Master of My Dreams (19 page)

But even he did not see the distant puffs of
white far off the starboard bows—puffs that might have been clouds,
but were no clouds at all.

###

“Lo, Deirdre, I wish you’d come to me
earlier,” Delight said, plopping down on her bed as the Irish girl
came miserably into the cabin. “I told you before, there are ways
of bringing a man to his knees. Surely, whatever damage you’ve done
is repairable, no?”

“I accused him of havin’ faulty weddin’
tackle,” she blurted out.

“You
what
?”

“And then I laughed at him.”

“Oh, dear.”

Deirdre twisted her hands. “But ye say that
all insults can be forgiven, right?”

“All, I’m afraid, except
that
one. Lo,
Deirdre, you’ve sorely wounded the man’s pride! ’Twill take a lot
to make him forgive you.”

Deirdre put her face in her hands and sank
down on her bunk. “Oh, Delight, I didn’t mean it, I was just so
angry . . .
I woke up that mornin’—I mean, I got in bed with
him the night before because he was havin’ that awful,
awful
nightmare . . . and I felt bad, and just . . . well, I wanted to
comfort him, so I got in bed with him. The next mornin’ I woke up
and he was gone, and I had all these thoughts that maybe he touched
me, that maybe he might’ve stolen me virginity—”

“You mean, you didn’t know?”

“How
would
I? I was sleepin’!”

Delight threw back her head and laughed. “Lo,
child, if he’d taken your maidenhood, I can
assure
you that
you would know it!”

“
Maybe
he did,” she replied
stubbornly.

“And besides, you would’ve found your
maiden’s blood on the sheets, no?”

Deirdre looked down, her face beginning to
redden.

“Ah, you are more innocent than even I
would’ve thought. What you must do, Deirdre, is win your man back
to you. He carries more scars than a battle warrior, no? Scars of
the heart, that is. Someone has hurt him deeply, probably this
Emily. You have a formidable opponent in this dead wife, but
she
is dead, and you are not, and our Lord and Master cannot
make love to a dead woman, no?”

“But, Delight, it’s wrong that I have such
feelings. He took my brother from me—“

“No, Deirdre.” The other woman placed her
hands on Deirdre’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “The
Royal Navy
took your brother from you, not Captain
Lord.”

“Besides,” Deirdre persisted stubbornly,
“he’s English.”

“I know, a stuffy, pompous race, but we
cannot dictate the direction of our hearts.”

“Ye make it sound like I’m in love with
him!”

“No, Deirdre,
you
make it sound like
you’re in love with him.” She smiled patiently. “My advice to you
is to get to work
immediately
on proving to him just how you
feel.”

“How? He hates me, he does, and with good
reason after what I said to him.”

“No, he does not hate you. He merely thinks
he loves another. And you have sorely wounded his male pride. But
you
are a woman, Deirdre. A living, breathing woman. He will
not stand a chance against you once you put your mind to it to go
after him, no?” She gave a wicked smile, curved an arm around
Deirdre’s shoulders, and, guiding her to the door, scooped a gown
out of her armoire. “Now, here, put this on, and make sure you tug
the bodice down so that the top of your nipples show just above the
lace.”

“Delight!”

“Don’t be a ninny. ’Tis time you started
thawing our handsome Ice Captain! Lord knows
I
cannot! Now
go,” she said, grinning. “We’ll be in Boston in a few days, and the
ladies there will all be falling over each other to get their claws
into your man. Make an effort to have the advantage over them!”

Deirdre clutched the gown to her chest,
thinking of the captain’s reaction to the tame, by comparison,
scarlet one that he had so despised. But at that moment sudden
cries drove down from above.

“Two sail off the starboard bows! And
another, fine off the starboard beam! She’s an English ship—and
she’s being attacked!”

Chapter 16

On deck, the crew of HMS
Bold Marauder
wasted no time in summoning their commanding officer. Now they
stood anxiously beside him, staring into his harsh face for
reassurance as he took a spyglass from Midshipman Hartness and
trained it on the three ships.

“What do ye make of it, sir?” Ian murmured,
as each distant explosion of gunfire came rolling back to them from
over the water.

The Lord and Master studied the three vessels
for a moment longer, then closed the glass with a snap. Handing it
back to the midshipman, he turned and walked toward the wheel. “One
is a French corvette, Ian.”

The big Scotsman lifted a brow at the
captain’s use of his first name, but Christian continued as if the
familiarity were of no consequence. “The second is a sloop, flying
no colors at all. And the one they are attacking”—he looked at him
gravely—“is an English cutter.”

“But it’s
peacetime,
sir!”

“I know that, Ian.”

Young Edgar Hartness was pointing at the
flags being run up from the English ship. “The cutter is signaling
for our assistance, sir!”

Teach, scowling, had climbed into the shrouds
and now called over to the quarterdeck. “The sloop—the one flyin’
no flags—I’ve seen her before, sir. It was on my last voyage to the
colonies. She’s a smuggler, mark my words.”

Christian put the glass to his eye once more.
Through it, he saw a fox-featured, laughing rogue with high
cheekbones and glossy black curls caught in a length of purple
velvet, standing at the tiller of the sloop. Probably its captain,
judging by the fine cut of his clothes and his stance of command.
The absence of a flag confirmed Teach’s words, and Christian felt a
wave of contempt. “Bloody freebooter,” he snapped. “I have no
stomach for smugglers, and even less for one who would attack a
lone English ship!”

“What’ll we do, sir?” Ian asked,
anxiously.

“Send the women below to the surgeon, where
they will be safe. Then clear for action and beat to quarters.”

“B-beat to quarters . . . sir?”

The crew exchanged glances, their faces white
with horror. Then they stared at their captain, and saw the cool
detachment and resolution in the steady gray eyes.

“Yes, that is what I said, Mr. MacDuff.
Beat to quarters
.” He handed the glass back to the
midshipman. “We are going to fight.”

###

Belowdecks, the two women heard it all: the
urgent tattoo of the marine drummer, the shrill of bosuns’ pipes;
the feet pounding up the companionways and across the decks; the
ominous crashes and bangs and heavy rumblings from above as the
frigate’s cannon were moved into place.

Deirdre, watching Delight roll bandages under
Elwin’s instruction, didn’t need the surgeon to tell her what was
happening up there. “They’re clearing for action now,” he said
bleakly, as though taking comfort from the sound of his own voice.
His bony hands shook as he laid out an array of saws, knives,
tourniquets, and bandages on the table.

Deirdre stared at the gleaming instruments,
at the bottles of rum that, when the wounded were brought down,
would be the only respite from the pain as Elwin dug and cut
and—

Her blood went cold, and she hugged little
Tildy close, trying to still the mad, frightened pounding of her
heart. Then she put the dog down with her puppies, safely nestled
in their box that one of the crewmen had brought down.

“Is it goin’ to be that bad, Elwin?” she
whispered.

Even Delight paused, her eyes wide and
frightened.

“Might be.” He tied on his surgeon’s apron,
then positioned a wooden bucket beneath the table. Moments before,
that same table had been where the midshipmen took their meals; now
it might be seeing horrors she could only guess at. Above, the
swinging deckhead lanterns threw spidery shadows over the operating
table, the deck flooring, and Elwin’s tense face.

“What will happen, d’ye think?”

“Hopefully, nothing. This here ship’s never
been in a fight and I doubt today’ll be any different.” His lips
thinned and he swung away, busying himself at tearing bandages from
a fresh piece of linen. “But then, she’s never had a captain like
this one, either.”

Cannonfire boomed somewhere outside as
Bold Marauder
drew closer to the fight.

She’s never had a captain like this one.

“Elwin . . . I’m scared.”

The small man glanced around to see if anyone
was within earshot. “So am I, girl.” He glanced about the sick bay,
assuring himself that he’d done all he could to prepare for what
looked like the inevitable. “I have friends up there. This could be
bad.”

Outside, more gunfire boomed out from the
other ships, rolling like thunder across the water. Deirdre shut
her eyes and wrapped unsteady hands around Granuaile’s cross. But
there was no strength to be had there, no comfort.

Think of Ireland . . . stone fences and
misty skies . . . whitewashed cottages and rocky pastures
. . .
sheep bleating on twilit hills . . .

Ireland.

With a start of horror, she realized she’d
left her precious canvas bag in the Lord and Master’s cabin. More
cannon boomed from somewhere beyond the hull, deep and
reverberating and awful. Tildy whined with fear and Deirdre picked
her up once more, cuddling her. Beneath Deirdre’s chin, the spaniel
buried her face against her chest, shaking in terror.

Please, God, be with us. Please, Mother
Mary, keep us safe. Be with this ship, and . . . and be with our
Lord an’ Master. Please, oh heavenly Father, guide him, let the
crew follow him, help him to get us out o’ this and keep everyone
safe.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, feeling the misty
sting of tears behind her lids.
And please, dear Jesus, I beg of
ye, please, please,
please
keep
him
safe.

Here she was, praying for the safety of a man
she had once vowed to kill.

Dear God.

From above came another resounding crash, and
a chorus of shouts and yells.
Bold Marauder
was getting
close now. Very close.

“I hope Captain Lord knows what he’s doing,”
Delight said nervously.

“They say he’s been captain of many ships,”
Elwin murmured. “That he saved the day at Quiberon. That his last
command was a mighty first-rate man-of-war carrying one hundred
guns . . . Ever see a hundred-gunner, girls? It’s so big, it’d make
this here ship look like a sailboat.”

They heard a low, menacing rumble as a gun
was hauled across the deck, a shout, and then
Bold
Marauder
’s own bellowing voice as one of the nine-pounders in
her bow was fired. The deep reverberation sent thunder echoing
through the room. Two bottles of rum clinked together, and
Delight’s face went pale.

“No.” Deirdre’s voice was a bare whisper.
“I’ve never seen a hundred-gunner, Elwin. After this, I don’t think
I ever want to.”

Another cannon boomed out from above,
sounding like a thunderclap striking too close. Deirdre tightened
her arms around Tildy, while Delight hastily gathered the three
puppies into her arms.

Oh, dear God, please be with our Lord and
Master . . .

What went through a man’s mind at a time like
this? What must he be thinking? Feeling?

She thought of the hateful words she had last
spoken to him. She wished with all her heart she could take them
back.

“I don’t hate him, Elwin.”

“Eh?”

“I don’t hate him . . . I said awful things
to him, and if something were to happen to him—”

She couldn’t complete the thought. Couldn’t
bear to think of him injured or dead. She bit her lip, and felt the
comforting touch of Delight’s hand upon her shoulder.

Another gun banged out, making the
instruments shake and rattle atop the table. “Soon now,” Elwin said
nervously, wiping his palms on his apron.

More pipes shrilled, bare feet stamped across
the deck overhead, and then the floor beneath them began to tilt
upright, leveling out for a brief moment before the ship angled
over onto the other tack. A pair of forceps slid down the table and
clattered to the deck flooring. They heard wild shouts from above,
then felt the frigate pulling herself up out of the water, the
hungry, surging motion as she gathered speed . . .

Elwin shut his eyes. “The Lord and Master’s
sending her in now . . .”

From above came shouts, rumblings . . . then
an expectant silence as the ship tensed for the overwhelming might
of its own impending broadside.

Deirdre clapped her hand over her ears,
hearing her heartbeat thundering against her palms. And then the
world erupted in unholy sound as
Bold Marauder
engaged the
enemy.

###

“Topmen aloft, and men to the braces! Stand
by, Mr. Wenham, and prepare to come about!”

Pipes shrilled, and men swarmed up the
shrouds and out along the frigate’s yards. Moments later,
Bold
Marauder
was nose-up to the wind, fighting her crew and trying
desperately to fall off.

“
Now,
Mr. Wenham!”

The deck seemed to drop away beneath them as
the man-of-war flung herself onto the other tack and charged down
toward the battle.

“Steady as you go, Mr. Wenham!”

“Course south by southwest, full and by!”

Christian stood at the quarterdeck rail,
watching the ships drawing closer and closer through the heavy
smoke. His mouth was tense and set, his eyes emotionless. Yet he
was very conscious of Ian standing beside him and gripping a huge
Scottish claymore, his red beard blowing in the wind, his eyes
fierce. He was very aware of Rhodes, in place beside Skunk and the
larboard battery of guns; he was very aware of the lively response
of the frigate, and he was very aware of the nervous crew, their
fixated, glassy stares directed ahead toward the fight. Thick,
roiling smoke hung above the three ships, broken topmasts and
streaming pendants poking up through the acrid gray cloud.

Christian tugged at the lace of his sleeve.
There had been one or two snickers of disdain about his “primped”
appearance, but only he and Rico Hendricks, whose black eyes met
his from some thirty feet away, knew the real reason he’d donned a
fresh shirt and his finest coat, and clipped his best sword to his
belt frog—he was a king’s officer, and if he fell today, he would
do so with honor.

If he fell.

How many times had he sent ships into battle
with that same thought running through his mind? How many times had
he counted on the strength and loyalty of men who would blindly
follow him into hell itself?

But
these
men . . .

Fiercely gripping the quarterdeck rail, he
peered across the double batteries of guns and their anxious,
crouching crews. Faces ran with nervous sweat. A few men looked
ready to bolt. Only Rhodes seemed calm. Christian met his gaze and
gave the briefest of nods, then stared over the lieutenant’s head.
Just beyond,
Bold Marauder
’s plunging jib-boom seemed to
swallow up the sea as she charged down toward the three
smoke-cloaked ships.

“The sloop’s makin’ off,” Ian yelled,
pointing at the ship that flew no colors.

Christian took the glass from the midshipman.
The little one-masted vessel swam into view, and his eyes narrowed
as he trained the glass toward its helm. There was her captain,
looking back at him with a hand raised in mocking farewell, and
Christian frowned, for somewhere, at some time, he knew he’d seen
the man before—

“Shall we chase him, sir?” Ian asked,
pointing at the fleeing ship.

“No.” Christian snapped the glass closed.
“The cutter has requested our assistance, and I’ll not desert her
to a damned Frenchman.”

Gunfire echoed across the water. Christian
saw the ornate stern of the French corvette showing dimly through
the smoke, her masts poking up through the thick cloud that
engulfed her. More guns boomed out in flashes of orange against
black, and there was a splitting crash as the small English
cutter’s single mast toppled, dragging spars, rigging and screaming
men with it down into the sea. A great cry went up from
Bold
Marauder
’s crew at the sight of their fellow countrymen
floundering in the waves.

“By the saints,” Ian gasped, with a desperate
glance at his captain.

“Mr. Hibbert!” Christian caught the
midshipman’s scrawny arm, his gaze on the men floundering pitifully
in the swells. “Bring up some hammocks from below, make sure
they’re tightly rolled, and toss them to those people out there so
they have something to hold onto until we can send boats to rescue
them.”

The middie, terrified, just stared at
him.

“Damn you,
move
!” Christian shouted,
shoving the boy into action. “Bring her up a point, Mr. Wenham,
right up around that Frog’s stern. With a bit of luck, I daresay we
can strip the guts from her with a broadside or two.”

Cold spray hissed and dashed over the
frigate’s plunging beakhead, soaking the decks, the men, the
guns.

“Starboard battery, run out!” Christian
yelled.

All along the deck, men strained and heaved,
muscling the big guns into position.

Not fast enough,
Christian thought, in
despair.

“All run out, sir!”

Christian stepped forward, his face in shadow
beneath his hat. He saw the gun captains staring aft, awaiting his
signal, and beyond them,
Bold Marauder's
jib-boom, just
thrusting into the frayed edges of the thick cloud of smoke.

Drawing his sword, he raised his arm, the
Irish girl’s face swimming into his memory once more, her words
coming back to haunt him.

Useless as a man.

Savagely, he brought the sword down.
“Fire!”