Master of My Dreams (33 page)

But the effort of standing was too much. He
felt suddenly sick, and sat down heavily, numb with shock and
beginning to tremble.

No . . .

But the awful truth was right there across
the street. Unmistakable. Undeniable. He bent his head to his
hands, his shock giving way to logic, logic giving way to grief,
grief giving way to anger, anger giving way to blazing, white-hot
fury.

She had betrayed him. She—his little Irish
girl—had betrayed him.

I love ye, Christian.
His chest
convulsed in grief, and he took a deep, shaky breath as he tried to
get himself under control.
God help me, I love ye.”

“I trusted you,” he bit out, his fist
slamming into the wall. Blood sprayed from his knuckles, but he
never felt the pain, for it was insignificant in the face of the
crushing blow he’d just been dealt. “Damn you, I trusted you,
believed in you,
loved you
. . .” He stumbled back to the
window, seeing the Foleys’ door open and spill a rectangle of pale
yellow light upon the barren lawn. “How
could
you? Oh,
Deirdre,
how could you
?”

People were moving out onto the lawn as the
meeting broke up. Riders were mounting their horses, and
disappearing into the night, until there were only two people still
out there in the darkened street.

Deirdre.

And the Irish Pirate.

Her lovely, traitorous face was pale in the
gloom as she turned it up toward that of her lover. He wanted to
shut his eyes but he couldn’t. He wanted to turn away but,
sickened, found he could do nothing except stare as Deirdre pulled
something out of a bag he recognized as the one containing her
Irish mementoes, and pressed something into the smuggler’s hands.
Then, her arms came up to wrap themselves around the man’s
neck.

Betrayed.

He heard snippets of her laughter. Heard the
smuggler’s deep voice, and again, Deirdre’s happy giggle. The
sounds drove another nail into the coffin that contained his dying
heart, then another, until everything inside of him went dead.

For him, there was nothing left. No feeling,
no pain, nothing. Just—emptiness.

He stood there watching them, until at last
the smuggler mounted his horse and with a flourish rode away.
Deirdre remained, all alone in the road, the wind blowing her dark
tresses around her shoulders, her face turned toward the east.

Toward where her lover had gone.

Christian put his head in his hands. Now he
knew the real reason Deirdre O’Devir had been aboard his ship, and
it wasn’t to find her long-lost brother. Pain filled him as he
realized how foolish he had been. She had only wanted free passage
to America so she could reunite with her Irish lover—and, no doubt,
learn every secret of the Royal Navy, and of Christian’s own
mission, that she could pass on to him.

Mouth tight, he stood staring down at the
lone figure out in the road outside. ‘Two can play at your game,
dear girl,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “So help me God, you
will rue this day, and so will your bloody lover.”

Chapter 27

The decks of HMS
Bold Marauder
were
lonely and dark, with only a few lanterns hung in the shrouds to
make a stand against the fog that lay heavily over the harbor. A
few idle seamen swilled their grog and bemoaned the absence of
Delight Foley. A marine stood leaning against his musket, his eyes
scanning the mists, his thoughts far away. Ian MacDuff was the
officer of the watch and, to relieve the boredom, had brought out
his bagpipes, much to the dismay of those who happened to be on
deck with him. For a short time the pipes had honked and croaked
and moaned, until the accompanying curses and protests from his
shipmates had sent Ian storming off in high Scottish rage.

Now, he stood sulkily beside Skunk on the
empty quarterdeck, seeking shelter beneath the dripping tarp that
had been rigged against the earlier, drenching rain. Lantern light
caught the glimmer of moisture as it trickled down masts and tarred
lines, pooled upon booms and yards, and made the decks slippery and
treacherous. Skunk pulled his cap down over his grimy forehead and
wiped away the moisture with the back of his hand. “Quiet night out
there,” he muttered. “Hibbert says the Lord and Master’s still
up.”

Ian, shivering in the cold, damp rain that
began to leak from the black sky above, cast a quick glance aft.
Sure enough, a glow from the skylight confirmed Hibbert’s
observation. “Aye, I’d say he is.”

“Somethin’s up, Ian. He’s been silent and
keepin’ to himself since he got back from visitin’ the Irish lass.
Ye don’t think somethin’ happened between ’em, do ye?”

“I doona ken, Skunk. But ’tis right you are
about something being in the air. The Old Fart came aboard this
afternoon and he and the captain met in his cabin for over an hour.
Evans was eavesdroppin’ outside the door, and said that tomorrow
night we’ll see action.”

“Action?”

“Well, I know I shouldnae be tellin’ ye this,
it probably being highly confidential and all, but we
are
shipmates . . .”

Skunk swung around, his eyes eager. “Aw, Ian,
just tell me!”

The big Scotsman shrugged. “Well, Gage has
his own system of spies, sprinkled throughout Boston and the
surrounding countryside. Ye ken, in taverns, inns, pretending tae
be friends of the rebels . . .”

“Go on,” Skunk urged, glancing over his
shoulder even as Hibbert, his uniform dull and drooping in the
mist, and Teach, joined them.

“Aye, tell us, Ian!”

The Lord and Master would be furious if he
found out that Ian was divulging secrets, but peer pressure
overruled Ian’s misgivings. Besides, the crew had long since
abandoned their animosity toward the man who treated them with a
respect and humanity not often seen in the Royal Navy. They would
stand by him, no matter what.

“Well, these spies of Gage’s have learned
that the rebels are planning tae smuggle a whole shipment of guns
ashore. ’Tis tae happen tomorrow night, off the coast of Salem.” He
glanced over at the nearby
Halcyon
, her riding lights dim in
the foggy darkness. “Ye ken how Captain Merrick returned from his
patrol tonight? Well, apparently he spied a large merchant vessel
in the waters off Cape Ann. He tried tae hail the ship, but she
took advantage of the dusk and fled. Kind of suspicious behavior,
don’t ye think? Sir Geoffrey thinks her presence only confirms the
rumors of an exchange tomorrow night. He wants us to be there to
nail the smugglers and catch ‘em in the act.”

“I wonder if it will be the Irish Pirate,”
Teach mused, swinging his tomahawk.

“I doona ken. But a dangerous mission ’twill
be, whoever the rebels send. I canna imagine they’d entrust the job
tae anyone but their best—the Irish Pirate.”

Skunk’s smile was wry. “And I can’t imagine
the admiral entrusting our job to anyone but
his
best.”

As one, they glanced toward the dim glow of
the captain’s skylight.

“The Lord and Master.”

###

The ship was nearly empty, for Christian was
one of the few captains who trusted his company enough to allow
them shore leave. Given the harsh life of the Royal Navy, many
seamen deserted ship given the slightest opportunity, but
Christian’s humane efforts had earned him the loyalty of his
subordinates, men who, not a month past, had wanted nothing more
than to make his life hell.

It was a triumph, yes, and so was his success
in linking Jared Foley and the Irish Pirate to the rebel leaders.
But Sir Geoffrey’s praise for both accomplishments meant nothing to
a heart that had stopped beating when Christian had seen the woman
he loved in the arms of another man.

He got up and walked across the cabin to the
open stern windows, absently rubbing at his sore shoulder. Beyond
the glass, he could see nothing but darkness and fog, punctured
here and there by the fuzzy glow of lanterns hung in the shrouds of
neighboring ships, and, off in the distance, the lights of Boston.
There were no stars. There was no horizon. Encased as the area was
in a lonely cloak of mist and fog, it was hard to believe that
thousands of British troops inhabited the town, trying to keep
peace in a situation that was ready to explode into war. It was
hard to believe that far beyond the fog, the shoreline, and Boston
itself, rebels were secreting stores of arms in the countryside. It
was hard to believe that, out to sea, a merchantman waited,
carrying a vast shipment of arms—and it was hard to believe that
the rebels would entrust anyone but the Irish Pirate to receive
that shipment when the exchange was made tomorrow night.

In his heart, Christian knew that he would
succeed in apprehending the notorious smuggler. He knew it as
surely as he felt the damp tendrils of mist seeping through his
clothes, chilling his skin, and making his hair curl damply,
thickly, behind his ears and at his nape. But the assurance brought
him no triumph, just a hollow, empty feeling of loneliness.

How would
she
react when he brought
down this man who obviously meant the world to her? Would she come
to him, begging for his release? Would she practice another form of
deceit upon his scarred and wounded heart?

Christian stared out at the soupy blackness
beyond the stern windows. His fingers brushed the bench seat where
Deirdre had sat, touched the blanket that had once been wrapped
around her shoulders. His throat constricted and he closed his
eyes, feeling dead and empty and alone. But from behind him came
the whines of the puppies as they snuggled together for warmth, and
the gentle sounds of Tildy’s tongue as she washed one or two of the
tiny, furry backs.

No. Not quite alone. Christian turned and
went to them, his eyes sad as he looked down at the little bodies
that Deirdre had helped bring into the world. Bending down, he
scooped up the runt of the litter, so small that it fit in the palm
of his hand, and, tucking the animal beneath the lapel of his
waistcoat to warm it, carried it back to his desk.

The puppy nuzzled against him, mewing like a
kitten. Its small mouth fastened around his finger, suckling it.
Closing his eyes, Christian laid his cheek, stubbled now with
bristle, against the tiny head. The fur was soft beneath his lips,
sweetly scented and warm.

Like hers.

Emotion rose in his throat. He swallowed
hard, and reached for his inkwell and pen. First Emily, and now
Deirdre. Both had betrayed him and sought the arms of another. Why?
He cuddled the puppy and shut his eyes against the sudden pain.
Why?

The puppy licked his chin. Thank God for
animals. At least they were faithful and true.

It was too bloody bad that the same couldn’t
be said for women.

###

Several miles away, in the little village of
Menotomy, the night was cold and raw. Rain fell from the blackened
sky, and wind drove the dampness into one’s very bones. But
Deirdre, wrapped in a quilt and sitting on the floor beside the
open window of her bedroom, rejoiced in it. If she closed her eyes,
she could almost imagine she was back in Ireland. About the only
thing that was missing was the pungent scent of peat fires wafting
in the damp air.

Her bag of Irish mementos was at her side,
though now, it was nearly empty. The miniature of her mother and
the old sliver of wood that had been part of her papa’s boat were
carefully arranged on the little stand beside her bed. But apart
from them, there was not much left that was from home. She had
given the bag of sand and shells from the Connemaran beach to
Roddy, and even now her heart warmed at the memory of how his eyes
had misted over for the briefest of moments out there in the
starlight at her simple but generous gesture. Of Ireland itself,
she had only the pebble from the pasture, and the flagon of air
left.

Her fingers came up to touch the Celtic cross
that never left her neck.

And the legacy of Grace O’Malley.

She gazed off into the darkness, thinking of
Christian. Missing him. She had not seen him since he had given her
the ring, but just having it on her finger assured her of his love,
and was a promise in itself that she would never again be
alone.

But oh, what should she do about the awful
predicament in which she now found herself?

She touched the ancient cross, trying to draw
strength and guidance from it. Should she send word to Christian
telling him that her own brother was the Irish Pirate? How would he
react? What would he do? Christian was a king’s officer; would he
choose his duty to apprehend Roddy over the vow he had made to
restore him to her?

No. Surely not. After all, he had promised
that he would find her brother and make right the wrong he had done
to her family. There was no question in Deirdre’s mind that
Christian would do the right thing.

Still . . . to think that Roddy, of all
people, was the Irish Pirate. Deirdre was still dazed over the
discovery—and very, very frightened. Her brother had not changed
much in the years since she’d last seen him; he was still rash and
reckless, still full of bravado, still hot-tempered and volatile,
but just as easily given to laughter. Such traits could, as the
rebel leaders had warned, bring about the downfall of a man whose
successes against the British had apparently gone to his head.

Deirdre’s worry increased. Christian was not
one of the village lads with whom Roddy used to delight in getting
into fist-fights. He was no puffed-up and swaggering braggart who
couldn’t see past the tip of his nose. He was no bumbling idiot, no
incompetent idler. Christian was one of the finest officers in the
king’s Navy, and he commanded a mighty frigate that was fully
capable of smashing the little sloop that Roddy would captain
tomorrow night when the arms transfer was made.