Master Of My Dreams (Heroes Of The Sea Series)

by Danelle Harmon

  MASTER OF MY DREAMS

  By

  Danelle Harmon

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Danelle Harmon

  Smashwords Edition

  MASTER OF MY DREAMS

  Copyright © 2012 by Danelle Harmon

  License Notes

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  ~~~~

  Prologue

  Ireland, 1762

  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 had passed.

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

  England was still at war with France—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 little Deirdre O’Devir, holding tightly to her mama’s hand and clutching with pale white fingers the ancient Celtic cross that hung from around her neck, solemnly bade her older brother good-bye. Roddy had blown her a careless, laughing kiss; then the door had banged shut behind him as he ran to join the steady stream of young lads who cheerfully whistled and sang as they headed into hiding at the ruins of the old, haunted castle, far up in the hills where even the dreaded English would dare not go.

  Then she and Mama had bolted the door and, huddling together beside the snapping, smoking peat fire, waited.

  Roddy had said they had nothing to fear, for the press gang didn’t take lassies. But as Deirdre stood at the window and looked off toward the sea, where she could see the towering masts of the man-of-war silhouetted against the brooding clouds, curiosity got the best of her. She had to see for herself just what was so terrible about the English and its Navy, which everyone so feared and hated.

  After all, her dear cousin Brendan, who’d been raised right here in Connemara, was a midshipman in the Royal Navy, and despite having a British admiral for a daddy, was as much an Irishman as she or Roddy. Surely, if Brendan was in the Navy, it couldn’t be as evil as everyone said it was . . . could it?

  Raising her chin, Deirdre made up her mind. Mama would never know if she sneaked out for just a bit. She was a wee mite, even for a seven-year-old; it was a simple thing to crawl out her window after she had made an excuse to steal off to her room. Once outside, she vaulted over the stone fence and rode away on Thunder, her own, well-loved pony.

  She waited until she was well away from the cottage before she urged the pony into a gallop and raced him headlong toward the sea. The pungent scent of peat fires hung heavily on the air, mingling with the fresh, heady tang of the ocean. Drifting mist, cold, damp and penetrating, moved stealthily down from the mountains.

  Night was coming on, and with it would come a storm.

  Deirdre urged Thunder faster. Already the wind was picking up; now huge black clouds were filing in from the ocean, casting shifting shadows and colors over the rocky pastures, dragging patterns of light and dark over the sea. Recklessly, she pressed her heels to the pony’s flanks, not pulling him up until they crested the last rocky hill.

  There she sat, a pale little thing with thick, spiral-curling black hair whipping around a face dominated by the innocently wide eyes of a child. The wind gusted, promising rain. Far below, where the sea swapped kisses with the base of the hill, waves thundered and boomed and kicked up great sheets of spray that dewed her cheeks and tasted like salt.

  A flock of rooks, shrieking, winged suddenly away, and in the distance she heard the mournful bleating of sheep. Behind her, a stone, loosened by the pony’s hooves, skittered down the hill, the sound cleaving the tense 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.

  Wind blew thick tangles of hair across her face. She clawed the wild tresses out of her eyes and looked anxiously toward the darkening sea.

  There, a half mile out in the bay, the British warship lay, majestic in all its dread, frightening in all its beauty, the sky growing blacker by the moment behind its towering masts.

  Deirdre’s eyes grew huge. She reached up to touch the cross of hammered gold and inlaid emeralds that hung from around her neck, but the ancient heirloom was no comfort.

  Beneath her, the pony tossed his head and pricked his ears forward, his attention caught by something out in the rising surf. Deirdre stared between his ears. A boat had been lowered from the ship and was headed toward shore, plunging through the rolling breakers and neatly avoiding the rocks, around which the surf boiled and foamed white in the gathering gloom.

  Panic began to prickle up her spine.

  Run, Deirdre, run! But she could do nothing except stare at the boat, forgetting the oncoming storm, forgetting the menace of the press gang, forgetting the fact that it would soon be dark and the banshees would come out.

  Forgetting the awful feeling that she was being watched.

  The boat was nearing shore now, its crew having a rough time of it in the rising seas as they steered it through the dark, deadly rocks that reared out of the crashing surf. But even the rocks, which had guarded this ancient coast since time began, were helpless against invading Englishmen. 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 officer in the stern with spray. Deirdre felt sorry for them. But the oarsmen’s smooth strokes never wavered, the boat wasn’t dashed against the rocks, and steadily it drew closer.

  A cold drop of rain hit her cheek. Another splashed upon her hand. Deirdre urged the pony to the very edge of the hill—and it was then that she noticed the officer in the boat had a telescope to his eye and was training it on her.

  With a cry of fright, she wheeled Thunder around—and ran straight into a group of the most evil-looking men she’d ever seen in her life.

  “And wot ’ave we ’ere, Jenkins? A wee Oirish lassie wi’ purple eyes an’ the fairest ’air ye ever did see!”

  Deirdre’s heart stopped, and bounced sickeningly down to her toes. Wildly, she looked behind her—but there was only the sea at her back, and nowhere to go.

  She bit her lip and her eyes filled with tears.

  “’Ere now, wot’s this, tears on ol’ Taggert ’ere?” One of them grabbed the pony’s bridle, causing the animal to yank its head back and roll its eyes in fright. “Would ye lookee ’ere, Jenkins. Ye must’ve spooked her with that ugly face of yours.”

  Jenkins grinned, showing prominent teeth that only frightened her all the more. An oily braid hung down his back, tied at the end with a piece of lea
ther, and tattoos competed for space on his thick, strapping arms.

  “Let me go,” she said, struggling to pull away.

  But they simply laughed, fearsome and ugly men with hard eyes and menacing faces. Fumes of rum clung to their breath and some of them carried clubs; others had cudgels and one or two held cutlasses.

  “Hold on to that nag’s bridle, Taggert! With yer luck ye’ll not be seein’ another lass for some time to come!”

  “Aye, she’s the best ye’re gonna do!”

  Bursts of hearty guffaws followed their remarks, and their harsh English voices were foreign and frightening.

  “Might as well take advantage of ’er before the lieutenant gets here!”

  “Let me go!” Deirdre cried, kicking out at Jenkins’s thigh with her foot.

  He merely laughed, plucked her from the pony’s back, and set her on the ground. His hand clamped around her wrist, holding her cruelly when she tried to fight and pull away. “Now, wot’re ye doin’ out here by yer lonesome when it’s startin’ to grow dark, eh? Ain’t ye got a mother to watch over ye?”

  Above, the clouds massed, stalled, and began to spit more rain. One drop. Another.

  “’Sdeath, Jenkins, it’s startin’ to pour. We’ve work to do, and the lieutenant ain’t gonna be too happy if he catches ye messing with a mere child.”

  “Indeed,” said a cold, hard voice, “I damn well won’t be.”

  Suddenly, the men behind Jenkins went still and stared with something like terror toward the hill’s edge. Talk stopped abruptly. Faces paled. Eyes widened; gazes were cast down.

  Far off in the distance, thunder rumbled.

  There, a British sea officer stood silhouetted against the sky, leaning on his sword and watching them with eyes as cold and gray as the storm clouds that gathered behind him. His blue coat was soaked with spray, his lips were set in a severe line, and his features were as hard and uncompromising as stone.

  “We’ve come here to press seamen, Jenkins, not frighten little girls. Unhand her this moment before you feel the bite of my anger—and my sword.”

  Jenkins released her so quickly she nearly fell. Recognizing the newcomer as the officer who’d watched her from the boat, Deirdre felt her knees begin to shake. She huddled closer to the pony’s shoulder, her eyes huge with fright at the sight of the boat’s crew gathering behind him, huffing and puffing as they came up the hill. They began to laugh as they caught sight of her, and several exchanged smirks. But the officer did not seem amused at all. One sharp glance from him was all that was needed to instantly quell their grins. They looked down at the ground, obviously respectful of his authority and unwilling to displease him.

  Even Jenkins backed away from the pony, his hands raised as though in truce. “Sorry, sir.”

  Pointing with his sword, the lieutenant snapped, “Get your carcass down that hill, drag the boats free of the surf, and mind that they’re well hidden. We’ve King’s business to conduct and no time to be dallying with diversions, damn you.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Jenkins sputtered, and fled.

  With a sharp and precise motion the officer sheathed his sword, the scrape of the blade against the scabbard sending shivers up Deirdre’s spine. She stared at him, taking in the smart naval uniform and thinking that if he wasn’t so frightening he might actually look handsome in it, even if he was a Briton. Not a speck of lint flecked the dark blue coat; not a smudge of dirt marred the whiteness of breeches and waistcoat—

  But then he came forward, and Deirdre remembered her fear. The fearsome, rough-looking men parted, wordlessly letting the officer through their ranks. Cold sweat broke out along the length of Deirdre’s spine and she trembled violently. A strange buzzing noise started in her ears, drowning out the crash of surf, the rising moan of the wind. Her fingers went numb and the feeling began to fade from her toes, her feet, her legs . . .

  The lieutenant caught her when she would’ve fallen, his touch jerking her back to reality and stark, choking terror. She screamed in fright and struggled madly.

  “Let me go!” she shrieked, kicking out at him. “Let me go-o-ooo!”

  Holding her easily, he let her struggle, her childish strength no match for his. Finally, she wore herself out and stood before him, frozen with fear and sobbing pathetically

  “Poor little wren,” he said, his voice deep and rich and soothing. He knelt down to her level, his thumbs coming up to brush away the tears that streaked her damp cheeks. She flinched, squeezing her eyes shut and trembling violently. “I daresay we’ve frightened you.”

  Deirdre opened her eyes. She stared at him, taking his measure from close range. His cocked hat covered bright, gilded hair that was caught at the nape with a black ribbon. He had long golden eyelashes, eyes the color of fog, and a sharp, clean profile that reminded her of a hawk.

  Smiling, he took off his hat and tucked it beneath his elbow. His fair hair, contrasting sharply with the deep tan of his handsome face, was bleached and silvery at the ends, as though he spent a lot of time in the sun. His body was lean, his posture straighter than any she’d ever seen, and he had a firmness about his mouth that made her think he was well used to command. But then he smiled at her once more, and little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, the sides of his mouth, and suddenly he didn’t look quite so stern and frightening anymore.

  She smiled back, hesitantly, childishly.

  “Is this your pony?” he asked, still kneeling before her and inclining his head toward Thunder.

  Her gaze still locked with his, she nodded, too afraid to speak.

  “And what is his name?” He seemed heedless of the way his men were once more elbowing each other and grinning.

  “Th-Thunder,” she managed, her voice high with fright.

  His brows drew together in bemusement as he caught sight of the Celtic cross hanging from around her neck. He reached out and hefted it in his hand, studying it while she went rigid with terror. “Thunder . . .” he murmured absently, rubbing his thumb over the ornate design. Then, replacing the cross, he sat back on his heels and cast an admiring eye over the pony. “D’you know, I used to have a pony once, just like yours, except I called him Booley. He was a naughty fellow, though, full of mischief and pranks. Why, once he refused to take a fence and tossed me right off his back and broke my arm. Hurt like the devil, it did!” He smiled again, shot a glance toward the gathering storm clouds, and then his gaze grew serious once more. “So we have Thunder, here. And might I ask your name, little girl?”

  Her gaze darted to the grinning seamen, then back at the handsome lieutenant, who didn’t seem to care that the skies were about to open up. “Deirdre.”

  “Deirdre,” he repeated, the name sounding strange on his foreign tongue. “That’s a pretty name for a pretty lass.” He was smiling at her, and for a moment she could almost imagine him as a knight from a fairy tale, so handsome was his face, so reassuring and kind were his gray eyes. Childishly wiping the back of her hand across her running nose, Deirdre gathered her courage and took a deep breath.

  “And what’s yer name?” she asked.

  “Christian.” He grinned. “Christian Lord.”

  “That’s a funny name,” she said, trying not to laugh.

  “Indeed it is. My pious mother’s idea of a joke, I suspect. Would that I were a John. Or a Richard. Or even an Elliott, like my brother.”

  “Are ye in the Royal Navy?” she blurted innocently.

  “Aye, that I am, little wren.”

  “My mama says only pirates, thieves, and tyrants are in the Royal Navy.” Frowning, she peered closely at him, searching the depths of his face for some proof of her mama’s words. “But I think my mama might be wrong.”

  “Do you, now?” The corners of his mouth were twitching, as though he was trying awfully hard not to laugh. “And why d’you say that, foundling?”

  “Because my cousin Brendan is in the Royal Navy, and he’s the kindest, handsomest man in the whole wide world.” Hi
s sudden laughter bolstered her courage, and she puffed out her chest importantly. “And he’s not a thief, nor a pirate! His daddy was an admiral, and Mama says that someday Brendan will be, too.”

  “An admiral, you say?”

  “Uh, Lieutenant?”

  Beyond her new friend’s broad shoulder, Deirdre could see another man leaning against his club and grinning crookedly. Without turning around, the lieutenant snapped, “For God’s sake, Hendricks, don’t just stand there. Go find O’Callahan so we can be about this devilish business.”

  “No need to, sir. I think I hear him coming now.”

  “As does the whole blighty village,” muttered Jenkins.

  Rising abruptly to his feet, the lieutenant donned his hat and turned toward the road. Deirdre stared at him in awe, but he seemed oblivious to her perusal. He cast a wistful glance toward the man o’ war, as though he regretted being here and wanted nothing more than to be back aboard his ship. He looked once more toward the road. His mouth went hard, and when he looked down at her again, his mood had changed and his gray eyes had become determined and resolved.

  “Time for you to run along, little wren.”

  “But don’t ye want to hear about my cousin Brendan?”

  “Next time, foundling.” He reached down, put his hands around her waist, and lifted her up to the pony’s back. The motion was quick and sure; the manner in which it was done brusque and businesslike. Numbly, she allowed him to stuff the wet reins into her hands, noticing that he was no longer smiling, and that his mouth looked tight and strained. He gave her hair, damp now with mist and rain, one last tousle before turning away. “Now, off with you, before it gets any darker.”

  “’You can’t let her go, Lieutenant, she’ll spread the alarm!”

  “A pox on you, Hendricks!” he barked with sudden anger. “’Tis too late for any alarm, they saw us coming long before we’d already lost the element of surprise. Hail O’Callahan’s party and let’s be done with this. By God, ’tis miserable enough business as it is, without having to spend the entire night in this godforsaken hellhole, damn you!”