Master of My Dreams (9 page)

Chapter 7

It was nearly midnight, several hours
later.

While their captain had faced his admiral’s
wrath, the crew had worked all day to replace the damaged spars and
rigging suffered by the collision with Admiral Burns’s flagship and
now, exhausted but triumphant over the earlier debacle, sat around
a table in the wardroom, laughing over the embarrassment they had
caused their new Lord and Master.

The door opened.

“Mr. MacDuff, sir?” The youngest of the
frigate’s three midshipmen poked his head into the crowded wardroom
and then darted inside, shoving through seaman and officers until
he came to Ian. The big Scotsman sat on a sea chest, polishing his
bagpipes with a square of linen and half watching a card game that
took up the entire table.

Ian glanced up, scowling. “Hugh, laddie! ’Tis
past your bedtime, and there be things in here ye shouldnae be
seein’!”

But little Hugh’s eyes had already found the
thing they shouldn’t be seeing, and gaping at the scantily clad
woman who sat atop Milton Lee’s knee, he managed to blurt,
“Captain’s compliments, and he requests your presence in his day
cabin!”

“Uh-oh, you’re in for it now,” Milton Lee
predicted darkly, sliding a hand up the doxy’s thigh. “The
admiral’s probably taken the Lord and Master down a peg or two and
now he’s looking for someone to put the blame on.”

Skunk roared with laughter and dealt a new
hand of cards, the movements of his arm sending a cloud of stench
across the table and making those nearest to him gag. “An’ looks
like yer that someone, Ian!”

“Aye, fine job you did, getting us under way
this afternoon,” said Russell Rhodes, smirking as he leaned against
one of the twelve-pounder cannon that competed for space in the
wardroom.

“And a fine job
you
did, my handsome
lieutenant,” the woman purred, sliding from Lee’s lap and
sauntering across the cabin to Rhodes. She touched his arm, letting
her nails drag up his sleeve while she tilted her head
flirtatiously and stared into his eyes. “Hiding me down there in
your brig . . . such a perfect place for a friendly liaison, no?
Why, I can’t wait”—her husky voice dropped to a rich, throaty
whisper—“to have you
all
to myself!”

“Delight, please, have me first!” cried
Midshipman Hibbert, grinning foolishly and sweeping off his stained
and dirty hat.

As the room erupted into laughter, the woman
turned her bold gaze on the fourteen-year-old, letting it drift
slowly down his filthy, wrinkled uniform and toward his groin,
until young Hibbert’s pink cheeks began to turn red. “Why, Hibbert,
cheri,
I just love young boys . . . their energy is so
tireless, their enthusiasm so refreshing, no? But I think I shall
wait till tomorrow . . . and then eat you for breakfast!”

Hibbert went scarlet. Raucous guffaws split
the small room and Skunk clapped the midshipman across the back.
Only the beardless Arthur Teach, who’d spent the better part of the
evening sulking in the corner, did not join in their laughter. Now
he sat sullenly polishing a tomahawk, taken in trade from an Indian
chief he’d once met in the American colonies. The blade glittered
dangerously in the lantern light.

“What, have ye no comment tae make, Arthur?”
Ian prodded, getting to his feet and twirling his bonnet on his
thumb. “Nothing tae say about our new Lord and Master?”

The seaman looked up, his eyes black with
menace. Slowly, he ran his finger down the flat of the tomahawk’s
blade.

“I’ll kill him,” he vowed softly.

Nobody moved. Skunk exchanged nervous glances
with Ian. Hibbert paled and looked at his feet. Even the
yellow-haired woman paused, her hand going still on Rhodes’s
arm.

Outside, the winter wind blew ominously
around the hull.

The young midshipman finally broke the heavy
silence. “Er, Mr. MacDuff, sir?” he squeaked, moving fearfully away
from Teach. “The captain’s waiting. And, begging your pardon, sir,
but he’s in a foul temper.”

“Aye, as I expect he would be,” Ian murmured,
frowning. He raked a hand through his thick red hair, donned his
cap, and prepared to face the music.

###

Unable—and unwilling—to sleep, Captain
Christian Lord sat in his day cabin, thinking about the girl in his
bed such a short distance away. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to
take his mind off her by reading
Bold Marauder
’s log under
her previous captain when the thump of Evans’s musket on the deck
outside announced the arrival of Ian MacDuff.

He shut the leather-bound book with a snap
and looked up. The Scotsman, framed by the swinging deckhead
lantern behind him, stood at the door, nervously twisting his
bonnet in his hands.

“Do come in, Mr. MacDuff.”

Bobbing his head, the Scot entered the cabin,
aware of the raw disapproval on his captain’s face as he took in
his outlandish attire. Ian had worn his plaid in defiance of Navy
regulations and in proud display of his heritage, but now, under
that frigid scrutiny, and without the backup of his fellow
miscreants, he felt rather silly. Especially with his blue uniform
coat thrown haphazardly over the whole thing and his knees,
sprouting red hair, peeping out from beneath.

“I do trust you will discard that ridiculous
attire and dress yourself appropriately,” Christian remarked dryly.
“You test the limits of my patience with the beard, but I cannot
abide both. Choose one or the other, Mr. MacDuff, and we will get
along famously.”

Taken aback, Ian stared at him, for he’d
expected a sharp reprimand for both the beard and the plaid. Eyeing
the captain warily, he pulled out a chair, his gaze falling upon
the screen that divided the day cabin from the captain’s sleeping
area. Was the Lord and Master keeping the young Irishwoman in
there? He grinned slyly; if so, the knowledge would be wonderful
fodder for the lads back in the wardroom . . .

Ian glanced up—and found the gray eyes
quietly assessing him. His grin promptly faded. He returned the
stare with innocent defiance, trying in vain to discern the
strengths and weaknesses behind the captain’s cold eyes. The Lord
and Master was a handsome man, but Ian was not jaded into thinking
that was all he was. He recognized, and respected, the power in his
new captain’s shoulders, the intelligence behind his eyes, the
determination in the set of his mouth, the discipline reflected in
the scrupulously neat and clean state of his uniform.

As for weaknesses, Ian MacDuff could discern
none.

He felt the first twinges of alarm. He and
the crew might not have an easy time of it, winning their ship back
from such a man as this.

“Despite the debacle of this afternoon, I
appreciate that you managed to restore the ship to sailing
condition in such a timely manner,” the captain said. “It was more
than I expected of any of you.”

“Why . . . thank you, sir.”

The captain smiled faintly, but his gaze
remained cold as it settled unnervingly on Ian. “Mistakes do
happen, do they not?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Of course, they only happen once. Twice, and
they are put down to incompetence—and incompetence, we all know,
has no place on a fighting ship.”

“Aye, sir.” Ian said again.

“I am sensible to the fact that this
afternoon’s doings were no accident, Mr. MacDuff. I know you would
all be quite happy to see the last of me, but I can assure you that
I won’t be as easy to dislodge as my predecessors have been.”

“But sir, we don’t—“

“However, I am willing to forgive what
happened earlier. The mistake, of course, was mine, and mine alone,
for trusting my command to a crew whose strengths and weaknesses
I’ve yet to discern—and whose loyalty I’ve yet to secure. But mark
me, I will not make that mistake again. Tomorrow I will carry out a
complete inspection of this vessel before we weigh. We will leave
Portsmouth under
my
hand”—he eyed Ian coldly—“and I expect
your cooperation in seeing that our people behave in an organized,
well-disciplined fashion.”

“Aye, sir,” Ian repeated, beginning to
squirm.

The captain leaned across the table, poured
brandy into two glasses, and pushed one toward Ian. “In any case, I
did not summon you here to chide you for the events of this
afternoon.”

Ian bolted the brandy, growing more and more
nervous under the captain’s flinty stare.

“I summoned you, by God, because I would like
an explanation as to who is responsible for bringing that trollop
aboard my command!”

Ian nearly choked on the liquor. “T-trollop,
sir?”

“That deuced Irishwoman, damn you!”

Thank the gods he hadn’t been referring to
Delight,
Ian thought in dizzy relief. Surely he would’ve
confiscated her and put her aboard a proper merchantman for the
passage back to America—

“Answer me, Lieutenant!”

“I, uh . . . doona ken, sir.”

The captain only glared at him, a muscle
ticking in his jaw.

“Honestly, sir, ’tis tellin’ ye the truth I
be! I doona ken who the lassie is! Ye see, sir, we was havin’ an
argument when all of a sudden there she was, all dressed as a
laddie and begging for us tae let her sign aboard!” Quailing
beneath the captain’s icy stare, Ian grabbed the brandy bottle and
dosed himself with more of the liquor. “I didnae ken she was a
‘she,’ sir!”

The gray eyes narrowed.

Ian gulped his brandy. “Next thing I know, ye
was wantin’ tae get the ship under way, and, well, with all the,
um, accidents, sir, things got a wee bit tense. The steerin’ went,
a fight broke out, and we hit the admiral’s flagship—” He grabbed
the brandy bottle. “The lad—I mean, the lassie—well, they just
needed a scapegoat tae blame for it, so they turned on her—”

“And I suppose you don’t know her identity,
either, eh, Mr. MacDuff?”

“No, sir, never saw her before in my
life!”

“And, to your knowledge, has anyone else
aboard this vessel?”

“I doona think so, sir. She’s as much a
mystery to us, sir, as she is tae you.”

The Lord and Master stared at him for a long
time. Finally he blew out his breath, refilled the brandy glasses,
and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll likely regret it, but I daresay
I believe you,” he said quietly.

“I wouldnae lie tae ye, sir.”

“No, Mr. MacDuff . . . I don’t think that you
would.” He took a sip of his own brandy, then continued. “Tomorrow,
we weigh. But before we do, you will remove that girl from this
ship and see that she is safely put into the care of the fellow who
owns the Spindrift Tavern.” He shoved a purse across the table.
“This should see her on her way handsomely, I should think.”

Ian looked down at the money, stunned by the
Lord and Master’s generosity. “Ye be wantin’ me tae do that
tonight, sir?”

‘Tomorrow morning, Mr. MacDuff.”

“But I have the watch then—”

“Then see that Mr. Rhodes escorts her ashore.
Perhaps, as an officer, he’ll even find a way to behave like one.”
He rose to his feet, the interview concluded. “That is all, Mr.
MacDuff.”

###

Behind the canvas partition that divided the
sleeping area from the main cabin, a very homesick Deirdre O’Devir
lay unmoving in the big bed, fiercely clutching her canvas bag of
Irish mementos that the sailor named Skunk had returned to her. The
ship, tugging at her anchor, rocked gently beneath her.

He had kissed her. He, her enemy, had put his
wretched English lips against hers and
kissed
her.

And she had allowed it.

Maybe, in some odd and awful way, even . . .
enjoyed it.

She put her hands over her eyes and pressed
hard, as if she could banish the memory. In the other part of the
cabin, she could hear the captain speaking quietly to his nervous
lieutenant. Damn him! Damn his poxy hide to hell and back! Why did
he have to go and be nice to her, when she was trying her best to
kill him?

She wiped her hand across her lips, but it
could not erase the hard, masculine feel of him, the taste of him,
the answering fire in her blood that even the memory evoked.

“I hate ye,” she murmured, staring up at the
dark and shadowy bulkhead. “I should’ve killed ye when I had the
chance.”

But she had not been able to do it. She
remembered his face, calm and unflinching beneath the mouth of the
pistol as she’d prepared to put a ball between those steady gray
eyes. Thirteen years of fantasizing about the moment—and she hadn’t
had the courage to pull the trigger when that chance had finally
come.

Coward!

Steady and calm, those eyes . . . until she’d
swung the weapon on his little dog. She would never have harmed the
spaniel, of course, and her reaction had been one of startled
surprise. But what shook her to her very core, what confused her
past all understanding, was the fact that the Lord and Master
seemed to care more for his pet’s life than for his own. What sort
of man was he?

She was growing more confused by the moment.
If only she had never left Ireland. If only she were back home
right now, safe in the little cottage she’d known since birth.

If only
he
wasn’t out there, she could
get up and go to the stern windows and find the North Star.

Then, at least, she might know which
direction home lay in.

Beyond the screen, she heard the slam of the
door as the Scottish lieutenant took his leave . . . the sounds of
the captain moving about . . . the murmur of his deep voice as he
spoke to the little spaniel . . . the sound of him moving across
the cabin.

He was standing directly over her.

Deirdre froze, feigning sleep and hoping he
couldn’t hear the sudden, wild thump of her heart. That thump
seemed to crash to a stop as he lifted a thick tress of her hair,
then gently placed it back across her shoulder. He stood there for
what seemed a long time; then he gave a deep, ragged sigh and she
heard him moving back through the darkness toward his day
cabin.