Master of My Dreams (7 page)

“Loose fore and main courses!”

Ian had been picking at a callus on his
knuckle. “Huh?”

"Loose fore and main courses!”

“Oh. Aye. Uh, aye,
sir
.”

But just then the men, leaning on their heels
and nearly horizontal to the deck as they hauled on the braces,
sent up a great cry of distress and tumbled onto their backs.

A line had parted.

Another.

And then more cries of dismay as a brace gave
way with a sound like a pistol shot.

Great God above!

Above, canvas flapped in out-of-control fury.
Lines snapped to and fro like the tails of a whip, yards jerked and
quivered—and HMS
Bold Marauder,
out of control, headed
directly for shore.

“Assume the deck, Mr. MacDuff!” Christian
yelled, already running down the quarterdeck stairs and racing
forward to take control of the confusion.

But it was too late. Ian, standing dumbly
beside the wheel, suddenly realized the magnitude of responsibility
his commanding officer had just shoved on him. “Christ, laddies,
do something!
Where’s Skunk?
Skunk!
Jesus, don’t just
stand there—”

Skunk stood just below the quarterdeck
railing, grinning and idly picking at a tooth. “Piss off, Ian. Just
because ye’ve been given a bit o’ power, ye don’t have to take it
out on the rest of us!”

“Yeah, leave us out of it!” Teach yelled.

"Move!”
Ian roared, seeing the
shoreline coming closer and closer. “Saints alive—
Christ,
Wenham, there’s a moored boat coming up off the larboard bows—”

“What boat?”

Ian grabbed the wheel and spun it hard, but
with the sails flapping helplessly, it was no use. And the
wheel—

“The steering’s gone!” he cried, curling his
hands into claws and raking at his hair.
“The bluidy steering’s
gone!”

The little boat cringed beneath the shadow of
the oncoming frigate, and Ian clapped his hands to his ears as it
was helplessly smashed beneath the great bows.

“You tampered with the rudder!” Ian yelled,
going for Wenham’s throat, and the sailing master ducked as the
Scot’s huge fist swung. Ian didn’t see his captain desperately
shoving men aside as he fought his way back to the quarterdeck. He
didn’t see the crew tossing down what lines
hadn’t
been
tampered with and surging aft to view the fight.

And he didn’t see old Admiral Burns’s proud
flagship looming up off the leeward bows, the admiral himself
standing on the quarterdeck in horrified shock—

Sighing, the frigate sank her bowsprit into
the flagship’s rigging, plunged through spars and lines, and then
slammed hard against the massive hull with a stunning, grinding
crash. The impact knocked everyone off his feet and sent seamen
flying against pinrails, railings, and the deck itself.

Lieutenant Ian MacDuff’s Scottish temper
exploded and he came up swinging.

Skunk caught the first blow, dealt the
second. Teach, seeing a good fight and furious at being left out,
dove into the melee. Fists flew. Grunts and groans and curses split
the air. And the new, rawboned little recruit raced up from below,
saw her chance of escape from what she’d long since decided was the
wrong
ship to take to the colonies, and made a wild dive
toward the rail.

“Get back here, ye miserable little worm!
’Tis all your fault we’re gonna get in trouble!”

“His bloody Lordship’s gonna have poor Ian’s
hide!”

Ian smashed a fist into Teach’s jaw, raised
his head, and bawled, “Damn right he is, and I’ll nae suffer his
temper alone, ye miserable pack of lazy, good-fer-nothing
bastards!”

“Hell, don’t take it out on us—it’s that
little pisser’s fault!” howled the rat-faced midshipman, pointing
at Deirdre.

“
My
fault?”

They came at her in a pack.

“No!”

Deirdre bolted for the railing, tripped over
a coiled pile of rope, and went down hard, scraping her palms and
smashing her chin against the deck. Her precious bag of Irish
mementos skidded away. Stars exploded across her eyes. Her tooth
cut into her lip. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and
desperately she scrambled to regain her feet, only to fall once
more as a booted foot caught her behind the knees. A hand yanked
her to her feet; another shoved her violently toward the shrouds.
“Get yourself up that mast and start cutting us loose—
now!”
shouted Hibbert, the rat-faced little midshipman.

There was no way in Satan’s hell she was
going up that mast again—nor, since she was leaving, any reason to.
“Get up it yourself, ye poxy, bleedin’ bully!”

His fist crashed into her cheek. Dizzily, she
swung back, lashing blindly out and managing to catch him in the
mouth. Pain shot up her hand and mixed with blood—her blood,
Hibbert’s blood—and he came at her again, a stream of crimson
pouring from his lip. Grabbing her wrist, he twisted it savagely
behind her back. “He hit an officer!” the boy raged, his eyes wild.
“He
hit me!”

“Can’t let such a crime go unpunished!”

“Aye, punish him! Lash him to the mast and
give him Moses’ Law!”

“Lash him good, I say!” Someone threw the
middie a whip. “Strip the skin from ’is back!”

“Give ’im two dozen!”

“Give him three!”

Deirdre kicked and fought and twisted as they
seized her wrists and tied them to the mast. Her teeth sank into
someone’s arm and she tasted grime and sweat. A hand cuffed her
sharply across the jaw. Behind her, the men were in a frenzy,
desperate for a scapegoat so they wouldn’t get the punishment their
captain and his big Jamaican henchman would surely have in store
for them.

“Four-dozen lashes, Hibbert!”

“Make it five!”

It became a chant. “Five! Five! Five!”

“No!” Her desperate cries rang in her ears as
someone tore the jacket from her back and Hibbert grabbed up the
cat-o’-nine-tails.

“
No-o-o-ooo!”
She writhed in terror,
the rope biting into her wrists as she waited for the horrible,
agonizing fire to slam between her shoulders and drive the breath
from her lungs. Hibbert, his eyes maniacal, drew back his arm, and
she screamed as someone slashed her shirt away and cold, bitter
wind swept in against her bare back—

Hibbert’s arm froze above his head.

“Holy God in heaven,” someone breathed. “It’s
a
woman
.”

Hibbert dropped the whip. A hush fell over
the ship. Deirdre collapsed and hung by her wrists, breathing hard.
Then, through the haze of fear she saw the captain striding toward
her, his jaw tight and angry, his face obscured by the shadow of
his hat. This was the man they hated and feared. This was the man
whose word was God’s aboard the vessel. This was the man who
controlled their lives, their actions, their destiny.

This was the Lord and Master.

The crew, silent and still and rigid with
fear, wordlessly parted, letting him pass. Straight up to her he
came. She felt a knife sawing at her bound wrists . . Strong hands
lifting her up . . . A solid, hard, comforting chest . . . Movement
beneath her and faces passing, gaping, staring. She reached up,
clutched his lapels, and huddled against him, helpless to stop her
tears that smeared his fine white linen waistcoat. His hand stroked
her hair, held her protectively close. Then the sunlight was cut
off as she was carried below . . .

“Easy, foundling.” His voice was deep and
rich and soothing, rumbling up out of his chest just beneath her
cheek. “ ’Twill be all right. Easy, now.”

They passed bulkheads, alive with
checkerboards of dark and light, and then the great, imposing door,
where a grim-faced marine with a musket stood guard outside. Then
they were through the door and into the cabin. He set her down upon
the deck flooring and she stood there in a daze, shivering, her
arms coming up to shield her bare breasts, tears of fear and shame
coursing down her cheeks.

The Lord and Master’s back was to her. He had
broad and capable shoulders. Gold insignias on his sleeves, gold
lace on his cocked hat, and gold trim decorating his fine blue
coat.

Then he turned, and the blood drained from
Deirdre’s face. She staggered backward, hit a table, and forgot to
breathe.

It was the young lieutenant she’d vowed to
find and kill.

Except he wasn’t a lieutenant anymore.

He was the captain.

Chapter 4

She stared at him, denying the truth, yet
knowing there
was
no denying it.

He was broad through the shoulders, lean
through the waist, and as tall as she remembered. It was impossible
to know the color of his hair, as he wore a carefully powdered and
rolled periwig, but there was no mistaking the haughty brows, taut
mouth and hawkish profile that looked as though they’d been carved
from stone. Unlike that long ago lieutenant she’d encountered on a
stormy Irish beach, however, she sensed that if
this
man
smiled, that rigid, disdainful face might crack.

“The devil take me,” he murmured, raking her
with chilly gray eyes. Their color was that of the ocean beneath
stormy skies, but as he moved, sunlight slanted across the irises
and brought out the barest hint of green. “A woman. Life is full of
surprises, is it not?”

“
You
. . .” she breathed, pulling
herself to her feet, and accidentally, one breast slipped free from
the cover of her arms—giving Christian an unobstructed view of the
first female charms he’d seen in five years.

“Pray, madam, cover yourself!” he said
hoarsely, taking off his coat and shoving it at her.

“I’ll rot in hell before I wear the king’s
coat, ye bleedin’ English
dog
!”

“You’ll cover yourself, by God, or I’ll put
it on you myself!”

“You so much as touch me and I’ll make ye
regret the day ye were
whelped,
ye poxy rogue!”

He started toward her, his brow dark with
fury, but just then the current swung the two ships together with a
stunning crash. The girl lost her balance, struck her thigh hard
against his table as she fell sprawling to the deck, and cursed him
roundly as again, Christian tried to cover her with his coat.

Outside the door came voices and the warning
thump of Evans’s musket against the deck.

“Don’t you touch me, ye poxy wretch!” the
girl raged, struggling to throw off the hated coat and fighting him
all the harder when he attempted to snare her wrists. “Let me
go-o-o-o
!”

“Evans!” he yelled. “Keep your station at
that door, mind you, and allow no one to enter, is that
understood?”

“Uh—aye, sir. But—”

“No ‘buts,’ Evans. That is an order!”

“But, sir—”

The girl was shrieking at the top of her
lungs. “I’ll see ye in hell, ye rotten blackguard, ye worthless
whelp of a stinkin cur, ye—”

“Captain,
sir
!” Evans cried
urgently.

“Not now, Evans!”

“But,
Captain
—”

With a curse, Christian released the girl.
“Damn you, Evans,
wait a moment!”
he roared, and ducked as
she grabbed his water pitcher and hurled it at him. Behind him,
glass crashed against the bulkhead and the girl, naked from the
waist up, bolted beneath his desk.

“Captain, sir!” Evans shouted from behind the
door. “This is
most
urgent!”

“I said
in a moment
!” Christian
shouted, reaching blindly beneath the desk and trying to grab his
quarry. He caught her hand, caught her other hand, and held on
tight, her screams of rage piercing his head as he dragged her out
from beneath the desk. She went wild, fighting him with all of her
strength, shrieking, kicking, and cursing him in a scalding torrent
of both Irish Gaelic and English. Her foot lashed out, hit a chair,
and sent it skidding across the deck to crash into the bulkhead.
She twisted around, sank her teeth into his wrist, managed to free
her hand, and, slamming it into his jaw, dove for the door.

He caught her before she could reach it and
jerked her around, her bare breasts coming up against his
chest.

“Ye miserable knave, I’ll see ye die if it’s
the last thing I do!”

Twisting against his grip, she lunged once
more. His wig went askew, tumbling to the floor even as she brought
her knee up and drove it savagely into his groin. Christian doubled
over in agony, white-hot pain exploding behind his eyes, only to
feel her fist smash into his jaw. He staggered backward, slipped in
the shards of glass and water, and went down heavily on the
deck.

“Sir, is everything all right in there?”
Evans yelled.

“All is—
ouch
!—quite well indeed, thank
you, Evans!” Christian grunted as the girl kicked him solidly in
the shoulder; then, fighting his own pain, he lunged to his feet as
she went for his pistol, deflecting her arm upward. She tumbled to
the deck beneath him just as the gun went off—

And the door crashed open.

Christian froze and the girl went stiff
beneath him. Evans stood there, sheepish, anxious, and wide-eyed.
And with him, resplendent in a blue-and-white uniform glittering
with gold lace, was an officer.

Not just any officer.

Elliott.

“Well, well. What do we have here? Really,
Christian, I’d expected more from
you,
of all people.”

The blood drained from Christian’s face.

“What the devil
is
this, Captain
Lord?”

The admiral stood with his weight slung on
one hip, his hand resting against the door, and his lids hooding
dark gray eyes that were either amused or enraged. With Elliott, it
was impossible to tell.

But then, with Elliott, it had always been
impossible to tell.

Now his gaze took in the damning scene: the
black-and-white canvas smeared with blood; the girl lying helpless
beneath Christian, her lip bleeding and her cheek bruised—injuries
no doubt sustained when she’d tried to fend off her attacker’s
lust—and Christian himself, spread-eagled over her nearly naked
body in a
most
damning position.

Too late, Christian recovered himself.
Burning with humiliation, he leapt to his feet, grabbed his hat,
and bounced it off the top of his head in a hasty salute. The girl
shot back beneath the desk and huddled there, her legs drawn up,
her arms clasped around them to shield her breasts, and her eyes
glittering with fury.

Elliott put two and two together, and came up
with five.

Behind him, several captains had gathered,
craning their necks over their admiral’s shoulder as they tried to
peer into the cabin. Their brows shot clear to their hat lines, and
exchanging glances, they began to snicker in amusement.

Christian, his ears burning, pulled himself
up to stand rigidly at attention.

Elliott, as usual, was at his best—and
enjoying himself immensely. “I say, Captain Lord, this is most
humiliating—to the Royal Navy, to this ship, and, of course, to
your name,” he drawled. “Heathmore, would you please go topside and
assist the first lieutenant in freeing this poor vessel from her
hapless berth? God strike me, what is this world coming to!”

“Dammit, Elliott—” Christian said tersely,
trying to explain.

“Really, Captain Lord, that is no way to
address your admiral.”

The corners of Elliott’s mouth were
twitching, and sheer will and years of discipline were all that
kept Christian from leaping forward and strangling him. He bunched
his fists at his sides and through clenched teeth, gritted,
“Forgive me,
sir,
but what you saw was not what it
appeared—”

“What I see, Captain Lord, is a young woman
whose virtue has been sorely compromised, and a ship that has been
abandoned by her commanding officer. I say, Admiral Burns is
most
upset. The impact knocked the old dog to his knees and
he’s howling for your head. Really, Christian, this is most unlike
you. Neglecting your vessel so that you can molest a young girl . .
.
you,
a much-decorated sea officer! Tsk, tsk. Now, please
come with me. I’m sure your poor victim will be quite safe until
you return.” He strode into the cabin, tall and elegant and
astonishingly handsome, and bent down before her hiding-hole
beneath the desk. “Won’t you, my dear?”

She stared up at him, her face white and her
arms locked protectively around her bare breasts.

The admiral removed his hat, revealing rich,
sandy-gold hair that curled boyishly around his ears. “Too
frightened to speak, are you? Poor little dear. Please, don’t think
that all of our officers behave thus. We do have our share of
gentlemen
as well.”

He got to his feet and fixed Christian with a
sharp look of reprimand. “Really, Christian, seducing innocent
virgins—”

“I didn’t seduce her. I rescued her from a
fate worse—”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure you did,” Elliott said,
waving his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Come along, please,
Captain Lord. You’ve much to answer to!”

Christian seized his coat and, limping badly,
slammed toward the door.

From beneath the desk, Deirdre watched him
and the admiral with wary eyes. The door shut behind them. For a
long moment, she didn’t move as she listened to their receding
footsteps and the angry protests of
Bold Marauder
’s captain.
Serves him right, she thought angrily. She hoped he’d face a
court-martial. She hoped he’d be demoted. She hoped he’d spend the
rest of his days beached, miserable, and forgotten!

“Bastard,” she whispered fiercely, hating
him.

Above her head, she heard the shrill of pipes
and thump of muskets upon the deck as the officers left the ship.
She waited another moment, then crawled out from beneath the desk,
surveying her surroundings and wondering what to do next.

He
was the captain of this wretched
boat. Oh, Jesus, Joseph and Mary, that certainly complicated
things.

She would have to kill him, of course. She’d
made a vow, and there was no going back. But first, she needed
clothes.

And a weapon.

She stood there, looking around the cabin.
Sunlight, reflecting from the water beyond the panoramic stern
windows, shimmered against the white-painted beams and deckhead. A
sea chest was snugged up against a bulkhead, and opening the heavy
lid, she found a clean lawn shirt that was far too large for her.
Her modesty restored, she roved the cabin, looking for something
with which to fend off the Lord and Master when—and if—he returned.
He certainly seemed to live well, she thought bitterly. She looked
at the green leather-backed chairs, grouped around a fine table;
the small wine cabinet set into one corner; the desk of dark
mahogany; and in a smaller, partitioned area off to the side, a bed
that was smartly made—and contained a small, shivering, obviously
pregnant dog who stared up at her with frightened eyes.

Deirdre stared back, wondering if she was
seeing things. A
dog?

Then she turned away—and her gaze fell upon
the far bulkhead.

The captain’s dress sword.

It rested there on two pegs. Mindful of the
fact there was probably a marine stationed just outside the door,
she crept across the cabin and pulled it down. Gently pushing the
dog aside, she slid the weapon beneath the sheets, turned the sharp
edge away from her body, and crawled carefully in beside it. Then
she closed her eyes and reached up to touch the cross that rested
comfortingly against her heart.

Granuaile,
she thought, as she stared
up at the deckhead,
you’d be proud of me.

And she’d be even more proud if Deirdre could
slay her English enemy.

She lay back against the pillows, wrapped her
and around the hilt of the sword, and listening to the rapid
thumping of her heartbeat, waited.