Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  “Indeed, you will not be. As soon as your cousin returns, I will ask him for your hand.”

  “Oh, Christian . . .”

  He slid his hands around her waist. Slowly, he drew her toward him, and claimed her lips in a deep and passionate kiss that burned away all memories of her loneliness. She melted against him, her hand coming up to slip beneath his queue, holding his head close to hers as the kiss deepened, their tongues touching, tasting, his hand warm against the small of her back and pressing her hips against his arousal. After a long moment, the kiss ended, and he reached into his pocket and drew something out. Looking down, Deirdre saw that his palm was turned upward, and a ring, as ancient and beautiful as Grace’s cross, rested on its hard and callused surface.

  Her hands went to her mouth, her gaze flashing up to his.

  “This has been in my family for hundreds of years,” he explained, gently prying her hands away from her mouth and tenderly grasping her left one. It was shaking so violently he had to close his fingers around it to still it.

  “Marry me, Deirdre O’ Devir?”

  “I’ll marry ye, Christian Lord.”

  He smiled, and slid the ring onto her finger.

  She stared at it, holding her breath and unable to speak. There it was, proclaiming to the world that she belonged to this brave, handsome, battle-scarred sea warrior. Tears filled her eyes, and he lifted her hand so that the sunlight caught the rubies of the lion’s eyes, the diamonds of its teeth.

  “You are mine,” he declared.

  Deirdre was crying now, unashamedly. “Ch-Christian, this is the h-happiest moment of my life.” She knuckled her eyes and stared at her hand for a long moment, then hugged it to her breast, mating the ring with the cross. It appeared to be a spontaneous gesture, but he guessed, knowing her penchant for sentimentality, that it was a purposeful melding of Irish and English, one heart to its mate, one proud ancestry to another.

  His heart swelled within his chest, aching with love for her.

  And then, impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck. He responded immediately, crushing her almost savagely in his embrace, one hand coming up to cup her nape and draw her close, and this time the kiss was desperate, savage, and hard.

  “By God, I’ve missed you,” he murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder and breathing hard. “I doubt I can wait until you are well and truly mine.”

  “Do ye have to ask Brendan, Christian? Can’t we just get married and be done with it?”

  “As your closest living relative, Deirdre, it would be wrong not to ask him.”

  Deirdre was already loosening his neckcloth, drawing it away from his throat, rising on her tiptoes so she could press her lips against his skin. She breathed deeply of his own unique scent, a heady mix of shaving soap, his wool coat . . the sea. Her pulse began to beat a little faster, and slowly, she spread her palms beneath the coat and began to pull it off. It was a mild day, and he had left the garment unbuttoned, but the waistcoat was not so; and, one by one, she worked her fumbling fingers against its gold buttons until that, too, was open, and his fine white shirt was all that lay between his chest and her searching fingers.

  He looked down at her, his eyes dark with desire, a little smile playing about the corner of his mouth as Deirdre pared his waistcoat from his shoulders, taking care to be gentle where the musket ball had been lodged. Her heart began to pound, and as she slid her hands up beneath his shirt, gently drawing it up and over his head, her eyes went soft with wonder at the magnificent display of male power and beauty that was his sculpted, well-muscled chest. Only a fresh bandage marred its perfection, and when it came off, yet another scar would mark where his strength and courage had seen him through another battle.

  “The sight of ye makes me burn for wantin’ ye, Christian,” she breathed, her eyes, then her hands, devouring his honed, sun-splashed body. She touched his strong, corded arms, the sparse golden hair that roughened his chest and torso, then reached up and untied his queue, letting the thick, silky hair slide between her fingers. He let her look, and touch, her fill, then pulled her close to him and, bending his head, kissed her long and hard and thoroughly.

  She melted against him, her hands drifting up his torso, down his back and around to the hard planes of his belly as she lost herself to the kiss. Her fingers found the flap of his breeches and without hesitation, she slid each button through its hole until the garment gapped open and slid a little way down his hips. As she took him in her hands, she found him hot, hard, and ready. Gently, she stroked him, rubbing her thumb over the velvety head and taking pleasure in each soft groan that came from him, the way he filled her hand, the increasing desperation of his kiss.

  And then Deirdre sank to her knees, her lips whispering down the flat slab of his belly, and kissed him.

  He caught his breath, driving his fingers into her hair to anchor himself.

  Holding him in one hand, she looped the other around the back of his thighs and held him close, brushing her lips along the hot, swollen length of him until his breathing grew hoarse and unsteady and she felt tremors moving through his great body as he fought to keep himself under control. She looked up at him, saw that his eyes were half shut, his expression one of what looked to be pain; then, Deirdre rubbed him against her cheek, against her lips, and gently took him into her mouth.

  His knees buckled, and within moments, they were both down on the blanket, her short-jacket discarded, her stays loosened and removed, her body, clad in nothing but her shift, petticoats, and stockings, lying beneath his as he kissed her hungrily, one hand drifting down to pull up the hem of her petticoats. She felt the warmth of his hand against her bare leg; the brush of his knuckles as he dragged the skirts up, exposing her thighs to the cool air, and then his hand was against her cleft, parting it, gently stroking her until her own dampness bathed his fingers.

  “Christian . . . dear God, how I want ye,” she murmured.

  “Not half as much, Deirdre, as I want you,” he responded, and pulling back, kissed a trail down her throat, over her collarbone, and down to the neckline of her chemise, where she felt his tongue against the rise of one breast, gently nipping, tasting, licking. Then, cupping the soft globe in his hand and watching his own actions, he brushed his thumb over the muslin-clad nipple, back and forth, over and over, until she was moaning in delight.

  “Ohhh . . .” she said, sighing.

  He lowered his head, took her breast into his mouth and began to suck on the taut, hardened nipple through the thin muslin, drawing both it and the fabric deeply into his mouth.

  It was agony. Sweet agony.

  Through the wet fabric, she now felt his tongue, licking the pebbled nipple, stroking it into an even harder peak. Deirdre writhed beneath him, her body suddenly too hot, her heart beating like a drum beneath his relentless tongue, his masterful mouth.

  He pulled back only long enough to gaze down at her rosy, heat-suffused cheeks, and into her eyes. “You, my love . . . are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Thank you . . . thank you for consenting to become my wife. My lover. My very best friend. I am the most blessed man on earth.”

  And with that, he pulled back, slid his hands under her hips, lifted them like an offering, and, gently pulling her skirts up over her belly, buried his face between her legs.

  The first scrape of his chin against her inner thighs nearly sent Deirdre over the edge, but when she felt his hot breath against her wet folds, then his thumbs as he spread the damp, intimate flesh wide, she sobbed deep in her throat and in a growing frenzy, caught at the edge of the blanket, the dried leaves beneath, her fingers driving into the earth as her body began to writhe and twist beneath him in its headlong flight toward release.

  “Christian—“

  He only spread her further, and as she began to gasp and keen, his tongue moved against her wet slit, tasting, licking, stroking, before pressing against the engorged little bud in which her passion was centered; he drew it into his mouth and sucked
it hard, and Deirdre came against him with a fevered cry, her body arcing upward and convulsing on shattering waves of pleasure that left her sobbing in tears of joy.

  He moved up, cradling her between his forearms, seeking her lips once more, and she tasted herself upon him as his hand moved down between them to himself, guiding the velvety tip to her still-throbbing entrance. Deirdre reached down, helping to position him, and as slick and wet as she was, he slid easily into her, stretching her wide, wide, wide, filling her until she thought she could take no more.

  He paused there, the corded muscles of his arms standing out in relief as he balanced himself.

  “I love you, Deidre,” he murmured.

  And then he began to move within her, drawing back, pushing forward, sheathed in her wet, hot core as he built the timeless rhythm of love. Her eyes drifted open, watching the concentration in his face, the way his eyes, heavy with desire, had darkened. His hair tumbled over his brow. The veins on his arms stood out, thick with blood. Faster, stronger, deeper . . . passion built once more, and her legs came up to wrap around his hips as she sought even deeper closeness, the slick friction unbearable, exquisite, joyous. And here it came again, that soaring pleasure-pain that was building in her belly, building, building, until her world splintered apart and her cries rent the air; he gave a final, mighty thrust, stiffened, and with a hoarse groan, buried his face in the curve of her neck, his seed pulsing hot inside her as he found his own release.

  They clung to each other long after the last tremors faded, he taking his weight on one arm, the other reaching down to find her hand and hold it as they drifted slowly back to earth. Then, moving slightly, he wrapped his mighty arms around her, rolled onto his back, and heartbeat to heartbeat, held her protectively, lovingly, fiercely, against himself.

  Nearby, the brook splashed happily over stones and sand. Overhead, the wind sighed through the pines, and a chickadee flitted from branch to branch, its distinctive song clear and bright. The sun grew stronger, and beneath the blanket the ground was earthy, springy, and warm.

  They slept, two people caught up in love, and when they awoke some time later, they came together again . . . and again . . . until the sun began to dip below the trees and the shadows grew long.

  They washed in the chilly waters of the brook, dried themselves with the blanket, and slowly dressed each other, their hearts heavy at the thought of parting. It was nearly dark by the time they rode into the Foleys’ yard, and after a short apology to their hostess about keeping Deirdre out for so long, Christian led his young love back out under the stars and holding her arms, looked down into her eyes.

  “This won’t last forever, Deidre.”

  She laid her cheek against his chest and stared out into the darkness, holding him tight. “Will you be back, soon?”

  “Within the next day or two, if the admiral can spare me.”

  They clung together, neither willing to say goodbye; but finally, the moment came for Christian to leave. Slowly, reluctantly, he set her away from him, his hand lingering on hers, his eyes dark and sad as he gazed down into her beloved face.

  “I love you, Deirdre.”

  “I love you, too, Christian. Be safe.”

  Then he mounted his horse and, touching his hat to her, rode off, leaving her standing there on the darkened lawn until his shadowy figure had disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 26

  Christian did not get very far down the Concord Road before turning back. The feel of Deirdre’s body still burned in his memory, and he ached for want of holding her. Soon, now, they would be together forever, and he would ache no more. But he had not been sent here for pleasure; he had been sent here to apprehend the Irish Pirate—known enemy of the Crown, brazen supplier of arms to the rebels—and as a good and dutiful officer of his king, he intended to do just that.

  Acting upon a tip from his own spies, General Gage had informed him of tonight’s meeting at which several known rebel leaders—Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and Dr. Joseph Warren—were supposed to gather. No doubt the Irish Pirate would make an appearance, too. The whereabouts of the meeting had not been known, but Gage had had his own nagging suspicions as to where it would be.

  Christian halted his horse beneath the branches of a sprawling oak and, rummaging in his saddlebags, found his wig, a bit crushed but otherwise perfect for his disguise. He donned it, replaced his hat, and traded his naval coat for the shabby green frock coat that, along with the blanket, had been rolled up behind the cantle of his saddle.

  Back down Concord Road he went, a slightly rumpled traveler on a tired horse, nothing about him indicating he was a proud and decorated sea warrior in the service of the king. As he came around a slight bend in the road, he saw the lights of the Foley house; a single candle glowed orange behind the curtains of an upstairs window, and his heart gave a painful lurch as he thought of Deirdre up there getting ready for bed—and probably missing Ireland with all her young heart.

  Did she miss him, too? When she blew out the light, would she go to the window, pull back the curtain, and gaze out into the night, thinking of him as he had thought of her from the lonely darkness of Bold Marauder’s cabin?

  He sighed, and turned away, focusing on his mission. He might not be with her tonight, but at least he would be near her.

  Just across the street from the Foley homestead was the tavern he had noted earlier, and here, he pulled the horse up and dismounted. Though his plan was sound and carefully conceived, he was still alert for danger. Surely the same villagers who, hours earlier, had glared with such hostility at a British naval officer, wouldn’t recognize this road-weary traveler as the same man. He hoped they wouldn’t recognize his horse, either. But chestnut was a common color, and the night was dark. Leading his horse, he cleared his throat and pounded a fist against the tavern’s door.

  Several moments went by, long moments in which the only sound was the wind moaning through the trees above. Then he heard footsteps, and the click of a latch being cautiously lifted. The door was cracked, then opened wide. A woman stood there, her dark hair covered by a mobcap, her eyes suspicious. She held a candle in a tin holder, and this she lifted, shining it fully into Christian’s eyes until he blinked.

  “Good evening, madam,” he said wearily, inclining his bewigged head. Behind him, the horse gave a deep sigh, as though in full cooperation with his ruse. “Have you a room for a sore and weary traveler, and perhaps a meal to warm his cold bones?”

  The woman lifted the candle higher, her shrewd eyes taking in his slightly unkempt appearance. At last, satisfied, she lowered the light and glanced quickly up the road from whence he had just come. “Aye, we’ve room for ye. Nice, clean chamber upstairs, and some leftover stew still bubbling over the fire.”

  “I am much obliged, madam.”

  “There’s a barn out back. Put your nag away and then join us for a bite to eat. We’re plain and simple folk, but you’ll not find us lacking in hospitality.”

  An hour later, Captain Christian Lord, hero of Quiberon and pride of the Royal Navy, sat in darkness on the bare floorboards of his room, the door locked behind him, his body well fed and wide awake. The bed was turned back, waiting for him. The embers of a fire glowed in the hearth. The window was open to the night, and he had a small spyglass balanced against the sill and trained on the Foley house directly across the road.

  He doubted he’d have long to wait.

  He thought of Mrs. Foley’s sudden panic when he had appeared, unexpectedly, at her door this afternoon, and her prevailing skittishness throughout his visit. He thought of Delight Foley admitting her desire for the Irish Pirate when she had cornered him aboard the frigate, and her plans to seduce and win him to her bed. He thought of the open hostility the villagers had shown him, and the suspicious way the tavern owner’s wife had studied him before finally letting him in. He thought of Foley’s reputation as being loyal to king and Crown—and he thought of the broadsides Sir Geoffrey had shown him, broadsid
es most likely printed by Jared Foley and meant to inflame the rebels toward inevitable bloodshed.

  Bloodshed that must, at all costs, be prevented.

  Christian’s mouth hardened. The Irish Pirate must be caught before he could supply the rebels with any more arms and ammunition

  It was a matter of life and death.

  Shifting his weight to a more comfortable position, he raised the glass once more, trained it at the dark house across the street, and sat back to wait.

  ###

  It was sometime around midnight that Deirdre awoke.

  Her eyes came slowly open as sounds permeated her consciousness. Low tones, of men talking . . . A voice, heavy with an Irish brogue . . . Not Brendan’s, but somehow familiar . . . As familiar as the devil-may-care laughter that followed it.

  She stared up at the dark rafters above her head, wondering if it had been a dream. But the house was quiet. Hugging her arms around Christian’s shirt, Deirdre sighed, turned over in bed, and let her eyes drift shut.

  Again that reckless laughter.

  Her eyes shot open.

  It had been no dream.

  She peeled back the heavy blankets and shivering, rose from the bed. The floor was cold, even under her socks, and she hugged her arms to herself as she padded silently to the window. Outside, several horses stood tethered, dark shapes in the gloom. Deirdre’s eyes widened, and this time, she knew the voices downstairs were no dream—and neither was the one that was hauntingly familiar, agonizingly unplaceable, and as Irish as hers . . .

  “He’s nothin’ but a buffoon, Foley! Christ Almighty, ye think I’m afraid o’ some vain, out-for-glory, trophy-huntin’ Englishman? Bah! Yer own wife just said he’s more interested in this Irish guest o’ yers than he is in the business of his bloody king!” A tankard banged boastfully down upon a table. “And don’t ye be forgettin’, I’ve already tangled with him once and showed him me heels. Our naval captain may have ’imself a swift and powerful frigate, but that bumblin’ crew o’ his can barely figure out a shroud from a sheet, let alone how t’ use her guns!”