Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Deirdre shrank back, the lieutenant’s swift change of mood confusing and frightening her. The rain was falling steadily now, gathering momentum, growing colder by the minute and pulling little curls of steam from the pony’s neck. She looked at the lieutenant, standing there in the rain, and waited for him to come back and talk to her again—but he did not. Why was he suddenly so angry?

  Deirdre was just about to turn Thunder away when she heard men coming up the road. She couldn’t see much through the rainy gloom, but the sounds that came to her were sharp and clear: the stamp of boots and rattle of muskets; dragging feet and angry shouts; the click of a flintlock, the dull thud of a club against flesh, and a man’s howl of rage and pain. English laughter . . . an Irishman’s swift curses.

  Another blue-and-white-clad officer was in the lead.

  “Lieutenant!” he called, saluting. “I’ve got some for you, prime lads who’ll do the ship proud!”

  The fair-haired lieutenant cast a cold eye over the approaching group. “By God, that was quick.”

  “Aye, well, being born an’ raised in this part o’ the world sure has its advantages.” The man’s voice was Irish, familiar and dear among the strange tongue of the Englishmen. As the British seamen approached, Deirdre saw they had a smaller cluster of men with them, herding them like frightened sheep and threatening them with swords and clubs to keep them in line.

  She frowned and craned her neck, her hands tightening on the wet reins. The rain was coming down hard now, pitter-pattering against the nearby rocks and heightening the scent of earth, grass and the pony’s hide.

  Somewhere out to sea, she heard the low rumble of thunder.

  “And where were they hiding, O’Callahan?” The English officer strode toward the new arrivals, his long blue coattails dark against the back of his white-clad thighs.

  “Just where I thought they’d be. Out in th’ hills, and drinking themselves senseless in the ruins of an old castle.”

  “Splendid work, O’Callahan,” the lieutenant said, yet there was an odd tonelessness in his words. “I shall make note of it to the captain.”

  But Deirdre’s horrified gaze was not on the lieutenant, not on O’Callahan, not on the group of English seamen. She stared at the frightened, angry men whom the English tars surrounded. Their clothes were dirty and torn, their faces sullen, and some of them were cut and bleeding. Yet there was no mistaking who they were. Seamus Kelly . . . Patrick O’Malley . . . the brothers Kevin and Kenny Meeghan. . . .

  And Roddy.

  It took a moment for the truth to hit. Before she knew it she was off the pony and racing across the wet grass. She slipped on a rock and went down hard, scraping her chin and knocking the breath from her lungs. “Roddy!” she cried. “Roddy!”

  Her brother’s head jerked up, and she saw horror in his purple eyes at the sight of her—horror that changed quickly to rage. Without a second’s hesitation, he slammed his fist into the jaw of the nearest seaman and sent another sprawling with the deadly hook that had earned him many a free ale at the village tavern.

  Chaos erupted.

  Deirdre scrambled to get up. In a daze, she heard the shouts of the Englishmen, the barked commands of the lieutenant, the wild yells of her neighbors. Fists slammed against flesh; guttural groans and curses were all around. Managing to get to her feet, she resumed her flight toward her brother, only to be neatly snared by Hendricks. Sobbing wildly, she saw Roddy struggling between three burly seamen, spouting curses and kicking savagely out at their legs, their groins. A sharp cuff across the face stunned him; then, someone kicked him in the belly, and a cudgel’s blow brought him to his knees.

  With Roddy retching and coughing, the rest of the Irishmen quieted. They looked hatefully at O’Callahan, then at the fine English lieutenant. Their eyes were sullen, their backs rigid with pride.

  ‘Take them to the boats and let’s be off,” the lieutenant commanded in a cold, toneless voice. “We’re done here.”

  Deirdre felt Hendricks release her, and she stood frozen as the seamen hauled Roddy and his friends down the hill, slipping on wet rocks and cursing the Irish rain, the Irish cold, the Irish seas that awaited them. She stared dazedly at the proud profile of the English naval officer, suddenly realizing just what he had done.

  No fair and handsome knight was he.

  “My brother!” she wailed, throwing herself at him and beating her hands against his back. “Please, don’t take my brother!”

  He turned and caught her flailing fists. “I said go home, foundling.”

  “But ye can’t take Roddy! Ye just can't! He’s my brother!” She struggled madly against his iron grip. “Roddy!” she screamed as the last seaman disappeared over the far side of the hill. “Roddy!”

  Her struggles quieted, and hanging from his grip, she collapsed in great, convulsing sobs of terror and grief. She heard the wind moaning across the dark pasture, and the voices of the seamen fading to a few barks of laughter, a curse, then nothing as they reached the beach far below. Her cheeks streaming tears and rain, her wet hair hanging in straggly spirals around her face, Deirdre raised desperate eyes to the lieutenant. He stared down at her, an anguished look on his handsome face, and for a moment she thought he was going to recall the men and release her brother. Then his jaw turned hard and unyielding, the set of his mouth resolute. “We are at war with France,” he said harshly. “And while I despise the methods our Navy must employ to obtain its seamen, as an officer my loyalty and duty lie with my country, not with my own inclinations.” His eyes softened. “I’m sorry, little wren.”

  Then, abruptly, he released her and turned on his heel, striding down the hill without a backward glance. She watched him melt into the darkness, heard his footsteps fade, until she was all alone with nothing but the sad patter of falling rain and the mournful crash of waves against the beach far below.

  Moments later, she saw lights bobbing out on the sea, fuzzy and dim in the mist, as the boat headed back toward the man-of-war and carried her brother away forever.

  Deirdre stood there for a long time, the wind blowing her hair in wild, wet tangles around her shoulders as she watched the lights fade to tiny pinpricks in the foggy darkness and then to nothing. At seven years of age, she had just learned there were more frightening evils in this world than the banshees whose low moans could even now be heard through the darkness of the gathering night. Choking on a last sob, she wiped her eyes, gripped in both shaking hands the ancient cross that had once belonged to her formidable ancestress, and raised her chin, her gaze fixed out to sea.

  Someday, she’d be old enough to go to England by herself, seek her cousin Brendan, and obtain his help in getting her brother back.

  Someday, she would find that English lieutenant and make him pay for what he’d done.

  Someday, she vowed—she would see that English lieutenant dead.

  Chapter 1

  England, thirteen years later

  The narrow, cobblestoned streets of Portsmouth were not the safest of places, but Captain Christian Lord, Royal Navy, was well able to defend himself from the pickpockets, thugs, and other rabble that haunted the waterfront area. A heavy boat cloak hid his handsome blue-and-white uniform and protected it from the sleety drizzle, but, just as his demeanor made it obvious that he was a man of breeding and affluence—and therefore an attractive target—one would have to be stupid or blind not to recognize the military bearing that marked him as one capably employed in some service of the king. Indeed, he was well used to fighting bigger threats than those that lurked in the shadows around him, and the powerful breadth of his shoulders, the confident manner in which he carried himself, and the sword at his side were enough to deter any would-be assailants.

  The streets, rimmed with filth and plagued by icy puddles, were polished by a cold rain that rode a bitter southeasterly out of skies gone leaden and gray. Buildings, huddled together as though for warmth, seemed to close in on either side of him, growing darker, seedier, sadder
as he neared the waterfront. The wind blew hard, and he shifted the small white bundle he carried under his arm to protect it from the elements. Already he could smell the Solent; a moment later he could see its frothy expanse, and the anchored ships riding a chain of cruising whitecaps.

  He pulled up the collar of his boat cloak, the harsh lines of his face unsoftened by the chilling drizzle. Standing two inches over six feet, he was an impressive figure, with wintry eyes and a mouth that rarely softened in a smile. But he hadn’t always been like this. Tragedy and grief had extinguished the twinkle his eyes had once held, and now, on the day before the Black Anniversary, they were bleak with suffering.

  For a moment, he stared out to sea, his gaze traveling beyond the ships, the mist-shrouded Isle of Wight, the horizonless gray gloom of the Channel . . . and into the past.

  “Emily,” he murmured, shutting his eyes against the sting of emotion.

  Just as quickly, the image was gone, and he was left standing alone in the rain, a forlorn, wind-whipped figure with nothing but memories.

  And then his gaze fell upon the frigate he would soon command and swift, righteous anger swept in to drive the memories away.

  Damn the admiral for ordering him to Boston, a sewer of malcontents and rabble-rousers if ever there was one. America, land of taxes, massacres, and dumped tea. Of discontent and rebellion left festering and unchecked. England was being far too lenient with those disobedient bumpkins across the Atlantic, and discipline needed to be enforced before the situation over there got out of hand. He supposed he was to be part of that “discipline,” but dear God, to think that Elliott was assigning him to a frigate—not just any frigate, but HMS Bold Marauder—after he’d commanded mighty ships of the line, served as flag captain for two admirals, and been proclaimed a hero for his actions in the Battle of Quiberon while still a lowly lieutenant during the Seven Years War . . .

  But no, Elliott had insisted, nay, ordered him to take command of the thirty-eight-gun warship, with the excuse that he was the Admiralty’s last hope of bringing law and order to a ship that everyone else in the Navy had all but given up on.

  Bloody hell.

  In his arms the little white dog whimpered and gently, very gently, he set her down, keeping a watchful eye on her as she did her business so she wouldn’t run off. He had found her rifling through a pile of frozen garbage some three streets back and immediately taken pity on her. Now she reared up on her hind legs and, whining, furiously licked the back of his hand, grateful that he had not abandoned her as someone else had obviously done.

  The spaniel safely in his arms once more, he resumed his quick pace. No doubt, giving him command of the Hell-Ship was Rear Admiral Sir Elliott Lord’s twisted idea of taking his mind off the Black Anniversary. But Christian was not grateful. In fact, he’d been downright furious to find, upon his arrival in Portsmouth yesterday, that his shrewd older brother had obviously had the thing planned for some time, for HMS Bold Marauder was already refitted and provisioned for sea.

  Waiting for him—her new captain.

  And there she was, distinctive, well-designed, and, if he were to allow himself a moment of romanticism long since blasted away by the realities of naval command, rather beautiful. She was anchored well out beyond the harbor, far away from the other vessels as though she carried the plague.

  As indeed she does, he thought, blackly.

  Her first captain, Richards, had been a lazy, drunken lout who’d allowed his crew the free rein to do just about anything they damn well pleased. Three men since the slovenly Richards had tried to turn her company into a fighting pack the king himself could be proud of. The first had come back insane, and it had required three marines to drag him from the cabin; the second had begged transfer to a seventy-four-gun ship of the line; and the third had quit the Navy altogether.

  Of course, the fact that the frigate’s officers were a tightly knit pack of wastrels—some the sons of peers of the realm, others the offspring of admirals ranked high on the Navy list—guaranteed the granting of their fondest desire. And that desire was that they were not to be separated and sent to different ships—a solution, Christian thought wryly, that would have solved the problem of HMS Bold Marauder immediately.

  His eyes gleamed with determination. Well, the crew was in for a big surprise if they thought they could pull any nonsense on him. Cradling the spaniel in the crook of his arm, he drew his telescope and, lifting it to his eye, studied the frigate’s decks with a seemingly detached stare that belied the steel in his frosty gray gaze. Sleet hit the glass lens, streaking the circular field, the frigate’s dark form. He moved the glass, bringing it slowly down the length of the ship, his keen eyes seeing all and missing nothing—not even the figurehead, a brown-and-white bird dog crouched beneath the bowsprit, its foot raised to its chest in a rigid point as though seeking elusive game.

  A hunter, Christian mused, but this particular ship had never fulfilled such promise. He trained the glass on her decks. What he saw only raised his ire all the more, for even from this distance it was frightfully obvious that HMS Bold Marauder fell short of the high standards of spit and polish that he, as an officer in the king’s Navy, demanded of the vessels under his command.

  He shut the telescope with a brisk snap.

  A condition that would soon change, by God!

  Grim-faced, he continued on, his long mariner’s stride conveying his ill temper. The streets were nearly deserted, those who were wise, or able to afford it, taking shelter in drier places and huddling next to crackling hearths. But still, he was not alone. A group of seamen caught the glint in his cold gray eyes and respectfully touched their hats as he passed; a thug with a hang-gallows look saw the sword peeping dangerously beneath his coattails and stepped aside; a pack of young boys, engaged in a fistfight, paused, then fell reverently into step behind him, trailing at a respectful distance, dodging into alleyways, hiding behind trash heaps, and trying in vain to keep up with him. But the captain paid them no heed. Straight to the quay he went—and came up short, his features darkening with rage.

  The boys fled.

  Captain Lord had every right to be furious. He had sent orders out to the frigate that its gig should be here, waiting to bring him to his new command—but the boat was nowhere in sight.

  He was left embarrassingly stranded.

  Either his orders had never been received or, more likely, they had been blatantly ignored by the crew of rebellious rascals whom it would soon be his duty to command.

  “Troubles already, Captain Lord?”

  A young lieutenant stood there, nervously eyeing the tall and forbidding captain and correctly guessing the reason for his anger.

  “Aye, but not for long. Lieutenant—not for long!”

  His temper gone black, Captain Christian Lord turned on his heel and stormed down the quay. He would find a way out to the frigate, and when he stepped aboard her for the first time, there would be all hell to pay.

  Chapter 2

  Captain Lord wasn’t the only one on his way out to HMS Bold Marauder. While he was trying to procure passage to his new command, another had already done so and was waiting to be rowed out to the warship.

  Deirdre O’Devir had arrived in Portsmouth with nothing but her name, her pride, her meager life savings, and a canvas bag containing everything in the world that was most precious to her: a miniature of her dead mother; a tiny model of a sailboat that Roddy had made when he was a lad; and an old sliver of wood, part of Papa’s little boat, all that had washed ashore after the sea storm in which the angels had taken him home so long ago.

  Had those been the only revered occupants of Deirdre’s canvas bag, it would have been sadly empty. Carefully wrapped in linen to guard against breakage was the vial of Irish seawater she’d taken from the beach at Connemara the day she’d left for England; a felt pouch containing sand and shells scooped from that same shore; a pebble from the rocky pasture outside the little cottage that had been her family’s home;
a tuft of wool snipped from a neighbor’s sheep; a tightly corked glass flagon, seemingly empty, but full of Irish air, and, of course, the loaf of bread—made of wheat flour grown on Irish pastures and milk gleaned from Irish cows, and baked over the heat of a good, Irish peat fire.

  It didn’t matter that the bread had grown stale during her journey to England, for it was not to be eaten. Just as Deirdre O’Devir would never empty the water from the vial or the sand and shells from the pouch, just as she would never throw the pebble away or, God forbid, uncork the flagon of Irish air and let it escape—she would never eat the bread. Nor, she thought, reaching up to finger the ornate gold heirloom that hung from the chain around her neck, would she ever take Grace’s cross off.

  She stepped closer to the edge of the quay. Below, the old tar she had paid to take her out to the Boston-bound frigate was busy clearing space for her in his boat. Taking advantage of the moment, Deirdre raised a hand to shade her eyes from the watery sun that had just broken through the clouds. She peered across the water to the frigate. At the thought of her impending voyage, her heart jumped with fear, but she hid it well—just as she’d hidden the secret of her gender beneath a loose linen shirt, woolen jacket, and seaman’s trousers. With her wildly curling tresses stuffed beneath a cap, there was little to give away the fact that the raw-boned lad with the fair complexion and bold black brows was actually a female.

  Her face, a striking contrast of beauty and strength, denoted the courage of Celtic blood and showed none of the frailty that was often associated with her sex. Her nose was straight and bold, her lips full, her cheekbones high and proud. Only her eyes, a deep, mysterious, purple, betrayed her fear and grief, for even here her mama’s deathbed words, uttered not one month before, haunted her . . .

  “Deirdre . . . Go t’ England and find m’ son. Go t’ England . . . go wherever ye have to, girl. But go, find m’ lad . . . and bring him back home t' Ireland so I can rest in peace . . .”