Master of My Dreams (6 page)

Chapter 3

Deirdre couldn’t stay up here forever.

Above, there was only a web of spars and
lines and a sky smeared with clouds. Mustering her courage, she
looked down—and immediately pressed herself back against the mast,
her vision reeling and her hand clutching her stomach as she willed
herself not to be sick.

She’d taken only one quick glance, but it had
been enough. Far, far below, men scurried like ants on a deck that
looked hideously narrow from this far up. Birds flew beneath her,
not above. The waves on either side of the ship were tiny with
distance, and she was so high up that she could look across, and
down at, the rooftops of the buildings that framed the
waterfront.

Shaking convulsively with both cold and fear,
Deirdre shut her eyes.
Oh, God,
she thought, swallowing
against the rise of bile in her throat and barely able to move her
paralyzed throat muscles.
Oh, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.
She
wiped sweating hands on her trousers. Getting up here had been hard
enough.
But how was she going to get down?

And now, someone was climbing skyward. Her
heart racing in mounting terror, Deirdre plastered her spine
against the mast. A head appeared, capped by a great, oily mop of
brown curls that looked as though it had never seen soap. The body
that followed it looked—and smelled—no cleaner.

It was the man she’d heard the others refer
to as Skunk. Grunting, he hoisted himself up beside her and frowned
as he studied her terrified face. “I know it’s always easier goin’
up than gettin’ down, so I’ve come up to retrieve ye. Best get yer
arse down there before the bloody Lord ’n’ Master finds ye
slouchin’ off.”

‘The Lord an’ Master?” she squeaked. “D’ye
mean our captain’s a titled gentleman?”

“Damned if I know or care. Hell, I forgot,
ye’re a bloody landlubber, aren’t ye?” He shook his head. “Lord ’n’
Master’s a name we tars give to the captain of a ship,” he
explained. “But it especially fits that bastard below, given ’is
surname. Ye’d think ’e’s a bloody nobleman, the way ’e struts
around here givin’ orders an’ expectin’ ’em to be obeyed!”

“But isn’t that what a captain’s supposed to
do? Give orders?”

“This here’s
Bold Marauder
,” Skunk
said vehemently. “We don’t take orders from
nobody
.”

“Oh,” Deirdre said in a small voice.

“Anyhow, I came up here to drag ye down. I
knows yer scared, and ’is bloody Lordship’ll be topside any moment.
Pompous arse—we’re all in for a hard pull with the likes o’ that
one in command. Why, I’ll be bettin’ my eyeteeth ’e don’t know a
damned thing about sailin’ a ship; prob’ly got where ’e is by
who
’e knows, not
wot
’e knows, God rot his bloody,
pampered hide!”

Deirdre said nothing, more concerned about
the climb back down than she was the captain.

“Cruel bastard. Ye know what ’e did? Hacked
off Teach’s beard, right in front of the whole bloody crew. Hacked
it right off! I’m tellin’ ye, ’e’d better watch ’is back now,
’cause Teach’ll be out for him. ’Course, we already got ’im
good—ever hear of sabotage?—but he won’t know ’bout that for a bit;
besides, it ain’t nothin’ compared to what ol’ Arthur’s planning.
Some night the captain’ll wake up with ’is throat slit, and
that’s
if ’e’s lucky!” Skunk moved easily to the shrouds.
“Here, gimme yer hand, lad. That’s it, slide on up behind me, put
yer hands around my neck and hold on tight. Not that tight; yer
chokin’ me. Watch yer head there. That’s it.”

Holding her breath, Deirdre shut her eyes and
put her face against Skunk’s broad back, wondering how long she
could hold out before fainting—either from lack of air or from the
strong odors coming from her savior’s unscrubbed body. But they
were going down, and that was all that mattered.

“He think’s he’s gonna impress his admiral by
straightenin’ us out, but he’s got a thing or two to learn about
us, and
we’ve
got a thing or two of our own to show the
admiral! You just wait till we set sail, hee-hee-hee!” Skunk
descended as easily as if he were going down a flight of stairs
and Deirdre, opening her eyes the barest slit, breathed a prayer of
relief as the faces of those below grew larger and larger. “Aye,
you wait. We don’t take no rubbish from no one, mark me well.” He
swung himself onto the deck and, kneeling, put her down. “Now, run
along, boy, and don’t let the Lord an’ Master see ye, else he’ll
flay the skin off yer back and smile while doing it.”

Deirdre needed no urging. Humiliated, and
keenly aware of the smirks, sneers, and taunts of Skunk’s
shipmates, she snatched up her canvas bag and fled forward, where
she melted safely into the group of seamen gathered in the
forecastle. They stared at her as though she had grown a horn in
the middle of her forehead. Finally she found a hatch and ducked
below. Dear God, the ship wasn’t even out of port yet and she was
already in trouble. How on earth would she last the passage to
America?

But she had no choice.

Brendan was in America, and he was her only
hope of finding her brother—and the hated British lieutenant who’d
pressed him.

###

“Get the ship under way, please, Mr.
MacDuff.”

Captain Lord stood near
Bold
Marauder
's great, double-spoked wheel, his hands gripping the
hilt of his sword and his eyes in shadow beneath the brim of his
hat. He emanated authority and discipline, and the Royal Navy
couldn’t have boasted a more capable commander.

The men hated him.

His hat, turned up in the back, sporting a
black cockade, and nearly spanning the width of his shoulders, was
edged with gold lace and set smartly atop his head. His blue coat,
its gold buttons winking in the sun, was open to show his
scrupulously clean white waistcoat and breeches. His neckcloth was
smartly tied beneath his chin, his sleeves were frothed with lace,
and not a speck of dust marred the black shine of his buckled
shoes.

He looked every inch the naval captain that
he was. But only he knew of his trepidation at the thought of his
admiral, and his peers, watching from the shore, the signal tower,
and the decks of other vessels. Some of them, he knew, had delayed
their own departures, obviously unwilling to miss what promised to
be quite the spectacle.

He tightened his jaw, vowing there would
be
no spectacle.

Beside him, his first lieutenant stood,
anxiously watching the anchor party. Christian glanced up at the
snapping masthead pennant and tried to ease the tension between
himself and his first officer. “A fine day to put to sea, eh, Mr.
MacDuff?”

The lieutenant looked nervous. “Aye, sir,” he
muttered, slinging something over his shoulder.

Christian turned, frowning. “Pray tell, what
is
that hellish contraption, Mr. MacDuff?”

“Bagpipes . . . sir.”

“And what is their purpose, Lieutenant?”

“Er, tae make music, sir.”

“Have they any place in a battle?”

“No, sir. Not in a sea battle, that is . .
.”

“Very well, then. I’d prefer that you leave
them in your cabin when you are in the capacity of your
command.”

“But—”

“Mr. MacDuff, that is an order.”

Christian tightened his lips.
Bagpipes?
By God, what the
devil
was the Navy coming
to? Shaking his head, he glanced at the sailing master. A heavyset
man, Tom Wenham had great, jutting ears that seemed to hold up his
hat. Several fingers were missing from his left hand, and the tip
of his bulbous nose was raw and sunburned. Beside him stood a
feral-looking lad dressed in the dirty and stained uniform of a
midshipman, a slate in one hand, a pencil in the other.

Christian put his hands behind his back and
rocked on his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ian
MacDuff eyeing him nervously and stroking his beard, as though
fearful that it would meet the same fate as Teach’s. MacDuff had
damned good reason to be nervous. As the frigate’s
second-in-command, he should be setting an example, not provoking
more rebelliousness. Facial hair would
not
be tolerated—and
neither would that outlandish Scottish garb.

Sudden anger inflamed Christian. By God, this
was the
Navy,
not a damned circus show!

But he would wait until they were at sea
before addressing the matter of Ian’s beard—as well as Hibbert’s
filthy uniform and a score of other outrages he’d already noted in
his log. Weighing anchor and getting the ship under way was a
delicate enough operation without further complicating matters by
alienating his first officer. And as for the crew itself . . . they
hated him now, yes, and they’d probably hate him even more once
they got away from England and the ocean rolled beneath their
keel.

Not that it bothered him, for he was not a
man who courted friendship or popularity. For now, all that
mattered was getting
Bold Marauder
safely away from
Portsmouth without mishap in sight of his acquaintances, his peers,
or—God forbid—his admiral.

His apprehension built. The wind was blowing
fresh, and it wouldn’t take much to land
Bold Marauder
in
trouble—literally. He laced his fingers together behind his back
and took a deep breath. Forward, the anchor was nearly hove short,
the men swearing and straining at the capstan, the great cable
thundering and clanking through the hawseholes. A bosun’s mate
stood astride the bowsprit, his greasy pigtail whipping in the cold
wind, one hand wrapped around a stay, the other circling in
indication of how much cable was left to bring in.

Suddenly the man raised his hand, and Rhodes,
who’d been supervising the capstan party, yelled, “Anchor’s hove
short, sir!”

Christian gave the barest perceptible nod. He
glanced quickly at the signal tower on the shore, where flags
fluttered in the wind, giving him permission to proceed.

Yes, they are all watching. The whole damned
harbor . . .

“Bring it in,” he commanded.

But something was wrong. He knew it even as
the men at the capstan heaved, swore, and glanced in mock confusion
at each other. He knew it even as he heard several amused guffaws.
And he knew it even as he saw several seamen exchange glances and
turn away to hide their sudden smirks.

Above, the wind blew impatiently, and out of
the corner of his eye Christian saw the flash of sunlight against a
telescope from shore.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Rhodes?”

Rhodes turned, a helpless look on his face
that was directly at odds with the glint in his eye. “Uh, the
anchor seems to be fouled, sir.”

Bloody hell.
Christian closed his eyes
and mentally went through a vocabulary of much bluer naval
language. “Are you certain, Mr. Rhodes?”

The lieutenant was peering over the bulwarks.
Christian heard the crew snickering, and his apprehension turned to
raw fury.

Sabotage.

Rhodes straightened up, feigning innocence.
“Aye, sir,” he called. “Seems to be caught on something.”

Silence, with only the wind and the lap of
the waves. Christian thought of those who were watching: Sir
Elliott . . . the men in the signal tower . . . the hundreds of
spectators, as well as other captains, officers, and seamen in and
around Portsmouth Harbor and Spithead—

“Your orders, sir?” Rhodes called, with a
seemingly benign smile.

The embarrassment of losing an anchor
couldn’t have come at a worse time, and there were only two things
he could do: either delay his departure and try to retrieve it, or
cut the cable and get the hell out of there.

He thought of all the eyes watching from
shore, from the other ships, and wasted no time on a decision.

“Hands aloft to loose tops’ls.”

From below the quarterdeck rail, he heard
fierce whispers that he did his best to ignore and vowed not to
forget.

“This’ll
really
make him look
bad!”

“Aye, ’twill bring his bloody Lordship down a
tuppence or two!”

His order was repeated through speaking
trumpets. Men ran to the braces while others scrambled up the
ratlines and out along the yards. Sail spilled down, rolling in the
wind with a noise like thunder. The wind was blowing strong, and he
knew he would have only a few short moments to get the sails
properly set before the frigate was swept dangerously close to
shore and the other anchored vessels. He would have to move fast,
for once the cable was cut—

His heart began to hammer in his throat. From
shore, another telescope glinted in the sunlight. Another, from an
admiral’s flagship . . .

He saw Rico, waiting for his next order; he
felt the frigate trembling deep in her bones. He took a deep,
steadying breath, stared nervously at the land, and snapped,
“Prepare to lose the anchor.”

The cable was cut. Like a bird trying out its
wings for the first time, the frigate reeled drunkenly, her canvas
flapping, her yards jumping, the men aloft yelling with alarm, and
some with fear, as their precarious footholds jerked and bucked
beneath them.

“Look alive on those braces!”

On deck, swearing, shouting men were laid
nearly on their backs as they heaved and hauled at the braces. From
above came a yell of alarm as a topman slipped on a foot-rope and
nearly fell.

Christian stared at the land drawing closer
and closer.
“Get those bloody tops’ls set!”
he roared.

The shore was now so close that he could see
the people lining the docks and watching the magnificent sight of a
king’s ship getting under way; it was so close that he could hear
the jeering hoots of ridicule from a moored sloop of war whose crew
knew that the sight wasn’t the least bit magnificent; it was so
close that he could see the windows of an inn, and the glint of sun
off another telescope. Another . . .