Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  “Well, these spies of Gage’s have learned that the rebels are planning tae smuggle a whole shipment of guns ashore. ’Tis tae happen tomorrow night, off the coast of Salem.” He glanced over at the nearby Halcyon, her riding lights dim in the foggy darkness. “Ye ken how Captain Merrick returned from his patrol tonight? Well, apparently he spied a large merchant vessel in the waters off Cape Ann. He tried tae hail the ship, but she took advantage of the dusk and fled. Kind of suspicious behavior, don’t ye think? Sir Geoffrey thinks her presence only confirms the rumors of an exchange tomorrow night. He wants us to be there to nail the smugglers and catch ‘em in the act.”

  “I wonder if it will be the Irish Pirate,” Teach mused, swinging his tomahawk.

  “I doona ken. But a dangerous mission ’twill be, whoever the rebels send. I canna imagine they’d entrust the job tae anyone but their best—the Irish Pirate.”

  Skunk’s smile was wry. “And I can’t imagine the admiral entrusting our job to anyone but his best.”

  As one, they glanced toward the dim glow of the captain’s skylight.

  “The Lord and Master.”

  ###

  The ship was nearly empty, for Christian was one of the few captains who trusted his company enough to allow them shore leave. Given the harsh life of the Royal Navy, many seamen deserted ship given the slightest opportunity, but Christian’s humane efforts had earned him the loyalty of his subordinates, men who, not a month past, had wanted nothing more than to make his life hell.

  It was a triumph, yes, and so was his success in linking Jared Foley and the Irish Pirate to the rebel leaders. But Sir Geoffrey’s praise for both accomplishments meant nothing to a heart that had stopped beating when Christian had seen the woman he loved in the arms of another man.

  He got up and walked across the cabin to the open stern windows, absently rubbing at his sore shoulder. Beyond the glass, he could see nothing but darkness and fog, punctured here and there by the fuzzy glow of lanterns hung in the shrouds of neighboring ships, and, off in the distance, the lights of Boston. There were no stars. There was no horizon. Encased as the area was in a lonely cloak of mist and fog, it was hard to believe that thousands of British troops inhabited the town, trying to keep peace in a situation that was ready to explode into war. It was hard to believe that far beyond the fog, the shoreline, and Boston itself, rebels were secreting stores of arms in the countryside. It was hard to believe that, out to sea, a merchantman waited, carrying a vast shipment of arms—and it was hard to believe that the rebels would entrust anyone but the Irish Pirate to receive that shipment when the exchange was made tomorrow night.

  In his heart, Christian knew that he would succeed in apprehending the notorious smuggler. He knew it as surely as he felt the damp tendrils of mist seeping through his clothes, chilling his skin, and making his hair curl damply, thickly, behind his ears and at his nape. But the assurance brought him no triumph, just a hollow, empty feeling of loneliness.

  How would she react when he brought down this man who obviously meant the world to her? Would she come to him, begging for his release? Would she practice another form of deceit upon his scarred and wounded heart?

  Christian stared out at the soupy blackness beyond the stern windows. His fingers brushed the bench seat where Deirdre had sat, touched the blanket that had once been wrapped around her shoulders. His throat constricted and he closed his eyes, feeling dead and empty and alone. But from behind him came the whines of the puppies as they snuggled together for warmth, and the gentle sounds of Tildy’s tongue as she washed one or two of the tiny, furry backs.

  No. Not quite alone. Christian turned and went to them, his eyes sad as he looked down at the little bodies that Deirdre had helped bring into the world. Bending down, he scooped up the runt of the litter, so small that it fit in the palm of his hand, and, tucking the animal beneath the lapel of his waistcoat to warm it, carried it back to his desk.

  The puppy nuzzled against him, mewing like a kitten. Its small mouth fastened around his finger, suckling it. Closing his eyes, Christian laid his cheek, stubbled now with bristle, against the tiny head. The fur was soft beneath his lips, sweetly scented and warm.

  Like hers.

  Emotion rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, and reached for his inkwell and pen. First Emily, and now Deirdre. Both had betrayed him and sought the arms of another. Why? He cuddled the puppy and shut his eyes against the sudden pain. Why?

  The puppy licked his chin. Thank God for animals. At least they were faithful and true.

  It was too bloody bad that the same couldn’t be said for women.

  ###

  Several miles away, in the little village of Menotomy, the night was cold and raw. Rain fell from the blackened sky, and wind drove the dampness into one’s very bones. But Deirdre, wrapped in a quilt and sitting on the floor beside the open window of her bedroom, rejoiced in it. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was back in Ireland. About the only thing that was missing was the pungent scent of peat fires wafting in the damp air.

  Her bag of Irish mementos was at her side, though now, it was nearly empty. The miniature of her mother and the old sliver of wood that had been part of her papa’s boat were carefully arranged on the little stand beside her bed. But apart from them, there was not much left that was from home. She had given the bag of sand and shells from the Connemaran beach to Roddy, and even now her heart warmed at the memory of how his eyes had misted over for the briefest of moments out there in the starlight at her simple but generous gesture. Of Ireland itself, she had only the pebble from the pasture, and the flagon of air left.

  Her fingers came up to touch the Celtic cross that never left her neck.

  And the legacy of Grace O’Malley.

  She gazed off into the darkness, thinking of Christian. Missing him. She had not seen him since he had given her the ring, but just having it on her finger assured her of his love, and was a promise in itself that she would never again be alone.

  But oh, what should she do about the awful predicament in which she now found herself?

  She touched the ancient cross, trying to draw strength and guidance from it. Should she send word to Christian telling him that her own brother was the Irish Pirate? How would he react? What would he do? Christian was a king’s officer; would he choose his duty to apprehend Roddy over the vow he had made to restore him to her?

  No. Surely not. After all, he had promised that he would find her brother and make right the wrong he had done to her family. There was no question in Deirdre’s mind that Christian would do the right thing.

  Still . . . to think that Roddy, of all people, was the Irish Pirate. Deirdre was still dazed over the discovery—and very, very frightened. Her brother had not changed much in the years since she’d last seen him; he was still rash and reckless, still full of bravado, still hot-tempered and volatile, but just as easily given to laughter. Such traits could, as the rebel leaders had warned, bring about the downfall of a man whose successes against the British had apparently gone to his head.

  Deirdre’s worry increased. Christian was not one of the village lads with whom Roddy used to delight in getting into fist-fights. He was no puffed-up and swaggering braggart who couldn’t see past the tip of his nose. He was no bumbling idiot, no incompetent idler. Christian was one of the finest officers in the king’s Navy, and he commanded a mighty frigate that was fully capable of smashing the little sloop that Roddy would captain tomorrow night when the arms transfer was made.

  Only Delight seemed to feel no trepidation over the impending exchange. “Roddy knows what he’s doing, Deirdre,” she’d said when she’d come to apologize for not revealing the Foleys’ rebel tendencies. “This is just one more mission. The Lord and Master knows nothing of it, just as he knows nothing of our involvement with the patriot cause. You just watch. Roddy will get the guns, Adams and Revere and Hancock will meet him on shore, and the cargo will be safely transported to Concord. There is no need to
be so scared.”

  “I love my brother,” Deirdre had murmured, twisting the ring that weighed so heavily upon her finger. “But I love me future husband, too. And here I am, unable to protect either one of ’em, and stuck in the middle of hostilities between two lands that aren’t my own. Dear God, what a mess.”

  “You’re not angry, then, that I never told you we’re rebels?”

  “No. But please, don’t try to draw me into yer quibbles with England. I can sympathize with yer plight here in the colonies, for Britain treats yer people no better than she does mine—but the truth of the matter is that I love an Englishman, will marry an Englishman, and to help ye in any way would be to betray the man I love.”

  “You’ll have to choose a side,” Delight had replied quietly. “Your betrothed may be a king’s officer, but your brother is a rebel, Deirdre.”

  “Aye, and that creates a bit of a problem.” Deirdre had raised her head, and her eyes had shone with pride as she met the gaze of her friend. “But I am Irish. And as such, I’ll stay true to my own heart.”

  Her heart—which lay ten miles away, in the cabin of a mighty frigate, in the care of the most wonderful man in the world.

  Drawing the quilt around her, she laid her forearms over the damp windowsill, rested her cheek against her wrists, and closed her eyes. Moments later, she was asleep, her little bag of dwindling Irish mementos at her side, Christian’s shirt against her skin, and her face turned toward Boston.

  Chapter 28

  Late the following afternoon, the dreary weather continued, and it did nothing to dispel the worries of those who stood in the Foley yard, bidding good-bye to the Irish Pirate.

  Rain had darkened his tricorne to a shade very near the inky blackness of his curls, caught in a thong of leather and hanging over his turned-up collar. Water dripped from the brim, trickling down his back and soaking his wool coat. His mare’s hide was wet and steaming, and as Roddy swung up into the saddle, he gave her neck a fond slap and gazed down at the two girls who had braved the raw weather to see him off.

  “Godspeed, my handsome smuggler,” Dolores Ann murmured. She tilted her face up to his, her tongue suggestively touching the corners of her lips, then tracing their perimeter in a way that caused his eyes to darken and his blood to burn through his veins. A delight, was the widow Dolores, Roddy thought, remembering their “walk” of this morning. That walk had given them both plenty of exercise—but not in the manner in which the elder Foleys might have been led to believe . . .

  He saw his sister, her eyes dark with worry, standing just behind Dolores. She was still the same gentle, sweet sibling he’d known and loved in Connemara when he was a mere lad and she barely out of swaddling clothes. And she still wore that ancient cross, the first thing she touched when fear overcame her.

  She was touching it now. Not just touching it, but gripping it with such ferocity it was a wonder the metal didn’t bend.

  Reining his horse around, Roddy went to her, leaned down in the saddle, and embraced her. “Please understand, Deirdre. I know ye don’t hold with the rebel cause, but ’tis important t’ me. Yer foolish English captain doesn’t even know I’m sailin’. So wipe that frown off yer face and send me off with a smile, eh?”

  “That 'foolish English captain’ is to be my husband, Roddy,” she reminded him, the rain wet upon her cheeks. Her mouth was tight. “Please don’t talk of him like that.”

  Roddy’s jaw hardened. He had no love for Captain Lord, and the rocks would be gone from the fields of Connemara before he’d allow the Briton who had pressed him into the English Navy to wed his little sister. He’d see the bastard dead, first! But for now, he would keep his silence, trusting that separation from the Englishman, as well as the Foley’s gentle influence, would bring Deirdre around to the rebel sympathies.

  “’Tis sorry I be, Deirdre,” he said, touching his thumb to his sister’s cheek and wiping away a trickle of rainwater. Beneath him, the mare fidgeted, eager to be off. “But ye’ll forgive me if yer Englishman is not on me list o’ favorite people. Perhaps someday I can forgive him, as you have—but not now.”

  Straightening up, he gallantly tipped his hat to the two girls, blew Delight a kiss, and galloped off, his cloak billowing behind him.

  ###

  HMS Bold Marauder, cruising slowly through the dark, wind-ruffled seas a league off Cape Ann, had just completed another long tack when the lookout’s voice came down through the mists that smothered the tops and yards so high above.

  “On deck! Lights blinkin’ two points off the starboard bow!”

  On the quarterdeck, Christian turned to stare off into the night. It was the signal he’d been waiting for.

  “Beat to quarters,” he said quietly, “but no drums and no bosun’s whistles. I want everything done in complete silence.”

  His voice was barely above conversational tones, but so quiet was the ship, so eager and tense was every man in the crew, that everyone heard his command—and indeed, had been expecting it.

  Anxiety instantly gave way to action. With hushed urgency and brisk efficiency, men darted through the darkness to their stations, some running to the huge guns that had already been loaded and run out. Others gathered near the pinrails, ready to grab sheets and braces in preparation to change tack, while others scrambled aloft with the nimble ease of monkeys. They needed no urging from their superiors to keep silent, no direction as to what to do, for the Lord and Master had had them rehearsing this moment from the time the frigate, unseen under the cover of night and fog, had slipped quietly out of Boston Harbor several hours before.

  He was a clever one, their commanding officer. He had ordered all lanterns doused before they had even left their anchorage, and ensured that every man knew his task. Now they worked in darkness that was blacker than Hades, but they knew their ship so well that they needed no light to traverse decks that were now treacherously slick with rain and mist and spray.

  “We’ll get that smuggler, you just watch,” Skunk said to Hibbert, who had just come up from below. “Cap’n’s had us rehearsin’ this moment all bleedin’ day.”

  “Aye,” Teach murmured from somewhere in the darkness. “He’s out for blood. Pity the poor rogue who dares tangle with our Lord and Master!”

  Christian, standing beside the wheel on the pitch-black quarterdeck, heard their comments as he stared off into the darkness, and those who saw his smile thought it as cold as the wind that made the folds of his heavy boat cloak billow around him. The mists made it nearly impossible to see anything off the starboard beam, but high above the deck in the maintop he knew it was clear, and the lookout had no such encumbrances to hinder him.

  Forward, he saw a ship’s boy dart out of the shelter of the bulwarks, but the lad was stopped by Skunk’s meaty paw before he could ring the ship’s bell to signal that another half hour had passed. No noises must penetrate the eerie silence to give them away. One wrong move and the Irish Pirate would escape them.

  “Eight bells, sir,” whispered Ian, coming up beside him.

  Christian nodded. Midnight. He sensed the anxiety in Ian’s voice, and saw it mirrored in the barely visible faces of those who surrounded them. “Very well, Ian.” Rain dripped down from an overhead yard, and his shoulder throbbed with pain. Ignoring both, Christian walked to the quarterdeck rail and peered down into the gloomy darkness of the ship’s waist, where a hundred faces were all turned toward him, eagerly awaiting his command. Twin rows of dark, hulking shapes made up the batteries of the frigate’s big guns. He heard the hiss of spray at the bows, the soft drum of rain on the decks, and the hum of the westerly wind high up in the tops. Water creamed softly along the sides, and aft, their wake was lost in fog. Bold Marauder was ready. The guns were ready. His men were ready, and he had the element of surprise.

  Tonight, he vowed, the Irish Pirate would pay the price of treason against the Crown.

  Suddenly Ian gripped his arm and pointed out into the darkness. “Lights out to larboard n
ow, sir! Looks like an answering signal from another ship.”

  The Irish Pirate.

  The fog had begun to thin, and now Christian could see out over the black seas and into the night, where the wink of a distant lantern pierced the darkness. Then the mists closed in again. He glanced at the compass, estimated the vessel’s position, and looked at his officers, all awaiting his command. They were a formidable lot, and he harbored as much trust in this formerly motley crew as he had in any other he’d had the pleasure to command; Ian, his beard wet with rain, his eyes fierce and determined; Rhodes, quiet and competent and sinister; Wenham, chewing on the stem of a pipe he dared not light; and Hibbert, dressed in a uniform that was desperately in need of a wash.

  “Mr. Hibbert!” he snapped, and the midshipman made his way to his captain’s side.

  “Aye, sir?”

  Christian’s eyes raked the middie’s unkempt clothes with mock severity. Then he grinned, for his attempts to make the youth look the part of an officer had become a ship-wide joke. “For God’s sake, go change into a clean uniform! This is a king’s ship!”

  Hibbert smirked, and scampered below. His captain shook his head, and opened his spyglass. Some things would never change. But this crew was a far cry from the one he’d left Portsmouth with. They had quit England in disgrace; soon, now, they would make both their Navy and their country proud.

  He gave the order to change tack and take in the big courses. Moments later, Bold Marauder was heeling over in the wind, slipping like a great, predatory hawk through the black mists of the night.

  ###