Master of My Dreams (41 page)

Roddy stepped forward, biting his lip.

And then he stopped, his eyes tragic.

He couldn’t do it. For he had made a promise,
and Roddy O’Devir always kept his word.

Chapter 33

Connemara, Ireland

The press gang was in.

One could tell by the way a thick pall had
come over the land, like mist snuffing out the noonday sun. One
could tell by the way the little village that clung to the sea’s
edge grew quiet and seemed to huddle within itself, the people
slamming shut the doors of their whitewashed cottages and watching
the roads from behind slitted curtains. One could tell by the way
the taverns emptied and the young lads fled into the hills that
climbed toward the majestic purple ridge of the twelve mountains,
where they would hide until the threat was past.

And one could tell by the big, three-masted
men-of-war that filled the harbor.

This time, England was at war with America .
. . and not everyone wanted to fight.

It was an infrequent threat, the Royal Navy
seeking its unwilling recruits from this bleak, storm-tossed area
of western Ireland that even God seemed to have forgotten. No
able-bodied young man was safe from the press gang. And so it was
that Deirdre O’Devir solemnly watched her brother sigh with
exasperation and leave, grumbling as he headed into the hills where
the others had already fled.

Then Deirdre locked the doors and waited.

So many years ago, this same scene had
enacted itself, just as it was happening now. She pulled a chair up
to the fire—a good, Irish peat fire that glowed warmly in the
hearth—and sat staring into the flames.

A flagon sat in a revered spot on the table
before her and she reached out, touching the cold glass, staring
into its seeming emptiness and remembering that last day in Boston,
so many months past.

She would never uncap the flagon and let the
American air out.

Just as she would never empty the vial of
American water scooped from that same harbor, toss away the felt
pouch containing Boston sand and seashells, discard the tuft of
hair combed from the Foley’s plow horse, or eat the bread—made of
corn grown in Massachusetts pastures and milk gleaned from the
Foley’s cow, and baked over a good, American wood fire—that was
carefully wrapped in a square of linen and tucked away in her
bedroom.

Home was where the heart was, Christian had
once said. Home could be any place on earth, as long as it was with
the one you loved. And it wasn’t until Deirdre had returned to her
beloved Ireland that she realized the place of her birth was no
longer her home. It wasn’t until her heart began to pine for a
handsome Englishman she could never have, that she realized her
heart belonged not to Ireland, but to Christian.

The fire had grown too warm, and she stood
up, the heat fading instantly from her face to leave her cheeks
cold and empty. She hugged her cloak to herself and stared morosely
into the smoking fire. There was a decided nip in the air, and in
America, or so Roddy had told her, the leaves would be starting to
take on glorious colors of scarlet, orange and gold . . . colors
unknown to the trees of Ireland.

She walked to the window and looked off
toward the sea, where she could see the towering masts of the
men-of-war silhouetted against the western sunset. Over thirteen
years ago she had seen masts very much like these, from this same
window, and had gone to see for herself just what was so terrible
about the English and their Navy that everyone so hated and
feared.

Now she knew there was nothing terrible about
the English, nothing terrible about their Navy.

She had learned a lot in these thirteen
years.

Outside, the wind began to rise, moaning
around the little cottage as it had done for centuries. The clouds
grew thicker, heavier, darker. She thought of Roddy, hiding up in
the hills with the others. She thought of her neighbors, terrified
of losing their loved ones to the dreaded press gang. And she
thought of the new horse in the stable, a gift from Roddy that she
had named Booley in honor of Christian’s pony from his
childhood.

A desire to relive painful memories finally
got the better of her. Huddled in the cloak, she hurried across the
garden, saddled the horse, and, once away from the cottage, sent
him galloping off toward the sea.

Night was coming on; mist was filing in from
the ocean, and the shadows of dark clouds trailed over the land.
Recklessly, Deirdre urged the horse faster, not pulling him up
until they had crested the last rocky hill.

There she sat, a pale, ethereal beauty, her
hair whipping around a face dominated by the haunted eyes of a
grieving soul. Far below, the sea swapped kisses with the base of
the hill, thundering and booming and sending up great sheets of
spray. She licked her lips and tasted salt, and drew her cloak more
tightly around her.

Then she clawed the wild snarls of hair from
her eyes and gazed out over the ocean.

A half mile out in the bay, a British warship
lay, majestic in all its dread, frightening in all its beauty. And
another, its pale sails furled upon its yards, its anchor cables
stretching down into the sea. And still another, sloop-rigged and
nimble, and all but dwarfed where it lay in the shadow of the
fourth and final ship, a mighty, towering wall of wood pierced by
the snouts of what had to be a hundred guns.

Its mastheads seemed to scrape the bellies of
the low-hanging clouds themselves, and from one of those masts flew
the broad pendant of a commodore.

Not just a single warship this time, but a
squadron.

Behind her, a stone, loosened by the horse’s
hooves, skittered down the hill, the sound cleaving the stillness.
Deirdre gave a start and spun around, her skin crawling with the
uncanny feeling that she was being watched.

But there was no one there, and the wind,
peppered with rain, was suddenly cold and damp.

Beneath her, the horse began to fidget. Then
his ears pricked forward, his head lifted, and Deirdre’s breath
caught in her throat, for a boat had been lowered from the
flagship, and was plunging through the breakers toward shore.

She forgot the oncoming storm. She forgot the
approaching darkness. She forgot the feeling that she was being
watched.

The boat—not just any boat, but a smartly
painted one that was surely the pride of some high-ranking
officer—was nearing shore now, its crew having a rough time of it
in the heavy seas. Oars rose and fell in perfect rhythm, and every
so often the boat’s bow would nose up as it plowed a wave,
drenching the men and the tall officer in the stern with spray.

She shut her eyes, emotion choking her
throat. A drop of water splashed upon her hand, another upon her
wrist, and Deirdre never knew if it was rain or her own tears, for
as she edged the horse toward the edge of the cliff she saw that
the officer—some thirteen years older than he had been that other
time, but no less handsome, no less proud—had a telescope to his
eye and was training it on
her
.

She flew from the horse and dashed down the
cliff path, her skirts flying, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
The officer leaped from the boat, and before the seamen could even
pull the craft up onto the beach, Deirdre had plunged into the surf
and flung herself into his arms.

His brows were blond and haughty, and his
fancy, gold-laced hat covered richly gilded hair that was caught at
the nape with a black ribbon. He had long, pale eyelashes, eyes the
color of fog, and a profile that reminded her of a hawk.

He clasped her to him, nearly crushing the
breath from her. And then he drew back, his heart in his eyes. She
had expected cold fury, but there was only . . . love.

“Really, dearest, you lead me a merry
chase.”

Behind him, the seamen, grinning, exchanged
happy smirks as they drew the boat up onto the beach. She saw
familiarity in a red beard, the rumpled unkemptness of a
midshipman’s uniform, the stench of a huge, barrel-chested body,
the fearsome countenance of a piratical fiend—and the yellow hair
of an aspiring courtesan.

In the midshipman’s arms were three
mostly-grown puppies.

Deirdre began to sob uncontrollably. “Oh,
Christian, there’s nothin’ for ye here! Let my brother alone, I beg
of ye! He’ll not be goin’ back to Amerikay. He’ll not be causin’
any more trouble—”

He laid a finger over her lips.

“I did not come here for your brother,
Deirdre.”

She stared at him.

“I did not come here to press more
Irishmen.”

She couldn’t move.

“I came here, dear girl, for
you.
”

He took her hands and gazed solemnly down at
her. She felt her heart swelling, melting, bursting, and saw her
emotions reflected in his eyes. “Ah, Deirdre . . . I thought you
had deserted me—until I found
this
.” He reached up and drew
out the cross, still hanging from its chain around his neck. “I may
have wagered all in coming here, but I took this to mean that you
really
do
love me.”

“Christian, I never
stopped
lovin’ ye.
’Tis just that—”

He silenced her with a kiss. “Dear girl, I
did not go to Menotomy that day to recapture your brother, as you
believed. Delight told me, you see? No, I went there to find
you,
to keep you safe, and to make a confession . . . one
that I should have made long ago, but one that I refrained from
making because of my foolish pride.”

She swallowed hard, searching his face.

“Regarding that, er,
scuffle
your
brother and I engaged in when he made his escape?”

“Yes . . ?” she said slowly.

“Well, ’twas no accident. I
allowed
him to overpower me.” He looked a bit sheepish, and had a sudden
interest in his sleeve. “In fact, I confess that I asked him
to.”

Her eyes widened with shock. “But I
thought—”

He laid his lips against her brow. “I know,
love, what you thought. And if Roddy made no mention about what
really happened between us, ’tis because he was more attentive to
his promise to
me
than I was with mine to
you.
” Tears
spilled down her cheeks, and he wiped them away with his thumb.
Then he reached into his pocket and slowly drew something out,
looking at it for a long, reflective moment. “I . . . I hope you
still want this.”

It was the ancestral ring of the Lord
family.

“I love you,” he said quietly. And then he
took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger.

Behind them, the seamen and Delight erupted
in wild cheering, and even the puppies yapped with excitement.

“Oh, Christian . . .”

He smiled down at her, tall and beloved and
achingly handsome.

She reached out to touch his lapel. Then she
looked beyond him to the harbor, her eyes widening at the sight of
the huge, magnificent warship.

He noted her confusion. “Sir Geoffrey was so
angry that I’d abandoned my command, he kicked me out of Boston and
sent me back to England, vowing he hoped never to set eyes on me
again.”

“But that huge ship out there—“

“Yes, my dear . . . I am a commodore
now.”

“A
commodore
?”

“’Twas Elliott’s doing.” He smiled. “You see,
love, when I returned to England, I learned that my manipulative
brother had gone to great lengths to amuse himself by giving me
command of
Bold Marauder
. No one could make something of the
frigate, and the Navy had all but given up on her. Unbeknownst to
me, Elliott made a bet with the first Lord of the Admiralty that I
could succeed where the others had failed. A bet that, if he won
it, would earn me a certain promotion.”

“Ye mean t’ tell me they made ye a commodore
for straightenin’ out
Bold Marauder
?”

“Aye . . . but lest you think Elliott is one
to show favoritism, do know that our family relationship has never
stopped him from disciplining me in the past. In fact, he made
quite a public display of doing so the day I tried to leave
Portsmouth.”

“But I don’t see
Marauder
.”

“No, she is at Spithead, being refitted for a
voyage to the West Indies. She will join us shortly, under Captain
MacDuff’s command.”

“Captain MacDuff? The
West
Indies?”

He smiled, and touched her cheek. “I will not
fight the rebels, Deirdre. Had Sir Geoffrey not kicked me out of
Boston, I would have handed in my resignation, for the Americans
have my sympathies. No, my squadron will be deployed to the
Caribbean, there to monitor French activities. They are sure to
throw in their lot with the Americans sooner or later, and one can
never trust the French, you know!” He sobered and stared down at
her, taking her hands in his own and raising them to his lips. “As
soon as
Bold Marauder
is ready, we shall be away. But I will
not leave here until I have all the crew that I need.”

“And . . . how many d’ye lack . . . Commodore
Lord?”

“One.”

She stared up at him, her heart filling with
love and pride and joy. He was all that she could ever want. He was
all that she would ever need. The tears rolled down her cheeks as
he reached up and drew off the cross. Slowly, he settled the heavy
chain over her head, positioning the ornate cross back where it
belonged, between her own breasts, against her own heart.

She swallowed tightly. The rain clouds were
moving away, and late sunlight stabbed down through them now,
kissing the harbor with the promise of a golden tomorrow.

The promise of a lifetime of golden
tomorrows.

“What do you say, dearest?”

She smiled up at him, twisting the ring
around her finger, unable to speak for a long, long moment. The big
flagship waited. The three accompanying vessels waited. The seamen
waited, the puppies waited, her future waited—