Master of My Dreams (29 page)

“Huh! Piss on
them,
I say!” Skunk
said, his eyes flashing. “Sufferin’ bastards, I hear
any
of
’em sayin’ one bad word about our captain and I’ll skin the
wrinkles from their hides and stuff ’em down their bloody
throats!”

“Aye!” they echoed in unison, their eyes
fierce, protective, and angry.

Teach raised his pistol and pointed it at the
huge flagship.
Click. Snap. Click.
“And that goes for that
old fart of an admiral, too!”

Chapter 24

Christian was not sorry to get away from
Boston for the day. The tense and explosive atmosphere of the town
made him uneasy, with red-coated troops spoiling for a fight, bored
sailors lounging along the wharves, and resentful colonists who’d
been out of work since Parliament’s Coercive Acts had deprived them
of their jobs idling about. Now the townspeople had nothing better
to do than taunt the British troops, monitor their every movement,
and report back to the infamous Sons of Liberty, who were behind
this whole wretched mess.

Beneath him, his horse, a strapping chestnut
stallion he’d leased from a Welsh major eager to pay off a gambling
debt, sensed his anxiety and began to prance. Christian’s hands
tightened on the reins. If only Sir Geoffrey hadn’t discovered
Deirdre aboard the frigate; he’d give anything to have her safely
behind the protection of
Bold Marauder's
guns should the
inevitable explosion between colonists and the king’s forces
occur.

And, of course, there was the undeniable fact
that he loved her . . .

Rico had barged into his cabin that morning
while Christian had been eating his breakfast. “Every man jack
aboard the frigate knows you’re pining for the Irish girl,” his
friend had said as Christian morosely toyed with his boiled egg and
ship’s biscuit. “Why don’t you just marry her and get on with
life?”

“Marry her?”

Why not? It was a simple solution to the
loneliness that had plagued him for the past five years. He had
lived in hell for all that time, but now that he’d had a taste of
heaven, thoughts of even one more day alone were suddenly
unbearable.

Deirdre. He loved her, yes, he knew that now
. . . and she, by her own word, loved him. He gazed ahead, through
the pricked ears of his mount, smiling as he pictured that beloved
face, those spiraling black curls, her sometimes stormy, sometimes
childlike, but always loving amethyst eyes that had haunted him for
the past month.

Eyes that he knew now had haunted him for the
past thirteen years.

He shifted in the saddle, nudging his horse
into a trot and gritting his teeth against the sudden pain in his
shoulder. What would marriage to her be like? She’d already proved
she could adjust to life aboard a king’s warship; would she be
happy as the wife of a king’s officer?

And could he, a battle-scarred, sometimes
cynical king’s officer who’d seen far too much of the world, make
her happy? Was he good enough for her?

Holding the reins in one hand, he reached
down and checked to be sure the ring he’d put into his pocket this
morning was still there. Of purest gold, it was a lion’s body, its
eyes blood-red rubies, its mouth glinting with diamond chips, its
tail the band that would wrap itself around a delicate finger. The
ring was exquisite, and as ancient as the title that Christian’s
ancestors had held for centuries. Upon the death of their father,
Elliott would become the marquess, but Elliott had ardently
professed that he would sooner fall victim to a cannonball than
matrimony, and so the ring had long ago fallen into Christian’s
possession.

The fact that Elliott
had
fallen
victim to matrimony hadn’t changed things.

Christian still had the ring.

Deirdre O’Devir Lord. His heart warmed as he
tried out the name on his tongue, and he found himself smiling as
the horse, skirting the occasional puddle, carried him closer and
closer to Menotomy. Yes, he liked the sound of that name. Liked it
very much.

Deirdre O’ Devir Lord
. . .

He wanted her as his wife.

But would she have
him
?

He was, after all, an Englishman, and not
just any Englishman, but the one she’d spent the past thirteen
years of her life hating. And despite having made inquiries amongst
some of the other naval officers and their men, he was no closer
now to fulfilling his promise to find her brother than he had been
last week, no closer to righting the dreadful wrong that he—and
England—had done to her and her family all those years ago.

By God, he
would
right it. He
would
find her brother if it was the last thing he did, and
reunite the family that he, in the king’s name, had torn apart.

So caught up was he in his musings that
before he knew it, he was crossing a bridge over the Mystic River
Brook, passing beneath the branches of two old elm trees that
guarded the little village of Menotomy, and entering the settlement
itself. He looked about with a critical and assessing eye for this
was, after all, where Deirdre would have to live until he made her
his wife.

A typical New England town, it was tiny and
picturesque. Stone walls and fences bordered the road. Fields
strewn with a haphazard scattering of granite, sheep, and cows
rolled away into the distance, melting into gentle hills of birch,
pine, oak, elm, and maple. Yet despite the mildness of the early
spring morning, he sensed a tension in the air.

He touched the inside of his elbow to his
sword hilt. The day seemed tranquil and serene, but he could feel
unseen eyes upon him, eyes that watched him with suspicion and no
small degree of hostility.

He slowed the horse to a walk, passing the
Black Horse Tavern and Spy Pond, where geese honked loudly and
shook the water out of their broad wings. From somewhere he heard
the distant sound of fife and drum, and wondered if even now the
so-called minutemen were mustering, preparing to practice their
futile maneuvers.

The thought both saddened and alarmed
him.

The Menotomy minutemen, he’d been told, were
a new unit, led by a farmer named Benjamin Locke whose house lay
farther west along the Concord Road. Christian gazed at the
peaceful fields and the humble dwellings that spilled smoke from
their chimneys. Why had things come to this? Why couldn’t
Englishmen live in harmony with one another? Why couldn’t
Parliament be more sympathetic to those who lived across the sea,
and all those in power back in England be more understanding about
the concerns of the colonists? God help the poor bumpkins if and
when things came to blows between them and the king’s forces.

They wouldn’t have a chance.

The haunting music was disturbing and
depressing. Christian urged his mount faster, wincing with each
jolt to his shoulder but preferring the sound of the beast’s hooves
over that of fife and drum. Mud splashed up and splattered the
animal’s belly, its forelegs, and Christian’s gleaming boots, but
the horse shook its head, wanting more speed. He tightened his
hands on the reins, keeping the stallion’s pace contained. The
traffic was heavier here, the other travelers staring at him as he
passed. Seeing an open carriage with a pair of women in it, he
touched his hat in polite greeting. Their eyes raked him with
disdain. A youth no older than Hibbert glared at him with open
hostility from behind a stone wall, and a group of farmers, leading
a milk cow, spat on the ground in open contempt. Disturbed and
feeling increasingly ill at ease, Christian continued on.

He passed another tavern, where movement at
the windows indicated his presence was not unobserved. By God, was
the whole village watching him? He wondered if people had seen him
coming and spread the news of his arrival long before his horse had
even neared the place. But then, perhaps they had reason to be
suspicious. There was no reason for a naval officer to be this far
inland.

Ahead was an intersection, a store, and a
small, steepled church, beyond which lay a small graveyard, its
headstones bleak and forbidding even in the bright sunlight. He
passed several more houses, another tavern, and there, directly
across the road, stood the simple brown house that, according to
Sir Geoffrey’s roughly drawn map, belonged to Jared Foley.

At last.

He pulled his horse to a halt, content just
to sit for a minute in the sunshine and gaze upon the girl who
stood at a well in the front yard, toiling with a rope and what
must have been a rather heavy bucket at its end. Instantly, he
forgot his throbbing shoulder. Her bent back was toward him, her
bottom outlined in a plain skirt of green linsey-woolsey, her
muslin petticoats barely clear of the squishy mud in which she
stood. Her hair, black as pitch and caught in a loose braid,
followed the curve of her spine and brushed her hips. He saw her
shoulders working as she wrestled with the heavy rope.

Vaulting from the saddle with an ease that
was rare amongst mariners, Christian strode quietly across the
lawn, his boots squishing in damp turf. But she didn’t hear him. He
came up behind her, grasped the rope, and began to pull, his
strength making quick work of the task.

“Need some help?”

“
Christian!
”

She flung herself against him, squealing with
surprise and delight and burying herself against his coat. His arms
closed around her, and for a long moment he could only hold her,
burying his face in her hair while a fierce sense of love and
protectiveness welled up in his chest. His heart constricted,
making it hard to breathe, impossible to think. But it was a good
feeling. It was an even better one to see how happy his appearance
had made her. How different she was, in every way, from how Emily
had been.

Closing his eyes, he held her close, wishing
with all his heart he could take her back to
Bold Marauder
with him. Tonight. Now. Forever. She smelled of road dust and
spring sunshine, clean wind and freshly baked bread. She was soft
and warm, utterly feminine, totally guileless. He liked that. He
liked the feel of her in his arms. He liked everything about
her.

By God, there was nothing he
didn’t
like.

“Oh, Christian, ye don’t know how lonely I’ve
been without ye! I hate it here, I do! The birds are different, the
animals are different, the people are cold and unfriendly, and they
talk funny, act funny. The air is cold, the grass is brown. Thank
God ye came to take me back t’ the ship, because I’ll surely die if
I have to stay here another day!”

“Deirdre, I did not come here to take you
back to
Bold Marauder
.” He took a deep breath and looked
down into her eyes. “I came here to ask you to—”

The front door of the house banged open.
“Deirdre?”

A girl stood there, clad in a blue woolen
gown and a cloak of linsey-woolsey. She had blond hair, not
bleached and silvery like his own, but rich and tawny and yellow,
worn severely braided and entwined around her head. Her face was
plain, fresh, and unpainted; her eyes, smiling and knowing.

The eyes, bold and brimming with raw
prurience, were what gave her away.

“
Delight?”
he gasped, shocked.

She picked up her skirts and hurried across
the lawn, her finger laid across full lips that had been, at his
last sight of her, red and painted. “Don’t call me that in front of
my mother—she’ll have my hide!” Nervously, she glanced back toward
the house. “It’s
Dolores Ann!
”

Stunned, he peeled Deirdre off his chest just
as the woman in question appeared on the threshold.

If Christian had any doubts as to where the
Foleys’ true loyalties lay, they were instantly abolished by the
woman’s reaction to the presence of a king’s officer on her front
lawn. Her face drained of color. Her eyes went wide, and a wet
dishcloth fell from her hands and splashed into a mud puddle at her
feet.

Just as quickly, she regained her composure
and stepped forward, only her darting eyes and high, jittery voice
betraying her nervousness. “Why, sir, ’tis not often we receive
naval visitors out here in Menotomy! First Captain Merrick, now you
. . . I assume you must be, uh, Deirdre’s suitor?”

Stepping forward, Christian tucked his hat
under his elbow and bowed gallantly over the woman’s hand. It was,
he noticed, trembling. “Captain Lord, at your service.” He
straightened up. “Forgive me for not sending word ahead, but I was
desperate to see Miss O’ Devir. And, of course, pay my respects to
your lovely daughter and her family, from whose hospitality my dear
Deirdre has obviously benefited.” He regarded the woman, his gray
eyes steady and keen. “Given the hostility my presence seems to
have elicited from your neighbors, I can only thank God that my
beloved has found sanctuary with a family that is loyal to king and
Crown. I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time?”

“Oh—oh, no, n-not at all!” Mrs. Foley said
too quickly, her skittish manner as condemning as if she’d
blatantly admitted that she and her family were anything
but
loyal. “Why don’t you come in for some refreshment? A cup of
chocolate, perhaps?”

“I would enjoy that, madam. And if I may
allow my horse a drink of water before I join you?”

“Yes, yes, please do! You may tie him up
there, beside the watering trough. Dolores Ann? Please stop gaping
and come with me—
now!
”

Christian smiled wryly. It was all too
obvious that the woman had no desire this side of Hades to have him
there, but to be anything less than hospitable, especially toward a
decorated and respected officer of the king’s Navy, would certainly
cast suspicion on the Foley name.

Had she been this skittish around Brendan? He
wished he’d had the chance to speak to the other frigate captain
before Sir Geoffrey had sent him back off to sea.

He watched Delight’s mother hurry back to the
house. In typical New England fashion, the structure faced south,
its roof steep and sloping to rid itself of winter snows, its big
chimney set squarely in the center. Five windows reflected the
sunshine from the top floor; four more, with a door between them,
looked out from the bottom. A barn stood a short distance away from
the house, ringed by a fence containing two horses sleeping in the
early spring sun.