Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Christian said nothing, his shoulder, throbbing more and more the longer he sat, forgotten. He had known, of course, that matters on this side of the Atlantic were bad, but he had not known that the people here were actually taking up arms against the king’s forces . . .

  The meal wore on, the situation in Boston was further discussed, toasts to king and country were drunk, and eventually, the admiral, his tired old face showing the strain of the day, dismissed them to go back to their ships.

  Christian rose to his feet.

  “A moment, please, Captain Lord.”

  He paused, absently massaging his wound and waiting until the others were out of earshot. “Thank you, sir, for defending my people’s honor. It is most appreciated.”

  “Nonsense. From what I’ve observed, you’ve shaped them into a fine and respectable crew. Sir Elliott advised me in his missives about the exact nature of what you were taking on when he assigned you to Bold Marauder, you know.” The admiral allowed a hint of a smile. “Not that I had not already known. But make no mistake. While I defended you before your peers tonight—who, I might add, are merely envious of your accomplishments—I remain most distressed about the debacle with that Foley woman and so, I’m afraid, is General Gage. However, even the most embarrassing incidents are capable of bearing fruit. As this one did.”

  “Sir?”

  “Please have a seat, Captain. I did not detain you for additional rebuke, but to discuss the Navy’s mission for you.”

  “The Irish Pirate,” Christian said, smiling wryly. “My apologies, sir. Had I known that sloop was his, I can assure you—”

  “Never mind that, Captain. We will catch the rogue—or, shall I say, you will catch him.” He leaned forward and poured them each another glass of port, the lights of Boston twinkling in the darkness beyond the great stern windows behind him. “Things have grown tense here over the past several months. Last year’s Port Act—which, as you know, was intended to punish Boston for that wretched Tea Party incident—met with anger and rebellion, and while meant to starve and choke the town into submission, all it did was unify and strengthen the rebels.”

  Christian took a sip of his port.

  “This, and other punitive actions meant to clip the wings of Massachusetts’s self-government, have only made the rebels even more defiant. General Gage, between you and me, is ineffective. He draws up declarations and refuses to enforce them, pretending ignorance while the bumpkins blatantly defy them right under his nose. We have warships in the harbor, thousands of troops in and around Boston, and London standing on her tiptoes watching the whole damned mess, yet he is loath to enforce his own decrees. As a result, the rebels grow more and more bold.” Sir Geoffrey gave a weary sigh. “Their Dr. Warren drew up a set of resolutions declaring that there was no need to obey the Port Act, and implored the people to prepare themselves for a war against England. Last fall, they sent representatives to Philadelphia to partake in a colony-wide assembly of rebels calling themselves the Continental Congress, and have since proceeded to downright steal money from the royal collections to fund their treasonous schemes. Altercations break out between our troops and the populace. Things are so damned tense, ’twill only take a spark to blow everything to kingdom come.”

  “I had not realized the situation has deteriorated to such an extent,” Christian said quietly. He looked down at his glass. Suddenly, its contents looked like blood to him.

  “I believe war is imminent,” Sir Geoffrey continued. “The rebels have established Committees of Safety to oversee a new militia, a motley rabble calling themselves minutemen, so named because they are ready to muster, march, and move at a minute’s notice.” The admiral made a disgusted noise. “Can you imagine? Bumpkins—farmers, ordinary citizens, merchants—taking up arms against the finest army in the world.” He shook his head. “They haven’t a bloody chance.”

  Christian looked down at his port again and, suddenly unable to drink it, slid the glass away from him.

  “In any case, Captain, as I mentioned earlier, I was most intrigued to learn the name of this woman you took aboard as a passenger. Dolores Ann Foley LeBrun—it appears she has dropped her married name following the death of her French husband—is the daughter of one Jared Foley, a printer who lives in the western part of Cambridge, in the village of Menotomy. He claims to be loyal to king and Crown, but recent intelligence reveals a suspicious amount of activity to and from the Foley home at all hours of the day and night. Activity that is highly suspect for a man purported to be a Loyalist.”

  “Are you saying that Foley is a rebel?”

  “I’m saying we suspect he’s a rebel. He is most assuredly a printer, Captain, and as such, is in a position to print and distribute inflammatory broadsides.”

  “I see.”

  Sir Geoffrey took a sip of his port. “The fact that Gage’s spies have seen Foley in company with Adams, Hancock, and Warren is not, of course, the Navy’s concern. But I’ll tell you what is,” he said, pausing and looking hard at Christian. “Foley has also been seen with the Irish Pirate.”

  Christian raised a brow. Suddenly he remembered Delight, cornering him in the brig and bragging that she was going to seduce and win the notorious smuggler for herself, and began to wonder if there was more here than had initially met the eye . . .

  “And just who is this so-called Irish Pirate?” he asked.

  “That’s the only name we know him by. What difference does it make? He’s a rebel, and he must be stopped. Were he a simple smuggler, I would not be so concerned with him, but the Americans are secretly moving guns into the countryside, and they are obviously coming from somewhere.”

  “And you suspect that source is this Irish Pirate?”

  “One of the sources, certainly, and a major one at that. Had the exchange not already been made, you undoubtedly would have found the hold of your French corvette packed with crates of muskets. So you see now why you must apprehend the scoundrel. Gage won’t move against the rebel leaders, but the Irish Pirate is my responsibility, and I am not content to sit back and watch a bloody war unfold. This rogue is procuring arms from Philadelphia and Baltimore, smuggling them into ports north of Boston, and passing them to the rebels who are, in turn, hiding them in the countryside with the intent of using them against our forces. This, Captain Lord, is why the Irish Pirate must be stopped.”

  The admiral stood up and began to pace. “There is no time to waste. Your mission is to apprehend this smuggler as quickly and efficiently as possible, using every resource at your command. He and Jared Foley run in the same circles, so it may be a matter of killing two birds with one stone. You will call upon Miss O’Devir at the Foley home in Menotomy.”

  Christian stiffened. “Sir?”

  “Since the Foleys claim to be Loyalists, they cannot protest a respected officer of the king’s Navy calling upon their daughter’s friend, now, can they? And speaking of Miss O’Devir—and by the way, that was most gallant of you to deliver her to Captain Merrick, though I am not so old or blind that your obvious affections for each other have escaped me—’twould be most unseemly for her to remain upon a man-of-war with one hundred and fifty tars. Especially,” he added, wagging a paternal finger, “in light of how you and the girl share such affections.” He chuckled. “Because she is kin to one of my finest officers, I will do all that I can to preserve her reputation, as well as yours—which I daresay your envious peers would take great delight in tarnishing. To that end—and because she may be of use in reporting the activities of the Irish Pirate to us—I have arranged for her to lodge with the Foleys.”

  “But—”

  “The matter is settled, Christian.” The admiral drained his glass, then put it down on the table with an air of dismissal. “Captain Merrick is escorting both young women to the Foley home as we speak.”

  Christian looked away to hide his dismay.

  “I know you don’t wish to be separated from the girl, but it is necessary. I believe the Irish P
irate to be a secret friend of Jared Foley, whose own activities are highly suspect. Your courting of Miss O’Devir at the Foley household is the perfect foil for this assignment, and will keep anyone from suspecting your true purpose for being in the countryside, which is, of course, to gather information so we can apprehend this smuggler. That is between you and me, and no one else.”

  Christian took a deep breath, unconsciously pressing his fingers to his throbbing shoulder. “Does Captain Merrick know of this plan? And why was he, a frigate captain himself, not chosen to apprehend the Irish Pirate? Surely he is more than capable.”

  “Merrick is half Irish himself, Captain, and as you know, the Irish are a clannish race. I would not send him against one of his own. Though I have no doubt that he would do his duty, I would not ask such a thing of him. In fact, I think it would be in everyone’s best interest if I send him off to join the frigate Lively in patrolling the coast.”

  With that, the crotchety old admiral got to his feet. Christian did the same, his heart heavy. Poor Deirdre. He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to her, or to properly thank her for coming to his rescue this afternoon. And no doubt she was homesick, lonely, frightened, and miserable . . .

  The admiral walked with him toward the door. “Take heart, old boy,” he said, clasping his shoulder and missing Christian’s wince of pain. “’Twill not be forever. In fact, you might even begin calling on Miss O’Devir tomorrow. Now, that’s something to look forward to, eh?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  But at the door, the admiral gave him a level, warning look. “Just . . . watch yourself, Captain, and keep your nose clean in all of this. This assignment could be very dangerous. There are those who would delight in shooting you down, and I would not have the career of England’s future admiral jeopardized.” He gave a tight smile. “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Very clear.”

  “Very well then. Now please, if you’ll excuse me? It has been a most trying day.”

  Chapter 23

  Deirdre hated Massachusetts from the moment she stepped off the wharf, staggered, and nearly fell at the unfamiliarity of solid earth beneath her feet.

  It didn’t take her long to discover that Boston was cold and ugly, the buildings as bleak and forbidding as the faces of the people who inhabited them. Red-coated soldiers patrolled the streets. Most of the shops were closed, some showing the effects of vandalism. Hungry, mean-looking dogs ran in packs looking for a stray chicken or a heap of garbage, their teeth flashing if one came too close. Drunken seamen were thick along the waterfront; some, upon sighting Brendan, saluted respectfully. But there was no such respect amongst the out-of-work townspeople who lounged idly about, their expressions sullen and cold as they watched him help the two girls into the carriage he had hired to take them out to the Foley home.

  The countryside west of Boston was just as bleak as the port town, and no friendlier. Treacherous ruts carved up roads that were muddy and half frozen. The trees were still bare, their branches gray and skeletal against the cold sky. The earth was carpeted with dead grass that was not green, as it should be, but brown, and flattened to the ground like a head of dirty, uncombed hair. Here and there, snow made a tired, dingy crust upon a shaded slope, and fields divided by rambling walls of granite boulders loomed on either side of the road.

  With each mile that brought her farther and farther from Christian, Deirdre’s heart sank. Blocking out Delight’s chatter, and Brendan’s responsive laughter, she pressed her nose against the window and blinked back tears of homesickness and despair.

  “Christian,” she whispered miserably, her gaze fixed on the distant hills. “Oh, why couldn’t I just have stayed with ye? Why does yer admiral have to be so concerned with my reputation when he doesn’t even know me?”

  The admiral. He had invited, nay, demanded that Christian dine with him aboard the flagship, and as Deirdre had solemnly watched her lover changing into his best uniform and calling for his dress sword, she’d had no idea they were to be separated. Her anticipation of stripping off that dashing uniform upon his return had been hopelessly dashed when, shortly after Christian had left, Brendan had arrived to take both her and Delight out to the Foley home in Menotomy.

  Deirdre had protested fiercely, but her cousin had only apologized for having to follow orders that he admittedly agreed with.

  Finally, stormy-eyed and angry, Deirdre had gathered up her few belongings, grabbed one of Christian’s shirts so she’d have something of his to comfort her, and, joining Delight and Brendan, departed the home she had known for the past month.

  “Tell Christian where I am!” she had said, desperately taking Ian’s hand just before she’d left the ship. ‘Tell him the Old Fart’s sendin’ me away! Tell him to come rescue me as soon as he can!”

  “Aye, lassie. Now keep your chin up, and hold tight. The Lord and Master’ll not abandon ye.”

  No, surely he wouldn’t, she thought, staring out at a hard blue sky that was strangely naked of cloud. It looked nothing like the misty gray skies of home, reminding her again of how far away her beloved Ireland was. But Ian was right. Christian would not abandon her here. In her heart, she knew that as soon as he could get away, he would come for her.

  But as they traveled farther inland, she couldn’t prevent the mounting despair and homesickness. The sky was not the only feature of this bleak and barren land that was strange. In fact, nothing was the way it should be. Back home, the trees would just be starting to branch and bud. Back home, daffodils would be poking up through lush grass that was so brilliant and green it hurt your eyes to look at it. Back home, the weather would be raw and moist, not frigid, dry—and bitterly cold.

  She glanced at her cousin for reassurance, but he obviously didn’t notice the alarming differences between the two lands, so caught up was he in responding to Delight’s subtle remarks and not-so-subtle invitations.

  Deirdre turned away to stare out the window once more, her heart sinking with every mile.

  “Here we are!” Delight cried as the carriage drew up beside a squarish, two-story house painted a humble shade of brown. “Now, Deirdre, you must remember not to call me Delight, especially after all the pains I have taken to appear . . . presentable!” Laughing, she indicated her modest blue dress, then yanked her shawl over her shoulders to conceal the tempting swell of her bodice, which had been purposely bared for the benefit of Brendan’s appreciative eyes. “And you, Captain Merrick, simply must join us for supper! Mama will be most distressed if you do not, and”—she trailed her fingernails down his sleeve and gazed invitingly up into his eyes—“so will I.”

  “Yes, Brendan, please stay,” Deirdre pleaded, unwilling to be left with these people she didn’t know, distressed about losing contact with her cousin, terrified about being abandoned in this bleak and foreign land. She gripped his sleeve, her eyes desperate. “’Tis only for supper—”

  The door to the house opened and a woman appeared on the threshold. Clad in brown-and-white calico, she had a white apron around her ample waist and blond hair tucked severely beneath a muslin cap.

  “Dolores Ann!”

  “Mama!”

  Delight leapt out of the carriage, raced across the lawn, and flung herself into the woman’s arms. There was much hugging and weeping and cheek-pinching before Delight, dragging her mother back across the muddy lawn, could make introductions. Brendan had already stepped down from the carriage and now stood on the lawn, holding his fancy, gold-laced hat. “Oh, Mama, I have brought guests!” Delight bubbled happily. “My friend is in the carriage—she’s from Ireland—and our gallant escort here is her cousin, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, who was kind enough to accompany us from Boston to ensure that no harm befell us. He’s in the king’s Navy, Mama!”

  That last word—Navy—was oddly stressed, almost as if in warning. Deirdre, still inside the carriage, saw a fleeting look of alarm cross the woman’s face as she looked at Brendan in his handsome uniform; th
en she allowed him to take her hand and bow over it, a gesture that soon wiped the uneasiness from her eyes and had her cheeks flushing pink, for Brendan was uncommonly handsome and full of Irish charm. “How do you do, madam,” he said, grinning warmly. And then, turning to hand Deirdre down from the carriage, “My cousin, Deirdre O’Devir.”

  Mrs. Foley’s eyes widened as she looked at Deirdre, taking in the seaman’s jacket that covered her shoulders, the trousers that hid her long legs. Then she saw the misery in her eyes, and her demeanor changed. With a sudden smile, she reached out and hugged Deirdre as fiercely as she had her own daughter. “Oh, do come in, poor thing, you must be absolutely frozen! A cup of chocolate will restore you in no time.”

  “Thank ye, Mrs. Foley. I . . . I’m sorry to be intrudin’ like this. I’d just as soon have stayed aboard the ship . . .”

  “My, you have the most delightful brogue!” She put her hands on Deirdre’s shoulders and stood back, admiring her and pretending she didn’t notice the tears welling up in Deirdre’s eyes. “Why, just listen to her talk, Dolores Ann! And, good heavens, don’t speak such nonsense; you’re not intruding at all. Any friend of Dolores’s is a friend of ours. Besides, we were expecting you; the admiral in Boston sent word ahead that my daughter had arrived and was bringing a friend. Come, come, my dear, let’s get you out of those atrocious clothes and into something a bit more ladylike. And you, Captain Merrick, do come in and join us for supper!”

  “Faith, that’s kind of you, madam, but I really couldn’t—”