Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  The crew, silent and still and rigid with fear, wordlessly parted, letting him pass. Straight up to her he came. She felt a knife sawing at her bound wrists . . Strong hands lifting her up . . . A solid, hard, comforting chest . . . Movement beneath her and faces passing, gaping, staring. She reached up, clutched his lapels, and huddled against him, helpless to stop her tears that smeared his fine white linen waistcoat. His hand stroked her hair, held her protectively close. Then the sunlight was cut off as she was carried below . . .

  “Easy, foundling.” His voice was deep and rich and soothing, rumbling up out of his chest just beneath her cheek. “ ’Twill be all right. Easy, now.”

  They passed bulkheads, alive with checkerboards of dark and light, and then the great, imposing door, where a grim-faced marine with a musket stood guard outside. Then they were through the door and into the cabin. He set her down upon the deck flooring and she stood there in a daze, shivering, her arms coming up to shield her bare breasts, tears of fear and shame coursing down her cheeks.

  The Lord and Master’s back was to her. He had broad and capable shoulders. Gold insignias on his sleeves, gold lace on his cocked hat, and gold trim decorating his fine blue coat.

  Then he turned, and the blood drained from Deirdre’s face. She staggered backward, hit a table, and forgot to breathe.

  It was the young lieutenant she’d vowed to find and kill.

  Except he wasn’t a lieutenant anymore.

  He was the captain.

  Chapter 4

  She stared at him, denying the truth, yet knowing there was no denying it.

  He was broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist, and as tall as she remembered. It was impossible to know the color of his hair, as he wore a carefully powdered and rolled periwig, but there was no mistaking the haughty brows, taut mouth and hawkish profile that looked as though they’d been carved from stone. Unlike that long ago lieutenant she’d encountered on a stormy Irish beach, however, she sensed that if this man smiled, that rigid, disdainful face might crack.

  “The devil take me,” he murmured, raking her with chilly gray eyes. Their color was that of the ocean beneath stormy skies, but as he moved, sunlight slanted across the irises and brought out the barest hint of green. “A woman. Life is full of surprises, is it not?”

  “You . . .” she breathed, pulling herself to her feet, and accidentally, one breast slipped free from the cover of her arms—giving Christian an unobstructed view of the first female charms he’d seen in five years.

  “Pray, madam, cover yourself!” he said hoarsely, taking off his coat and shoving it at her.

  “I’ll rot in hell before I wear the king’s coat, ye bleedin’ English dog!”

  “You’ll cover yourself, by God, or I’ll put it on you myself!”

  “You so much as touch me and I’ll make ye regret the day ye were whelped, ye poxy rogue!”

  He started toward her, his brow dark with fury, but just then the current swung the two ships together with a stunning crash. The girl lost her balance, struck her thigh hard against his table as she fell sprawling to the deck, and cursed him roundly as again, Christian tried to cover her with his coat.

  Outside the door came voices and the warning thump of Evans’s musket against the deck.

  “Don’t you touch me, ye poxy wretch!” the girl raged, struggling to throw off the hated coat and fighting him all the harder when he attempted to snare her wrists. “Let me go-o-o-o!”

  “Evans!” he yelled. “Keep your station at that door, mind you, and allow no one to enter, is that understood?”

  “Uh—aye, sir. But—”

  “No ‘buts,’ Evans. That is an order!”

  “But, sir—”

  The girl was shrieking at the top of her lungs. “I’ll see ye in hell, ye rotten blackguard, ye worthless whelp of a stinkin cur, ye—”

  “Captain, sir!” Evans cried urgently.

  “Not now, Evans!”

  “But, Captain—”

  With a curse, Christian released the girl. “Damn you, Evans, wait a moment!” he roared, and ducked as she grabbed his water pitcher and hurled it at him. Behind him, glass crashed against the bulkhead and the girl, naked from the waist up, bolted beneath his desk.

  “Captain, sir!” Evans shouted from behind the door. “This is most urgent!”

  “I said in a moment!” Christian shouted, reaching blindly beneath the desk and trying to grab his quarry. He caught her hand, caught her other hand, and held on tight, her screams of rage piercing his head as he dragged her out from beneath the desk. She went wild, fighting him with all of her strength, shrieking, kicking, and cursing him in a scalding torrent of both Irish Gaelic and English. Her foot lashed out, hit a chair, and sent it skidding across the deck to crash into the bulkhead. She twisted around, sank her teeth into his wrist, managed to free her hand, and, slamming it into his jaw, dove for the door.

  He caught her before she could reach it and jerked her around, her bare breasts coming up against his chest.

  “Ye miserable knave, I’ll see ye die if it’s the last thing I do!”

  Twisting against his grip, she lunged once more. His wig went askew, tumbling to the floor even as she brought her knee up and drove it savagely into his groin. Christian doubled over in agony, white-hot pain exploding behind his eyes, only to feel her fist smash into his jaw. He staggered backward, slipped in the shards of glass and water, and went down heavily on the deck.

  “Sir, is everything all right in there?” Evans yelled.

  “All is—ouch!—quite well indeed, thank you, Evans!” Christian grunted as the girl kicked him solidly in the shoulder; then, fighting his own pain, he lunged to his feet as she went for his pistol, deflecting her arm upward. She tumbled to the deck beneath him just as the gun went off—

  And the door crashed open.

  Christian froze and the girl went stiff beneath him. Evans stood there, sheepish, anxious, and wide-eyed. And with him, resplendent in a blue-and-white uniform glittering with gold lace, was an officer.

  Not just any officer.

  Elliott.

  “Well, well. What do we have here? Really, Christian, I’d expected more from you, of all people.”

  The blood drained from Christian’s face.

  “What the devil is this, Captain Lord?”

  The admiral stood with his weight slung on one hip, his hand resting against the door, and his lids hooding dark gray eyes that were either amused or enraged. With Elliott, it was impossible to tell.

  But then, with Elliott, it had always been impossible to tell.

  Now his gaze took in the damning scene: the black-and-white canvas smeared with blood; the girl lying helpless beneath Christian, her lip bleeding and her cheek bruised—injuries no doubt sustained when she’d tried to fend off her attacker’s lust—and Christian himself, spread-eagled over her nearly naked body in a most damning position.

  Too late, Christian recovered himself. Burning with humiliation, he leapt to his feet, grabbed his hat, and bounced it off the top of his head in a hasty salute. The girl shot back beneath the desk and huddled there, her legs drawn up, her arms clasped around them to shield her breasts, and her eyes glittering with fury.

  Elliott put two and two together, and came up with five.

  Behind him, several captains had gathered, craning their necks over their admiral’s shoulder as they tried to peer into the cabin. Their brows shot clear to their hat lines, and exchanging glances, they began to snicker in amusement.

  Christian, his ears burning, pulled himself up to stand rigidly at attention.

  Elliott, as usual, was at his best—and enjoying himself immensely. “I say, Captain Lord, this is most humiliating—to the Royal Navy, to this ship, and, of course, to your name,” he drawled. “Heathmore, would you please go topside and assist the first lieutenant in freeing this poor vessel from her hapless berth? God strike me, what is this world coming to!”

  “Dammit, Elliott—” Chr
istian said tersely, trying to explain.

  “Really, Captain Lord, that is no way to address your admiral.”

  The corners of Elliott’s mouth were twitching, and sheer will and years of discipline were all that kept Christian from leaping forward and strangling him. He bunched his fists at his sides and through clenched teeth, gritted, “Forgive me, sir, but what you saw was not what it appeared—”

  “What I see, Captain Lord, is a young woman whose virtue has been sorely compromised, and a ship that has been abandoned by her commanding officer. I say, Admiral Burns is most upset. The impact knocked the old dog to his knees and he’s howling for your head. Really, Christian, this is most unlike you. Neglecting your vessel so that you can molest a young girl . . . you, a much-decorated sea officer! Tsk, tsk. Now, please come with me. I’m sure your poor victim will be quite safe until you return.” He strode into the cabin, tall and elegant and astonishingly handsome, and bent down before her hiding-hole beneath the desk. “Won’t you, my dear?”

  She stared up at him, her face white and her arms locked protectively around her bare breasts.

  The admiral removed his hat, revealing rich, sandy-gold hair that curled boyishly around his ears. “Too frightened to speak, are you? Poor little dear. Please, don’t think that all of our officers behave thus. We do have our share of gentlemen as well.”

  He got to his feet and fixed Christian with a sharp look of reprimand. “Really, Christian, seducing innocent virgins—”

  “I didn’t seduce her. I rescued her from a fate worse—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you did,” Elliott said, waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Come along, please, Captain Lord. You’ve much to answer to!”

  Christian seized his coat and, limping badly, slammed toward the door.

  From beneath the desk, Deirdre watched him and the admiral with wary eyes. The door shut behind them. For a long moment, she didn’t move as she listened to their receding footsteps and the angry protests of Bold Marauder’s captain. Serves him right, she thought angrily. She hoped he’d face a court-martial. She hoped he’d be demoted. She hoped he’d spend the rest of his days beached, miserable, and forgotten!

  “Bastard,” she whispered fiercely, hating him.

  Above her head, she heard the shrill of pipes and thump of muskets upon the deck as the officers left the ship. She waited another moment, then crawled out from beneath the desk, surveying her surroundings and wondering what to do next.

  He was the captain of this wretched boat. Oh, Jesus, Joseph and Mary, that certainly complicated things.

  She would have to kill him, of course. She’d made a vow, and there was no going back. But first, she needed clothes.

  And a weapon.

  She stood there, looking around the cabin. Sunlight, reflecting from the water beyond the panoramic stern windows, shimmered against the white-painted beams and deckhead. A sea chest was snugged up against a bulkhead, and opening the heavy lid, she found a clean lawn shirt that was far too large for her. Her modesty restored, she roved the cabin, looking for something with which to fend off the Lord and Master when—and if—he returned. He certainly seemed to live well, she thought bitterly. She looked at the green leather-backed chairs, grouped around a fine table; the small wine cabinet set into one corner; the desk of dark mahogany; and in a smaller, partitioned area off to the side, a bed that was smartly made—and contained a small, shivering, obviously pregnant dog who stared up at her with frightened eyes.

  Deirdre stared back, wondering if she was seeing things. A dog?

  Then she turned away—and her gaze fell upon the far bulkhead.

  The captain’s dress sword.

  It rested there on two pegs. Mindful of the fact there was probably a marine stationed just outside the door, she crept across the cabin and pulled it down. Gently pushing the dog aside, she slid the weapon beneath the sheets, turned the sharp edge away from her body, and crawled carefully in beside it. Then she closed her eyes and reached up to touch the cross that rested comfortingly against her heart.

  Granuaile, she thought, as she stared up at the deckhead, you’d be proud of me.

  And she’d be even more proud if Deirdre could slay her English enemy.

  She lay back against the pillows, wrapped her and around the hilt of the sword, and listening to the rapid thumping of her heartbeat, waited.

  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.