Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Rhodes coughed and raised a mocking brow. “Salutes, and all that, Ian?”

  Skunk nodded. “Ceremony stuff. Things we don’t know nothin’ about.”

  “Of course,” Ian said, flushing and puffing out his chest. “Hibbert!”

  Like some of the others, the youth had a spyglass to his eye. However, his was not trained toward the distant land, but up at the maintop, where Delight had gone to share a “picnic lunch” with one of the marines.

  “Hibbert!” Ian roared, purpling with rage. “’Tis angry ye be making me! Get yer wee tail over here before I thrash ye to within an inch of yer life!”

  Flushing hotly, Hibbert snapped the glass shut and came to stand next to his lieutenant.

  “Aye?”

  “That’s ‘Aye, sir,’ and doona be forgetting it!” He glared fiercely down at the boy, his hands fisted against his hips, his red beard blowing in the wind. “Now, go rouse the captain. Give him my respects, and tell him we’ve raised Cape Cod.”

  Hibbert frowned, snapped off a sloppy salute, and with a last, wistful glance up toward the maintop, went below.

  “Wot was ’e looking at, anyhow?” Skunk murmured, scowling as he tipped his oily head back and stared aloft. But there was nothing to be seen up there but acres of proudly set sail, all bloated with wind and pushing the frigate on a steady course toward Boston.

  ###

  “Christian.”

  He lay beside her, one well-muscled arm thrown possessively over her ribs and anchoring her body to his, his face turned into the mass of spiral-curling black ringlets that toppled over her shoulder and onto the pillow.

  She hated to wake him. But the knocking on the door was not going away.

  “Christian!” she hissed.

  Sweet Mary, the man slept like the dead! She wriggled out from beneath the heavy weight of his arm, let him settle into the space where her body had been, and dipped her head to press gentle kisses atop the hard rise of his shoulder, where a fresh bandage stood clean and white against his skin. Her fingers twined in the hair that curled boyishly against the back of his neck; her palm smoothed it away from his temple. He was warm and heavy and heartbreakingly handsome. Just looking at him made her want him all over again.

  The knocking came louder.

  “Christian!” She put a hand against his arm and shook him. His heavy, regulated breathing didn’t change. She stared down at him, realizing that, for the first time since she’d known him, he had not had the nightmares.

  No wonder he slept so deeply.

  The knocking stopped. “Captain?”

  Hibbert. Desperately, Deirdre leaned down, nuzzled aside the golden waves of hair, and put her lips against his ear. “Christian, my love. Wake up! Yer men be wantin’ ye!”

  He made an unintelligible noise, reached out, and hauled her close to his body. “Don’t leave me, Deirdre . . .”

  “Wake up!” she hissed, wishing she could strangle Hibbert for disturbing their newfound happiness.

  He groaned and turned over, his gray eyes opening to regard her with lazy adoration. “What is it, dear girl, that you invade my dreams?”

  “Yer dreams?” She laughed. “I hope I’m in them!”

  He reached up, captured a curl, and pressed it to his lips, smiling, his warm gaze holding hers. “Yes, love, you are in them. I daresay you are the mistress of my dreams . . .”

  “And ye be the master o’ mine. Stop, Christian!” she gasped as he gently pulled her head down to his via his grip on her curl. “Hibbert is outside the door.”

  The knocking became a downright pounding. “Captain?”

  “Damn your bloody eyes, Hibbert, what the devil do you want?”

  “Mr. MacDuff’s respects, sir, and he’s just sighted land off the starboard bows. Mr. Wenham says we’re off Massachusetts Bay, sir, and that we’ll raise Boston Harbor soon.”

  Christian sighed and gave an inward groan, suddenly wishing this voyage could go on forever. “My compliments to the first lieutenant, and tell him to prepare the ship as though the king himself is awaiting us. We’ll make a fine show for those rebellious colonials, eh, Mr. Hibbert?”

  “Aye, sir. We’ll show those colonial upstarts we’re not a navy to trifle with! We’ll show ’em we’re a king’s ship!”

  Christian threw back his head and laughed the sleep out of his sluggish body. “Aye, we’ll do that, young fellow. Now go, do not tarry. I shall be on deck shortly.”

  “Boston!” Deirdre cried excitedly. Impulsively, she threw her arms around her lover’s hard body. “Oh, Christian. How can I thank ye enough? Just think, my cousin is there. I haven’t seen him in years! He’ll help me to find my brother, Christian, ye wait an’ see!”

  He looked at her soberly. “And so, as God is my witness, shall I, Deirdre.”

  ###

  The people of Boston, which had been closed to colonial trade since the establishment of the hated Port Act, saw her first as yet another royal frigate, sent to quell resistance and restore order. They wasted no time dispatching messengers to let the rebel leaders know of her coming. The nervous governor might rejoice over the arrival of a smart and powerful frigate, but otherwise, her appearance was unwelcome by all except the Tory population, the British troops camped out in Boston Common eager for news of home, and, of course, the crusty old admiral whose small squadron lay at anchor in the harbor.

  The flagship of Vice Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd was a huge, double-decked leviathan boasting a murderous array of seventy-four guns. The admiral himself, a stiff-lipped, cantankerous old salt whose long years of sea service had left him tired, achy, irritable, and dreaming about his upcoming retirement, sat now at a fine table in his day cabin, squinting his eyes and frowning as he read the latest broadside, initiated and distributed by that hotheaded rabble-rouser Sam Adams.

  Lately, though, the rebels were not all that occupied Sir Geoffrey’s weary mind. Yesterday, he had received the distressing news that the king’s frigate Bold Marauder—which he’d been expecting for several days now—had encountered the smuggler known only as the Irish Pirate in company with a French freebooter while the pair had been attacking a lone English ship. Although Bold Marauder had taken the French vessel, the Irish Pirate had managed to escape and bring the embarrassing news back to Boston, where it had been enthusiastically received—and spread—by the upstarts.

  Outside the door, the marine thumped his musket smartly on the deck, interrupting the admiral’s musings. “Halcyon’s captain to see you, sir!”

  “Send him in,” Sir Geoffrey said, shoving the broadside away with a tired motion.

  The door opened and Captain Merrick entered, his cocked hat held respectfully in his hands, his chestnut hair shining in the sunlight that slanted down through the hatch behind him.

  “Ah, Brendan. It is good of you to join me for the midday meal. Do come in.”

  The young man was tall and handsome, an intelligent, promising young rake with a quick wit and a mirthful grin. Clever and compassionate, the captain of the frigate Halcyon, anchored in the lee of nearby Castle Island, had climbed far and fast through the naval ranks. And now, as usual, the young half-Irishman was in high spirits.

  “You’ll be pleased to know, sir, that His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder has just been sighted, standing for the harbor.”

  “Bold Marauder!" the admiral exclaimed, the tiredness instantly fading from his sloped shoulders, his aching limbs. “Damme, Merrick, it’s about time. I’ve been itching to ask her captain just what happened between him and that blasted Irish Pirate, and why he failed to capture the rogue. And as for the ship herself, why, one can never have enough frigates, eh? Bold Marauder will be a welcome addition to our little squadron.”

  “Faith, sir, that she will,” Brendan said hesitantly.

  Their gazes met. Both were well aware of the frigate’s bad reputation, but a missive written by Rear Admiral Sir Elliott Lord and delivered into Sir Geoffrey’s care by a fast-sailing packet
had already advised the admiral of the identity of Bold Marauder’s commanding officer. The frigate might be the most rebellious ship in the king’s fleet—but her new captain was the most principled, disciplined, and upstanding officer the Navy had.

  Something, certainly, to raise his spirits after the worsening situation here in Boston!

  Sir Geoffrey rose to his feet with rare agility and clapped his subordinate on the back, the matter of the rebel broadside already forgotten. “Ah, ’tis good that she’s here, eh? And Captain Lord is a fine officer with a long and distinguished record. A capable, competent, and thoroughly dislikable chap, but one who can be trusted to bring his ship in with a fine show!”

  The young frigate captain frowned. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I served with Captain Lord aboard the old Londoner and I did not find him dislikable.”

  “Forgive me, Brendan. I had forgotten his, er, loss. Such things can change a man, and not for the better.” The admiral finished the last of his tea, and called impatiently for his steward. Normally cranky and dour, Sir Geoffrey was beaming with boyish excitement. “Ah, Bold Marauder is just what these Bostonians need. Captain Lord can be counted upon to put on a fine display of competence, seamanship, and discipline! He’ll set an example, not only for our people, but also for these damned rebels who think His Majesty’s forces are nothing but a bumbling display of misplaced pomp and arrogance.” He beckoned for his steward to enter. “And these bumpkins have grown troublesome enough, have they not? They ridicule our troops, they ridicule our seamen, they ridicule the governor, they ridicule our attempts to maintain order.” He raised his arms, allowing his steward to help him into his coat. “No, not that one, Percy, the other one. Yes, the dress coat. And my finest sword, if you please! I will not honor Captain Lord with anything less than perfection!”

  From above came excited cheers as the flagship’s crew welcomed the arrival of the new ship.

  “My flag captain is on an errand ashore, Brendan, so I’m counting on you, instead, to ensure that Bold Marauder is received with highest ceremony. I want every officer in his best uniform, every tar at attention, and a proper, rousing salute from the guns of every ship in the squadron. I want no effort spared, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Off with you, then, and do not tarry!”

  The dashing young captain touched his hat and strode swiftly from the cabin. Still in his twenties, he was as much a part of his crew as he was captain of it, well loved and much respected by his subordinates. As he went topside, the flagship’s men joked and traded barbs with him and called him by his first name, privileges that few seamen in His Majesty’s Navy would have dared and few commanders would have allowed.

  But then, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick was quite unlike most commanders in His Majesty’s Navy.

  His coxswain, a big, strapping Irishman who’d been his best friend since the days when they’d grown up together in Connemara, grabbed his elbow and pointed out over the sparkling harbor toward the majestic sight of the incoming frigate. “God Almighty, Brendan, she’s a sight t’ make a lad’s heart weep, ain’t she? Don’t ye just swell with pride, knowin’ ye designed ’er?”

  The young captain, a modest and humble sort, smiled and shrugged. “If she’s lovely, Liam, it is because of her captain’s hand, not mine. He deserves the credit for making her look so smart.”

  The frigate was taking on detail, the tall shadows of her masts falling across the trees of a nearby island as she moved gracefully past it. Her topmasts boasted proud squares of pale, gold-tinted sail, and her yards were smartly angled to make best use of the unsteady breeze. She was a glorious sight, the water curling back from her rakish bow, sparkling in the sun and gleaming upon her stem, and despite himself, her young designer experienced a surge of pride.

  He felt a presence at his elbow and, turning, found the old admiral beside him, his face as bright as a schoolboy’s, his eyes crinkling with humor as he gazed out at the approaching frigate. “I see, sir, that you could not resist,” Brendan said, grinning.

  Impatiently beckoning to a midshipman, Sir Geoffrey snatched a telescope from the boy and raised it to his eye. On the deck behind them, the first lieutenant was snapping orders, and the bosun and his mates were driving the men into a state of order. “I may be an old man, Brendan, but not so old that the sight of a well-run, smartly disciplined fighting ship doesn’t bring a tear to my eye. Damme, she’s lovely.” He handed the telescope to the young captain. “Leave it to Captain Lord to put on a display of seamanship our Navy can be damned proud of!”

  Brendan raised his glass to his eye, never flinching as the deck beneath his feet quaked to the might of the flagship’s guns as she welcomed the proud new arrival. Answering puffs came from Bold Marauder’s gunports, the salute smartly done and as precisely calibrated as a ball to a musket’s barrel. Brendan moved the glass, saw the officer who stood rigidly on the quarterdeck, and smiled as he recognized the man who had once been his captain.

  On shore, there were already crowds gathering to watch the new arrival.

  “This is just what we need to show these rabble-rousers what is meant by a king’s ship!” The admiral’s voice was tight with pride as he stared out over the water at the glorious, majestic frigate. “And, by God, there’s Lord himself, the absolute epitome of what a king’s officer should be! Damme, Brendan, don’t keep the glass all to yourself, man! Have some pity on an old tar who’s half blind as it is!”

  But the young officer had gone stiff, the color draining from his face.

  Impatiently, Sir Geoffrey snapped, “Damme, Brendan, the glass please!”

  Slowly, the captain brought the telescope down, blinking in shock and then horror. His face was very white. He looked at Sir Geoffrey. He looked back at the frigate, and had a sudden, desperate urge to hurl the telescope overboard before his admiral could discover for himself what he had seen through that circular field.

  Something that, judging by the sudden, thunderous commotion from shore, the jeering crowds had already discovered.

  Something that the flagship’s crew was rushing to the rails to see, pushing and shoving in their haste.

  Something that the admiral, smiling triumphantly as he raised the glass to his keen and bleary old eye, would be seeing just . . . about . . .

  Brendan shut his eyes, wincing.

  “Great GOD above!” Sir Geoffrey thundered, and the glass dropped from his hand to smash upon the flagship’s deck.

  Now.

  The old man clutched at his heart. “He has a . . . a woman in the maintop!” he croaked, his face going purple. “And she’s totally naked!”

  Chapter 22

  “I have never been more humiliated, ashamed, and embarrassed in my life!” Sir Geoffrey raged, storming up through HMS Bold Marauder's entry port with Captain Brendan Jay Merrick close behind him. He cringed as the ceremonial trill of pipes, meant as a salute, rang mockingly around him.

  Captain Lord, splendidly turned out in his finest uniform and wearing a gold-tasseled dress sword at his hip, stepped forward to receive them. He was smiling, and his shoulders were squared and straight. Solemnly, he doffed his hat. “Welcome, sir, to His Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder. I am honored to—”

  “Spare me your damned pleasantries, Captain Lord! By God, you have made me the laughingstock of Boston, and I’ll see you in your cabin now!”

  “Sir?” the captain said, confused. At his side and slightly behind him, his first lieutenant, a big, ruddy-faced Scot with a shock of red hair, exchanged puzzled glances with the second lieutenant. And coming up from the hatch was a fat white spaniel, who took one look at the enraged Sir Geoffrey—and promptly emptied her bladder in terror.

  “I said now!” the admiral thundered.

  “Yes, sir. By all means,” Christian said tightly, grabbing Tildy and wondering what the devil had riled the admiral so. Bold Marauder had put on a fine show, one the king himself would have been proud of. She was clean and sma
rt and beyond reproach. Keenly aware of his men’s equally confused stares, he turned abruptly and led the way to his cabin, holding himself upright and feeling his shoulder beginning to throb. The quarterdeck loomed ominously over their heads, and from long habit, he ducked. “Pray, sir, please watch your head—”

  “Hold your damned tongue, Lord, I’ve been on warships a damn sight longer than you! God rot it, I have never been so humiliated in my life—”

  They were now beyond earshot of Bold Marauder's crew. Angrily, Christian swung around, his eyes blazing. “Pray, sir, I don’t know what grieves you so! My ship is faultless!”

  The admiral was a head shorter than Christian, but in his rage, his stature was considerably increased. Glaring up into the captain’s gray eyes, he roared, “There is a woman in your maintop, Captain Lord, and she is not wearing a stitch of clothing!”

  Christian stared at him. Sick, sudden horror drained the color from his face and left it white, then gray.

  Dear God, he thought. Delight.

  Cold sweat broke out of every pore, and he turned just outside his cabin door, trying to maintain the last shreds of his dignity. The admiral’s rage was a tangible thing, and Christian was keenly aware of not only Sir Geoffrey, but also the young Captain Merrick—who looked quite sympathetic, if not a little amused.

  Ian MacDuff, his own Scots temper ready to blow, came charging down the short corridor. “Here, now, Captain, ’tis looking right bonnie we be! What the saints has the old fart all riled—”

  Sir Geoffrey went purple.

  Quietly, Christian said, “Mr. MacDuff, please send someone up to the maintop immediately to fetch Delight down.”

  “Del—” Ian’s jaw came unhinged.

  “Yes, Ian, Delight.” He bent his brow to his hand, feeling his career sliding into ruin around his feet. “Pray, do so now . . . before the damage becomes irreparable.”