Master of My Dreams (30 page)

“I see you’ve got yourself a steed, Captain
Lord.” Delight’s gaze roved over the stallion, whose coat, glinting
in the sunlight, was the color of rich cherry. She quirked a brow.
“But then, there are many activities besides
riding
that one
can do upon a horse, no?”

Christian started to deliver a sarcastic
comment, but just then the door banged open. “Dolores Ann! You come
in here this instant!”

Delight sighed and rolled her eyes. "Oh, I
really
do
wish I’d stayed in France sometimes. You’d think I
was still a blushing miss of seventeen, the way they’re both
treating me.” Still muttering, she sauntered off across the lawn,
hips rolling. As she reached the door, Mrs. Foley yanked her
inside. The woman’s mouth was moving, her hands gesturing angrily,
and Christian wished he could hear what the agitated woman was
saying to her daughter. Feigning indifference to them, he looked at
Deirdre as she caught his sleeve.

“Oh, Christian, I’m so happy to see ye. I’m
so lonely, and missed ye so much last night, I thought my poor
heart would break!”

She looked up at him, smiling. Her fingers
rested against his lapels; her slim, lithe body pressed against
his. Her heart was in her eyes, brimming with love and joy, and
again he felt his chest swell and threaten to burst. She was
his.
She had given herself to him and, in her innocence, had
made him a man once more, in all senses of the word.

And soon, she would be his in name as well as
in heart. He couldn’t wait to give her the ring, couldn’t wait to
see her reaction.

By God, I love her.

Knowing that Mrs. Foley was probably
observing them from her window, he gently pried Deirdre’s hands
from his lapels. “Come, dearest. Let us go in and behave ourselves
for a bit, shall we?”

“Oh, Christian. Please don’t ask me to be
behavin’ myself for too long. I want to be alone with ye and show
ye how much I’ve been missin’ ye!”

His loins tightened in instant response. As
she took his hand and led him to the house, he wondered how he had
ever thought he might be impotent. “Well, then,” he said, smiling
down at her walking beside him, “perhaps you can borrow a horse
from the Foleys and we can go, er,
riding
afterward?”

“Oh, Christian, can we?”

It would be the perfect time to ask her to be
his wife. His heart fluttered in excitement, but he managed to
maintain his composed demeanor. “Aye,” he said, tipping her chin up
and gazing into her wide purple eyes. “Now let us go and be
sociable.”

But as they entered the house Deirdre, with
Delight trailing in her wake, fled up the stairs with an excuse
about having to change her clothes, and Christian was left standing
all alone just inside the door.

He looked around, his hat in his hands. The
house was small, plain, lived-in. He walked into the main living
area, which appeared to double as a kitchen, feigning casual
interest while his keen gaze searched for anything that would
further boost suspicions that the Foleys were anything but
Loyalists. But there was nothing incriminating. The house smelled
of herbs, cooking, and years of fires burned on the huge hearth
that dominated the room in which he stood. They were strange smells
to his mariner’s nose, just as the room itself, a palace compared
with the size of his cabin aboard
Bold Marauder,
was strange
to his seafarer’s eyes. Wide-boarded floors were scuffed smooth by
years of shoes. The massive, soot-blackened hearth was framed by
cooking utensils of various sizes, shapes, and forms. He smelled
baking bread, peered into a stewpot and saw a pudding boiling in a
cloth. Herbs hung from overhead rafters, and a set of chairs
surrounded a rough-hewn table spread with clean linens.

He looked at the chairs. In which one had his
Deirdre taken her supper? Sat and talked to her hosts? Pined inside
with homesickness?

By God and all that was holy, she would not
be out here for long. As soon as he gathered the evidence Sir
Geoffrey needed to brand the Foleys as rebels of the Crown, as soon
as he himself found and chased down the Irish Pirate—who was, as
Sir Geoffrey had put it, “putting weapons in the hands of babes”—he
would marry her and get her out of here.

That day couldn’t arrive soon enough.

Mrs. Foley came bustling around the corner,
absently patting her hair, her lips drawn tight, an anxious frown
creasing her brow. Her hand flew to her chest at the sight of
him.

“Oh! I hadn’t realized you’d already come
in—”

“My apologies, madam. I did not mean to
startle you.”

She hastily indicated a chair. “No matter,
Captain. As you know, things are so tense I suppose we are all in a
state of agitation, what with those awful rebels whipping up the
countryside as they are!” She turned away, unable to meet his eyes,
and quickly changed the subject. “Dolores Ann tells me you took
extraordinarily good care of her during the passage, and that your
crew was most obliging to her
every
need.”

Christian swallowed the wrong way, coughed,
and out of the corner of his eye caught Delight’s amused gaze as
she entered the room in time to hear her mother’s comment. “They
were, uh, quite attentive,” he said slowly, grabbing the cup of
hot, steaming chocolate that was set before him.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mrs. Foley said. “Of
course, one can never be too safe nowadays, what with such riffraff
as that awful Irish Pirate terrorizing the seas! Why, I’m told that
he struck again just last week . . . engaged himself in battle with
an English frigate!”

Christian nearly scalded his throat at the
woman’s reckless taunt. He set the hot chocolate down. “Battle?
There was no battle, madam. The English frigate in question was
under
my
command, and any damage she sustained was dealt by
a Frenchman, not an overgrown brat playing at being a
smuggler.”

His remark, carefully delivered with just the
right amount of anger and righteous British indignation, had the
desired effect. He saw his hostess’s eyes gleam before she quickly
set a slice of pork pie before him. “Is that so, Captain? I don’t
think the Irish—I mean, the scoundrel—is ‘playing.’ In fact, I hear
he’s become quite successful at his
game
.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Christian said mildly,
carefully sipping his chocolate and pretending a blithe disregard
for the subject. “He didn’t have the courage to stay and fight. Not
that it matters. My admiral views him as a paltry inconvenience,
and so do I. The Navy has better things to be doing than chasing
after vermin, and I certainly wasn’t sent across three thousand
miles of stormy North Atlantic for the sole purpose of apprehending
this nuisance who seems determined to get himself hanged.”

His hostess took the bait. “You mean, you’ve
been sent all the way from England
just
to catch the Irish
Pirate?”

“Ridiculous, is it not?” Christian gave a
benign, planned smile. “Of course, one cannot blame me for my lack
of interest in the assignment. I have far more important matters on
my mind.”

“Such as?” she prompted, trying to conceal
her inquisitiveness.

Christian picked up his knife and fork and
cut a piece of the pie. He allowed a smile to touch his mouth. “Oh,
such as the pursuit of other, more . . . shall I say . . .
romantic
interests.”

She stared at him.

“Really, Mrs. Foley,” he said, smiling
patiently. “After that display on your front lawn, is there any
doubt in your mind as to what brought me to Menotomy? I have fallen
in love with Deirdre and wish to marry her at the earliest
convenience. Have you never been in love, madam? Do you not know,
or remember, what it is like to be unable to think of anything but
the object of your affection?” That much, at least, was true. “My
beloved Deirdre consumes my attention, my dreams, my every waking
moment. I have little thought for this Irish Pirate, and even less
care for what bit of glory I might earn by catching him.”

Bit of glory indeed,
Christian thought
to himself. He had been tasked with apprehending the scoundrel, and
he would do just that. But first and foremost, he had to gain the
Foleys’ trust—and fool them into thinking he did not take his
assignment seriously.

Apparently his plan was working; his hostess
had visibly relaxed, and it occurred to Christian that marrying
Deirdre, and thereby removing his excuse to visit the Foley
household, would be quite welcome in Mrs. Foley’s eyes indeed.

“Well, then,” the woman said brightly, “I
shall not detain you in your courtship of the girl. Personally, I
think you make a striking couple! In fact—”

At that moment, Deirdre came flying down the
stairs, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Ye like it, Christian?”
She made a quick, childish pirouette, the skirts of her new riding
habit flying to reveal shapely ankles. “’Tis Del—I mean, Dolores’s.
She gave me some clothes to wear till I can sew some of my
own.”

Judging from the tailored fit of the bodice,
and given the superior size of Delight’s bosom, Deirdre had already
been at work with needle and thread.

“You are beautiful, my love.” His eyes
warmed. “I am undone.”

He was also growing impatient. Pushing the
plate of pie away, he drained the last of the hot chocolate and got
to his feet. “Mrs. Foley, may I have your permission to take
Deirdre riding?”

“Yes, yes of course, Captain Lord. In fact,
take one of our horses for Deirdre. Oh, would that we could all be
young again, and in love . . .”

Christian nodded, took Deirdre’s hand, and,
bending to kiss it, led her from the house, secure in the knowledge
that Delight’s mother thought him nothing more than an arrogant and
smitten fool who had little interest in actually apprehending the
Irish Pirate.

But as the Foley women stood on the porch,
watching the tall and handsome officer escort their houseguest
across the yard, Mrs. Foley was anything but calm. She waited until
they were out of earshot, then turned frantically on her
daughter.

“I don’t like this one bit!” she cried,
wringing her hands. “That’s all we need, to have a king’s officer
sniffing around here!”

“
Really,
Mama, he’s a naval captain,”
Delight purred, forgetting to use her normal tone of voice and
earning a sharp glare from her mother. “And naval officers concern
themselves with the affairs of ships and sea,
not
with
patriot gatherings such as those that you and Papa have become
involved in.”

“Still, the man makes me nervous! He’s too
polished. Too controlled. And those eyes . . . they discern too
much! He
knows,
Dolores Ann!” She gripped her daughter’s
arms, her fingers biting into the soft flesh, her eyes wide with
fright. “He
knows!”

“Pooh, Mama. He knows nothing. He’s merely in
love with Deirdre, that’s all.” Delight smoothed a lock of golden
hair and tucked it under her mobcap. “Why, if you’d seen the
utterly scandalous way those two behaved aboard ship, you’d know
just
what I’m talking about.”

“Dolores Ann, everyone knows he was sent here
to apprehend the Irish Pirate!”

“And by his own admission you heard how
little the task means to him.” Delight laid a hand on her mother’s
arm. “Really, Mama, you worry too much. Captain Lord is a brave and
steady man, and he will do his duty, but he is not cunning and
clever like our Irish Pirate. Why, Roddy will run circles around
him. In fact, he already has. Now come. Let us go and see to
supper, no?”

Taking her mother’s arm, she led her into the
house.

Chapter 25

They rode side by side, he gazing hungrily at
her trim form, she admiring the way the sunlight picked out the
gold in his hair where it lay caught in a queue between his broad
shoulders. He smiled over at her, his eyes dark beneath the shadow
of his hat, and she felt suddenly giddy with happiness. Despite the
hostile looks some of the townspeople were giving him, she was
proud to be at his side.

They rode onward, gazing at each other so
much that it was left to the horses to choose their path. To
Deirdre, America suddenly did not seem so bleak. She had been too
homesick to appreciate her surroundings, but now, at the side of
the man she loved, the sunlight looked brighter, the chickadees and
cardinals and jays more colorful, the water of a nearby pond cobalt
with brilliance, the scents of springtime—mud, melted frost,
running water, fresh air— sharper.

And trees? She had never seen so many in her
life, for the moors of Connemara were bleak and barren and empty of
such thick woods.

“Christian?”

“Aye, my love?”

She was looking at a V of geese winging high
overhead, their brash honking drifting down in waves of sound.
“D’ye ever miss England?”

He smiled gently. “All the time.”

“The same way I miss Ireland?”

“Perhaps. Though I confess I don’t carry a
bag of trinkets with me to remind me of it.”

She frowned. “Are ye teasin’ me?”

“Who, me?” His lips twitched. “I simply find
it a most charming trait, your sentimentality for home. But
someday, you will learn that home is not where you happen to be
living at the moment, or even where you hail from—but where your
heart is. Home can be any place, as long as the one you love is
there with you.”

“If that’s true, Christian, then I am home
now.”

He urged his horse closer to hers and reached
out across the short distance to take her hand. “Was it hard for
you, being alone these past nights?”

“Aye,” she said, the misery of those lonely
hours nearly forgotten now that Christian was there with her. “But
I managed.”

“Oh?”

“I took yer shirt,” she admitted. “It wasn’t
much, but holding it in my arms, I felt as if I had a part o’ ye
there with me. And ye know what else I did, Christian?”

“Pray, do tell.”

“I sat at my window and figured out by the
stars just where Ireland is—then I moved my bed so I can fall
asleep every night with my face toward it.”

He laughed in high amusement and leaned over
to kiss her cheek.

“Christian, d’ye think all the Englishmen who
are here—I mean, all the men in the ships, and all the men of the
general’s troops—want to go home, too?”

“I am sure they do.”

“I don’t know why anyone would want to live
here, Christian. The land is ugly. And everyone’s so cold and
unfriendly.”

“The people are unhappy with England’s
policies right now, Deirdre. When things are resolved, and
agreements reached between the colonists and Britain, then you will
find America a very beautiful place.”

“’Tis nothin’ like Ireland,” she declared
huffily.

“No, it is not. It has its own beauty.”

“I see nothin’ beautiful about it. The birds
look different, the animals look different, the people talk
different, and the grass is brown. Whoever heard of brown grass? In
Ireland right now, the grass’d be green and pretty!”

He slanted her a grin. “In Ireland right now,
it would be raining.”

She clamped her lips shut.

“And,” he pointed out with another gently
taunting smile, “New England gets heavy snow in the
wintertime—unlike Ireland—which is why the grass turns brown. But
you wait. I daresay in two or three weeks, it will be as green as
it is at home.”

“Ye promise, Christian?”

There was such a look of childish hope in her
eyes that he was nearly undone. “I promise, Deirdre.”

She looked away, and they continued for some
time before she spoke again. “Christian?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Have ye been thinkin’ of yer other promise?
Yer vow to help me find my brother?”

“Aye, Deirdre, I’ve been thinking of it. And
so, apparently, has your cousin. I have not had opportunity to
speak with him directly, and will not for some time, as Sir
Geoffrey has sent him out to patrol the coast. However, he did send
me a note, pledging to do all that he can to help us.” Christian
did not add that locating her brother would be akin to finding a
minnow in the Atlantic, for that would only crush her. “In the
meantime, I will do everything in my power to restore your brother
to you, so help me God.”

“If anyone can find him,
you
can,” she
declared, her eyes reverent and full of childish trust in what she
obviously considered to be his godlike abilities. He knew he could
never live up to her expectations of him, and swiftly changed the
subject.

“Are the Foleys treating you well?” he
asked.

“Aye.”

“You are managing, then?”

“Aside from losin’ my wool the first night,
aye.”

He gave her a puzzled, sidelong glance.
“Losing your
wool
?”

“’Twas from Ireland,” she said defensively.
“It blew out the window when I was tryin’ to figure out in which
direction Ireland was.”

“I see.” He hid a private grin.

“But I still have my Irish air left,” she
said, her face very serious. She patted her horse’s neck. “And my
pebble and my sand and shells. And, of course, I still have my
cross, which I
can’t
lose because I never take it off.”

“Never?” he teased.

“Never!”

He laughed, his eyes glinting with amusement
as they left the village behind them. The horses plodded along,
their ears flicking back and forth, their hooves thudding dully
against the road. In the distance, purple hills rose against the
horizon, and here and there a farmhouse, spouting a tuft of smoke
from its chimney, made a splash of color against the landscape.
Eventually they found a small path that led off the road and down
through the trees. The horses slowed, slipping a bit in the mud as
they descended, and Christian ducked beneath low-hanging branches.
Deirdre was right behind him, admiring the way his shoulders
stretched the fabric of his uniform coat.

So intent was she in studying him that she
almost allowed her horse to plow into his when he stopped.

He turned then, smiling, his eyes dark with
unspoken desire. “Do you find this spot as pretty as any in
Ireland, Deirdre?”

She looked around. A stream, swelled with
spring thaw and rain, tumbled over a bed of brightly colored
pebbles and wound away into the woods. Sunlight shone down through
a stand of evergreens, dappling a carpet of pine needles and dead
leaves from the previous autumn. High above, a bright blue sky
shone through the trees, and here and there large boulders of
granite, their color that of Christian’s eyes, rose out of the
leaf-strewn forest floor.

Deirdre shut her eyes, listening to the happy
babble of the brook. “I think it might be,” she admitted
slowly.

“Do you find it a place that is suitable to .
. . being
alone
with each other?”

“Oh, aye, Christian. I wouldn’t care if I was
sittin’ in a mud puddle, long’s I was with ye.”

He gave a wolfish smile, and swung easily
down from his saddle. Her eyes hungry, she watched as he tied his
horse to a nearby tree, loosening the girth so the big stallion
could relax. She started to dismount, but he was there, his hands
fastening around her waist. She gazed happily into his face. Since
when had that face, this man, become so dear, so beloved, to her? A
shaft of sunlight slanted down through the trees, falling over his
gray irises and picking out a hint of green there. “Please, love,”
he said, smiling up into her eyes. “Allow me the pleasure.”

“Christian, ye don’t always have to be
playin’ the officer and gentleman, ye know.”

“I am not playing,” he said seriously,
plucking her from the saddle as though she weighed no more than the
tuft of wool she had lost. She fastened her arms behind his neck
and gazed up into his eyes, sighing with delight as he carried her
to a sunlit spot a short distance away. “And though I intend to
stretch the limits of the word ‘gentleman,’ I shall always behave
with your interests uppermost in my mind.”

With that, he set her down, took a rolled
blanket from behind the cantle of his saddle, and spread it out
over the ground. Somewhat shyly, Deirdre helped him straighten the
corners and stood looking up at him. Dear God, she had never
thought an Englishman could be so utterly, achingly, handsome. And
she had never thought she could love someone as much as she did
him.

He took off his hat, hung it on a nearby tree
branch, and, removing his sword, came to stand beside her. She was
suddenly aware of the muscled strength of his thighs, the heat of
his powerful body, his fierce need for her and her alone. He
reached out and cupped her chin in his hands, his thumbs warm
against her cheekbones as he gazed down into her eyes for a long,
intense moment. “Do you love me, Deirdre?”

She returned his stare unblinkingly. “I love
ye more than I love life itself, Christian.”

“Do you love me enough to become my
wife?”

He couldn’t have stunned her more if he had
grown a third arm. Her eyes widened, her jaw went slack, and her
lips moved several times before she could form the words. “Ye mean
. . . ye want to . . . to marry me? Ye mean I wasn’t just hopin’
against hope that ye’d ask?”

“You had hoped I would ask?”

“I
prayed
ye’d ask, Christian. But I
didn’t think ye would, you being English, and me bein’ Irish ’n’
all.”

“English, Irish, it makes no difference. I
love you. You love me. I’d marry you tomorrow if I could, so eager
am I to get you out of Menotomy and back with me—where you
belong.”

“I know, Christian,” she said gently, her
hands coming up to touch the hard planes of his cheeks. “Brendan
already explained it to me, that Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t like it none
if ye kept a woman aboard yer ship who wasn’t yer wife. He told me
it might look bad for ye when it comes to promotin’ time. I don’t
like to be away from ye, Christian, but I understand now why I have
to be.” She shrugged. “Besides, the Foleys are treatin’ me well. I
know I won’t be out here forever.”

“Indeed, you will not be. As soon as your
cousin returns, I will ask him for your hand.”

“Oh, Christian . . .”

He slid his hands around her waist. Slowly,
he drew her toward him, and claimed her lips in a deep and
passionate kiss that burned away all memories of her loneliness.
She melted against him, her hand coming up to slip beneath his
queue, holding his head close to hers as the kiss deepened, their
tongues touching, tasting, his hand warm against the small of her
back and pressing her hips against his arousal. After a long
moment, the kiss ended, and he reached into his pocket and drew
something out. Looking down, Deirdre saw that his palm was turned
upward, and a ring, as ancient and beautiful as Grace’s cross,
rested on its hard and callused surface.

Her hands went to her mouth, her gaze
flashing up to his.

“This has been in my family for hundreds of
years,” he explained, gently prying her hands away from her mouth
and tenderly grasping her left one. It was shaking so violently he
had to close his fingers around it to still it.

“Marry me, Deirdre O’ Devir?”

“I’ll marry ye, Christian Lord.”

He smiled, and slid the ring onto her
finger.

She stared at it, holding her breath and
unable to speak. There it was, proclaiming to the world that she
belonged to this brave, handsome, battle-scarred sea warrior. Tears
filled her eyes, and he lifted her hand so that the sunlight caught
the rubies of the lion’s eyes, the diamonds of its teeth.

“You are mine,” he declared.

Deirdre was crying now, unashamedly.
“Ch-Christian, this is the h-happiest moment of my life.” She
knuckled her eyes and stared at her hand for a long moment, then
hugged it to her breast, mating the ring with the cross. It
appeared to be a spontaneous gesture, but he guessed, knowing her
penchant for sentimentality, that it was a purposeful melding of
Irish and English, one heart to its mate, one proud ancestry to
another.

His heart swelled within his chest, aching
with love for her.

And then, impulsively, she threw her arms
around his neck. He responded immediately, crushing her almost
savagely in his embrace, one hand coming up to cup her nape and
draw her close, and this time the kiss was desperate, savage, and
hard.

“By God, I’ve missed you,” he murmured,
resting his chin on her shoulder and breathing hard. “I doubt I can
wait until you are well and truly mine.”

“Do ye
have
to ask Brendan, Christian?
Can’t we just get married and be done with it?”

“As your closest living relative, Deirdre, it
would be wrong
not
to ask him.”

Deirdre was already loosening his neckcloth,
drawing it away from his throat, rising on her tiptoes so she could
press her lips against his skin. She breathed deeply of his own
unique scent, a heady mix of shaving soap, his wool coat . . the
sea. Her pulse began to beat a little faster, and slowly, she
spread her palms beneath the coat and began to pull it off. It was
a mild day, and he had left the garment unbuttoned, but the
waistcoat was not so; and, one by one, she worked her fumbling
fingers against its gold buttons until that, too, was open, and his
fine white shirt was all that lay between his chest and her
searching fingers.

He looked down at her, his eyes dark with
desire, a little smile playing about the corner of his mouth as
Deirdre pared his waistcoat from his shoulders, taking care to be
gentle where the musket ball had been lodged. Her heart began to
pound, and as she slid her hands up beneath his shirt, gently
drawing it up and over his head, her eyes went soft with wonder at
the magnificent display of male power and beauty that was his
sculpted, well-muscled chest. Only a fresh bandage marred its
perfection, and when it came off, yet another scar would mark where
his strength and courage had seen him through another battle.