew of HMS
Bold Marauder
witnessed the most unorthodox—and effective—punishment the Royal
Navy had ever doled out, as, with each roll of the drum, an oiled
rag and a weapon from the chest were given to Blackbeard’s hapless
grandson, and he was forced to clean every axe, knife, tomahawk,
and pike it contained.

Two hours later, Teach was finally finished.
Wearily, he oiled the last pistol, tossed it back into the chest,
and, wiping his brow, glared up at his new captain. But in his
black eyes was something that hadn’t been there before—a wary
gratitude, a grudging respect.

The Lord and Master had not whipped him.

The captain met his gaze. Then he picked up
his fat little dog, who had come waddling up on deck to join him,
and, cradling her to his chest, swept the crew, staring at him in
amazement and shock, with his hard gray eyes.

“I cannot abide abuse,” he snapped, his voice
rising over the wind. “But I
will,
by God, have obedience
and respect from the lot of you. Test my patience, and I promise
you that punishment will be swift
—and
fitting to the
crime.”

Overhead, black storm clouds came together
and the first raindrops began to fall, as if they, too, had obeyed
the will of the Lord and Master.

His flinty gaze swept over Deirdre, passed
on.

“You are all dismissed,” he said coldly and,
touching his hat to them, went below to his cabin.

Chapter 12

“Twenty-two years at sea and I ain’t never
seen anything like it!”

“Bloody bastard the captain is,” Skunk
exclaimed, putting his mug down atop the wardroom’s scrubbed mess
table, “Arthur’d’ve been better off with a whippin’! At least
there’s
dignity
in that!”

“Aye, dignity,” Russell Rhodes muttered as he
dealt a fresh hand of cards to his shipmates. He slapped his palm
down atop them, holding them as the ship tilted in a steep swell
and then crashed down into the trough. “’Twas a humiliation, making
Arthur clean all those weapons . . . Wasn’t it, Arthur?”

Teach, sitting moodily in the corner with his
back propped against a bulkhead, looked away, unwilling to take a
stand for or against what the Lord and Master had done to him.

Or, more correctly, what he had
not
done to him. Rhodes glanced sideways at Teach. “Well, don’t forget
what he did to your beard, Arthur.”

The big seaman looked down, his thumbs
grazing the blade of his knife. But the fury had gone out of his
eyes, and that had Rhodes, Skunk, and the rest of the troublemakers
more than a little worried, for Teach, normally full of fire, was
behaving like a tame bear in a traveling fair.

And he wasn’t the only one. Ian MacDuff,
still topside with the watch, had shed his Scots garb and donned a
proper lieutenant’s coat for the first time in anyone’s memory, and
the Irish girl, who’d come aboard vowing to kill their new captain,
was strangely quiet, her lovely eyes troubled.

No, things were not going well at all. The
Lord and Master was proving to be a cunning strategist—and no one
knew quite what to do about it.

Skunk, who’d been leering at—and down—the
bodice of Delight’s gown, leaned over and leered down Deirdre’s
instead. She flushed, yanked the warm woolen shawl that Delight had
given her around her shoulders, and leaned away, trying to escape
both his eyes and his scent. But Skunk only laughed and laid a
grimy paw over her hand. “Yer lookin’ a bit pale around the gills,
girlie. Scared? Sick? Now, don’t ye worry none ’bout this little
storm. ’Tis just a mere blow and it’s gonna get worse before it
gets better. The ship’ll be all right. After all, the Lord and
Master
commands
it, eh, lads?”

Laughter met his remark, but it was guarded,
and Deirdre sensed that something had changed about the crew’s
feelings regarding the captain.

Something that was changing within herself as
well.

The thunder rolled again and she said a
silent prayer as the ship began to climb the next towering swell,
there to hang suspended before thundering down into a trough.

The captain.
She closed her eyes and
wiped damp palms on her skirts. Sweet Jesus, she’d feel a lot safer
if she was in his presence right now, secure in his assurance that
Bold Marauder
would not go down—

Her head snapped up. Dear God, what was she
thinking
?

“The Lord an’ Master,” she spat, in defiance
of her thoughts. “A curse on that poxy blackguard!”

“Well, I’m glad to see that not
all
of
us’ve taken leave of our senses!” Rhodes said, with a sidelong
glance at Teach. “By the way, Deirdre”—his gaze dropped to her
bodice, then back up again—“Elwin tells me you helped yourself to
one of his amputation knives. You wouldn’t be thinking of using it
for your next murder attempt, now, would you?”

“Murder attempt?” Skunk cried gleefully. “On
his bloody Lordship? Why, show us the knife, girlie!”

“Aye, show us the knife!”

Slowly, she picked up her canvas bag, which
she’d put protectively beside her leg. One by one, the objects came
out and were carefully, reverently, placed upon the table. The loaf
of Irish bread. The flagon of Irish air. The pouch of Irish sand
and shells. The wool of an Irish sheep. The pebble from Irish land.
Trying not to think about the jar of Irish water—which
he
had so heartlessly broken—Deirdre at last found the knife. “Here,”
she said, shoving it across the table toward Skunk.

“Murder weapons?” Delight asked, staring at
the odd collection and grinning as her hand roved down Teach’s side
and over his thighs.

“No. Keepsakes from home.” Deirdre said
tightly, her tone of voice forbidding further discussion about the
curious items she was quickly stuffing back in the bag.

Skunk grabbed the knife and held it up for
all to see. “Now, have ye ever seen a finer weapon, lads?” He swung
around, his raised arm overpowering them with fresh stench. Then he
pressed the blade’s hilt into Deirdre’s hand. “Now, when his bloody
Lordship comes down from the deck, ye’ll be waitin’ fer him in the
cabin, just like ye did before. But this time ye won’t fail,
girlie. When he opens that door, bring yer arm back, like this.” He
gripped her wrist and pulled her hand up and back. “A real vicious
chop to the throat oughtta do it.”

“Go for his jugular,” Elwin hissed,
grinning.

“Aye, don’t stop till he’s dead and twitchin’
at yer feet!” Hibbert added, hiding a grin as he elbowed Edgar
Hartness, a freckle-faced midshipman who was making his first
cruise on
Bold Marauder.

“Then plunge it into his heart for good
measure!”

“But first,
do
avail yourself of his
handsome body,” Delight purred, smiling. “’Twould be a shame to let
such a fine specimen of a man go to waste, no?”

Deirdre stared at her, temporarily forgetting
her fear.

“Of course, if
you
don’t want to, I’d
be happy to oblige,” Delight added with a wink. “I’d find great
delight
in melting our Ice Captain!”

Again thunder boomed outside, echoing up
through the timbers of the ship and drowning out the sounds of
their laughter. Deirdre swallowed hard, picturing hundreds, maybe
thousands, of feet of cold, merciless ocean beneath them. If
Bold Marauder
went down, the sea would swallow them up like
the whale with Jonah.
Dear God,
she thought, shivering. Her
very life depended on the sturdiness of a scant bit of wood and
canvas, the seamanship of a crew whose abilities she was already
beginning to doubt, and the leadership, intelligence, and ability
of a man they did not trust, did not respect, and certainly did not
like.

It was his will alone that kept
Bold
Marauder
from going down. His—and God’s.

The ship rolled atop a particularly long
swell, and Deirdre felt cold sweat prickle up her spine.

“Ye forget one tiny important detail,” she
said, trying to keep the terror out of her voice. “The Lord an’
Master has banned me from his cabin and put me in the one next t’
him. There’s no way I can . . . ambush him.”

Skunk braced himself against a steep, rolling
plunge and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’s all taken
care of, girlie. Our carpenter here—where are ye, Bernie?— chopped
a secret hole in the bulkhead screen between your cabin and the
Lord ’n’ Master’s, just this afternoon. It’s deck-level and just
big enough for ye to crawl through, not that our fearless leader’s
ever gonna notice it anyhow— right, Bernie?” He clapped the beaming
carpenter on the back. “Bernie here fixed it so the door opens
beneath his Lordship’s desk. You ought to be able to crawl in and
out between the two cabins with him bein’ none the wiser!”

Deirdre’s mouth went slack.

“Why, that sounds like something
I'd
enjoy doing,” Delight mused. “Imagine, if our bold captain happened
to be sitting at his desk at the time . . . I suppose, that being
deck-level, that would make me come out at just about the level of
his love-organ. Lo, I can just
imagine
his surprise to feel
slow fingers stroking his more
sensitive
parts as he was
trying to work . . .”

Every man in the room flushed. Young Hibbert
clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging as he put his hands over his
groin to hide his sudden arousal.

“Here, now, Delight, ye’re disturbin’ the
children!” Skunk cried, hooting with laughter.

“Perhaps, then, some children ought to be in
bed,
no?” Delight returned with a wicked smile and a pointed
glance at young Hibbert’s groin.

Her face flaming, Deirdre got up to
leave.

“Here, now, girlie, get back here,” Skunk
said, grabbing her arm. “Poor Bernie didn’t go through all that
trouble fer nothin’”

“Fine, then,
let
Delight do it. I
despise the man, but I can’t kill him. I’ve already tried
twice.”

“Ain’t nothing to it,” Skunk said, still
gripping her arm. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “All ye gotta do
is crawl through the hole, wait for yer victim, and then stick yer
knife squarely in the middle of his gut—”

“Aye, carve his liver out and bring it up on
a platter!”

“And his heart, too! Don’t forget his
blackened heart!”

Sudden, awful images crowded Deirdre’s mind .
. . of the captain lying in a pool of blood, dying. Of his cold
eyes staring up at her in death, accusing, unforgiving.

Is that what ye
really
want,
Deirdre?

She stared at the glittering blade with
something like horror.

“
The coast of Ireland will soon pass far
off our starboard beam. Forgive me, but I merely thought you’d like
to see it a final time
.”

“Aw, don’t look so scared, Deirdre. He won’t
feel a thing,” Skunk said, picking up the knife and forcing it
between her stiff fingers. She stared at it, bracing herself
against the roll of the ship and therefore missing the mischievous
glance he exchanged with his shipmates. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get you
up there and into his cabin before he retires fer the night.
Hibbert, take her up, would ye?”

The middie, still staring at Delight’s bosom,
got up.

“I told ye, I don’t think I have it in me t’
commit
murder
—”

The door crashed open and Ian MacDuff poked
his head inside. Water streamed from his ruddy face, his beard, his
hat. “I couldnae help hearing your conversation,” he said
desperately. “Listen, laddies, perhaps we can reach a peace with
the captain—”

“Aw, Ian, don’t go gettin’ all soft on us,”
Skunk complained, waving his hand with a dismissive gesture that
released a fresh cloud of stench from beneath his armpit. “Hibbert,
get the girlie up there, would ye?”

Hibbert, still staring at Delight, grabbed
Deirdre’s arm and bolted from the room.

Ian turned angrily toward his shipmate.
“Skunk, you go too far. I cannae permit this, ye ken?”

“Piss off, Ian. Ye know as well as the rest
of us that the girlie hasn’t the will or the guts to kill his
bloody Lordship. We’re just havin’ a bit of sport and ye know it.
Hell, if’n I was serious about wanting ’im dead, I’d do away with
’im myself.” He clapped a big, meaty hand across Ian’s back.
“Besides, ye know none of us really want to
kill
the bastard
. . . we just wanna shake him up a bit. Ye know, make him a little
aggravated.”

“Oh, ye’ll aggravate him, tae be sure. At the
wee lassie’s expense!”

With that, Ian stormed from the wardroom,
slamming the door behind him.

At the wee lassie’s expense.

He couldn’t have issued a more prophetic
statement.

###

Leaving a master’s mate and four experienced
hands at the helm, Christian, exhausted, made his way through the
stormy darkness toward the hatch.

He was shivering and soaked to the skin. His
hat dripped a steady stream of cold water that trickled down his
face and neck. His damp neckcloth was tight and itchy against his
throat, his uniform was wet beneath his oilcloth greatcoat, and he
felt as though he would never get warm again.

His thoughts were as dark as the night.

Damn her,
he thought, ducking beneath
the hatch and clawing at his neckcloth. How dare she taunt him with
that vulgar gown that only a prostitute would wear? He rued the
years that had turned the innocent Irish girl with the huge purple
eyes into the soiled creature she’d become.

Emily’s face rose up in his memory, and he
was suddenly ashamed of himself for thinking of the Irishwoman, and
the stab of lust he had no business feeling. His eyes hard, he
stalked through the darkness, hating himself for feeling such
carnal desires, resenting the girl for causing them. She had no
right. She
had no right
!

The storm sounded furious down here, the
tattoo of rain thrumming against the quarterdeck nearly deafening
him. The frigate rolled beneath his feet, lurched upright. But his
steps were sure, his balance secure—until he reached the door of
his cabin and nearly tripped over Evans.

He stared down at the marine, his crossbelt a
dim white X in the darkness. Obviously, the thundering rain did
nothing to disturb Evans’s sleep. Or, his sweet dreams.

“Ah, Delight . . .” the man murmured on a
sigh.

Christian frowned, and resisted the urge to
rouse the marine with a toe to his ribs. “Bugger the lot of you,”
he muttered. Then he stepped over the marine and stood staring at
his cabin door.

It loomed ominously in front of him.

He rubbed his chin, thinking.

Then, taking a deep breath, he drove his foot
savagely against the wood and instinctively jumped back.

Thwaaack!

The knife slammed harmlessly into the
doorframe.

Evans shot to his feet, blinking in
confusion. Ignoring him, Christian entered his dimly lit cabin.
Nonchalantly, he removed his wet hat, tossed it aside, and pried
the knife—a wicked, curving blade of death—from the wood.

“Really, now. Is that the best you can
do?”

The girl stood in the middle of the cabin,
gaping at him. Her hair hung in a wildly curling black mass about
her shoulders, and her eyes were huge pools of violet in her
chalk-white face. Predictably, she reached up and curled her
fingers around the cross.