Master Of My Dreams (Heroes Of The Sea Series)

by Danelle Harmon

  He looked at the chairs. In which one had his Deirdre taken her supper? Sat and talked to her hosts? Pined inside with homesickness?

  By God and all that was holy, she would not be out here for long. As soon as he gathered the evidence Sir Geoffrey needed to brand the Foleys as rebels of the Crown, as soon as he himself found and chased down the Irish Pirate—who was, as Sir Geoffrey had put it, “putting weapons in the hands of babes”—he would marry her and get her out of here.

  That day couldn’t arrive soon enough.

  Mrs. Foley came bustling around the corner, absently patting her hair, her lips drawn tight, an anxious frown creasing her brow. Her hand flew to her chest at the sight of him.

  “Oh! I hadn’t realized you’d already come in—”

  “My apologies, madam. I did not mean to startle you.”

  She hastily indicated a chair. “No matter, Captain. As you know, things are so tense I suppose we are all in a state of agitation, what with those awful rebels whipping up the countryside as they are!” She turned away, unable to meet his eyes, and quickly changed the subject. “Dolores Ann tells me you took extraordinarily good care of her during the passage, and that your crew was most obliging to her every need.”

  Christian swallowed the wrong way, coughed, and out of the corner of his eye caught Delight’s amused gaze as she entered the room in time to hear her mother’s comment. “They were, uh, quite attentive,” he said slowly, grabbing the cup of hot, steaming chocolate that was set before him.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Mrs. Foley said. “Of course, one can never be too safe nowadays, what with such riffraff as that awful Irish Pirate terrorizing the seas! Why, I’m told that he struck again just last week . . . engaged himself in battle with an English frigate!”

  Christian nearly scalded his throat at the woman’s reckless taunt. He set the hot chocolate down. “Battle? There was no battle, madam. The English frigate in question was under my command, and any damage she sustained was dealt by a Frenchman, not an overgrown brat playing at being a smuggler.”

  His remark, carefully delivered with just the right amount of anger and righteous British indignation, had the desired effect. He saw his hostess’s eyes gleam before she quickly set a slice of pork pie before him. “Is that so, Captain? I don’t think the Irish—I mean, the scoundrel—is ‘playing.’ In fact, I hear he’s become quite successful at his game.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Christian said mildly, carefully sipping his chocolate and pretending a blithe disregard for the subject. “He didn’t have the courage to stay and fight. Not that it matters. My admiral views him as a paltry inconvenience, and so do I. The Navy has better things to be doing than chasing after vermin, and I certainly wasn’t sent across three thousand miles of stormy North Atlantic for the sole purpose of apprehending this nuisance who seems determined to get himself hanged.”

  His hostess took the bait. “You mean, you’ve been sent all the way from England just to catch the Irish Pirate?”

  “Ridiculous, is it not?” Christian gave a benign, planned smile. “Of course, one cannot blame me for my lack of interest in the assignment. I have far more important matters on my mind.”

  “Such as?” she prompted, trying to conceal her inquisitiveness.

  Christian picked up his knife and fork and cut a piece of the pie. He allowed a smile to touch his mouth. “Oh, such as the pursuit of other, more . . . shall I say . . . romantic interests.”

  She stared at him.

  “Really, Mrs. Foley,” he said, smiling patiently. “After that display on your front lawn, is there any doubt in your mind as to what brought me to Menotomy? I have fallen in love with Deirdre and wish to marry her at the earliest convenience. Have you never been in love, madam? Do you not know, or remember, what it is like to be unable to think of anything but the object of your affection?” That much, at least, was true. “My beloved Deirdre consumes my attention, my dreams, my every waking moment. I have little thought for this Irish Pirate, and even less care for what bit of glory I might earn by catching him.”

  Bit of glory indeed, Christian thought to himself. He had been tasked with apprehending the scoundrel, and he would do just that. But first and foremost, he had to gain the Foleys’ trust—and fool them into thinking he did not take his assignment seriously.

  Apparently his plan was working; his hostess had visibly relaxed, and it occurred to Christian that marrying Deirdre, and thereby removing his excuse to visit the Foley household, would be quite welcome in Mrs. Foley’s eyes indeed.

  “Well, then,” the woman said brightly, “I shall not detain you in your courtship of the girl. Personally, I think you make a striking couple! In fact—”

  At that moment, Deirdre came flying down the stairs, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Ye like it, Christian?” She made a quick, childish pirouette, the skirts of her new riding habit flying to reveal shapely ankles. “’Tis Del—I mean, Dolores’s. She gave me some clothes to wear till I can sew some of my own.”

  Judging from the tailored fit of the bodice, and given the superior size of Delight’s bosom, Deirdre had already been at work with needle and thread.

  “You are beautiful, my love.” His eyes warmed. “I am undone.”

  He was also growing impatient. Pushing the plate of pie away, he drained the last of the hot chocolate and got to his feet. “Mrs. Foley, may I have your permission to take Deirdre riding?”

  “Yes, yes of course, Captain Lord. In fact, take one of our horses for Deirdre. Oh, would that we could all be young again, and in love . . .”

  Christian nodded, took Deirdre’s hand, and, bending to kiss it, led her from the house, secure in the knowledge that Delight’s mother thought him nothing more than an arrogant and smitten fool who had little interest in actually apprehending the Irish Pirate.

  But as the Foley women stood on the porch, watching the tall and handsome officer escort their houseguest across the yard, Mrs. Foley was anything but calm. She waited until they were out of earshot, then turned frantically on her daughter.

  “I don’t like this one bit!” she cried, wringing her hands. “That’s all we need, to have a king’s officer sniffing around here!”

  “Really, Mama, he’s a naval captain,” Delight purred, forgetting to use her normal tone of voice and earning a sharp glare from her mother. “And naval officers concern themselves with the affairs of ships and sea, not with patriot gatherings such as those that you and Papa have become involved in.”

  “Still, the man makes me nervous! He’s too polished. Too controlled. And those eyes . . . they discern too much! He knows, Dolores Ann!” She gripped her daughter’s arms, her fingers biting into the soft flesh, her eyes wide with fright. “He knows!”

  “Pooh, Mama. He knows nothing. He’s merely in love with Deirdre, that’s all.” Delight smoothed a lock of golden hair and tucked it under her mobcap. “Why, if you’d seen the utterly scandalous way those two behaved aboard ship, you’d know just what I’m talking about.”

  “Dolores Ann, everyone knows he was sent here to apprehend the Irish Pirate!”

  “And by his own admission you heard how little the task means to him.” Delight laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “Really, Mama, you worry too much. Captain Lord is a brave and steady man, and he will do his duty, but he is not cunning and clever like our Irish Pirate. Why, Roddy will run circles around him. In fact, he already has. Now come. Let us go and see to supper, no?”

  Taking her mother’s arm, she led her into the house.

  Chapter 25

  They rode side by side, he gazing hungrily at her trim form, she admiring the way the sunlight picked out the gold in his hair where it lay caught in a queue between his broad shoulders. He smiled over at her, his eyes dark beneath the shadow of his hat, and she felt suddenly giddy with happiness. Despite the hostile looks some of the townspeople were giving him, she was proud to be at his side.

  They rode onward, gazing at each other so much that it
was left to the horses to choose their path. To Deirdre, America suddenly did not seem so bleak. She had been too homesick to appreciate her surroundings, but now, at the side of the man she loved, the sunlight looked brighter, the chickadees and cardinals and jays more colorful, the water of a nearby pond cobalt with brilliance, the scents of springtime—mud, melted frost, running water, fresh air— sharper.

  And trees? She had never seen so many in her life, for the moors of Connemara were bleak and barren and empty of such thick woods.

  “Christian?”

  “Aye, my love?”

  She was looking at a V of geese winging high overhead, their brash honking drifting down in waves of sound. “D’ye ever miss England?”

  He smiled gently. “All the time.”

  “The same way I miss Ireland?”

  “Perhaps. Though I confess I don’t carry a bag of trinkets with me to remind me of it.”

  She frowned. “Are ye teasin’ me?”

  “Who, me?” His lips twitched. “I simply find it a most charming trait, your sentimentality for home. But someday, you will learn that home is not where you happen to be living at the moment, or even where you hail from—but where your heart is. Home can be any place, as long as the one you love is there with you.”

  “If that’s true, Christian, then I am home now.”

  He urged his horse closer to hers and reached out across the short distance to take her hand. “Was it hard for you, being alone these past nights?”

  “Aye,” she said, the misery of those lonely hours nearly forgotten now that Christian was there with her. “But I managed.”

  “Oh?”

  “I took yer shirt,” she admitted. “It wasn’t much, but holding it in my arms, I felt as if I had a part o’ ye there with me. And ye know what else I did, Christian?”

  “Pray, do tell.”

  “I sat at my window and figured out by the stars just where Ireland is—then I moved my bed so I can fall asleep every night with my face toward it.”

  He laughed in high amusement and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  “Christian, d’ye think all the Englishmen who are here—I mean, all the men in the ships, and all the men of the general’s troops—want to go home, too?”

  “I am sure they do.”

  “I don’t know why anyone would want to live here, Christian. The land is ugly. And everyone’s so cold and unfriendly.”

  “The people are unhappy with England’s policies right now, Deirdre. When things are resolved, and agreements reached between the colonists and Britain, then you will find America a very beautiful place.”

  “’Tis nothin’ like Ireland,” she declared huffily.

  “No, it is not. It has its own beauty.”

  “I see nothin’ beautiful about it. The birds look different, the animals look different, the people talk different, and the grass is brown. Whoever heard of brown grass? In Ireland right now, the grass’d be green and pretty!”

  He slanted her a grin. “In Ireland right now, it would be raining.”

  She clamped her lips shut.

  “And,” he pointed out with another gently taunting smile, “New England gets heavy snow in the wintertime—unlike Ireland—which is why the grass turns brown. But you wait. I daresay in two or three weeks, it will be as green as it is at home.”

  “Ye promise, Christian?”

  There was such a look of childish hope in her eyes that he was nearly undone. “I promise, Deirdre.”

  She looked away, and they continued for some time before she spoke again. “Christian?”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  “Have ye been thinkin’ of yer other promise? Yer vow to help me find my brother?”

  “Aye, Deirdre, I’ve been thinking of it. And so, apparently, has your cousin. I have not had opportunity to speak with him directly, and will not for some time, as Sir Geoffrey has sent him out to patrol the coast. However, he did send me a note, pledging to do all that he can to help us.” Christian did not add that locating her brother would be akin to finding a minnow in the Atlantic, for that would only crush her. “In the meantime, I will do everything in my power to restore your brother to you, so help me God.”

  “If anyone can find him, you can,” she declared, her eyes reverent and full of childish trust in what she obviously considered to be his godlike abilities. He knew he could never live up to her expectations of him, and swiftly changed the subject.

  “Are the Foleys treating you well?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “You are managing, then?”

  “Aside from losin’ my wool the first night, aye.”

  He gave her a puzzled, sidelong glance. “Losing your wool?”

  “’Twas from Ireland,” she said defensively. “It blew out the window when I was tryin’ to figure out in which direction Ireland was.”

  “I see.” He hid a private grin.

  “But I still have my Irish air left,” she said, her face very serious. She patted her horse’s neck. “And my pebble and my sand and shells. And, of course, I still have my cross, which I can’t lose because I never take it off.”

  “Never?” he teased.

  “Never!”

  He laughed, his eyes glinting with amusement as they left the village behind them. The horses plodded along, their ears flicking back and forth, their hooves thudding dully against the road. In the distance, purple hills rose against the horizon, and here and there a farmhouse, spouting a tuft of smoke from its chimney, made a splash of color against the landscape. Eventually they found a small path that led off the road and down through the trees. The horses slowed, slipping a bit in the mud as they descended, and Christian ducked beneath low-hanging branches. Deirdre was right behind him, admiring the way his shoulders stretched the fabric of his uniform coat.

  So intent was she in studying him that she almost allowed her horse to plow into his when he stopped.

  He turned then, smiling, his eyes dark with unspoken desire. “Do you find this spot as pretty as any in Ireland, Deirdre?”

  She looked around. A stream, swelled with spring thaw and rain, tumbled over a bed of brightly colored pebbles and wound away into the woods. Sunlight shone down through a stand of evergreens, dappling a carpet of pine needles and dead leaves from the previous autumn. High above, a bright blue sky shone through the trees, and here and there large boulders of granite, their color that of Christian’s eyes, rose out of the leaf-strewn forest floor.

  Deirdre shut her eyes, listening to the happy babble of the brook. “I think it might be,” she admitted slowly.

  “Do you find it a place that is suitable to . . . being alone with each other?”

  “Oh, aye, Christian. I wouldn’t care if I was sittin’ in a mud puddle, long’s I was with ye.”

  He gave a wolfish smile, and swung easily down from his saddle. Her eyes hungry, she watched as he tied his horse to a nearby tree, loosening the girth so the big stallion could relax. She started to dismount, but he was there, his hands fastening around her waist. She gazed happily into his face. Since when had that face, this man, become so dear, so beloved, to her? A shaft of sunlight slanted down through the trees, falling over his gray irises and picking out a hint of green there. “Please, love,” he said, smiling up into her eyes. “Allow me the pleasure.”

  “Christian, ye don’t always have to be playin’ the officer and gentleman, ye know.”

  “I am not playing,” he said seriously, plucking her from the saddle as though she weighed no more than the tuft of wool she had lost. She fastened her arms behind his neck and gazed up into his eyes, sighing with delight as he carried her to a sunlit spot a short distance away. “And though I intend to stretch the limits of the word ‘gentleman,’ I shall always behave with your interests uppermost in my mind.”

  With that, he set her down, took a rolled blanket from behind the cantle of his saddle, and spread it out over the ground. Somewhat shyly, Deirdre helped him straighten the corners and stoo
d looking up at him. Dear God, she had never thought an Englishman could be so utterly, achingly, handsome. And she had never thought she could love someone as much as she did him.

  He took off his hat, hung it on a nearby tree branch, and, removing his sword, came to stand beside her. She was suddenly aware of the muscled strength of his thighs, the heat of his powerful body, his fierce need for her and her alone. He reached out and cupped her chin in his hands, his thumbs warm against her cheekbones as he gazed down into her eyes for a long, intense moment. “Do you love me, Deirdre?”

  She returned his stare unblinkingly. “I love ye more than I love life itself, Christian.”

  “Do you love me enough to become my wife?”

  He couldn’t have stunned her more if he had grown a third arm. Her eyes widened, her jaw went slack, and her lips moved several times before she could form the words. “Ye mean . . . ye want to . . . to marry me? Ye mean I wasn’t just hopin’ against hope that ye’d ask?”

  “You had hoped I would ask?”

  “I prayed ye’d ask, Christian. But I didn’t think ye would, you being English, and me bein’ Irish ’n’ all.”

  “English, Irish, it makes no difference. I love you. You love me. I’d marry you tomorrow if I could, so eager am I to get you out of Menotomy and back with me—where you belong.”

  “I know, Christian,” she said gently, her hands coming up to touch the hard planes of his cheeks. “Brendan already explained it to me, that Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t like it none if ye kept a woman aboard yer ship who wasn’t yer wife. He told me it might look bad for ye when it comes to promotin’ time. I don’t like to be away from ye, Christian, but I understand now why I have to be.” She shrugged. “Besides, the Foleys are treatin’ me well. I know I won’t be out here forever.”