Master Of My Dreams
Page 37
The boat—not just any boat, but a smartly painted one that was surely the pride of some high-ranking officer—was nearing shore now, its crew having a rough time of it in the heavy seas. Oars rose and fell in perfect rhythm, and every so often the boat’s bow would nose up as it plowed a wave, drenching the men and the tall officer in the stern with spray.
She shut her eyes, emotion choking her throat. A drop of water splashed upon her hand, another upon her wrist, and Deirdre never knew if it was rain or her own tears, for as she edged the horse toward the edge of the cliff she saw that the officer—some thirteen years older than he had been that other time, but no less handsome, no less proud—had a telescope to his eye and was training it on her.
She flew from the horse and dashed down the cliff path, her skirts flying, the tears streaming down her cheeks. The officer leaped from the boat, and before the seamen could even pull the craft up onto the beach, Deirdre had plunged into the surf and flung herself into his arms.
His brows were blond and haughty, and his fancy, gold-laced hat covered richly gilded hair that was caught at the nape with a black ribbon. He had long, pale eyelashes, eyes the color of fog, and a profile that reminded her of a hawk.
He clasped her to him, nearly crushing the breath from her. And then he drew back, his heart in his eyes. She had expected cold fury, but there was only . . . love.
“Really, dearest, you lead me a merry chase.”
Behind him, the seamen, grinning, exchanged happy smirks as they drew the boat up onto the beach. She saw familiarity in a red beard, the rumpled unkemptness of a midshipman’s uniform, the stench of a huge, barrel-chested body, the fearsome countenance of a piratical fiend—and the yellow hair of an aspiring courtesan.
In the midshipman’s arms were three mostly-grown puppies.
Deirdre began to sob uncontrollably. “Oh, Christian, there’s nothin’ for ye here! Let my brother alone, I beg of ye! He’ll not be goin’ back to Amerikay. He’ll not be causin’ any more trouble—”
He laid a finger over her lips.
“I did not come here for your brother, Deirdre.”
She stared at him.
“I did not come here to press more Irishmen.”
She couldn’t move.
“I came here, dear girl, for you.”
He took her hands and gazed solemnly down at her. She felt her heart swelling, melting, bursting, and saw her emotions reflected in his eyes. “Ah, Deirdre . . . I thought you had deserted me—until I found this.” He reached up and drew out the cross, still hanging from its chain around his neck. “I may have wagered all in coming here, but I took this to mean that you really do love me.”
“Christian, I never stopped lovin’ ye. ’Tis just that—”
He silenced her with a kiss. “Dear girl, I did not go to Menotomy that day to recapture your brother, as you believed. Delight told me, you see? No, I went there to find you, to keep you safe, and to make a confession . . . one that I should have made long ago, but one that I refrained from making because of my foolish pride.”
She swallowed hard, searching his face.
“Regarding that, er, scuffle your brother and I engaged in when he made his escape?”
“Yes . . ?” she said slowly.
“Well, ’twas no accident. I allowed him to overpower me.” He looked a bit sheepish, and had a sudden interest in his sleeve. “In fact, I confess that I asked him to.”
Her eyes widened with shock. “But I thought—”
He laid his lips against her brow. “I know, love, what you thought. And if Roddy made no mention about what really happened between us, ’tis because he was more attentive to his promise to me than I was with mine to you.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and he wiped them away with his thumb. Then he reached into his pocket and slowly drew something out, looking at it for a long, reflective moment. “I . . . I hope you still want this.”
It was the ancestral ring of the Lord family.
“I love you,” he said quietly. And then he took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger.
Behind them, the seamen and Delight erupted in wild cheering, and even the puppies yapped with excitement.
“Oh, Christian . . .”
He smiled down at her, tall and beloved and achingly handsome.
She reached out to touch his lapel. Then she looked beyond him to the harbor, her eyes widening at the sight of the huge, magnificent warship.
He noted her confusion. “Sir Geoffrey was so angry that I’d abandoned my command, he kicked me out of Boston and sent me back to England, vowing he hoped never to set eyes on me again.”
“But that huge ship out there—“
“Yes, my dear . . . I am a commodore now.”
“A commodore?”
“’Twas Elliott’s doing.” He smiled. “You see, love, when I returned to England, I learned that my manipulative brother had gone to great lengths to amuse himself by giving me command of Bold Marauder. No one could make something of the frigate, and the Navy had all but given up on her. Unbeknownst to me, Elliott made a bet with the first Lord of the Admiralty that I could succeed where the others had failed. A bet that, if he won it, would earn me a certain promotion.”
“Ye mean t’ tell me they made ye a commodore for straightenin’ out Bold Marauder?”
“Aye . . . but lest you think Elliott is one to show favoritism, do know that our family relationship has never stopped him from disciplining me in the past. In fact, he made quite a public display of doing so the day I tried to leave Portsmouth.”
“But I don’t see Marauder.”
“No, she is at Spithead, being refitted for a voyage to the West Indies. She will join us shortly, under Captain MacDuff’s command.”
“Captain MacDuff? The West Indies?”
He smiled, and touched her cheek. “I will not fight the rebels, Deirdre. Had Sir Geoffrey not kicked me out of Boston, I would have handed in my resignation, for the Americans have my sympathies. No, my squadron will be deployed to the Caribbean, there to monitor French activities. They are sure to throw in their lot with the Americans sooner or later, and one can never trust the French, you know!” He sobered and stared down at her, taking her hands in his own and raising them to his lips. “As soon as Bold Marauder is ready, we shall be away. But I will not leave here until I have all the crew that I need.”
“And . . . how many d’ye lack . . . Commodore Lord?”
“One.”
She stared up at him, her heart filling with love and pride and joy. He was all that she could ever want. He was all that she would ever need. The tears rolled down her cheeks as he reached up and drew off the cross. Slowly, he settled the heavy chain over her head, positioning the ornate cross back where it belonged, between her own breasts, against her own heart.
She swallowed tightly. The rain clouds were moving away, and late sunlight stabbed down through them now, kissing the harbor with the promise of a golden tomorrow.
The promise of a lifetime of golden tomorrows.
“What do you say, dearest?”
She smiled up at him, twisting the ring around her finger, unable to speak for a long, long moment. The big flagship waited. The three accompanying vessels waited. The seamen waited, the puppies waited, her future waited—
He waited.
“Just let me pack a few things, Christian,” she said, “and leave a note fer my brother.”
Leading the horse, he walked with her back to the cottage, and shortly afterward, she was being rowed ceremoniously out to the big man-o-war that flew the proud pennant of a commodore.
Around her neck was Grace’s cross.
In her lap was a little chest containing the miniature of her mama, the wood from her papa’s boat, and a square cut from Roddy’s shirt.
But there was no canvas bag, for this time there was no need of any Irish mementos.
Deirdre O’Devir was finally going home.
-- the end --
About the Author
:
Bestselling, multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten books, previously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her husband make their home in New England with their daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and can be reached at Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means listed below:
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DE MONTFORTE BROTHERS SERIES:
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the de Montforte brothers will take your breath away."
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and coming in early 2013:
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(The story of Christian and Deirdre’s son, Colin Lord):
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