The second lieutenant, very aware of the suddenly anxious looks of his shipmates, strode to the helm. He touched his hat. “Sir?”
“That—Irishwoman.” The Lord and Master did not look up. “Did you see her safely ashore this morning?”
“Aye, sir,” Rhodes lied, without the slightest twitch of an eyelid.
“Very well, then.” The captain ran his finger over the chart, his hat casting the paper in shadow. “Go forward and take charge of the capstan, please. And, Mr. MacDuff? I would like you to man the mizzenmast with those who are the least nimble—the older fellows, the new recruits, and, of course”—he grinned fleetingly—“the terrified. There is also a sloppily coiled line on the gun deck that is sure to foul itself. See to it, please.”
Ian bobbed his head and rushed away, but his companions were not so genial. Out of the corner of his eye Christian could see them gathering in groups, muttering amongst themselves and casting rebellious glances his way. Towering over the lot of the buggers was Arthur Teach.
Christian marked his place on the chart and glanced up, his gaze steady and unwavering as he met the hostile eyes of the big seaman. “Mr. Teach? We are not in engagement with an enemy. Therefore, I see no need for three pistols, five knives, a cutlass, and”—his eyes narrowed and he lost his place on the chart—“pray, what is that ghastly thing you are carrying?”
Without warning, that “ghastly thing” came hurtling through the air with vicious intent. The Lord and Master ducked a moment before the tomahawk would’ve taken off his head, and the weapon slammed into the mizzenmast behind him.
The ship went dangerously, ominously, still. Even the gulls overhead fell silent.
“Jesus,” someone whispered.
The captain straightened up. For a long, terrifying moment he said nothing, though he’d gone white around the mouth and his eyes began to blaze. With shaking hands, he slowly, carefully, set a pair of navigational dividers atop the chart.
Then he turned his gray stare on his assailant.
Teach looked away.
The big Jamaican bosun, faithful as ever, was suddenly there at his captain’s side. Christian lowered his gaze to the chart, his expression carefully veiled, though inside he was shaking. “Hendricks,” he said tightly, without looking up, “please have one of your mates escort Mr. Teach to the brig, and station a marine at the door.” Cool and detached, he took a pencil from Wenham and made a notation on the chart. “As soon as we are well under way, I shall require all hands to lay aft to witness punishment.”
“The brig?” someone yelled.
“Hell, that ain’t fair!”
“How come he gets to go and not me?”
Christian lifted his head, wondering if the girl had knocked something awry inside it with the force of the blow. They wanted to go to the brig?
What the devil was wrong with these people?
He shook his head, trying to appear unfazed. The movement only reminded him of the headache that raged behind his eyes and the jagged cut high on his temple, carefully hidden beneath the periwig.
He felt the sailing master staring at him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Wenham?”
“Er . . . no, sir.”
“Then prepare to loose heads’ls,” he snapped.
Rico Hendricks, wearing a silver whistle around his thick neck, had returned and now stood several feet away. “I checked everything, sir,” he said respectfully. “No signs of foul play this time.”
“Thank you, Hendricks.” He turned to the sailing master. “Get the ship under way, Mr. Wenham.”
Moments later, the frigate came alive as pipes shrilled, orders were passed, and the seamen, goaded by Hendricks’s threats and the reminders of the rattan, scurried to carry out their captain’s order. And if they hustled so, it was not in deference to their captain’s authority, but in hopes of being the first from their watch to escape below—where Delight waited in the “brig.”
“Heave short.”
Forward, men gathered around the capstan, throwing their weight against it to the song of a chanteyman. Slowly the cable leashing Bold Marauder to the land began to chink and clank as it came up through the hawseholes, dripping mud, water, and weeds.
Christian’s eyes narrowed.
“Anchor’s hove short, sir.”
He tensed, remembering yesterday’s debacle. “Loose tops’ls, Mr. Wenham. Smartly, please.”
The orders were repeated. Again came the shrill of pipes, the drum of pounding feet, and then the flapping thunder of canvas dropping from aloft.
So far, so good.
“Man the braces, please.”
Christian set his jaw, keenly assessing the crew’s efforts. Frightfully incompetent, he thought grimly. But men were scurrying aloft, sails were filling with wind, and the frigate was beginning to fidget. He nodded smartly to the sailing master.
“Up and down, sir!” came the cry from forward.
“Break her out,” Christian snapped.
The anchor came wearily free of the sea, dripping mud and water and glistening in the sun. Bold Marauder, impatient, heeled over and began to thread her way carefully between the other vessels, her shadow sliding over them with stately grace. In the near distance, buildings shone in the morning sun, their windows glowing with pale, lemony light.
Christian gripped his sword hilt, waiting for something to break, something to foul, something to go awry. But the frigate continued slowly forward, finding speed, finding confidence, and slowly, he began to relax. Elliott would find no fault with him this day.
He glanced up at the masthead pennant, wincing as pain stabbed through his aching head. The urge to slide his fingers up and touch the gash at his temple was hard to resist, but he was determined not to show even that bit of weakness in front of the crew. The blow had been a nasty one, but soap and water, his periwig, and the shadow of his hat hid such things from inquiring eyes whose owners would be quick to mock and snicker.
They were almost out of the harbor now.
“Hold her steady, Mr. Wenham.”
High above, the canvas made great, billowing curves that stole wind and sunlight both as Bold Marauder pushed toward the mouth of the harbor, where Christian could see several spectators standing on the headland.
Beside him, Wenham was also staring ashore, grinning and waving his hand in farewell to a group of doxies.
“See to your ship, Mr. Wenham!”
The sailing master looked at him, his eyes blank.
Firmly, Christian said, “In future, I would prefer to see more speed and skill in setting the sails. Starting tomorrow, I intend to make you all practice it until such maneuvers are performed to, and beyond, my satisfaction.”
He thought he heard the master groan.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wenham?”
“Er, nothing, sir. Just a frog in my throat . . .”
Some of the crew began filing below. Others moved out along the yards, coiled lines, sheeted sails home, or yelled encouragement to each other. His eyes critical, Christian watched them, finding their performance sloppy but acceptable. Perhaps they could do better; in all likelihood, they could not. But at least the bloody buggers hadn’t dared to sabotage the ship today. A hard smile touched his mouth. Perhaps there was hope for them after all. And when they returned to England, the crew of HMS Bold Marauder would be something the king himself would be proud of.
That, he vowed on his very life.
Forward, the anchor was catted amidst a chorus of blasphemous oaths, and Christian sighed in relief as Bold Marauder showed her heels to Portsmouth.
They were free. On their way.
His smile broke into a downright grin.
And then he saw the tomahawk, savagely impaled in the wood of the mast, and the smile faded abruptly from his lips.
###
At the appearance of the first tar—a blushing boatswain’s mate holding his hat in his hands while Arthur Teach towered impatiently behind him—Deirdre decided that the brig
was the last place she wanted to be.
Embarrassingly aware of the hot stares that she herself, clad in the scarlet gown of crushed velvet, was receiving, Deirdre hastily made her excuses and fled into the bowels of the ship. She stumbled through gloomy darkness, and finally ducked into a small chamber that could only be the surgeon’s domain, where she sat huddled against the curved timbers of the hull.
Beneath her, she felt the ship moving. They were leaving, about to cross an ocean under nothing but God’s will and Captain Lord’s command, and she would probably never see Ireland again. Tears stung her eyes, and swallowing hard, she hugged her arms around her legs and bent her brow to her knees.
Ireland.
But she was not alone. She had her bag of Irish mementos beside her. She had her cross, a powerful reminder of the courage that had been Granuaile’s. And, she thought, running her fingers over the sensual red velvet of the gown, she had her pride.
Just touching the lush fabric reminded her of how wanton it made her look. Unbidden, she thought of the English captain.
What would he think if he saw her in it?
She made a noise of despair, wishing she’d killed him while she had the chance—as she had vowed, for thirteen long years, to do. Maybe she didn’t have her ancestress’s warrior blood in her veins after all. Maybe the dog had distracted her from her purpose when it had skittered to the captain’s aid. Maybe she’d misjudged it when she’d tried to take his head off with his own sword. After all, it had been dark in the cabin . . . it was easy to miss what should have been an easy target.
But then that other thought came to her, cold, unwelcome, and rebellious.
Maybe she hadn’t really wanted to kill him.
No, no, no, nothing could be further from the truth! For thirteen long years she’d kept his face alive in her memory, only so that she could destroy him. Of course she wanted to kill him! She just hadn’t had the chance.
But she had had the chance. While she’d stood over him, watching him toss in the fitful throes of a nightmare, he’d never been so vulnerable. She could have plunged his sword into his black heart and ended it right then and there. She could have gone back after knocking him senseless with the pitcher and shot him with his own pistol.
But she had not.
And in her heart, she knew that she didn’t have it in her to murder anyone.
Maybe she didn’t have Grace O’Malley’s strength after all.
She stared morosely into the gloom of the small space in which she found herself. Beneath her, and around her, the motion of the ship grew more pronounced and she tried not to think about it leaving the relative safety of the harbor and heading out into the Channel. She tried not to think about the fact that she was about to cross three thousand miles of ocean. And she tried not to think about the fact that she might never see her beloved Ireland, ever again.
Ireland.
She took a deep, steadying breath, reached into her canvas bag and withdrew the little bottle of seawater, taken from the beach at Connemara.
From home.
She set it down at her feet, drawing courage from its nearness.
Yes, they must definitely be into open sea now. The frigate’s movements were no longer gentle and rocking, but a longer, deeper surge as it began to meet the long, rolling combers coming in off the ocean. Moments later, the deck tilted over as the vessel tacked, and the little bottle of water went rolling across the deck into the darkness. Deirdre, panicking, scrambled to find it. Then the ship righted herself, slowly, sickeningly, and she was flung hard against the hull, banging her elbow in the process.
She swore roundly, trying to find the bottle.
And froze.
From somewhere had come a noise. Not the squeak of a rat. Not the steady creak and groan of timbers.
But footsteps.
Her head jerked up, her curses ceasing abruptly. “Skunk?”
The footsteps were coming closer. They were not heavy enough to be Skunk’s footsteps. Not heavy enough to be Ian’s, even.
These were different. Precise, measured, and purposeful.
A door opened somewhere, and the dim glow of a lantern touched the dank timbers around her. She pressed back against the curve of the hull.
The footsteps came closer, steady, determined. The light grew brighter. The footsteps stopped a few feet away, and looking up, Deirdre saw only the lantern.
She couldn’t see a face. She couldn’t see a form. She couldn’t see anything—just that raised lantern and, below it, a dark blue coat and long, hard-muscled thighs clad in white breeches.
The lantern lowered, and a man’s face shone cold above it.
Captain Lord’s.
Chapter 10
“I suppose,” he murmured, “that I should have known better than to trust my crew to carry out the simple order of removing you from this vessel.”
Deirdre swallowed hard, unable to speak. Raw terror tingled up her spine. Her every muscle tensed for flight, but she was frozen, pinned beneath that chilling gray stare.
His face glowed amber in the flickering light of the lantern, and he looked impossibly tall and frightening from where she sat huddled against the hull. She saw his gaze moving over her, taking in the wild black curls that lay in disarray over her shoulders, the upthrust roundness of her breasts, the cut of the scarlet gown—and the gown itself.
He stared at it, his eyes narrowing, as though the sight of her in it displeased him, and displeased him greatly. She didn’t like the look in those eyes. There was no heat there. No warmth. And certainly no admiration for the seductive picture Delight assured her she’d make in it. Nothing but coldness, and a controlled lack of emotion that frightened her.
Somewhere in the darkness, a rat scurried.
“You are fortunate, dear girl, that my conduct is dictated by the high esteem I have for the phrase ‘officer and a gentleman.’ Were it not, I can assure you that you would be a very sorry creature indeed.”
Deirdre wished she could shrink up in a little ball and roll into a crack in the deck flooring.
“Why are you still here?” he demanded. “This is a warship. No place for an Irish harlot.”
“I may be Irish, but I’m no harlot!”
He was still staring at her gown as though it was something that had crawled out of the bilge and wrapped itself about her body. “Are you not?”
“How I despise ye,” she murmured. “I wish I’d killed ye when I’d had the chance.”
“Ah, yes, that. I am trying very hard to discern the reasons for your hatred of me. My crew’s, I understand—they have no wish to abide by my strict codes of discipline and authority. Because I know the cause of their enmity, I can address it. Yours”—he finally lifted his gaze from her much-revealed bosom and impaled her with his glacial stare—“I don’t understand. That’s exceedingly unfair, don’t you think?”
Her hand came up, unconsciously, to touch the cross.
“When I address you, I expect an answer,” he said coldly.
“I’m a guest on this ship, not one of your crew that you can order around!”
“Guests are invited. You, dear girl, are nothing but a stowaway, and a damned troublesome one at that.”
“Then turn the ship around and take me back to Portsmouth!”
“And chance a repeat of yesterday’s debacle? Certainly not. We’re underway, and the next landfall we make, God willing, will be Boston. In the meantime, you will come with me.”
He reached down to haul her to her feet, and Deirdre, wide-eyed, shrank back against the curve of the hull.
For a long moment he simply stared at her—then he carefully withdrew his hand. “Do you honestly think that I intend to harm you?” he asked harshly.
The way he said it touched something deep inside her, shamed her, and Deirdre turned her head away, refusing to meet the captain’s eyes. He remained unmoving; then, slowly, he lowered his tall body down to the deck across from her, wincing a bit as he stretched his legs b
efore him and leaned his back against the stout leg of the surgeon’s operating table.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly.
Suddenly he was no longer frightening. Suddenly he was no longer her worst nightmare. Suddenly, she was more confused than ever. Deirdre refused to look at him. She could feel his gaze upon her, though he said nothing.
“I may be many things,” he continued, “but I am not a man who would ever harm a female.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him slowly, carefully, reach up and remove his hat. She saw something else out of the corner of her eye, too, and horrified, she turned her head to look. Lantern light caught the purple swelling at his temple, the cruel gash, and the dark area of newly dried blood that made a stark contrast to the whiteness of his periwig.
The sight of the wound filled her with guilt and self-loathing. She’d be damned, though, if she’d let him know it.
“So, did ye come down here to punish me?”
A smile touched his lips, one with a trace of warmth, perhaps even humor, and in that fleeting instant, Deirdre saw again the man who had bent down and soothed the frightened little girl she’d been thirteen years ago; she saw a man who, without that stuffy periwig and harsh demeanor, might actually be quite handsome.
Quite handsome indeed.
“You’re a poor excuse for a murderess, you know. Perhaps you should take lessons from Mr. Teach.”
“Why? It doesn’t look like he’s been successful, either.”
“True enough. And he will have to be punished, I daresay.”
Unbidden, her gaze traveled up the proud breadth of his chest and shoulders, the handsome planes of his face . . . the purple-and-red gash at his temple. She winced, and it was all she could do not to reach out and soothe the wound with the gentle touch of her finger. “If Mr. Teach is to be punished . . . why not me?”
“You were frightened. You acted in self defense. Mr. Teach, I’m afraid, was far more determined and calculated in his efforts to dispatch me.”
“Ye think the sword nearly taking yer head off wasn’t determined or calculated?”
Master Of My Dreams Page 10