Master Of My Dreams

by Danelle Harmon

  Christian looked down. “Thank you, Hibbert. That . . . that means a lot to me.”

  “It’s the truth, sir. Now, if you’ll just stand up, I’ll help you into your dress coat. I do believe I hear the Old Fart’s voice outside now—his barge must be bumping our hull, I’d say.” Christian rose and allowed the young midshipman to help him into the heavy blue coat. He pulled his sleeves free of the cuffs and buttoned the coat to conceal his stained shirt Then he tied his hair back, picked up his hat, and raised his arms so that Hibbert could buckle on his sword belt.

  “You will make a fine captain someday,” he said as the midshipman stood back to survey his handiwork.

  “Thank you, sir. I have had a good example to follow.”

  For the first time in days, the Lord and Master’s severe face broke into a grin; then he abruptly turned and exited the cabin. Hibbert stood there for a moment, his eyes moving almost reverently over the captain’s family coat of arms that hung on the bulkhead, the painting of the king, the crossed swords, the set of fine pistols.

  Then he walked to the table, picked up the bottle of brandy, and throwing the stern windows wide, flung it into the sea.

  ###

  “I say, Christian, Gage cannot stop singing your praises,” Sir Geoffrey said, his shrewd eyes raking Bold Marauder's decks for signs of laxity and finding none. “He toasts you at every meal and has written letters to the king commending your apprehension of the Irish Pirate.”

  “I am flattered, sir.”

  “Don’t be—you earned it. Damme, you are a fine candidate for flag rank, Captain Lord, a fine candidate indeed.” Aware of the eyes of the frigate’s crew on him, the crusty old admiral straightened his back and followed Bold Marauder's captain below. “D’you know, my flag captain is proving to be most incompetent, and I must choose another. Captain Merrick comes immediately to mind, as he is a fine young officer, but I’ve already been accused of showing favoritism where he is concerned. But then, he has earned his laurels, too.”

  Christian pushed open the door to his cabin and let out a relieved breath. Young Hibbert had done a fine, albeit hasty, job of tidying it up.

  The admiral’s words suddenly hit him. “What are you saying, sir?”

  Sir Geoffrey clapped Christian between his shoulders. “I’m offering you the position of flag captain, my good man.”

  Christian stared at him. He’d carried the flags of admirals before, but still, it was an honor. Another step toward raising his own broad pennant. Another way the Royal Navy had of thanking those who were loyal to the Service.

  Loyal.

  There, that word again. He fisted his hands, the force behind the unseen gesture causing fresh pain to burst in his shoulder. He hadn’t felt very loyal these past few days . . .

  Ye speak of duty and gallantry and bein ’ an officer and a gentleman—

  He swallowed with difficulty.

  —but ye’re no gentleman. Yer word, yer honor, are as hollow as a rotten oak.

  “Well, my good fellow?” Sir Geoffrey said, grinning. “What d’you say, eh, Christian?”

  Another medal for that fine and decorated chest, another step up the ladder to promotion.

  Christian turned bleak eyes upon Sir Geoffrey. To be asked to carry the flag of his admiral was the greatest honor that could be bestowed upon a captain. There were those in the fleet who’d give their eyeteeth to be in the position he now found himself.

  . . . yer word, your honor are as hollow as a rotten oak.

  He met the admiral’s gaze. “I am deeply honored, Sir Geoffrey,” he said quietly, knowing, even as the words left his mouth, that the decision he had made—and was about to carry out—did not entitle him to carry the flag of any admiral, let alone wear the coat of a king’s officer.

  But it would allow him to live with himself.

  To spend the rest of his days knowing that he had done what was morally right. To be able to face himself in the mirror every day. To know that he had made his decision, based not on the decree of the Navy to which he had devoted his life, but on the code of honor that he—as an officer, as a gentleman—lived by.

  Honor. It went far beyond the service a man gave for his king and country; it encompassed his very thoughts and deeds in dealing with his fellow man. Long ago, he had committed an unpardonable sin against an innocent family when, in the name of the king’s Navy, he had taken young Roddy O’Devir from his homeland.

  It was time to atone for that sin.

  “Well, Christian?”

  The Lord and Master’s eyes were steady, resigned, proud. “Thank you, sir . . . but I’m afraid I must decline.”

  ###

  It was cold and damp in the tiny room in which the Irish Pirate found himself. He lay on his back, shackled and staring up into the darkness, a wool blanket draped over his body and a small pouch of Irish seashells clenched in his hand.

  Down here in the depths of the frigate, sounds were distant and muffled. Thrice a day, a young midshipman brought him a meager meal of bread and cheese and salt pork. He was afforded a small jug of water, a few blankets, and all the privacy he could possibly want. But for the past few hours, the ship had been as quiet as a tomb.

  Roddy’s fingers curled around the felt pouch, feeling a shell that his sister had plucked from a beach that he would never see again in this lifetime. Emotion clogged his throat, and he suddenly wished he could turn back the clock and make up for those lost years with her. Caught up in the patriots’ cause here in America, he had used it as a sort of revenge against the English for what they had done to him. Now he lay moldering in the orlop of a king’s frigate, and the only reward for his actions was the hangman’s noose.

  Roddy had had many days to think about his life, his plight, the foundations and workings of his own heart. His hatred for Captain Lord had faded to grudging respect, for the man had outwitted and outsmarted him. The English captain lived by a strict code of honor and duty honed by many years in the Royal Navy. Just as he had merely been following orders when he had pressed Roddy so many years ago, so he was only doing his duty in apprehending the notorious Irish Pirate.

  A man could not be hated for doing his duty.

  But Roddy, too, had done his duty. He had smuggled food to the hungry, out-of-work people of Boston after the British had closed the port down as punishment for the Tea Party incident. He had worked side by side with Adams, Hancock, and Warren to bring about fair treatment for his adopted land. He had done his duty, and followed the decree of his heart.

  He would die with a clear conscience, and perhaps someday he would be remembered as a hero.

  Outside, he heard footsteps detaching themselves from the weighty silence, and his stomach gave a hearty rumble. It would be young Hibbert, bringing him his supper. Pork and bread and cheese, or maybe dried peas boiled into edibility. It mattered naught. He would eat it. And later, perhaps, some of the English lads—who really weren’t such bad fellows after all—might sneak down with a tot of rum and a deck of playing cards.

  The door opened and a slice of light cleaved the darkness. “Hello, Hibbert,” Roddy said, still staring up at the deck beams above his head.

  There was no sound but the closing of the door.

  Roddy shut his eyes. “What is it tonight, laddie? Boiled beef and hard tack? Dried peas and hard tack? Cheese and hard tack?”

  “Leg of lamb,” a voice said quietly.

  The Irish Pirate’s eyes shot open. His head turned on the pillow and he sat up, staring at the man who stood there, a tray in one hand, a lantern in the other.

  “Christ Almighty!”

  The English captain gave a tired smile. “No. Merely Captain Lord, come to bring you your last meal.”

  Roddy’s jaw hardened and he clenched his fists, feeling the chains biting into his skin. “Are ye mockin’ me, Brit?”

  The gray eyes regarded him steadily, taking in Roddy’s filthy shirt and breeches, his unkempt hair, his angry purple eyes that were so much like t
hose of the girl Christian loved. “Nay, my good fellow, not at all. I merely thought you might appreciate something a bit more bracing than our normal fare.”

  He set the tray down on the deck flooring, because there was no table in the tiny room. Roddy’s mouth watered. On a fine plate of what had to be the captain’s china was a juicy, sizzling, slab of roast lamb, glazed with mint and sprinkled with an assortment of fragrant herbs. A wreath of boiled potatoes surrounded it, and there was a steaming chunk of fresh bread that looked suspiciously like the type he used to enjoy back home in Ireland, so many years ago.

  “Is this some sort o’ joke?” Roddy snarled, his Irish temper flaring as he saw the bottle of fine wine set on the tray.

  The English officer reached into his pocket and drew out a key. He moved slowly across the small space between them, the lantern picking out the gold in the lace of his coat, the thick waves of his hair. He grasped Roddy’s chains, fitted the key into the lock, and snapped it free. “No joke, my dear fellow,” he said quietly. “As I said, this is your last supper aboard Marauder. Sentence has been passed upon you . . . tomorrow it shall be carried out.”

  “Hangin’?” Roddy asked nonchalantly, lifting a proud chin that was now heavy with beard.

  “I am afraid so.”

  Roddy swallowed, a cold prickle of terror shooting up his spine. He eyed the plate of hot food. The English captain eased himself to the decking, leaning his broad back against the bulwark and letting his hands dangle over his bent knees. “Pray, eat it before it grows cold,” he said, motioning for Roddy to sit down as well. “My cook went to considerable effort to prepare this for you.”

  Warily, Roddy slunk down from the bunk and lowered himself to the decking across from his nemesis. His stomach growling, he picked up the fork and knife and sawed into the juicy slab of lamb. “Looks like the fare my mama used to make back home,” he muttered, brushing his errant, dirty hair off his brow with the inside of his elbow.

  “I am glad.”

  Roddy took a bite of meat and shut his eyes in bliss. “It’s been many a year since I’ve been in the Navy, but I know this isn’t customary, a king’s captain goin’ to all this trouble on behalf of a prisoner.”

  “’Tis a humane thing to do, I should think. And my methods have never been regarded as . . . customary.”

  Roddy sawed off another piece of lamb. He raised his gaze to the other man’s, and found the gray eyes regarding him steadily. Between swallows, Roddy said, “I’m not goin’ to waste time in pleasantries, seein’s how I don’t have very much of it left to waste. But the two of us go back a long ways, and I’ve had a good many hours down here t’ think about things. I hated ye, truly I did, for every one of these past thirteen years. I lived for the day I could cross swords with ye, and run my blade through yer heart.” He took a bite of bread and washed it down with a long swallow of the wine. It was an expensive wine, and had no doubt come from the English captain’s private stores. “But now I find I’ve lost all me taste for revenge.”

  The gray eyes regarded him quietly.

  “I know, too, that ye have yer eye on my sister,” Roddy said, waving his fork. “She’s a fine lass, a bit on the sentimental side but a warmhearted girl who’ll make ye proud.” He cut a piece of potato and put it into his mouth. “If ye give me yer word ye’ll treat her as a lady, and honor her for the rest of yer days, I’ll be consentin’ to let ye have her hand in marriage.”

  The Englishman smiled a sad, private smile. “Thank you, Captain O’Devir. That is most generous of you.”

  “I mean it. I told ye I hated ye, but I don’t any longer. Besides, any lad who can outwit and outsmart the Irish Pirate deserves to win the hand of his sister.”

  For some reason, the innocent remark seemed to distress the other captain. He looked away, and for the first time, Roddy noted the deep lines of strain and sorrow etched into the austere, handsome features.

  Long moments went by. In the awkward silence, neither man spoke, and Roddy returned his attention to the food, his mind a thousand miles away.

  Abruptly, the Englishman said, “I have allowed all of my crew a well-deserved shore leave.”

  No wonder the ship was so quiet tonight. “All of ’em?”

  Captain Lord began to pluck at the gold insignia on his sleeve. “Yes, all of them.”

  “Never heard of such a thing, a captain lettin’ his entire company go.”

  The gray eyes lifted to regard Roddy. “Again, Captain O’ Devir, my actions have never been considered customary.”

  Roddy stared at him. If he didn’t know better, he would swear the Englishman was trying to tell him something, but damn him if he knew what it was . . .

  “Yes, Captain O’Devir, I let them all go, with the orders that they are to be back by midnight. It does a crew good, to have time away from their ship, would you not agree?” He continued to be markedly interested in his sleeve. “Of course, that leaves just the two of us aboard.”

  Roddy took another bite of lamb.

  The Englishman did not look up, frowning now, as he smoothed a bit of thread on his sleeve. “Just you and me . . . Roddy. Two captains with none but the other for company.” He glanced at the shackles, now lying slack across the bunk. “Why, you could rise up, knock me in the head, and be away from here with no one the wiser for it.”

  Roddy stopped chewing. Slowly, he put his fork down and wiped greasy fingers on his breeches. “Aye . . . that I could.”

  “Of course, you would have to make neat work of it. My admiral would not take kindly to the fact that the Irish Pirate has escaped. Nor, for that matter, would General Gage.” He gave a heavy sigh and continued to pick at his sleeve, his hair glinting in the lantern light, his pale lashes throwing shadows across his cheeks as he took a marked interest in what he was doing. ‘To overpower me and render me senseless would be the only faintly acceptable excuse, I should suppose . . . but I am talking nonsense, am I not?” He looked up then at Roddy and grinned, and the simple gesture transformed his face—the face of a man who had known much pain and suffering in his own right—into that of a youthful lad on the eve of discovering something wild and forbidden.

  “Aye, you are indeed,” Roddy agreed gravely.

  “But still, ’twould be an easy matter,” the Englishman mused. “We are of like height and build, and therefore a fair match of strength. Why, you would only have to get in a lucky blow in order to make your escape . . . Of course, I would have the devil of a time explaining the incident to my admiral, but then, I have had difficult times explaining worse things to both him and other superiors.”

  Their gazes met, deep purple against flinty gray. Roddy picked up the bottle of wine, drank long and hard from it, and passed it to the other captain. He did the same, and passed it back to Roddy, until it was empty.

  Again their gazes met.

  The unspoken bargain was sealed.

  The sins of the past had been forgiven.

  Captain Lord got to his feet, tall and strikingly handsome. He reached up and removed his fancy cocked hat, baring his hair to the shimmering glow of the lantern. Then he looked at Roddy, and the shadow of a smile touched his hard mouth.

  “And, of course, not a soul shall ever know the truth,” he warned.

  He turned, presenting his proud shoulders, his broad back, and moved toward the door.

  The Irish Pirate wasted no time. Raising the bottle, he brought it crashing down on the back of the fair head and caught the English captain under his arms as he fell, gently lowering his heavy, sprawling body to the deck.

  He knelt there for a moment, looking down at the unconscious officer and silently thanking him for giving him back his life. “God love ye, Cap’n Lord,” he said, then, without further pause, was on his feet and racing topside.

  Chapter 32

  War broke out two days later.

  On the previous Friday, a warship from England had arrived in Boston, carrying orders from Lord Dartmouth, Secretary of State for the C
olonies, to General Gage, directing him to waste no further time in breaking up the rebel network. Gage, fearing for his position as military governor, was quick to act. Intending to arrest Adams and Hancock, and to seize the stores the rebels had reportedly secreted in Concord, he chose the fateful night of April 18 to make his move.

  Though he took every possible pain to keep his plan secret, telling no one but his wife and Hugh, Lord Percy, of the impending march on Concord, Gage had unwittingly alerted the watchful eyes of the rebels during the preceding days by activities that were suspiciously suggestive of an impending military activity on the grandest of scales. Spies, mounted messengers, and intuition on the part of the rebels guaranteed advance knowledge of Gage’s plans, and days before the British troops began their fateful march, the patriots had already transferred their arms stores in Concord to other secret sites. They hid sacks of bullets in nearby swamps, melted their pewter plates down into musket balls, and devised a set of signals so that, when the king’s troops made their move, the information could be quickly passed on to Concord and other outlying towns.

  By the time Gage’s select troops of grenadiers and light infantrymen, numbering some eight hundred, stole quietly out of Boston on the night of April 18 under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith, and were ferried in the warships’ boats across the Charles River to begin the sixteen-mile march to Concord, rebel messengers were already galloping from Boston to spread the midnight alarm.

  The American War of Independence had begun.

  ###

  Deirdre was awake and sitting at her window, staring out into the crisp, moonlit night, when Paul Revere galloped through Menotomy, shouting at the top of his lungs.

  “The regulars are out! The regulars are out!”

  The hoofbeats rose in crescendo, growing louder and louder, peaking, and then fading away into the distance. In their aftermath, she saw lanterns being lit in the windows of the neighboring houses, the tavern across the road. People began to wander outside, staring off toward where Revere had gone and milling about in confusion.