Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Ian left at a dead run.

  “My apologies, sir,” Christian began. “I had no—”

  He couldn’t say he had no idea. It would only pound another nail into his coffin. Besides, there was no use trying to make excuses. He was already incriminated. Finished. Doomed to court-martial, disgrace, and the rest of his life spent on the beach. With a defeated sigh, he shoved open his cabin door, forgetting, too late, about—

  “Great God above, Lord, do you run a goddamned brothel or a fighting ship?” the admiral cried as the raven-haired girl on the bed, clad in nothing but the captain’s shirt and a pair of baggy trousers, flung aside the covers and flew across the cabin.

  Christian shut his eyes.

  “Brendan!” she shrieked. And with a happy cry, the girl threw herself into the startled arms of Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s next consideration for flag captain.

  Christian was too devastated to feel surprise that the two knew each other. He was too devastated to feel jealousy at the way Deirdre was clinging to the dashingly handsome Captain Merrick. He was too devastated to feel the sudden, throbbing agony in his shoulder, the hollow nausea in the pit of his stomach, the numbness that was even now permeating his limbs.

  His career was finished.

  “Deirdre, please address the captain with the respect he deserves,” he said quietly, putting Tildy down with her puppies and already hearing the death knell of a court-martial.

  But Captain Merrick had swept Deirdre up in his arms, swung her around and around, and was now hugging her fiercely. “Nonsense, Captain Lord! Faith, the lass is my cousin! How very good of you to bring her all the way across the Atlantic just to deliver her into my care!”

  Cousin. Brendan. Boston.

  Of course.

  “What?” Sir Geoffrey snapped, whirling.

  Merrick’s pointed gaze met Christian’s from above Deirdre’s shoulder, and Christian was quick to grasp what the shrewd younger captain had so quickly offered. Escape.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said lamely, feeling the piercing gaze of the old admiral driving between his shoulders. “She had a most trying time of it, but I daresay she made a good sailor.”

  “She always did, even when I took her up to Mayo in my little sailboat so she could see the castle where her ancestress lived. Never once got seasick, did you, Deirdre?”

  “Oh, never, Brendan! And remember climbin’ Crough Patrick, an’ the awful storm that hit us on the way home? Why, if it weren’t for yer skill as a sailor, the angels would’ve collected us that day for sure—”

  Sir Geoffrey glared at the two cousins, glared down at the puppies, and glared up at Captain Lord. “You mean to tell me you were merely transporting this—this girl to Boston, Captain Lord?”

  Christian met the sharp stare unflinchingly. “Yes, sir.”

  Hastily, Deirdre offered, “Me mama died, ye see, and Brendan’s the only family I got left.”

  “I saw no mention of a female passenger in the dispatches from your admiral back in Portsmouth, Captain Lord!”

  “Uh, Sir Elliott has had a lot on his mind lately, sir. Perhaps he . . . forgot.”

  “Your brother is not the type to forget! And this still doesn’t explain that—that female in your maintop, shamelessly waving a kerchief in greeting to the people of Boston upon your glorious arrival!”

  A commotion sounded just outside the door as the “female” in question was escorted aft.

  “Oh, dear God,” Christian began, graying with horror as he realized that Ian was bringing Delight in.

  Just then, the door swung open and Delight, clad in nothing but a wool blanket, sauntered in, much to the pop-eyed consternation of Sir Geoffrey.

  “Why, Captain Lord, you did so spoil my fun by bringing me down from the maintop! Lo, I got the most awful burn on my derriere on the way down,” she purred, suggestively rubbing her bottom through the blanket. “Why, hello, sir . . .” Her eyes gleaming, she sauntered over to the suddenly apoplectic Sir Geoffrey. “You must be the admiral. I just love a man with power,” she crooned, sidling close to him and dragging a fingernail down his seamed, suddenly white cheek. “You’d just love a little romp with Delight here, no? I have the most wickedly wonderful methods of—”

  “Ian, get her out of here!” Christian roared.

  Even Brendan looked shocked, though his eyes were glinting with mirth.

  “IAN!”

  “Uh, aye, sir, ’tis trying I am—”

  Delight rubbed herself against Sir Geoffrey’s chest, her hand roving down his waistcoat toward his breeches. The admiral’s face was going a bright, alarming red, a shocking contrast to the whiteness of his hair.

  And then Delight allowed the blanket to slip to the floor.

  Christian shut his eyes and groaned. Brendan Merrick gulped and nearly dropped his cousin. Delight Foley touched a hand to the admiral’s groin—

  And Sir Geoffrey slid to the floor in a dead faint.

  ###

  “’Twas too much for his heart, sir,” Elwin Boyd said matter-of-factly, leaning over the admiral and fanning him with a piece of paper. “But I think he’s coming round now.”

  Sir Geoffrey, who’d been laid on the bed, blinked and tried to sit up, his hand going unconsciously to his heart. “Let me up, you bumbling fools!” he snarled, pushing aside their hands. The blonde doxy was nowhere in sight. Young Merrick stood nearby, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter. His Irish cousin—a comely young thing with striking eyes and an out-of-control mane of wild black hair—sat beside the bed, her worshipful gaze passing between Brendan and the tight-lipped Captain Lord. She held a glass of water in her hand, and seeing that he had recovered his senses, tried to press it to Sir Geoffrey’s lips.

  “Here, sir. Drink, and ’twill make ye feel better.”

  Angrily, Sir Geoffrey knocked it away, spilling water to the deck flooring. “There’s nothing wrong with me! The devil take the lot of you, treating me like some blasted invalid! Damn your eyes, Captain Lord, you have much to answer to!”

  “Yes, sir.” The captain turned to the surgeon. “Please leave us, Elwin.”

  The Irish girl’s hand came up to touch a strange, ornate Celtic cross at her throat. Lifting her chin, she fastened her steady gaze on the admiral. Her eyes were beautiful, stormy, of a brilliant purple shade that reminded him of violets in springtime. “Please, sir, don’t be takin’ yer anger out on Captain Lord,” she said in her gentle brogue. “He’s a fine and upstandin’ officer, and wouldn’t tolerate any shenanigans.”

  “And what do you call that—that spectacle in the maintop?” Sir Geoffrey raged, more to Captain Lord than to the young Irishwoman.

  Again the girl answered, unfazed by his anger. “Oh, her name is Dolores. She has a bit of a problem, ye see? She’s coming home after living in Normandy for a few years, and got rather . . . well, corrupted. Ye know how those French people are, Sir Geoffrey.”

  The admiral’s eyes narrowed, for as a true Briton, he had no love for the French. “Yes, I know exactly how they are.”

  The girl gave a sad, gentle smile. “Well, sir, they ruined her and poisoned her mind. She left Boston as a sweet and innocent woman of virtue, but those awful French had their way with her, ye see, and, well . . . She ended up in Portsmouth after her French husband died, and Captain Lord, bein’ the gallant naval officer he is, took it upon himself to deliver her safely back to her family here in Massachusetts. He put so much time and effort into makin’ somethin’ of this crew—a real hard-to-manage one, if ye’ll recall—that it wasn’t always easy for him to keep an eye on Deli—I mean, Dolores. But she can’t help herself, sir. ’Twas the French influence.”

  The admiral’s eyes narrowed. “French influence, you say?”

  Bless you, dear girl, Christian thought, shutting his eyes.

  “Oh, aye,” Deirdre was saying. “French influence. She was there for some time, subjected to their ways and all. No wonder she came out of it as a . . . well, changed woman.”<
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  Brendan’s eyes were dancing with mirth as, behind the admiral’s back, he exchanged glances with the speechless Christian. “Quite right, Sir Geoffrey,” he said, careful to keep his tone properly sober. “An immoral and lascivious people, you must agree. Faith, I shudder to think of any impressionable young female at the mercy of their carnal ways!” He cast a pointed glance around the orderly cabin and looked up at the deck-head, as though he could see through the great beams to the decks above. “That aside, Captain Lord, please accept my congratulations on what wonders you have achieved with this vessel! The last time I saw her, I was ashamed to admit that I had designed her . . .” He turned to the admiral and said cheerfully, “Really, sir, don’t you think that Captain Lord’s success at making something of Bold Marauder’s crew far outweighs the, uh, little incident with Miss Dolores?”

  Deirdre dramatically clasped her hands before her chest, as though in prayer. “Poor Dolores. And oh, think of her father, and how ashamed and distressed he’ll be when he sees what has happened to his sweet, innocent daughter.” She sighed and shook her head. “But those French are a vulgar people, aren’t they, Captain Lord?”

  Brendan, caught up in the game, answered before Christian could reply. “Faith! The whole country’s a den of iniquity, if I do say so myself!”

  His eyes narrowing, Sir Geoffrey snatched the glass of water from the girl’s hand, and stared at his young captain. Merrick’s logic, as usual, was sound. Captain Lord had managed to work wonders with the finest frigate in the king’s fleet, and yes, that ought to count for something more than a court-martial. Granted, his pride stung, and he’d have to account for the humiliating incident before Governor Gage, but Brendan was right.

  He drained what water there was in the glass and thrust it back into the Irish girl’s hand. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done for it, then, but to return the woman to her father and let him deal with her,” he muttered irately. “You say her family lives here in Boston?’

  “Well, almost. She tells me her home is on the west side o’ Cambridge, wherever that may be.”

  “Less than ten miles from here,” Sir Geoffrey said gruffly. “I suppose it falls upon me, then, to escort her back.”

  Brendan cleared his throat and drew himself up, his eyes suddenly eager. “Faith, sir, but I’d be happy to oblige.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you would,” Sir Geoffrey snapped. “But I’ll not have my finest officer tarnishing his name and reputation by being seen in the woman’s company until a cure can be found for her . . . condition.” He turned to Christian. “I trust that she has something besides a blanket she can wear, so that she can be escorted from this ship with some degree of dignity?”

  Christian paled, thinking of the trunk of gowns—and other equipment—that Delight had had hauled up from the brig and now lay close, too close, in a nearby cabin. “Er, yes, sir, though I daresay they could use some . . . uh, alterations.”

  “Fine. See to it that your sailmaker has them done. I want that woman off this ship by sundown.”

  Brendan, fidgeting, persisted. “Will you, then, be escorting her back to her family, sir?”

  “You seem quite bloody eager, Captain Merrick!”

  Brendan flashed a quick grin. “Aye, sir. I wouldn’t want you to tarnish your name, either.”

  “Oh, go on with you!” the admiral retorted. “I don’t give a king’s damn who takes her, as long as she’s removed from this vessel before she can cause our Navy any more embarrassment. By the way—“He frowned and turned to Deirdre, his eyes narrowing. “Who is this father in the unenviable position of having sired her?”

  “All I know, sir, is that his name is Foley, and that he and his family live outside o’ Boston in a place called Menotomy.”

  The admiral stared at her. “Foley? Menotomy?”

  “Aye, sir.” Her brow furrowed in a frown. “Do ye know the family, then?”

  “Oh, I know them, all right.” He snatched up his hat. “Captain Merrick, you may have the afternoon to catch up on old times with your cousin, but I expect that girl to be safely delivered into her father’s care by sundown. You will receive additional orders shortly. And you, Captain Lord”—his harsh stare settled on Christian—“I shall see you aboard the flagship at eight bells. We have much to discuss.”

  Christian heaved a silent sigh of relief. Then he picked up his own hat and, squaring his shoulders, followed the admiral out the door to see him properly off the ship, his shoulder aching, his head throbbing with suppressed tension.

  But at the door he paused to flash his beloved a look of indebtedness and admiration.

  No matter what trouble she’d caused him back in Portsmouth, here in Boston she had just saved his career.

  ###

  Sir Geoffrey announced an informal dinner for his officers in his cabin aboard the massive, seventy-four-gun Dauntless, whose dining area alone made the entire cabin of HMS Bold Marauder seem small and cramped in comparison. But there was more than enough room in the cabin for Sir Geoffrey, his captains, and the huge array of food brought in by stewards and smartly turned-out midshipmen.

  They were a small but diverse group: the cranky, stooped old admiral with his shrewd and piercing eye; his flag captain, Stanley Cutler, already well into his cups; Captain Hiram Ellsworth, a high-minded but ambitious prig; Lieutenant Peter Atkins, loud, swaggering, and boastful; a varied array of young officers—and Christian.

  He sat at the polished mahogany table, watching the admiral’s servants clearing away the rich meal which his stomach, used to the horrors of naval fare, had accepted first with glee, then with hesitation and now, a growing remorse. His queasiness was not helped by the open hostility of the cabin’s other occupants.

  Cutler raised his glass and downed its contents in a single gulp. “So, Captain Lord,” he said, exchanging a sly glance with the others, “I’m told you made something of that worthless rabble you left Portsmouth with.”

  “I could not make something of them if there was nothing there to begin with.”

  Ellsworth made a snorting noise. “Huh! Bold Marauder's previous captain is a dear friend of mine. He told me her officers and crew are naught but a bunch of incompetent arses who don’t know a stem from a stern.”

  Laughter rippled around the table, but Sir Geoffrey, thanking a midshipman for bringing him a pillow to put between his brittle old back and the unforgiving chair, didn’t notice the open insult to Christian’s crew.

  “I say, they must still be a bunch of incompetent arses, Ellsworth!” Cutler said recklessly, sniggering as he poured himself another glass of port. “They’ve already bungled the very thing they were sent here to do—apprehend that damned Irish Pirate! Can you imagine? Why, Bold Marauder had the rascal right under her guns, and still the fellow got away! Ah, Captain Lord, I pity you, having to take command of those dolts!”

  “My crew behaved admirably and to my satisfaction,” Christian said tersely. “And what do you mean, Irish Pirate?”

  “Don’t tell us you didn’t know. All of Boston is abuzz with it.”

  Christian put down his glass. “Abuzz with what?”

  “Why, the news, of course. You really don’t know, do you? That smuggler you engaged off the Maine coast? He’s the Irish Pirate.”

  More snickers.

  No. He hadn’t known.

  “That will be enough, gentleman,” Sir Geoffrey said crossly. “Captain Lord has only just arrived. One cannot expect him to know it was the Irish Pirate he’d engaged, as the scoundrel flies no colors. Finally, do not forget that he had an English cutter to assist, a French corvette to man, and other things to occupy him.”

  “Aye, such as doxies in the main top!”

  “Would that we all had such . . . diversions!”

  “Poor Merrick. He designed your frigate, didn’t he, Lord? How ashamed of her he must be!”

  “Aye, to think of his masterpiece crewed by a bunch of pillocks with nothing better to do than cause trouble and
make their gloriously esteemed captain, whose lofty heights we shall never aspire to, look terrible!”

  Their laughter was abruptly silenced by Christian’s fist slamming down atop the table. “My crew behaved gallantly under extreme circumstances, and I found no fault with their behavior, none at all!” He threw down his napkin and lunged to his feet. “I will not sit here and suffer hearing them maligned!”

  He felt Sir Geoffrey’s eyes on him, scrutinizing him, his old mouth beginning to curve in an approving smile.

  “Sit down, Captain Lord. And the rest of you, hold your damned tongues. I daresay none of you would’ve fared any better. Regardless of Bold Marauder’s reputation, I have nothing but respect for a captain who will defend his crew even when he knows that some improvement could stand to be had. You have my admiration, Captain, for all that you have accomplished with them in such a short time. For the most part, your ship made a fine showing upon entering the harbor today.”

  “So did the girl in the maintop,” Cutler said, sniggering.

  “I said, enough!” Sir Geoffrey said sharply, unwilling to see one of his officers embarrassed, no matter how displeased he was over the incident with Dolores. He leaned forward to adjust the pillow behind his back. “I called you together to share a meal, and to allow you and Captain Lord the opportunity to acquaint yourselves with each other. With tension mounting by the day between our forces and the rebels, we must work together. Dissent will get us nowhere.”

  The admiral leaned back in his chair. “As you all know, Lord Dartmouth has sent orders to General Gage, the governor here in Boston, to arrest the rebel leaders of this so-called Massachusetts Provincial Congress. These men—Adams, Hancock, and the physician, Dr. Warren—have no respect for the king’s authority, and will stop at nothing in their quest to seed dissent and rebellion amongst the general populace. They have just commemorated that unfortunate event they call the Boston Massacre in a way that nearly set off a war in itself, but that just goes to show the nature of these upstarts with whom we are dealing. They grow bolder by the day, heedless of the fact that the town is filled with our troops and supported by our ships here in the harbor. Now, reports are coming in that they are gathering arms and ammunition and secreting them in the countryside.” He paused, and let his hard, penetrating stare rake each of them in turn. “Tell me, gentlemen, just who do you think they’re preparing to use these arms against?”