Master of My Dreams (22 page)

She gave a little start and glanced at his
face, her own cheeks flaming red. He was deeply asleep; no doubt
the tremor she’d felt against her suddenly moist palm was nothing
more than some perfectly normal body function, or, perhaps, a
twitch from a dream.

Her heart began to pound loud enough to echo
in her ears. She bit her lip, held her breath, and touched the limp
flesh again, wondering at its soft and velvety texture.

Again that involuntary tremor.

“Oh, my . . .” she breathed, frowning. It
felt different; a bit warmer, maybe, a bit firmer. She stared hard
at it, wondering, in the lantern-lit gloom, if there was something
suddenly different about it; then her eyes widened.

Heat washed over her face. She wasn’t
imagining things. That alien bit of anatomy was not only warmer,
not only firmer—it was
bigger.

The captain sighed softly in his sleep, and
then groaned. But Deirdre was no longer looking at his face.
Frozen, she cupped the growing—yes, it
was
growing—length of
him in her hand and watched, mesmerized, as it began to transform
itself before her very eyes, growing stiff and hard and hot in her
hand.

And large.

Very
large.

“Oh, dear,” Deirdre said, her cheeks hot.

Replace the covers. Get out of here before he
wakes up. Now, before, before—

But transfixed, she couldn’t move.

###

Emily.

Her hair was dark and glorious, spread out
over the arm of the sofa, trailing halfway to the floor. Her thighs
were open with invitation, the dark patch of hair at their center
glistening, eager, and damp; her arms were raised, her eyes
hungry.

His felt himself stirring.

“Come to me, Christian . . . you know he
never meant anything to me . . . it is
you
I love, you I
want . . .
this is your only chance, darling. Your only
chance to say goodbye before I leave you forever . . .”

“No, please . . .
Don’t go
. . .”

“Christian, darling, you
know
this is
a dream. . . . I’m dead, remember?”

No, not dead. No dead woman looked like she
did. Tears stung his eyes, that he should be given this chance to
make things right after all these years, even if it was a dream,
even if the woman on the sofa was not the soft and shy Emily he had
married, but a sultry vixen with the eyes of a courtesan. With a
helpless groan, he went to her, shedding his robe and letting it
slip to the floor as he fell to the sofa with her.

Wake up, Christian . . . it’s a dream . .
.

No. He fought the tug, the pull, to
awaken.

His body hardened in response to her. Her
arms came up to touch his shoulders, rove down his back, skim over
his buttocks. “There now,” she breathed, her voice warm against the
curve of his shoulder. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t chase after him?
Aren’t you glad you came back to
me
?”

“You’re . . . this is a dream.”

Her hands were on him, sweet and gentle, yet
harsh where they needed to be,
when
they needed to be. One
moment feathery and grazing; the next, bold and exploring. Desire
rocked through him, and he sprang to life in her hands, tightening
in soundless pleasure, his breathing harsh, his heartbeat filling
his ears.

Such gentle hands. Such
soft
hands.

He groaned, and broke out in a sweat. He felt
the fog swirling around him, and in that weird way of dreams, the
scene shifted and she was suddenly above him, no longer Emily but
someone else. He couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t matter, for
his eyes were closed. He couldn’t hear her voice, but that didn’t
matter, either, because it was a dream. The only thing that
mattered was that she was loving him, and he, tortured, hardened
and alone, had not been loved by anyone for so very, very long . .
.

She was pulling at him now, stroking him,
cupping him and rubbing him between her hands. He gritted his
teeth, and his eyes rolled up behind tightly clenched lids.

“Dear God,” he said roughly, one hand
gripping the sheets. “Dear God, please don’t stop.”

###

“I won’t,” Deirdre said.

Her cheeks burned hotter than summer in
Hades. Her eyes were wide and staring, her breathing thick and
measured. Strange feelings gathered in the pit of her belly, burned
between her legs, and she felt a spreading moisture there that only
increased with each movement the captain made on the bed beneath
her, with every rasp of his tortured breath, with every twitch of
his legs, his hands, his—

No limp and flaccid piece of sorry flesh,
this! Dear heavens, the thing filled her hand and defied the span
of her encircling fingers; it was hard as marble, proud and stiff
and tall, and with every brush of her thumb across the engorged
head, it jumped.

A pearl drop had gathered on the blunted tip,
gleaming in the lantern light. Deirdre stared at it for a moment,
then recklessly smudged it over the velvety cap.

He moaned, still in the throes of sleep, and
his head moved restlessly on the pillow.

Heady excitement surged through her.
She
had brought him to this state. She would give him this
gift of confidence, and prove to him that there was nothing wrong
with him, despite what he believed. She would show him, make him
understand, that he was far from being “useless as a man.”

Encircling him between thumb and forefinger,
she squeezed him gently. His breathing quickened, and a fine sheen
of sweat glistened on his brow.

“Yes . . .” he murmured thickly.

Deirdre smiled, watching his face, the harsh
mouth that was now slack with passion, the eyes that moved rapidly
beneath his lids.

“Please, don’t stop . . .”

She tightened the circle of her fingers,
feeling the answering heat in her own blood, in the thundering of
her heart against her ribs, the flooding dampness between her
thighs.

“Don’t stop . . .
please
. . .”

She couldn’t stop even if she wanted to.
Breathing as hard as he, she stroked harder . . . faster . . .
velvet over steel, up and down, faster, faster—

He suddenly stiffened and cried out in his
sleep, his body convulsing in great, mighty shudders, and as she
froze in terror, wondering if she’d killed him, something warm and
wet spurted over her hand, her wrist, her arm, his belly.

The gray eyes shot open.

Her heart was thundering. Her blood was
racing. She jumped up and took an involuntary step backward, away
from that confused stare . . . a stare that reflected recognition,
horror—and then raw, bone-chilling fury.

Chapter 19

“By God, woman, have you no shame?” Christian
roared, mortified, as he came suddenly, and rudely, awake.
Snatching the blanket, he hauled it up over his thighs and snarled,
“Go,
leave me
!”

“Ye can order me to leave, Captain Lord, but
I doubt ye’re as strong as ye’d like to think ye are,” she said,
with a pointed glance at his bandaged shoulder. “I’m staying.”

“You will leave now, by God, or I’ll toss you
out on your bloody ear!”

“I only looked because I wanted to see what
ye meant when ye said ye were
useless
as a man—”

“
You
said I was useless as a man—I
merely said I couldn’t function as one!”

“—and I did what I did because ye
asked
me to!”

He froze, his eyes narrowing. “
Asked
you to?”

“Aye. Ye not only
asked
me to, ye told
me not to stop.”

He set his jaw and turned his face away, his
lips a slash of anger. Deirdre pushed the chair aside, moved closer
to the bed, and sat down beside him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her
chin came up and bravely, she met his angry, accusing glare. “But I
thought I could help ye, especially since ye’ve been goin’ on so
about how deformed ye are—”

“
Deformed?”
he thundered, bolting
upright. “Deprived, madam, but, I can assure you, not
deformed
!”

“Ye don’t have to be yellin’ at me! I just
wanted to see what was wrong with ye, so I could . . . so I could
help ye to get over it . . . And now I think there be somethin’
wrong with
me,
because my—my—oh, I ache in funny places,
and—”

Christian swore roundly. Then, damning
himself for a weak fool, he gathered her close, his fingers
tangling in her curls. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“No, I am. I never meant to make ye feel bad,
Christian.”

“You didn’t. You made me feel . . . good.” He
felt her arms going hesitantly around his neck, and shut his eyes
in defeat. “There is nothing wrong with you . . . Deirdre. What you
are feeling is simply a healthy female attraction and response to
the male species, a feeling no doubt exacerbated by the shocking
spectacle your virgin eyes have just witnessed.”

Against his neck, she whispered, “Do you . .
. do you have these feelings, too?”

“Yes, I have them, too . . . for all the good
they do me,” he said bitterly.

“I don’t understand . . .”

“They do me no good, Deirdre, because I . . .
because I—” He set her back and looked away, too ashamed to meet
her questing gaze. “Oh, the devil take it,
because I cannot
function as a man
!”

She stared at him, at the proud, hawkish
profile, the sharp cast of his nose, the lips that were compressed
in a slash of pain and humiliation. “But wasn’t that a manly thing
ye just did while ye was sleepin’?”

“Aye,” he said tightly.

“Then ye must be able to function quite
well
as a man.”

“I was asleep!” he snapped, as though that
explained everything. “Awake, I fear I cannot sustain that—that
state
long enough to—” He looked away, unable to meet her
gaze. “This is most uncomfortable for me to discuss. I have my
pride, and you are making a shambles of it by forcing me to admit
that I am . . . that I am . . . impotent.”

“But what just happened—”

“I told you, I was
asleep
!”

“Why can’t ye do such a thing awake?”

“Because a certain jealous specter of my
past
—my dead wife
—will not allow it.” His eyes were raw with
anguish and shame. Then he saw the confusion on her face, and his
manner softened. He took a deep, steadying breath. Quietly, he
said, “You see, Deirdre, there is nothing
anatomically
wrong
with me.” He sighed, and pointed to his temple. “It’s all in
here
. My . . . my jealous specter, if you will. As long as I
blame myself for the death of my wife, I am of no use to any
woman.”

The silence hung heavily between them.
Topside, the sound of voices drifted down to them, and the deck
began to slant as the frigate leaned hard over onto the opposite
tack. Deirdre looked down at his hand, lying stiffly atop the
blanket, and reached out to take it in her own.

He did not pull away.

“Ye are of use to
me,
Captain Lord,
whether or not ye can . . .
function
.” Against her hip, she
felt the hard ridge of his thigh, and it took all of her will not
to reach out and touch it, just to see how hard and muscled it
was.

He didn’t answer, only the sudden tightening
of his fingers over her own indicating that he’d heard.

“Christian?” she said softly.

He looked up, his eyes tortured, his mouth a
grim line of pain. “You are too young, too innocent, to speak of
such things,” he said sharply. “Now go, leave me, while I still
have my pride and you, the remains of your innocence. This
discussion should not be taking place . . . it is . . . it is
improper.”

“Nay, Christian, it
should
be takin’
place. It should’ve taken place a long time ago.”

“By God, just
go,
before I lose my
patience as well as my damned dignity.”

Her chin came up and she faced him defiantly.
“And yer heart, Captain? ’Tis innocent I may be, but I’m not
stupid. I know the look a man gets in his eyes when he sees a woman
he finds bonny. D’ye think yer Emily has robbed ye of even
that
? No, the only thing she’s robbed ye of is yer
confidence. I don’t believe for an instant that she’s made ye as
useless
as ye’ve led yerself—and, for a while, me—to
believe. Oh, no, I think ye can function as well as any man.”

“This is not a subject I care to
discuss.”

“What, are ye afraid, then?”

“Do not challenge me, girl. You may find
yourself in waters over your head.”

“No, Christian, ’tis
you,
I think,
who’s afraid. Afraid of settin’ yerself free to love another.
Afraid of followin’ the wants of yer heart, yer body, for fear of
discoverin’ that ye
can
love someone else—someone who’s not
yer dear Emily. And that scares ye, doesn’t it?”

His face hardened.

“Doesn't it?”

“By God—”

“The good Lord didn’t put us on this earth to
suffer. Maybe ye think it’ll atone for whatever happened to yer
wife, but torturin’ yerself isn’t going to bring her back.”

He looked away.

“What happened to her, Christian? What
happened, that smiling comes hard to ye, and ye can’t sleep without
nightmares that are so terrible that they frighten even those of us
who’re on the outside lookin’ in?”

“Isn’t it obvious? She died. Because of
me.”

Deirdre said nothing, and waited for him to
continue.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and looked
up at the deckhead, his eyes distant. “It was five years ago. I had
been away at sea. I came home, and was awakened in the night by an
empty bed, and voices downstairs. Hers . . . and a man’s.” He
swallowed, hard. “I got up to investigate, of course, and found
that she’d taken a lover in my absence.
Because
of my
absence. I chased the fellow . . . he threw a lantern, and in
moments, the house was in flames. He escaped. Emily did not. I was
unable to save her, and she—she died in the fire.”

From outside, came the hum of wind in the
rigging, the endless creaks and moans of a wooden ship at sea.

The clang of the ship’s bell, the sound of
the watch being changed.

“I’m sorry, Christian,” Deirdre said quietly.
“And I’m sorrier, still, that ye blame yerself for what happened.
That’s a heavy burden to bear, but don’t ye think five years is a
long enough time to be pullin’ it?”

He turned his face away, blinking. “You
should go, Deirdre.”

His hand gripped hers, belying his words.

“Nay, Christian. I cannot, and I will not. Ye
need me.”

“I don’t need you. I don’t need
anyone
.”

“Well, I need
you
.” She took both his
hands in her own. “I need that fair-haired lieutenant who came to
Connemara, a man who laughed and smiled and took the time to calm a
frightened child. Where is that man now, Christian?”

“He is long gone,” he said harshly, his face
still averted.

“Nay, I see him still. I see him in the
captain who tries so hard to appear cold and distant, yet who
croons to and cuddles a little dog when he thinks no one is
lookin’. I see him in the man who cannot stand to see anything
helpless and hurt. I see him in the officer who follows Royal Navy
customs and rules to the letter, but who hasn’t the heart to have
an offender whipped. Oh, no. That man’s still in there.” She laid
her palm across his heart. “Right
here.
He just needs
someone to show him out o’ the prison he’s locked himself in.”

“Why should you care? After what I’ve done to
you?”

“Christian . . . ye didn’t
want
to do
what ye did to me brother those thirteen years ago. I didn’t know
it then, but after watchin’ ye, and gettin’ to know ye these past
weeks, I know it now. Ye’re a product of the Navy. Ye live by its
rules, its traditions, its principles. If I blame anyone for taking
me brother, ’tis them, not you.” She reached out and touched his
jaw, his cheek. “I forgive ye, Christian.”

He shut his eyes, unable to speak.

She leaned down and, ever so gently, placed
her lips against his brow. He trembled violently. The cross slipped
free of her shirt and lay heavily upon his chest. She felt him
blink his eyes, the tips of his lashes grazing the underside of her
throat, and gently kissed the faded bruise at his temple. Then she
drew back, cupped his face in her hands, and looked deeply into his
eyes, pretending not to notice the tell-tale glassiness of unshed
tears, the rising emotion he was desperate to contain.

“For an Englishman, ye’re very handsome,” she
said. “’Specially when ye smile. Ye just need someone to make ye do
it more often.”

He took a deep, measured breath.

“And ye need someone to bring ye laughter and
joy, someone to be making a big fuss over ye and tellin’ ye how
special ye are.”

He trembled with the supreme amount of will
it took to control his emotion.

“And ye need someone to . . . to love ye.”
She gathered her thick, curly fall of hair, draped it over one
shoulder, and pulling back the covers once more, climbed into the
narrow bed beside him.

Her arm went around his chest, holding him
close to her own body, and answering heat began to beat in his
blood even as the dimly lit cabin went blurry with unshed
tears.

Don’t do this to me,
he thought
desperately, as she drew him close, her tiny hand warm against his
ribs, gently stroking him with overwhelming tenderness.
Don’t
shatter these defenses
. . .
they're all I have.

The back of his throat began to ache, and he
fought to control himself. He did not trust himself to touch her in
kind, to respond to her, to even push her away. He did not trust
himself to move. He did not trust himself to—

“I love ye, Christian,” she said.

He shuddered and shut his eyes, hoping that
in the gloom, she would not see the wetness that was spreading down
his cheek.

“And ye don’t have to suffer this alone.”

He began to shake, and a single, desperate
sob caught in his throat.

“I’m here for ye, Christian. For as long as
ye want me to be.”

He couldn’t move. His heart’s final defenses
were slowly crumbling.

Tumbling.

Crashing to the feet of this young woman.

She had saved his life, when she’d had every
reason to hate him enough to see him dead. She had dug a musket
ball out of his shoulder—not with the steel probe, not with he
harshness of a cold piece of metal, but with the loving gentleness
of her bare fingers.

She had said she loved him.

“Nobody should live in the kind of hell ye
put yerself in every night, Christian. It’s time to let it all go.
Time to forgive yourself. To live the life that God set before
ye.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Hug me, Christian.”

He needed no encouragement. He turned toward
her, and she was suddenly crushed against him with a desperation
that nearly broke her ribs. She felt his big body begin to quake
with deep, awful sobs that shook him to the core.

“It’s all right, Christian,” she whispered,
holding him close. “It’s all right . . .”

He clung to her, and her own arm went around
his shoulders, holding him close.

“Go ahead and let it out,” she murmured,
hugging him, rocking him, holding him, loving him. “No wound’s ever
healed till the poison comes out. Yers has been festerin’ for five
long years. There’s no shame in lettin’ it go.”

“She haunts my dreams every night. I see her
face in the flames . . . I hear her screams as she’s dying . . .
dear God, I smell her b-burning
.” Harsh sobs racked him, and
she felt his pain as her own, felt her own tears running hotly down
her cheeks and splashing upon his proud shoulder.

“She’s dead, Christian, and nothin’ ye say or
do can bring her back,” she said gently, feeling dwarfed by his
size and strength as she held him close and her own tears mixed
with his. “Ye’ve given five years to torturin’ yerself about it. Do
ye want to sacrifice the rest of yer life to sufferin’ as well?
Ye’re healthy and whole. If the good Lord didn’t want ye to live,
he’d have taken ye, too. Such decisions aren’t ours to question,
merely to accept.”

Her hands, gently and soothing, roved down
his back. Christian clung to her, ashamed that she should see him
thus: he, a proud and decorated sea warrior, veteran of countless
battles, laid low and sobbing in the arms of a woman.