Master of My Dreams (24 page)

Deirdre blushed, hotly.

“You,” he murmured. “Are beautiful.”

She was all to aware of his hand, warm and
delicious against her belly, the nearness of his fingers to that
part of her that seemed to have caught on fire.

“But Christian, I don’t know what I’m
supposed to
do
,” she said, in a little voice.

He smiled, a soft, lazy smile that warmed her
heart. His hand fanned out over her belly, the fingers spreading,
now, to slide against her pubic bone and the soft curls that lay
between her legs. “Deirdre, love, you needn’t
do
anything .
. . yet. Next time, maybe, but for now . . . for now, just let the
captain be in command . . . eh?”

She took a deep, shaky breath, and realized,
suddenly, that that male part of him that had so fascinated her
earlier was pressing against her thigh like a hard board. “Aye,
Christian. Ye teach, and I’ll do my best to learn.” She shut her
eyes, stiffened her arms at her sides, and waited.

He gave a little laugh, and spent a few
moments dragging his hand through a long, spiraling curl that
trailed over her shoulder, encouraging her to relax, allowing her
time to get used to the feel of a man’s hand and mouth against her
virgin flesh.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

His hand left her hair, roved down over her
breast, and she shivered as his thumb circled her nipple and teased
it back into a taut peak. “Aye, Christian—after one last, wee
request.”

He rose onto his elbow, the wide, powerful
breadth of his chest and shoulders filling her vision. “Yes?”

She gazed up at him, and swallowed hard.
“Which way . . . is Ireland?”

His hand stopped abruptly.
“Ireland?”

“Aye.” Sheepishly, she added, “I need to know
which direction it’s in so that when this monumental thing ye’re
goin’ to do to me happens, I can be facin’ it.”

He stared at her. A corner of his mouth
twitched with amusement. Then his face crumpled and rich, heady
laughter tumbled out of his chest. “Bless me, Deirdre, nowhere on
this earth is there anyone like you. Ireland lies far beneath the
horizon, and at your feet. Precisely where it should be.” His
laughter faded away, and he stared down at her, his eyes becoming
soft with love once more. “Now, pray, is there anything else you
demand of me?”

“Aye, Christian.”

Her hand came up to touch his cheek. “And
that is, my dear, homesick little boglander?”

“I want ye to keep kissin’ me.”

Smiling, he claimed her lips, drinking of the
honeyed sweetness of her mouth. Her arms wound around his neck, and
he knew, suddenly, that his time was limited and that every fear
he’d had about his ability to complete this act had been for
naught. The sweet anguish was growing harder and harder to bear,
and it was all he could do to slow himself down as he moved his
hands over her trembling body, soothing her, calming her, teasing
her . . . arousing her.

Five long years since he’d had a woman. Five
long years since Emily had been taken from him. He cringed, waiting
for his dead wife’s face to appear before him and smash his desire
to pulp. But there was only the loveliness of this sweet, brave
young woman beneath him, only the pale and untried sweetness of her
body, only the reverent adoration in her wide purple eyes that
drove through his heart and wrapped itself around his hungry
soul.

He pressed his face into the curve of her
shoulder, burying his nose in her fragrant curls as his hand
caressed her belly and his fingers twined in the soft, silky curls
at the junction of her thighs. She clamped her legs together,
instinctively, her whole body going tense.

“Open, love,” he murmured against her neck.
“Open, and let me touch you.”

“It . . . it tickles, Christian.”

He drew back, forcing himself to go slow and
easy with her. But his staff was hot and throbbing, driving itself
against her thigh and begging for release.
Control,
he told
himself.
Just go slow.

He slid his fingers through the silky
triangle between her thighs, seeking her opening. He found her
slick and wet and hot, and it was a struggle to get his own
breathing under control as she responded to his touch with an
answering shiver, the lips of her femininity clamping around his
gently questing fingers.

“Relax,” he murmured. She did so, and allowed
him to gently ease her legs apart . . . then she caught her breath
as he slid a finger between the soft folds of her womanhood and
stroked her gently, back and forth, over and over again. He took a
deep and steadying breath and bent his head to her nipple once
more, his fingers smearing her dampness through her curls as she
pushed herself upward against his hand, seeking a deeper touch.

From somewhere, he heard her soft voice:
“Aye, Christian . . . it feels good, real good, just like ye said
it would . . .”

“It will feel even better, in a moment.”

“Oh, Christian, I don’t think it
can
feel better—”

And then his thumb, wet with her dampness,
found the hard, swollen bud of her womanhood, gently kneaded it—and
with a little cry, Deirdre bucked upward on the bed as the first
waves of climax began to rush down upon her. Christian kept
stroking, his mouth coming down against her own to muffle her
cries, his thumb still against her even as he slid his fingers deep
inside her wet cleft.

She writhed against him. Panting, he tore his
mouth from hers and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder,
drawing the last shudders of pleasure from her with his fingers and
moving himself into position above her.
May God help me,
he
thought, and then, on shaky limbs, he took a deep, steadying
breath, abandoning all hesitations, all good sense, and all
gentlemanly intentions he’d sought to employ.

With a harsh groan, he leaned back and drove
his knee between her thighs. She was still breathing hard, dazed by
the force of her first climax; now, she turned her head, her breath
feathering against his wrist where it lay alongside her head, her
lips moving over his skin, kissing him, loving him, tasting
him.

He gazed down at her perfectly formed
breasts, her taut belly, the soft indentation of her navel, the
wet, silky black triangle between her thighs. Then he stared down
at his arousal.

He was ready. By God, he had never been
more
ready.

“Open for me, Deirdre.”

His knee pressed harder, and Deirdre, just
beginning to recover from the heights to which this wonderful man
had brought her, gazed up in wonder at him as he slowly, carefully,
lowered himself down to her. She wound her arms around his back and
opened her legs, waiting as he paused, looking at her with dark,
hungry eyes in an unspoken question.

She gave him a shy little smile of
encouragement.

He smiled back.

Then he bowed his head, the handsome,
sun-bleached locks tumbling down over his brow as he grasped
himself in one hand and slowly guided it to her entrance. She
tensed, waiting for pain, feeling only gentle pressure, and
exquisite, slippery sensation as the velvety head slid gently
between her hot and moist folds. He released himself and leaned
forward, favoring his shoulder as he slowly, carefully, began to
slide himself inside her, stretching her, filling her with a deep
and pleasurable fullness. She felt him give a mighty shudder, as
though the effort was too much for him, and his face went rigid
with concentration.

And then he stopped, his great body quivering
as if on the verge of something tremendous.

“Christian?”

She felt his hot breath against the curve of
her neck and shoulder, heard it rasping in her ear. “I can go no
further, Deirdre . . . without taking your maidenhead.”

“I don’t
want
my maidenhead anymore.
Make me yers, Christian.”

He needed no further invitation nor
encouragement. He slid his hands up into her hair, anchoring her
head as his mouth claimed hers and his tongue plunged between her
teeth and desperately sought her own. She moaned, arching upward to
meet his kiss. Then he tensed, drew back, and sheathed himself
within her.

The pain was searing, a lance of white fire.
She drove herself upward, meeting it bravely, boldly, and
gratefully. Slowly, the discomfort faded away on waves of dampness
that ran hotly between her thighs, and as it left her, she realized
that in its place was a depth of feeling so intense, so agonizingly
wonderful, that she thought she would die from it.

And now he was thrusting himself into her,
pulling out, thrusting in, and building a rhythm that made her
writhe with sweet agony. His tongue melded with hers, his mouth
ground against her lips, his hand gathered her hair and crushed it
in his fist. Faster and faster he moved, no longer gentle and slow,
no longer able to take his time. His breathing came faster.
Harsher. Hotter. Moisture broke out between straining bodies.
Breath mingled and mixed, became one—

It started. She felt it in the deepest,
darkest, most hidden recesses of her body, her soul, building,
pulsing, welling up and up—

“
Christian!”

She arched up to meet him, her senses
exploding with a violence that shook her to her core. Her hands
clawed at his back, her nails sank into his skin, and she clung to
him, gasping, as she spasmed uncontrollably and her legs clamped
fiercely around him. His body went suddenly rigid, and he drew back
and thrust himself one last time into her, impaling her to the hilt
of himself. She felt his seed, pulsing and throbbing warmly inside
her, and it brought another glorious release, another cresting wave
of sweet agony that left her sobbing with joy and wonder.

Exhausted, triumphant, he sank down atop her,
supporting his weight on his forearms and breathing hard. Slowly,
the burning sensation faded away, and the last waves of pleasure
radiated out through her fingertips, her toes, the nerve endings of
her skin. After a long moment, he finally moved off her and lay
alongside her, one arm thrown possessively over her waist and
drawing her close, until she was pressed against his still-pounding
heart.

“Deirdre?”

“Aye, Christian?”

A long moment went by in which the only sound
was their intermingled breathing, the fading tattoo of their
heartbeats.

He raised his head and looked at her, and the
depths of his soul were reflected in his eyes.

“Thank you.”

Chapter 21

“I don’t know wot the two of ’em are doin’
down there, but I think ye might wanna go get the cap’n and tell
’im we’ve just sighted land off the starboard bows.”

“
I
ken what they be doing, Skunk,” Ian
said importantly. “The same thing they’ve been doing for the past
five days. Let ’em be. A pretty lass to warm his bed is just what
our cold and aloof Lord and Master needs to warm up a bit.” Ian
turned away, shading his eyes as he stared out over the thousands
of diamond-like waves, all dancing and jumping in the cold
sunlight. The frigate dipped into a trough, heaved herself up
again, and impatiently tossed spray over her bows. But there, it
was unmistakable. A thin purplish line penciled atop the horizon of
blue, blue sea.

Land.

For a crew that had left England hating its
new commanding officer, their change in attitude toward him and
their vessel was nothing short of astounding. Ever since the heated
engagement in which they’d taken the French corvette, pride in
themselves and their ship had run rampant. Men at their watches
sang “Hearts of Oak.” Hibbert was as likely to be found in a clean
uniform as a rumpled one, Skunk no longer grumbled while scrubbing
the decks each morning, Teach had taken it upon himself to care for
Tildy and her puppies, and Ian diligently oversaw daily gun
practice.

But as for their strict disciplinarian of a
captain, the idea of him being in love was an endearing and richly
amusing one, and there was not a soul aboard the frigate who didn’t
watch the blossoming romance with a keen mental telescope—and
comment upon it daily. Oddly, this rough group of seasoned tars
felt strangely protective of what was happening between their
commanding officer and his Irish girl, and though most of them were
a good deal younger than he, they saw themselves as protectors of
those fragile seeds of newfound love.

Of course, such feelings of mutual
protectiveness—the Lord and Master watching over them in battle,
and the crew watching over his romance with the girl—went far to
foster the sort of respect, liking, and loyalty that every captain
strives for between himself and his men—and which no previous
captain of HMS
Bold Marauder
had ever enjoyed.

Until now.

“Yeah, ’bout time someone thawed the Ice
Captain,” Teach remarked, crossing his arms and leaning his bulk
against one of the boats snugged securely in the frigate’s waist.
He gave a sly grin. “God knows even Delight couldn’t do it.”

“Heard she tried, though,” Milton Lee put
in.

“And failed.”

Skunk waved his hand and scoffed, “Delight
ain’t his type.”

“The captain and Deirdre belong together,”
Elwin snapped. “Any fool can see that!”

“Still, isn’t it something, the two of ’em
being in love.” Ian rubbed his beard, and his eyes grew reflective.
“And tae think how much our bonnie Irish lassie hated our very
English captain when she first came aboard.”

“To think how much we
all
hated him,”
Teach added, with an expression of mixed shame and puzzlement that
was echoed by his companions.

They stared down at their shoes, and even
Skunk distractedly kicked at the deck seams. Finally he said, “Ah,
but the girl’s good for him. She makes him smile. She makes him
mad. She makes him anythin’ but emotionless.”

“Aye, I’ve actually heard him
laughing
,” Rhodes said, craning his neck as he gazed out
over the whitecaps toward the distant land. “Can you imagine?”

Ian laughed. “’Bout bluidy time!”

“I say, Ian,” Wenham said, “in all
seriousness, if you want to make our commanding officer happy,
do
send someone to tell him we just sighted land. By my
reckoning,” he added, looking down at his chart and tracing the
coastline with his finger, “it’s Cape Cod. The captain’ll want to
make the ship presentable for his admiral.”

“Presentable?” Ian drew himself up, peeved
about being reminded of his duty. “What’s wrong with her? I doona
see anything amiss!”

Rhodes coughed and raised a mocking brow.
“Salutes, and all that, Ian?”

Skunk nodded. “
Ceremony
stuff. Things
we
don’t know nothin’ about.”

“Of course,” Ian said, flushing and puffing
out his chest. “Hibbert!”

Like some of the others, the youth had a
spyglass to his eye. However, his was not trained toward the
distant land, but up at the maintop, where Delight had gone to
share a “picnic lunch” with one of the marines.

“Hibbert!” Ian roared, purpling with rage.
“’Tis angry ye be making me! Get yer wee tail over here before I
thrash ye to within an inch of yer life!”

Flushing hotly, Hibbert snapped the glass
shut and came to stand next to his lieutenant.

“Aye?”

“That’s ‘Aye,
sir,’
and doona be
forgetting it!” He glared fiercely down at the boy, his hands
fisted against his hips, his red beard blowing in the wind. “Now,
go rouse the captain. Give him my respects, and tell him we’ve
raised Cape Cod.”

Hibbert frowned, snapped off a sloppy salute,
and with a last, wistful glance up toward the maintop, went
below.

“Wot was ’e looking at, anyhow?” Skunk
murmured, scowling as he tipped his oily head back and stared
aloft. But there was nothing to be seen up there but acres of
proudly set sail, all bloated with wind and pushing the frigate on
a steady course toward Boston.

###

“Christian.”

He lay beside her, one well-muscled arm
thrown possessively over her ribs and anchoring her body to his,
his face turned into the mass of spiral-curling black ringlets that
toppled over her shoulder and onto the pillow.

She hated to wake him. But the knocking on
the door was not going away.

“Christian!” she hissed.

Sweet Mary, the man slept like the dead! She
wriggled out from beneath the heavy weight of his arm, let him
settle into the space where her body had been, and dipped her head
to press gentle kisses atop the hard rise of his shoulder, where a
fresh bandage stood clean and white against his skin. Her fingers
twined in the hair that curled boyishly against the back of his
neck; her palm smoothed it away from his temple. He was warm and
heavy and heartbreakingly handsome. Just looking at him made her
want him all over again.

The knocking came louder.

“Christian!” She put a hand against his arm
and shook him. His heavy, regulated breathing didn’t change. She
stared down at him, realizing that, for the first time since she’d
known him, he had not had the nightmares.

No wonder he slept so deeply.

The knocking stopped. “Captain?”

Hibbert.
Desperately, Deirdre leaned
down, nuzzled aside the golden waves of hair, and put her lips
against his ear. “Christian, my love. Wake up! Yer men be wantin’
ye!”

He made an unintelligible noise, reached out,
and hauled her close to his body. “Don’t leave me, Deirdre . .
.”

“Wake
up
!” she hissed, wishing she
could strangle Hibbert for disturbing their newfound happiness.

He groaned and turned over, his gray eyes
opening to regard her with lazy adoration. “What is it, dear girl,
that you invade my dreams?”

“Yer dreams?” She laughed. “I hope I’m in
them!”

He reached up, captured a curl, and pressed
it to his lips, smiling, his warm gaze holding hers. “Yes, love,
you are in them. I daresay you are the mistress of my dreams . .
.”

“And ye be the master o’ mine. Stop,
Christian!” she gasped as he gently pulled her head down to his via
his grip on her curl. “Hibbert is outside the door.”

The knocking became a downright pounding.
“Captain?”

“Damn your bloody eyes, Hibbert, what the
devil do you want?”

“Mr. MacDuff’s respects, sir, and he’s just
sighted land off the starboard bows. Mr. Wenham says we’re off
Massachusetts Bay, sir, and that we’ll raise Boston Harbor
soon.”

Christian sighed and gave an inward groan,
suddenly wishing this voyage could go on forever. “My compliments
to the first lieutenant, and tell him to prepare the ship as though
the king himself is awaiting us. We’ll make a fine show for those
rebellious colonials, eh, Mr. Hibbert?”

“Aye, sir. We’ll show those colonial upstarts
we’re not a navy to trifle with! We’ll show ’em we’re a
king’s
ship!”

Christian threw back his head and laughed the
sleep out of his sluggish body. “Aye, we’ll do that, young fellow.
Now go, do not tarry. I shall be on deck shortly.”

“Boston!” Deirdre cried excitedly.
Impulsively, she threw her arms around her lover’s hard body. “Oh,
Christian. How can I thank ye enough? Just think, my cousin is
there. I haven’t seen him in years! He’ll help me to find my
brother, Christian, ye wait an’ see!”

He looked at her soberly. “And so, as God is
my witness, shall I, Deirdre.”

###

The people of Boston, which had been closed
to colonial trade since the establishment of the hated Port Act,
saw her first as yet another royal frigate, sent to quell
resistance and restore order. They wasted no time dispatching
messengers to let the rebel leaders know of her coming. The nervous
governor might rejoice over the arrival of a smart and powerful
frigate, but otherwise, her appearance was unwelcome by all except
the Tory population, the British troops camped out in Boston Common
eager for news of home, and, of course, the crusty old admiral
whose small squadron lay at anchor in the harbor.

The flagship of Vice Admiral Sir Geoffrey
Lloyd was a huge, double-decked leviathan boasting a murderous
array of seventy-four guns. The admiral himself, a stiff-lipped,
cantankerous old salt whose long years of sea service had left him
tired, achy, irritable, and dreaming about his upcoming retirement,
sat now at a fine table in his day cabin, squinting his eyes and
frowning as he read the latest broadside, initiated and distributed
by that hotheaded rabble-rouser Sam Adams.

Lately, though, the rebels were not all that
occupied Sir Geoffrey’s weary mind. Yesterday, he had received the
distressing news that the king’s frigate
Bold Marauder
—which
he’d been expecting for several days now—had encountered the
smuggler known only as the Irish Pirate in company with a French
freebooter while the pair had been attacking a lone English ship.
Although
Bold Marauder
had taken the French vessel, the
Irish Pirate had managed to escape and bring the embarrassing news
back to Boston, where it had been enthusiastically received—and
spread—by the upstarts.

Outside the door, the marine thumped his
musket smartly on the deck, interrupting the admiral’s musings.
“
Halcyon’s
captain to see you, sir!”

“Send him in,” Sir Geoffrey said, shoving the
broadside away with a tired motion.

The door opened and Captain Merrick entered,
his cocked hat held respectfully in his hands, his chestnut hair
shining in the sunlight that slanted down through the hatch behind
him.

“Ah, Brendan. It is good of you to join me
for the midday meal. Do come in.”

The young man was tall and handsome, an
intelligent, promising young rake with a quick wit and a mirthful
grin. Clever and compassionate, the captain of the frigate
Halcyon,
anchored in the lee of nearby Castle Island, had
climbed far and fast through the naval ranks. And now, as usual,
the young half-Irishman was in high spirits.

“You’ll be pleased to know, sir, that His
Britannic Majesty’s frigate
Bold Marauder
has just been
sighted, standing for the harbor.”

“
Bold Marauder!"
the admiral
exclaimed, the tiredness instantly fading from his sloped
shoulders, his aching limbs. “Damme, Merrick, it’s about time. I’ve
been itching to ask her captain just what happened between him and
that blasted Irish Pirate, and why he failed to capture the rogue.
And as for the ship herself, why, one can never have enough
frigates, eh?
Bold Marauder
will be a welcome addition to
our little squadron.”

“Faith, sir, that she will,” Brendan said
hesitantly.

Their gazes met. Both were well aware of the
frigate’s bad reputation, but a missive written by Rear Admiral Sir
Elliott Lord and delivered into Sir Geoffrey’s care by a
fast-sailing packet had already advised the admiral of the identity
of
Bold Marauder’s
commanding officer. The frigate might be
the most rebellious ship in the king’s fleet—but her new captain
was the most principled, disciplined, and upstanding officer the
Navy had.

Something, certainly, to raise his spirits
after the worsening situation here in Boston!

Sir Geoffrey rose to his feet with rare
agility and clapped his subordinate on the back, the matter of the
rebel broadside already forgotten. “Ah, ’tis good that she’s here,
eh? And Captain Lord is a fine officer with a long and
distinguished record. A capable, competent, and thoroughly
dislikable chap, but one who can be trusted to bring his ship in
with a fine show!”

The young frigate captain frowned. “I beg
your pardon, sir, but I served with Captain Lord aboard the old
Londoner
and I did not find him dislikable.”

“Forgive me, Brendan. I had forgotten his,
er, loss. Such things can change a man, and not for the better.”
The admiral finished the last of his tea, and called impatiently
for his steward. Normally cranky and dour, Sir Geoffrey was beaming
with boyish excitement. “Ah,
Bold Marauder
is just what
these Bostonians need. Captain Lord can be counted upon to put on a
fine display of competence, seamanship, and discipline! He’ll set
an example, not only for our people, but also for these damned
rebels who think His Majesty’s forces are nothing but a bumbling
display of misplaced pomp and arrogance.” He beckoned for his
steward to enter. “And these bumpkins have grown troublesome
enough, have they not? They ridicule our troops, they ridicule our
seamen, they ridicule the governor, they ridicule our attempts to
maintain order.” He raised his arms, allowing his steward to help
him into his coat. “No, not that one, Percy, the other one. Yes,
the dress coat. And my finest sword, if you please! I will not
honor Captain Lord with anything less than perfection!”