Read Master of My Dreams Online
Authors: Danelle Harmon
Tags: #romance, #historical romance, #swashbuckling, #swashbuckler, #danelle harmon, #georgian england, #steamy romance, #colonial boston, #sexy romance, #sea adventures
“The sight of ye makes me burn for wantin’
ye, Christian,” she breathed, her eyes, then her hands, devouring
his honed, sun-splashed body. She touched his strong, corded arms,
the sparse golden hair that roughened his chest and torso, then
reached up and untied his queue, letting the thick, silky hair
slide between her fingers. He let her look, and touch, her fill,
then pulled her close to him and, bending his head, kissed her long
and hard and thoroughly.
She melted against him, her hands drifting up
his torso, down his back and around to the hard planes of his belly
as she lost herself to the kiss. Her fingers found the flap of his
breeches and without hesitation, she slid each button through its
hole until the garment gapped open and slid a little way down his
hips. As she took him in her hands, she found him hot, hard, and
ready. Gently, she stroked him, rubbing her thumb over the velvety
head and taking pleasure in each soft groan that came from him, the
way he filled her hand, the increasing desperation of his kiss.
And then Deirdre sank to her knees, her lips
whispering down the flat slab of his belly, and kissed him.
He caught his breath, driving his fingers
into her hair to anchor himself.
Holding him in one hand, she looped the other
around the back of his thighs and held him close, brushing her lips
along the hot, swollen length of him until his breathing grew
hoarse and unsteady and she felt tremors moving through his great
body as he fought to keep himself under control. She looked up at
him, saw that his eyes were half shut, his expression one of what
looked to be pain; then, Deirdre rubbed him against her cheek,
against her lips, and gently took him into her mouth.
His knees buckled, and within moments, they
were both down on the blanket, her short-jacket discarded, her
stays loosened and removed, her body, clad in nothing but her
shift, petticoats, and stockings, lying beneath his as he kissed
her hungrily, one hand drifting down to pull up the hem of her
petticoats. She felt the warmth of his hand against her bare leg;
the brush of his knuckles as he dragged the skirts up, exposing her
thighs to the cool air, and then his hand was against her cleft,
parting it, gently stroking her until her own dampness bathed his
fingers.
“Christian . . . dear God, how I want ye,”
she murmured.
“Not half as much, Deirdre, as I want
you
,” he responded, and pulling back, kissed a trail down
her throat, over her collarbone, and down to the neckline of her
chemise, where she felt his tongue against the rise of one breast,
gently nipping, tasting, licking. Then, cupping the soft globe in
his hand and watching his own actions, he brushed his thumb over
the muslin-clad nipple, back and forth, over and over, until she
was moaning in delight.
“Ohhh . . .” she said, sighing.
He lowered his head, took her breast into his
mouth and began to suck on the taut, hardened nipple through the
thin muslin, drawing both it and the fabric deeply into his
mouth.
It was agony. Sweet agony.
Through the wet fabric, she now felt his
tongue, licking the pebbled nipple, stroking it into an even harder
peak. Deirdre writhed beneath him, her body suddenly too hot, her
heart beating like a drum beneath his relentless tongue, his
masterful mouth.
He pulled back only long enough to gaze down
at her rosy, heat-suffused cheeks, and into her eyes. “You, my love
. . . are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Thank you . .
. thank you for consenting to become my wife. My lover. My very
best friend. I am the most blessed man on earth.”
And with that, he pulled back, slid his hands
under her hips, lifted them like an offering, and, gently pulling
her skirts up over her belly, buried his face between her legs.
The first scrape of his chin against her
inner thighs nearly sent Deirdre over the edge, but when she felt
his hot breath against her wet folds, then his thumbs as he spread
the damp, intimate flesh wide, she sobbed deep in her throat and in
a growing frenzy, caught at the edge of the blanket, the dried
leaves beneath, her fingers driving into the earth as her body
began to writhe and twist beneath him in its headlong flight toward
release.
“Christian—“
He only spread her further, and as she began
to gasp and keen, his tongue moved against her wet slit, tasting,
licking, stroking, before pressing against the engorged little bud
in which her passion was centered; he drew it into his mouth and
sucked it hard, and Deirdre came against him with a fevered cry,
her body arcing upward and convulsing on shattering waves of
pleasure that left her sobbing in tears of joy.
He moved up, cradling her between his
forearms, seeking her lips once more, and she tasted herself upon
him as his hand moved down between them to himself, guiding the
velvety tip to her still-throbbing entrance. Deirdre reached down,
helping to position him, and as slick and wet as she was, he slid
easily into her, stretching her wide, wide, wide, filling her until
she thought she could take no more.
He paused there, the corded muscles of his
arms standing out in relief as he balanced himself.
“I love you, Deidre,” he murmured.
And then he began to move within her, drawing
back, pushing forward, sheathed in her wet, hot core as he built
the timeless rhythm of love. Her eyes drifted open, watching the
concentration in his face, the way his eyes, heavy with desire, had
darkened. His hair tumbled over his brow. The veins on his arms
stood out, thick with blood. Faster, stronger, deeper . . . passion
built once more, and her legs came up to wrap around his hips as
she sought even deeper closeness, the slick friction unbearable,
exquisite, joyous. And here it came again, that soaring
pleasure-pain that was building in her belly, building, building,
until her world splintered apart and her cries rent the air; he
gave a final, mighty thrust, stiffened, and with a hoarse groan,
buried his face in the curve of her neck, his seed pulsing hot
inside her as he found his own release.
They clung to each other long after the last
tremors faded, he taking his weight on one arm, the other reaching
down to find her hand and hold it as they drifted slowly back to
earth. Then, moving slightly, he wrapped his mighty arms around
her, rolled onto his back, and heartbeat to heartbeat, held her
protectively, lovingly, fiercely, against himself.
Nearby, the brook splashed happily over
stones and sand. Overhead, the wind sighed through the pines, and a
chickadee flitted from branch to branch, its distinctive song clear
and bright. The sun grew stronger, and beneath the blanket the
ground was earthy, springy, and warm.
They slept, two people caught up in love, and
when they awoke some time later, they came together again . . . and
again . . . until the sun began to dip below the trees and the
shadows grew long.
They washed in the chilly waters of the
brook, dried themselves with the blanket, and slowly dressed each
other, their hearts heavy at the thought of parting. It was nearly
dark by the time they rode into the Foleys’ yard, and after a short
apology to their hostess about keeping Deirdre out for so long,
Christian led his young love back out under the stars and holding
her arms, looked down into her eyes.
“This won’t last forever, Deidre.”
She laid her cheek against his chest and
stared out into the darkness, holding him tight. “Will you be back,
soon?”
“Within the next day or two, if the admiral
can spare me.”
They clung together, neither willing to say
goodbye; but finally, the moment came for Christian to leave.
Slowly, reluctantly, he set her away from him, his hand lingering
on hers, his eyes dark and sad as he gazed down into her beloved
face.
“I love you, Deirdre.”
“I love you, too, Christian. Be safe.”
Then he mounted his horse and, touching his
hat to her, rode off, leaving her standing there on the darkened
lawn until his shadowy figure had disappeared into the night.
Chapter 26
Christian did not get very far down the
Concord Road before turning back. The feel of Deirdre’s body still
burned in his memory, and he ached for want of holding her. Soon,
now, they would be together forever, and he would ache no more. But
he had not been sent here for pleasure; he had been sent here to
apprehend the Irish Pirate—known enemy of the Crown, brazen
supplier of arms to the rebels—and as a good and dutiful officer of
his king, he intended to do just that.
Acting upon a tip from his own spies, General
Gage had informed him of tonight’s meeting at which several known
rebel leaders—Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Dr. Joseph
Warren—were supposed to gather. No doubt the Irish Pirate would
make an appearance, too. The whereabouts of the meeting had not
been known, but Gage had had his own nagging suspicions as to where
it would be.
Christian halted his horse beneath the
branches of a sprawling oak and, rummaging in his saddlebags, found
his wig, a bit crushed but otherwise perfect for his disguise. He
donned it, replaced his hat, and traded his naval coat for the
shabby green frock coat that, along with the blanket, had been
rolled up behind the cantle of his saddle.
Back down Concord Road he went, a slightly
rumpled traveler on a tired horse, nothing about him indicating he
was a proud and decorated sea warrior in the service of the king.
As he came around a slight bend in the road, he saw the lights of
the Foley house; a single candle glowed orange behind the curtains
of an upstairs window, and his heart gave a painful lurch as he
thought of Deirdre up there getting ready for bed—and probably
missing Ireland with all her young heart.
Did she miss him, too? When she blew out the
light, would she go to the window, pull back the curtain, and gaze
out into the night, thinking of him as he had thought of her from
the lonely darkness of
Bold Marauder
’s cabin?
He sighed, and turned away, focusing on his
mission. He might not be
with
her tonight, but at least he
would be
near
her.
Just across the street from the Foley
homestead was the tavern he had noted earlier, and here, he pulled
the horse up and dismounted. Though his plan was sound and
carefully conceived, he was still alert for danger. Surely the same
villagers who, hours earlier, had glared with such hostility at a
British naval officer, wouldn’t recognize this road-weary traveler
as the same man. He hoped they wouldn’t recognize his horse,
either. But chestnut was a common color, and the night was dark.
Leading his horse, he cleared his throat and pounded a fist against
the tavern’s door.
Several moments went by, long moments in
which the only sound was the wind moaning through the trees above.
Then he heard footsteps, and the click of a latch being cautiously
lifted. The door was cracked, then opened wide. A woman stood
there, her dark hair covered by a mobcap, her eyes suspicious. She
held a candle in a tin holder, and this she lifted, shining it
fully into Christian’s eyes until he blinked.
“Good evening, madam,” he said wearily,
inclining his bewigged head. Behind him, the horse gave a deep
sigh, as though in full cooperation with his ruse. “Have you a room
for a sore and weary traveler, and perhaps a meal to warm his cold
bones?”
The woman lifted the candle higher, her
shrewd eyes taking in his slightly unkempt appearance. At last,
satisfied, she lowered the light and glanced quickly up the road
from whence he had just come. “Aye, we’ve room for ye. Nice, clean
chamber upstairs, and some leftover stew still bubbling over the
fire.”
“I am much obliged, madam.”
“There’s a barn out back. Put your nag away
and then join us for a bite to eat. We’re plain and simple folk,
but you’ll not find us lacking in hospitality.”
An hour later, Captain Christian Lord, hero
of Quiberon and pride of the Royal Navy, sat in darkness on the
bare floorboards of his room, the door locked behind him, his body
well fed and wide awake. The bed was turned back, waiting for him.
The embers of a fire glowed in the hearth. The window was open to
the night, and he had a small spyglass balanced against the sill
and trained on the Foley house directly across the road.
He doubted he’d have long to wait.
He thought of Mrs. Foley’s sudden panic when
he had appeared, unexpectedly, at her door this afternoon, and her
prevailing skittishness throughout his visit. He thought of Delight
Foley admitting her desire for the Irish Pirate when she had
cornered him aboard the frigate, and her plans to seduce and win
him to her bed. He thought of the open hostility the villagers had
shown him, and the suspicious way the tavern owner’s wife had
studied him before finally letting him in. He thought of Foley’s
reputation as being loyal to king and Crown—and he thought of the
broadsides Sir Geoffrey had shown him, broadsides most likely
printed by Jared Foley and meant to inflame the rebels toward
inevitable bloodshed.
Bloodshed that must, at all costs, be
prevented.
Christian’s mouth hardened. The Irish Pirate
must be caught before he could supply the rebels with any more arms
and ammunition
It was a matter of life and death.
Shifting his weight to a more comfortable
position, he raised the glass once more, trained it at the dark
house across the street, and sat back to wait.
###
It was sometime around midnight that Deirdre
awoke.
Her eyes came slowly open as sounds permeated
her consciousness. Low tones, of men talking . . . A voice, heavy
with an Irish brogue . . . Not Brendan’s, but somehow familiar . .
. As familiar as the devil-may-care laughter that followed it.