Master of My Dreams (25 page)

From above came excited cheers as the
flagship’s crew welcomed the arrival of the new ship.

“My flag captain is on an errand ashore,
Brendan, so I’m counting on you, instead, to ensure that
Bold
Marauder
is received with highest ceremony. I want every
officer in his best uniform, every tar at attention, and a proper,
rousing salute from the guns of every ship in the squadron. I want
no effort spared, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Off with you, then, and do not tarry!”

The dashing young captain touched his hat and
strode swiftly from the cabin. Still in his twenties, he was as
much a part of his crew as he was captain of it, well loved and
much respected by his subordinates. As he went topside, the
flagship’s men joked and traded barbs with him and called him by
his first name, privileges that few seamen in His Majesty’s Navy
would have dared and few commanders would have allowed.

But then, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick was
quite unlike most commanders in His Majesty’s Navy.

His coxswain, a big, strapping Irishman who’d
been his best friend since the days when they’d grown up together
in Connemara, grabbed his elbow and pointed out over the sparkling
harbor toward the majestic sight of the incoming frigate. “God
Almighty, Brendan, she’s a sight t’ make a lad’s heart weep, ain’t
she? Don’t ye just swell with pride, knowin’ ye designed ’er?”

The young captain, a modest and humble sort,
smiled and shrugged. “If she’s lovely, Liam, it is because of her
captain’s hand, not mine. He deserves the credit for making her
look so smart.”

The frigate was taking on detail, the tall
shadows of her masts falling across the trees of a nearby island as
she moved gracefully past it. Her topmasts boasted proud squares of
pale, gold-tinted sail, and her yards were smartly angled to make
best use of the unsteady breeze. She was a glorious sight, the
water curling back from her rakish bow, sparkling in the sun and
gleaming upon her stem, and despite himself, her young designer
experienced a surge of pride.

He felt a presence at his elbow and, turning,
found the old admiral beside him, his face as bright as a
schoolboy’s, his eyes crinkling with humor as he gazed out at the
approaching frigate. “I see, sir, that you could not resist,”
Brendan said, grinning.

Impatiently beckoning to a midshipman, Sir
Geoffrey snatched a telescope from the boy and raised it to his
eye. On the deck behind them, the first lieutenant was snapping
orders, and the bosun and his mates were driving the men into a
state of order. “I may be an old man, Brendan, but not so old that
the sight of a well-run, smartly disciplined fighting ship doesn’t
bring a tear to my eye. Damme, she’s lovely.” He handed the
telescope to the young captain. “Leave it to Captain Lord to put on
a display of seamanship our Navy can be damned proud of!”

Brendan raised his glass to his eye, never
flinching as the deck beneath his feet quaked to the might of the
flagship’s guns as she welcomed the proud new arrival. Answering
puffs came from
Bold Marauder’
s gunports, the salute smartly
done and as precisely calibrated as a ball to a musket’s barrel.
Brendan moved the glass, saw the officer who stood rigidly on the
quarterdeck, and smiled as he recognized the man who had once been
his captain.

On shore, there were already crowds gathering
to watch the new arrival.

“This is
just
what we need to show
these rabble-rousers what is meant by a
king’s
ship!” The
admiral’s voice was tight with pride as he stared out over the
water at the glorious, majestic frigate. “And, by God, there’s Lord
himself, the absolute epitome of what a king’s officer should be!
Damme, Brendan, don’t keep the glass all to yourself, man! Have
some pity on an old tar who’s half blind as it is!”

But the young officer had gone stiff, the
color draining from his face.

Impatiently, Sir Geoffrey snapped, “Damme,
Brendan, the glass
please
!”

Slowly, the captain brought the telescope
down, blinking in shock and then horror. His face was very white.
He looked at Sir Geoffrey. He looked back at the frigate, and had a
sudden, desperate urge to hurl the telescope overboard before his
admiral could discover for himself what he had seen through that
circular field.

Something that, judging by the sudden,
thunderous commotion from shore, the jeering crowds had already
discovered.

Something that the flagship’s crew was
rushing to the rails to see, pushing and shoving in their
haste.

Something that the admiral, smiling
triumphantly as he raised the glass to his keen and bleary old eye,
would be seeing just . . . about . . .

Brendan shut his eyes, wincing.

“Great
GOD
above!” Sir Geoffrey
thundered, and the glass dropped from his hand to smash upon the
flagship’s deck.

Now.

The old man clutched at his heart. “He has a
. . . a
woman
in the maintop!” he croaked, his face going
purple. “And she’s totally
naked
!”

Chapter 22

“I have never been more humiliated, ashamed,
and embarrassed in my life!” Sir Geoffrey raged, storming up
through HMS
Bold Marauder's
entry port with Captain Brendan
Jay Merrick close behind him. He cringed as the ceremonial trill of
pipes, meant as a salute, rang mockingly around him.

Captain Lord, splendidly turned out in his
finest uniform and wearing a gold-tasseled dress sword at his hip,
stepped forward to receive them. He was smiling, and his shoulders
were squared and straight. Solemnly, he doffed his hat. “Welcome,
sir, to His Majesty’s frigate
Bold Marauder.
I am honored
to—”

“Spare me your damned pleasantries,
Captain Lord!
By God, you have made me the laughingstock of
Boston, and I’ll see you in your cabin
now
!”

“Sir?” the captain said, confused. At his
side and slightly behind him, his first lieutenant, a big,
ruddy-faced Scot with a shock of red hair, exchanged puzzled
glances with the second lieutenant. And coming up from the hatch
was a fat white spaniel, who took one look at the enraged Sir
Geoffrey—and promptly emptied her bladder in terror.

“
I said now!”
the admiral
thundered.

“Yes, sir. By all means,” Christian said
tightly, grabbing Tildy and wondering what the devil had riled the
admiral so.
Bold Marauder
had put on a fine show, one the
king himself would have been proud of. She was clean and smart and
beyond reproach. Keenly aware of his men’s equally confused stares,
he turned abruptly and led the way to his cabin, holding himself
upright and feeling his shoulder beginning to throb. The
quarterdeck loomed ominously over their heads, and from long habit,
he ducked. “Pray, sir, please watch your head—”

“Hold your damned tongue, Lord, I’ve been on
warships a damn sight longer than you! God rot it, I have
never
been so humiliated in my life—”

They were now beyond earshot of
Bold
Marauder's
crew. Angrily, Christian swung around, his eyes
blazing. “Pray, sir, I don’t know what grieves you so! My ship is
faultless!”

The admiral was a head shorter than
Christian, but in his rage, his stature was considerably increased.
Glaring up into the captain’s gray eyes, he roared, “There is a
woman
in your maintop, Captain Lord, and
she is not
wearing a stitch of clothing
!”

Christian stared at him. Sick, sudden horror
drained the color from his face and left it white, then gray.

Dear God,
he thought.
Delight.

Cold sweat broke out of every pore, and he
turned just outside his cabin door, trying to maintain the last
shreds of his dignity. The admiral’s rage was a tangible thing, and
Christian was keenly aware of not only Sir Geoffrey, but also the
young Captain Merrick—who looked quite sympathetic, if not a little
amused.

Ian MacDuff, his own Scots temper ready to
blow, came charging down the short corridor. “Here, now, Captain,
’tis looking right bonnie we be! What the saints has the old fart
all riled—”

Sir Geoffrey went purple.

Quietly, Christian said, “Mr. MacDuff, please
send someone up to the maintop
immediately
to fetch Delight
down.”

“Del—” Ian’s jaw came unhinged.

“Yes, Ian,
Delight
.” He bent his brow
to his hand, feeling his career sliding into ruin around his feet.
“Pray, do so now . . . before the damage becomes irreparable.”

Ian left at a dead run.

“My apologies, sir,” Christian began. “I had
no—”

He couldn’t say he had no idea. It would only
pound another nail into his coffin. Besides, there was no use
trying to make excuses. He was already incriminated. Finished.
Doomed to court-martial, disgrace, and the rest of his life spent
on the beach. With a defeated sigh, he shoved open his cabin door,
forgetting, too late, about—

“Great
God
above, Lord, do you run a
goddamned brothel or a fighting ship?” the admiral cried as the
raven-haired girl on the bed, clad in nothing but the captain’s
shirt and a pair of baggy trousers, flung aside the covers and flew
across the cabin.

Christian shut his eyes.

“
Brendan!”
she shrieked. And with a
happy cry, the girl threw herself into the startled arms of Sir
Geoffrey Lloyd’s next consideration for flag captain.

Christian was too devastated to feel surprise
that the two knew each other. He was too devastated to feel
jealousy at the way Deirdre was clinging to the dashingly handsome
Captain Merrick. He was too devastated to feel the sudden,
throbbing agony in his shoulder, the hollow nausea in the pit of
his stomach, the numbness that was even now permeating his
limbs.

His career was finished.

“Deirdre, please address the captain with the
respect he deserves,” he said quietly, putting Tildy down with her
puppies and already hearing the death knell of a court-martial.

But Captain Merrick had swept Deirdre up in
his arms, swung her around and around, and was now hugging her
fiercely. “Nonsense, Captain Lord! Faith, the lass is my
cousin!
How very
good
of you to bring her all the way
across the Atlantic just to deliver her into my care!”

Cousin. Brendan. Boston.

Of course.

“What?” Sir Geoffrey snapped, whirling.

Merrick’s pointed gaze met Christian’s from
above Deirdre’s shoulder, and Christian was quick to grasp what the
shrewd younger captain had so quickly offered. Escape.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said lamely,
feeling the piercing gaze of the old admiral driving between his
shoulders. “She had a most trying time of it, but I daresay she
made a good sailor.”

“She always did, even when I took her up to
Mayo in my little sailboat so she could see the castle where her
ancestress lived. Never once got seasick, did you, Deirdre?”

“Oh, never, Brendan! And remember climbin’
Crough Patrick, an’ the awful storm that hit us on the way home?
Why, if it weren’t for yer skill as a sailor, the angels would’ve
collected us that day for sure—”

Sir Geoffrey glared at the two cousins,
glared down at the puppies, and glared up at Captain Lord. “You
mean to tell me you were merely transporting this—this
girl
to Boston, Captain Lord?”

Christian met the sharp stare unflinchingly.
“Yes, sir.”

Hastily, Deirdre offered, “Me mama died, ye
see, and Brendan’s the only family I got left.”

“I saw no mention of a female passenger in
the dispatches from your admiral back in Portsmouth, Captain
Lord!”

“Uh, Sir Elliott has had a lot on his mind
lately, sir. Perhaps he . . . forgot.”

“Your brother is not the type to
forget!
And this still doesn’t explain that—that
female
in your maintop, shamelessly waving a kerchief in
greeting to the people of Boston upon your
glorious
arrival!”

A commotion sounded just outside the door as
the “female” in question was escorted aft.

“Oh, dear God,” Christian began, graying with
horror as he realized that Ian was bringing Delight in.

Just then, the door swung open and Delight,
clad in nothing but a wool blanket, sauntered in, much to the
pop-eyed consternation of Sir Geoffrey.

“Why, Captain Lord, you did so spoil my fun
by bringing me down from the maintop! Lo, I got the most awful burn
on my
derriere
on the way down,” she purred, suggestively
rubbing her bottom through the blanket. “Why, hello, sir . . .” Her
eyes gleaming, she sauntered over to the suddenly apoplectic Sir
Geoffrey. “You must be the admiral. I just
love
a man with
power
,” she crooned, sidling close to him and dragging a
fingernail down his seamed, suddenly white cheek. “You’d just love
a little romp with Delight here, no? I have the most wickedly
wonderful methods of—”

“Ian,
get her out of here
!” Christian
roared.

Even Brendan looked shocked, though his eyes
were glinting with mirth.

“
IAN!”

“Uh, aye, sir, ’tis trying I am—”

Delight rubbed herself against Sir Geoffrey’s
chest, her hand roving down his waistcoat toward his breeches. The
admiral’s face was going a bright, alarming red, a shocking
contrast to the whiteness of his hair.

And then Delight allowed the blanket to slip
to the floor.

Christian shut his eyes and groaned. Brendan
Merrick gulped and nearly dropped his cousin. Delight Foley touched
a hand to the admiral’s groin—

And Sir Geoffrey slid to the floor in a dead
faint.

###

“’Twas too much for his heart, sir,” Elwin
Boyd said matter-of-factly, leaning over the admiral and fanning
him with a piece of paper. “But I think he’s coming round now.”

Sir Geoffrey, who’d been laid on the bed,
blinked and tried to sit up, his hand going unconsciously to his
heart. “Let me up, you bumbling fools!” he snarled, pushing aside
their hands. The blonde doxy was nowhere in sight. Young Merrick
stood nearby, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. His
Irish cousin—a comely young thing with striking eyes and an
out-of-control mane of wild black hair—sat beside the bed, her
worshipful gaze passing between Brendan and the tight-lipped
Captain Lord. She held a glass of water in her hand, and seeing
that he had recovered his senses, tried to press it to Sir
Geoffrey’s lips.

“Here, sir. Drink, and ’twill make ye feel
better.”

Angrily, Sir Geoffrey knocked it away,
spilling water to the deck flooring. “There’s nothing wrong with
me! The devil take the lot of you, treating me like some blasted
invalid! Damn your eyes, Captain Lord, you have much to answer
to!”

“Yes, sir.” The captain turned to the
surgeon. “Please leave us, Elwin.”

The Irish girl’s hand came up to touch a
strange, ornate Celtic cross at her throat. Lifting her chin, she
fastened her steady gaze on the admiral. Her eyes were beautiful,
stormy, of a brilliant purple shade that reminded him of violets in
springtime. “Please, sir, don’t be takin’ yer anger out on Captain
Lord,” she said in her gentle brogue. “He’s a fine and upstandin’
officer, and wouldn’t tolerate any shenanigans.”

“And what do you call that—that
spectacle
in the maintop?” Sir Geoffrey raged, more to
Captain Lord than to the young Irishwoman.

Again the girl answered, unfazed by his
anger. “Oh, her name is Dolores. She has a bit of a problem, ye
see? She’s coming home after living in Normandy for a few years,
and got rather . . . well, corrupted. Ye know how those French
people are, Sir Geoffrey.”

The admiral’s eyes narrowed, for as a true
Briton, he had no love for the French. “Yes, I know
exactly
how they are.”

The girl gave a sad, gentle smile. “Well,
sir, they ruined her and poisoned her mind. She left Boston as a
sweet and innocent woman of virtue, but those awful French had
their way with her, ye see, and, well . . . She ended up in
Portsmouth after her French husband died, and Captain Lord, bein’
the gallant naval officer he is, took it upon himself to deliver
her safely back to her family here in Massachusetts. He put so much
time and effort into makin’ somethin’ of this crew—a real
hard-to-manage one, if ye’ll recall—that it wasn’t always easy for
him to keep an eye on Deli—I mean, Dolores. But she can’t help
herself, sir. ’Twas the French influence.”

The admiral’s eyes narrowed. “French
influence, you say?”

Bless you, dear girl,
Christian
thought, shutting his eyes.

“Oh, aye,” Deirdre was saying. “French
influence. She was there for some time, subjected to their ways and
all. No wonder she came out of it as a . . . well, changed
woman.”

Brendan’s eyes were dancing with mirth as,
behind the admiral’s back, he exchanged glances with the speechless
Christian. “Quite right, Sir Geoffrey,” he said, careful to keep
his tone properly sober. “An immoral and lascivious people, you
must agree. Faith, I shudder to think of any impressionable young
female at the mercy of their carnal ways!” He cast a pointed glance
around the orderly cabin and looked up at the deck-head, as though
he could see through the great beams to the decks above. “That
aside, Captain Lord, please accept my congratulations on what
wonders you have achieved with this vessel! The last time I saw
her, I was ashamed to admit that I had designed her . . .” He
turned to the admiral and said cheerfully, “Really, sir, don’t you
think that Captain Lord’s success at making something of
Bold
Marauder’s
crew far outweighs the, uh, little incident with
Miss Dolores?”

Deirdre dramatically clasped her hands before
her chest, as though in prayer. “Poor Dolores. And oh, think of her
father, and how ashamed and distressed he’ll be when he sees what
has happened to his sweet, innocent daughter.” She sighed and shook
her head. “But those French are a vulgar people, aren’t they,
Captain Lord?”

Brendan, caught up in the game, answered
before Christian could reply. “Faith! The whole country’s a den of
iniquity, if I do say so myself!”

His eyes narrowing, Sir Geoffrey snatched the
glass of water from the girl’s hand, and stared at his young
captain. Merrick’s logic, as usual, was sound. Captain Lord had
managed to work wonders with the finest frigate in the king’s
fleet, and yes, that ought to count for something more than a
court-martial. Granted, his pride stung, and he’d have to account
for the humiliating incident before Governor Gage, but Brendan was
right.

He drained what water there was in the glass
and thrust it back into the Irish girl’s hand. “I suppose there’s
nothing to be done for it, then, but to return the woman to her
father and let
him
deal with her,” he muttered irately. “You
say her family lives here in Boston?’