Master of My Dreams (26 page)

“Well, almost. She tells me her home is on
the west side o’ Cambridge, wherever that may be.”

“Less than ten miles from here,” Sir Geoffrey
said gruffly. “I suppose it falls upon
me,
then, to escort
her back.”

Brendan cleared his throat and drew himself
up, his eyes suddenly eager. “Faith, sir, but I’d be happy to
oblige.”

“Yes, I’m sure you
would
,” Sir
Geoffrey snapped. “But I’ll not have my finest officer tarnishing
his name and reputation by being seen in the woman’s company until
a cure can be found for her . . .
condition
.” He turned to
Christian. “I trust that she has something besides a blanket she
can wear
,
so that she can be escorted from this ship with
some degree of dignity?”

Christian paled, thinking of the trunk of
gowns—and other
equipment
—that Delight had had hauled up
from the brig and now lay close,
too
close, in a nearby
cabin. “Er, yes, sir, though I daresay they could use some . . .
uh, alterations.”

“Fine. See to it that your sailmaker has them
done. I want that woman off this ship by sundown.”

Brendan, fidgeting, persisted. “Will you,
then, be escorting her back to her family, sir?”

“You seem quite bloody
eager,
Captain
Merrick!”

Brendan flashed a quick grin. “Aye, sir. I
wouldn’t want
you
to tarnish your name, either.”

“Oh, go on with you!” the admiral retorted.
“I don’t give a king’s damn who takes her, as long as she’s removed
from this vessel before she can cause our Navy any more
embarrassment. By the way—“He frowned and turned to Deirdre, his
eyes narrowing. “Who is this father in the unenviable position of
having sired her?”

“All I know, sir, is that his name is Foley,
and that he and his family live outside o’ Boston in a place called
Menotomy.”

The admiral stared at her. “Foley?
Menotomy
?”

“Aye, sir.” Her brow furrowed in a frown. “Do
ye know the family, then?”

“Oh, I know them, all right.” He snatched up
his hat. “Captain Merrick, you may have the afternoon to catch up
on old times with your cousin, but I expect that girl to be safely
delivered into her father’s care by sundown. You will receive
additional orders shortly. And you, Captain Lord”—his harsh stare
settled on Christian—“I shall see you aboard the flagship at eight
bells. We have
much
to discuss.”

Christian heaved a silent sigh of relief.
Then he picked up his own hat and, squaring his shoulders, followed
the admiral out the door to see him properly off the ship, his
shoulder aching, his head throbbing with suppressed tension.

But at the door he paused to flash his
beloved a look of indebtedness and admiration.

No matter what trouble she’d caused him back
in Portsmouth, here in Boston she had just saved his career.

###

Sir Geoffrey announced an informal dinner for
his officers in his cabin aboard the massive, seventy-four-gun
Dauntless,
whose dining area alone made the entire cabin of
HMS
Bold Marauder
seem small and cramped in comparison. But
there was more than enough room in the cabin for Sir Geoffrey, his
captains, and the huge array of food brought in by stewards and
smartly turned-out midshipmen.

They were a small but diverse group: the
cranky, stooped old admiral with his shrewd and piercing eye; his
flag captain, Stanley Cutler, already well into his cups; Captain
Hiram Ellsworth, a high-minded but ambitious prig; Lieutenant Peter
Atkins, loud, swaggering, and boastful; a varied array of young
officers—and Christian.

He sat at the polished mahogany table,
watching the admiral’s servants clearing away the rich meal which
his stomach, used to the horrors of naval fare, had accepted first
with glee, then with hesitation and now, a growing remorse. His
queasiness was not helped by the open hostility of the cabin’s
other occupants.

Cutler raised his glass and downed its
contents in a single gulp. “So, Captain Lord,” he said, exchanging
a sly glance with the others, “I’m told you made something of that
worthless rabble you left Portsmouth with.”

“I could not make something of them if there
was nothing there to begin with.”

Ellsworth made a snorting noise. “Huh!
Bold Marauder's
previous captain is a dear friend of mine.
He told me her officers and crew are naught but a bunch of
incompetent arses who don’t know a stem from a stern.”

Laughter rippled around the table, but Sir
Geoffrey, thanking a midshipman for bringing him a pillow to put
between his brittle old back and the unforgiving chair, didn’t
notice the open insult to Christian’s crew.

“I say, they must
still
be a bunch of
incompetent arses, Ellsworth!” Cutler said recklessly, sniggering
as he poured himself another glass of port. “They’ve already
bungled the very thing they were sent here to do—apprehend that
damned Irish Pirate! Can you imagine? Why,
Bold Marauder
had
the rascal right under her guns, and still the fellow got away! Ah,
Captain Lord, I pity you, having to take command of those
dolts!”

“My crew behaved admirably and to my
satisfaction,” Christian said tersely. “And what do you mean, Irish
Pirate?”

“Don’t tell us you didn’t know. All of Boston
is abuzz with it.”

Christian put down his glass. “Abuzz with
what?”

“Why, the news, of course. You really don’t
know, do you? That smuggler you engaged off the Maine coast? He’s
the Irish Pirate.”

More snickers.

No. He hadn’t known.

“That will be enough, gentleman,” Sir
Geoffrey said crossly. “Captain Lord has only just arrived. One
cannot expect him to know it was the Irish Pirate he’d engaged, as
the scoundrel flies no colors. Finally, do not forget that he had
an English cutter to assist, a French corvette to man, and other
things to occupy him.”

“Aye, such as doxies in the main top!”

“Would that we
all
had such . . .
diversions
!”

“Poor Merrick. He designed your frigate,
didn’t he, Lord? How ashamed of her he must be!”

“Aye, to think of his masterpiece crewed by a
bunch of pillocks with nothing better to do than cause trouble and
make their gloriously esteemed
captain,
whose lofty heights
we
shall never aspire to, look terrible!”

Their laughter was abruptly silenced by
Christian’s fist slamming down atop the table. “My crew behaved
gallantly under extreme circumstances, and I found no fault with
their behavior, none at all!” He threw down his napkin and lunged
to his feet. “I will not sit here and suffer hearing them
maligned!”

He felt Sir Geoffrey’s eyes on him,
scrutinizing him, his old mouth beginning to curve in an approving
smile.

“Sit down, Captain Lord. And the rest of you,
hold your damned tongues. I daresay none of you would’ve fared any
better. Regardless of
Bold Marauder
’s reputation, I have
nothing but respect for a captain who will defend his crew even
when he knows that some improvement could stand to be had. You have
my admiration, Captain, for all that you have accomplished with
them in such a short time. For the most part, your ship made a fine
showing upon entering the harbor today.”

“So did the girl in the maintop,” Cutler
said, sniggering.

“I said,
enough
!” Sir Geoffrey said
sharply, unwilling to see one of his officers embarrassed, no
matter how displeased he was over the incident with Dolores. He
leaned forward to adjust the pillow behind his back. “I called you
together to share a meal, and to allow you and Captain Lord the
opportunity to acquaint yourselves with each other. With tension
mounting by the day between our forces and the rebels, we must work
together. Dissent will get us nowhere.”

The admiral leaned back in his chair. “As you
all know, Lord Dartmouth has sent orders to General Gage, the
governor here in Boston, to arrest the rebel leaders of this
so-called Massachusetts Provincial Congress. These men—Adams,
Hancock, and the physician, Dr. Warren—have no respect for the
king’s authority, and will stop at nothing in their quest to seed
dissent and rebellion amongst the general populace. They have just
commemorated that unfortunate event they call the Boston Massacre
in a way that nearly set off a war in itself, but that just goes to
show the nature of these upstarts with whom we are dealing. They
grow bolder by the day, heedless of the fact that the town is
filled with our troops and supported by our ships here in the
harbor. Now, reports are coming in that they are gathering arms and
ammunition and secreting them in the countryside.” He paused, and
let his hard, penetrating stare rake each of them in turn. “Tell
me, gentlemen,
just who do you think they’re preparing to use
these arms against
?”

Christian said nothing, his shoulder,
throbbing more and more the longer he sat, forgotten. He had known,
of course, that matters on this side of the Atlantic were bad, but
he had not known that the people here were actually taking up arms
against the king’s forces . . .

The meal wore on, the situation in Boston was
further discussed, toasts to king and country were drunk, and
eventually, the admiral, his tired old face showing the strain of
the day, dismissed them to go back to their ships.

Christian rose to his feet.

“A moment, please, Captain Lord.”

He paused, absently massaging his wound and
waiting until the others were out of earshot. “Thank you, sir, for
defending my people’s honor. It is most appreciated.”

“Nonsense. From what I’ve observed, you’ve
shaped them into a fine and respectable crew. Sir Elliott advised
me in his missives about the exact nature of what you were taking
on when he assigned you to
Bold Marauder
, you know.” The
admiral allowed a hint of a smile. “Not that I had not already
known. But make no mistake. While I defended you before your peers
tonight—who, I might add, are merely envious of your
accomplishments—I remain
most
distressed about the debacle
with that Foley woman and so, I’m afraid, is General Gage. However,
even the most embarrassing incidents are capable of bearing fruit.
As this one did.”

“Sir?”

“Please have a seat, Captain. I did not
detain you for additional rebuke, but to discuss the Navy’s mission
for you.”

“The Irish Pirate,” Christian said, smiling
wryly. “My apologies, sir. Had I known that sloop was his, I can
assure you—”

“Never mind that, Captain. We will catch the
rogue—or, shall I say,
you
will catch him.” He leaned
forward and poured them each another glass of port, the lights of
Boston twinkling in the darkness beyond the great stern windows
behind him. “Things have grown tense here over the past several
months. Last year’s Port Act—which, as you know, was intended to
punish Boston for that wretched Tea Party incident—met with anger
and rebellion, and while meant to starve and choke the town into
submission, all it did was unify and strengthen the rebels.”

Christian took a sip of his port.

“This, and other punitive actions meant to
clip the wings of Massachusetts’s self-government, have only made
the rebels even more defiant. General Gage, between you and me, is
ineffective. He draws up declarations and refuses to enforce them,
pretending ignorance while the bumpkins blatantly defy them right
under his nose. We have warships in the harbor, thousands of troops
in and around Boston, and London standing on her tiptoes watching
the whole damned mess, yet he is loath to enforce his own decrees.
As a result, the rebels grow more and more bold.” Sir Geoffrey gave
a weary sigh. “Their Dr. Warren drew up a set of resolutions
declaring that there was no need to obey the Port Act, and implored
the people to prepare themselves for a war against England. Last
fall, they sent representatives to Philadelphia to partake in a
colony-wide assembly of rebels calling themselves the Continental
Congress, and have since proceeded to downright
steal
money
from the royal collections to fund their treasonous schemes.
Altercations break out between our troops and the populace. Things
are so damned tense, ’twill only take a spark to blow everything to
kingdom come.”

“I had not realized the situation has
deteriorated to such an extent,” Christian said quietly. He looked
down at his glass. Suddenly, its contents looked like blood to
him.

“I believe war is imminent,” Sir Geoffrey
continued. “The rebels have established Committees of Safety to
oversee a new militia, a motley rabble calling themselves
minutemen, so named because they are ready to muster, march, and
move at a minute’s notice.” The admiral made a disgusted noise.
“Can you imagine? Bumpkins—farmers, ordinary citizens,
merchants—taking up arms against the finest army in the world.” He
shook his head. “They haven’t a bloody chance.”

Christian looked down at his port again and,
suddenly unable to drink it, slid the glass away from him.

“In any case, Captain, as I mentioned
earlier, I was most intrigued to learn the name of this woman you
took aboard as a passenger. Dolores Ann Foley LeBrun—it appears she
has dropped her married name following the death of her French
husband—is the daughter of one Jared Foley, a printer who lives in
the western part of Cambridge, in the village of Menotomy. He
claims to be loyal to king and Crown, but recent intelligence
reveals a suspicious amount of
activity
to and from the
Foley home at all hours of the day and night. Activity that is
highly suspect for a man purported to be a Loyalist.”

“Are you saying that Foley is a rebel?”

“I’m saying we
suspect
he’s a rebel.
He is most assuredly a printer, Captain, and as such, is in a
position to print and distribute inflammatory broadsides.”