Master of My Dreams (8 page)

Chapter 5

It had been several hours since
Bold
Marauder
’s disastrous attempt to get under way. Now the frigate
lay out in Portsmouth Harbor, her taffrail lantern glowing softly
upon the water and making a beacon in the night. Heathmore,
apparently, had been successful in freeing her from the old
admiral’s flagship, but the damage done to her—and to the crew’s
respect for him as their new commanding officer—remained to be
seen.

The crew he would deal with, in his own time
and way. It was the girl who had Christian most distressed; the
girl, and his own passionate reaction to her.

At the edge of the wharf he slipped,
bone-weary and exhausted, onto a bench to await the gig. Dropping
his chin into his neckcloth, he wrapped his arms around himself
against the cold wind, and thought back over the afternoon. It had
been a nightmare. Long hours spent undergoing rigorous questioning
by a panel of five captains presided over by Sir Elliott himself;
endless waiting, pacing the floor, while in the adjoining room his
past was dissected and his future decided; anger with himself for
trusting in an undeserving crew, and fury with his own personal
weakness regarding poor, wretched souls in need of help, ranging
from starving spaniels to Irish urchins.

That weakness had nearly cost him his
career—not to mention his ship.

“Here comes the gig now, sir,” Hendricks
said, rousing him from his morose thoughts.

“Thank God.” Christian opened his eyes and,
not lifting his head, stared down at his feet, his mind many
leagues away.

“I know you’re thinking about
her,
sir,” the bosun said, in reference to his captain’s dead wife, “but
maybe you ought to go out and get yourself soused tonight, if you
don’t mind me saying so.”

“I
do
mind you saying so,” Christian
retorted, angry with himself that it had been the girl he’d been
thinking about and not his dead wife—especially on this, of all
nights. “And getting myself soused will not relieve the pain, or
bring her back.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s just that—well, I hate to
see you suffer—”

“Hendricks—”

“And there
are
other women in this
world.”

“Hendricks!”

The bosun’s teeth flashed white in the
darkness. “Of course, if you
were
to interest yourself in
that Irishwoman, no one has to know—”

Christian’s sharp glance silenced him. “You
have an impertinent tongue, Rico!”

The bosun bowed mockingly. “Thank you,
sir.”

“And one of these days I’m going to ship you
out on another vessel and let someone else deal with it.”

“After you’ve cut it out, sir?” Hendrick’s
eyes twinkled at the old joke.

“Aye, Rico.
After
I’ve cut it
out.”

Together, they watched the gig’s approach in
the darkness. Its presence boded no happiness for Christian. Soon
it would carry him back to
Bold Marauder,
and he dreaded all
that awaited him there—the girl, the crew, the humiliation, and
always, the nightmares that would engulf him once he succumbed to
the sleep his weary body so craved.

But tonight, he knew, those nightmares would
be worse than they’d ever been—for tonight was the eve of the Black
Anniversary.

The gig bumped against the wharf. Christian
stared down at his buckled shoes and murmured, “Damn, what I
wouldn’t give for a tall glass of brandy and a warm bed.”

“Don’t know about the brandy, sir, but I’m
sure the warm bed, at least, will be awaiting you . . .”

“Rico?”

“Aye, sir?”

“Shut up.”

The bosun grinned. “So,” he ventured,
casually, “who do you think she is, anyhow? The Irish girl, that
is?”

Why do I even bother?
Christian
thought, tipping his head back over the bench and staring up at the
stars with increasing annoyance. “Damned if I know.”

“I’ll bet she’s some doxy, brought aboard for
the mutual amusement of herself and the crew.”

“Well, she was anything but amused when I
found her. If she’s a doxy, she’s an even better actress. She seems
so . . .” He paused, frowning as he tried to find the right
word.

“Innocent?” Hendricks offered, one mocking
brow raised.

“Aye, innocent.”

“Well, next time you’re tempted to believe
that heap of rot, remember what she did to you. Then think of what
her
innocence
nearly cost you, as far as your career goes.
Why, if it weren’t for your flawless record—”

“Hendricks—”

“And the fact that Sir Elliott is your own
brother—”

“
Hendricks!
By God, man, do you
ever
give up?”

Grinning, the bosun jumped down into the boat
as it bumped against the wharf. As usual, not much perturbed the
fellow, and for that, Christian was grateful. Stuffing his
cold-numbed hands deep into his pockets to warm them, he strode to
the edge of the pier, carefully keeping any trace of emotion from
his stony features. Again, the image of frightened purple eyes and
a snarl of raven curls rose in his mind. Damn the girl! He ought to
be planning the best way to handle that wretched lot of malcontents
that awaited him, not thinking about a woman!

Still, his behavior today had been
deplorable, and he couldn’t blame Elliott for his anger. As a
king’s captain, he was expected to conduct himself accordingly; to
behave as an officer and a gentleman; to exercise sound judgment,
leadership, and diplomacy in his every action; to put his country
before himself.

“Hendricks, are you bloody ready yet?” he
snapped.

“Aye, sir,” the bosun called up from below,
his face glowing in the light of a lantern held by one of the gig’s
crew.

Thank God.
Christian climbed down into
the gig and settled in the stern. Aware of the speculative glances
of the crew, he sat rigidly as the oarsmen shoved off, shivering
with cold, wishing he had his heavy boat cloak, and being careful
to keep his gaze on the moored frigate. They would get no hint of
the day’s rulings from him, by God.

Yet as the gig cut through the black water of
the harbor, he couldn’t help but wonder why the Irish girl had even
been
aboard
the frigate. Unlike Hendricks, he didn’t believe
her to be a paid doxy; besides, no doxy would have shielded her
breasts with her arms, as the Irish girl had. No, she was probably
some orphaned waif who’d accepted a coin or two from his crew in
return for making his life hell.

No doubt, he thought on a sudden intuition,
the “whipping” had been carefully staged, too!

His jaw tightened. Why hadn’t he seen it
before? She probably
was
working for the crew, a party to
their malicious attempts to rid their happy ship of her newest
commander. No doubt they’d all spent the day laughing their arses
off over his complete and total humiliation!

Christian’s fingers began an agitated tattoo
against the gunwale. Laugh, would they? Bugger the lot of them!
There’d be hell to pay after this, by God!

He had worked himself into a fine, fuming
rage by the time the gig nudged against
Bold Marauder
’s
hull, a dark wall that loomed above them like a small fortress. As
the coxswain hailed the frigate, Christian looked up, saw the
ship’s yards and rigging silhouetted against the starlit sky,
and—wonder of wonders!—movement near the entry port.

“The devil take me,” he muttered. Finally, a
proper ceremony for the captain as he boarded his command.

His spirits lifted, ever so slightly, and
despite his aching leg, his sore groin, and his wounded pride, he
almost smiled.

Until he hauled himself through the entry
port and saw what awaited him.

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was. Lieutenant Ian MacDuff, decked
out in that ridiculous Scottish cap and plaid, standing at
attention with a single, foolishly grinning marine—Evans—smartly
presenting arms.

“Welcome aboard,
sir!
” Ian beamed, and
before Christian, flabbergasted and shocked, could call a halt to
this lunacy, the Scotsman tucked his bagpipes under his arm,
slammed his elbow into the bag, and, grinning at the loud, droning
hum that blasted forth, shoved the mouthpiece between his lips.

“Dear God in heaven,” Christian murmured. And
then he forgot the events of the day, his dread of the inevitable
nightmare, and even the girl who awaited him in his cabin as the
first ear-shattering notes came bawling out of the bagpipes at a
volume loud enough to drown out everything but his own agony.

“Enough, Mr. MacDuff!” he yelled, over the
noise.

His face puffed up and red with effort, Ian,
launching into a tune that might—with a little imagination and a
lot of brandy—have been “Rule Britannia,” never heard him.

“By the grace of Almighty God,
stop
!”

Christian waved his arms in a final attempt
to get his lieutenant’s attention—then swiftly turned and beat a
hasty retreat aft.

Ian raced after him, crestfallen. Leaping
over a coiled line, his eyes filled with hopeless despair, he
cried, “Sir, wait! ’Tis trying I be, honestly!” He shoved the
mouthpiece back between his lips and, catching the last sigh of
raucous air as it exited the bag, took up where he had left
off.

“Hendricks!” Christian yelled over his
shoulder. “I cannot for the life of me imagine a more ghastly
sound!”

“What?”

“I said—oh, go on with you. I’m going
below!”

“What? I can’t
hear
you!”

There was no point in trying to be heard. His
ears ringing, his head pounding, Christian dove to the hatch,
ducked beneath the low deckhead beams, flung open his door—

—and was nearly decapitated by the sword that
came singing out of the darkness to slam into the bulkhead just
beside his ear.

Chapter 6

She’d missed.

Oh, dear, I’ve done it now,
Deirdre
thought wildly.

In the faint glow of moonlight, she saw the
English captain stumble back against the bulkhead, momentarily
dazed by the viciousness of her unexpected attack.

Then he came for her.

Deirdre fled behind the table. “Get away from
me!”

“Come here, foundling.”

“I said,
get away from me
!”

He stood unmoving, every muscle tensed to
spring, his face almost unholy in the glow of the lantern. Raw
terror paralyzed her, for even in the gloom she could see the glint
in his eyes, the harsh set of his unforgiving mouth, and the anger
in his stance—anger he held barely in check.

Deirdre’s gaze cut to the door, looking for
escape.

“Really, my dear, I have no intention of
doing you the harm you mean me.”

He feinted to one side, Deirdre dove to her
right—and smashed directly into his chest. It was like hitting a
solid wall. She panicked as his arms closed around her. With a cry,
she drove her foot down on his toe and lunged for the door, knowing
she’d never make it in time.

He caught her as her hand hit the latch.

“Filthy English
dog
!” she raged,
fighting him. “I’ll see ye
dead
!”

“And I’ll have some answers from you if it
damn well kills me!”

“Good, I hope it does!” She kicked out at
him, but he only hauled her, kicking and screaming, across the
cabin. His face was an icy mask of determination, and he didn’t
stop until he’d dragged her into the separate sleeping compartment.
There, with a lack of dignity that stung her already wounded pride,
he picked her up and tossed her across the bed, his eyes blazing as
her shirt, far too big for her, gapped open, baring one of her
breasts to his gaze.

Angrily, he grabbed a blanket and flung it
over her. “Cover yourself, doxy!”

Deirdre, unwilling to accept anything from
this man, flung the blanket aside. “I am Irish,” she said proudly,
her eyes glittering and defiant, “
but I am no doxy
!”

“You will forgive me if evidence leads me to
conclude otherwise.” His eyes narrowed. “Now tell me, which of my
crew of reprobates and rogues is responsible for smuggling you
aboard this ship in an attempt to beguile and irritate me?”

“None of them! I came of my own accord!”

“You lie.”

“Even if I did, I’d see ye in hell before I’d
tell you!”

“Then have a good look, because I’ve
been
in hell these past five years . . . and now—“ his gaze
dropped to her exposed breast —“I would like a taste of
heaven.”

She froze. He leaned down and lifted one
black, spiraling curl. Despite himself, and his efforts to prevent
it, his gaze dropped again to her skewed shirt, and the bare curve
of her breast, pale in the lantern light, that she had refused to
cover. Something stirred, deep inside of himself, and he took a
deep and steadying breath—

But then Emily’s face appeared in his mind’s
eye, her eyes accusing, and the fire in his blood cooled as quickly
as it had flared to life. Anger, swift and savage, filled him, and,
desperate to hold on to something he hadn’t felt in over five
years, he plunged his fingers into the doxy’s snarled hair and
lowered his mouth toward hers. She tried to twist away, but his
thumb caught her jaw, forcing her to still, and before he could
help himself, he was claiming her lips in a hard kiss that was
meant to prove something to himself far more than it was ever meant
to do the same for her. She whimpered deep in her throat, her
struggles only fanning his determination to drive away the devils
that had tormented him for so long—and to affirm that he could
still, by God, function as a man.

Her struggles increased. Christian was no
brute. He abruptly released her, shaken to his depths by what she
had awakened in him, and turning his back, wanting only to put
distance between himself and her, stalked away.

It was a mistake, and he knew it even as
something slammed into the nape of his neck with an impact that
sent him to his knees; a moment later, he found himself on his
back, the girl’s knee driving into his belly and the short black
nose of his own pistol just inches from his startled eyes.

His blood turned cold.

There was an ominous click as she brought the
gun to half cock.
This can’t be happening to me
, he thought.
He, who’d survived Quiberon and countless naval battles, storms at
sea, and other perils that made up the everyday life of any sea
officer. He—about to die at the hands of a crazy young woman? But
no, this was all too real. It was, indeed, happening. He swallowed,
not daring, even, to breathe.

Her hand shaking, she brought the gun closer
to his face. Behind it, now so close that he could smell the spent
powder from previous firings, he could see that her eyes were cold
and hard.

“For thirteen long years,” she said, pushing
her hair off her forehead with trembling fingers, “I’ve waited for
this moment. Thirteen long years, I’ve waited for the chance to
kill ye.”

Christian stared into the deadly black mouth
of the pistol, his mind racing over a short list of long-forgotten
paramours whom he must have unwittingly spurned. He wasn’t in the
business of breaking hearts, but then, maybe his memory wasn’t as
sound as he’d thought it to be. Not surprising, given his current
predicament—

“Thirteen long years,
Lieutenant,
to
avenge the terrible wrong ye did me and me family. . .”

Cold metal touched his forehead—and then he
heard the mad skitter of nails as Tildy shot from off the bed and
across the cabin toward him. In a single, swift movement, the girl
jerked the pistol around—

“
Don’t!"
Christian cried hoarsely. .
.

—and swung back to face him, her eyes
panicky.

He swallowed hard, and shut his eyes. “. . .
Hurt my dog.”

“What?”

“Please . . . don’t hurt my dog.”

The girl’s mouth fell open and she stared
down at him in confusion and astonishment. Slowly, shakily, she
lowered the gun.

Christian let out his breath and closed his
eyes.

And Deirdre, still straddling the English
captain with her knee deep in his abdomen, felt her blood go cold
as the awful reality of what she had almost done, flooded her.

I almost killed a man.

The gun was suddenly a horrible, wretched
thing, and she put it down, recoiling from it and feeling suddenly
sick. The dog, whining, had fallen upon the captain, licking his
face in a frenzied display of love and devotion. He did nothing to
push the animal away, instead, wrapping his arms around the
squirming little body and hugging it close, apparently more
concerned with the dog’s welfare than his own. Deirdre stared down
at him in frustration, confusion, and self-disgust. She had failed
miserably in her self-appointed mission to avenge her brother, make
good on her promise to her mother, and do honor to the proud blood
that ran in her veins.

Granuaile, who would have had no trouble
dispatching an enemy, especially a hated English one, wouldn’t be
proud of her, now.

“Thank you,” she heard him say, beneath the
dog’s soft whines.

“For what?” she spat scathingly. “Not killin’
ye?”

“No . . . for not hurting my dog.”

Hysteria, insane and unexpected, rose up in
her and it was all she could do not to let out a bark of laughter
as she got to her feet. “I was wrong to come here,” she said, as
the captain got to his feet, the little dog safely cradled in his
arms. “I’m leavin’.”

“It is nearly midnight, madam. Despite your
seeming appetite for violence, I am adverse to setting a young
woman loose in the streets of Portsmouth at this hour. You will
remain here until the morning, at which time I will gladly see to
your request.”

“I will not stay here with ye!”

“That choice is not yours to make. But do not
fear, you are quite safe, I can assure you. You have my word as a
gentleman that I will not avail myself of your charms, delightful
and dangerous though they may be.”

“You think I’d believe the word of a dirty,
thievin’ Englishman?”

“Probably not.” He eyed her dubiously,
retrieved the blanket he’d tried to give her earlier, and offered
it to her once more. This time, she grudgingly accepted it. “Oh,
don’t get me wrong,” he added. “I would
like
to see what you
offer, if only to prove to myself that I can still enjoy a kiss, a
touch, a tryst, as much as the next fellow . . . but I daresay that
would be a most ill-conceived idea, given our present feelings
toward each other.” His voice was suddenly rough and unguarded, and
he turned abruptly away. “You see, I loved a woman once . . . but
she was taken from me in the cruelest way imaginable. Love has no
place in my dead heart, and lust, no place in the disciplined order
of my life.” He looked at her then, his eyes dark and haunted.
“Therefore, you are quite safe with me.”

He moved away from her, cold and aloof once
more, and she wondered if the brief vulnerability she had seen—or
thought she’d seen—in his eyes, had been nothing more than a trick
of the lantern light. “Tomorrow I will set you ashore,” he said.
“But tonight, you will sleep in my bed. Alone. I will take my rest
on the bench seat in my main cabin. Do not hesitate to summon me if
you need me for any reason.”

He picked up the little dog and moved behind
the canvas screen.

Leaving Deirdre alone.