Master of My Dreams (14 page)

“I . . . I missed.”

Shedding his dripping oilcloth, Christian
brushed past her, went to his table, and poured a hefty measure of
brandy into a glass. He raised it to his lips, watching her.
“Indeed.”

Deirdre saw no anger in those frosty depths.
Nothing but a strange, dark heat, and a flicker of something that
might have been amusement.

“Next time I won’t miss!”

“Oh?”

“Next time I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

“Save it,” he said, pulling a blanket off his
bed and wrapping it around himself before settling wearily into a
chair. As he raised his glass and took another sip of the brandy,
Deirdre saw that his hands were red and raw with cold.

She bit her lower lip, staring at those
hands.

“It saddens me,” he said at length, “that in
the thirteen years since our last encounter, you seem to have
turned into a woman who sees no better outlet for her charms than a
ship full of men who do not know the meaning of the term
gentleman.
I have tried to conduct my actions, and my
thoughts, in a gallant and honorable way, but it appears that you
are determined to break me.”

“I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about.”

“Do you not?” He made a noise of disgust.
“What woman wears a whore’s gown and pretends such ignorance as to
its purpose?”

“It’s not
my
gown,” Deirdre muttered,
looking away. “One of the um . . . crew, gave it to me since all I
had was the boy’s clothes I came aboard in.” She looked up at him
then, her eyes defiant. “I’m sure ye’d be even more disdainful if I
donned shirt and breeches.”

The captain just eyed her, speculatively, and
took another sip of his brandy.

She stared mutinously back at him, saying
nothing.

Finally, he sighed and put his glass down.
“It is, I think, time for you to tell me exactly why you’re on this
ship. Surely not just to avenge your brother’s press-ganging by
murdering me. That could have been safely accomplished ashore
without your having to subject yourself to an ocean crossing.
Therefore, it must be the ocean crossing itself that you sought,
not my demise.” His gaze was steady, gray, penetrating. Why?”

“I need to get to Amerikay.”

“And what could one homesick Irishwoman
possibly expect to find in the colonies?”

“My cousin, Brendan.”

“America is a big place, Miss . . .”

“O’ Devir. Deirdre O’ Devir.” She watched as
the fat little dog suddenly appeared and jumped up into the
captain’s lap, turning once, twice, around on his blanketed lap
before settling herself into a ball atop his legs. It didn’t escape
Deirdre’s notice that he slid a hand beneath the dog’s body,
trying, perhaps unobtrusively, to warm it. “Amerikay may be big,
but I already know that Brendan is in Boston. Like you, he serves
with the Royal Navy. He’s the only family I have left . . . I’m
hopin’ he can help me find my brother.”

At mention of Roddy, a shadow passed across
the captain’s stark face and he reached again for his glass.

“I hate to disappoint, Miss O’ Devir, but it
will not be so easy for your cousin to just leave his ship in order
to assist you in your endeavors. Common seamen and crew cannot just
come and go at will—“

“Brendan’s no common seaman. He’s a captain,
and he can come and go as he pleases.”

The captain raised a pale brow. “A captain,
you say? What ship does he command?”

“I don’t know. But he’s in Boston, and he’ll
help me.”

The captain pulled his hand out from beneath
the dog’s body and began stroking her fur. “Perhaps,” he said,
gazing down at the spaniel, “I may be of some assistance, myself .
. . ”

“You?” She gave a bitter laugh. “You were the
cause of all this to begin with, I don’t need or want yer help,
Captain Lord.”

“That is a pity. I am quite happy to give
it.”

“I bet ye don’t even remember me brother. Or
what might’ve happened to him.”

“We pressed a lot of men over the years, Miss
O’ Devir. You are correct in that I don’t remember the fate of one
Irishman taken into the service well over a decade ago. Some
desert. Some fall overboard. Some succumb to disease or the rigors
of life at sea, some end up beached following injury. Forgive me,
but I have no recollection of your brother, especially as I was
transferred from that ship to another within a month of our trip to
Connemara.”

“So ye’re sayin’ it’s a lost cause?” she
asked, not willing to admit defeat.

“Not at all, but finding your brother, or
what has become of him, will present certain challenges that may
require more than just the well-meaning help of your cousin. I know
you loathe the sight of me, but three officers, one of them highly
placed, have a far greater chance of successfully locating your
brother than just one Boston-based captain alone.”

“Three?”

“Well, do not forget, Miss O’ Devir,” he
said, with a little smile. “My brother is an admiral. He has access
to information that your cousin and I do not.”

Deirdre eyed him with suspicion and the
faintest beginning of hope. He was making it awfully hard to
maintain her hatred toward him, and even harder to remember her vow
to kill him. She pursed her lip, watching him quietly petting the
spaniel. “Ye’d really help me, then?”

“It would be the least I could do to atone
for my insult against your family, Miss O’ Devir.”

He was still stroking the spaniel’s fur.
Swallowing hard, Deirdre looked down at that hand, the chapped skin
and raw, red knuckles that were a quiet testimony to the hours he
had spent up on the wet, open deck, in a storm, in the middle of
winter on the open Atlantic, trying to keep this ship, and all who
were aboard it, safe. Before she could help herself, she found
herself reaching out and gently placing her own hand over his.

“Maybe I won’t kill ye after all,” she
murmured, with a little smile of her own, and on an equally
dangerous impulse that surprised herself as much as it did him,
leaned down and dropped a kiss on his harsh cheek.

He stiffened and shut his eyes, and for the
briefest moment, his hand, still cold and sticky with sea-salt,
closed over hers in something like desperation. For an equally
brief moment, Deirdre felt sure that he was going to kiss her.

But no. He released her, the moment
was—thankfully—gone, and Deirdre, confused and shaken, fled the
cabin for the safety of her own.

Chapter 13

She awoke in Rhodes’s cabin, in Rhodes’s
bunk, and in total darkness.

Alone.

Outside, the storm rumbled in fury, the deep,
reverberating tremors of thunder shaking the very timbers of the
ship.

Deirdre couldn’t see the lightning, and
somehow, that was worse. Against her shoulder the bulkhead pressed,
cold and damp, and she realized, in the disorienting darkness, that
the frigate was heeled hard over on her side.

She could hear fresh torrents of rain
whipping across the deck above. Beneath her the ship rolled
heavily, creaking, groaning, and straining in the pounding seas.
Shivering with cold and fighting panic, Deirdre reached out, groped
for her canvas bag and, pulling it close, wrapped her arms around
it and pressed it to her madly pounding heart.

Thunder crashed again, close, very close, and
the bunk vibrated eerily against the bulkhead.

In pitch blackness, she swung out of bed and,
gripping the bunk, balanced herself as the frigate rose, seeming to
hang suspended before crashing down into a seemingly bottomless
trough with a force that nearly knocked her off her feet.

Terror filled her. Wind screamed, and the
ocean roared just outside and she decided that if she was going to
die, it wasn’t going to be down here, trapped all alone in a tiny
cabin in the dark. Timing her movements with the violent ones of
the ship’s own, she stumbled toward the door, sick with fear and
desperate for the comfort of someone, anyone—

Him.

It opened just before her hand hit the
latch.

He
stood there, holding a lantern, his
eyes panicky, his face pale.

“Thank God you’re awake . . .”

For one brief, crazy moment, she almost flung
herself into his arms with relief; instead, she clutched the
doorframe as the frigate rolled, and crashed yet again into another
trough, making Deirdre wonder how much of a beating the ship could
take before she broke apart and sent the lot of them to the bottom
of the Atlantic. “Of course I’m awake,” she snapped. “If we’re all
goin’ to die, I’m not about to meet me maker with my eyes
closed.”

“It’s Tildy,” he said, seizing her wrist with
an urgency that scared her. “Will you come have a look at her?”

“Tildy?”

“My dog.” He glanced anxiously over his
shoulder, back toward his cabin. “There’s something wrong with her.
She’s hiding in the corner, panting . . . she’s staring into space
and whining—” His throat worked, and for a brief moment, she
wondered if this cold, taciturn Englishman who had himself so
tightly under control, was going to fall apart before her eyes.
“Forgive me, but I did not know who else to summon.”

“Let me get me coat.”

She tossed the heavy garment over her gown
and clung gratefully to his arm as, with a sure-footedness that she
herself lacked, he guided her back to his cabin. The wind shrieked
in demonic fury outside, and why he wasn’t terrified that they were
all going to die was beyond Deirdre’s comprehension. Then he pushed
open the door to his cabin and held the lantern aloft, and in its
dim glow, Deirdre saw the little dog lying wedged into a corner,
her eyes large, dark pools of fear and pain.

The instant Deirdre saw her, she knew what
was wrong.

“She’s dying, isn’t she?” the captain said,
his voice hoarse with emotion. “My God, I knew I should never have
subjected her to the rigors of a ship—”

“She be whelpin’,” Deirdre said flatly.

“What?”

“Havin’ puppies.”

“
Puppies?”

“Aye, puppies.” Despite herself, she couldn’t
help but grin at his stricken, helpless look. “Animals often pick
storms to be birthin’ their wee ones,” she said, kneeling down to
stroke the spaniel’s heaving sides. “Why don’t ye be gettin’ me
some blankets so I can make her comfortable?”

“Puppies . . .”

“The blankets, Captain?”

He stumbled as the ship pitched violently
beneath him and suddenly seemed to recover. “We can’t have puppies
here!
This is a King’s ship!”

“I don’t think ye have a choice, and neither
does yer bleedin’ king. Now get me the blankets,” she commanded,
sliding her arms beneath the dog and lifting her gently as the
captain grabbed a blanket from his bed and hastily spread it on the
deck against the bulkhead.

Deirdre lay the spaniel carefully down. She
was aware of the captain’s gaze on her back, grateful, worried, and
yes, relieved. He, proud commander of a warship, had turned to
her
in his hour of need, humbling himself and placing his
trust in her abilities.
Hers.
She was suddenly assailed by
feelings she couldn’t explain, and as he came up to stand behind
her, leaning over her like a protective father, she felt the
searing heat of his body against her own and flushed hotly.

Turning, she snapped, “Really, Captain . . .
this won’t be a pretty sight. Go have yerself a tot o’ rum or
somethin’.”

He pressed closer, his worried gaze fastened
on the laboring dog. “I’ve seen plenty of blood in my life.”

But when Tildy’s whimpers progressed to sharp
cries of pain and the first tiny puppy emerged some twenty minutes
later in its pink, bloody sac, the mighty Lord and Master went as
white as his shirt.

Deirdre glanced behind her to see him leaning
heavily against the bulkhead.

“If yer goin’ to be faintin’, I’d appreciate
it if ye’d do it elsewhere,” she said, cleaning the pup with a soft
cloth and placing it against the warmth of Tildy’s belly. But he
didn’t move, and when Deirdre looked up at him, she saw something
in his eyes that swept in under her guard and went straight to her
heart. The captain was gazing at her with eyes that were warm,
caressing, and full of gratitude.

Eyes that sought a place in her heart and
made it respond to him in ways that made Deirdre suddenly warm, too
warm, beneath her clothes.

Something caught in her chest and she looked
down at the pup, recognizing the feeling for what it was. A
thawing. A sudden rush of feeling for this man who was her enemy,
this man she had professed to hate, this man who was causing her
more confusion than she had thought a body could possibly hold.

“Aye,” he murmured shakily. “Perhaps I shall
go relieve the officer of the watch.”

She tried to hold on to her resentment toward
him. But it was no use. She gazed down at the little white dog and
softly, murmured, “Yes, do. And perhaps when ye come back ye’ll
have a whole new family to welcome.”

He said nothing, just looking at her for a
long, quiet, moment; then he picked up his coat and left the cabin,
his footsteps quickly lost to the howl of rain and wind and storm.
Deirdre took a deep, shaky breath and shut her eyes, and beneath
the frenzied shriek of the wind outside, she heard the soft,
kitten-like mews of the tiny puppy, this stalwart evidence of new
and abiding life oddly comforting and reassuring in the midst of
the tempest that roared around them. She had witnessed the miracle
of birth before—many times, in fact—but never had it seemed so
precious, so holy, so achingly beautiful.

A sudden warmth flooded her and she hugged
her arms to her breasts, thinking again of Captain Lord, and the
way he had looked at her just before he had left the cabin. But
just then, Tildy stiffened in pain and crying, began to push out
another tiny form, leaving Deirdre no time to ponder the new and
confusing feelings of her heart.

An hour later it was over and the spaniel,
exhausted, was quietly licking the three little newborns who sucked
greedily at their mother’s swollen teats. Deirdre, her eyes misty
with emotion, reached out and touched each tiny, squirming body.
For a brief moment Tildy lifted her head and seemed to smile in
gratitude; then the little dog’s head fell back to the blanket, and
with a heavy, satisfied sigh, she closed her eyes.

Deirdre rose to her feet. Her work here was
done. Fighting the violent tilt of the deck, she staggered to the
door, opened it, and in the gloom, permeated only by a crazily
swinging lantern, saw Evans blinking sleepily.

“Summon yer captain and tell him he’s the
proud da o’ three wee babes,” Deirdre said. Then, with a last
glance over her shoulder at Tildy, she turned and stumbled back to
her cabin, where she fell, exhausted, into her bunk.

###

The storm continued for a week, pounding the
frigate and battering her beneath mountainous waves and blinding
sheets of rain, snow, and sleet. The pumps labored day and night to
rid the bilge of water that streamed down through the hatches and
came in through seams that were hard-pressed to stay tight against
such an onslaught; some of the men got seasick, and the crew, still
wrapped in their drenched clothes, tumbled into their damp hammocks
after their watches, cold, wet, and too tired to do more than close
their eyes and succumb to their exhaustion.

As for the captain himself, he was grateful
for the storm. It kept his tormented mind occupied, for with the
ship demanding every bit of his attention, he had little time to
think of the girl he no longer trusted himself around, the girl
whose eyes followed him wherever he went, the girl who was
managing, somehow, to vie with his beloved Emily for the affections
of his tightly guarded heart. Such feelings unnerved him and he
began to go out of his way to avoid her, until the dark purple eyes
grew confused, and then angry with hurt.

But he had no choice. She was too young for
him. She was too innocent for him. He had done her a grievous wrong
thirteen years ago, and it was far safer for both of them if she
hated him. He
preferred
that she hate him. But as the second
week dragged by, he found himself pausing for long moments outside
her cabin in the dead of night, laying his palm against the wood as
though he could reach inside and touch her warm skin, her hair, her
softly beating heart.

Then he would turn away and stumble wearily
to the loneliness of his own cabin—and the nightmares that haunted
his troubled sleep—never knowing that, only several feet away, the
Irish girl pined for him as much as he did for her.

###

The storm did nothing, however, to put a
damper on Delight Foley’s
business;
indeed, she found such
twisted and convoluted motions on the frigate’s part a boon to her
inventiveness when it came to sexual pleasure—and positions. A true
connoisseur of carnal ecstasy, Delight loved her adoring flock of
lusty seamen, though she vehemently proclaimed that she would only
allow Skunk near her if he dragged a bar of soap on deck with him
during a particularly violent bout of rain.

Two and a half weeks after they’d left
Portsmouth, Deirdre finally sought out Delight.

“Deirdre,
cherie
!” The girl grinned
and flung the door open wide. A pungent blast of French perfume hit
Deirdre in the face, nearly choking her. “Do come in! I was just
reading about a new position in my manual—here, have a look!”
Flushing hotly, Deirdre pushed the book away, for lately her own
thoughts had been dominated by the captain—and with strange, wicked
notions that brought odd tinglings to her more womanly parts.

“Delight . . . I have to talk to ye.”

“Lo, Deirdre, I just
knew
something
was troubling you. You’ve been so quiet lately. Sit down right
here,” she said, patting her bed, “and tell Delight what the
problem is.”

Deirdre eyed the scented sheets, the spread
of red satin— and took the chair instead. She hung her head and
twisted her hands together, suddenly uncomfortable and shy.

The other woman came to her, put her hands on
her hips, and tilted her head to one side. “Let me guess,” she said
brightly, tapping a nail against a pearly tooth. “It’s our handsome
Lord and Master, no?”

Deirdre’s cheeks flamed and she looked away.
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, wretchedly.

“Lo, Deirdre, when you’re older you will
learn how to hide the lust in your eyes. It’s plain as day when you
talk about him, that you feel for the man.”

Deirdre stared down at the floor. “I don’t
want to feel for him. He’s English. He press-ganged my brother and
brought years of pain to my family. He’s cold and emotionless and
he has nightmares that keep me awake half the night. I want nothin’
more than to hate him, but I can’t.” She made a helpless motion
with her hands. “Saints alive, Delight, what am I goin’ to do? I
can’t stop thinkin’ about him.”

Even now, she thought of her reaction last
night when he had come into his cabin as she’d been feeding Tildy.
The lantern light had shone down on each glimmering strand of his
hair, making the damp, slightly wavy locks so pure and pale a gold
they were almost silver. His hair was the color of beach sand on a
hot day, curling boyishly behind his ears and at his nape, and she
had almost forgotten herself and reached out to touch it just to
see if it was as soft and crisp as it had looked. . .

She looked up to find Delight gazing at her
with a knowing expression on her face. “You’re in love with him,
aren’t you?”

“
Love?
”

“There’s no use denying it, sweetie. He’s a
fine man, strong and chivalrous, though a bit too righteous and
noble for his own good. But mark me, there are none finer on this
vessel, perhaps none finer, even, in England. You want
my
advice?” She laughed. “Set your sights on him,
cherie.
He is
a good catch, your man.”

Deirdre dragged her head up. “But, Delight .
. . he’s not interested in me. I’m Irish. A commoner. He’s an
English gentleman, master of a king’s ship, well learned an’
educated.”

“So?”

“He avoids me.”

“So?”

“He . . . he’s got rules he lives by,
Delight. He’s . . . he’s an officer and a gentleman. I’m just—”