Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  “I think, foundling, that had you truly wanted to kill me, you would have found a way to succeed.”

  “I’m going to try again,” she vowed, trying to convince herself. “And again and again.”

  “In that case, I will consider myself duly warned.”

  “I mean it! I will kill ye!”

  “Well, then, I guess I will have to punish you.”

  “You can’t punish me if ye’re dead.”

  He sat there on the deck flooring, gazing calmly at her, his eyes inscrutable. She gazed back, trying to hold on to her anger and failing miserably. Something passed between them, something deep and gentle and unspoken.

  Deirdre looked down, finding a sudden interest in a knot of wood near her knee.

  The captain remained silent.

  “Does yer head hurt so very much?” she ventured, at last.

  “I daresay, I’ll survive.”

  “I nearly did kill ye. Any other man would be angry. Vengeful. Why not you?”

  “Vengeance serves no noble purpose. And besides, how could I be angry with you?” He gave a fleeting smile, as though humor was something he was unaccustomed to. At her confused look, he added, somewhat jokingly, “My dear girl, I am plagued by nightmares. They make it hard for me to find rest, let alone sleep. Thanks to you, this was the first time in five years that I’ve slept so soundly.”

  “Do ye want me to be hitting ye again, then?”

  He actually laughed. “The rest is not worth the headache, thank you. And the next attempt on my life will have to merit a punishment, I’m afraid. Poor Mr. Teach is already in the brig, awaiting his.”

  She made a sudden choking noise.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “He’s in the brig?”

  The captain frowned. “Pray, what is it about this brig—”

  “Nothing!” she cried too hastily. “Nothing a’tall!”

  The gray eyes narrowed.

  “’Tis where the crew hid all of my—my personal belongings,” she sputtered. “Ye don’t want to be going in there. Ye see, I—I—” She cast about quickly for the first thing to come to mind and colored furiously. “I have my . . . menses.”

  His face went as crimson as her gown. “And Mr. Teach has been brought there?”

  He jumped to his feet, his long stride already carrying him across the room. Too late, Deirdre saw the bottle of precious Irish seawater, rolling back, now, across the deck flooring. Too late, she saw that his path would take him straight toward it. Too late, she knew that he would never see it—

  She cried out just as his foot crunched down on the glass.

  “What the devil—”

  Deirdre scurried across the little room on her hands and knees, her hair spilling over her shoulders. “My water!” she said brokenly, desperately smearing her hands into the sad, spreading pool of moisture as though she could scoop it back up. But it was too late. She turned anguished eyes upon the captain. “Look what ye did! That was my water!”

  “What?”

  “Ye broke my water!”

  Christian stared at her, thinking she was quite mad. He clenched his hands at his sides in confusion.

  “I’m sorry,” he bit out, not knowing what he was apologizing for.

  “Ye don’t understand!”

  “You are correct, I do not. But I can assure you, we have plenty of water both inside and outside of this ship, I can certainly procure more for you—”

  “It’s not the same!” She swiped at a tear. Another. “That was seawater . . . from . . . from—” She turned away before he could see her tears beginning to fall— “Ireland . . . ”

  Christian stood helplessly. He had never felt more awkward, confused and taken aback in his life. And as he stared at her unruly curls, his gaze fell again upon the cross—a heathenish ornament etched with a Celtic design and studded with emeralds. His frown deepened, became a scowl. Something tickled his memory, something distant, yet close, something he was very close to recalling but couldn’t quite grasp . . .

  That cross. That hair. Those eyes—

  Ireland.

  Dear God above.

  He stepped backward, horrified as the realization of just who this young woman was—

  Thirteen long years, she had said yesterday, and he hadn’t picked up on it.

  Thirteen long years, she had said, and he’d thought she had been an old paramour that he’d unwittingly jilted.

  Thirteen long years—and she had come back to settle the old score between them.

  “Dear God, forgive me.” He moved toward her, one arm outstretched, disgusted with himself for not having recognized her earlier.

  “Get away from me, ye filthy English dog. Just get away from me!”

  In a flash, his hand snaked out and plunged into her hair, anchoring her head so that she couldn’t move. He forced her head up, studying her intently. Yes, he thought, in stricken dismay, it is she. That same little Irish girl whose brother I press-ganged.

  No wonder her animosity

  No wonder her vow to kill him.

  She glared at him, trembling beneath his hand but unwilling to back down.

  “Now, I understand,” he said softly.

  “What?”

  “I know who you are, foundling.”

  Her eyes defied him.

  “You’re the little Irish girl from Connemara . . . the one with the pony . . . Thunder, I believe his name was? The same little girl whose brother we took with the press gang, the same little girl who—I see—has not forgiven me these many years, but has returned to avenge that wrong.”

  She shut her eyes as though she couldn’t bear to look at him. Thirteen long years dropped away, and he was once again the anguished lieutenant, doing a deed he had no stomach for, following an order he had no choice but to obey. Thirteen long years dropped away, and she was once again the frightened, grief-stricken little girl. Thirteen years dropped away—and came full circle.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, harshly.

  She only opened her eyes and glared at him, accusingly.

  “I never quite forgave myself for what I did to you that day. It has been a source of great torment for me . . .”

  “Torment? Ye lie! I’ve heard yer nightmares, I’ve heard ye call out in his sleep, and it isn’t the memory of what ye did to my family back in Connemara that tortures ye.”

  He stared at her, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve seen the miniature of some red-haired hussy that ye keep like a shrine on yer desk! ’Tis not yer despicable deeds toward an innocent Irish family that torture ye, but yer dear, darlin’ Emily!”

  The color drained from his face. “Do not speak her name.”

  “Emily, Emily, Emily!” she spat, taking twisted pleasure in hurting him and cruelly mimicking the tortured words of his nightmare. “‘I didn’t mean it, Emily. Dear God, please don’t take her—’”

  He stepped back, away from her.

  “Emily . . . oh, God, Emily, please don’t die—’”

  He remained frozen, and she saw raw anguish in his eyes before the cold, frosty mask of indifference was in place once more. “It would seem,” he ground out, his voice harsh and emotionless, “that my sympathy toward you was grossly misguided. My apologies.”

  And with that, he picked up the lantern and moved toward the door.

  “Don’t come near me again, or I will kill ye!”

  He paused, turned, and regarded her for a long moment. “As you wish, my dear.” His eyes were carefully veiled, the long, pale lashes masking any emotion he might have felt. “I will gladly stay away from you. In fact, the next time I consider doing you a kindness, I will resist that urge.”

  She glared up at him, angry, confused, and upset. “A kindness? What possible kindness could ye possibly think to bestow upon me?”

  The English captain picked up his hat and set it down atop his periwig, covering the bruise at his temple once more. “The coast of
Ireland will soon pass far off our starboard beam.” His voice turned hard. “Forgive me, but I merely thought you’d like to see it a final time.”

  Then he turned smartly on his heel, tromped through the sad puddle on the floor, and was gone.

  Chapter 11

  Topside, every mouth slammed shut as the Lord and Master reappeared. Every eye followed him as he mounted the quarterdeck ladder, crossed the deck, and strode to the frigate’s big, double-spoked wheel.

  And every man knew just what had him so riled.

  He had found the Irish girl.

  The sailing master, standing beside him, took one look at the fury in those cold gray eyes and said carefully, “Course west by southwest, sir. Full and by.”

  “Very well, Mr. Wenham. We will remain on this tack until the end of the watch.”

  “So, er, we’re not going to . . . uh, head back to England?”

  Christian raised a pale brow and regarded him flatly. “Pray, Mr. Wenham, whatever for? Does your little Irish stowaway rate so highly that she would interfere with the business of a king’s ship? I think not.” He pulled out a chart of Boston Harbor, laid it on the binnacle, spread the damp paper flat with his palms, and stared down at it, his gaze roving over the carefully drawn figures. “Since you are all so eager to keep her here, you can begin inconveniencing yourselves by making accommodations for her immediately. In fact, Mr. Rhodes may move himself out of his cabin so the girl may move herself in.”

  “H-his cabin, sir?”

  Christian glanced up. “Yes, Mr. Wenham, his cabin—the one next to mine, in case you don’t remember.” He let the chart snap shut. “Now, where the devil is the bosun’s mate?”

  Ian was just coming aft, his red beard blowing in the wind. “I believe he went down to get Mr. Teach, sir—like ye asked.”

  “That was twenty damned minutes ago. Where the bloody hell did he go?”

  Ian flushed and looked away. “Uh . . . the brig, sir.”

  “Send Midshipman Hibbert to fetch the both of them, this instant. In the meantime, please have all hands lay aft to witness punishment.”

  His words stunned the deck into silence.

  “P-punishment, sir?”

  “Pray, does everyone on this ship have a damned speech problem today? Yes, punishment!”

  Ian’s ruddy face paled. “But, sir, we’ve never had a whipping aboard Bold Marauder before—’tis not well the men will take tae it, sir!”

  Christian gave a hard smile. “I do believe, Mr. MacDuff, that is my problem, not yours.”

  “But, sir, ’tis startin’ a mutiny ye’ll be! I beg of ye tae reconsider!”

  “Do not challenge my orders, Mr. MacDuff!”

  Christian swung away and went to the weather side of the quarterdeck, his head pounding, his mouth tight. He had no right to take out his anger on the crew, especially not on Ian. It was the girl who deserved it, that bedeviled, wretched, Irish girl. It was bad enough she’d had the audacity to stow herself aboard a king’s ship, his ship; it was bad enough that she’d tried twice to kill him. But she had insulted the memory of his dead wife—and worse, had awakened feelings he’d thought he no longer had. Even now his loins throbbed as he thought of her in that obscenely low-cut, vulgar, form-fitting, scarlet . . . gown.

  Damn her, she had no business making him feel such things. No one did. It was Emily he’d loved, Emily he would always love!

  Behind him, he heard the shrill of pipes and the sudden roar of angry protest as the crew, herded by Evans’s nervous marines, began to head aft. Even from here, with the wind in his face and half a deck to separate them, he heard their words.

  “Bloody son of a bitch, just who the blighty hell does he think he is?”

  “We ain’t never had no one whipped before!”

  “So much for yer damned hero worship of the bloke, Ian!” he heard Skunk yell. “And so much for yer damned praise for Admiralty for sending us Captain Christian Bleedin’ Lord! He’s a damned fool!”

  “Cruel, high-bred, spawn of a whore! How dare he think to whip one of ours, lads! ’Tis cause for mutiny, I say! Mutiny!”

  The word caught like flame set to black powder. “Mutiny!”

  "Mutiny!”

  Christian remained unmoving, even as cold fingers of dread touched his heart. Their resentment was a live thing, a rippling undercurrent of loathing that intensified with each sweep through the men now gathering aft.

  Calmly, he took one last look out to sea and, turning abruptly, went back to the helm. “How fares the weather, Mr. Wenham?”

  The wind had risen, teasing the waves and coaxing them high; now, white foam was breaking at their crests, the spray flinging itself high over the frigate’s decks with every dip and plunge of her bows. But the sailing master, his nervous gaze darting to the angry, shouting mob, appeared not to have heard the captain.

  “Mr. Wenham, the weather, please!”

  The big man was still staring at the massing crew. “We’ll be in for a blow before nightfall, sir.”

  Where the devil was Hendricks? His hand sliding beneath his coat to touch his pistol, Christian looked up at the masthead pennant streaming so far above, then down at the binnacle where the needle held steady on the compass card. He nodded curtly, his eyes as gray and forbidding as the sky above. “Thank you, Mr. Wenham. I shall keep that in mind.”

  The bellowing of the seamen had reached a deafening roar.

  “Mutiny, lads, mutiny!”

  “We’ll not let no captain get away with this, Hero of Quiberon or not!”

  “String ’im up to the yardarm and let ’im swing!”

  “Off with his bleedin’ head!”

  “Mutiny! Mutiny! MUTINY!"

  Ian was there at his elbow again, his eyes desperate. The big Scot took off his cap and held it nervously in his hands, tiny beads of sweat beading on his brow. “Sir, ’tis a-beggin’ ye I be tae reconsider the wisdom of having Arthur whipped! We’ve nae had a murder aboard this ship, but if you insist on going through with this”—he gulped and swallowed—“this—”

  “Folly, Mr. MacDuff? Pray, do not think to deny me the one bright spot in what has turned out to be a hellish nightmare of a day.”

  Ian exchanged a desperate glance at Wenham. In Captain Lord, he had thought he’d finally found a commanding officer he could look up to, a commander he could respect—but he’d been wrong.

  As one, the two officers glanced at the aloof face of the man who was about to sign his own death warrant, both knowing that the moment the dreaded cat-’o-nine-tails slashed down across Teach’s back, it would be all over.

  Not for Teach—but for the Lord and Master.

  ###

  Hearing the rising uproar on the deck above, Deirdre, frightened, grabbed an amputation knife from Elwin Boyd’s box of instruments, picked up her skirts, and fled topside, emerging, breathless, onto the frigid, wind-whipped deck.

  Fighting to keep her balance against the ship’s roll, she made her way to Midshipman Hibbert’s side and grabbed his dirty sleeve.

  “Hibbert! What’s happenin’?”

  The youth swung around, gaping and flushing at the sight of her in the blood-red dress. He saw the gooseflesh on her arms and gallantly handed her his coat. Then, regaining his composure, he said, “Our Lord and Master is about to prove his stupidity, that’s what!” He watched as two frightened bosun’s mates rigged a grating, their eyes darting between the captain and the swelling masses assembled aft. “You wait, he’ll have a mutiny on his hands before the hour’s up!”

  Rhodes, passing, snapped, “He won’t last that hour, mark my words! Soon’s that whip comes down on Arthur’s back, it’s all over for him.”

  Gasping, Deirdre turned toward the quarterdeck. Bold Marauder's captain stood at the rail, detached, aloof, and alone. Sudden, unwanted fear for him drove through her heart, but she willed it away. Bleedin’ wretched bastard, he deserved whatever he got!

  He turned his head and saw her. Their eyes met and
held. She saw pain and anger in those cold depths, detachment, and a total lack of warmth. There was no forgiveness in those eyes. None at all.

  Then he turned away, leaving something awful and empty coiling in the deepest chambers of her heart.

  A young midshipman, white with fear, came running up from the hatch, a leather book in his hands. He pounded up the ladder to the quarterdeck, remembered to salute it at the last minute, and handed the book to his captain.

  “The Articles of War,” Hibbert murmured reverently as the Lord and Master’s deep, clipped voice began reciting the unfamiliar words.

  Aft, a man lunged forward, shouting, to be quickly subdued by a marine.

  The captain, unfazed, never looked up. At last he closed the book, with a sound like a coffin being shut for the last time, and handed it back to the nervous boy. Above, dark clouds began to gather above the spires of the masts, but the captain seemed oblivious to the threatening storm. His gaze met Hendricks’s. “Bind the prisoner, please,” he ordered.

  A horrible, terrifying roar arose from the crew. Teach went wild as he was dragged, kicking and screaming, to the grating. He twisted, his black eyes boring into the cool gray ones of the captain. “You’re the scum of the earth, you vicious, bleedin’ pig! So help me God, I’ll have your black heart on a platter to feed to the sharks! I’ll have your head on a pole to parade through the streets! I’ll have—”

  Christian nodded to Hendricks. “You may commence punishment.”

  Teach was lashed to the grating—not by the wrists, as was customary, but by the ankles, in what looked to be a new method of torture.

  Hendricks loosened the red baize bag and gave it to his mate.

  Teach went ashen, the sweat rolling in rivulets down his brow.

  And the captain, leaning on his sword with his hands crossed loosely over the hilt, said nothing as the bosun’s mate reached into the bag, shook it upside down, and stared at that which came slithering out to fall upon the deck.

  “What the hell . . .” the man said, looking up as though he’d been the butt of a cruel joke.

  For it was not the dreaded cat-o’-nine-tails that lay there, but an oily pile of rags.