Master of My Dreams (28 page)

“I know that, Brendan. But I promised Mama
that I would find him and bring him home to Ireland so she could
rest in peace. I’ve got to at least try.”

“Yes, I suppose you must,” he said
resignedly. “Just don’t get your hopes up, Deidre. I’d hate to see
you get your heart broken.” He embraced her tightly, his arms
closing around her shoulders. He had grown taller, stronger, even
more handsome since she’d seen him last, but he was still the
laughing, beloved cousin she remembered so well—and, he carried the
blood of Ireland in his veins, the brogue of Connaught in his
voice, the soul of Connemara in his heart.

Home.

She clung to him, unwilling to relinquish him
to the night, blinking back quiet tears of pain as their parting
grew closer by the moment. She did not want to be alone out here in
this cold and wretched place, with strangers. She did not want him
to leave.

And she ached for Christian. Oh, God help
her, did she ache . . .

“Well, Brendan, if anyone can find Roddy,
’tis you and Christian,” she said at last. “I have faith in the two
of ye.”

“Yes, and I’m sure that Captain Lord will be
here just as soon as he can get away. He’ll help you find your
brother, I’m certain of it.”

She stared at him. “Aren’t ye goin’ to
help?”

He shook his head. “Sir Geoffrey is sending
me back to sea tomorrow, to cruise the north shore and make sure
things don’t get out of hand there.” He saw her stricken look and
touched her cheek. “But I won’t be gone forever, lass. When I come
back, I promise to help find Roddy.”

“D’ye think he’s still alive, Brendan? Do
ye?”

A shadow passed over his face. “Thirteen
years is a long time, Deirdre.”

“He’s alive,” she declared, raising her chin.
“I feel it in my bones. We’ll find him, Brendan, ye just wait and
see. Christian already promised he would do everything in his power
to get him back for me. He feels responsible, as it was his press
gang that took Roddy in the first place, but I don’t hold him
accountable for it anymore. He was just doin’ his duty.” Fire
flashed in her eyes. “Nay, Brendan, ’twas the Navy’s fault, and
it’s up to the Navy to return my brother to me!”

He looked down at her, his eyes affectionate,
his face beloved and dear. “Ah, lass, you certainly have the
determination of our Grace O’Malley in you, don’t you?” He smiled
and walked with her toward the waiting carriage. “And now I must
go. Can’t keep the admiral waiting, you know.”

On sudden impulse, she flung her arms around
his neck, clinging tightly to him. They embraced each other for a
long moment, she wearing her homesickness on her sleeve, he well
used to this strange land and uncharacteristically silent as he
pondered all she had told him over the course of the afternoon.
Finally he stood back and with a reassuring grin, reminded her that
Christian was not so far away, and then climbed swiftly up into the
carriage.

Moments later, it was fading into the
night.

Deirdre stayed out on the half-frozen lawn
until the horse’s hoofbeats had faded and the carriage’s lanterns
had shrunk to mere sparks in the distance. At last they were gone
altogether, and she was alone.

Her shoulders drooped, and she took a deep,
shaky breath. Finally, she turned and trudged back into the house
and up the narrow wooden staircase to the room that Mrs. Foley had
prepared for her. Someone had brought her bag of Irish mementos up
and placed it on the little stand just inside the door. The bed was
neatly turned down, waiting. She retrieved her bag, pulled a thick,
heavy quilt from the bed, wrapped it around herself, and went to
the window. After much tugging, she managed to get it open. Cold
night air swept in. She sat down on the bare floor and gazed out
into the night, imagining her beloved cousin traveling somewhere
out there in the darkness, away from her—and toward Boston, where
everyone she now held dear in this world, seemed to be.

“Oh, Christian,” she murmured, staring out
into the darkness. Before leaving the frigate, she he had taken one
of his shirts from his sea trunk and stuffed it into her bag; now,
she pulled it out, pressed it against her lips, and breathed deeply
of his scent. The heartache that had been building all evening grew
unbearable. “Please, come and get me. Please, oh, please, don’t let
me rot out here.”

Stars twinkled above the treetops and
low-lying hills. Wood smoke lay heavily in the air and wafted
through the window on crisp, breezy puffs of cold wind. Just cross
the road, the windows of a tavern glowed orange in the darkness.
Figures in silhouette moved back and forth behind the panes.

Was Christian aching for her as much as she
was, for him? Had the elderly admiral forgiven him? Was his
shoulder causing him pain? What was he doing right now? She hugged
the shirt to herself, feeling the tears welling behind her eyelids,
in the back of her throat. In her lap was her precious bag of Irish
mementos, and she touched it, her fingers moving over the odd lumps
and bumps and knowing each shape in the darkness.

Far, far off in the distance, a dog barked,
the sound lonely and sad in the night.

How far away from her now was Brendan? A
mile? Two?

She reached into the bag and found the soft
clump of wool from an Irish sheep. That tiny connection with
home—so near, and yet so far—brought a piercing ache to her heart,
and she bent her head, burying her face against the canvas bag to
try and hold back the tears.

Home.
Where was it? In which direction
did it lie?

She looked up into the night sky. Alarm
spread through her when she could not find the North Star. Dear
Lord, were the stars that shone over this godforsaken place
different from those that stood over Ireland? Shivering with cold,
Deirdre clutched the tuft of wool and leaned far out the window,
craning her neck and peering up at the peaked roof of the dark
house.

There. The North Star, beloved and familiar,
like an old friend. Choking relief swept over her, and she shut her
eyes in silent gratitude.
Thank God.
That, at least, was
reassuring. She leaned out the window once again, contorting her
body at an unnatural angle so that her face was turned
homeward.

At that moment a gust of wind came up,
tearing the wool from her hand. She cried out and make a mad lunge
toward it, but the lonely white tuft drifted off into the darkness,
dancing on the wind, fading away until it was swallowed by the
night.

Far away, the dog barked again.

Stricken, she pressed steepled hands to her
mouth as hot, salty tears finally began to course down her cheeks
and over her fingers. “Oh . . . oh, dear God, no . . .

Ireland.

Another piece of it gone.

She wrapped her arms around her knees, bent
her head, and, clutching Christian’s shirt to her heart, wept until
she could weep no more.

###

“Heavens, Deirdre, what was all that bumping
and thumping going on up there last night?” Delight asked at the
breakfast table the next morning. She stuffed a spoonful of strange
yellow pudding into her mouth and reached for the pitcher of tree
sap—which, Deirdre had been told, was called maple syrup. “I
thought the house was going to come down!”

Deirdre raised her head. She had not found
much rest last night, and she knew it showed in her face. Only when
she had made some adjustments to her bed, then fiercely hugged
Christian’s shirt in her arms and pretended she was hugging
him,
had she been able to find sleep.

Mr. and Mrs. Foley were regarding her
curiously. Outside, sunshine was bright across the land, making the
low-lying hills in the near distance look as purple as the Twelve
Bens back home. Deirdre’s cheeks flamed, and sheepishly, she
murmured, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep anyone awake. I was . .
. movin’ the bed.”

“Moving the bed?”

She stared down at her hands, suddenly
embarrassed. “I wanted it to . . . to face Ireland.”

Even the stern and stoic Jared Foley was hard
pressed to keep his lips from twitching in amusement.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Foley exclaimed. “You
have got to be the most homesick young lady I’ve ever known. You’ll
just have to meet our Irish friend soon. Perhaps that will make you
feel better.”

“Irish friend?” Deirdre asked, suddenly
brightening.

“A seafarer, just like your man,” Delight
said, her eyes glinting.

“What?” Mr. Foley asked, peering at Deirdre
from over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “You have a
suitor?”

“Oh, he is
most
handsome,” Delight
said. “He masters a ship, is that not so, Deirdre?”

“Aye,” Deirdre said proudly.

Mr. Foley put down his fork. “Which one?”

“His Majesty’s frigate
Bold Marauder.
Christian is a king’s officer. A captain in the Royal Navy.”

“I see.” Mr. Foley exchanged a quick glance
with his wife and, picking up his fork, cast his gaze back down
toward his plate.

“Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“No, Deirdre.” Mrs. Foley patted her hand.
“Not at all.” Again she glanced at her husband. “We should like to
meet him sometime. Wouldn’t we, Jared?”

“Aye,” he grunted, attacking his hasty
pudding.

Deirdre looked at them, wondering what she
had said to upset them. Certainly, the mood around the table seemed
to have suddenly changed. She glanced at Delight, hoping to find an
answer, but her friend was looking down, smiling, and picking a bit
of shell from her eggs.

The sudden silence was uncomfortable. Bending
her head, Deirdre picked up her fork and, shunning the strange
hasty pudding, went for the more familiar eggs instead.

They weren’t from an Irish hen, but at least
they didn’t taste any different.

Perhaps there was hope here, after all.

###

Despite Sir Geoffrey’s assurances, and
Christian’s desire to race off to Menotomy at the first chance he
had, it was two days before he could get away from his duties.
Meetings with his admiral and General Gage to discuss rebel
movements, and the presentation of his bold plan to net the Irish
Pirate, kept him near his command. But by the third morning, when
he awoke bleary-eyed, lonely, and exhausted, he knew he could delay
no longer.

Tildy, leaving her growing puppies sleeping
in a pile, had climbed into bed with him, but though her presence
was a small comfort, no one could take the place of his beloved
Deirdre. Every time he’d rolled over and looked at the pillow, he
imagined his Irish girl’s thick, spiraling black curls spread over
it, her innocent purple eyes gazing at him with adoration. He
hadn’t realized how much he missed her until he was forced to sleep
alone.

How had she fared through the nights? The
poor mite was probably homesick as hell, out there all by herself
in an unfamiliar countryside with people she didn’t know. Anger
swept through him at the unfortunate circumstances that had
separated them. He rose from his bed. There was no sense in
allowing her to suffer any longer.

Mechanically, he went through the motions of
washing, shaving, dressing. He packed a bag with a few civilian
clothes, then chose his finest shirt, his dress coat, and his
gold-tasseled presentation sword. He made a handsome picture as he
appeared on deck, and could not have been more pleased with the
smartness and ceremony with which his men saw him over the
side.

They stood by the hammock nettings, watching
his gig carry him across the sparkling harbor, threading its way
between the other anchored warships.

“Something’s troubling our Lord and Master,”
Hibbert said, as though no one else had noticed.

“Aye, he’s in a bad way. The Old Fart must
ha’e given him a good setting-down the other day,” Ian said,
glaring at the huge flagship that shimmered in her own
reflection.

“It ain’t
his
fault none of us knew
Delight was up there,” Skunk muttered.

“Elwin says the Old Fart was so mad he was
spitting nails.”

“Should’ve let Delight work her charms on
him
,” Teach growled, joining them. He held a flintlock
pistol in his hand, and was cocking the empty weapon, pulling the
trigger, cocking the weapon, pulling the trigger, his annoyance
obvious and beginning to become annoying in itself. “Might’ve done
the Old Fart a world of good.”

“She tried,” Elwin said, scowling at Teach,
then picking at a callus on his finger. “But it was Deirdre, not
Delight, who got the old crust softened up enough that he finally
quit raging at our Lord and Master. Never saw anything like it. Had
him eating out of her hand, she did.”

Click, snap, click, snap,
went Teach’s
pistol.

Wenham scratched at his great, jutting ears.
‘Too bad that young Irish captain had to take Deirdre from us. I’ll
bet that’s what’s got our poor Lord and Master in such a sorry
state, having her stolen away from him like that.”

‘That young captain be her cousin, y’ know,”
Ian said.

“Her
cousin
?”

“Aye. Ye can see some resemblance around the
mouth. Same smile.”

“Same way of talkin’, too. Boglander brogue,”
added Skunk.

Click. Snap. Click.

“Christ, would ye quit with that noise? It’s
irritatin’ as all hell!” Skunk snarled.

Teach merely grinned, and kept on doing
it.

Ian cleared his throat. “Well,
I
think
we need tae be cheering up our captain. What do ye all think of
inviting him tae the wardroom to dine with us tomorrow night? That
way he won’t have tae eat all by himself. Besides, ’twill show him
how much
we’re
behind him, no matter what the Old Fart says
or does!”

“Aye, good idea, Ian!”

Rhodes melted out of the shadows and seated
himself upon the gunwales of one of the ship’s boats. His tone was
solemn. “When I accompanied him over to the flagship yesterday, one
of the lieutenants told me our captain isn’t well liked. The other
commanders are jealous of his record, envious of what he’s
accomplished.” He swept them with his black eyes. “They’ll not make
things easy for him here.”