Master of My Dreams (37 page)

He stood, paralyzed, only his eyes moving as
they flickered to the ring.

She turned and walked slowly to the door,
choking on tears while she ached for him to say the words that
would bring her back to him, the words that would keep her from
walking out of his life, the words that were the only thing
standing between Roddy and a hangman’s noose.

The words that, once uttered, would mean a
lifetime of happiness for both of them.

She paused, her hand on the door latch while
her eyes beseeched his. “Let my brother go, Christian. Please . . .
say ye will. I beg of ye . . .”

He set his jaw and turned away.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Deirdre plucked
the ring from her palm, laid it on the table, and quietly left the
cabin.

Chapter 31

“Captain, sir?” Midshipman Robert Hibbert
stood in the doorway, his gaze probing the cabin’s gloomy darkness
until he spotted his commanding officer sprawled in his chair. The
Irish girl had left a week ago, and the Lord and Master had been
down here ever since; now the captain stared dejectedly at a
half-empty bottle of brandy, one arm cradling Tildy, who sat in his
lap and regarded Hibbert with sad eyes.

In their box, the puppies whined
pitifully.

“Captain?” Hibbert repeated, stepping into
the cabin.

Slowly, Christian raised his head. His eyes
were lifeless, bleak, his untouched breakfast congealing on a plate
near his elbow. “Pray, what is it, Hibbert?”

The young midshipman frowned at sight of the
brandy bottle. “Uh, Mr. MacDuff’s respects, sir, and says to tell
you a barge is setting off from the admiral’s ship and heading this
way. Sir Geoffrey is in it, sir.”

“Thank you, Hibbert.”

The Lord and Master remained unmoving,
staring dejectedly out the stern windows at the gray, rain-pocked
sea.

“Uh, begging your pardon, sir, but don’t you
think you might want to, uh, maybe make yourself look, uh . . .
presentable?”

The gray eyes remained fixed on the sea.
“Have a care to whom you’re talking to, Hibbert.”

“I am, sir.” The midshipman drew himself up
and smoothed his own smartly pressed uniform. “But this is a
king’s ship,”
he said pointedly, “and we wouldn’t want our
captain taken aback.”

Christian turned his head and stared at the
boy. Then he looked down at his own uniform. He wore only his shirt
and breeches, and both were badly rumpled and in need of a wash. A
large spot of spilled brandy—or was it rum? he couldn’t
remember—stained his shirt front, and his hair was rumpled and
unqueued. He swallowed hard and looked at his hands, gripping the
edge of the table. “Thank you, Hibbert.”

Drawing himself up, Hibbert swelled with
pride. “I’d be happy to help you buckle on your sword and clean up
the cabin,” he offered, with a fleeting glance at the bottle of
brandy. “Ian says we have maybe ten minutes before Sir Geoffrey
reaches us. It’s windy out there, and his crew’s having a hard
row.”

“Yes, of course,” Christian said woodenly. He
got to his feet, swaying a bit unsteadily. He could feel the
midshipman’s worried eyes upon him. He was not making a very good
role model for the young officer, or for any of his men.

And he didn’t give a bloody damn.

Topside, he heard the side party being
mustered as the crew prepared to receive the admiral. Shaking his
head to clear it, Christian set Tildy back down with her puppies,
and, pouring a pitcher of water into his basin, plunged his hands
beneath the surface and scrubbed at his bristled face.

Hibbert saw his predicament immediately.
“Would you like me to shave you, sir?”

The tired smile was answer enough. Christian
sat down and closed his eyes, allowing the lad to lather his face.
From above, he heard Ian’s gruff voice coming down through the
skylight as he ordered the side party into position.

“I know you’re feeling poorly about the
girl,” Hibbert said suddenly, bravely, as his captain’s eyes opened
to regard him with anger. “And we’re all proud of you for
outsmarting the Irish Pirate and bringing him to heel.” The razor
moved over Christian’s chin. “But don’t you think you might just
consider letting the man go? I mean, I’ve talked to him, and we’ve
been playing cards with him every night—”

"What?”

“He’s really a nice fellow, Captain O’Devir.
Not a criminal at all, sir, but a man who believes as strongly in
his ideas as, and pardon me for saying so, sir, you do in
yours.”

“He is a treasonous rebel and traitor to his
king,” Christian snapped, “and do not forget it!”

“Aye, sir.” The razor scraped over
Christian’s cheek, but the youth’s hand was surprisingly steady. “I
know you think you can’t let Captain O’Devir go, because
we
might be angry with you, but we held a meeting, sir, and we don’t
want to see him hang.”

Christian seized the midshipman’s wrist. “Why
the hell does everyone on this bloody planet seem to think I can
just release the scoundrel? Such decisions are not mine to make!
And, by God, this is a king’s ship. I have a code of honor and duty
to attend, and so do the bloody lot of you.” He shut his eyes,
cringing as he heard the bosun’s whistles shrilling on the deck
above. “Besides,” he added in a gentler tone, “I can’t just
release
him. You know that, Hibbert.”

“I know, sir. But you’ve got to do something
. . . We know you’re loyal to the king; we know you’re loyal to
this ship and the flag that flies above her decks. But in the end,
who wins if the Irish Pirate is hanged? No one. The rebels are
still going to transport arms to Concord, and everyone knows that
Gage will soon have to move against them.”

“Hibbert, you show a devilish amount of
wisdom for one so unadvanced in years.”

“And pardon me, sir, but you show a devilish
amount of stubbornness for someone as advanced in yours.”

“Pray, go to hell.”

The midshipman laughed, wiped the razor
clean, and toweled the streaks of lather from his captain’s austere
face. “Well, sir, I just wanted you to know that
we
won’t
think any less of you if Captain O’Devir . . .
escapes.
And—” He paused, looked away, and then, unflinchingly, met his
captain’s hard gaze. “I know this has been a long time in coming,
sir, but I have to say it. You’re the best Lord and Master we’ve
ever served under . . . and we only want to see you happy.”

Christian looked down. “Thank you, Hibbert.
That . . . that means a lot to me.”

“It’s the truth, sir. Now, if you’ll just
stand up, I’ll help you into your dress coat. I do believe I hear
the Old Fart’s voice outside now—his barge must be bumping our
hull, I’d say.” Christian rose and allowed the young midshipman to
help him into the heavy blue coat. He pulled his sleeves free of
the cuffs and buttoned the coat to conceal his stained shirt Then
he tied his hair back, picked up his hat, and raised his arms so
that Hibbert could buckle on his sword belt.

“You will make a fine captain someday,” he
said as the midshipman stood back to survey his handiwork.

“Thank you, sir. I have had a good example to
follow.”

For the first time in days, the Lord and
Master’s severe face broke into a grin; then he abruptly turned and
exited the cabin. Hibbert stood there for a moment, his eyes moving
almost reverently over the captain’s family coat of arms that hung
on the bulkhead, the painting of the king, the crossed swords, the
set of fine pistols.

Then he walked to the table, picked up the
bottle of brandy, and throwing the stern windows wide, flung it
into the sea.

###

“I say, Christian, Gage cannot stop singing
your praises,” Sir Geoffrey said, his shrewd eyes raking
Bold
Marauder's
decks for signs of laxity and finding none. “He
toasts you at every meal and has written letters to the king
commending your apprehension of the Irish Pirate.”

“I am flattered, sir.”

“Don’t be—you earned it. Damme, you are a
fine candidate for flag rank, Captain Lord, a fine candidate
indeed.” Aware of the eyes of the frigate’s crew on him, the crusty
old admiral straightened his back and followed
Bold
Marauder's
captain below. “D’you know, my flag captain is
proving to be most incompetent, and I must choose another. Captain
Merrick comes immediately to mind, as he is a fine young officer,
but I’ve already been accused of showing favoritism where he is
concerned. But then, he has earned his laurels, too.”

Christian pushed open the door to his cabin
and let out a relieved breath. Young Hibbert had done a fine,
albeit hasty, job of tidying it up.

The admiral’s words suddenly hit him. “What
are you saying, sir?”

Sir Geoffrey clapped Christian between his
shoulders. “I’m offering you the position of flag captain, my good
man.”

Christian stared at him. He’d carried the
flags of admirals before, but still, it was an honor. Another step
toward raising his own broad pennant. Another way the Royal Navy
had of thanking those who were loyal to the Service.

Loyal.

There, that word again. He fisted his hands,
the force behind the unseen gesture causing fresh pain to burst in
his shoulder. He hadn’t felt very loyal these past few days . .
.

Ye speak of duty and gallantry and bein ’
an officer and a gentleman
—

He swallowed with difficulty.

—
but ye’re no gentleman. Yer word, yer
honor, are as hollow as a rotten oak.

“Well, my good fellow?” Sir Geoffrey said,
grinning. “What d’you say, eh, Christian?”

Another medal for that fine and decorated
chest, another step up the ladder to promotion.

Christian turned bleak eyes upon Sir
Geoffrey. To be asked to carry the flag of his admiral was the
greatest honor that could be bestowed upon a captain. There were
those in the fleet who’d give their eyeteeth to be in the position
he now found himself.

. . .
yer word, your honor are as hollow
as a rotten oak.

He met the admiral’s gaze. “I am deeply
honored, Sir Geoffrey,” he said quietly, knowing, even as the words
left his mouth, that the decision he had made—and was about to
carry out—did not entitle him to carry the flag of any admiral, let
alone wear the coat of a king’s officer.

But it would allow him to live with
himself.

To spend the rest of his days knowing that he
had done what was morally right. To be able to face himself in the
mirror every day. To know that he had made his decision, based not
on the decree of the Navy to which he had devoted his life, but on
the code of honor that he—as an officer, as a gentleman—lived
by.

Honor.
It went far beyond the service
a man gave for his king and country; it encompassed his very
thoughts and deeds in dealing with his fellow man. Long ago, he had
committed an unpardonable sin against an innocent family when, in
the name of the king’s Navy, he had taken young Roddy O’Devir from
his homeland.

It was time to atone for that sin.

“Well, Christian?”

The Lord and Master’s eyes were steady,
resigned, proud. “Thank you, sir . . . but I’m afraid I must
decline.”

###

It was cold and damp in the tiny room in
which the Irish Pirate found himself. He lay on his back, shackled
and staring up into the darkness, a wool blanket draped over his
body and a small pouch of Irish seashells clenched in his hand.

Down here in the depths of the frigate,
sounds were distant and muffled. Thrice a day, a young midshipman
brought him a meager meal of bread and cheese and salt pork. He was
afforded a small jug of water, a few blankets, and all the privacy
he could possibly want. But for the past few hours, the ship had
been as quiet as a tomb.

Roddy’s fingers curled around the felt pouch,
feeling a shell that his sister had plucked from a beach that he
would never see again in this lifetime. Emotion clogged his throat,
and he suddenly wished he could turn back the clock and make up for
those lost years with her. Caught up in the patriots’ cause here in
America, he had used it as a sort of revenge against the English
for what they had done to him. Now he lay moldering in the orlop of
a king’s frigate, and the only reward for his actions was the
hangman’s noose.

Roddy had had many days to think about his
life, his plight, the foundations and workings of his own heart.
His hatred for Captain Lord had faded to grudging respect, for the
man had outwitted and outsmarted him. The English captain lived by
a strict code of honor and duty honed by many years in the Royal
Navy. Just as he had merely been following orders when he had
pressed Roddy so many years ago, so he was only doing his duty in
apprehending the notorious Irish Pirate.

A man could not be hated for doing his
duty.

But Roddy, too, had done his duty. He had
smuggled food to the hungry, out-of-work people of Boston after the
British had closed the port down as punishment for the Tea Party
incident. He had worked side by side with Adams, Hancock, and
Warren to bring about fair treatment for his adopted land. He had
done his duty, and followed the decree of his heart.

He would die with a clear conscience, and
perhaps someday he would be remembered as a hero.

Outside, he heard footsteps detaching
themselves from the weighty silence, and his stomach gave a hearty
rumble. It would be young Hibbert, bringing him his supper. Pork
and bread and cheese, or maybe dried peas boiled into edibility. It
mattered naught. He would eat it. And later, perhaps, some of the
English lads—who really weren’t such bad fellows after all—might
sneak down with a tot of rum and a deck of playing cards.

The door opened and a slice of light cleaved
the darkness. “Hello, Hibbert,” Roddy said, still staring up at the
deck beams above his head.