Master of My Dreams (16 page)

He was Anglican.

She was Irish Catholic.

There were those who would frown upon a
highly respected naval officer taking a papist to wife. There were
those who would think her coarse and unsuitable as the bride of an
English nobleman. There were those who would have nothing but
contempt for her. Christian tightened his lips. Damn them, damn all
of them who would put her, the only woman he’d so much as even
looked
at since Emily, out of his reach.

And then he realized where his thoughts had
been leading.

Wife.

“Dear God,” he murmured, dragging a hand
through his rumpled hair.

Bride. . .

He shut his eyes, and broke out in fresh
sweat.
Control yourself, Christian. You are an officer.

An officer. A gentleman. As such, he was
supposed to conduct himself in a stellar manner. To do otherwise
would be to bring disgrace upon his king, his country, and the
uniform he wore with such pride. The embarrassing debacle of
Portsmouth, and being found in such a compromising position, still
rankled, and rankled deeply. Another such incident could bring
about his ruin.

Desperately, he glanced at the box beneath
the stern windows that the ship’s carpenter had made for Tildy and
her puppies. The babies were still asleep, but sensing her master’s
stare, Tildy raised her head and looked at him, seeming to
grin.

“
Ha, ha,”
the little spaniel seemed to
say.
“Now what are you going to do?”

His swollen arousal now lay stiff and hard
against the sleeping girl’s knuckles. He tensed and shut his eyes,
hating himself for not getting up and making a swift exit from this
bunk, this cabin. How he wished she’d move that little hand closer;
how he longed to feel her soft, whispery touch moving over his
aching length, stroking it, coaxing it harder and higher,
until—

Sudden, violent anger slammed through
him.

What the devil
was
he
thinking?
Cursing, he crawled out and away from her, no longer
caring whether or not he woke her. She remained asleep. Breathing
hard, he stood naked on the slightly angled deck and tried to rein
in his thoughts.

His desires.

He stared out the stern windows. The sea was
deep and blue and ruffled by wind, its reflection dancing against
the deckhead like sunlight through a thousand diamonds. He passed
the back of his wrist across his brow, then clenched his fists at
his sides as his gaze crept, unbidden, back to the girl.

He was damned, he thought, damned to hell and
beyond. Turning, he rushed through his morning ablutions, cursing
when the razor caught his chin and raised a trickle of blood. He
grabbed his wig, arranged the rolled curls over his still faintly
bruised temple, and donned his uniform with a haste he hadn’t shown
since he’d been a fourteen-year-old midshipman who, cocky after his
first night with a cheap doxy, had shown the bad sense to arrive
late for his watch.

His mood black, Christian stuffed his
shirttails into his breeches, grabbed his coat, and slammed out of
the cabin without a backward glance.

###

“Er, Ian? I really think you ought to have
let her go for another hour or so before tacking,” Wenham said,
scratching his ear as he peered up at the set of the sails with a
critical eye.
Bold Marauder
was quite comfortable, driving
along on a larboard tack under reefed topsails and courses, but he
knew that the Lord and Master would have the hands piped for sail
drill as soon as he came on deck.

That would mean, of course, that the men
would have to go aloft to reset the sails for the second time this
morning. Wenham groaned. Why work the crew any more than needed? he
thought, watching the thin curl of smoke that rose tantalizingly
from the galley funnel as his stomach growled in anticipation of
breakfast.

Ian puffed out his chest. “The captain left
me
in charge, Thomas,” he said, hoisting his bagpipes and
squeezing the bag beneath his brawny elbow. The big Scot missed the
looks of alarm that spread amongst those standing nearby, for Ian’s
talents at playing his instrument had not improved in the
slightest. “And
I
think it was time tae tack, so doona
question my wishes!”

Rhodes, leaning against the rail, rolled his
eyes as Ian stormed off. “The captain!” he sneered with a derisive
glance at the hatch. “If he were any sort of commanding
officer,
he’d be up here on deck, seeing to his ship!”

“Prob’ly fussin’ with that stupid wig,” Skunk
remarked.

“Or feeding treats to that sap-eyed dog,”
Elwin spat.

Hibbert, who’d spent a very educational hour
in the company of Delight Foley, gave a sly grin. “Or tumbling the
Irish girl.”

A dark shadow fell over the deck. “That will
be all, Mr. Hibbert.”

Hibbert’s head shot up, the blood draining
from his face at the sound of that icy, dangerous voice. Abruptly,
the officers snapped off guilty salutes; then all turned hastily
away and pretended to be engrossed in their duties.

Christian wasted no time in pleasantries. His
jaw hard, and the very wig they were ridiculing carefully combed
and tied at his nape beneath the wide brim of his cocked hat, he
crossed to the weather side of the ship and stared out over the
brilliant azure sea. The wind was cold and biting. Spray was almost
crystalline. Foam rode high on the tumbling waves and flecked the
ocean for as far as the eye could see. He stared up at the masthead
pennant, a dark serpent-shape against huge, fluffy white clouds
that raced high above the frigate’s yards.

The ship nosed into a swell, and a huge sheet
of spray drove over the rail and drenched his coat. He heard
someone howl with laughter before Ian’s sharp reprimand abruptly
silenced him.

He ignored them, though his gray eyes
narrowed and a vein throbbed at his temple. Let them have their
little fun. They’d learn, soon enough, that his patience for
putting up with nonsense was limited. Squaring his shoulders, he
strode to the wheel, keenly aware of the hostile glances the two
helmsmen bestowed on him as he studied the compass.

Wenham was right. Ian
could
have left
the frigate on the starboard tack for another hour.

He glanced at his first lieutenant, thinking
to mention the matter to him. But there was such a hopeful look in
Ian’s eyes, such an anxious look about his mouth, that Christian,
despite his black mood and better judgment, decided to let the
matter go.

He saw Skunk, his grimy hair caught in a long
pigtail at his nape and hanging between his beefy, tattooed
shoulders. Several of the other troublemakers—Teach among
them—stood nearby, carefully upwind of the big gunner. Skunk’s gaze
was on Christian. So was Teach’s, Wenham’s, and that of every tar
from bowsprit to poop.

Watching him. Judging him. Searching for some
flaw in his character, some weakness they could exploit. Christian
smiled, though his jaw tightened and his sharp gaze raked over them
with the keenness of a well-honed blade. They would find no flaw to
attack, no weakness to exploit.

And, he thought wryly, no blemish upon his
behavior. Regardless of how or why the Irish girl had ended up in
his cabin, he had not taken advantage of her.

He cast an appraising eye over his command.
Ian had seen fit to at least
try
to make the frigate look
smart after the buffeting she’d taken during the past two and a
half weeks; her sails were drawing well; the guns were lashed down
tightly and sparkling with spray; the men were bright-eyed and
ruddy-cheeked, and all turned out in proper uniform, and the
decks—

Christian’s jaw fell open and his eyes
widened in shock.

“
Mr. MacDuff!”

The big Scotsman’s head jerked up at the
sharp tone of the Lord and Master’s voice and instinctively he
tightened his elbow over the bagpipes. “Yes, sir?”

Christian was staring, incredulously, around
him. “Who had the morning watch?”

Ian paled. “Er . . . uh, no one, sir . .
.”

“
No one?
And who has the watch now,
Mr. MacDuff?”

“Er . . . Mr. Rhodes, sir,” Ian said lamely.
“Er … why, sir?”

The crew exchanged nervous glances, wondering
what had so riled their captain.

They soon found out. “By God,
look
at
these decks! Torn cordage, seaweed, slime—why, this is an
embarrassment,
not only to me, but to this ship!”

Nobody moved.

He glared at his officers, the anger in his
eyes causing them to take an involuntary step backward. “What the
bloody deuce is the matter with you all? This is a
king’s
vessel!
Take some pride in that fact, and in yourselves!”

They stared at him, totally
uncomprehending.

“
This is a king’s vessel!”
Hibbert
mimicked, smirking.

“Silence, the lot of you!” Christian roared,
his eyes hard beneath the shadow of his cocked hat. He took a deep
breath and willed control into his tone. “Mr. Rhodes, set your
people to scrubbing, and when they have finished, have them wash
down the deck with seawater and vinegar.”

A low grumble of protest swept through the
crew as the sharp scents of frying pork wafted up from the galley
and drifted on the wind. “But, sir,” Ian ventured, trying to
intervene, “what about breakfast?”

“Breakfast will keep, Mr. MacDuff. In future,
perhaps the crew will remember that if they wish to break their
fast on time, such
mundane
tasks as scrubbing the deck are
to be performed before sunup!”

Such a threat was enough to send even Skunk
running for a mop. Christian watched the crew attack the job with a
vengeance.
Another small victory in this little war,
he
thought smugly. And he hadn’t even had to enlist the help of his
bosun.

Speaking of Rico . . .

He descended the quarterdeck companionway and
strode among the men, moving upwind of Skunk. The gunner was
attacking the grime from beneath the hulking shadow of a cannon,
grumbling as he scrubbed. Rhodes looked over at Christian, his eyes
contemptuous. Hibbert, his back toward him, was supervising a group
of swearing, laboring seamen, his hands on his hips, his uniform
unacceptably filthy. Christian set his jaw and, coming up behind
the youth, clapped a hand over his scrawny shoulder.

“Mr. Hibbert?”

The midshipman whirled, paled, and shrank
back.

“Have you seen my bosun?”

Hibbert’s face changed, becoming smug.
“Aye.”

“That’s aye,
sir,
and don’t you forget
it lest I box your ears and send you to the damned brig!”

“The brig? I would like that, sir—”

Too late, Hibbert realized his mistake. The
Lord and Master’s cold gray eyes narrowed. The ship quieted, the
mops stopped, and only the hiss of spray at the bows broke the
sudden silence.

“The
brig
. ’Twould seem that is a most
popular
area of the ship, is it not, Mr. Hibbert? Pray, is
there something down there that is escaping my attention?”

“N-no, sir! Not at all!”

“We shall see,” Christian said coldly, and
abruptly turned on his heel.

The crew froze. As one, every seaman, every
warrant officer, every petty officer, every marine, watched him go,
each man’s eyes desperate, anxious, and stricken.

The Lord and Master was headed for the hatch.
The Lord and Master was going to find Delight. The Lord and Master
was going to put a swift and abrupt end to any chance of enjoyment
this cruise might harbor.

For the crew of HMS
Bold Marauder,
it
was the beginning of the end.

###

Down into the bowels of the frigate he went,
descending hatches, moving down companionways, his stride never
faltering.

The brig. It loomed up in front of him, its
door shut tight. Without pausing, the Lord and Master drew his
pistol, lifted the latch, and, placing a palm carefully against the
door, pushed it open.

He blinked once, twice.

The pistol fell from his hand and glanced
painfully off his toe.

On the walls—and ceiling—were enough mirrors
to send his reflection back at him from every point of the compass.
On the deck was a rich purple-and-red carpet strewn with pillows.
In the middle of the room, draped in sheets of dark red satin, was
a bed.

And reclining on the bed was a woman.

She was reading aloud, in French, and did not
see him. But he saw her. Wickedly long, shapely legs, bent at the
knees and lazily spread to reveal enough of her to make his face
flame with heat. Black garters that disappeared beneath the hem of
a short shift. Long fingernails tapping the book, and a sultry,
husky voice that was meant to be felt, not heard.

If Captain Christian Lord was stunned by the
discovery of what the “brig” contained, he was downright shocked by
the discovery of what its occupant was reading. For he understood
French, and understood it well, and what the woman was reading was
no dignified work of an educated scholar.

“‘. . .after tying your man up, preferably to
all four posts of your bed with a length of rope’—hmm, being a
ship,
that
should be an easy commodity to come by!—‘move
your tongue over every square inch of his skin, thoroughly wetting
him and then blowing coolly upon the wet areas until he is hot and
hard and begging for release. Work every area of his body, moving
your tongue slowly into the folds of his ears, sucking on his
earlobes, and then letting your tongue drag down his neck, over his
shoulders, lapping his nipples, even the inside of his navel. It is
very important to pay particular attention to this area before
proceeding to his—’” She stopped, lowered the book, and without
faltering, purred, “Why, hello, Captain Lord.
Do
come in and
join me. I’ve been waiting for you.”