Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Click, snap, click, snap, went Teach’s pistol.

  Wenham scratched at his great, jutting ears. ‘Too bad that young Irish captain had to take Deirdre from us. I’ll bet that’s what’s got our poor Lord and Master in such a sorry state, having her stolen away from him like that.”

  ‘That young captain be her cousin, y’ know,” Ian said.

  “Her cousin?”

  “Aye. Ye can see some resemblance around the mouth. Same smile.”

  “Same way of talkin’, too. Boglander brogue,” added Skunk.

  Click. Snap. Click.

  “Christ, would ye quit with that noise? It’s irritatin’ as all hell!” Skunk snarled.

  Teach merely grinned, and kept on doing it.

  Ian cleared his throat. “Well, I think we need tae be cheering up our captain. What do ye all think of inviting him tae the wardroom to dine with us tomorrow night? That way he won’t have tae eat all by himself. Besides, ’twill show him how much we’re behind him, no matter what the Old Fart says or does!”

  “Aye, good idea, Ian!”

  Rhodes melted out of the shadows and seated himself upon the gunwales of one of the ship’s boats. His tone was solemn. “When I accompanied him over to the flagship yesterday, one of the lieutenants told me our captain isn’t well liked. The other commanders are jealous of his record, envious of what he’s accomplished.” He swept them with his black eyes. “They’ll not make things easy for him here.”

  “Huh! Piss on them, I say!” Skunk said, his eyes flashing. “Sufferin’ bastards, I hear any of ’em sayin’ one bad word about our captain and I’ll skin the wrinkles from their hides and stuff ’em down their bloody throats!”

  “Aye!” they echoed in unison, their eyes fierce, protective, and angry.

  Teach raised his pistol and pointed it at the huge flagship. Click. Snap. Click. “And that goes for that old fart of an admiral, too!”

  Chapter 24

  Christian was not sorry to get away from Boston for the day. The tense and explosive atmosphere of the town made him uneasy, with red-coated troops spoiling for a fight, bored sailors lounging along the wharves, and resentful colonists who’d been out of work since Parliament’s Coercive Acts had deprived them of their jobs idling about. Now the townspeople had nothing better to do than taunt the British troops, monitor their every movement, and report back to the infamous Sons of Liberty, who were behind this whole wretched mess.

  Beneath him, his horse, a strapping chestnut stallion he’d leased from a Welsh major eager to pay off a gambling debt, sensed his anxiety and began to prance. Christian’s hands tightened on the reins. If only Sir Geoffrey hadn’t discovered Deirdre aboard the frigate; he’d give anything to have her safely behind the protection of Bold Marauder's guns should the inevitable explosion between colonists and the king’s forces occur.

  And, of course, there was the undeniable fact that he loved her . . .

  Rico had barged into his cabin that morning while Christian had been eating his breakfast. “Every man jack aboard the frigate knows you’re pining for the Irish girl,” his friend had said as Christian morosely toyed with his boiled egg and ship’s biscuit. “Why don’t you just marry her and get on with life?”

  “Marry her?”

  Why not? It was a simple solution to the loneliness that had plagued him for the past five years. He had lived in hell for all that time, but now that he’d had a taste of heaven, thoughts of even one more day alone were suddenly unbearable.

  Deirdre. He loved her, yes, he knew that now . . . and she, by her own word, loved him. He gazed ahead, through the pricked ears of his mount, smiling as he pictured that beloved face, those spiraling black curls, her sometimes stormy, sometimes childlike, but always loving amethyst eyes that had haunted him for the past month.

  Eyes that he knew now had haunted him for the past thirteen years.

  He shifted in the saddle, nudging his horse into a trot and gritting his teeth against the sudden pain in his shoulder. What would marriage to her be like? She’d already proved she could adjust to life aboard a king’s warship; would she be happy as the wife of a king’s officer?

  And could he, a battle-scarred, sometimes cynical king’s officer who’d seen far too much of the world, make her happy? Was he good enough for her?

  Holding the reins in one hand, he reached down and checked to be sure the ring he’d put into his pocket this morning was still there. Of purest gold, it was a lion’s body, its eyes blood-red rubies, its mouth glinting with diamond chips, its tail the band that would wrap itself around a delicate finger. The ring was exquisite, and as ancient as the title that Christian’s ancestors had held for centuries. Upon the death of their father, Elliott would become the marquess, but Elliott had ardently professed that he would sooner fall victim to a cannonball than matrimony, and so the ring had long ago fallen into Christian’s possession.

  The fact that Elliott had fallen victim to matrimony hadn’t changed things.

  Christian still had the ring.

  Deirdre O’Devir Lord. His heart warmed as he tried out the name on his tongue, and he found himself smiling as the horse, skirting the occasional puddle, carried him closer and closer to Menotomy. Yes, he liked the sound of that name. Liked it very much.

  Deirdre O’ Devir Lord . . .

  He wanted her as his wife.

  But would she have him?

  He was, after all, an Englishman, and not just any Englishman, but the one she’d spent the past thirteen years of her life hating. And despite having made inquiries amongst some of the other naval officers and their men, he was no closer now to fulfilling his promise to find her brother than he had been last week, no closer to righting the dreadful wrong that he—and England—had done to her and her family all those years ago.

  By God, he would right it. He would find her brother if it was the last thing he did, and reunite the family that he, in the king’s name, had torn apart.

  So caught up was he in his musings that before he knew it, he was crossing a bridge over the Mystic River Brook, passing beneath the branches of two old elm trees that guarded the little village of Menotomy, and entering the settlement itself. He looked about with a critical and assessing eye for this was, after all, where Deirdre would have to live until he made her his wife.

  A typical New England town, it was tiny and picturesque. Stone walls and fences bordered the road. Fields strewn with a haphazard scattering of granite, sheep, and cows rolled away into the distance, melting into gentle hills of birch, pine, oak, elm, and maple. Yet despite the mildness of the early spring morning, he sensed a tension in the air.

  He touched the inside of his elbow to his sword hilt. The day seemed tranquil and serene, but he could feel unseen eyes upon him, eyes that watched him with suspicion and no small degree of hostility.

  He slowed the horse to a walk, passing the Black Horse Tavern and Spy Pond, where geese honked loudly and shook the water out of their broad wings. From somewhere he heard the distant sound of fife and drum, and wondered if even now the so-called minutemen were mustering, preparing to practice their futile maneuvers.

  The thought both saddened and alarmed him.

  The Menotomy minutemen, he’d been told, were a new unit, led by a farmer named Benjamin Locke whose house lay farther west along the Concord Road. Christian gazed at the peaceful fields and the humble dwellings that spilled smoke from their chimneys. Why had things come to this? Why couldn’t Englishmen live in harmony with one another? Why couldn’t Parliament be more sympathetic to those who lived across the sea, and all those in power back in England be more understanding about the concerns of the colonists? God help the poor bumpkins if and when things came to blows between them and the king’s forces.

  They wouldn’t have a chance.

  The haunting music was disturbing and depressing. Christian urged his mount faster, wincing with each jolt to his shoulder but preferring the sound of the beast’s hooves over that of fife and drum. Mud spla
shed up and splattered the animal’s belly, its forelegs, and Christian’s gleaming boots, but the horse shook its head, wanting more speed. He tightened his hands on the reins, keeping the stallion’s pace contained. The traffic was heavier here, the other travelers staring at him as he passed. Seeing an open carriage with a pair of women in it, he touched his hat in polite greeting. Their eyes raked him with disdain. A youth no older than Hibbert glared at him with open hostility from behind a stone wall, and a group of farmers, leading a milk cow, spat on the ground in open contempt. Disturbed and feeling increasingly ill at ease, Christian continued on.

  He passed another tavern, where movement at the windows indicated his presence was not unobserved. By God, was the whole village watching him? He wondered if people had seen him coming and spread the news of his arrival long before his horse had even neared the place. But then, perhaps they had reason to be suspicious. There was no reason for a naval officer to be this far inland.

  Ahead was an intersection, a store, and a small, steepled church, beyond which lay a small graveyard, its headstones bleak and forbidding even in the bright sunlight. He passed several more houses, another tavern, and there, directly across the road, stood the simple brown house that, according to Sir Geoffrey’s roughly drawn map, belonged to Jared Foley.

  At last.

  He pulled his horse to a halt, content just to sit for a minute in the sunshine and gaze upon the girl who stood at a well in the front yard, toiling with a rope and what must have been a rather heavy bucket at its end. Instantly, he forgot his throbbing shoulder. Her bent back was toward him, her bottom outlined in a plain skirt of green linsey-woolsey, her muslin petticoats barely clear of the squishy mud in which she stood. Her hair, black as pitch and caught in a loose braid, followed the curve of her spine and brushed her hips. He saw her shoulders working as she wrestled with the heavy rope.

  Vaulting from the saddle with an ease that was rare amongst mariners, Christian strode quietly across the lawn, his boots squishing in damp turf. But she didn’t hear him. He came up behind her, grasped the rope, and began to pull, his strength making quick work of the task.

  “Need some help?”

  “Christian!”

  She flung herself against him, squealing with surprise and delight and burying herself against his coat. His arms closed around her, and for a long moment he could only hold her, burying his face in her hair while a fierce sense of love and protectiveness welled up in his chest. His heart constricted, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think. But it was a good feeling. It was an even better one to see how happy his appearance had made her. How different she was, in every way, from how Emily had been.

  Closing his eyes, he held her close, wishing with all his heart he could take her back to Bold Marauder with him. Tonight. Now. Forever. She smelled of road dust and spring sunshine, clean wind and freshly baked bread. She was soft and warm, utterly feminine, totally guileless. He liked that. He liked the feel of her in his arms. He liked everything about her.

  By God, there was nothing he didn’t like.

  “Oh, Christian, ye don’t know how lonely I’ve been without ye! I hate it here, I do! The birds are different, the animals are different, the people are cold and unfriendly, and they talk funny, act funny. The air is cold, the grass is brown. Thank God ye came to take me back t’ the ship, because I’ll surely die if I have to stay here another day!”

  “Deirdre, I did not come here to take you back to Bold Marauder.” He took a deep breath and looked down into her eyes. “I came here to ask you to—”

  The front door of the house banged open. “Deirdre?”

  A girl stood there, clad in a blue woolen gown and a cloak of linsey-woolsey. She had blond hair, not bleached and silvery like his own, but rich and tawny and yellow, worn severely braided and entwined around her head. Her face was plain, fresh, and unpainted; her eyes, smiling and knowing.

  The eyes, bold and brimming with raw prurience, were what gave her away.

  “Delight?” he gasped, shocked.

  She picked up her skirts and hurried across the lawn, her finger laid across full lips that had been, at his last sight of her, red and painted. “Don’t call me that in front of my mother—she’ll have my hide!” Nervously, she glanced back toward the house. “It’s Dolores Ann!”

  Stunned, he peeled Deirdre off his chest just as the woman in question appeared on the threshold.

  If Christian had any doubts as to where the Foleys’ true loyalties lay, they were instantly abolished by the woman’s reaction to the presence of a king’s officer on her front lawn. Her face drained of color. Her eyes went wide, and a wet dishcloth fell from her hands and splashed into a mud puddle at her feet.

  Just as quickly, she regained her composure and stepped forward, only her darting eyes and high, jittery voice betraying her nervousness. “Why, sir, ’tis not often we receive naval visitors out here in Menotomy! First Captain Merrick, now you . . . I assume you must be, uh, Deirdre’s suitor?”

  Stepping forward, Christian tucked his hat under his elbow and bowed gallantly over the woman’s hand. It was, he noticed, trembling. “Captain Lord, at your service.” He straightened up. “Forgive me for not sending word ahead, but I was desperate to see Miss O’ Devir. And, of course, pay my respects to your lovely daughter and her family, from whose hospitality my dear Deirdre has obviously benefited.” He regarded the woman, his gray eyes steady and keen. “Given the hostility my presence seems to have elicited from your neighbors, I can only thank God that my beloved has found sanctuary with a family that is loyal to king and Crown. I hope I have not come at an inconvenient time?”

  “Oh—oh, no, n-not at all!” Mrs. Foley said too quickly, her skittish manner as condemning as if she’d blatantly admitted that she and her family were anything but loyal. “Why don’t you come in for some refreshment? A cup of chocolate, perhaps?”

  “I would enjoy that, madam. And if I may allow my horse a drink of water before I join you?”

  “Yes, yes, please do! You may tie him up there, beside the watering trough. Dolores Ann? Please stop gaping and come with me—now!”

  Christian smiled wryly. It was all too obvious that the woman had no desire this side of Hades to have him there, but to be anything less than hospitable, especially toward a decorated and respected officer of the king’s Navy, would certainly cast suspicion on the Foley name.

  Had she been this skittish around Brendan? He wished he’d had the chance to speak to the other frigate captain before Sir Geoffrey had sent him back off to sea.

  He watched Delight’s mother hurry back to the house. In typical New England fashion, the structure faced south, its roof steep and sloping to rid itself of winter snows, its big chimney set squarely in the center. Five windows reflected the sunshine from the top floor; four more, with a door between them, looked out from the bottom. A barn stood a short distance away from the house, ringed by a fence containing two horses sleeping in the early spring sun.

  “I see you’ve got yourself a steed, Captain Lord.” Delight’s gaze roved over the stallion, whose coat, glinting in the sunlight, was the color of rich cherry. She quirked a brow. “But then, there are many activities besides riding that one can do upon a horse, no?”

  Christian started to deliver a sarcastic comment, but just then the door banged open. “Dolores Ann! You come in here this instant!”

  Delight sighed and rolled her eyes. "Oh, I really do wish I’d stayed in France sometimes. You’d think I was still a blushing miss of seventeen, the way they’re both treating me.” Still muttering, she sauntered off across the lawn, hips rolling. As she reached the door, Mrs. Foley yanked her inside. The woman’s mouth was moving, her hands gesturing angrily, and Christian wished he could hear what the agitated woman was saying to her daughter. Feigning indifference to them, he looked at Deirdre as she caught his sleeve.

  “Oh, Christian, I’m so happy to see ye. I’m so lonely, and missed ye so much last night, I thought my poor
heart would break!”

  She looked up at him, smiling. Her fingers rested against his lapels; her slim, lithe body pressed against his. Her heart was in her eyes, brimming with love and joy, and again he felt his chest swell and threaten to burst. She was his. She had given herself to him and, in her innocence, had made him a man once more, in all senses of the word.

  And soon, she would be his in name as well as in heart. He couldn’t wait to give her the ring, couldn’t wait to see her reaction.

  By God, I love her.

  Knowing that Mrs. Foley was probably observing them from her window, he gently pried Deirdre’s hands from his lapels. “Come, dearest. Let us go in and behave ourselves for a bit, shall we?”

  “Oh, Christian. Please don’t ask me to be behavin’ myself for too long. I want to be alone with ye and show ye how much I’ve been missin’ ye!”

  His loins tightened in instant response. As she took his hand and led him to the house, he wondered how he had ever thought he might be impotent. “Well, then,” he said, smiling down at her walking beside him, “perhaps you can borrow a horse from the Foleys and we can go, er, riding afterward?”

  “Oh, Christian, can we?”

  It would be the perfect time to ask her to be his wife. His heart fluttered in excitement, but he managed to maintain his composed demeanor. “Aye,” he said, tipping her chin up and gazing into her wide purple eyes. “Now let us go and be sociable.”

  But as they entered the house Deirdre, with Delight trailing in her wake, fled up the stairs with an excuse about having to change her clothes, and Christian was left standing all alone just inside the door.

  He looked around, his hat in his hands. The house was small, plain, lived-in. He walked into the main living area, which appeared to double as a kitchen, feigning casual interest while his keen gaze searched for anything that would further boost suspicions that the Foleys were anything but Loyalists. But there was nothing incriminating. The house smelled of herbs, cooking, and years of fires burned on the huge hearth that dominated the room in which he stood. They were strange smells to his mariner’s nose, just as the room itself, a palace compared with the size of his cabin aboard Bold Marauder, was strange to his seafarer’s eyes. Wide-boarded floors were scuffed smooth by years of shoes. The massive, soot-blackened hearth was framed by cooking utensils of various sizes, shapes, and forms. He smelled baking bread, peered into a stewpot and saw a pudding boiling in a cloth. Herbs hung from overhead rafters, and a set of chairs surrounded a rough-hewn table spread with clean linens.