Master of My Dreams (39 page)

Downstairs, she heard Mr. Foley snapping
orders, instructing his wife and daughter what to do when the
troops came. Soon, she knew, someone would be coming up to get her,
but she had a few moments left. Precious moments before she had to
leave the sanctuary of her little bedroom.

Her gaze lifted to the eastern horizon beyond
the trees. She thought of the king’s soldiers, making their way
even now through the moonlight toward them, and a prickle of doom
made the hairs rise on her neck and shivers dance the length of her
spine.

Her bent her head once again, and squeezing
her eyes tightly shut, she prayed, “And oh, Father, please, oh
please, please, please—don’t let anyone get killed . . .”

“Deirdre?” It was Mr. Foley, calling from the
foot of the stairs. “Get dressed and come downstairs. The regulars
are out!”

As though she didn’t know.

“Aye, Mr. Foley . . . I’ll be right
down.”

She stood up, her muscles cramped from
sitting at the window for so long. She put on a green jacket, a
thick, quilted petticoat and a pair of boots. She had gone to bed
in Christian’s shirt—and she left it on beneath her stays, keeping
the only part of him she had close to her heart. Then she picked up
her canvas bag, nearly empty now except for the flagon of Irish
air. That little bag had traveled the vast Atlantic. It had never
left her person since she had bidden good-bye to her beloved
Ireland. It would not leave her now.

She was just descending the stairs when the
first dogs began to bark wildly in the distance, piercing the quiet
of the night. Fear rose within her and a deep rumbling began to
sound from the east. The Foleys raced to the front window and
peered out into the moonlit night. And in the little cupboard, the
plates began to vibrate. Louder and louder and louder—

“Dear God above,” Mrs. Foley breathed, paling
with fright.

For just outside the window, the measured
tramp of their feet shaking the very floor upon which the Foleys
stood, was a vast, unending river of red-coated soldiers marching
past, their bayonets gleaming in the moonlight. Here and there an
officer rode, his steed’s hoofbeats like the knell of doom. The
dark line stretched as far as the family could see, and the rattle
of wagons, the stamp of the war-horses, the measured thunder of
booted feet were enough to send Mrs. Foley reeling back from the
window, closing her eyes in terror.

“Dear God,” she repeated, and leaned heavily
against her husband. “Dear God, have mercy on us . . “.

They dared not light even a candle. Some of
the troops broke rank and darted across the lawn, stopping to drink
from the well before racing to catch up with their comrades. It
seemed to take forever for them to pass, and it was a long time
before the frightened Foleys dared to leave the safety of their
house and venture outside to join the neighbors milling about in
the road.

They found people streaming from their
houses, standing in the moonlight and pointing toward the west,
toward Lexington, where the soldiers had gone. Lights began to glow
from windows, and somewhere a baby wailed. Then Solomon Bowman, the
lieutenant of the Menotomy minutemen, went racing from door to
door, summoning his men and ordering them to assemble on the green
at the crack of dawn to march to Concord and Lexington.

Jared Foley wasted no time. Gathering the
powder cartridges they’d been making ever since the first rumors of
Gage’s planned raid on Concord had reached them, he laid them on
the table and turned to his wife. “Throw all of the pewter and
silver into the well,” he told her, gripping her trembling
shoulders to steady her. “Gather up everything of value, then take
the girls and go to the Prentiss house with the other women.”

“Oh, Jared,” she said, on the verge of
hysteria, “please do not ask me to leave my home!”

“I do not ask it, Joanne, I demand it!” He
lowered his voice. ‘There will be bloodshed this day,” he murmured.
“I feel it in my bones. You will take the girls and go to the
Prentiss house with the other women and children, out of sight and
away from the road when the regulars pass through on their return
to Boston. Do no defy me in this, Joanne.” He turned away, missing
the mutinous set of his wife’s jaw, and the exchange of glances
between Deirdre and Delight, both of whom knew she had no intention
of carrying out her husband’s wishes. He picked up the rolled
packets of black powder and began to stuff them into his cartridge
box. “If blood is shed today, then I pray that those who die will
not do so in vain. This moment has been a long time in coming,
Joanne.” Straightening up, he folded her quickly to his chest. Then
he set her back, and looked deeply into her eyes. “Whatever
happens, keep the girls safe. I will leave you with one of the
muskets in case, God forbid, you are called to defend
yourself.”

And then dawn began to glimmer on the
horizon, and the urgent beat of a drum rolled across the fields,
calling the brave minutemen of Menotomy together. Grim-faced
fathers and eager-eyed sons bade good-bye to wives and children and
sisters, and, toting muskets and ammunition, raced to the town
green to answer the call to duty, never knowing that for some of
them, it would be the last farewells to their loved ones that they
would ever make.

Shortly thereafter, the farmers were marching
toward Lexington under the command of Captain Benjamin Locke.

For the people of Menotomy, it would be a day
of bloodshed and death.

###

On the quarterdeck of HMS
Bold
Marauder
, Christian paced in agitation. His face was hard with
tension, his eyes bleak and worried. The nightmare had come to him
last night, more intense, more vivid, more frightening than ever
before. A nightmare of blood and fighting and death, only this time
the victim was not the woman he had once married—but the young
Irish girl whom he loved.

And he, bound to the frigate by the command
of duty, was unable to save her.

Several hours earlier, eight hundred troops
under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith had left
Boston under cover of darkness with the intent of seizing the
rebels’ military stores in Concord. And now, reinforcements of some
twelve hundred more, under the capable command of Hugh, Lord Percy,
had just left to join them.

Deirdre was out there. Alone. Unprotected. In
the middle of it, should that spark explode into flames.

He shut his eyes against the memory of the
nightmare and tried to shake the overwhelming sense of doom. The
nightmare was meaningless, merely a product of his own
worry—surely, things wouldn’t go that far, would they?

By now, Smith’s select troops, tense and
eager for action, would have reached Concord. They would already
have long since passed through the little West Cambridge village of
Menotomy. Had the awesome and terrifying might of nearly a thousand
armed soldiers awakened Deirdre as they’d marched through in the
moonlight? Had she looked out her window and trembled in fear?
Where was she now? What was happening?

And oh, God, what the deuced hell was he
doing here aboard his ship when he ought to be with her?

Keeping her safe?

He leaned his brow against a tarry shroud,
anchoring a hand in the stiff ropes that supported the soaring
mast.
Go to her. Tell her you
did
release her brother,
after all. Damn your pride, man, just
go!

Footsteps sounded on the ladder that led up
to the quarterdeck, and turning, he saw Rico Hendricks approaching.
He frowned, and the bosun yanked off his hat and belatedly saluted
the quarterdeck.

“Sorry, sir.”

Christian merely gave a tight smile and gazed
off to the west, feeling Hendricks’s eyes upon him. The big
Jamaican cleared his throat. “Er, how’re you faring this morning,
Captain?”

Distractedly, Christian reached up to touch
the lump on the back of his skull. “Fine, Rico,” he murmured,
staring off toward Boston. “’Tis my heart that worries me, and the
dread that darkens it.”

Hendricks joined him, his face grave as he
let his hands dangle over the rail. He had been the one to discover
his friend and captain out cold on the floor of the brig, the
prisoner long gone. But he knew of the inner war Christian had been
fighting in the days immediately preceding Roddy O’Devir’s escape.
He knew his captain was not so careless as to turn his back on a
dangerous prisoner, and that it was no coincidence that the entire
crew had been ashore when the Pirate had gotten away. And he knew
that pride would never allow his commanding officer to admit that
maybe, just maybe, he’d had a hand in that escape . . .

Yes, there was more to it than that, and
every man aboard the frigate knew it. Sir Geoffrey had been enraged
to learn of the Pirate’s escape, and only the persuasiveness of his
favorite captain, Brendan Merrick, had saved Christian from a
court-martial.

Abruptly, Christian said, “The nightmare
returned last night, Rico.”

Rico said nothing, merely looking down into
the gray water that swirled so far below.

“For five years, I was tormented by the fact
that I was unable to rescue Emily from that burning house. For five
years, I have gone to bed every night knowing I would see her
standing in those flames once again, screaming as they consumed her
. . .
burned
her.” His voice was harsh. “For five years, I
have lived with the anguish and guilt of not being able to get her
out of that house.”

Rico looked down, pretending to study the
calluses on his broad hands.

“Now the nightmare is back, Rico, but this
time it is not Emily who is trapped and afraid . . . it is
Deirdre.” Christian took a deep, ragged breath, the shadow of his
hat falling over his hands as he bent his head. “And again I stand
here, helpless.”

Rico said nothing, watching the morning light
glittering on the sea below.

“I shall not remain helpless this time,
Rico.” The shadow fell away as Christian’s head came up. “I must go
to her, get her out of there, keep her safe, tell her I love her.
And”—he looked away, his features contorted with anguish—“I must
confess the truth. About . . . about the other night.”

“Aye, sir. Perhaps you should.”

Christian looked at him sharply, but
Hendricks only gave a reassuring smile. “Have no fear, sir,” he
said, “Your secret is safe with us.”

A voice boomed out behind him. “Well, sir, if
ye’re going, ye’d best be off. Word has it that Lord Percy and his
reinforcements are long gone. But if ye hurry, you should be able
tae catch up tae them.”

Christian turned. Ian MacDuff stood there,
and he was not alone. Behind him, the entire crew had quietly
gathered, ready to support their captain in any decision he made,
whether it be good or bad, wise or unwise. He had won their trust,
their loyalty, and, perhaps, even their love.

He straightened up, the strain easing from
his austere face.

“You’re going, then, sir?” asked Rico,
smiling.

“Of course I am.” Christian faced the big
Scot. “I may return as your commanding officer,” he said quietly,
“or I may return in irons for disobeying my admiral. Either way,
Ian, I leave
Bold Marauder
in your hands.”

He strode resolutely down the quarterdeck
stairs, his back rigid and proud. Hibbert, who’d obviously been
eavesdropping, was standing there, holding his captain’s boat
cloak. Already the crew was assembling, organizing themselves into
tight lines of discipline and respect. The sight caught at
Christian’s heart, for he knew it might very well be the last time
he was ever honored so.

His gaze moved over these men who had come to
mean so much to him. Teach, huge, and bristling and formidable, his
belt strung with weapons of every size, shape, and kind. Hibbert,
trying hard to emulate what he thought a good officer should be,
his uniform fresh and clean. Ian, his red curls glinting like fire,
and Skunk, his pungent scent enough to give him a private standing
space of several feet. Wenham, sad-eyed and hulking. Rhodes,
tight-lipped and unsmiling. Evans, standing at the forefront of his
grim-faced marines, and Rico, his dark eyes shining with pride as
he came forward to present Christian with his sword.

The boat had already been lowered, and far
below, the oarsmen waited.

Slowly, Christian passed the carefully formed
lines of seamen and officers, smartly returning every salute. At
the rail he paused and looked up at the giant, billowing flag—the
flag that he had spent his life defending, the flag whose honor he
had sworn to uphold, the flag that would always swell his heart
with pride.

Then Rico was handing him his sword and Ian
was touching his hat as he accepted command of the king’s frigate
Bold Marauder
.

“Godspeed, sir. I hope ye find her, and may
the both of ye return to us safe and sound.”

Christian returned Ian’s salute. Then he
turned, climbing down the side of the ship and into the boat that
waited in the waves below.

###

Huddled in their homes and in the crowded
rooms of the Prentiss house, the women and children of Menotomy
paled at the first distant boom of gunfire to the west.

The alarming reports had come trickling in as
horsemen raced through the village, shouting the news. Fighting had
broken out at dawn in Lexington, and colonists and soldiers had
been killed. There had been a skirmish at the north bridge in
Concord. The regulars had failed to find the stores of munitions
and ordnance, and were now headed toward Menotomy on their way back
to Boston

Earlier in the afternoon, a
twelve-hundred-man relief force under the command of Lord Hugh
Percy had marched past on its way to aid Colonel Smith, their
bayonets glinting in the sun, their mighty field pieces rumbling
along on giant carts made especially to carry them. And no one
would ever forget the sight of a little girl, attending her
mother’s cow as it grazed by the side of the road, looking up to
see the oncoming redcoats. As the animal plodded through the ranks,
the child, heedless of the danger, followed it fearlessly. The
regulars left her alone, and one or two even paused to ruffle the
child’s hair. Then the main column of Percy’s men had passed, their
measured footsteps sounding like the tread of one monstrous
leviathan. They were flanked by mounted officers, and trailed by
carts and wagons laden with supplies. It seemed to take forever for
the road to empty, and still stragglers came galloping by in their
wake for hours.