MASTER OF MY DREAMS

By

Danelle Harmon

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Danelle Harmon

MASTER OF MY DREAMS

Copyright © 2012 by Danelle Harmon

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~~~~

Prologue

Ireland, 1762

The press gang was in.

One could tell by the way a thick
pall had come over the land, like mist snuffing out the noonday sun. One could
tell by the way the little village that clung to the sea’s edge grew quiet and
seemed to huddle within itself, the people slamming shut the doors of their
whitewashed cottages, and watching the roads from behind slitted curtains. One
could tell by the way the taverns emptied and the young lads fled into the hills
that climbed toward the majestic purple ridge of the twelve mountains, where they
would hide until the threat had passed.

And one could tell by the big,
three-masted man-of-war that filled the harbor.

England was still at war with France—and
not everyone wanted to fight.

It was an infrequent threat, the
Royal Navy seeking its unwilling recruits from this bleak, storm-tossed area of
western Ireland that even God seemed to have forgotten. No able-bodied young
man was safe from the press gang. And so it was that little Deirdre O’Devir,
holding tightly to her mama’s hand and clutching with pale white fingers the
ancient Celtic cross that hung from around her neck, solemnly bade her older
brother good-bye. Roddy had blown her a careless, laughing kiss; then the door
had banged shut behind him as he ran to join the steady stream of young lads
who cheerfully whistled and sang as they headed into hiding at the ruins of the
old, haunted castle, far up in the hills where even the dreaded English would
dare not go.

Then she and Mama had bolted the
door and, huddling together beside the snapping, smoking peat fire, waited.

Roddy had said they had nothing to
fear, for the press gang didn’t take lassies. But as Deirdre stood at the
window and looked off toward the sea, where she could see the towering masts of
the man-of-war silhouetted against the brooding clouds, curiosity got the best
of her. She had to see for herself just what was so terrible about the English
and its Navy, which everyone so feared and hated.

After all, her dear cousin Brendan,
who’d been raised right here in Connemara, was a midshipman in the Royal Navy,
and despite having a British admiral for a daddy, was as much an Irishman as
she or Roddy. Surely, if Brendan was in the Navy, it couldn’t be as evil as
everyone said it was . . . could it?

Raising her chin, Deirdre made up
her mind. Mama would never know if she sneaked out for just a bit. She was a
wee mite, even for a seven-year-old; it was a simple thing to crawl out her
window after she had made an excuse to steal off to her room. Once outside, she
vaulted over the stone fence and rode away on Thunder, her own, well-loved
pony.

She waited until she was well away
from the cottage before she urged the pony into a gallop and raced him headlong
toward the sea. The pungent scent of peat fires hung heavily on the air,
mingling with the fresh, heady tang of the ocean. Drifting mist, cold, damp and
penetrating, moved stealthily down from the mountains.

Night was coming on, and with it
would come a storm.

Deirdre urged Thunder faster.
Already the wind was picking up; now huge black clouds were filing in from the
ocean, casting shifting shadows and colors over the rocky pastures, dragging
patterns of light and dark over the sea. Recklessly, she pressed her heels to
the pony’s flanks, not pulling him up until they crested the last rocky hill.

There she sat, a pale little thing
with thick, spiral-curling black hair whipping around a face dominated by the
innocently wide eyes of a child. The wind gusted, promising rain. Far below,
where the sea swapped kisses with the base of the hill, waves thundered and
boomed and kicked up great sheets of spray that dewed her cheeks and tasted
like salt.

A flock of rooks, shrieking, winged
suddenly away, and in the distance she heard the mournful bleating of sheep. Behind
her, a stone, loosened by the pony’s hooves, skittered down the hill, the sound
cleaving the tense stillness. Deirdre gave a start and spun around, her skin
crawling with the uncanny feeling that she was being watched.

But there was no one there.

Wind blew thick tangles of hair
across her face. She clawed the wild tresses out of her eyes and looked
anxiously toward the darkening sea.

There, a half mile out in the bay,
the British warship lay, majestic in all its dread, frightening in all its
beauty, the sky growing blacker by the moment behind its towering masts.

Deirdre’s eyes grew huge. She
reached up to touch the cross of hammered gold and inlaid emeralds that hung
from around her neck, but the ancient heirloom was no comfort.

Beneath her, the pony tossed his
head and pricked his ears forward, his attention caught by something out in the
rising surf. Deirdre stared between his ears. A boat had been lowered from the
ship and was headed toward shore, plunging through the rolling breakers and neatly
avoiding the rocks, around which the surf boiled and foamed white in the
gathering gloom.

Panic began to prickle up her
spine.

Run, Deirdre, run! But she
could do nothing except stare at the boat, forgetting the oncoming storm,
forgetting the menace of the press gang, forgetting the fact that it would soon
be dark and the banshees would come out.

Forgetting the awful feeling that
she was being watched.

The boat was nearing shore now, its
crew having a rough time of it in the rising seas as they steered it through
the dark, deadly rocks that reared out of the crashing surf. But even the
rocks, which had guarded this ancient coast since time began, were helpless
against invading Englishmen. 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 officer in the stern with spray. Deirdre felt sorry for them. But the
oarsmen’s smooth strokes never wavered, the boat wasn’t dashed against the rocks,
and steadily it drew closer.

A cold drop of rain hit her cheek.
Another splashed upon her hand. Deirdre urged the pony to the very edge of the
hill—and it was then that she noticed the officer in the boat had a telescope
to his eye and was training it on her.

With a cry of fright, she wheeled
Thunder around—and ran straight into a group of the most evil-looking men she’d
ever seen in her life.

“And wot ’ave we ’ere, Jenkins? A
wee Oirish lassie wi’ purple eyes an’ the fairest ’air ye ever did see!”

Deirdre’s heart stopped, and
bounced sickeningly down to her toes. Wildly, she looked behind her—but there
was only the sea at her back, and nowhere to go.

She bit her lip and her eyes filled
with tears.

“’Ere now, wot’s this, tears on ol’
Taggert ’ere?” One of them grabbed the pony’s bridle, causing the animal to
yank its head back and roll its eyes in fright. “Would ye lookee ’ere, Jenkins.
Ye must’ve spooked her with that ugly face of yours.”

Jenkins grinned, showing prominent
teeth that only frightened her all the more. An oily braid hung down his back,
tied at the end with a piece of leather, and tattoos competed for space on his
thick, strapping arms.

“Let me go,” she said, struggling
to pull away.

But they simply laughed, fearsome
and ugly men with hard eyes and menacing faces. Fumes of rum clung to their
breath and some of them carried clubs; others had cudgels and one or two held
cutlasses.

“Hold on to that nag’s bridle,
Taggert! With yer luck ye’ll not be seein’ another lass for some time to come!”

“Aye, she’s the best ye’re gonna
do!”

Bursts of hearty guffaws followed
their remarks, and their harsh English voices were foreign and frightening.

“Might as well take advantage of
’er before the lieutenant gets here!”

“Let me go!” Deirdre cried,
kicking out at Jenkins’s thigh with her foot.

He merely laughed, plucked her from
the pony’s back, and set her on the ground. His hand clamped around her wrist, holding
her cruelly when she tried to fight and pull away. “Now, wot’re ye doin’ out
here by yer lonesome when it’s startin’ to grow dark, eh? Ain’t ye got a mother
to watch over ye?”

Above, the clouds massed, stalled,
and began to spit more rain. One drop. Another.

“’Sdeath, Jenkins, it’s startin’ to
pour. We’ve work to do, and the lieutenant ain’t gonna be too happy if he
catches ye messing with a mere child.”

“Indeed,” said a cold, hard voice,
“I damn well won’t be.”

Suddenly, the men behind Jenkins
went still and stared with something like terror toward the hill’s edge. Talk
stopped abruptly. Faces paled. Eyes widened; gazes were cast down.

Far off in the distance, thunder
rumbled.

There, a British sea officer stood
silhouetted against the sky, leaning on his sword and watching them with eyes
as cold and gray as the storm clouds that gathered behind him. His blue coat
was soaked with spray, his lips were set in a severe line, and his features
were as hard and uncompromising as stone.

“We’ve come here to press seamen, Jenkins,
not frighten little girls. Unhand her this moment before you feel the bite of
my anger—and my sword.”

Jenkins released her so quickly she
nearly fell. Recognizing the newcomer as the officer who’d watched her from the
boat, Deirdre felt her knees begin to shake. She huddled closer to the pony’s
shoulder, her eyes huge with fright at the sight of the boat’s crew gathering
behind him, huffing and puffing as they came up the hill. They began to laugh as
they caught sight of her, and several exchanged smirks. But the officer did not
seem amused at all. One sharp glance from him was all that was needed to
instantly quell their grins. They looked down at the ground, obviously
respectful of his authority and unwilling to displease him.

Even Jenkins backed away from the pony,
his hands raised as though in truce. “Sorry, sir.”

Pointing with his sword, the
lieutenant snapped, “Get your carcass down that hill, drag the boats free of
the surf, and mind that they’re well hidden. We’ve King’s business to conduct
and no time to be dallying with diversions, damn you.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Jenkins sputtered,
and fled.

With a sharp and precise motion the
officer sheathed his sword, the scrape of the blade against the scabbard sending
shivers up Deirdre’s spine. She stared at him, taking in the smart naval
uniform and thinking that if he wasn’t so frightening he might actually look
handsome in it, even if he was a Briton. Not a speck of lint flecked the
dark blue coat; not a smudge of dirt marred the whiteness of breeches and
waistcoat—

But then he came forward, and
Deirdre remembered her fear. The fearsome, rough-looking men parted, wordlessly
letting the officer through their ranks. Cold sweat broke out along the length
of Deirdre’s spine and she trembled violently. A strange buzzing noise started
in her ears, drowning out the crash of surf, the rising moan of the wind. Her
fingers went numb and the feeling began to fade from her toes, her feet, her
legs . . .

The lieutenant caught her when she
would’ve fallen, his touch jerking her back to reality and stark, choking
terror. She screamed in fright and struggled madly.

“Let me go!” she shrieked, kicking
out at him. “Let me go-o-ooo!”

Holding her easily, he let her
struggle, her childish strength no match for his. Finally, she wore herself out
and stood before him, frozen with fear and sobbing pathetically

“Poor little wren,” he said, his
voice deep and rich and soothing. He knelt down to her level, his thumbs coming
up to brush away the tears that streaked her damp cheeks. She flinched,
squeezing her eyes shut and trembling violently. “I daresay we’ve frightened
you.”

Deirdre opened her eyes. She stared
at him, taking his measure from close range. His cocked hat covered bright,
gilded hair that was caught at the nape with a black ribbon. He had long golden
eyelashes, eyes the color of fog, and a sharp, clean profile that reminded her
of a hawk.

Smiling, he took off his hat and
tucked it beneath his elbow. His fair hair, contrasting sharply with the deep
tan of his handsome face, was bleached and silvery at the ends, as though he
spent a lot of time in the sun. His body was lean, his posture straighter than
any she’d ever seen, and he had a firmness about his mouth that made her think
he was well used to command.  But then he smiled at her once more, and little
crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, the sides of his mouth, and
suddenly he didn’t look quite so stern and frightening anymore.

She smiled back, hesitantly,
childishly.

“Is this your pony?” he asked,
still kneeling before her and inclining his head toward Thunder.

Her gaze still locked with his, she
nodded, too afraid to speak.

“And what is his name?” He seemed
heedless of the way his men were once more elbowing each other and grinning.

“Th-Thunder,” she managed, her
voice high with fright.

His brows drew together in
bemusement as he caught sight of the Celtic cross hanging from around her neck.
He reached out and hefted it in his hand, studying it while she went rigid with
terror. “Thunder . . .” he murmured absently, rubbing his thumb over the ornate
design. Then, replacing the cross, he sat back on his heels and cast an
admiring eye over the pony. “D’you know, I used to have a pony once, just like
yours, except I called him Booley. He was a naughty fellow, though, full of mischief
and pranks. Why, once he refused to take a fence and tossed me right off his
back and broke my arm. Hurt like the devil, it did!” He smiled again, shot a
glance toward the gathering storm clouds, and then his gaze grew serious once
more. “So we have Thunder, here. And might I ask your name, little
girl?”

Her gaze darted to the grinning
seamen, then back at the handsome lieutenant, who didn’t seem to care that the
skies were about to open up. “Deirdre.”

“Deirdre,” he repeated, the name
sounding strange on his foreign tongue. “That’s a pretty name for a pretty lass.”
He was smiling at her, and for a moment she could almost imagine him as a
knight from a fairy tale, so handsome was his face, so reassuring and kind were
his gray eyes. Childishly wiping the back of her hand across her running nose,
Deirdre gathered her courage and took a deep breath.

“And what’s yer name?” she
asked.

“Christian.” He grinned. “Christian
Lord.”

“That’s a funny name,” she said,
trying not to laugh.

“Indeed it is. My pious mother’s
idea of a joke, I suspect. Would that I were a John. Or a Richard. Or even an
Elliott, like my brother.”

“Are ye in the Royal Navy?” she
blurted innocently.

“Aye, that I am, little wren.”

“My mama says only pirates,
thieves, and tyrants are in the Royal Navy.” Frowning, she peered closely at
him, searching the depths of his face for some proof of her mama’s words. “But
I think my mama might be wrong.”

“Do you, now?” The corners of his
mouth were twitching, as though he was trying awfully hard not to laugh. “And
why d’you say that, foundling?”

“Because my cousin Brendan is in the
Royal Navy, and he’s the kindest, handsomest man in the whole wide world.” His
sudden laughter bolstered her courage, and she puffed out her chest
importantly. “And he’s not a thief, nor a pirate! His daddy was an admiral, and
Mama says that someday Brendan will be, too.”

“An admiral, you say?”

“Uh, Lieutenant?”

Beyond her new friend’s broad
shoulder, Deirdre could see another man leaning against his club and grinning
crookedly. Without turning around, the lieutenant snapped, “For God’s sake,
Hendricks, don’t just stand there. Go find O’Callahan so we can be about this
devilish business.”

“No need to, sir. I think I hear
him coming now.”

“As does the whole blighty village,”
muttered Jenkins.

Rising abruptly to his feet, the
lieutenant donned his hat and turned toward the road. Deirdre stared at him in
awe, but he seemed oblivious to her perusal. He cast a wistful glance toward
the man o’ war, as though he regretted being here and wanted nothing more than
to be back aboard  his ship. He looked once more toward the road. His mouth
went hard, and when he looked down at her again, his mood had changed and his gray
eyes had become determined and resolved.

“Time for you to run along, little
wren.”

“But don’t ye want to hear about my
cousin Brendan?”

“Next time, foundling.” He reached
down, put his hands around her waist, and lifted her up to the pony’s back. The
motion was quick and sure; the manner in which it was done brusque and
businesslike. Numbly, she allowed him to stuff the wet reins into her hands,
noticing that he was no longer smiling, and that his mouth looked tight and
strained. He gave her hair, damp now with mist and rain, one last tousle before
turning away. “Now, off with you, before it gets any darker.”

“’You can’t let her go, Lieutenant,
she’ll spread the alarm!”

“A pox on you, Hendricks!” he
barked with sudden anger. “’Tis too late for any alarm, they saw us coming long
before we’d already lost the element of surprise. Hail O’Callahan’s party and
let’s be done with this. By God, ’tis miserable enough business as it is,
without having to spend the entire night in this godforsaken hellhole, damn
you!”

Deirdre shrank back, the
lieutenant’s swift change of mood confusing and frightening her. The rain was
falling steadily now, gathering momentum, growing colder by the minute and pulling
little curls of steam from the pony’s neck. She looked at the lieutenant,
standing there in the rain, and waited for him to come back and talk to her
again—but he did not. Why was he suddenly so angry?

Deirdre was just about to turn
Thunder away when she heard men coming up the road. She couldn’t see much
through the rainy gloom, but the sounds that came to her were sharp and clear:
the stamp of boots and rattle of muskets; dragging feet and angry shouts; the
click of a flintlock, the dull thud of a club against flesh, and a man’s howl
of rage and pain. English laughter . . . an Irishman’s swift curses.

Another blue-and-white-clad officer
was in the lead.

“Lieutenant!” he called, saluting.
“I’ve got some for you, prime lads who’ll do the ship proud!”

The fair-haired lieutenant cast a
cold eye over the approaching group. “By God, that was quick.”

“Aye, well, being born an’ raised
in this part o’ the world sure has its advantages.” The man’s voice was Irish,
familiar and dear among the strange tongue of the Englishmen. As the British
seamen approached, Deirdre saw they had a smaller cluster of men with them,
herding them like frightened sheep and threatening them with swords and clubs
to keep them in line.

She frowned and craned her neck,
her hands tightening on the wet reins. The rain was coming down hard now, pitter-pattering
against the nearby rocks and heightening the scent of earth, grass and the
pony’s hide.

Somewhere out to sea, she heard the
low rumble of thunder.

“And where were they hiding,
O’Callahan?” The English officer strode toward the new arrivals, his long blue
coattails dark against the back of his white-clad thighs.

“Just where I thought they’d be.
Out in th’ hills, and drinking themselves senseless in the ruins of an old
castle.”

“Splendid work, O’Callahan,” the
lieutenant said, yet there was an odd tonelessness in his words. “I shall make
note of it to the captain.”

But Deirdre’s horrified gaze was
not on the lieutenant, not on O’Callahan, not on the group of English seamen.
She stared at the frightened, angry men whom the English tars surrounded. Their
clothes were dirty and torn, their faces sullen, and some of them were cut and
bleeding. Yet there was no mistaking who they were. Seamus Kelly . . . Patrick
O’Malley . . . the brothers Kevin and Kenny Meeghan. . . .

And Roddy.

It took a moment for the truth to
hit. Before she knew it she was off the pony and racing across the wet grass.
She slipped on a rock and went down hard, scraping her chin and knocking the
breath from her lungs. “Roddy!” she cried. “Roddy!”

Her brother’s head jerked up, and
she saw horror in his purple eyes at the sight of her—horror that changed
quickly to rage. Without a second’s hesitation, he slammed his fist into the
jaw of the nearest seaman and sent another sprawling with the deadly hook that
had earned him many a free ale at the village tavern.

Chaos erupted.

Deirdre scrambled to get up. In a
daze, she heard the shouts of the Englishmen, the barked commands of the
lieutenant, the wild yells of her neighbors. Fists slammed against flesh;
guttural groans and curses were all around. Managing to get to her feet, she resumed
her flight toward her brother, only to be neatly snared by Hendricks. Sobbing
wildly, she saw Roddy struggling between three burly seamen, spouting curses
and kicking savagely out at their legs, their groins. A sharp cuff across the
face stunned him; then, someone kicked him in the belly, and a cudgel’s blow
brought him to his knees.

With Roddy retching and coughing,
the rest of the Irishmen quieted. They looked hatefully at O’Callahan, then at
the fine English lieutenant. Their eyes were sullen, their backs rigid with
pride.

‘Take them to the boats and let’s
be off,” the lieutenant commanded in a cold, toneless voice. “We’re done here.”

Deirdre felt Hendricks release her,
and she stood frozen as the seamen hauled Roddy and his friends down the hill,
slipping on wet rocks and cursing the Irish rain, the Irish cold, the Irish
seas that awaited them. She stared dazedly at the proud profile of the English
naval officer, suddenly realizing just what he had done.

No fair and handsome knight was he.

“My brother!” she wailed, throwing
herself at him and beating her hands against his back. “Please, don’t take my
brother!”

He turned and caught her flailing
fists. “I said go home, foundling.”

“But ye can’t take Roddy! Ye just can't!
He’s my brother!” She struggled madly against his iron grip. “Roddy!” she
screamed as the last seaman disappeared over the far side of the hill. “Roddy!”

Her struggles quieted, and hanging
from his grip, she collapsed in great, convulsing sobs of terror and grief. She
heard the wind moaning across the dark pasture, and the voices of the seamen
fading to a few barks of laughter, a curse, then nothing as they reached the
beach far below. Her cheeks streaming tears and rain, her wet hair hanging in
straggly spirals around her face, Deirdre raised desperate eyes to the
lieutenant. He stared down at her, an anguished look on his handsome face, and
for a moment she thought he was going to recall the men and release her
brother. Then his jaw turned hard and unyielding, the set of his mouth resolute.
“We are at war with France,” he said harshly. “And while I despise the methods
our Navy must employ to obtain its seamen, as an officer my loyalty and duty
lie with my country, not with my own inclinations.” His eyes softened. “I’m
sorry, little wren.”

Then, abruptly, he released her and
turned on his heel, striding down the hill without a backward glance. She
watched him melt into the darkness, heard his footsteps fade, until she was all
alone with nothing but the sad patter of falling rain and the mournful crash of
waves against the beach far below.

Moments later, she saw lights
bobbing out on the sea, fuzzy and dim in the mist, as the boat headed back
toward the man-of-war and carried her brother away forever.

Deirdre stood there for a long
time, the wind blowing her hair in wild, wet tangles around her shoulders as
she watched the lights fade to tiny pinpricks in the foggy darkness and then to
nothing. At seven years of age, she had just learned there were more
frightening evils in this world than the banshees whose low moans could even
now be heard through the darkness of the gathering night. Choking on a last
sob, she wiped her eyes, gripped in both shaking hands the ancient cross that
had once belonged to her formidable ancestress, and raised her chin, her gaze
fixed out to sea.

Someday, she’d be old enough to go
to England by herself, seek her cousin Brendan, and obtain his help in getting
her brother back.

Someday, she would find that
English lieutenant and make him pay for what he’d done.

Someday, she vowed—she would see
that English lieutenant dead.

Chapter
1

England, thirteen years
later

The narrow, cobblestoned streets of
Portsmouth were not the safest of places, but Captain Christian Lord, Royal
Navy, was well able to defend himself from the pickpockets, thugs, and other
rabble that haunted the waterfront area. A heavy boat cloak hid his handsome
blue-and-white uniform and protected it from the sleety drizzle, but, just as
his demeanor made it obvious that he was a man of breeding and affluence—and therefore
an attractive target—one would have to be stupid or blind not to recognize the
military bearing that marked him as one capably employed in some service of the
king. Indeed, he was well used to fighting bigger threats than those that
lurked in the shadows around him, and the powerful breadth of his shoulders,
the confident manner in which he carried himself, and the sword at his side were
enough to deter any would-be assailants.

The streets, rimmed with filth and
plagued by icy puddles, were polished by a cold rain that rode a bitter southeasterly
out of skies gone leaden and gray. Buildings, huddled together as though for
warmth, seemed to close in on either side of him, growing darker, seedier,
sadder as he neared the waterfront. The wind blew hard, and he shifted the small
white bundle he carried under his arm to protect it from the elements. Already
he could smell the Solent; a moment later he could see its frothy expanse, and
the anchored ships riding a chain of cruising whitecaps.

He pulled up the collar of his boat
cloak, the harsh lines of his face unsoftened by the chilling drizzle. Standing
two inches over six feet, he was an impressive figure, with wintry eyes and a
mouth that rarely softened in a smile. But he hadn’t always been like this. Tragedy
and grief had extinguished the twinkle his eyes had once held, and now, on the
day before the Black Anniversary, they were bleak with suffering.

For a moment, he stared out to sea,
his gaze traveling beyond the ships, the mist-shrouded Isle of Wight, the horizonless
gray gloom of the Channel . . . and into the past.

“Emily,” he murmured, shutting his
eyes against the sting of emotion.

Just as quickly, the image was
gone, and he was left standing alone in the rain, a forlorn, wind-whipped
figure with nothing but memories.

And then his gaze fell upon the
frigate he would soon command and swift, righteous anger swept in to drive the
memories away.

Damn the admiral for ordering him
to Boston, a sewer of malcontents and rabble-rousers if ever there was one. America,
land of taxes, massacres, and dumped tea. Of discontent and rebellion left
festering and unchecked. England was being far too lenient with those
disobedient bumpkins across the Atlantic, and discipline needed to be enforced
before the situation over there got out of hand. He supposed he was to be part
of that “discipline,” but dear God, to think that Elliott was assigning him to
a frigate—not just any frigate, but HMS Bold Marauder—after he’d
commanded mighty ships of the line, served as flag captain for two admirals,
and been proclaimed a hero for his actions in the Battle of Quiberon while still
a lowly lieutenant during the Seven Years War . . .

But no, Elliott had insisted, nay, ordered
him to take command of the thirty-eight-gun warship, with the excuse that he
was the Admiralty’s last hope of bringing law and order to a ship that everyone
else in the Navy had all but given up on.

Bloody hell.

In his arms the little white dog
whimpered and gently, very gently, he set her down, keeping a watchful eye on
her as she did her business so she wouldn’t run off. He had found her rifling
through a pile of frozen garbage some three streets back and immediately taken
pity on her. Now she reared up on her hind legs and, whining, furiously licked
the back of his hand, grateful that he had not abandoned her as someone else
had obviously done.

The spaniel safely in his arms once
more, he resumed his quick pace. No doubt, giving him command of the Hell-Ship
was Rear Admiral Sir Elliott Lord’s twisted idea of taking his mind off the
Black Anniversary. But Christian was not grateful. In fact, he’d been downright
furious to find, upon his arrival in Portsmouth yesterday, that his shrewd
older brother had obviously had the thing planned for some time, for HMS Bold
Marauder was already refitted and provisioned for sea.

Waiting for him—her new captain.

And there she was, distinctive,
well-designed, and, if he were to allow himself a moment of romanticism long
since blasted away by the realities of naval command, rather beautiful. She was
anchored well out beyond the harbor, far away from the other vessels as though
she carried the plague.

As indeed she does, he
thought, blackly.

Her first captain, Richards, had
been a lazy, drunken lout who’d allowed his crew the free rein to do just about
anything they damn well pleased. Three men since the slovenly Richards had
tried to turn her company into a fighting pack the king himself could be proud
of. The first had come back insane, and it had required three marines to drag
him from the cabin; the second had begged transfer to a seventy-four-gun ship
of the line; and the third had quit the Navy altogether.

Of course, the fact that the
frigate’s officers were a tightly knit pack of wastrels—some the sons of peers
of the realm, others the offspring of admirals ranked high on the Navy
list—guaranteed the granting of their fondest desire. And that desire was that
they were not to be separated and sent to different ships—a solution, Christian
thought wryly, that would have solved the problem of HMS Bold Marauder
immediately.

His eyes gleamed with
determination. Well, the crew was in for a big surprise if they thought they
could pull any nonsense on him. Cradling the spaniel in the crook of his
arm, he drew his telescope and, lifting it to his eye, studied the frigate’s
decks with a seemingly detached stare that belied the steel in his frosty gray
gaze. Sleet hit the glass lens, streaking the circular field, the frigate’s
dark form. He moved the glass, bringing it slowly down the length of the ship,
his keen eyes seeing all and missing nothing—not even the figurehead, a
brown-and-white bird dog crouched beneath the bowsprit, its foot raised to its
chest in a rigid point as though seeking elusive game.

A hunter, Christian mused, but this
particular ship had never fulfilled such promise. He trained the glass on her
decks. What he saw only raised his ire all the more, for even from this
distance it was frightfully obvious that HMS Bold Marauder fell short of
the high standards of spit and polish that he, as an officer in the king’s
Navy, demanded of the vessels under his command.

He shut the telescope with a brisk
snap.

A condition that would soon change,
by God!

Grim-faced, he continued on, his
long mariner’s stride conveying his ill temper. The streets were nearly
deserted, those who were wise, or able to afford it, taking shelter in drier
places and huddling next to crackling hearths. But still, he was not alone. A
group of seamen caught the glint in his cold gray eyes and respectfully touched
their hats as he passed; a thug with a hang-gallows look saw the sword peeping
dangerously beneath his coattails and stepped aside; a pack of young boys,
engaged in a fistfight, paused, then fell reverently into step behind him,
trailing at a respectful distance, dodging into alleyways, hiding behind trash
heaps, and trying in vain to keep up with him. But the captain paid them no
heed. Straight to the quay he went—and came up short, his features darkening
with rage.

The boys fled.

Captain Lord had every right to be
furious. He had sent orders out to the frigate that its gig should be here,
waiting to bring him to his new command—but the boat was nowhere in sight.

He was left embarrassingly
stranded.

Either his orders had never been
received or, more likely, they had been blatantly ignored by the crew of
rebellious rascals whom it would soon be his duty to command.

“Troubles already, Captain Lord?”

A young lieutenant stood there,
nervously eyeing the tall and forbidding captain and correctly guessing the
reason for his anger.

“Aye, but not for long. Lieutenant—not
for long!”

His temper gone black, Captain
Christian Lord turned on his heel and stormed down the quay. He would find a
way out to the frigate, and when he stepped aboard her for the first time,
there would be all hell to pay.

Chapter
2

Captain Lord wasn’t the only one on
his way out to HMS Bold Marauder. While he was trying to procure passage
to his new command, another had already done so and was waiting to be rowed out
to the warship.

Deirdre O’Devir had arrived in
Portsmouth with nothing but her name, her pride, her meager life savings, and a
canvas bag containing everything in the world that was most precious to her: a
miniature of her dead mother; a tiny model of a sailboat that Roddy had made
when he was a lad; and an old sliver of wood, part of Papa’s little boat, all
that had washed ashore after the sea storm in which the angels had taken him
home so long ago.

Had those been the only revered occupants
of Deirdre’s canvas bag, it would have been sadly empty. Carefully wrapped in
linen to guard against breakage was the vial of Irish seawater she’d taken from
the beach at Connemara the day she’d left for England; a felt pouch containing
sand and shells scooped from that same shore; a pebble from the rocky pasture
outside the little cottage that had been her family’s home; a tuft of wool
snipped from a neighbor’s sheep; a tightly corked glass flagon, seemingly
empty, but full of Irish air, and, of course, the loaf of bread—made of wheat
flour grown on Irish pastures and milk gleaned from Irish cows, and baked over
the heat of a good, Irish peat fire.

It didn’t matter that the bread had
grown stale during her journey to England, for it was not to be eaten. Just as
Deirdre O’Devir would never empty the water from the vial or the sand and
shells from the pouch, just as she would never throw the pebble away or, God
forbid, uncork the flagon of Irish air and let it escape—she would never eat
the bread. Nor, she thought, reaching up to finger the ornate gold heirloom that
hung from the chain around her neck, would she ever take Grace’s cross off.

She stepped closer to the edge of
the quay. Below, the old tar she had paid to take her out to the Boston-bound frigate
was busy clearing space for her in his boat. Taking advantage of the moment,
Deirdre raised a hand to shade her eyes from the watery sun that had just
broken through the clouds. She peered across the water to the frigate. At the
thought of her impending voyage, her heart jumped with fear, but she hid it
well—just as she’d hidden the secret of her gender beneath a loose linen shirt,
woolen jacket, and seaman’s trousers. With her wildly curling tresses stuffed
beneath a cap, there was little to give away the fact that the raw-boned lad with
the fair complexion and bold black brows was actually a female.

Her face, a striking contrast of
beauty and strength, denoted the courage of Celtic blood and showed none of the
frailty that was often associated with her sex. Her nose was straight and bold,
her lips full, her cheekbones high and proud. Only her eyes, a deep,
mysterious, purple, betrayed her fear and grief, for even here her mama’s
deathbed words, uttered not one month before, haunted her . . .

“Deirdre . . . Go t’ England
and find m’ son. Go t’ England . . . go wherever ye have
to, girl. But go, find m’ lad . . . and bring him back home t' Ireland
so I can rest in peace . . .”

Again she saw Mama, lying in bed
with her eyes, once as deep a violet as her children’s, faded like a piece of
fabric left out in the sun for too long. She’d been dying—but then, Deirdre
figured she’d been dying ever since the English lieutenant had come with the
press gang and taken Roddy away from them. I’ll find that scoundrel, Mama,
she’d promised as she’d held her mother’s small hand and felt the life fading
out of her. By all that's holy, I’ll find him and kill him, destroy him like
he did you and Roddy . . .

She had gone, first, to London to
enlist her cousin’s help, only to learn that Brendan, a captain in the Royal
Navy, had been sent to the American port of Boston. He and his younger sister,
Eveleen, were all the family Deirdre had left—and Brendan with his naval
connections was her only hope of finding Roddy. She would follow him to America,
then . . . even if the thought of crossing the stormy Atlantic terrified her.

Again she reached up to touch the
heavy cross that hung from a chain of beaten gold around her neck. It had
belonged to her ancestress, the formidable Irish pirate queen Granuaile, known
to the English as Grace O’Malley. Granuaile had lived during the time of Queen
Elizabeth, and the cross had come down to Deirdre through her mother’s people.
To her, it not only symbolized her beloved homeland—it was her homeland.

“Ye ready there, mate?”

The old seaman was waiting for her,
reaching up a gnarled hand to help her down into the boat. For a moment Deirdre
hesitated, the wind blowing cold and lonely off the Solent and dragging a
shiver of apprehension down her spine. But then she felt the reassuring presence
of her canvas bag, the neck of which was clenched in her hand, and courage
infused her again. As long as she had her precious bits of home with her, she
would never be alone. No matter where she went, no matter what lay ahead, they
would always be with her, to sustain her, to strengthen her, to remind her of
who she was.

And what she was setting out to do.

One month ago, Deirdre had made a
vow to her dying mama to find Roddy and bring him home to Ireland. Thirteen
years ago she had made a vow to herself to find and kill the fair-haired
English lieutenant who had stolen him from them.

And now the time had come to
fulfill those vows.

Sustained by purpose, she crouched
down and allowed the old seaman to help her into the boat. She sat clutching
the boat’s damp gunwale, staring out at the countless lighters, barges, and
ships of every size and shape that clogged Portsmouth Harbor and, beyond it,
the white-ruffled anchorage of Spithead.

And then her gaze found the
frigate.

A seaman would have immediately noted
the differences that set her apart from her neighbors. She was a warship,
designed for striking hard and fast, a far cry from the bluff-bowed, tub-bodied
vessels that surrounded her. A seaman’s trained eye would have admired the
sleek lines that marked her as a fighter, the clean rake of her masts, the
efficient and businesslike design of her hull, the row of gunports that ran
along her sides. But Deirdre was oblivious of such details, for to her, the
ship would serve only one purpose—and that was to take her to Boston and
Brendan’s help.

The mist had parted, leaving
low-hanging clouds rolling across the leaden sky like giant white balls of
dust. It would be a fine day after all, even if it was cold, and the seaman
whistled as he rowed, his wizened eyes scanning the harbor. He nodded at an
acquaintance in a passing boat, then turned and caught her eye.

“Ye sure ye be wantin’ to go out to
Marauder?”

Deirdre shrugged. “Well, ye said
she was goin’ to Amerikay . . . to Boston, and that I could get by in her without
doin’ much work.”

“Aye, that ye can, lad.” He stared
over his shoulder, his eyes suddenly gleaming. “I reckon ye could certainly do
worse fer yer first ship. Why, every jack’s happy to serve on that
frigate—most loosely run ship in the fleet!”

“But . . . isn’t she a king’s ship?
A Royal Navy vessel?”

“Aye, that she is,” the old man
wheezed, leaning on his oars, “but that don’t matter none. She’s the Bold
Marauder.”

The way he said the vessel’s name
made it sound as though that explained everything. Was the Marauder's
reputation for laxity so well known that she, Deirdre, was the only “sailor” on
the wharves who was unaware of it?

Frowning, she gazed out across the
rough Solent to the distant hump of the Isle of Wight—

—and nearly dropped her precious canvas
bag in shock. Not a stone’s throw away, a boat was ferrying a group of
grinning, gaping tars out to Bold Marauder, and in their midst sat a
painted, yellow-haired doxy whose breasts were the size of ale jugs. Deirdre’s
eyes bulged. Sweet Jesus, not only were they huge, they were shockingly
exposed, the creamy flesh swelling above the low neckline of her gown, only the
nipples hidden by the fabric. As Deirdre stared, gaping and appalled, the woman
threw back her head with bawdy laughter, rested her hand on the thigh of one of
the sailors, and leaned into the arms of another.

“Sweet God in heaven,” Deirdre
whispered. Then she blushed to the roots of her hair as one of the sailors
shamelessly plunged his hand beneath the woman’s hemline, feeling her ankle and
only causing her to laugh harder. Mortified, Deirdre yanked her cap down over
her eyes.

Noting her reaction, the old tar
cackled with glee. “Better get used t’ such sights, lad!” he wheezed. “This is
the Navy yer goin’ into!”

But there were no doxies being
rowed with queenly splendor out to any of the other ships . . .

Swallowing hard, Deirdre wrapped
her hands around her canvas bag and tried not to think of what horrors might
await her aboard the vessel that would be her home for the next month. She had
made a careful choice, hadn’t she? After all, she did want a ship where
she wouldn’t arouse suspicion. Bold Marauder, with her obviously lax and
indifferent captain, had seemed perfect . . .

But still, uneasiness began to nag
at her, and the fear she had so bravely concealed was beginning to make itself
felt in her damp palms and racing heart.

She stared at the approaching wall
of the frigate’s side.

Just what was she getting into?

###

“Snivelin’ blue blood, who the
blighty ’ell does ’e think ’e is, any’ow? We ain’t never ’ad to polish the bleedin’
brasswork before!”

“You think that’s bad? He had our
watch out there swabbing the deck. Ye’d think he means for us to eat off
it, so clean did he order it!”

“Scurvy bastard!”

“Imagine!”

“Ye didn’t oblige ’im now, did ye,
Skunk?”

“Christ, no! Ye’ll see me rottin’
in hell before I swab a bloody deck!”

“Well, he won’t last. We’ve scared
off three captains before him. Besides, if he’s so lily-livered he won’t even
come aboard, but has to send his orders through his bosun, you can bet your
arse he’ll not last out the day.”

They stood huddled near the rail of
His Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder, the officers high-born and
privileged, the crew, a tough, evil-looking lot scraped from the worst of Bristol’s
streets, Cornwall’s pastures, and just about every dockyard from London to Land’s
End. Some wore the garb of the Royal Navy seaman: loose-fitting trousers with
red-and-white stripes, short blue coats, red vests, and carefully knotted
kerchiefs. Others were clad in the blue-and-white uniforms that marked them as
officers, and one—the frigate’s first lieutenant—was even dressed in the manner
of a Scotsman, with a bonnet, black-and-red-checked hose, buckled shoes, and a
brightly colored plaid. The outfit might’ve looked striking, had its wearer not
thrown a blue-and-white lieutenant’s coat over it in a halfhearted attempt to
meet dress regulations.

The effect was totally ridiculous.

Above, the mist had cleared,
leaving pale sunlight to poke down through the cold winter sky. The harbor was
a mean, unfriendly blue, and a biting wind put caps on the waves, drove beneath
heavy clothing and set teeth to chattering. But despite the cold, tempers were
so hot they could have melted the ice in the water casks below.

The gunner, a hulking, malodorous,
bear of a man with ribs like a ship’s hull, folded his arms across his chest in
defiance. “Well, all I know is that I ain’t polishin’ no bloody brass, nor
decks, nor the buttons on ’is Highness’s fancy bleedin’ coat! If our new Lord
and Master wants anything done, ’e can damn well do it himself!”

“Aye, ye can tell him that when he
finally comes aboard, Skunk!” said the Scottish, red-bearded first lieutenant
with a hearty guffaw. Brawny and tall, he had a jovial smile, a booming laugh,
and no talent at all for playing the strange-looking instrument that was his
most prized possession. Now he leaned against the bulwarks, carefully polishing
it; it was called bagpipes, he’d told them, and it was supposed to make
beautiful music—but so far, all that Ian MacDuff had managed to get out of the
instrument was a horrible screeching noise that sounded like a cow in the
throes of slaughter. That noise, however, had done wonders for driving the
captain succeeding Richards into an insane asylum, and Ian—along with his
shipmates—had high hopes of accomplishing the same with their new Lord and
Master.

“Better yet,” he said, “won’t ye be
getting Elwin tae do the scrubwork? Ye ken how, as surgeon, he is about
cleanliness.”

“On your life, Ian!” snapped Elwin Boyd,
a gawky little man who walked with his neck out like a chicken waiting for the
axe. He hefted a vinegar bottle and shoved it in the big Scotsman’s ruddy face.
“This is not for cleaning. I told you that long ago!”

“Here, now,” snarled Skunk, “we’re
supposed to be discussin’ ’is bloody Lordship and how we’re gonna get rid of
him, not brawlin’ amongst ourselves!”

“Ah, yes, the Ice Captain,”
sneered Milton Lee, the purser, a bald, sharp-faced little man with a stooping,
lanky body and a nose like a parrot’s beak. His eyes watering in the sharp
wind, he glanced toward shore. Their new commanding officer, whom none of them
had met, would soon find that the boat he had sent for would not be waiting for
him, but was instead still snugged securely in the waist of the ship. It was
the least they could do to irritate him. Already the new Lord and Master had
had his belongings brought aboard their ship, as though he had every
intention of staying; already he’d taken it upon himself to give them
orders, as though he actually expected them to obey him!

Milton echoed the sentiments of his
companions. “He’s supposed to be the Navy’s last hope of straightening us out.
Ha! I give him one hour, Skunk, before we have him going over the side
screamin’ for mercy!”

“I give him ten minutes if Ian here
hauls out those blasted bagpipes!”

‘Ten minutes? He won’t last five,
I’m tellin’ ye!”

“Here, now!” Ian protested, his
Scots temper on the rise.

“Aw, piss off, Ian, we’re just
teasin’ ye,” Skunk said, waving his hand. “Hibbert! Ye made sure our sweet
Delight was well hidden, didn’t ye? We wouldn’t want ’is bloody Lordship to
find ’er and keep ’er all to ’imself, eh, mate?”

“Aye, I hid her in the brig,” the
midshipman said conspiratorially. His fourteen-year-old face was feral and sharp,
his eyes beady and cunning, and despite the fact that his father was highly
placed in the Admiralty, there wasn’t a clean spot on the uniform that he wore
with such disdain. “The captain’ll never look there.”

“Good job, m’boy!” Skunk hooted,
clapping the youngster on the back. “And you, Russ! Ye’re bein’ awful quiet
over there! Wot d’ye think of our new Royal Highness, eh?”

“What do I think?” Russell Rhodes
said, taking off his hat to rake his hand through oily black hair gone silver
at the temples. “Why, given his past record, I think our new Lord and Master’s
going to do his damnedest to succeed where his predecessors have failed.”

“Won’t never happen,” growled
Arthur Teach, just coming up from the brig, where he’d gone to check on the
“welfare” of their lady passenger. At a height of six and a half feet, Teach
towered over even the burly Skunk and Ian MacDuff. Rumor had it that he was a
grandson—illegitimate, of course—of the infamous Ned Teach, alias Blackbeard, a
fact that Arthur was exceedingly proud of, and one that he went out of his way
to mention to anyone in the unenviable position of having to hear the story of
how his illustrious pedigree had come about. With his bristly black hair and
beard that tickled the belt of his trousers, he was hideous enough of both
temperament and appearance that his presence alone had been enough to drive
Captain Number Three from Bold Marauder with his tail between his legs.

Getting rid of Captain Number Four
had been a collaborative effort on all of their parts-—but this fifth one just
might be a problem . . .

“Well, all’s I know is that we
ain’t even met him yet and the bloody bugger’s already overstepping his
bounds,” growled Skunk.

“Imagine what he’ll be like once he
gets aboard the ship!”

“Imagine what he’ll be like once we
put to sea!”

“Aw, ’tis cowing he’ll be, just
like the rest of them,” Ian scoffed, tucking his bagpipes under his arm and
ignoring the suddenly wary looks from his shipmates. “Anyone wantae hear the
new tune I learned?”

“Spare us, please.”

But Ian made a rude gesture,
flipped his bagpipes over his shoulder, and put the blowpipe in his mouth.

Everyone backed up.

Ian grinned. “Ye sure, now?”

“Yeah, save it for his bloody
Lordship!”

“Give ’im a concert he’ll not
likely forget!”

They howled with laughter until
Ian, crestfallen, slammed his fist into Teach’s jaw and Teach reacted with an
equally hard punch to Ian’s mouth that bloodied his lip. Fists flew, curses
resounded, and in the ensuing chaos Elwin tossed the entire contents of his
vinegar bottle at the big Scotsman.

“My pipes, damn ye!” Ian cried,
going for Elwin’s scrawny neck. Teach drew his knife and charged gleefully
forward. Skunk began to bellow, Milton to howl, Hibbert to cheer—and at that
moment, a frightened shriek split the air.

“What the hell was that?”

“Don’t know. Shut up and maybe
we’ll hear it again!”

“Christ, Arthur, get that bloody
knife out of my face!” bellowed Skunk.

The cry came again.

As one, they looked up and toward
the entry port. There, pale and shaken and skinnier than a sea worm, stood a
young lad. An oversize cap covered his head, his cheeks were white as fresh
sailcloth, and he had that innocent, lost look that just invited abuse.

The lad’s terrified gaze was
fastened on Arthur Teach. “What’re ye gawkin’ at, ye snivelin’ whelp?” Teach
roared in his best pirate’s voice. “Go on, hie yerself out of here before I
carve out yer liver and toss it to the gulls!”

The youngster went whiter still,
and glanced anxiously back toward the entry port. But his chin came up, and resolutely,
he came forward.

“I said, off with ye!”

The lad kept walking. He looked
terrified, but he came, and even the cool Russell Rhodes lifted a sardonic
brow.

“Jesus,” grumbled Skunk, “that one
don’t scare easy.”

“He will. Let me have at him for a
bit!” Teach stalked forward, hunching his shoulders and thrusting his great,
hairy head down into the lad’s face. He raised his cutlass and, in the best
imitation of his grandfather, roared, “I said, get yer scrawny carcass off my
ship, ye miserable pack of fish bones, before I—”

“Excuse me. I’m lookin’ for the
captain o’ this boat?”

They stared. They gawked. It grew
so quiet one could hear the waves lapping gently at the hull so far below.

“Boat?” roared Skunk, his
eyes bugging from his grimy face. “Ye bloody boglander, ye callin’ this here
fighting ship a boat?”

“Aye, that he did,” said Ian,
quirking a red brow and nodding sagely.

“I’m sorry.” The lad gave a quick,
fleeting grin and ruffled nervously through a canvas bag he carried under his
arm. Teach’s bristly brows snapped together. Ian’s mouth formed a perfect O
within the red mat of his beard. Elwin picked up his vinegar bottle, dropped
it, and picked it up again. Even Skunk went silent as the boy, muttering to
himself, fished through his bag. Finally he produced a scrap of paper filled
with notes, glanced at it, and tucked it sheepishly into his pocket. “Aye, I’m
terribly sorry,” he repeated. “Ye’re absolutely right, sir. ’Tis not a boat,
but a frigate of the sixth rate.”

“Fifth!” roared Teach, with
as much fury as he could muster.

Rhodes, who’d been watching the
drama, finally shoved off from the railing and came forward. “What do you
want?”

“To see the captain. Is he . . .
here?”

“Nay, he ain’t come aboard yet,
thank Christ. But I’m sure the Lord and Master’ll be here shortly, just in time
to weigh.”

“Weigh what?” Deirdre began, and
caught herself—too late.

The piratical one reached out,
grabbed her by her collar, and yanked her forward until his beard stabbed her
tender cheek. Fumes of rum hit her in the face, and it was only by sheer will
alone that Deirdre kept herself from fainting with fright. “Ye ain’t no seaman,
so ye got no business bein’ on a king’s ship! Now get your puny carcass off
this here vessel before we toss ye to the sharks!”

“Aye! Toss him to the sharks!”

Deirdre’s knees went weak. She shut
her eyes, suddenly wishing she’d ignored the advice of the old sailor and found
a different ship to take to Boston. Sweet Jesus, if the crew was such a pack of
bloodthirsty brutes, what would their captain be like?

Then she felt the weight of Grace’s
cross, hidden beneath her shirt and lying against her rapidly beating heart,
and her courage returned. Her chin came up with stubborn purpose, and
maintaining her brave front, she said, “Well, if the captain is not aboard,
could I speak with his assistant?”

“Assistant?” the pirate
roared.

“He means first lieutenant,” said
the other bearded one, who was almost as big and had a Scottish brogue that was
oddly comforting amidst this collection of West Country and London dialects. He
was carrying a set of bagpipes, of all things, and Deirdre frowned as she noted
his outrageous manner of dress. But the Scotsman merely cuffed the pirate away,
grabbed her wrist, and said, “I’m Lieutenant Ian MacDuff, the man ye’ll be wantin’
tae see. Now, what is it I can be doin’ for ye, laddie?”

She swallowed, carefully set her
canvas bag down beside her foot, and tried very hard to look important. “I want
to sign aboard.”

“Sign aboard what?”

“Why, this boa—I mean, ship, o’
course.”

He stared at her as if she’d gone
mad. “Ye mean, ye actually want to volunteer?”

“Isn’t that the way it’s done?”

The Scotsman glanced at his
companions, took off his cap, and scratched his head. No one spoke, until at
last, the sinister-looking man in the officer’s uniform cleared his throat. He
moved with silken grace and had cold, sullen eyes containing about as much
warmth as the bitter wind that cuffed the Solent into a mass of frothy white
horses. “I’m Lieutenant Russell Rhodes. You want to sign aboard, eh?” He seized
her canvas bag and, heedless of her frightened gasp, tossed it to the Scotsman
before Deirdre had time to protest. “Well, then, let’s see if you qualify.
Climb that mast and don’t stop till you reach the maintop— using the futtocks,
of course.”

Futtocks? It was all she
could do not to reach for her notes to see what a “futtocks” was. “But . . .
but don’t I have to sign somethin’?”

“Just get your arse up that pole!”
roared the pirate, stepping forward and brandishing his cutlass.

“Aye, that’s all the signing we’ll
ask of ye!” snarled a big, dirty hulk of a man covered with a mat of brown
hair. His odor alone was bad enough to send Deirdre scurrying to the mast

“Jesus,” said the Scotsman,
slapping his broad forehead. “The tyke don’t even know how to climb it!”

“Go to the gangway and use the
shrouds, ye idiot!”

The pirate waved his cutlass in her
face. Digging her nails into her palms, Deirdre looked up at the tall mast and
choked back her fear, for it seemed to hold up the clouds themselves. Then the
Scotsman shoved her toward the network of black, tarry ropes that ran skyward
like narrow, tapering pyramids from the side of the ship.

“Those are the shrouds,” he
said gently. “Use them like a ladder. Ye ken, laddie?”

Deirdre pressed her hand to her shirt,
seeking the comfort of the cross. Then, biting her lip, she nodded, grasped the
tarry, ice-coated shrouds, and began to ascend. She climbed one step. Two.
Three steps up, she looked down and, shivering, found the tip of the pirate’s
cutlass two inches from her nose. He was grinning evilly.

There was no going back. Not now.

Whimpering and nearing hysteria,
Deirdre took a fourth step, clinging to the harsh ropes like a treed cat afraid
to move. The deck was only a few feet beneath her, but she was off its
solidness now, and she could feel the sway and movement of the big ship right
through her hands and up through the soles of her feet.

“I can just see him in a storm,”
muttered the Scotsman, shaking his head.

“Hell, I can see him when our
bloody Lord and Master makes us do sail drills.”

“Sail drills? He wouldn’t!”

“You doubt him?”

“No captain’s ever made us
do sail drills!”

“Well, from what I’ve heard,
doona put it past this one.” The Scotsman sneezed, pulled out an enormous
handkerchief, and waved it at Deirdre. Raising his voice, he yelled, “ ’Tis
climbin’ higher than that ye’ll have tae be, laddie, if ye want tae reach the
maintop!”

“I’m . . . catchin’ my breath.”

The foul-smelling one stepped
forward. “You ain’t gonna have time to catch yer breath when you ’ave a
storm howling up your arse and the bosun’s mates laying the rattans across yer
back! Now, climb!”

Deirdre pressed her face against
the ice-encrusted ropes, smelling the pungent aroma of tar and sea salt. She
was terrified. One slip, and she would fall into the water so far below. One
slip, and she would be dead. Already the chill wind was singing in her ears,
and she had a long way to go before she reached what had to be the maintop. Oh,
God, she thought, digging her frozen fingers into the shrouds and fighting
dizziness. Oh, God, please help me . . . She took a deep breath and
pulled herself up a little farther.

But as she took another step, then
another, she realized that the crew’s attention was no longer on her. A boat
was coming from shore, a feather of white at its bow, a militaristic figure
dressed in blue and white in its stern.

Every man on the deck below had
turned to stare at it.

“Christ, here comes the bloody
captain now!”

“Quick, look busy!”

Deirdre flattened herself against
the shrouds, shut her eyes, and swallowed the thick lump of dread. Oh, God. Oh,
dear God. Now what? Stay here and be seen? Go back down and face the captain?

Or—her fingers bit into the shrouds
as the ship swayed slightly, sickeningly, beneath her—go up?

She made up her mind, for there was
no time to do otherwise. Desperate with terror, Deirdre tilted back her head,
scurried skyward, and didn’t stop until she reached the hole that led into the
maintop. She hauled herself through it and lay there on the platform, too
terrified to look down.

And so it was that she missed
Captain Christian Lord’s arrival.

###

“Blind me, what the deuced hell is wrong
with these people, Hendricks?!” Christian snapped, his gray eyes hard with fury
as he stared up at the gently curved tumblehome of Bold Marauder’s
black-and-gold hull. “This is a king’s ship, damn them, and as such they should
bloody well know the meaning of respect!”

“Aye, sir,” the dark-skinned
Jamaican bosun said, a bit ashamed that he’d been away from the frigate when his
friend and captain had sent the request for a gig. Had he been aboard, he would
never have allowed such a thing to happen. Rico Hendricks, a former slave, had
been with Christian since the captain’s days as a midshipman, when the young
boy-officer had rescued him from the gallows after Rico’s involvement in a
scheme to overthrow his cruel master in Jamaica. Christian had changed little
over the years in that respect, Rico thought as he took the squirming,
wet dog from his captain’s arms. He might be harder, he might be harsher, he
might be a hell of a lot sadder, but he still had a soft spot for the
unfortunate and the abused.

And swift and fitting justice for
the kind of pranks the new crew was up to.

Rico had been ashore, procuring
some spare cordage, when he’d found Christian stalking the quay in a towering
rage. From the interactions he’d had with the officers and crew of HMS Bold
Marauder, Rico knew his captain was going to have his hands full with this
bunch. Not only had his request for a gig been blatantly ignored, there was no
one at the entry port to welcome him aboard his new command. And for a man who
detested any slur on the king’s Navy—be it a sloppy uniform, ungentlemanly
behavior on the part of an officer, or any breach in discipline that would
weaken the chain that was the Service—the simple denial of a welcoming party
was a declaration of war on the part of a crew who had yet to learn just whom
they were dealing with.

It was not a good beginning.

The boat’s crew, a sloppy, sorry
bunch of malcontents who looked like dregs out of Newgate, made several
halfhearted attempts to hook onto Bold Marauder's main chains before
finally succeeding. Furious, Christian looked up, still expecting the customary
shrill of pipes, the smart rectangle of marines presenting arms, the roll of a
drum, and the organized fanfare a ship was supposed to give its captain.

But there was nothing. Not even a
soul at the entry port.

Fuming, he scaled the ship’s side,
vowing that such nonsense would not be tolerated under his command.
Behind him came Rico, cradling the captain’s new pet in the crook of his arm,
grinning to himself, and anticipating spectacular fireworks. At last, Christian
reached the entry port and stepped smartly onto the frigate’s deck.

There was no one there to receive
him, just a seaman lounging against the bulwarks and watching him, picking his
teeth with the blade of his knife.

Christian saluted the quarterdeck
with tight efficiency, respectfully doffing his hat. Then he slammed it back
atop his head and marched past a row of mutinous-looking men who sneered at him
and spat on the deck in disdain after his passing. Straight up the ladder to
the great, double-spoked wheel he went, his eyes blazing.

A seaman stood at the rail nearby,
with a licey-looking mat of black hair and a beard that reached to his waist.
He gave Christian an insolent glance. Then he went right on with what he was
doing—nonchalantly carving his initials into the gunwale with a knife that
could have skewered a cow from one end to another.

Without breaking stride, Christian
reached out, spun him around, and, grabbing the man by the unsightly black
growth that sprouted from his jaw, yanked him forward.

“Your name, sailor!”

“Arthur Teach,” the seaman sneered .
. . sir.”

“Well, Mr. Teach, fetch your first
lieutenant and bring him to me.”

“Don’t know where he is.”

“Then find him, you devilish bit of
rabble! My patience has already been sorely tested and I warn you, the
consequences of its being lost will not be pleasant for you or anyone else!” He
yanked Teach forward by the beard until their eyes were inches apart, and
snatched the knife from his hand. “Furthermore, I shall abide no defacing of
property that doesn’t belong to you, and I insist on a clean-shaven crew. Do I
make myself clear?”

Teach made a rude gesture, tried to
turn away—and had his neck nearly broken as the captain, still holding him by
the beard, jerked his head around and hacked the evil growth off with one swoop
of his own knife. Then he flung both the weapon and the chunk of beard to the
deck, his eyes hard as he stared up into those of the stunned Teach.

"Now do I make myself
clear?”

Teach stood gaping, his mouth
opening and closing, his hands slowly coming up to feel his jaw. His face went
white with shock, then red with fury, and Christian heard the hushed whispers
from the group that was now gathering near the mainmast.

“Jee-zus, he just hacked off
Teach’s beard!”

“Holy Moses,” another
breathed.

Christian seized the seaman’s
sleeve and roughly shoved him forward. “I gave you an order to bring me your
first lieutenant. Now, move!”

Teach staggered away, dazed, his
hands cupping his shorn jaw. Out of the corner of his eye Christian saw
Hendricks, still holding the little spaniel and watching him carefully, ready
as always to step in and assist him should the need arise. But Christian was
well able to take care of himself. He watched the men rushing up from below,
gathering by the boats in the ship’s waist, talking excitedly and staring at
him in shock, disbelief, and sullen, open rebellion.

But he was in no mood to put up
with further nonsense. “Now that I have your undivided attention,” he began,
raking them with his gray stare, “allow me to clarify something for you. This
is a king’s ship and, as such, is part of the most powerful Navy in the world.
She was designed by a colleague of mine, a naval architect who is a master at
his trade, and therefore should wear her name with pride, not disgrace. I
intend to give her back that pride, and I intend to start here and now. Henceforth,
you shall behave as seamen in the service of your king, honoring both this ship
and her officers by showing them respect!”

The crew eyed him balefully.
Someone spat. Someone else belched.

“The next time I come aboard this
ship, I expect a proper and ceremonious welcome. You will pipe me aboard and
you will stand at attention when I come through the entry port. As it should be
a while before I have to do so again, you should have plenty of time in which
to practice this simple ritual.” Drawing his sword, he clasped his hands over
the hilt and rested the point against the deck, his smile cold and forbidding.
“Is that understood?”

Silence.

The wind played with his queue, was
cold against his cheeks. “After I read myself in, we will weigh anchor and commence
our journey to the American colonies, where we will lend our assistance
to Vice Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd in easing the mounting tension in Boston.”
He paused, feeling their hatred crackling through the air like lightning in an
electrical storm. “Do I make myself clear?”

No one moved.

“Splendid!” He threw back his
shoulders, his bright tone belying his cold, hard eyes. “I see that we have
already arrived at an understanding. And I expect that we will understand
each other even better by the end of this voyage. Should you demonstrate
obedience and loyalty, you will find me a most agreeable commander. In the
meantime, I warn you—do not test my patience, for you’ll find it damnably
short.”

The crew, all one hundred and fifty
of them, stared at him, their eyes filled with loathing.

“Any questions?”

No one moved. The seaman who’d spat
did so again.

Without pause, Christian ordered, “Get
a bucket and clean that up.”

The seaman stared at him.

Christian locked gazes with him.
“I’ll not repeat myself.”

The offender looked to Teach as
though for permission—or, more likely, permission for refusal—and, finding no
response from that quarter, walked slowly to one of the buckets lying near the
bulwarks.

“Lively, now!” Christian prompted.

Every eye was on the seaman as, scowling,
he picked up the bucket and swaggered back to his former spot. With a curse, he
let it drop to the deck. Dirty water splashed out and made a pool at his feet.

“You may clean that up, too,
sailor. And when you have finished you may give the mop and bucket to Mr. Teach
so he can remove that ugly mess of black hair that is even now fouling my
decks. This is a fighting ship, not a barbershop!”

With that he turned smartly on his
heel, marched past them, and, ducking his head beneath the deck beams, went
below. There should have been a marine stationed outside his cabin door, and it
didn’t surprise him to find that there was not.

Another thing that would have to
change, of course.

Entering the cabin, he slammed the
door shut, but not before allowing the little spaniel, who had followed him
belowdecks, to slip into his quarters. Christian released his pent-up breath, and
willed his anger to abate. It would not do to be in such a black rage when the
first lieutenant arrived. He picked up the little dog, who trembled and turned
her face against his chest. He dipped his cheek to her fur and gently stroking
her fur, went to the stern windows and looked out over the harbor. He was going
to have his hands full with this crew. Already they had challenged his
authority—but, by God, when HMS Bold Marauder dropped anchor in Boston, Admiral
Sir Geoffrey Lloyd would see a ship that the Navy would be proud of.

But as he stared out over the
anchorage, the memories crept under his guard and drove away the troubles of
his new command, for the rebellious crew was of little consequence when
compared with the real devils that haunted him.

Tomorrow was the Black Anniversary,
five years to the night since she had died.

He took a deep, shaky breath, hugging
the little dog tight as he tried to block the memories, but they came flooding
back—just as they sometimes did during his waking hours, just as they always
did during his sleeping ones. But such hours weren’t filled with dreams. They
were filled with nightmares, nightmares that would haunt him for the rest of
his life.

Emily. If only he’d stayed
at home and been there for her, instead of off commanding ships of war, maybe
things would have been different. If only he hadn’t made a career out of the
Navy, maybe she wouldn’t have sought the arms of another. If only . . .

His cheeks were suddenly wet. He
buried his face against the spaniel’s soft ears, then raising his head, dragged
his arm over his eyes. The proud captain’s insignia on his sleeve blotted the
tears, but not the memories. “Dear God, Emily, forgive me my failures. As a
friend. As a lover. As—” He swallowed the thick, burning lump that caught
suddenly in his throat. “As a husband.”

Chapter 3

Deirdre couldn’t stay up here
forever.

Above, there was only a web of
spars and lines and a sky smeared with clouds. Mustering her courage, she looked
down—and immediately pressed herself back against the mast, her vision reeling
and her hand clutching her stomach as she willed herself not to be sick.

She’d taken only one quick glance,
but it had been enough. Far, far below, men scurried like ants on a deck that
looked hideously narrow from this far up. Birds flew beneath her, not above.
The waves on either side of the ship were tiny with distance, and she was so
high up that she could look across, and down at, the rooftops of the buildings
that framed the waterfront.

Shaking convulsively with both cold
and fear, Deirdre shut her eyes. Oh, God, she thought, swallowing
against the rise of bile in her throat and barely able to move her paralyzed
throat muscles. Oh, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. She wiped sweating hands on
her trousers. Getting up here had been hard enough. But how was she going to
get down?

And now, someone was climbing
skyward. Her heart racing in mounting terror, Deirdre plastered her spine
against the mast. A head appeared, capped by a great, oily mop of brown curls
that looked as though it had never seen soap. The body that followed it
looked—and smelled—no cleaner.

It was the man she’d heard the
others refer to as Skunk. Grunting, he hoisted himself up beside her and
frowned as he studied her terrified face. “I know it’s always easier goin’ up
than gettin’ down, so I’ve come up to retrieve ye. Best get yer arse down there
before the bloody Lord ’n’ Master finds ye slouchin’ off.”

‘The Lord an’ Master?” she
squeaked. “D’ye mean our captain’s a titled gentleman?”

“Damned if I know or care. Hell, I
forgot, ye’re a bloody landlubber, aren’t ye?” He shook his head. “Lord ’n’
Master’s a name we tars give to the captain of a ship,” he explained. “But it
especially fits that bastard below, given ’is surname. Ye’d think ’e’s a bloody
nobleman, the way ’e struts around here givin’ orders an’ expectin’ ’em to be
obeyed!”

“But isn’t that what a captain’s
supposed to do? Give orders?”

“This here’s Bold Marauder,”
Skunk said vehemently. “We don’t take orders from nobody.”

“Oh,” Deirdre said in a small
voice.

“Anyhow, I came up here to drag ye
down. I knows yer scared, and ’is bloody Lordship’ll be topside any moment.
Pompous arse—we’re all in for a hard pull with the likes o’ that one in
command. Why, I’ll be bettin’ my eyeteeth ’e don’t know a damned thing about
sailin’ a ship; prob’ly got where ’e is by who ’e knows, not wot
’e knows, God rot his bloody, pampered hide!”

Deirdre said nothing, more
concerned about the climb back down than she was the captain.

“Cruel bastard. Ye know what ’e
did? Hacked off Teach’s beard, right in front of the whole bloody crew. Hacked
it right off! I’m tellin’ ye, ’e’d better watch ’is back now, ’cause Teach’ll
be out for him. ’Course, we already got ’im good—ever hear of sabotage?—but he
won’t know ’bout that for a bit; besides, it ain’t nothin’ compared to what ol’
Arthur’s planning. Some night the captain’ll wake up with ’is throat slit, and that’s
if ’e’s lucky!” Skunk moved easily to the shrouds. “Here, gimme yer hand, lad.
That’s it, slide on up behind me, put yer hands around my neck and hold on
tight. Not that tight; yer chokin’ me. Watch yer head there. That’s it.”

Holding her breath, Deirdre shut
her eyes and put her face against Skunk’s broad back, wondering how long she
could hold out before fainting—either from lack of air or from the strong odors
coming from her savior’s unscrubbed body. But they were going down, and that
was all that mattered.

“He think’s he’s gonna impress his
admiral by straightenin’ us out, but he’s got a thing or two to learn about us,
and we’ve got a thing or two of our own to show the admiral! You just
wait till we set sail, hee-hee-hee!” Skunk descended as easily as if he were
going down a flight of stairs and Deirdre, opening her eyes the barest slit,
breathed a prayer of relief as the faces of those below grew larger and larger.
“Aye, you wait. We don’t take no rubbish from no one, mark me well.” He swung
himself onto the deck and, kneeling, put her down. “Now, run along, boy, and
don’t let the Lord an’ Master see ye, else he’ll flay the skin off yer back and
smile while doing it.”

Deirdre needed no urging.
Humiliated, and keenly aware of the smirks, sneers, and taunts of Skunk’s
shipmates, she snatched up her canvas bag and fled forward, where she melted
safely into the group of seamen gathered in the forecastle. They stared at her
as though she had grown a horn in the middle of her forehead. Finally she found
a hatch and ducked below. Dear God, the ship wasn’t even out of port yet and
she was already in trouble. How on earth would she last the passage to America?

But she had no choice.

Brendan was in America, and he was
her only hope of finding her brother—and the hated British lieutenant who’d
pressed him.

###

“Get the ship under way, please,
Mr. MacDuff.”

Captain Lord stood near Bold
Marauder's great, double-spoked wheel, his hands gripping the hilt of his
sword and his eyes in shadow beneath the brim of his hat. He emanated authority
and discipline, and the Royal Navy couldn’t have boasted a more capable
commander.

The men hated him.

His hat, turned up in the back,
sporting a black cockade, and nearly spanning the width of his shoulders, was
edged with gold lace and set smartly atop his head. His blue coat, its gold
buttons winking in the sun, was open to show his scrupulously clean white
waistcoat and breeches. His neckcloth was smartly tied beneath his chin, his
sleeves were frothed with lace, and not a speck of dust marred the black shine of
his buckled shoes.

He looked every inch the naval
captain that he was. But only he knew of his trepidation at the thought of his
admiral, and his peers, watching from the shore, the signal tower, and the
decks of other vessels. Some of them, he knew, had delayed their own
departures, obviously unwilling to miss what promised to be quite the
spectacle.

He tightened his jaw, vowing there
would be no spectacle.

Beside him, his first lieutenant
stood, anxiously watching the anchor party. Christian glanced up at the
snapping masthead pennant and tried to ease the tension between himself and his
first officer. “A fine day to put to sea, eh, Mr. MacDuff?”

The lieutenant looked nervous.
“Aye, sir,” he muttered, slinging something over his shoulder.

Christian turned, frowning. “Pray
tell, what is that hellish contraption, Mr. MacDuff?”

“Bagpipes . . . sir.”

“And what is their purpose,
Lieutenant?”

“Er, tae make music, sir.”

“Have they any place in a battle?”

“No, sir. Not in a sea battle, that
is . . .”

“Very well, then. I’d prefer that
you leave them in your cabin when you are in the capacity of your command.”

“But—”

“Mr. MacDuff, that is an order.”

Christian tightened his lips. Bagpipes?
By God, what the devil was the Navy coming to? Shaking his head, he
glanced at the sailing master. A heavyset man, Tom Wenham had great, jutting
ears that seemed to hold up his hat. Several fingers were missing from his left
hand, and the tip of his bulbous nose was raw and sunburned. Beside him stood a
feral-looking lad dressed in the dirty and stained uniform of a midshipman, a
slate in one hand, a pencil in the other.

Christian put his hands behind his
back and rocked on his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ian
MacDuff eyeing him nervously and stroking his beard, as though fearful that it
would meet the same fate as Teach’s. MacDuff had damned good reason to be
nervous. As the frigate’s second-in-command, he should be setting an example,
not provoking more rebelliousness. Facial hair would not be
tolerated—and neither would that outlandish Scottish garb.

Sudden anger inflamed Christian. By
God, this was the Navy, not a damned circus show!

But he would wait until they were
at sea before addressing the matter of Ian’s beard—as well as Hibbert’s filthy
uniform and a score of other outrages he’d already noted in his log. Weighing
anchor and getting the ship under way was a delicate enough operation without
further complicating matters by alienating his first officer. And as for the
crew itself . . . they hated him now, yes, and they’d probably hate him even
more once they got away from England and the ocean rolled beneath their keel.

Not that it bothered him, for he
was not a man who courted friendship or popularity. For now, all that mattered
was getting Bold Marauder safely away from Portsmouth without mishap in
sight of his acquaintances, his peers, or—God forbid—his admiral.

His apprehension built. The wind
was blowing fresh, and it wouldn’t take much to land Bold Marauder in
trouble—literally. He laced his fingers together behind his back and took a
deep breath. Forward, the anchor was nearly hove short, the men swearing and
straining at the capstan, the great cable thundering and clanking through the
hawseholes. A bosun’s mate stood astride the bowsprit, his greasy pigtail
whipping in the cold wind, one hand wrapped around a stay, the other circling
in indication of how much cable was left to bring in.

Suddenly the man raised his hand,
and Rhodes, who’d been supervising the capstan party, yelled, “Anchor’s hove
short, sir!”

Christian gave the barest
perceptible nod. He glanced quickly at the signal tower on the shore, where
flags fluttered in the wind, giving him permission to proceed.

Yes, they are all watching. The
whole damned harbor . . .

“Bring it in,” he commanded.

But something was wrong. He knew it
even as the men at the capstan heaved, swore, and glanced in mock confusion at
each other. He knew it even as he heard several amused guffaws. And he knew it
even as he saw several seamen exchange glances and turn away to hide their
sudden smirks.

Above, the wind blew impatiently,
and out of the corner of his eye Christian saw the flash of sunlight against a
telescope from shore.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Rhodes?”

Rhodes turned, a helpless look on his
face that was directly at odds with the glint in his eye. “Uh, the anchor seems
to be fouled, sir.”

Bloody hell. Christian
closed his eyes and mentally went through a vocabulary of much bluer naval
language. “Are you certain, Mr. Rhodes?”

The lieutenant was peering over the
bulwarks. Christian heard the crew snickering, and his apprehension turned to
raw fury.

Sabotage.

Rhodes straightened up, feigning
innocence. “Aye, sir,” he called. “Seems to be caught on something.”

Silence, with only the wind and the
lap of the waves. Christian thought of those who were watching: Sir Elliott . .
. the men in the signal tower . . . the hundreds of spectators, as well as
other captains, officers, and seamen in and around Portsmouth Harbor and Spithead—

“Your orders, sir?” Rhodes called, with
a seemingly benign smile.

The embarrassment of losing an
anchor couldn’t have come at a worse time, and there were only two things he
could do: either delay his departure and try to retrieve it, or cut the cable
and get the hell out of there.

He thought of all the eyes watching
from shore, from the other ships, and wasted no time on a decision.

“Hands aloft to loose tops’ls.”

From below the quarterdeck rail, he
heard fierce whispers that he did his best to ignore and vowed not to forget.

“This’ll really make him
look bad!”

“Aye, ’twill bring his bloody
Lordship down a tuppence or two!”

His order was repeated through
speaking trumpets. Men ran to the braces while others scrambled up the ratlines
and out along the yards. Sail spilled down, rolling in the wind with a noise
like thunder. The wind was blowing strong, and he knew he would have only a few
short moments to get the sails properly set before the frigate was swept
dangerously close to shore and the other anchored vessels. He would have to
move fast, for once the cable was cut—

His heart began to hammer in his
throat. From shore, another telescope glinted in the sunlight. Another, from an
admiral’s flagship . . .

He saw Rico, waiting for his next
order; he felt the frigate trembling deep in her bones. He took a deep,
steadying breath, stared nervously at the land, and snapped, “Prepare to lose
the anchor.”

The cable was cut. Like a bird
trying out its wings for the first time, the frigate reeled drunkenly, her
canvas flapping, her yards jumping, the men aloft yelling with alarm, and some
with fear, as their precarious footholds jerked and bucked beneath them.

“Look alive on those braces!”

On deck, swearing, shouting men
were laid nearly on their backs as they heaved and hauled at the braces. From
above came a yell of alarm as a topman slipped on a foot-rope and nearly fell.

Christian stared at the land
drawing closer and closer. “Get those bloody tops’ls set!” he roared.

The shore was now so close that he
could see the people lining the docks and watching the magnificent sight of a
king’s ship getting under way; it was so close that he could hear the jeering
hoots of ridicule from a moored sloop of war whose crew knew that the sight
wasn’t the least bit magnificent; it was so close that he could see the windows
of an inn, and the glint of sun off another telescope. Another . . .

“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.

Chapter 5

It had been several hours since Bold
Marauder’s disastrous attempt to get under way. Now the frigate lay out in Portsmouth
Harbor, her taffrail lantern glowing softly upon the water and making a beacon
in the night. Heathmore, apparently, had been successful in freeing her from
the old admiral’s flagship, but the damage done to her—and to the crew’s
respect for him as their new commanding officer—remained to be seen.

The crew he would deal with, in his
own time and way. It was the girl who had Christian most distressed; the girl,
and his own passionate reaction to her.

At the edge of the wharf he
slipped, bone-weary and exhausted, onto a bench to await the gig. Dropping his
chin into his neckcloth, he wrapped his arms around himself against the cold
wind, and thought back over the afternoon. It had been a nightmare. Long hours
spent undergoing rigorous questioning by a panel of five captains presided over
by Sir Elliott himself; endless waiting, pacing the floor, while in the adjoining
room his past was dissected and his future decided; anger with himself for
trusting in an undeserving crew, and fury with his own personal weakness
regarding poor, wretched souls in need of help, ranging from starving spaniels
to Irish urchins.

That weakness had nearly cost him
his career—not to mention his ship.

“Here comes the gig now, sir,”
Hendricks said, rousing him from his morose thoughts.

“Thank God.” Christian opened his
eyes and, not lifting his head, stared down at his feet, his mind many leagues
away.

“I know you’re thinking about her,
sir,” the bosun said, in reference to his captain’s dead wife, “but maybe you
ought to go out and get yourself soused tonight, if you don’t mind me saying
so.”

“I do mind you saying so,”
Christian retorted, angry with himself that it had been the girl he’d been
thinking about and not his dead wife—especially on this, of all nights. “And
getting myself soused will not relieve the pain, or bring her back.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s just that—well, I
hate to see you suffer—”

“Hendricks—”

“And there are other women
in this world.”

“Hendricks!”

The bosun’s  teeth flashed white in
the darkness. “Of course, if you were to interest yourself in that
Irishwoman, no one has to know—”

Christian’s sharp glance silenced him.
“You have an impertinent tongue, Rico!”

The bosun bowed mockingly. “Thank
you, sir.”

“And one of these days I’m going to
ship you out on another vessel and let someone else deal with it.”

“After you’ve cut it out, sir?”
Hendrick’s eyes twinkled at the old joke.

“Aye, Rico. After I’ve cut
it out.”

Together, they watched the gig’s
approach in the darkness. Its presence boded no happiness for Christian. Soon
it would carry him back to Bold Marauder, and he dreaded all that
awaited him there—the girl, the crew, the humiliation, and always, the
nightmares that would engulf him once he succumbed to the sleep his weary body
so craved.

But tonight, he knew, those
nightmares would be worse than they’d ever been—for tonight was the eve of the
Black Anniversary.

The gig bumped against the wharf.
Christian stared down at his buckled shoes and murmured, “Damn, what I wouldn’t
give for a tall glass of brandy and a warm bed.”

“Don’t know about the brandy, sir,
but I’m sure the warm bed, at least, will be awaiting you . . .”

“Rico?”

“Aye, sir?”

“Shut up.”

The bosun grinned. “So,” he
ventured, casually, “who do you think she is, anyhow? The Irish girl, that is?”

Why do I even bother?
Christian thought, tipping his head back over the bench and staring up at the
stars with increasing annoyance. “Damned if I know.”

“I’ll bet she’s some doxy, brought
aboard for the mutual amusement of herself and the crew.”

“Well, she was anything but amused
when I found her. If she’s a doxy, she’s an even better actress. She seems so .
. .” He paused, frowning as he tried to find the right word.

“Innocent?” Hendricks offered, one
mocking brow raised.

“Aye, innocent.”

“Well, next time you’re tempted to
believe that heap of rot, remember what she did to you. Then think of what her innocence
nearly cost you, as far as your career goes. Why, if it weren’t for your
flawless record—”

“Hendricks—”

“And the fact that Sir Elliott is
your own brother—”

“Hendricks! By God, man, do
you ever give up?”

Grinning, the bosun jumped down
into the boat as it bumped against the wharf. As usual, not much perturbed the
fellow, and for that, Christian was grateful. Stuffing his cold-numbed hands deep
into his pockets to warm them, he strode to the edge of the pier, carefully
keeping any trace of emotion from his stony features. Again, the image of
frightened purple eyes and a snarl of raven curls rose in his mind. Damn the
girl! He ought to be planning the best way to handle that wretched lot of
malcontents that awaited him, not thinking about a woman!

Still, his behavior today had been
deplorable, and he couldn’t blame Elliott for his anger. As a king’s captain,
he was expected to conduct himself accordingly; to behave as an officer and a
gentleman; to exercise sound judgment, leadership, and diplomacy in his every
action; to put his country before himself.

“Hendricks, are you bloody ready
yet?” he snapped.

“Aye, sir,” the bosun called up
from below, his face glowing in the light of a lantern held by one of the gig’s
crew.

Thank God. Christian climbed
down into the gig and settled in the stern. Aware of the speculative glances of
the crew, he sat rigidly as the oarsmen shoved off, shivering with cold,
wishing he had his heavy boat cloak, and being careful to keep his gaze on the
moored frigate. They would get no hint of the day’s rulings from him, by God.

Yet as the gig cut through the black
water of the harbor, he couldn’t help but wonder why the Irish girl had even
been aboard the frigate. Unlike Hendricks, he didn’t believe her to be a
paid doxy; besides, no doxy would have shielded her breasts with her arms, as
the Irish girl had. No, she was probably some orphaned waif who’d accepted a
coin or two from his crew in return for making his life hell.

No doubt, he thought on a sudden
intuition, the “whipping” had been carefully staged, too!

His jaw tightened. Why hadn’t he
seen it before? She probably was working for the crew, a party to their
malicious attempts to rid their happy ship of her newest commander. No doubt
they’d all spent the day laughing their arses off over his complete and total
humiliation!

Christian’s fingers began an
agitated tattoo against the gunwale. Laugh, would they? Bugger the lot of them!
There’d be hell to pay after this, by God!

He had worked himself into a fine,
fuming rage by the time the gig nudged against Bold Marauder’s hull, a
dark wall that loomed above them like a small fortress. As the coxswain hailed
the frigate, Christian looked up, saw the ship’s yards and rigging silhouetted
against the starlit sky, and—wonder of wonders!—movement near the entry port.

“The devil take me,” he muttered.
Finally, a proper ceremony for the captain as he boarded his command.

His spirits lifted, ever so
slightly, and despite his aching leg, his sore groin, and his wounded pride, he
almost smiled.

Until he hauled himself through the
entry port and saw what awaited him.

No.

It couldn’t be.

But it was. Lieutenant Ian MacDuff,
decked out in that ridiculous Scottish cap and plaid, standing at attention
with a single, foolishly grinning marine—Evans—smartly presenting arms.

“Welcome aboard, sir!” Ian
beamed, and before Christian, flabbergasted and shocked, could call a halt to
this lunacy, the Scotsman tucked his bagpipes under his arm, slammed his elbow
into the bag, and, grinning at the loud, droning hum that blasted forth, shoved
the mouthpiece between his lips.

“Dear God in heaven,” Christian
murmured. And then he forgot the events of the day, his dread of the inevitable
nightmare, and even the girl who awaited him in his cabin as the first
ear-shattering notes came bawling out of the bagpipes at a volume loud enough
to drown out everything but his own agony.

“Enough, Mr. MacDuff!” he yelled,
over the noise.

His face puffed up and red with
effort, Ian, launching into a tune that might—with a little imagination and a
lot of brandy—have been “Rule Britannia,” never heard him.

“By the grace of Almighty God, stop!”

Christian waved his arms in a final
attempt to get his lieutenant’s attention—then swiftly turned and beat a hasty
retreat aft.

Ian raced after him, crestfallen.
Leaping over a coiled line, his eyes filled with hopeless despair, he cried,
“Sir, wait! ’Tis trying I be, honestly!” He shoved the mouthpiece back between
his lips and, catching the last sigh of raucous air as it exited the bag, took
up where he had left off.

“Hendricks!” Christian yelled over
his shoulder. “I cannot for the life of me imagine a more ghastly sound!”

“What?”

“I said—oh, go on with you. I’m
going below!”

“What? I can’t hear you!”

There was no point in trying to be
heard. His ears ringing, his head pounding, Christian dove to the hatch, ducked
beneath the low deckhead beams, flung open his door—

—and was nearly decapitated by the
sword that came singing out of the darkness to slam into the bulkhead just
beside his ear.

Chapter 6

She’d missed.

Oh, dear, I’ve done it now,
Deirdre thought wildly.

In the faint glow of moonlight, she
saw the English captain stumble back against the bulkhead, momentarily dazed by
the viciousness of her unexpected attack.

Then he came for her.

Deirdre fled behind the table. “Get
away from me!”

“Come here, foundling.”

“I said, get away from me!”

He stood unmoving, every muscle
tensed to spring, his face almost unholy in the glow of the lantern. Raw terror
paralyzed her, for even in the gloom she could see the glint in his eyes, the
harsh set of his unforgiving mouth, and the anger in his stance—anger he held
barely in check.

Deirdre’s gaze cut to the door,
looking for escape.

“Really, my dear, I have no
intention of doing you the harm you mean me.”

He feinted to one side, Deirdre
dove to her right—and smashed directly into his chest. It was like hitting a solid
wall. She panicked as his arms closed around her. With a cry, she drove her
foot down on his toe and lunged for the door, knowing she’d never make it in
time.

He caught her as her hand hit the
latch.

“Filthy English dog!” she
raged, fighting him. “I’ll see ye dead!”

“And I’ll have some answers from
you if it damn well kills me!”

“Good, I hope it does!” She kicked
out at him, but he only hauled her, kicking and screaming, across the cabin.
His face was an icy mask of determination, and he didn’t stop until he’d
dragged her into the separate sleeping compartment. There, with a lack of
dignity that stung her already wounded pride, he picked her up and tossed her
across the bed, his eyes blazing as her shirt, far too big for her, gapped
open, baring one of her breasts to his gaze.

Angrily, he grabbed a blanket and
flung it over her. “Cover yourself, doxy!”

Deirdre, unwilling to accept
anything from this man, flung the blanket aside. “I am Irish,” she said
proudly, her eyes glittering and defiant, “but I am no doxy!”

“You will forgive me if evidence
leads me to conclude otherwise.” His eyes narrowed. “Now tell me, which of my
crew of reprobates and rogues is responsible for smuggling you aboard this ship
in an attempt to beguile and irritate me?”

“None of them! I came of my own
accord!”

“You lie.”

“Even if I did, I’d see ye in hell
before I’d tell you!”

“Then have a good look, because I’ve
been in hell these past five years . . . and now—“ his gaze dropped to
her exposed breast —“I would like a taste of heaven.”

She froze. He leaned down and
lifted one black, spiraling curl. Despite himself, and his efforts to prevent
it, his gaze dropped again to her skewed shirt, and the bare curve of her
breast, pale in the lantern light, that she had refused to cover. Something
stirred, deep inside of himself, and he took a deep and steadying breath—

But then Emily’s face appeared in
his mind’s eye, her eyes accusing, and the fire in his blood cooled as quickly
as it had flared to life. Anger, swift and savage, filled him, and, desperate
to hold on to something he hadn’t felt in over five years, he plunged his
fingers into the doxy’s snarled hair and lowered his mouth toward hers. She
tried to twist away, but his thumb caught her jaw, forcing her to still, and
before he could help himself, he was claiming her lips in a hard kiss that was
meant to prove something to himself far more than it was ever meant to do the
same for her. She whimpered deep in her throat, her struggles only fanning his
determination to drive away the devils that had tormented him for so long—and
to affirm that he could still, by God, function as a man.

Her struggles increased.  Christian
was no brute. He abruptly released her, shaken to his depths by what she had
awakened in him, and turning his back, wanting only to put distance between
himself and her, stalked away.

It was a mistake, and he knew it
even as something slammed into the nape of his neck with an impact that sent
him to his knees; a moment later, he found himself on his back, the girl’s knee
driving into his belly and the short black nose of his own pistol just inches
from his startled eyes.

His blood turned cold.

There was an ominous click as she brought
the gun to half cock. This can’t be happening to me, he thought. He,
who’d survived Quiberon and countless naval battles, storms at sea, and other
perils that made up the everyday life of any sea officer.  He—about to die at
the hands of a crazy young woman? But no, this was all too real. It was,
indeed, happening. He swallowed, not daring, even, to breathe.

Her hand shaking, she brought the
gun closer to his face. Behind it, now so close that he could smell the spent
powder from previous firings, he could see that her eyes were cold and hard.

“For thirteen long years,” she said,
pushing her hair off her forehead with trembling fingers, “I’ve waited for this
moment. Thirteen long years, I’ve waited for the chance to kill ye.”

Christian stared into the deadly
black mouth of the pistol, his mind racing over a short list of long-forgotten
paramours whom he must have unwittingly spurned.  He wasn’t in the business of
breaking hearts, but then, maybe his memory wasn’t as sound as he’d thought it
to be. Not surprising, given his current predicament—

“Thirteen long years, Lieutenant,
to avenge the terrible wrong ye did me and me family. . .”

Cold metal touched his forehead—and
then he heard the mad skitter of nails as Tildy shot from off the bed and
across the cabin toward him. In a single, swift movement, the girl jerked the
pistol around—

“Don’t!" Christian
cried hoarsely. . .

—and swung back to face him, her
eyes panicky.

He swallowed hard, and shut his
eyes. “. . . Hurt my dog.”

“What?”

“Please . . . don’t hurt my dog.”

The girl’s mouth fell open and she
stared down at him in confusion and astonishment. Slowly, shakily, she lowered
the gun.

Christian let out his breath and
closed his eyes.

And Deirdre, still straddling the
English captain with her knee deep in his abdomen, felt her blood go cold as
the awful reality of what she had almost done, flooded her.

I almost killed a man.

The gun was suddenly a horrible,
wretched thing, and she put it down, recoiling from it and feeling suddenly
sick. The dog, whining, had fallen upon the captain, licking his face in a frenzied
display of love and devotion. He did nothing to push the animal away, instead,
wrapping his arms around the squirming little body and hugging it close, apparently
more concerned with the dog’s welfare than his own. Deirdre stared down at him
in frustration, confusion, and self-disgust. She had failed miserably in her
self-appointed mission to avenge her brother, make good on her promise to her
mother, and do honor to the proud blood that ran in her veins.

Granuaile, who would have had no
trouble dispatching an enemy, especially a hated English one, wouldn’t be proud
of her, now.

“Thank you,” she heard him say,
beneath the dog’s soft whines.

“For what?” she spat scathingly.
“Not killin’ ye?”

“No . . . for not hurting my dog.”

Hysteria, insane and unexpected,
rose up in her and it was all she could do not to let out a bark of laughter as
she got to her feet. “I was wrong to come here,” she said, as the captain got
to his feet, the little dog safely cradled in his arms. “I’m leavin’.”

“It is nearly midnight, madam. Despite your seeming appetite for violence, I am adverse to setting a young woman loose
in the streets of Portsmouth at this hour. You will remain here until the
morning, at which time I will gladly see to your request.”

“I will not stay here with ye!”

“That choice is not yours to make.
But do not fear, you are quite safe, I can assure you. You have my word as a
gentleman that I will not avail myself of your charms, delightful and dangerous
though they may be.”

“You think I’d believe the word of
a dirty, thievin’ Englishman?”

“Probably not.” He eyed her
dubiously, retrieved the blanket he’d tried to give her earlier, and offered it
to her once more. This time, she grudgingly accepted it. “Oh, don’t get me
wrong,” he added. “I would like to see what you offer, if only to prove
to myself that I can still enjoy a kiss, a touch, a tryst, as much as the next
fellow . . . but I daresay that would be a most ill-conceived idea, given our
present feelings toward each other.” His voice was suddenly rough and unguarded,
and he turned abruptly away. “You see, I loved a woman once . . . but she was
taken from me in the cruelest way imaginable. Love has no place in my dead
heart, and lust, no place in the disciplined order of my life.” He looked at
her then, his eyes dark and haunted. “Therefore, you are quite safe with me.”

He moved away from her, cold and
aloof once more, and she wondered if the brief vulnerability she had seen—or
thought she’d seen—in his eyes, had been nothing more than a trick of the
lantern light. “Tomorrow I will set you ashore,” he said. “But tonight, you
will sleep in my bed. Alone. I will take my rest on the bench seat in my main
cabin. Do not hesitate to summon me if you need me for any reason.”

He picked up the little dog and
moved behind the canvas screen.

Leaving Deirdre alone.

Chapter 7

It was nearly midnight, several hours later.

While their captain had faced his
admiral’s wrath, the crew had worked all day to replace the damaged spars and
rigging suffered by the collision with Admiral Burns’s flagship and now, exhausted
but triumphant over the earlier debacle, sat around a table in the wardroom,
laughing over the embarrassment they had caused their new Lord and Master.

The door opened.

“Mr. MacDuff, sir?” The youngest of
the frigate’s three midshipmen poked his head into the crowded wardroom and
then darted inside, shoving through seaman and officers until he came to Ian.
The big Scotsman sat on a sea chest, polishing his bagpipes with a square of
linen and half watching a card game that took up the entire table.

Ian glanced up, scowling. “Hugh,
laddie! ’Tis past your bedtime, and there be things in here ye shouldnae be
seein’!”

But little Hugh’s eyes had already
found the thing they shouldn’t be seeing, and gaping at the scantily clad woman
who sat atop Milton Lee’s knee, he managed to blurt, “Captain’s compliments,
and he requests your presence in his day cabin!”

“Uh-oh, you’re in for it now,”
Milton Lee predicted darkly, sliding a hand up the doxy’s thigh. “The admiral’s
probably taken the Lord and Master down a peg or two and now he’s looking for
someone to put the blame on.”

Skunk roared with laughter and
dealt a new hand of cards, the movements of his arm sending a cloud of stench across
the table and making those nearest to him gag. “An’ looks like yer that someone,
Ian!”

“Aye, fine job you did, getting us
under way this afternoon,” said Russell Rhodes, smirking as he leaned against
one of the twelve-pounder cannon that competed for space in the wardroom.

“And a fine job you did, my
handsome lieutenant,” the woman purred, sliding from Lee’s lap and sauntering
across the cabin to Rhodes. She touched his arm, letting her nails drag up his
sleeve while she tilted her head flirtatiously and stared into his eyes.
“Hiding me down there in your brig . . . such a perfect place for a friendly
liaison, no? Why, I can’t wait”—her husky voice dropped to a rich, throaty
whisper—“to have you all to myself!”

“Delight, please, have me first!”
cried Midshipman Hibbert, grinning foolishly and sweeping off his stained and
dirty hat.

As the room erupted into laughter,
the woman turned her bold gaze on the fourteen-year-old, letting it drift
slowly down his filthy, wrinkled uniform and toward his groin, until young
Hibbert’s pink cheeks began to turn red. “Why, Hibbert, cheri, I just
love young boys . . . their energy is so tireless, their enthusiasm so
refreshing, no? But I think I shall wait till tomorrow . . . and then eat you
for breakfast!”

Hibbert went scarlet. Raucous
guffaws split the small room and Skunk clapped the midshipman across the back.
Only the beardless Arthur Teach, who’d spent the better part of the evening
sulking in the corner, did not join in their laughter. Now he sat sullenly
polishing a tomahawk, taken in trade from an Indian chief he’d once met in the
American colonies. The blade glittered dangerously in the lantern light.

“What, have ye no comment tae make,
Arthur?” Ian prodded, getting to his feet and twirling his bonnet on his thumb.
“Nothing tae say about our new Lord and Master?”

The seaman looked up, his eyes
black with menace. Slowly, he ran his finger down the flat of the tomahawk’s
blade.

“I’ll kill him,” he vowed softly.

Nobody moved. Skunk exchanged
nervous glances with Ian. Hibbert paled and looked at his feet. Even the
yellow-haired woman paused, her hand going still on Rhodes’s arm.

Outside, the winter wind blew
ominously around the hull.

The young midshipman finally broke
the heavy silence. “Er, Mr. MacDuff, sir?” he squeaked, moving fearfully away
from Teach. “The captain’s waiting. And, begging your pardon, sir, but he’s in
a foul temper.”

“Aye, as I expect he would be,” Ian
murmured, frowning. He raked a hand through his thick red hair, donned his cap,
and prepared to face the music.

###

Unable—and unwilling—to sleep,
Captain Christian Lord sat in his day cabin, thinking about the girl in his bed
such a short distance away. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to take his mind off
her by reading Bold Marauder’s log under her previous captain when the
thump of Evans’s musket on the deck outside announced the arrival of Ian
MacDuff.

He shut the leather-bound book with
a snap and looked up. The Scotsman, framed by the swinging deckhead lantern
behind him, stood at the door, nervously twisting his bonnet in his hands.

“Do come in, Mr. MacDuff.”

Bobbing his head, the Scot entered
the cabin, aware of the raw disapproval on his captain’s face as he took in his
outlandish attire. Ian had worn his plaid in defiance of Navy regulations and
in proud display of his heritage, but now, under that frigid scrutiny, and
without the backup of his fellow miscreants, he felt rather silly. Especially
with his blue uniform coat thrown haphazardly over the whole thing and his
knees, sprouting red hair, peeping out from beneath.

“I do trust you will discard that ridiculous
attire and dress yourself appropriately,” Christian remarked dryly. “You test
the limits of my patience with the beard, but I cannot abide both. Choose one
or the other, Mr. MacDuff, and we will get along famously.”

Taken aback, Ian stared at him, for
he’d expected a sharp reprimand for both the beard and the plaid. Eyeing the
captain warily, he pulled out a chair, his gaze falling upon the screen that
divided the day cabin from the captain’s sleeping area. Was the Lord and Master
keeping the young Irishwoman in there? He grinned slyly; if so, the knowledge
would be wonderful fodder for the lads back in the wardroom . . .

Ian glanced up—and found the gray
eyes quietly assessing him. His grin promptly faded. He returned the stare with
innocent defiance, trying in vain to discern the strengths and weaknesses
behind the captain’s cold eyes. The Lord and Master was a handsome man, but Ian
was not jaded into thinking that was all he was. He recognized, and respected,
the power in his new captain’s shoulders, the intelligence behind his eyes, the
determination in the set of his mouth, the discipline reflected in the
scrupulously neat and clean state of his uniform.

As for weaknesses, Ian MacDuff
could discern none.

He felt the first twinges of alarm.
He and the crew might not have an easy time of it, winning their ship back from
such a man as this.

“Despite the debacle of this
afternoon, I appreciate that you managed to restore the ship to sailing
condition in such a timely manner,” the captain said. “It was more than I
expected of any of you.”

“Why . . . thank you, sir.”

The captain smiled faintly, but his
gaze remained cold as it settled unnervingly on Ian. “Mistakes do happen, do
they not?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Of course, they only happen once.
Twice, and they are put down to incompetence—and incompetence, we all know, has
no place on a fighting ship.”

“Aye, sir.” Ian said again.

“I am sensible to the fact that
this afternoon’s doings were no accident, Mr. MacDuff.  I know you would all be
quite happy to see the last of me, but I can assure you that I won’t be as easy
to dislodge as my predecessors have been.”

“But sir, we don’t—“

“However, I am willing to forgive what
happened earlier. The mistake, of course, was mine, and mine alone, for
trusting my command to a crew whose strengths and weaknesses I’ve yet to
discern—and whose loyalty I’ve yet to secure. But mark me, I will not make that
mistake again. Tomorrow I will carry out a complete inspection of this vessel
before we weigh. We will leave Portsmouth under my hand”—he eyed Ian
coldly—“and I expect your cooperation in seeing that our people behave in an
organized, well-disciplined fashion.”

“Aye, sir,” Ian repeated, beginning
to squirm.

The captain leaned across the
table, poured brandy into two glasses, and pushed one toward Ian. “In any case,
I did not summon you here to chide you for the events of this afternoon.”

Ian bolted the brandy, growing more
and more nervous under the captain’s flinty stare.

“I summoned you, by God, because I
would like an explanation as to who is responsible for bringing that trollop
aboard my command!”

Ian nearly choked on the liquor.
“T-trollop, sir?”

“That deuced Irishwoman, damn you!”

Thank the gods he hadn’t been referring
to Delight, Ian thought in dizzy relief. Surely he would’ve confiscated her
and put her aboard a proper merchantman for the passage back to America—

“Answer me, Lieutenant!”

“I, uh . . . doona ken, sir.”

The captain only glared at him, a
muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Honestly, sir, ’tis tellin’ ye the
truth I be! I doona ken who the lassie is! Ye see, sir, we was havin’ an
argument when all of a sudden there she was, all dressed as a laddie and
begging for us tae let her sign aboard!” Quailing beneath the captain’s icy
stare, Ian grabbed the brandy bottle and dosed himself with more of the liquor.
“I didnae ken she was a ‘she,’ sir!”

The gray eyes narrowed.

Ian gulped his brandy. “Next thing
I know, ye was wantin’ tae get the ship under way, and, well, with all the, um,
accidents, sir, things got a wee bit tense. The steerin’ went, a fight broke
out, and we hit the admiral’s flagship—” He grabbed the brandy bottle. “The
lad—I mean, the lassie—well, they just needed a scapegoat tae blame for it, so
they turned on her—”

“And I suppose you don’t know her
identity, either, eh, Mr. MacDuff?”

“No, sir, never saw her before in
my life!”

“And, to your knowledge, has anyone
else aboard this vessel?”

“I doona think so, sir. She’s as
much a mystery to us, sir, as she is tae you.”

The Lord and Master stared at him
for a long time. Finally he blew out his breath, refilled the brandy glasses, and
leaned back in his chair. “I’ll likely regret it, but I daresay I believe you,”
he said quietly.

“I wouldnae lie tae ye, sir.”

“No, Mr. MacDuff . . . I don’t think
that you would.” He took a sip of his own brandy, then continued. “Tomorrow, we
weigh. But before we do, you will remove that girl from this ship and see that
she is safely put into the care of the fellow who owns the Spindrift Tavern.”
He shoved a purse across the table. “This should see her on her way handsomely,
I should think.”

Ian looked down at the money,
stunned by the Lord and Master’s generosity. “Ye be wantin’ me tae do that
tonight, sir?”

‘Tomorrow morning, Mr. MacDuff.”

“But I have the watch then—”

“Then see that Mr. Rhodes escorts
her ashore. Perhaps, as an officer, he’ll even find a way to behave like one.”
He rose to his feet, the interview concluded. “That is all, Mr. MacDuff.”

###

Behind the canvas partition that
divided the sleeping area from the main cabin, a very homesick Deirdre O’Devir
lay unmoving in the big bed, fiercely clutching her canvas bag of Irish
mementos that the sailor named Skunk had returned to her. The ship, tugging at
her anchor, rocked gently beneath her.

He had kissed her. He, her enemy,
had put his wretched English lips against hers and kissed her.

And she had allowed it.

Maybe, in some odd and awful way,
even . . . enjoyed it.

She put her hands over her eyes and
pressed hard, as if she could banish the memory. In the other part of the
cabin, she could hear the captain speaking quietly to his nervous lieutenant.
Damn him! Damn his poxy hide to hell and back! Why did he have to go and be
nice to her, when she was trying her best to kill him?

She wiped her hand across her lips,
but it could not erase the hard, masculine feel of him, the taste of him, the
answering fire in her blood that even the memory evoked.

“I hate ye,” she murmured, staring
up at the dark and shadowy bulkhead. “I should’ve killed ye when I had the
chance.”

But she had not been able to do it.
She remembered his face, calm and unflinching beneath the mouth of the pistol
as she’d prepared to put a ball between those steady gray eyes. Thirteen years
of fantasizing about the moment—and she hadn’t had the courage to pull the
trigger when that chance had finally come.

Coward!

Steady and calm, those eyes . . .
until she’d swung the weapon on his little dog. She would never have harmed the
spaniel, of course, and her reaction had been one of startled surprise. But
what shook her to her very core, what confused her past all understanding, was
the fact that the Lord and Master seemed to care more for his pet’s life than
for his own.  What sort of man was he?

She was growing more confused by
the moment. If only she had never left Ireland. If only she were back home
right now, safe in the little cottage she’d known since birth.

If only he wasn’t out there,
she could get up and go to the stern windows and find the North Star.

Then, at least, she might know which
direction home lay in.

Beyond the screen, she heard the
slam of the door as the Scottish lieutenant took his leave . . . the sounds of
the captain moving about . . . the murmur of his deep voice as he spoke to the
little spaniel . . . the sound of him moving across the cabin.

He was standing directly over her.

Deirdre froze, feigning sleep and
hoping he couldn’t hear the sudden, wild thump of her heart. That thump seemed
to crash to a stop as he lifted a thick tress of her hair, then gently placed
it back across her shoulder. He stood there for what seemed a long time; then
he gave a deep, ragged sigh and she heard him moving back through the darkness
toward his day cabin.

Trembling, she rolled onto her back
and stared up into the gloom. Her heart was beating so hard she could barely
hear her thoughts over it.

Ye have to kill him, ye know.
He’ll go back on his word and touch ye with his dirty English hands . . . again
and again and again.

Her hand crept out, seeking the canvas
bag, and finding, within it, her flagon of Irish air. She pulled it out and
held it close to her heart, taking comfort from its nearness.

He'll touch ye . . . and ye
won’t deny him.

She swallowed tightly, suddenly
cold and afraid. Kill him? She had already bungled the first two
attempts. But the pistol would’ve been too merciful, the sword too bloody.
There were other, less gruesome methods of disposing of an enemy . . .

Yes, that was it. She just hadn’t
found the right, the most fitting, method of carrying out her vow.  That was
why she hadn’t been able to kill him.

Wasn’t it?

From the darkness, she heard the
rustle of clothing as he shed his clothes and readied himself for bed. A sudden
wicked image of what he must look like, naked, surged into her mind and
horrified at the direction of her thoughts, she squeezed her eyes shut. From
the near darkness came a squeak of leather as he lowered himself down on the
bench seat at the window, the murmur of a quick prayer, and the snap of his
fingers.

She frowned. Snap of his fingers?

Then she heard the drum of claws
upon the floor, a happy bark—and the captain’s soft crooning as he comforted
the little animal and the two of them settled down for the night.

He sleeps with the bleedin’ dog?

She lay back against the pillows,
listening to him toss and turn until his breathing grew heavy and rhythmic in
the darkness.

She had never been more confused in
her life.

Chapter
8

Lieutenant Ian MacDuff returned to
the wardroom, feeling flattered, confused, guilty—and torn.

They pounced on him like a school
of piranhas.

“So wot did ’is bloidy Lordship
say, eh?”

“Did ye get yer comeuppance, Ian?”

“C’mon, man, out with it! What’d
the bastard say?”

Ian waved them off. His eyes
troubled, he turned and picked up his bagpipes. Oh, how he wanted to tell them
all about his meeting with the Lord and Master! How he wanted to bask in all
the attention it would get him! But a sobering thought kept him from doing so.

Lieutenant Ian MacDuff did not want
to betray his new captain.

The man had given him what no other
commanding officer aboard HMS Bold Marauder ever had—forgiveness.

And, the chance to redeem himself
after making a serious mistake.

Ian’s chin went up a notch higher.
He, Ian, was the frigate’s first lieutenant, and his captain needed him.

The others pressed close, their
faces eager, their eyes bright with excitement.

“C’mon, Ian, what did the bastard
say to ye, eh?”

“Did the admiral knock him down a
peg or two?”

Even Delight raised a perfect
golden brow, her silky gaze sliding down the length of his torso, pausing at
his groin, and making him feel as though she could see right through his plaid.
“Yes, Ian, sweet,” she purred seductively, “do tell us . . .”

But Ian turned away. “Aw, shear
off, laddies!” he muttered, the good-natured tone of his voice belying his
troubled eyes. “He just wanted tae find out who the boglander lassie was, ’tis
all.”

“Aw, Ian, there must be more to it
than that! What did ’e say?” Skunk persisted, giving a great, toothy
grin.

But the big lieutenant was already
on his way out the door, taking his bagpipes with him.

“Well, now, what d’ye make of that,
eh?” Skunk said, frowning and shaking his head.

“I don’t know, but I sure don’t
like the looks of it.”

###

“Emily . . . Dear God, Emily, no . .
No!”

The tortured cry penetrated
Deirdre’s sleep, bringing her quickly awake. For a moment she lay staring into
the darkness, confused and disoriented, the sheets fisted in her hands, her bag
of Irish keepsakes pressing comfortingly against her thigh. Then she remembered.
She was on the king’s frigate Bold Marauder, and lying in its captain’s
bed.

The Lord and Master.

He didn’t sound so high-and-mighty
now. In the darkness she could hear his harsh breathing, the sound of his
tossing and turning, and the little dog’s soft whimpers—whimpers that the
captain never heard, whimpers that he never heeded.

“Poxy, bleedin’ bastard,” she
muttered, flinging herself onto her side and clapping her hands over her ears.
But it was no use. She could still hear the sounds of his torment. And now even
the little dog was growing distraught, her whimpers progressing into nervous
whines until there was a light thump, the sound of claws against the decking,
and a cold wet nose against Deirdre’s arm.

The animal’s plea for her help was
unmistakable.

Tight-lipped, Deirdre pushed aside
her canvas bag, swung her legs out of the bed, and, grabbing a blanket to ward
off the cold, marched through the darkness and into the day cabin. The spaniel
followed her, pressing anxiously at her heels. Moonlight streamed in from the
stern windows. Shapes materialized out of the dusky gloom: the desk . . . a
bowl and pitcher set on a little stand . . . the captain’s cocked hat, resting
beside it—

And the captain himself.

There were dreams, and then, there
were nightmares.  This was a nightmare, and a bad one, too, by the looks of it.
He lay on the bench seat, one arm flung over his eyes, his chest, as formidable
and strong as she’d figured it would be, bare and damp with sweat in the moonlight.
He looked vulnerable, and all too human in that vulnerability, and as she
stared down at him, Deirdre felt an unwelcome softening within herself, because
enemies were not supposed to look human.

“Emily . . . please, come out . .
. You can’t die . . .  I won’t let you die!”

Deirdre took a step back.

“Emily, dear God, where are you?
Emily!”

Never had she heard such raw,
broken anguish in a man’s voice.  It was awful to listen to, terrible to
witness, and in that moment, Deirdre wanted nothing more than to flee the
cabin, and the ship, and run all the way back to Ireland. But she couldn’t
move. Couldn’t take her eyes off this wretched picture of suffering as his head
thrashed on the pillow and he writhed in a torment only he could know. Finally,
he flung his arm over his eyes once more, and his hoarse cries faded until only
his lips moved, mouthing words that were known only to him.

Slowly, silence returned to the
cabin. Then, from beneath his broad wrist, Deirdre saw a silver, glistening
track of moisture leading down his cheek.

Another, and barely discernible in
the silence, the sounds of his weeping.

She pushed her fist against her
mouth. She had never heard a man cry before. It was an awful sound, one of agony
and suffering.

And she hoped to never hear it
again.

Stricken, Deirdre stood there for
long moments, until the awful sobs finally began to fade. His fist clenched
once, twice, the knuckles showing white in the darkness. Then his hand opened,
and something dropped to the deck flooring with a dull thud.

Deirdre leaned down to pick it up,
and saw that it was a tiny portrait of a woman.

This Emily person?

Then he kicked his feet, and the
sheets dragged down his torso.

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary—

He was stark naked.

Her eyes widened, and she abruptly
dropped the miniature, her face flaming, before fleeing back to her bed. There,
she lay staring up in the darkness, her chest heaving, her mind stamped with
the image of what she had seen. She heard his breathing grow deep and rhythmic
once again; she heard the little dog yawn, and jump back up to join her master,
and she should have been able to finally get back to sleep. But no. There was
no way she could sleep, when all she could see was that last, wicked picture of
the captain’s strong and handsome body, helplessly caught in the throes of a
nightmare that only he could see.

That strong, handsome, and naked
body.

She swallowed tightly, once, twice,
again. She flipped onto her stomach, dragged the pillow over her head, and
tried in vain to block out the sound of his breathing . . . and the thought of
that powerful body, sprawled in the darkness such a short distance away.

Naked.

Deirdre punched the pillow, hoping
the noise would rouse him enough that he might cover himself. He didn’t stir.
She punched it again, muttered an oath into the warm stuffing, and bit back a
scream of frustration.

Nothing.

Finally she tossed back her
coverlet and stormed across the cabin. Reaching down, she picked up the sheets
he’d kicked off and flung them over his naked body.

He bolted upright, blinking.

Oh, Almighty God.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

Suddenly afraid, Deirdre backed up.
“N-nothing!”

He raked a hand through his rumpled
hair. “Do you always make it a habit to watch a gentleman while he sleeps?”

“Do you always make it a
habit to sleep in the nude?”

“How I choose to sleep is no
concern of yours.” He swung his legs from the cushion, gained his feet and
straightened to his full height, completely awake now, tall, forbidding, and
most definitely dangerous. Any vulnerability he’d shown in the grip of his
nightmare was long gone; this man was angry, he was formidable, and Deirdre was
suddenly very, very afraid. Unbidden, her gaze darted down, and she gasped as
she caught sight of his maleness. Dear God in heaven, was it possible that that
part of him was growing larger, taller, straighter, thicker? And . . . it
was standing up!

Terrified, she crept backward,
toward the door.

“Come here,” he murmured, softly.

Deirdre took another step back. Her
hand groped behind her—and came up against his desk, and a half-full pitcher of
water atop it.

Her fingers closed around the
handle. With all her strength, she hurled it at his head.

Too late, his arm came up to fend
it off. There was a loud crash, but Deirdre didn’t stay to see the results of
her actions. With a frightened cry, she dove through the door, hearing behind
her his groan of pain, and the sound of his heavy body hitting the desk, then
the deck flooring.

She was past the drunken marine, up
the companionway stairs, and halfway across the moonlit deck when unseen hands
caught her roughly by the shoulders and yanked her brutally around.
Instinctively, her hand came up to defend herself, and was caught in a meaty
fist.

Skunk.

“Hush, girlie, before ye wake up
the whole ship! Christ, I ain’t never heard such a racket in my life! Wot the
hell is goin’ on down there, eh?”

“Get yer hands off o’ me!” Deirdre cried,
wrenching free and away from him. Already, others were melting out of the
darkness: Teach, not quite so fearsome without his beard; Elwin, the surgeon,
stretching his chicken-neck as he tried to see around him; Hibbert, the
midshipman she’d scrapped with earlier; Russell Rhodes, dark and sinister in
the moonlight; and several others whose names she didn’t know, and didn’t care
to know—including the voluptuous, well-endowed doxy.

“Where’s ’is bloody Lordship?” the
big gunner demanded, his eyes narrowing. Beside him, Hibbert stood gawking at
Deirdre’s bare legs, until Skunk cuffed him sharply in reprimand.

“Sleepin’,” Deirdre shot
back, with a fearful glance behind her. “What else would a body be doing in the
middle o’ the night?”

“I might ask you the same
question,” murmured Ian MacDuff, emerging from below and holding up a large
fragment of the pitcher that Deirdre had just hurled.

She paled, and would have fled if
not for Skunk’s restraining hand on her arm.

“What’s this all about, Ian?”

“I doona ken, Skunk,” Ian said,
frowning. “Found our commanding officer in a rather sorry state.”

“Sleepin’?”

“Aye, most definitely,” Ian
returned, taking off his cap and scratching his head. He pointed an accusatory
finger at Deirdre. “For such a wee kitten, lassie, ’tis one hell of a wildcat
ye be!”

“I was only tryin’ to protect
meself!”

Skunk wrapped a large, grimy arm
around Deirdre’s thin shoulders. “What’s yer name, girlie?”

Ian stepped forward, scowling.
“Skunk—”

“Aw, piss off, Ian,” Skunk said,
waving him away. “This is important!”

“Deirdre. Deirdre O’Devir.”

“Well, Miss Deirdre, we already got
us one lady stowaway, might as well ’ave two. Ye can keep each other company on
the passage over. This here’s Dolores Ann Foley—”

“But I go by the name of Delight,”
the woman purred, flirtatiously touching Ian’s arm.

Deirdre stared at her. “Delight Foley?”

The woman—who, up close, appeared
to be several years older than Deirdre—gave a rich, husky laugh. “You got it, cherie.
As in delight-fully.”

“Skunk . . .” Ian tried
again.

Skunk ignored him. “We knows Rhodes
here has orders t’ put ye ashore tomorrow, but we figure we can just hide ye
down below with Delight till we’re a ways out to sea, then bring ye both out
when it’s too late to head back to England. Ought to rile the new captain
nicely, eh? Hell, ’e’s gonna make our lives hell for the next month, might as
well return the favor!” The big gunner laughed, elbowed his grinning mates, and
leered down at Deirdre. “By the way, we really admire yer attempts to end his
Lordship’s life, though ye could use some advice on how to kill
someone.” He grinned. ‘Teach here can help ye with that, eh, Arthur?”

A chorus of guffaws went up.

“So, girlie, what d’ ye say?” Skunk
prompted. “Ye wanna stay with us or go back ashore?”

Deirdre thought of her cousin
Brendan, whose help she so desperately needed if she were to find her brother.
“I do have to get to Amerikay,” she said slowly. Then her eyes narrowed. “But
I’ll be warnin’ ye. If ye be thinkin’ to see me at the same trade as Delight Foley,
ye’ll find out I don’t need lessons from Teach or anyone else about how to kill
someone!”

“Nah, nah, ye’re quite safe. We
won’t be touching ye,” Skunk said, boxing Hibbert’s ears as the boy tried to
see down Deirdre’s shirt. “Now, if we can only get Ian here to quit being such
an old fart, we’d be all set.”

“I willnae be a part of this
conspiracy!” Ian raged, clenching his fists at his sides. “Ye hear me? Ye keep
yer bluidy schemes tae yerselves!”

With that he stormed angrily away,
leaving a confused silence behind him.

“What’s up with him?”

“Don’t know.  He ain’t been ‘imself
since the captain had that private meetin’ with him.”

“He’ll come ‘round,” Skunk muttered
dismissively. “So what do ye say, girlie? Ye got anythin’ better to be doin’
for the next month? We told ye our purposes. Now why don’t ye come down
to the wardroom and tell us yours, eh? You help us”—he grinned—“and
we’ll help you.”

Deirdre stood unmoving. They were
offering protection and safe passage.

“Well?” Skunk said.

Far beyond the harbor, the first
streaks of dawn pinkened the cold eastern sky. Deirdre thought of her cousin
Brendan, a shining vision of hope, somewhere across the sea in a distant land
called America. She thought of her promise to her dying mother, and of her
beloved, long-lost brother.

Then she thought of the English
captain, strong, virile and dangerous.

She swallowed hard. Next time, he
would not go easy on her. But getting to America was worth the risk. And in the
meantime, this rebellious crew would protect her.

“Can I go back to the cabin so I
can get me belongin’s?”

“Don’t need to.” Milton Lee stood
there, holding up her bag of Irish mementos. “It’s already been done.”

“And you can borrow one of my
gowns, cherie,” Delight offered.

Deirdre raised her chin. “Well,
then, just lead the way,” she said and, hugging her arms around her breasts to
preserve her modesty, followed her escorts below.

Chapter 9

Given the ship’s history, the brig
of HMS Bold Marauder had never been used for its intended purposes, and
indeed, if the vessel’s builders could have seen what it was being used for
now, they would have fainted dead away in shock.

A floor-length mirror was set up
against one bulkhead, bottles of fragrance covered the top of an ornate
dresser, and a beautiful Oriental screen of black lacquer portioned off a
corner of the small room. The cloying scent of exotic French perfumes choked
the air, and a light dusting of powder coated the deck planking, imbuing it
with the scent of lilac, lavender and rose.

The room was dominated by a beautifully-dressed
bed.

Deirdre wanted nothing more than to
flee this chamber of sin, but she’d gotten herself into this predicament, and
now she could only stand helplessly as Delight, her hands on her voluptuously
curving hips, eyed her up and down while thoughtfully tapping a nail against
the corner of her mouth. Finally, she nodded, turned, and pulled a stunning
velvet gown from the trunk at the foot of the bed. It had a beauty and elegance
about it that the Irish girl had never before seen in her life.

It was also of a color that Deirdre
had never before worn in her life—deep, shocking, blood-red scarlet.

The shade alone was enough to make
her blush.

“You like, cherie?"
Delight asked, tilting her head to one side and smiling.

“I—I can’t be wearin’ that!”

“Lo, you have the most delightful
brogue! You’ll just have to teach it to me, no? Ah, yes, the gown. Let’s
see what else I have.” Delight tossed the rich garment over the bed, pawed
through her trunk once more, and with an exclamation of triumph, lifted
another, her eyes dancing.

“Aha!”

The blood drained from Deirdre’s
face. “I can’t be wearin’ that, either,” she cried, shocked. ‘There’s . .
. there’s no bodice on it!”

“Oh, there’s a bodice. See? It’s
just—transparent.”

Deirdre hugged her arms to herself.
In comparison, the red gown didn’t look so bad after all. Echoing her thoughts,
Delight tossed the second dress back into the trunk and grinned. “These two are
my most . . . modest, honey. Personally, with that black hair and white skin of
yours, I think you’d look devastating in the scarlet.”

The scarlet it was. Moments later,
Deirdre found herself wrapped in the sinful, wickedly seductive gown as
Delight, with a needle and thread, took in the bodice to accommodate Deirdre’s
significantly smaller bosom. At last she stood back, and clapped her hands in
glee. “Aah, you look magnifique—here, have a look!” she cried, and
hauled Deirdre to the mirror.

Deirdre’s mouth gaped open. Never
had she worn, or expected to wear, such a beautiful gown in her life. Its color
was a striking complement to her black, wildly curling hair, setting off the
fine translucency of her skin just as Delight had predicted it would. The neckline
was cut shockingly low, lifting and flaunting her breasts; the waist was
tightly nipped, flattering her already tiny waist. In style, design, and color,
it was not a dress that any respectable woman would wear, and thoughts of being
seen in it brought the blood flooding back to Deirdre’s cheeks.

Thoughts of the Lord and Master
seeing her in it deepened that blush to a scalding crimson.

“Aah, you will melt our handsome
Ice Captain for sure with this, cherie! Perhaps your hair should be up .
. . no, no, let’s leave it down. Oh, this is great fun. I never dreamed such a
dreary passage might have such wonderful possibilities! And look at you.” She
lifted one of Deirdre’s spiraling curls. “Aah, to have hair like that! And that
cross you wear is the perfect complement to your loveliness, rather
pagan, just like you, no? Wherever did you get it?”

“It belonged to my grandmother,”
Deirdre said, “who lived some two hundred years ago. She was a pirate queen.”

“A pirate queen?”

“Aye. Grace O’Malley,” Deirdre said
proudly.

“Do forgive me, sweetie, but I’ve
never heard of her. The only pirate queen we’ve ever had is Anne
Bonney.”

“Where in France was she from?”

“France?” The vivacious Delight
threw back her head and laughed, her voice full-throated and gleeful. “Sweetie,
I’m American. French by marriage, and a short and unhappy one at that,
but widowed now these many months and now, on my way back home to live once
again”—she gave a theatrical sigh— “with my parents.”

Deirdre stared at her, confused.

“Ye’re not French?”

“Nay, and I’m no courtesan, either,
though I am trying to hone my skills as one. Don’t look so shocked, cherie!
The French are the world’s greatest lovers—where else would I learn the best
ways to pleasure a man? It’s all in the technique, sweetie, getting a man’s
body to harden with passion and respond to you with all the lust of an untamed
stallion.”

Deirdre was shocked into
speechlessness.

“My parents expected me to sail
home to America months ago, but you see, I wanted to stay in France for a while
longer to further my education.” Delight touched her generous bosom and
affected a stern look that was totally out of character with her vivacious
behavior. “Such scandalous ambitions would never be tolerated back home, and
certainly not by my papa! In fact, if he had known what I’ve been up to
these past many months, he would’ve moved heaven and earth to drag me back!”

“And what were you up to?” Deirdre
asked, certain that she didn’t want to know.

“Why, learning how to seduce and
net me the Irish Pirate.”

“The . . . Irish Pirate?”

Delight cast her eyes heavenward
and touched her heart. “Aah, there is a man! A hero back home,
you know, and the sooner I can get him into my bed, the better chance I have of
winning him for myself! Hair as black as yours and a face to die for . . . like
our Lord and Master’s, no? Once, when I was a girl of eighteen, he kissed me .
. . but I was inexperienced, clumsy, and not enough woman for him. Well, no
more! Now, he won’t be able to resist me! I went to Paris to learn my skills as
a woman, to London to learn my skills as a lady, and to Portsmouth
to practice everything I’d learned on some of the most notoriously wicked and
wonderfully lusty seamen on the planet! And we all know that there is no
one more lusty than a sailor, no? Aah, it sets my hot blood on fire just to
think about it!”

Deirdre’s head was reeling.

“Lo, I simply can’t wait for
this voyage to begin! Just think, Deirdre, I’ve a whole ship of sailors to
practice my new skills on before I get home. This time, when I get my
claws into the Irish Pirate, he won’t be able to resist me. And these past
years of living in France have given me a perfect accent. Do you like it? I’ve
worked so hard at perfecting it. Men just love this throaty, nasal
sound, and if you lower your voice to a whisper—like this—and touch your
man a lot while talking to him and stripping him with your eyes, why, it’ll
just set him on fire! The combination is lethal!”

Deirdre was at a loss for words.
Her thoughts, unfortunately, were not so impaired. Unbidden, Captain Lord’s
handsome face flashed before her eyes and she found herself blushing once more.
Then she thought of Delight, practicing her skills on him, and she felt
a stab of something that was dark, ugly, and not at all pleasant.

That something dismayed her
greatly, for she instantly recognized it for what it was.

Jealousy.

Totally unwarranted, of course, but
there it was.

“What are ye goin’ to do when the
captain . . . finds out ye’re aboard?”

Delight laughed, her voice rich and
sultry. “Oh, I have a few things in mind, cherie! But till then, I doubt
I’ll have a problem hiding myself away from him . . . Ah, too involved in his
own affairs is our handsome commander, no?” Laughing gaily, she hooked her arm
through Deirdre’s and guided her to the door. “Now, you go find one of the
lieutenants and get yourself hidden away somewhere. We’ll be weighing soon, and
you need to be out of sight!”

###

Topside, Captain Lord was just
coming on deck to take command of His Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder.

Dawn was a new visitor to the day, touching
the harbor with pale salmon light. It reflected itself in a million little
diamonds over the water’s surface as the cold wind arrived with it. But the
frigate’s crew was heedless of the dawn. They were too busy staring at the Lord
and Master.

With no outward sign of the injury
that had felled him earlier, he looked terribly proper, well groomed, and the
epitome of what a naval officer should be. His uniform was meticulously clean,
the gold buttons and gilded lace bright in the early sunlight. His periwig was
carefully rolled and tied beneath his cocked hat, and his face was freshly
shaved. His coat was as blue as the ocean, and his waistcoat, breeches, and
stockings were whiter than sea foam.

“Holy Moses,” Skunk
muttered, exchanging puzzled glances with Rhodes.

No emotion touched the hard set of
the captain’s mouth, nor softened the harsh lines of his face, and the
expression in his eyes was guardedly aloof. He made a quick tour of the decks,
checking the rigging, the furled sails, the guns lashed in double rows along
the frigate’s sides. Mounting the stairs to the quarterdeck, he solemnly doffed
his hat, then strode abruptly to the helm, where Wenham stood beside the wheel,
the tips of his jutting ears already red with cold.

Wenham’s shocked gaze roved his
captain’s face. “Er, how ye feeling this morning, sir?”

“Fine and proper, thank you, Mr.
Wenham. We shall be getting under way shortly, so please see to it that Bold
Marauder does us proud this day.”

On the gun deck below, Skunk and Rhodes
swapped puzzled glances. Aside from a tiredness around his eyes and a slight
swelling on his cheek, their commanding officer looked right as rain.

“Now what?” Elwin hissed from the
rail.

“Shut up and look busy, else ye
rouse his suspicions. He’ll be lookin’ for the girl soon enough,” snapped Rhodes.

“Why would he? He gave the order
for you to put her ashore.”

Rhodes just smirked and caught the
eye of several nearby seamen, who also were hard pressed to contain their
guffaws.

But the Lord and Master seemed more
concerned about his frigate than he did about the hellion who’d laid him out
cold on the deck of his own cabin. He glanced up at the wind-whipped pennant,
then at the feral-faced midshipman, Hibbert, standing faithfully beside Wenham.

The middie’s uniform was stained
and filthy, as if it had never been washed. Christian eyed it flatly, then
pulled out a chart tucked near the binnacle.

“I trust you have another uniform,
Mr. Hibbert?”

“Several.” The youth’s tone was
impertinent, his eyes challenging, for he hadn’t recognized the dangerous,
silky tone of his captain’s words. “Down in my sea chest . . . sir.”

The tone in which he said the last
word was as insulting as if he hadn’t used the respectful form of address at
all, and the boy, snickering, glanced slyly at Skunk for approval.

Christian was still unrolling the
chart, his gaze moving over it. “Then pray, go change out of those rags and
into something clean, and report back to me immediately.” He looked up, his
eyes now cold and angry. “By God, this is a king’s ship, damn you. Take some
pride in that fact—and in yourself, for that matter!”

He looked back down at the chart.
“Mr. Rhodes? A moment, please.”

The second lieutenant, very aware
of the suddenly anxious looks of his shipmates, strode to the helm. He touched
his hat. “Sir?”

“That—Irishwoman.” The Lord
and Master did not look up. “Did you see her safely ashore this morning?”

“Aye, sir,” Rhodes lied, without
the slightest twitch of an eyelid.

“Very well, then.” The captain ran
his finger over the chart, his hat casting the paper in shadow. “Go forward and
take charge of the capstan, please. And, Mr. MacDuff? I would like you to man
the mizzenmast with those who are the least nimble—the older fellows, the new
recruits, and, of course”—he grinned fleetingly—“the terrified. There is also a
sloppily coiled line on the gun deck that is sure to foul itself. See to it,
please.”

Ian bobbed his head and rushed
away, but his companions were not so genial. Out of the corner of his eye
Christian could see them gathering in groups, muttering amongst themselves and
casting rebellious glances his way. Towering over the lot of the buggers was
Arthur Teach.

Christian marked his place on the
chart and glanced up, his gaze steady and unwavering as he met the hostile eyes
of the big seaman. “Mr. Teach? We are not in engagement with an enemy.
Therefore, I see no need for three pistols, five knives, a cutlass, and”—his
eyes narrowed and he lost his place on the chart—“pray, what is that
ghastly thing you are carrying?”

Without warning, that “ghastly
thing” came hurtling through the air with vicious intent. The Lord and Master
ducked a moment before the tomahawk would’ve taken off his head, and the weapon
slammed into the mizzenmast behind him.

The ship went dangerously,
ominously, still. Even the gulls overhead fell silent.

“Jesus,” someone whispered.

The captain straightened up. For a
long, terrifying moment he said nothing, though he’d gone white around the
mouth and his eyes began to blaze. With shaking hands, he slowly, carefully,
set a pair of navigational dividers atop the chart.

Then he turned his gray stare on his
assailant.

Teach looked away.

The big Jamaican bosun, faithful as
ever, was suddenly there at his captain’s side. Christian lowered his gaze to
the chart, his expression carefully veiled, though inside he was shaking.
“Hendricks,” he said tightly, without looking up, “please have one of your
mates escort Mr. Teach to the brig, and station a marine at the door.” Cool and
detached, he took a pencil from Wenham and made a notation on the chart. “As
soon as we are well under way, I shall require all hands to lay aft to witness
punishment.”

“The brig?” someone yelled.

“Hell, that ain’t fair!”

“How come he gets to go and not
me?”

Christian lifted his head,
wondering if the girl had knocked something awry inside it with the force of
the blow. They wanted to go to the brig?

What the devil was wrong with these
people?

He shook his head, trying to appear
unfazed. The movement only reminded him of the headache that raged behind his
eyes and the jagged cut high on his temple, carefully hidden beneath the
periwig.

He felt the sailing master staring
at him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Wenham?”

“Er . . . no, sir.”

“Then prepare to loose heads’ls,”
he snapped.

Rico Hendricks, wearing a silver
whistle around his thick neck, had returned and now stood several feet away. “I
checked everything, sir,” he said respectfully. “No signs of foul play this
time.”

“Thank you, Hendricks.” He turned
to the sailing master. “Get the ship under way, Mr. Wenham.”

Moments later, the frigate came
alive as pipes shrilled, orders were passed, and the seamen, goaded by
Hendricks’s threats and the reminders of the rattan, scurried to carry out
their captain’s order. And if they hustled so, it was not in deference to their
captain’s authority, but in hopes of being the first from their watch to escape
below—where Delight waited in the “brig.”

“Heave short.”

Forward, men gathered around the
capstan, throwing their weight against it to the song of a chanteyman. Slowly
the cable leashing Bold Marauder to the land began to chink and clank as
it came up through the hawseholes, dripping mud, water, and weeds.

Christian’s eyes narrowed.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir.”

He tensed, remembering yesterday’s debacle.
“Loose tops’ls, Mr. Wenham. Smartly, please.”

The orders were repeated. Again
came the shrill of pipes, the drum of pounding feet, and then the flapping
thunder of canvas dropping from aloft.

So far, so good.

“Man the braces, please.”

Christian set his jaw, keenly
assessing the crew’s efforts. Frightfully incompetent, he thought
grimly. But men were scurrying aloft, sails were filling with wind, and the
frigate was beginning to fidget. He nodded smartly to the sailing master.

“Up and down, sir!” came the cry
from forward.

“Break her out,” Christian snapped.

The anchor came wearily free of the
sea, dripping mud and water and glistening in the sun. Bold Marauder,
impatient, heeled over and began to thread her way carefully between the other
vessels, her shadow sliding over them with stately grace. In the near distance,
buildings shone in the morning sun, their windows glowing with pale, lemony
light.

Christian gripped his sword hilt,
waiting for something to break, something to foul, something to go awry. But
the frigate continued slowly forward, finding speed, finding confidence, and
slowly, he began to relax. Elliott would find no fault with him this day.

He glanced up at the masthead
pennant, wincing as pain stabbed through his aching head. The urge to slide his
fingers up and touch the gash at his temple was hard to resist, but he was
determined not to show even that bit of weakness in front of the crew. The blow
had been a nasty one, but soap and water, his periwig, and the shadow of his
hat hid such things from inquiring eyes whose owners would be quick to mock and
snicker.

They were almost out of the harbor
now.

“Hold her steady, Mr. Wenham.”

High above, the canvas made great,
billowing curves that stole wind and sunlight both as Bold Marauder
pushed toward the mouth of the harbor, where Christian could see several
spectators standing on the headland.

Beside him, Wenham was also staring
ashore, grinning and waving his hand in farewell to a group of doxies.

“See to your ship, Mr. Wenham!”

The sailing master looked at him,
his eyes blank.

Firmly, Christian said, “In future,
I would prefer to see more speed and skill in setting the sails. Starting
tomorrow, I intend to make you all practice it until such maneuvers are
performed to, and beyond, my satisfaction.”

He thought he heard the master
groan.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Wenham?”

“Er, nothing, sir. Just a frog in
my throat . . .”

Some of the crew began filing
below. Others moved out along the yards, coiled lines, sheeted sails home, or
yelled encouragement to each other. His eyes critical, Christian watched them,
finding their performance sloppy but acceptable. Perhaps they could do better;
in all likelihood, they could not. But at least the bloody buggers hadn’t dared
to sabotage the ship today. A hard smile touched his mouth. Perhaps there was
hope for them after all. And when they returned to England, the crew of HMS Bold
Marauder would be something the king himself would be proud of.

That, he vowed on his very life.

Forward, the anchor was catted
amidst a chorus of blasphemous oaths, and Christian sighed in relief as Bold
Marauder showed her heels to Portsmouth.

They were free. On their way.

His smile broke into a downright
grin.

And then he saw the tomahawk,
savagely impaled in the wood of the mast, and the smile faded abruptly from his
lips.

###

At the appearance of the first
tar—a blushing boatswain’s mate holding his hat in his hands while Arthur Teach
towered impatiently behind him—Deirdre decided that the brig was the last place
she wanted to be.

Embarrassingly aware of the hot
stares that she herself, clad in the scarlet gown of crushed velvet, was
receiving, Deirdre hastily made her excuses and fled into the bowels of the
ship. She stumbled through gloomy darkness, and finally ducked into a small
chamber that could only be the surgeon’s domain, where she sat huddled against
the curved timbers of the hull.

Beneath her, she felt the ship
moving. They were leaving, about to cross an ocean under nothing but God’s will
and Captain Lord’s command, and she would probably never see Ireland again.
Tears stung her eyes, and swallowing hard, she hugged her arms around her legs
and bent her brow to her knees.

Ireland.

But she was not alone. She had her
bag of Irish mementos beside her. She had her cross, a powerful reminder of the
courage that had been Granuaile’s. And, she thought, running her fingers
over the sensual red velvet of the gown, she had her pride.

Just touching the lush fabric
reminded her of how wanton it made her look. Unbidden, she thought of the
English captain.

What would he think if he
saw her in it?

She made a noise of despair, wishing
she’d killed him while she had the chance—as she had vowed, for thirteen long
years, to do. Maybe she didn’t have her ancestress’s warrior blood in her veins
after all. Maybe the dog had distracted her from her purpose when it had
skittered to the captain’s aid. Maybe she’d misjudged it when she’d tried to
take his head off with his own sword. After all, it had been dark in the
cabin . . . it was easy to miss what should have been an easy target.

But then that other thought came to
her, cold, unwelcome, and rebellious.

Maybe she hadn’t really wanted
to kill him.

No, no, no, nothing could be
further from the truth! For thirteen long years she’d kept his face alive in
her memory, only so that she could destroy him. Of course she wanted to kill
him! She just hadn’t had the chance.

But she had had the chance.
While she’d stood over him, watching him toss in the fitful throes of a
nightmare, he’d never been so vulnerable. She could have plunged his sword into
his black heart and ended it right then and there. She could have gone back
after knocking him senseless with the pitcher and shot him with his own pistol.

But she had not.

And in her heart, she knew that she
didn’t have it in her to murder anyone.

Maybe she didn’t have Grace
O’Malley’s strength after all.

She stared morosely into the gloom
of the small space in which she found herself. Beneath her, and around her, the
motion of the ship grew more pronounced and she tried not to think about it
leaving the relative safety of the harbor and heading out into the Channel.
She tried not to think about the fact that she was about to cross three
thousand miles of ocean. And she tried not to think about the fact that she might
never see her beloved Ireland, ever again.

Ireland.

She took a deep, steadying breath, reached
into her canvas bag and withdrew the little bottle of seawater, taken from the
beach at Connemara.

From home.

She set it down at her feet,
drawing courage from its nearness.

Yes, they must definitely be into
open sea now. The frigate’s movements were no longer gentle and rocking, but a longer,
deeper surge as it began to meet the long, rolling combers coming in off the
ocean. Moments later, the deck tilted over as the vessel tacked, and the little
bottle of water went rolling across the deck into the darkness. Deirdre,
panicking, scrambled to find it. Then the ship righted herself, slowly,
sickeningly, and she was flung hard against the hull, banging her elbow in the
process.

She swore roundly, trying to find
the bottle.

And froze.

From somewhere had come a noise.
Not the squeak of a rat. Not the steady creak and groan of timbers.

But footsteps.

Her head jerked up, her curses
ceasing abruptly. “Skunk?”

The footsteps were coming closer. They
were not heavy enough to be Skunk’s footsteps. Not heavy enough to be Ian’s,
even.

These were different. Precise,
measured, and purposeful.

A door opened somewhere, and the
dim glow of a lantern touched the dank timbers around her. She pressed back
against the curve of the hull.

The footsteps came closer, steady,
determined. The light grew brighter. The footsteps stopped a few feet away, and
looking up, Deirdre saw only the lantern.

She couldn’t see a face. She
couldn’t see a form. She couldn’t see anything—just that raised lantern and,
below it, a dark blue coat and long, hard-muscled thighs clad in white
breeches.

The lantern lowered, and a man’s
face shone cold above it.

Captain Lord’s.

Chapter
10

“I suppose,” he murmured, “that I
should have known better than to trust my crew to carry out the simple order of
removing you from this vessel.”

Deirdre swallowed hard, unable to
speak. Raw terror tingled up her spine. Her every muscle tensed for flight, but
she was frozen, pinned beneath that chilling gray stare.

His face glowed amber in the
flickering light of the lantern, and he looked impossibly tall and frightening
from where she sat huddled against the hull. She saw his gaze moving over her,
taking in the wild black curls that lay in disarray over her shoulders, the
upthrust roundness of her breasts, the cut of the scarlet gown—and the gown
itself.

He stared at it, his eyes
narrowing, as though the sight of her in it displeased him, and displeased him
greatly. She didn’t like the look in those eyes. There was no heat there. No
warmth. And certainly no admiration for the seductive picture Delight assured
her she’d make in it. Nothing but coldness, and a controlled lack of emotion
that frightened her.

Somewhere in the darkness, a rat
scurried.

“You are fortunate, dear girl, that
my conduct is dictated by the high esteem I have for the phrase ‘officer and a
gentleman.’ Were it not, I can assure you that you would be a very sorry
creature indeed.”

Deirdre wished she could shrink up
in a little ball and roll into a crack in the deck flooring.

“Why are you still here?” he
demanded. “This is a warship. No place for an Irish harlot.”

“I may be Irish, but I’m no
harlot!”

He was still staring at her gown as
though it was something that had crawled out of the bilge and wrapped itself
about her body. “Are you not?”

“How I despise ye,” she murmured.
“I wish I’d killed ye when I’d had the chance.”

“Ah, yes, that. I am trying very
hard to discern the reasons for your hatred of me. My crew’s, I understand—they
have no wish to abide by my strict codes of discipline and authority. Because I
know the cause of their enmity, I can address it. Yours”—he finally lifted his
gaze from her much-revealed bosom and impaled her with his glacial stare—“I don’t
understand. That’s exceedingly unfair, don’t you think?”

Her hand came up, unconsciously, to
touch the cross.

“When I address you, I expect an
answer,” he said coldly.

“I’m a guest on this ship, not one
of your crew that you can order around!”

“Guests are invited. You, dear
girl, are nothing but a stowaway, and a damned troublesome one at that.”

“Then turn the ship around and take
me back to Portsmouth!”

“And chance a repeat of yesterday’s
debacle? Certainly not. We’re underway, and the next landfall we make, God
willing, will be Boston. In the meantime, you will come with me.”

He reached down to haul her to her
feet, and Deirdre, wide-eyed, shrank back against the curve of the hull.

For a long moment he simply stared
at her—then he carefully withdrew his hand. “Do you honestly think that I
intend to harm you?” he asked harshly.

The way he said it touched
something deep inside her, shamed her, and Deirdre turned her head away,
refusing to meet the captain’s eyes. He remained unmoving; then, slowly, he lowered
his tall body down to the deck across from her, wincing a bit as he stretched
his legs before him and leaned his back against the stout leg of the surgeon’s
operating table.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly.

Suddenly he was no longer
frightening. Suddenly he was no longer her worst nightmare. Suddenly, she was
more confused than ever. Deirdre refused to look at him. She could feel his
gaze upon her, though he said nothing.

“I may be many things,” he
continued, “but I am not a man who would ever harm a female.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw him slowly, carefully, reach up and remove his hat. She saw something else
out of the corner of her eye, too, and horrified, she turned her head to look. Lantern
light caught the purple swelling at his temple, the cruel gash, and the dark
area of newly dried blood that made a stark contrast to the whiteness of his periwig.

The sight of the wound filled her
with guilt and self-loathing. She’d be damned, though, if she’d let him know
it.

“So, did ye come down here to
punish me?”

A smile touched his lips, one with
a trace of warmth, perhaps even humor, and in that fleeting instant, Deirdre
saw again the man who had bent down and soothed the frightened little girl
she’d been thirteen years ago; she saw a man who, without that stuffy periwig
and harsh demeanor, might actually be quite handsome.

Quite handsome indeed.

“You’re a poor excuse for a
murderess, you know. Perhaps you should take lessons from Mr. Teach.”

“Why? It doesn’t look like he’s
been successful, either.”

“True enough. And he will
have to be punished, I daresay.”

Unbidden, her gaze traveled up the
proud breadth of his chest and shoulders, the handsome planes of his face . . .
the purple-and-red gash at his temple. She winced, and it was all she could do not
to reach out and soothe the wound with the gentle touch of her finger. “If Mr.
Teach is to be punished . . . why not me?”

“You were frightened. You acted in
self defense. Mr. Teach, I’m afraid, was far more determined and calculated in
his efforts to dispatch me.”

“Ye think the sword nearly taking
yer head off wasn’t determined or calculated?”

“I think, foundling, that had you
truly wanted to kill me, you would have found a way to succeed.”

“I’m going to try again,” she
vowed, trying to convince herself. “And again and again.”

“In that case, I will consider
myself duly warned.”

“I mean it! I will kill ye!”

“Well, then, I guess I will
have to punish you.”

“You can’t punish me if ye’re
dead.”

He sat there on the deck flooring,
gazing calmly at her, his eyes inscrutable. She gazed back, trying to hold on
to her anger and failing miserably. Something passed between them, something
deep and gentle and unspoken.

Deirdre looked down, finding a
sudden interest in a knot of wood near her knee.

The captain remained silent.

“Does yer head hurt so very much?” she
ventured, at last.

“I daresay, I’ll survive.”

“I nearly did kill ye. Any
other man would be angry. Vengeful. Why not you?”

“Vengeance serves no noble purpose.
And besides, how could I be angry with you?” He gave a fleeting smile, as
though humor was something he was unaccustomed to. At her confused look, he added,
somewhat jokingly, “My dear girl, I am plagued by nightmares. They make it hard
for me to find rest, let alone sleep. Thanks to you, this was the first time in
five years that I’ve slept so soundly.”

“Do ye want me to be hitting ye
again, then?”

He actually laughed. “The rest is
not worth the headache, thank you. And the next attempt on my life will have to
merit a punishment, I’m afraid. Poor Mr. Teach is already in the brig, awaiting
his.”

She made a sudden choking noise.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“He’s in the brig?”

The captain frowned. “Pray, what is
it about this brig—”

“Nothing!” she cried too hastily.
“Nothing a’tall!”

The gray eyes narrowed.

“’Tis where the crew hid all of my—my
personal belongings,” she sputtered. “Ye don’t want to be going in there. Ye
see, I—I—” She cast about quickly for the first thing to come to mind and
colored furiously. “I have my . . . menses.”

His face went as crimson as her
gown. “And Mr. Teach has been brought there?”

He jumped to his feet, his long
stride already carrying him across the room. Too late, Deirdre saw the bottle
of precious Irish seawater, rolling back, now, across the deck flooring. Too
late, she saw that his path would take him straight toward it. Too late, she
knew that he would never see it—

She cried out just as his foot
crunched down on the glass.

“What the devil—”

Deirdre scurried across the little
room on her hands and knees, her hair spilling over her shoulders. “My water!”
she said brokenly, desperately smearing her hands into the sad, spreading pool of
moisture as though she could scoop it back up. But it was too late. She turned
anguished eyes upon the captain. “Look what ye did! That was my water!”

“What?”

“Ye broke my water!”

Christian stared at her, thinking
she was quite mad. He clenched his hands at his sides in confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he bit out, not
knowing what he was apologizing for.

“Ye don’t understand!”

“You are correct, I do not. But I
can assure you, we have plenty of water both inside and outside of this ship, I
can certainly procure more for you—”

“It’s not the same!” She swiped
at a tear. Another. “That was seawater . . . from . . . from—” She turned away
before he could see her tears beginning to fall— “Ireland .
. . ”

Christian stood helplessly. He had
never felt more awkward, confused and taken aback in his life. And as he stared
at her unruly curls, his gaze fell again upon the cross—a heathenish ornament
etched with a Celtic design and studded with emeralds. His frown deepened,
became a scowl. Something tickled his memory, something distant, yet close,
something he was very close to recalling but couldn’t quite grasp . . .

That cross. That hair. Those eyes—

Ireland.

Dear God above.

He stepped backward, horrified as
the realization of just who this young woman was—

Thirteen long years, she had
said yesterday, and he hadn’t picked up on it.

Thirteen long years, she had
said, and he’d thought she had been an old paramour that he’d unwittingly
jilted.

Thirteen long years—and she
had come back to settle the old score between them.

“Dear God, forgive me.” He moved
toward her, one arm outstretched, disgusted with himself for not having
recognized her earlier.

“Get away from me, ye filthy
English dog. Just get away from me!”

In a flash, his hand snaked out and
plunged into her hair, anchoring her head so that she couldn’t move. He forced
her head up, studying her intently. Yes, he thought, in stricken dismay,
it is she. That same little Irish girl whose brother I press-ganged.

No wonder her animosity

No wonder her vow to kill him.

She glared at him, trembling
beneath his hand but unwilling to back down.

“Now, I understand,” he said softly.

“What?”

“I know who you are, foundling.”

Her eyes defied him.

“You’re the little Irish girl from Connemara
. . . the one with the pony . . . Thunder, I believe his name was? The same
little girl whose brother we took with the press gang, the same little girl
who—I see—has not forgiven me these many years, but has returned to avenge that
wrong.”

She shut her eyes as though she
couldn’t bear to look at him. Thirteen long years dropped away, and he was once
again the anguished lieutenant, doing a deed he had no stomach for, following
an order he had no choice but to obey. Thirteen long years dropped away, and
she was once again the frightened, grief-stricken little girl. Thirteen years
dropped away—and came full circle.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked,
harshly.

She only opened her eyes and glared
at him, accusingly.

“I never quite forgave myself for
what I did to you that day. It has been a source of great torment for me . . .”

“Torment? Ye lie! I’ve heard yer nightmares,
I’ve heard ye call out in his sleep, and it isn’t the memory of what ye did to
my family back in Connemara that tortures ye.”

He stared at her, taken aback. “I
beg your pardon?”

“I’ve seen the miniature of
some red-haired hussy that ye keep like a shrine on yer desk! ’Tis not yer
despicable deeds toward an innocent Irish family that torture ye, but yer dear,
darlin’ Emily!”

The color drained from his face.
“Do not speak her name.”

“Emily, Emily, Emily!” she
spat, taking twisted pleasure in hurting him and cruelly mimicking the tortured
words of his nightmare. “‘I didn’t mean it, Emily. Dear God, please don’t take
her—’”

He stepped back, away from her.

“Emily . . . oh, God, Emily, please
don’t die—’”

He remained frozen, and she saw raw
anguish in his eyes before the cold, frosty mask of indifference was in place
once more. “It would seem,” he ground out, his voice harsh and emotionless,
“that my sympathy toward you was grossly misguided. My apologies.”

And with that, he picked up the
lantern and moved toward the door.

“Don’t come near me again, or I will
kill ye!”

He paused, turned, and regarded her
for a long moment. “As you wish, my dear.” His eyes were carefully veiled, the
long, pale lashes masking any emotion he might have felt. “I will gladly stay
away from you. In fact, the next time I consider doing you a kindness, I will resist
that urge.”

She glared up at him, angry,
confused, and upset. “A kindness? What possible kindness could ye
possibly think to bestow upon me?”

The English captain picked up his
hat and set it down atop his periwig, covering the bruise at his temple once
more. “The coast of Ireland will soon pass far off our starboard beam.” His
voice turned hard. “Forgive me, but I merely thought you’d like to see it a
final time.”

Then he turned smartly on his heel,
tromped through the sad puddle on the floor, and was gone.

Chapter 11

Topside, every mouth slammed shut
as the Lord and Master reappeared. Every eye followed him as he mounted the
quarterdeck ladder, crossed the deck, and strode to the frigate’s big,
double-spoked wheel.

And every man knew just what had
him so riled.

He had found the Irish girl.

The sailing master, standing beside
him, took one look at the fury in those cold gray eyes and said carefully,
“Course west by southwest, sir. Full and by.”

“Very well, Mr. Wenham. We will
remain on this tack until the end of the watch.”

“So, er, we’re not going to . . .
uh, head back to England?”

Christian raised a pale brow and
regarded him flatly. “Pray, Mr. Wenham, whatever for? Does your little Irish
stowaway rate so highly that she would interfere with the business of a king’s
ship? I think not.” He pulled out a chart of Boston Harbor, laid it on the
binnacle, spread the damp paper flat with his palms, and stared down at it, his
gaze roving over the carefully drawn figures. “Since you are all so eager to
keep her here, you can begin inconveniencing yourselves by making
accommodations for her immediately. In fact, Mr. Rhodes may move himself out of
his cabin so the girl may move herself in.”

“H-his cabin, sir?”

Christian glanced up. “Yes, Mr.
Wenham, his cabin—the one next to mine, in case you don’t remember.” He let the
chart snap shut. “Now, where the devil is the bosun’s mate?”

Ian was just coming aft, his red
beard blowing in the wind. “I believe he went down to get Mr. Teach, sir—like
ye asked.”

“That was twenty damned minutes ago.
Where the bloody hell did he go?”

Ian flushed and looked away. “Uh . .
. the brig, sir.”

“Send Midshipman Hibbert to fetch
the both of them, this instant. In the meantime, please have all hands lay aft
to witness punishment.”

His words stunned the deck into
silence.

“P-punishment, sir?”

“Pray, does everyone on this ship
have a damned speech problem today? Yes, punishment!”

Ian’s ruddy face paled. “But, sir,
we’ve never had a whipping aboard Bold Marauder before—’tis not well the
men will take tae it, sir!”

Christian gave a hard smile. “I do
believe, Mr. MacDuff, that is my problem, not yours.”

“But, sir, ’tis startin’ a
mutiny ye’ll be! I beg of ye tae reconsider!”

“Do not challenge my orders, Mr.
MacDuff!”

Christian swung away and went to the
weather side of the quarterdeck, his head pounding, his mouth tight. He had no
right to take out his anger on the crew, especially not on Ian. It was the girl
who deserved it, that bedeviled, wretched, Irish girl. It was bad enough
she’d had the audacity to stow herself aboard a king’s ship, his ship;
it was bad enough that she’d tried twice to kill him. But she had insulted the
memory of his dead wife—and worse, had awakened feelings he’d thought he no
longer had. Even now his loins throbbed as he thought of her in that obscenely
low-cut, vulgar, form-fitting, scarlet . . . gown.

Damn her, she had no business
making him feel such things. No one did. It was Emily he’d loved, Emily
he would always love!

Behind him, he heard the shrill of
pipes and the sudden roar of angry protest as the crew, herded by Evans’s
nervous marines, began to head aft. Even from here, with the wind in his face
and half a deck to separate them, he heard their words.

“Bloody son of a bitch, just who
the blighty hell does he think he is?”

“We ain’t never had no one whipped
before!”

“So much for yer damned hero
worship of the bloke, Ian!” he heard Skunk yell. “And so much for yer damned
praise for Admiralty for sending us Captain Christian Bleedin’ Lord! He’s a damned
fool!”

“Cruel, high-bred, spawn of a
whore! How dare he think to whip one of ours, lads! ’Tis cause for mutiny, I
say! Mutiny!”

The word caught like flame set to
black powder. “Mutiny!”

"Mutiny!”

Christian remained unmoving, even
as cold fingers of dread touched his heart. Their resentment was a live thing,
a rippling undercurrent of loathing that intensified with each sweep through
the men now gathering aft.

Calmly, he took one last look out
to sea and, turning abruptly, went back to the helm. “How fares the weather,
Mr. Wenham?”

The wind had risen, teasing the
waves and coaxing them high; now, white foam was breaking at their crests, the
spray flinging itself high over the frigate’s decks with every dip and plunge
of her bows. But the sailing master, his nervous gaze darting to the angry,
shouting mob, appeared not to have heard the captain.

“Mr. Wenham, the weather, please!”

The big man was still staring at
the massing crew. “We’ll be in for a blow before nightfall, sir.”

Where the devil was Hendricks?
His hand sliding beneath his coat to touch his pistol, Christian looked up at
the masthead pennant streaming so far above, then down at the binnacle where
the needle held steady on the compass card. He nodded curtly, his eyes as gray
and forbidding as the sky above. “Thank you, Mr. Wenham. I shall keep that in
mind.”

The bellowing of the seamen had
reached a deafening roar.

“Mutiny, lads, mutiny!”

“We’ll not let no captain get away
with this, Hero of Quiberon or not!”

“String ’im up to the yardarm and
let ’im swing!”

“Off with his bleedin’ head!”

“Mutiny! Mutiny! MUTINY!"

Ian was there at his elbow again,
his eyes desperate. The big Scot took off his cap and held it nervously in his
hands, tiny beads of sweat beading on his brow. “Sir, ’tis a-beggin’ ye I be
tae reconsider the wisdom of having Arthur whipped! We’ve nae had a murder
aboard this ship, but if you insist on going through with this”—he gulped and
swallowed—“this—”

“Folly, Mr. MacDuff? Pray,
do not think to deny me the one bright spot in what has turned out to be a hellish
nightmare of a day.”

Ian exchanged a desperate glance at
Wenham. In Captain Lord, he had thought he’d finally found a commanding officer
he could look up to, a commander he could respect—but he’d been wrong.

As one, the two officers glanced at
the aloof face of the man who was about to sign his own death warrant, both
knowing that the moment the dreaded cat-’o-nine-tails slashed down across
Teach’s back, it would be all over.

Not for Teach—but for the Lord and
Master.

###

Hearing the rising uproar on the
deck above, Deirdre, frightened, grabbed an amputation knife from Elwin Boyd’s
box of instruments, picked up her skirts, and fled topside, emerging, breathless,
onto the frigid, wind-whipped deck.

Fighting to keep her balance
against the ship’s roll, she made her way to Midshipman Hibbert’s side and
grabbed his dirty sleeve.

“Hibbert! What’s happenin’?”

The youth swung around, gaping and
flushing at the sight of her in the blood-red dress. He saw the gooseflesh on
her arms and gallantly handed her his coat. Then, regaining his composure, he
said, “Our Lord and Master is about to prove his stupidity, that’s what!” He
watched as two frightened bosun’s mates rigged a grating, their eyes darting
between the captain and the swelling masses assembled aft. “You wait, he’ll
have a mutiny on his hands before the hour’s up!”

Rhodes, passing, snapped, “He won’t
last that hour, mark my words! Soon’s that whip comes down on Arthur’s back,
it’s all over for him.”

Gasping, Deirdre turned toward the
quarterdeck. Bold Marauder's captain stood at the rail, detached, aloof,
and alone. Sudden, unwanted fear for him drove through her heart, but she
willed it away. Bleedin’ wretched bastard, he deserved whatever he got!

He turned his head and saw her.
Their eyes met and held. She saw pain and anger in those cold depths,
detachment, and a total lack of warmth. There was no forgiveness in those eyes.
None at all.

Then he turned away, leaving
something awful and empty coiling in the deepest chambers of her heart.

A young midshipman, white with
fear, came running up from the hatch, a leather book in his hands. He pounded
up the ladder to the quarterdeck, remembered to salute it at the last minute,
and handed the book to his captain.

“The Articles of War,” Hibbert
murmured reverently as the Lord and Master’s deep, clipped voice began reciting
the unfamiliar words.

Aft, a man lunged forward,
shouting, to be quickly subdued by a marine.

The captain, unfazed, never looked
up. At last he closed the book, with a sound like a coffin being shut for the
last time, and handed it back to the nervous boy. Above, dark clouds began to
gather above the spires of the masts, but the captain seemed oblivious to the
threatening storm. His gaze met Hendricks’s. “Bind the prisoner, please,” he
ordered.

A horrible, terrifying roar arose
from the crew. Teach went wild as he was dragged, kicking and screaming, to the
grating. He twisted, his black eyes boring into the cool gray ones of the
captain. “You’re the scum of the earth, you vicious, bleedin’ pig! So help me
God, I’ll have your black heart on a platter to feed to the sharks! I’ll have
your head on a pole to parade through the streets!  I’ll have—”

Christian nodded to Hendricks. “You
may commence punishment.”

Teach was lashed to the grating—not
by the wrists, as was customary, but by the ankles, in what looked to be a new
method of torture.

Hendricks loosened the red baize
bag and gave it to his mate.

Teach went ashen, the sweat rolling
in rivulets down his brow.

And the captain, leaning on his
sword with his hands crossed loosely over the hilt, said nothing as the bosun’s
mate reached into the bag, shook it upside down, and stared at that which came
slithering out to fall upon the deck.

“What the hell . . .” the man said,
looking up as though he’d been the butt of a cruel joke.

For it was not the dreaded
cat-o’-nine-tails that lay there, but an oily pile of rags.

The crew, confused, instantly
quieted. There was no sound but the hiss of spray at the bows, the whine of
wind through the shrouds. In the shocked, ensuing silence, Rico Hendricks threw
back his head in laughter, bent, and casually tossed one of the rags to a
stunned Arthur Teach. Then he turned as two bosun’s mates, sweating and
swearing, dragged a huge chest across the deck and up to Teach’s bound feet.
With his foot, Hendricks broke the latch and kicked the lid wide.

The crew stood frozen, motionless,
silent.

“God strike me,” someone murmured.

In the chest was a gruesome
collection of axes, pistols, knives, and boarding pikes. As the crew stared,
gaping with shock, the big Jamaican reached inside and handed the first weapon
he found—a boarding axe—to a bug-eyed and gaping Teach.

Several feet away, the Lord and
Master leaned casually on his sword and watched with faintly smiling eyes.

And then the crew of HMS Bold
Marauder witnessed the most unorthodox—and effective—punishment the Royal
Navy had ever doled out, as, with each roll of the drum, an oiled rag and a
weapon from the chest were given to Blackbeard’s hapless grandson, and he was
forced to clean every axe, knife, tomahawk, and pike it contained.

Two hours later, Teach was finally
finished. Wearily, he oiled the last pistol, tossed it back into the chest,
and, wiping his brow, glared up at his new captain. But in his black eyes was
something that hadn’t been there before—a wary gratitude, a grudging respect.

The Lord and Master had not
whipped him.

The captain met his gaze. Then he
picked up his fat little dog, who had come waddling up on deck to join him,
and, cradling her to his chest, swept the crew, staring at him in amazement and
shock, with his hard gray eyes.

“I cannot abide abuse,” he snapped,
his voice rising over the wind. “But I will, by God, have obedience and
respect from the lot of you. Test my patience, and I promise you that punishment
will be swift—and fitting to the crime.”

Overhead, black storm clouds came
together and the first raindrops began to fall, as if they, too, had obeyed the
will of the Lord and Master.

His flinty gaze swept over Deirdre,
passed on.

“You are all dismissed,” he said
coldly and, touching his hat to them, went below to his cabin.

Chapter 12

“Twenty-two years at sea and I
ain’t never seen anything like it!”

“Bloody bastard the captain is,”
Skunk exclaimed, putting his mug down atop the wardroom’s scrubbed mess table,
“Arthur’d’ve been better off with a whippin’! At least there’s dignity
in that!”

“Aye, dignity,” Russell Rhodes
muttered as he dealt a fresh hand of cards to his shipmates. He slapped his
palm down atop them, holding them as the ship tilted in a steep swell and then
crashed down into the trough. “’Twas a humiliation, making Arthur clean all
those weapons . . . Wasn’t it, Arthur?”

Teach, sitting moodily in the corner
with his back propped against a bulkhead, looked away, unwilling to take a stand
for or against what the Lord and Master had done to him.

Or, more correctly, what he had not
done to him. Rhodes glanced sideways at Teach. “Well, don’t forget what he did
to your beard, Arthur.”

The big seaman looked down, his
thumbs grazing the blade of his knife. But the fury had gone out of his eyes,
and that had Rhodes, Skunk, and the rest of the troublemakers more than a
little worried, for Teach, normally full of fire, was behaving like a tame bear
in a traveling fair.

And he wasn’t the only one. Ian
MacDuff, still topside with the watch, had shed his Scots garb and donned a
proper lieutenant’s coat for the first time in anyone’s memory, and the Irish
girl, who’d come aboard vowing to kill their new captain, was strangely quiet,
her lovely eyes troubled.

No, things were not going well at
all. The Lord and Master was proving to be a cunning strategist—and no one knew
quite what to do about it.

Skunk, who’d been leering at—and
down—the bodice of Delight’s gown, leaned over and leered down Deirdre’s
instead. She flushed, yanked the warm woolen shawl that Delight had given her
around her shoulders, and leaned away, trying to escape both his eyes and his
scent. But Skunk only laughed and laid a grimy paw over her hand. “Yer lookin’
a bit pale around the gills, girlie. Scared? Sick? Now, don’t ye worry none
’bout this little storm. ’Tis just a mere blow and it’s gonna get worse before
it gets better. The ship’ll be all right. After all, the Lord and Master commands
it, eh, lads?”

Laughter met his remark, but it was
guarded, and Deirdre sensed that something had changed about the crew’s
feelings regarding the captain.

Something that was changing within
herself as well.

The thunder rolled again and she said
a silent prayer as the ship began to climb the next towering swell, there to
hang suspended before thundering down into a trough.

The captain. She closed her
eyes and wiped damp palms on her skirts. Sweet Jesus, she’d feel a lot safer if
she was in his presence right now, secure in his assurance that Bold
Marauder would not go down—

Her head snapped up. Dear God, what
was she thinking?

“The Lord an’ Master,” she spat, in
defiance of her thoughts. “A curse on that poxy blackguard!”

“Well, I’m glad to see that not all
of us’ve taken leave of our senses!” Rhodes said, with a sidelong glance at
Teach. “By the way, Deirdre”—his gaze dropped to her bodice, then back up
again—“Elwin tells me you helped yourself to one of his amputation knives. You
wouldn’t be thinking of using it for your next murder attempt, now, would you?”

“Murder attempt?” Skunk cried
gleefully. “On his bloody Lordship? Why, show us the knife, girlie!”

“Aye, show us the knife!”

Slowly, she picked up her canvas
bag, which she’d put protectively beside her leg. One by one, the objects came
out and were carefully, reverently, placed upon the table. The loaf of Irish
bread. The flagon of Irish air. The pouch of Irish sand and shells. The wool of
an Irish sheep. The pebble from Irish land. Trying not to think about the jar
of Irish water—which he had so heartlessly broken—Deirdre at last found
the knife. “Here,” she said, shoving it across the table toward Skunk.

“Murder weapons?” Delight asked,
staring at the odd collection and grinning as her hand roved down Teach’s side
and over his thighs.

“No. Keepsakes from home.” Deirdre
said tightly, her tone of voice forbidding further discussion about the curious
items she was quickly stuffing back in the bag.

Skunk grabbed the knife and held it
up for all to see. “Now, have ye ever seen a finer weapon, lads?” He swung
around, his raised arm overpowering them with fresh stench. Then he pressed the
blade’s hilt into Deirdre’s hand. “Now, when his bloody Lordship comes down
from the deck, ye’ll be waitin’ fer him in the cabin, just like ye did before.
But this time ye won’t fail, girlie. When he opens that door, bring yer arm
back, like this.” He gripped her wrist and pulled her hand up and back. “A real
vicious chop to the throat oughtta do it.”

“Go for his jugular,” Elwin hissed,
grinning.

“Aye, don’t stop till he’s dead and
twitchin’ at yer feet!” Hibbert added, hiding a grin as he elbowed Edgar
Hartness, a freckle-faced midshipman who was making his first cruise on Bold
Marauder.

“Then plunge it into his heart for
good measure!”

“But first, do avail
yourself of his handsome body,” Delight purred, smiling. “’Twould be a shame to
let such a fine specimen of a man go to waste, no?”

Deirdre stared at her, temporarily
forgetting her fear.

“Of course, if you don’t
want to, I’d be happy to oblige,” Delight added with a wink. “I’d find great delight
in melting our Ice Captain!”

Again thunder boomed outside,
echoing up through the timbers of the ship and drowning out the sounds of their
laughter. Deirdre swallowed hard, picturing hundreds, maybe thousands, of feet
of cold, merciless ocean beneath them. If Bold Marauder went down, the
sea would swallow them up like the whale with Jonah. Dear God, she
thought, shivering. Her very life depended on the sturdiness of a scant bit of
wood and canvas, the seamanship of a crew whose abilities she was already
beginning to doubt, and the leadership, intelligence, and ability of a man they
did not trust, did not respect, and certainly did not like.

It was his will alone that kept Bold
Marauder from going down. His—and God’s.

The ship rolled atop a particularly
long swell, and Deirdre felt cold sweat prickle up her spine.

“Ye forget one tiny important detail,”
she said, trying to keep the terror out of her voice. “The Lord an’ Master has
banned me from his cabin and put me in the one next t’ him. There’s no way I
can . . . ambush him.”

Skunk braced himself against a
steep, rolling plunge and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’s all taken
care of, girlie. Our carpenter here—where are ye, Bernie?— chopped a secret
hole in the bulkhead screen between your cabin and the Lord ’n’ Master’s, just
this afternoon. It’s deck-level and just big enough for ye to crawl through,
not that our fearless leader’s ever gonna notice it anyhow— right, Bernie?” He
clapped the beaming carpenter on the back. “Bernie here fixed it so the door
opens beneath his Lordship’s desk. You ought to be able to crawl in and out
between the two cabins with him bein’ none the wiser!”

Deirdre’s mouth went slack.

“Why, that sounds like something I'd
enjoy doing,” Delight mused. “Imagine, if our bold captain happened to be
sitting at his desk at the time . . . I suppose, that being deck-level, that
would make me come out at just about the level of his love-organ. Lo, I can
just imagine his surprise to feel slow fingers stroking his more sensitive
parts as he was trying to work . . .”

Every man in the room flushed.
Young Hibbert clawed at his throat, his eyes bulging as he put his hands over
his groin to hide his sudden arousal.

“Here, now, Delight, ye’re
disturbin’ the children!” Skunk cried, hooting with laughter.

“Perhaps, then, some children ought
to be in bed, no?” Delight returned with a wicked smile and a pointed
glance at young Hibbert’s groin.

Her face flaming, Deirdre got up to
leave.

“Here, now, girlie, get back here,”
Skunk said, grabbing her arm. “Poor Bernie didn’t go through all that trouble
fer nothin’”

“Fine, then, let Delight do
it. I despise the man, but I can’t kill him. I’ve already tried twice.”

“Ain’t nothing to it,” Skunk said,
still gripping her arm. His eyes gleamed with mischief. “All ye gotta do is
crawl through the hole, wait for yer victim, and then stick yer knife squarely
in the middle of his gut—”

“Aye, carve his liver out and bring
it up on a platter!”

“And his heart, too! Don’t forget
his blackened heart!”

Sudden, awful images crowded
Deirdre’s mind . . . of the captain lying in a pool of blood, dying. Of his
cold eyes staring up at her in death, accusing, unforgiving.

Is that what ye really want,
Deirdre?

She stared at the glittering blade
with something like horror.

“The coast of Ireland
will soon pass far off our starboard beam. Forgive me, but I merely thought
you’d like to see it a final time.”

“Aw, don’t look so scared, Deirdre.
He won’t feel a thing,” Skunk said, picking up the knife and forcing it between
her stiff fingers. She stared at it, bracing herself against the roll of the
ship and therefore missing the mischievous glance he exchanged with his
shipmates. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get you up there and into his cabin before he
retires fer the night. Hibbert, take her up, would ye?”

The middie, still staring at
Delight’s bosom, got up.

“I told ye, I don’t think I have it
in me t’ commit murder—”

The door crashed open and Ian
MacDuff poked his head inside. Water streamed from his ruddy face, his beard,
his hat. “I couldnae help hearing your conversation,” he said desperately.
“Listen, laddies, perhaps we can reach a peace with the captain—”

“Aw, Ian, don’t go gettin’ all soft
on us,” Skunk complained, waving his hand with a dismissive gesture that released
a fresh cloud of stench from beneath his armpit. “Hibbert, get the girlie up
there, would ye?”

Hibbert, still staring at Delight,
grabbed Deirdre’s arm and bolted from the room.

Ian turned angrily toward his
shipmate. “Skunk, you go too far. I cannae permit this, ye ken?”

“Piss off, Ian. Ye know as well as
the rest of us that the girlie hasn’t the will or the guts to kill his bloody
Lordship. We’re just havin’ a bit of sport and ye know it. Hell, if’n I was
serious about wanting ’im dead, I’d do away with ’im myself.” He clapped a big,
meaty hand across Ian’s back. “Besides, ye know none of us really want to kill
the bastard . . . we just wanna shake him up a bit. Ye know, make him a little
aggravated.”

“Oh, ye’ll aggravate him, tae be
sure. At the wee lassie’s expense!”

With that, Ian stormed from the
wardroom, slamming the door behind him.

At the wee lassie’s expense.

He couldn’t have issued a more
prophetic statement.

###

Leaving a master’s mate and four
experienced hands at the helm, Christian, exhausted, made his way through the
stormy darkness toward the hatch.

He was shivering and soaked to the
skin. His hat dripped a steady stream of  cold water that trickled down his
face and neck. His damp neckcloth was tight and itchy against his throat, his uniform
was wet beneath his oilcloth greatcoat, and he felt as though he would never
get warm again.

His thoughts were as dark as the
night.

Damn her, he thought,
ducking beneath the hatch and clawing at his neckcloth. How dare she taunt him
with that vulgar gown that only a prostitute would wear? He rued the years that
had turned the innocent Irish girl with the huge purple eyes into the soiled
creature she’d become.

Emily’s face rose up in his memory,
and he was suddenly ashamed of himself for thinking of the Irishwoman, and the
stab of lust he had no business feeling. His eyes hard, he stalked through the
darkness, hating himself for feeling such carnal desires, resenting the girl
for causing them. She had no right. She had no right!

The storm sounded furious down
here, the tattoo of rain thrumming against the quarterdeck nearly deafening
him. The frigate rolled beneath his feet, lurched upright. But his steps were
sure, his balance secure—until he reached the door of his cabin and nearly
tripped over Evans.

He stared down at the marine, his crossbelt
a dim white X in the darkness. Obviously, the thundering rain did nothing to
disturb Evans’s sleep. Or, his sweet dreams.

“Ah, Delight . . .” the man
murmured on a sigh.

Christian frowned, and resisted the
urge to rouse the marine with a toe to his ribs. “Bugger the lot of you,” he
muttered. Then he stepped over the marine and stood staring at his cabin door.

It loomed ominously in front of
him.

He rubbed his chin, thinking.

Then, taking a deep breath, he
drove his foot savagely against the wood and instinctively jumped back.

Thwaaack!

The knife slammed harmlessly into
the doorframe.

Evans shot to his feet, blinking in
confusion. Ignoring him, Christian entered his dimly lit cabin. Nonchalantly,
he removed his wet hat, tossed it aside, and pried the knife—a wicked, curving
blade of death—from the wood.

“Really, now. Is that the best you
can do?”

The girl stood in the middle of the
cabin, gaping at him. Her hair hung in a wildly curling black mass about her
shoulders, and her eyes were huge pools of violet in her chalk-white face.
Predictably, she reached up and curled her fingers around the cross.

“I . . . I missed.”

Shedding his dripping oilcloth, Christian
brushed past her, went to his table, and poured a hefty measure of brandy into
a glass. He raised it to his lips, watching her. “Indeed.”

Deirdre saw no anger in those
frosty depths. Nothing but a strange, dark heat, and a flicker of something
that might have been amusement.

“Next time I won’t miss!”

“Oh?”

“Next time I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

“Save it,” he said, pulling a
blanket off his bed and wrapping it around himself before settling wearily into
a chair. As he raised his glass and took another sip of the brandy, Deirdre saw
that his hands were red and raw with cold.

She bit her lower lip, staring at
those hands.

“It saddens me,” he said at length,
“that in the thirteen years since our last encounter, you seem to have turned
into a woman who sees no better outlet for her charms than a ship full of men who
do not know the meaning of the term gentleman. I have tried to conduct
my actions, and my thoughts, in a gallant and honorable way, but it appears
that you are determined to break me.”

“I don’t know what ye’re talkin’
about.”

“Do you not?”  He made a noise of
disgust. “What woman wears a whore’s gown and pretends such ignorance as to its
purpose?”

“It’s not my gown,” Deirdre
muttered, looking away. “One of the um . . . crew, gave it to me since all I
had was the boy’s clothes I came aboard in.” She looked up at him then, her
eyes defiant. “I’m sure ye’d be even more disdainful if I donned shirt and
breeches.”

The captain just eyed her,
speculatively, and took another sip of his brandy.

She stared mutinously back at him,
saying nothing.

Finally, he sighed and put his
glass down. “It is, I think, time for you to tell me exactly why you’re on this
ship. Surely not just to avenge your brother’s press-ganging by murdering me.
That could have been safely accomplished ashore without your having to subject
yourself to an ocean crossing. Therefore, it must be the ocean crossing itself
that you sought, not my demise.” His gaze was steady, gray, penetrating. Why?”

“I need to get to Amerikay.”

“And what could one homesick
Irishwoman possibly expect to find in the colonies?”

“My cousin, Brendan.”

“America is a big place, Miss . .
.”

“O’ Devir. Deirdre O’ Devir.” She watched
as the fat little dog suddenly appeared and jumped up into the captain’s lap,
turning once, twice, around on his blanketed lap before settling herself into a
ball atop his legs. It didn’t escape Deirdre’s notice that he slid a hand
beneath the dog’s body, trying, perhaps unobtrusively, to warm it. “Amerikay
may be big, but I already know that Brendan is in Boston. Like you, he serves
with the Royal Navy. He’s the only family I have left . . . I’m hopin’ he can
help me find my brother.”

At mention of Roddy, a shadow
passed across the captain’s stark face and he reached again for his glass.

“I hate to disappoint, Miss O’
Devir, but it will not be so easy for your cousin to just leave his ship in
order to assist you in your endeavors. Common seamen and crew cannot just come
and go at will—“

“Brendan’s no common seaman.  He’s
a captain, and he can come and go as he pleases.”

The captain raised a pale brow. “A
captain, you say? What ship does he command?”

“I don’t know. But he’s in Boston,
and he’ll help me.”

The captain pulled his hand out
from beneath the dog’s body and began stroking her fur. “Perhaps,” he said,
gazing down at the spaniel, “I may be of some assistance, myself . . . ”

“You?” She gave a bitter laugh. “You
were the cause of all this to begin with, I don’t need or want yer help,
Captain Lord.”

“That is a pity. I am quite happy
to give it.”

“I bet ye don’t even remember me
brother. Or what might’ve happened to him.”

“We pressed a lot of men over the
years, Miss O’ Devir. You are correct in that I don’t remember the fate of one
Irishman taken into the service well over a decade ago. Some desert. Some fall
overboard. Some succumb to disease or the rigors of life at sea, some end up
beached following injury. Forgive me, but I have no recollection of your
brother, especially as I was transferred from that ship to another within a
month of our trip to Connemara.”

“So ye’re sayin’ it’s a lost
cause?” she asked, not willing to admit defeat.

“Not at all, but finding your
brother, or what has become of him, will present certain challenges that may
require more than just the well-meaning help of your cousin. I know you loathe
the sight of me, but three officers, one of them highly placed, have a far
greater chance of successfully locating your brother than just one Boston-based
captain alone.”

“Three?”

“Well, do not forget, Miss O’
Devir,” he said, with a little smile. “My brother is an admiral. He has access to
information that your cousin and I do not.”

Deirdre eyed him with suspicion and
the faintest beginning of hope. He was making it awfully hard to maintain her
hatred toward him, and even harder to remember her vow to kill him. She pursed
her lip, watching him quietly petting the spaniel. “Ye’d really help me, then?”

“It would be the least I could do
to atone for my insult against your family, Miss O’ Devir.”

He was still stroking the spaniel’s
fur. Swallowing hard, Deirdre looked down at that hand, the chapped skin and
raw, red knuckles that were a quiet testimony to the hours he had spent up on the
wet, open deck, in a storm, in the middle of winter on the open Atlantic,
trying to keep this ship, and all who were aboard it, safe. Before she could help
herself, she found herself reaching out and gently placing her own hand over
his.

“Maybe I won’t kill ye after all,”
she murmured, with a little smile of her own, and on an equally dangerous
impulse that surprised herself as much as it did him, leaned down and dropped a
kiss on his harsh cheek.

He stiffened and shut his eyes, and
for the briefest moment, his hand, still cold and sticky with sea-salt, closed
over hers in something like desperation. For an equally brief moment, Deirdre
felt sure that he was going to kiss her.

But no. He released her, the moment
was—thankfully—gone, and Deirdre, confused and shaken, fled the cabin for the
safety of her own.

Chapter 13

She awoke in Rhodes’s cabin, in Rhodes’s
bunk, and in total darkness.

Alone.

Outside, the storm rumbled in fury,
the deep, reverberating tremors of thunder shaking the very timbers of the
ship.

Deirdre couldn’t see the lightning,
and somehow, that was worse. Against her shoulder the bulkhead pressed, cold
and damp, and she realized, in the disorienting darkness, that the frigate was
heeled hard over on her side.

She could hear fresh torrents of
rain whipping across the deck above. Beneath her the ship rolled heavily,
creaking, groaning, and straining in the pounding seas. Shivering with cold and
fighting panic, Deirdre reached out, groped for her canvas bag and, pulling it
close, wrapped her arms around it and pressed it to her madly pounding heart.

Thunder crashed again, close, very
close, and the bunk vibrated eerily against the bulkhead.

In pitch blackness, she swung out
of bed and, gripping the bunk, balanced herself as the frigate rose, seeming to
hang suspended before crashing down into a seemingly bottomless trough with a
force that nearly knocked her off her feet.

Terror filled her. Wind screamed,
and the ocean roared just outside and she decided that if she was going to die,
it wasn’t going to be down here, trapped all alone in a tiny cabin in the dark.
Timing her movements with the violent ones of the ship’s own, she stumbled
toward the door, sick with fear and desperate for the comfort of someone,
anyone—

Him.

It opened just before her hand hit
the latch.

He stood there, holding a
lantern, his eyes panicky, his face pale.

“Thank God you’re awake . . .”

For one brief, crazy moment, she
almost flung herself into his arms with relief; instead, she clutched the
doorframe as the frigate rolled, and crashed yet again into another trough,
making Deirdre wonder how much of a beating the ship could take before she
broke apart and sent the lot of them to the bottom of the Atlantic. “Of course
I’m awake,” she snapped. “If we’re all goin’ to die, I’m not about to meet me
maker with my eyes closed.”

“It’s Tildy,” he said, seizing her
wrist with an urgency that scared her. “Will you come have a look at her?”

“Tildy?”

“My dog.” He glanced anxiously over
his shoulder, back toward his cabin. “There’s something wrong with her. She’s
hiding in the corner, panting . . . she’s staring into space and whining—” His
throat worked, and for a brief moment, she wondered if this cold, taciturn
Englishman who had himself so tightly under control, was going to fall apart
before her eyes. “Forgive me, but I did not know who else to summon.”

“Let me get me coat.”

She tossed the heavy garment over her
gown and clung gratefully to his arm as, with a sure-footedness that she
herself lacked, he guided her back to his cabin. The wind shrieked in demonic
fury outside, and why he wasn’t terrified that they were all going to die was
beyond Deirdre’s comprehension. Then he pushed open the door to his cabin and
held the lantern aloft, and in its dim glow, Deirdre saw the little dog lying
wedged into a corner, her eyes large, dark pools of fear and pain.

The instant Deirdre saw her, she
knew what was wrong.

“She’s dying, isn’t she?” the captain
said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “My God, I knew I should never have
subjected her to the rigors of a ship—”

“She be whelpin’,” Deirdre said
flatly.

“What?”

“Havin’ puppies.”

“Puppies?”

“Aye, puppies.” Despite herself,
she couldn’t help but grin at his stricken, helpless look. “Animals often pick
storms to be birthin’ their wee ones,” she said, kneeling down to stroke the
spaniel’s heaving sides. “Why don’t ye be gettin’ me some blankets so I can
make her comfortable?”

“Puppies . . .”

“The blankets, Captain?”

He stumbled as the ship pitched violently
beneath him and suddenly seemed to recover. “We can’t have puppies here! This
is a King’s ship!”

“I don’t think ye have a choice, and
neither does yer bleedin’ king. Now get me the blankets,” she commanded,
sliding her arms beneath the dog and lifting her gently as the captain grabbed a
blanket from his bed and hastily spread it on the deck against the bulkhead.

Deirdre lay the spaniel carefully
down. She was aware of the captain’s gaze on her back, grateful, worried, and
yes, relieved. He, proud commander of a warship, had turned to her in
his hour of need, humbling himself and placing his trust in her abilities. Hers.
She was suddenly assailed by feelings she couldn’t explain, and as he came up
to stand behind her, leaning over her like a protective father, she felt the
searing heat of his body against her own and flushed hotly.

Turning, she snapped, “Really,
Captain . . . this won’t be a pretty sight. Go have yerself a tot o’ rum or
somethin’.”

He pressed closer, his worried gaze
fastened on the laboring dog. “I’ve seen plenty of blood in my life.”

But when Tildy’s whimpers
progressed to sharp cries of pain and the first tiny puppy emerged some twenty
minutes later in its pink, bloody sac, the mighty Lord and Master went as white
as his shirt.

Deirdre glanced behind her to see
him leaning heavily against the bulkhead.

“If yer goin’ to be faintin’, I’d
appreciate it if ye’d do it elsewhere,” she said, cleaning the pup with a soft
cloth and placing it against the warmth of Tildy’s belly. But he didn’t move,
and when Deirdre looked up at him, she saw something in his eyes that swept in
under her guard and went straight to her heart. The captain was gazing at her
with eyes that were warm, caressing, and full of gratitude.

Eyes that sought a place in her
heart and made it respond to him in ways that made Deirdre suddenly warm, too
warm, beneath her clothes.

Something caught in her chest and
she looked down at the pup, recognizing the feeling for what it was. A thawing.
A sudden rush of feeling for this man who was her enemy, this man she had professed
to hate, this man who was causing her more confusion than she had thought a
body could possibly hold.

“Aye,” he murmured shakily.
“Perhaps I shall go relieve the officer of the watch.”

She tried to hold on to her
resentment toward him. But it was no use. She gazed down at the little white
dog and softly, murmured, “Yes, do. And perhaps when ye come back ye’ll have a
whole new family to welcome.”

He said nothing, just looking at
her for a long, quiet, moment; then he picked up his coat and left the cabin,
his footsteps quickly lost to the howl of rain and wind and storm. Deirdre took
a deep, shaky breath and shut her eyes, and beneath the frenzied shriek of the
wind outside, she heard the soft, kitten-like mews of the tiny puppy, this
stalwart evidence of new and abiding life oddly comforting and reassuring in
the midst of the tempest that roared around them. She had witnessed the miracle
of birth before—many times, in fact—but never had it seemed so precious, so
holy, so achingly beautiful.

A sudden warmth flooded her and she
hugged her arms to her breasts, thinking again of Captain Lord, and the way he
had looked at her just before he had left the cabin. But just then, Tildy
stiffened in pain and crying, began to push out another tiny form, leaving
Deirdre no time to ponder the new and confusing feelings of her heart.

An hour later it was over and the
spaniel, exhausted, was quietly licking the three little newborns who sucked
greedily at their mother’s swollen teats. Deirdre, her eyes misty with emotion,
reached out and touched each tiny, squirming body. For a brief moment Tildy
lifted her head and seemed to smile in gratitude; then the little dog’s head
fell back to the blanket, and with a heavy, satisfied sigh, she closed her
eyes.

Deirdre rose to her feet. Her work
here was done. Fighting the violent tilt of the deck, she staggered to the door,
opened it, and in the gloom, permeated only by a crazily swinging lantern, saw
Evans blinking sleepily.

“Summon yer captain and tell him he’s
the proud da o’ three wee babes,” Deirdre said. Then, with a last glance over
her shoulder at Tildy, she turned and stumbled back to her cabin, where she
fell, exhausted, into her bunk.

###

The storm continued for a week,
pounding the frigate and battering her beneath mountainous waves and blinding sheets
of rain, snow, and sleet. The pumps labored day and night to rid the bilge of
water that streamed down through the hatches and came in through seams that
were hard-pressed to stay tight against such an onslaught; some of the men got
seasick, and the crew, still wrapped in their drenched clothes, tumbled into
their damp hammocks after their watches, cold, wet, and too tired to do more
than close their eyes and succumb to their exhaustion.

As for the captain himself, he was
grateful for the storm. It kept his tormented mind occupied, for with the ship
demanding every bit of his attention, he had little time to think of the girl
he no longer trusted himself around, the girl whose eyes followed him wherever
he went, the girl who was managing, somehow, to vie with his beloved Emily for
the affections of his tightly guarded heart. Such feelings unnerved him and he
began to go out of his way to avoid her, until the dark purple eyes grew
confused, and then angry with hurt.

But he had no choice. She was too
young for him. She was too innocent for him. He had done her a grievous wrong
thirteen years ago, and it was far safer for both of them if she hated him. He preferred
that she hate him. But as the second week dragged by, he found himself pausing
for long moments outside her cabin in the dead of night, laying his palm
against the wood as though he could reach inside and touch her warm skin, her
hair, her softly beating heart.

Then he would turn away and stumble
wearily to the loneliness of his own cabin—and the nightmares that haunted his
troubled sleep—never knowing that, only several feet away, the Irish girl pined
for him as much as he did for her.

###

The storm did nothing, however, to
put a damper on Delight Foley’s business; indeed, she found such twisted
and convoluted motions on the frigate’s part a boon to her inventiveness when
it came to sexual pleasure—and positions. A true connoisseur of carnal ecstasy,
Delight loved her adoring flock of lusty seamen, though she vehemently
proclaimed that she would only allow Skunk near her if he dragged a bar of soap
on deck with him during a particularly violent bout of rain.

Two and a half weeks after they’d
left Portsmouth, Deirdre finally sought out Delight.

“Deirdre, cherie!” The girl
grinned and flung the door open wide. A pungent blast of French perfume hit
Deirdre in the face, nearly choking her. “Do come in! I was just reading about
a new position in my manual—here, have a look!” Flushing hotly, Deirdre pushed
the book away, for lately her own thoughts had been dominated by the captain—and
with strange, wicked notions that brought odd tinglings to her more womanly
parts.

“Delight . . . I have to talk to
ye.”

“Lo, Deirdre, I just knew
something was troubling you. You’ve been so quiet lately. Sit down right here,”
she said, patting her bed, “and tell Delight what the problem is.”

Deirdre eyed the scented sheets,
the spread of red satin— and took the chair instead. She hung her head and
twisted her hands together, suddenly uncomfortable and shy.

The other woman came to her, put
her hands on her hips, and tilted her head to one side. “Let me guess,” she
said brightly, tapping a nail against a pearly tooth. “It’s our handsome Lord
and Master, no?”

Deirdre’s cheeks flamed and she
looked away. “Is it that obvious?” she asked, wretchedly.

“Lo, Deirdre, when you’re older you
will learn how to hide the lust in your eyes. It’s plain as day when you talk
about him, that you feel for the man.”

Deirdre stared down at the floor. “I
don’t want to feel for him. He’s English. He press-ganged my brother and
brought years of pain to my family. He’s cold and emotionless and he has
nightmares that keep me awake half the night. I want nothin’ more than to hate
him, but I can’t.”  She made a helpless motion with her hands. “Saints alive,
Delight, what am I goin’ to do? I can’t stop thinkin’ about him.”

Even now, she thought of her
reaction last night when he had come into his cabin as she’d been feeding
Tildy. The lantern light had shone down on each glimmering strand of his hair,
making the damp, slightly wavy locks so pure and pale a gold they were almost
silver. His hair was the color of beach sand on a hot day, curling boyishly
behind his ears and at his nape, and she had almost forgotten herself and
reached out to touch it just to see if it was as soft and crisp as it had
looked. . .

She looked up to find Delight
gazing at her with a knowing expression on her face. “You’re in love with him,
aren’t you?”

“Love?”

“There’s no use denying it,
sweetie. He’s a fine man, strong and chivalrous, though a bit too righteous and
noble for his own good. But mark me, there are none finer on this vessel,
perhaps none finer, even, in England. You want my advice?” She laughed.
“Set your sights on him, cherie. He is a good catch, your man.”

Deirdre dragged her head up. “But,
Delight . . . he’s not interested in me. I’m Irish. A commoner. He’s an English
gentleman, master of a king’s ship, well learned an’ educated.”

“So?”

“He avoids me.”

“So?”

“He . . . he’s got rules he lives
by, Delight. He’s . . . he’s an officer and a gentleman. I’m just—”

“The woman he could fall in love
with.”

Miserably, Deirdre shook her head.
“Nay. He’s in love with someone else. Someone called Emily.”

“Aaah,” Delight nodded, knowingly.
“His dead wife.” She raised a brow at Deirdre’s surprised look. “Oh, don’t look
so shocked! Rico told Ian, who told me. Happened five years ago, it did. The
poor dear died in a fire. But really, Deirdre, do not let that stop you.
Whatever his thoughts are toward his dead wife, she can’t warm his bed at
night.  You, on the other hand—”

Deirdre, her cheeks flaming, was
already reaching for the door. “Thank ye, Delight. Ye . . . ye made some things
clear in my mind, ye did.”

Delight just shrugged and smiled
brightly. “Well, anytime you want advice, you come here to me. And when the
time comes for you to lure the Lord and Master into your bed, you just let me
know. I have all kinds of devices to make the task go easy for you, no?”

On that note, Deirdre went scarlet
and fled the brig, Delight’s amused laughter ringing in her ears.

###

Emily.

His wife came to him, as she had nearly
every night for the past five years, waiting until he was deeply asleep before
inflicting this same hell upon him that he was doomed, it seemed, to never
escape.

Christian’s blood went cold, and he
trembled, curling himself beneath the blankets and hearing himself whimpering
deep in his throat. But there was no hiding. No escaping.

“Emily?” He was dreaming, he knew
he was dreaming, but nevertheless it was all happening again, just as it had
that long-ago night in the distant English countryside, and there was nothing,
absolutely nothing, he could do to change it. He reached out for her in the
darkness, knowing, of course, that he would find her side of the bed empty.

He swung himself out of bed, the
floor cold against his feet. After so many months at sea, he was used to a
rolling deck, not cold marble, plush Persian rugs, and a solid floor that did not
move. But no, he was not aboard his ship, but at home at the fine country
estate in Hampshire that had been in the Lord family for centuries.

He stood for a moment, swaying in
the darkness and getting his bearings. Everything about this room felt cold—not
unlike the way she had behaved toward him since he’d dropped anchor in Portsmouth
a week before.

“Emily?”

He stumbled along, slightly
disoriented, the rich, ornate furniture with which she had filled their bedroom
looming as huge, dark shapes in the gloom. The furniture was ugly and far too
grand for his tastes, but she had wanted it, and it wasn’t in his heart to deny
her.

“Emily?” he said again, beginning
to grow worried. With her legs crippled from a childhood illness, she couldn’t
have gone far. He paused, listening. From downstairs came the steady tick,
tock of a clock; from beyond the window, the shriek of a night bird. Land
sounds, unfamiliar to his mariner’s ears. Outside, an owl hooted, once, twice.

Dread snaked up his spine. Where
the devil was she?

It was as his hand groped for a
flint that he heard it: from downstairs, the tinkle of her laughter.

He froze, the blood chilling in his
veins.

His hands were shaking as he tried
once, twice, to light a candle. Shielding the flame and gripping the candle so
hard that his knuckles went white, he crept out of the room and down the
twisting marble staircase.

Voices came drifting through the
hall. “Really, James, I prefer it when you touch me there . . . oh, yes, there.
Oh . . . oh, yes . . .”

Shock paralyzed him . . . And
then—anger that blinded him to all thought, all reason, all caution. He rushed
forward. His foot slammed into the parlor door and sent it crashing back
against the wall.

And by the dim glow of a candle, he
saw it all. Emily, her hair spread beneath her on the sofa, her long, frail
legs opened wide, her thighs wrapped around her lover’s back as he pumped and
strained madly above her.

With a hoarse cry, Christian
charged forward.

###

Deirdre O’Devir awoke with a start.

Something had roused her. She sat
up in bed, her heart pounding

The Lord and Master.

Through the canvas screen, she
heard him thrashing in his bunk, his hoarse cries blotting out even the
ceaseless moans of the wind and sea outside.

Deirdre flung the covers aside, left
her cabin, and stepping over the snoring sentry posted just outside the
captain’s door, padded on silent feet across the checked canvas that covered
the deck planking.

This cabin offered the only windows
on the ship, and through them, she could see that the storm clouds were parting.
The full moon shone brightly, and by its silver glow, she saw the English
captain writhing in torment in his bed. The sheets were twined around his legs,
sweat sheened his chest and his mouth was open in a silent scream.

She stared down at him, the barely
remembered face of her brother rising up before her eyes to remind her of her
forgotten vow.

Kill him, Deirdre . . . Kill him
. . . remember what he did to us. To you and mama . . . Remember your vow, Deirdre!

“No!”

She clapped her hands to her ears,
squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head as she tried futilely to push the
images away, to block them out.

Kill him.

Never would she find the Lord and
Master more vulnerable.

“I won’t!” she cried, clawing
at her cheeks.

“Emily . . .” he moaned brokenly,
his voice no longer a plea, but deteriorating into awful, choking sobs that
tore at her heart. “Dear God, Emily . . .”

Her hands shaking madly, Deirdre
took a deep breath and picked up the brass dividers that lay glinting in the
moonlight on his desk.

Then she moved toward the bed.

###

“I’ll see you in hell, by God!”

Christian dove forward, hearing his
wife’s scream as her lover lunged to his feet and fled from the room. Blinded
by rage, Christian pounded after him, her desperate voice echoing behind him.

“If you weren’t at sea all the
time, you wouldn’t have forced me to take a lover! If you were half the husband
you ought to be, I would never have strayed! Dammit, Christian, don’t do it!”

Black, all-consuming rage. . . .
His breath roaring through his lungs . . . The man’s pale, naked form rounding
the corner into the hall, racing through the elegant drawing room, stopping
only long enough to snatch a lamp from the wall and hurl it at Christian with
all his strength—

The room exploded into flames. Fire
whooshed up the curtains in a deafening roar, sending Christian reeling back,
away from the wall of intense heat. The rugs went up in an inferno, and savage,
hungry flames charged up the fine paper that covered the walls.

In minutes, the house was ablaze.

Servants, clad only in their
nightgowns, raced past, screaming. Christian pounded back down the hall,
hearing the roar of the fire behind him. “Emily!” he screamed hoarsely.
“Emily, dear God, where are you?”

The parlor was empty.

Thick, choking whorls of black smoke
blinded him, driving the breath from his lungs. Heat blasted against his skin,
his eyes, singing his hair. Coughing, he stumbled and raced on, the flames
chasing him as he tore madly through the house in a desperate search for his
wife.

“Emily!”

Pounding up the stairs, he crashed
into the bedroom and found nothing. He half ran, half fell, down the spiraling
staircase, and it was only then that he heard her screams of terror.

“Christian! Christia-a-a-a-a-an!”

Where was she? Frantically,
he kicked open doors that were already in flames. He bolted through rooms
crackling with heat and engulfed in fire. The acrid stench of burning fabric,
plaster, and wood seared his nose and the flames clawed at him like a live
thing.

Her voice rose to a shrill scream.
“Christia-a-a-a-an!”

There, huddled in a heap at the far
end of the hall, he saw her, her frightened face glowing orange in the leaping
flames, her frail body lying where her crippled legs had finally given out.

He raced headlong down the burning
hall, her screams of terror guiding him through flames that tore at his face,
smoke that stung his eyes and filled his lungs.

“Christian!”

He was almost there. Almost
there! Another few feet and—

With a sudden bellowing roar, a
wall of timbers crashed down around him in an exploding inferno of showering
sparks and leaping flame, forever separating them.

Emily! . . .

He heard her unholy, dying screams.

Then nothing.

###

Deirdre stood above the captain, helpless,
the brass dividers forgotten. Any thoughts of avenging Roddy fled her mind as his
writhing body finally quieted and he curled himself up amidst the twisted
sheets, his arms over his face, his broad, strong, back to her. She was about
to flee back to her own cabin when she realized that an awful sound was coming
from him: harsh, racking sobs that were so desolate, so full of raw anguish
that her own heart felt like it was being torn asunder.

Tears welled up in her own eyes and
she stared down at him for a long moment, seeing the Lord and Master as none of
the others aboard the frigate had seen him.

Alone, tortured—and defenseless.

And suffering in a way that no
person should ever have to suffer.

Deirdre swallowed hard. Then, her heart
aching for him, she peeled back the blankets, slid gently in beside him, and
wrapped her arms around his heaving shoulders, holding him tightly until at
last his breathing grew soft, his muscles relaxed, and his anguished sobs faded
until there was nothing but the sheen of tears upon harsh cheeks that shone
silver in the moonlight.

Chapter
14

Dawn’s light, pale and pink and
shimmering upon the sea, shone through the salt-streaked stern windows and
probed the expanse of the cabin.

Christian opened his eyes.

Above, the deckhead and beams glowed
softly in the morning light. He heard footsteps crossing the deck, and lan
MacDuff’s gruff orders to lay the frigate over onto the other tack. Everything
was well. Everything was as it should be.

Except for the woman asleep in the
bed with him.

He sat up with a start and stared
down at her, sudden heat pulsing through his blood. “What the devil?”

He reached out a hand to wake her,
and paused, stricken by her beauty, unwilling to disturb her even as he
wondered what on earth had possessed her to crawl into bed with him. Thick
black curls framed her face, webbed her cheeks, tangled in lashes the color of
charcoal. They tumbled around her neck, swirled around white, delicate
shoulders, and danced across the pillow. Beneath the blankets, he could see the
curves of her figure blatantly outlined, and his throat went suddenly dry.

He pushed the blankets back and tried
to crawl out from behind her, but he could not do so without waking her. The
narrowness of the bunk only made the endeavor that much more difficult, and the
Irish girl seemed determined, even in slumber, to capitalize on that fact. Looking
down, Christian saw that her arm lay curled at her side, her fingers only
inches from his nakedness. In dismay, he felt himself stirring.

The Lord and Master swallowed hard,
as helpless as a square-rigger caught all aback.

She was wearing nothing but baggy
trousers and a long shirt, probably borrowed from one of the midshipmen. It had
ridden up during the night; now it lay bunched and twined around her waist,
exposing a flat, creamy belly and more of her bosom than was decent. He had
thought the scarlet gown to be vulgar. Now he realized that with such a shape
as hers, it wouldn’t matter what she wore.

Desire. It tore through his loins,
cruel, uninvited, unwanted. It caused him to grow stiff and swollen, and he
heard his breathing coming faster, felt himself breaking out in a fine sheen of
sweat that wilted the sheets where they touched his skin.

The girl sighed softly in her
sleep, unconsciously nestling closer to him until her fingers, resting in the pale,
wiry hair between his legs, lay a mere two inches from his throbbing shaft.

He froze.

Tried to get his breathing under
control.

Lust. It was nothing but lust, he
told himself. Emily might have done him wrong, but she was his love, his
only love, and always would be. He would not betray his wife by allowing his
head to be turned by this scrawny, spitting, Irish girl, who probably wasn’t
a doxy after all—but who could definitely mean the swift and sorry ruin of his
career if he got tangled up with her.

The girl moved again, and her
fingers brushed his nakedness. Christian clenched his teeth together, biting
back the groan that rose in his throat. The sensation filled him with
longing—and with despair, for he alone knew that he could not carry out the
love act itself.

Not with Emily still coming to him
every night. Not with Emily’s face still rising up before his eyes at the first
hint of desire for another. Not with Emily’s death still filling him with raw,
torturous guilt that he had been unable to save her . . .

But his wife’s long-dead face did
not appear in the haunted rooms of his mind as he tentatively reached out and, holding
his breath, touched the Irish girl’s black, spiral-curling hair. It was coarse,
wiry, as willful as her spirit, and just as wild. His thumb began a gentle
caress, crushing the lock in his fist, as something huge and painful welled up
in his chest. He gently laid the long curl over her shoulder, his gaze straying
down her softly rising bosom to follow the chain that lay slackly around her
neck. The cross, glinting in the dawn’s light, rested atop the swell of one
breast, mocking him with its blatant reminder of their differences in religion.

He was Anglican.

She was Irish Catholic.

There were those who would frown
upon a highly respected naval officer taking a papist to wife. There were those
who would think her coarse and unsuitable as the bride of an English nobleman.
There were those who would have nothing but contempt for her. Christian
tightened his lips. Damn them, damn all of them who would put her, the only
woman he’d so much as even looked at since Emily, out of his reach.

And then he realized where his
thoughts had been leading.

Wife.

“Dear God,” he murmured, dragging a
hand through his rumpled hair.

Bride. . .

He shut his eyes, and broke out in
fresh sweat. Control yourself, Christian. You are an officer.

An officer. A gentleman. As such,
he was supposed to conduct himself in a stellar manner. To do otherwise would
be to bring disgrace upon his king, his country, and the uniform he wore with
such pride. The embarrassing debacle of Portsmouth, and being found in such a compromising
position, still rankled, and rankled deeply. Another such incident could bring
about his ruin.

Desperately, he glanced at the box
beneath the stern windows that the ship’s carpenter had made for Tildy and her
puppies. The babies were still asleep, but sensing her master’s stare, Tildy
raised her head and looked at him, seeming to grin.

“Ha, ha,” the little spaniel
seemed to say. “Now what are you going to do?”

His swollen arousal now lay stiff
and hard against the sleeping girl’s knuckles. He tensed and shut his eyes, hating
himself for not getting up and making a swift exit from this bunk, this cabin.
How he wished she’d move that little hand closer; how he longed to feel her
soft, whispery touch moving over his aching length, stroking it, coaxing it harder
and higher, until—

Sudden, violent anger slammed
through him.

What the devil was he
thinking? Cursing, he crawled out and away from her, no longer caring
whether or not he woke her. She remained asleep. Breathing hard, he stood naked
on the slightly angled deck and tried to rein in his thoughts.

His desires.

He stared out the stern windows.
The sea was deep and blue and ruffled by wind, its reflection dancing against
the deckhead like sunlight through a thousand diamonds. He passed the back of
his wrist across his brow, then clenched his fists at his sides as his gaze
crept, unbidden, back to the girl.

He was damned, he thought, damned
to hell and beyond. Turning, he rushed through his morning ablutions, cursing
when the razor caught his chin and raised a trickle of blood. He grabbed his
wig, arranged the rolled curls over his still faintly bruised temple, and
donned his uniform with a haste he hadn’t shown since he’d been a
fourteen-year-old midshipman who, cocky after his first night with a cheap
doxy, had shown the bad sense to arrive late for his watch.

His mood black, Christian stuffed
his shirttails into his breeches, grabbed his coat, and slammed out of the
cabin without a backward glance.

###

“Er, Ian? I really think you ought
to have let her go for another hour or so before tacking,” Wenham said,
scratching his ear as he peered up at the set of the sails with a critical eye.
Bold Marauder was quite comfortable, driving along on a larboard tack
under reefed topsails and courses, but he knew that the Lord and Master would
have the hands piped for sail drill as soon as he came on deck.

That would mean, of course, that
the men would have to go aloft to reset the sails for the second time this
morning. Wenham groaned. Why work the crew any more than needed? he thought,
watching the thin curl of smoke that rose tantalizingly from the galley funnel as
his stomach growled in anticipation of breakfast.

Ian puffed out his chest. “The
captain left me in charge, Thomas,” he said, hoisting his bagpipes and
squeezing the bag beneath his brawny elbow. The big Scot missed the looks of
alarm that spread amongst those standing nearby, for Ian’s talents at playing
his instrument had not improved in the slightest. “And I think it was
time tae tack, so doona question my wishes!”

Rhodes, leaning against the rail,
rolled his eyes as Ian stormed off. “The captain!” he sneered with a derisive
glance at the hatch. “If he were any sort of commanding officer, he’d be
up here on deck, seeing to his ship!”

“Prob’ly fussin’ with that stupid
wig,” Skunk remarked.

“Or feeding treats to that sap-eyed
dog,” Elwin spat.

Hibbert, who’d spent a very
educational hour in the company of Delight Foley, gave a sly grin. “Or tumbling
the Irish girl.”

A dark shadow fell over the deck. “That
will be all, Mr. Hibbert.”

Hibbert’s head shot up, the blood
draining from his face at the sound of that icy, dangerous voice. Abruptly, the
officers snapped off guilty salutes; then all turned hastily away and pretended
to be engrossed in their duties.

Christian wasted no time in
pleasantries. His jaw hard, and the very wig they were ridiculing carefully
combed and tied at his nape beneath the wide brim of his cocked hat, he crossed
to the weather side of the ship and stared out over the brilliant azure sea.
The wind was cold and biting. Spray was almost crystalline. Foam rode high on
the tumbling waves and flecked the ocean for as far as the eye could see. He
stared up at the masthead pennant, a dark serpent-shape against huge, fluffy
white clouds that raced high above the frigate’s yards.

The ship nosed into a swell, and a
huge sheet of spray drove over the rail and drenched his coat. He heard someone
howl with laughter before Ian’s sharp reprimand abruptly silenced him.

He ignored them, though his gray
eyes narrowed and a vein throbbed at his temple. Let them have their little
fun. They’d learn, soon enough, that his patience for putting up with nonsense
was limited. Squaring his shoulders, he strode to the wheel, keenly aware of
the hostile glances the two helmsmen bestowed on him as he studied the compass.

Wenham was right. Ian could have
left the frigate on the starboard tack for another hour.

He glanced at his first lieutenant,
thinking to mention the matter to him. But there was such a hopeful look in
Ian’s eyes, such an anxious look about his mouth, that Christian, despite his
black mood and better judgment, decided to let the matter go.

He saw Skunk, his grimy hair caught
in a long pigtail at his nape and hanging between his beefy, tattooed
shoulders. Several of the other troublemakers—Teach among them—stood nearby,
carefully upwind of the big gunner. Skunk’s gaze was on Christian. So was
Teach’s, Wenham’s, and that of every tar from bowsprit to poop.

Watching him. Judging him.
Searching for some flaw in his character, some weakness they could exploit.
Christian smiled, though his jaw tightened and his sharp gaze raked over them
with the keenness of a well-honed blade. They would find no flaw to attack, no
weakness to exploit.

And, he thought wryly, no blemish
upon his behavior. Regardless of how or why the Irish girl had ended up in his
cabin, he had not taken advantage of her.

He cast an appraising eye over his
command. Ian had seen fit to at least try to make the frigate look smart
after the buffeting she’d taken during the past two and a half weeks; her sails
were drawing well; the guns were lashed down tightly and sparkling with spray;
the men were bright-eyed and ruddy-cheeked, and all turned out in proper
uniform, and the decks—

Christian’s jaw fell open and his
eyes widened in shock.

“Mr. MacDuff!”

The big Scotsman’s head jerked up
at the sharp tone of the Lord and Master’s voice and instinctively he tightened
his elbow over the bagpipes. “Yes, sir?”

Christian was staring,
incredulously, around him. “Who had the morning watch?”

Ian paled. “Er . . . uh, no one,
sir . . .”

“No one? And who has the watch
now, Mr. MacDuff?”

“Er . . . Mr. Rhodes, sir,” Ian
said lamely. “Er … why, sir?”

The crew exchanged nervous glances,
wondering what had so riled their captain.

They soon found out. “By God, look
at these decks! Torn cordage, seaweed, slime—why, this is an embarrassment,
not only to me, but to this ship!”

Nobody moved.

He glared at his officers, the
anger in his eyes causing them to take an involuntary step backward. “What the
bloody deuce is the matter with you all? This is a king’s vessel! Take
some pride in that fact, and in yourselves!”

They stared at him, totally
uncomprehending.

“This is a king’s vessel!”
Hibbert mimicked, smirking.

“Silence, the lot of you!”
Christian roared, his eyes hard beneath the shadow of his cocked hat. He took a
deep breath and willed control into his tone. “Mr. Rhodes, set your people to
scrubbing, and when they have finished, have them wash down the deck with
seawater and vinegar.”

A low grumble of  protest swept
through the crew as the sharp scents of frying pork wafted up from the galley
and drifted on the wind. “But, sir,” Ian ventured, trying to intervene, “what
about breakfast?”

“Breakfast will keep, Mr. MacDuff.
In future, perhaps the crew will remember that if they wish to break their fast
on time, such mundane tasks as scrubbing the deck are to be performed
before sunup!”

Such a threat was enough to send
even Skunk running for a mop. Christian watched the crew attack the job with a
vengeance. Another small victory in this little war, he thought smugly.
And he hadn’t even had to enlist the help of his bosun.

Speaking of Rico . . .

He descended the quarterdeck
companionway and strode among the men, moving upwind of Skunk. The gunner was
attacking the grime from beneath the hulking shadow of a cannon, grumbling as
he scrubbed. Rhodes looked over at Christian, his eyes contemptuous. Hibbert,
his back toward him, was supervising a group of swearing, laboring seamen, his
hands on his hips, his uniform unacceptably filthy. Christian set his jaw and,
coming up behind the youth, clapped a hand over his scrawny shoulder.

“Mr. Hibbert?”

The midshipman whirled, paled, and
shrank back.

“Have you seen my bosun?”

Hibbert’s face changed, becoming
smug. “Aye.”

“That’s aye, sir, and don’t
you forget it lest I box your ears and send you to the damned brig!”

“The brig? I would like that, sir—”

Too late, Hibbert realized his
mistake. The Lord and Master’s cold gray eyes narrowed. The ship quieted, the
mops stopped, and only the hiss of spray at the bows broke the sudden silence.

“The brig. ’Twould seem that
is a most popular area of the ship, is it not, Mr. Hibbert? Pray, is
there something down there that is escaping my attention?”

“N-no, sir! Not at all!”

“We shall see,” Christian said
coldly, and abruptly turned on his heel.

The crew froze. As one, every
seaman, every warrant officer, every petty officer, every marine, watched him
go, each man’s eyes desperate, anxious, and stricken.

The Lord and Master was headed for
the hatch. The Lord and Master was going to find Delight. The Lord and Master
was going to put a swift and abrupt end to any chance of enjoyment this cruise
might harbor.

For the crew of HMS Bold
Marauder, it was the beginning of the end.

###

Down into the bowels of the frigate
he went, descending hatches, moving down companionways, his stride never
faltering.

The brig. It loomed up in front of
him, its door shut tight. Without pausing, the Lord and Master drew his pistol,
lifted the latch, and, placing a palm carefully against the door, pushed it
open.

He blinked once, twice.

The pistol fell from his hand and glanced
painfully off his toe.

On the walls—and ceiling—were
enough mirrors to send his reflection back at him from every point of the
compass. On the deck was a rich purple-and-red carpet strewn with pillows. In
the middle of the room, draped in sheets of dark red satin, was a bed.

And reclining on the bed was a
woman.

She was reading aloud, in French,
and did not see him. But he saw her. Wickedly long, shapely legs, bent at the
knees and lazily spread to reveal enough of her to make his face flame with
heat. Black garters that disappeared beneath the hem of a short shift. Long fingernails
tapping the book, and a sultry, husky voice that was meant to be felt, not
heard.

If Captain Christian Lord was
stunned by the discovery of what the “brig” contained, he was downright shocked
by the discovery of what its occupant was reading. For he understood French,
and understood it well, and what the woman was reading was no dignified work of
an educated scholar.

“‘. . .after tying your man up,
preferably to all four posts of your bed with a length of rope’—hmm, being a
ship, that should be an easy commodity to come by!—‘move your tongue
over every square inch of his skin, thoroughly wetting him and then blowing
coolly upon the wet areas until he is hot and hard and begging for release.
Work every area of his body, moving your tongue slowly into the folds of his
ears, sucking on his earlobes, and then letting your tongue drag down his neck,
over his shoulders, lapping his nipples, even the inside of his navel. It is
very important to pay particular attention to this area before proceeding to
his—’” She stopped, lowered the book, and without faltering, purred, “Why,
hello, Captain Lord. Do come in and join me. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He stared, his mouth agape, his
body unable to move.

“What, is our bold and handsome
commanding officer shy and inhibited?” She laughed, a rich, husky, throaty
sound that immediately made his blood start to heat up, then set the book aside
and came to her feet in a single fluid, feline movement.

She crossed the room in a slinky,
sinuous float, her eyes never leaving his. In their blue depths was an
invitation that had his heart pounding long before her nails even touched his
waistcoat, his shoulders. She dragged them seductively down his chest, flicking
them around each gold button and undoing them as she went. “Aah, such a
handsome uniform . . . a sea warrior you are, no? Such a brave and noble man
you must be . . . here, darling, let Delight show you how much she appreciates
brave and noble men . . .”

Christian recovered enough to shove
her away. “How the bloody hell did you get aboard my ship?” he
thundered.

“Lo, I just love a man when
he’s angry,” she purred, sauntering around behind him and letting her hand rove
down his spine. “Makes my love-juices flow, no? Here, darling, take my hand and
let me lead you to my bed . . . I do need someone on whom to practice my new
techniques . . .”

“Get away from me!”

“Ta, Captain, you hurt poor
Delight’s feelings with such words! You do not have to act the part of a
gentleman with me, you know? Let me touch you . . . let me taste you . . . let
me do things to you with my tongue that you wouldn’t dream could be done.
Wouldn’t you enjoy the feel of my lips around your cock, Captain? I know just
how much pressure to exert in order to give you the most enjoyable release . . .
Do you know, I have sent lesser men than you to the petite morte. Come,
let me play with you . . . I’m very good, you know.”

The Lord and Master was turning
purple. “Rico!” he bellowed hoarsely as her hand slid over his breeches
and flickered suggestively, boldly, across his groin.

“Dear Rico, you just missed him . .
. he left here quite, quite exhausted . . . do you know, I have just the
lady for him when we reach home.”

“Home? Damn you, we’re going
to the colonies, not France!” He caught her hand and stared, horrified, at her
probing fingers. “By God, this is a king’s ship!”

She wrestled her hand free. “Yes,
darling, I know . . . but the king’s proud officers need their just rewards,
too, no?”

Long, skillful fingers toyed with him
through the breeches, and angrily he caught her wrist once more. “Damn you, I
asked you how you got aboard this ship!”

“Why, Captain, I merely asked and
your men brought me aboard. They took pity on me, you see, because I needed
passage home to Boston.”

“Boston?” he
roared, shoving her hand away from his groin.

“Yes, darling, Boston. Had you
fooled, no? I’m not French, I’m American, though I’ve lived in a little village
in Normandy with my husband, God rest his soul, for these past three years . .
.  after his death I went to Paris, where I spent the past eight months learning
the finer techniques of pleasuring a man, though if dear Papa knew, he’d surely
get apoplexy, if not something far worse. He thinks I’ve been in
mourning, so if you run into him when we get to Boston, please, do not tell
him.”

He gaped at her, unable to move,
watching in frozen fascination as her probing fingers skimmed with shivery
expertise over his slowly rising tumescence.

“You see, Captain, furthering my education
was the only way I could think of to make myself competitive, as all the ladies
back home want the same man I mean to snare for myself. I had to learn
things they did not, so that I would have the advantage over them.”

“Advantage?”

“Yes, darling, advantage . .
. You see, I was once kissed by a dashing rogue there, a handsome scoundrel who
calls himself the Irish Pirate, and I will do anything, anything, to get
him into my bed and firmly entrenched between my legs . . . Captain Lord?
Captain Lord, are you all right?”

His mouth had gone slack with
shock.

“Come, my handsome captain, you
simply must lie down, no? You have grown pale, and if you fall here, you may
hurt yourself. Lo, you are so big and strong I do not think I could lift you . .
. though, if you prefer, I would be most happy to practice a little something
right here. Have you ever heard of pattes d’araignee, Captain? Most do
it only with their fingers, but I have grown most skillful with my toes . . .

“My God,” he said, coming to his
senses and shoving her away once more. “This—this is madness!”

“Madness? Ah, Captain, you won’t
know madness until you spend an hour with me.” Her hand was touching
him once more, the pressure of her fingers growing stronger and sending bolts
of feeling pulsing through his loins and into his blood. “Ah, you like that,
no, Captain? Yes, it is a pleasure spot that will bring even the strongest of men
to his knees.”

He backed up, trying desperately to
escape. “You cannot stay here, by God!”

“Then by all means, my sweet, let
us go to your cabin instead. Surely, ’twill take the pressure off our poor
little Irish girl, no? She is so innocent and naive, why, you should have seen
the shock on her face when I gave her that gown to wear . . . poor little
thing, I thought she would faint dead away!”

I have to get out of here,
Christian thought, beginning to panic. Desperately, he caught her hand and
yanked it up and away from him, wincing as her other hand slid out to run
dangerously up the inside of his thigh. Swearing, he caught that one, too, and
shoved her forcefully away. “This is a king’s ship, madam, and I will
not tolerate such lascivious behavior! I give you ten minutes to get out of
that ridiculous attire and into a proper gown, and if I don’t see you up on
deck within the hour, so help me God, I’ll make you rue the day you met me!”

She pressed her body against him,
rubbed her bare foot up the back of his calf, and, tilting her head back,
allowed her lips to curve into a sensual, feline smile. “I should dearly love
to come on deck, Captain . . . I do need to find myself some rope
. . .”

“And furthermore,” he thundered, forcibly
holding her at arms’ length, “you can collect your belongs and prepare to move
them! I’ll not have a floating brothel aboard my command, do you
understand? This is a—”

“Yes, darling, I know. It is a king’s
ship and you simply must uphold the standards that are set for you.”

“Do not try my patience, woman!”
Releasing her, he moved toward the door. “And do not think to toy with me, do
you understand? I’ve had a damned bellyful of conniving women! For the rest of
this hellish voyage, you will confine yourself to the cabin next to mine, and
the Irish girl whose innocence you so obviously disdain!”

He snatched up his pistol, spun on
his heel, and stormed off, more angry—and aroused—than he’d ever been in his life.

A crew who was determined to make
his life hell, an Irish girl who crept into his bed, and now, an American brat
aspiring to be a French whore.

Hell and damnation, would this
bloody voyage end soon enough?

###

Crunch, crunch . . . sniffle,
crunch, crunch . . .

Deirdre O’Devir yawned and
stretched as soft whines and strange noises slowly penetrated the blissful haze
of her slumber.

She turned over and drew the
blankets up over her shoulders. Her hand slid across the sheet, where dim
memories of a hard, warm body still lingered. There vas no warmth there now,
and slowly, lazily, her eyes drifted open.

Crunch, crunch . . . sniffle,
crunch . . .

The dog, she thought. No doubt
Tildy was gobbling up one of the treats the captain was fond of giving her, a
fact that would soon have her even fatter than she’d been prior to whelping her
litter.

“Go away,” Deirdre mumbled
sleepily, her fingers tracing the wrinkled sheet where the captain’s powerful shoulders
had left an indentation. A slow, languorous smile of contentment curved her
lips as she gazed drowsily at the spot. Then she jolted awake as the memory of
last night drove through her.

“Dear God,” she breathed, a flush
of horror pinking her cheeks. “I spent a night in the Lord and Master’s bed . .
.  with him . . .”

Her face grew feverish. Her nipples
tingled unexpectedly, shocking her.

Crunch, crunch. Sniffle,
sniffle. Crunch . . .

Taking a deep, shuddering breath,
Deirdre rolled onto her back and stared up at the deckhead. Sudden, shameful
images drifted into her mind and she shut her eyes against them. She had grown
up in the countryside; she knew what stallions did to mares, what roosters did
to hens. What had the captain done to her during the night, after she’d
fallen asleep? Or, worse, this morning when he woke and found her nestled in
his arms?

What if he—she gulped and
swallowed—took me?

Surely she would have awoken . . .
wouldn’t she?

Biting her lip, she shut her eyes
and drove her hands beneath her shirt, touching trembling fingers to her
breasts and running her palms over her ribs, the crests of her hips, down the outsides
of her thighs. Everything seemed as it should be. She didn’t hurt anywhere, and
if he had done that to her, surely she’d be aching somewhere . . .
wouldn’t she?

Heat burned her face and caused her
heart to slam a wild tattoo against her ribs.

“Oh, sweet Mary,” she murmured,
clasping the cross in atonement for a sin she didn’t even know if she’d
committed.

But the dream images were there,
vivid, colorful, and erotic. Dreams, or—she gulped, the blood beating hot in
her face— memories? Dampness gathered between her thighs as the wicked
images burned through her mind . . . of the captain’s hands skimming her
breasts, cupping them . . . his fingers grazing the swollen nipples, and
squeezing the soft mounds as his mouth came down to suck at one hard crest, then
the other . . .

She shut her eyes and bit down on
her lower lip.

. . . Of his hands, fanning down
the curves of her waist, the tautness of her belly, the supple flesh of her
inner thighs, the dark junction of moist curls between them—

She pressed her hands against her
eyes, trying to block the images. Had the Lord and Master taken advantage of
her while she’d slept?

Prickles of horror swept through
her.

Crunch, crunch, crunch . . .

She flung herself onto her side and
saw Tildy’s head and shoulders buried in the canvas bag that contained all she
had left of her beloved Ireland.

The bread.

“Tildy!” she screeched, jumping
out of bed and lunging for the furry white rump.

With a startled yelp, the spaniel
shot out of the bag and beneath the desk, the bread still in her mouth. The bag
lay on its side, a sad fan of crumbs on the floor around it.

“Give it back!” Deirdre howled, reaching
blindly under the desk. “’Tis mine, d’ye hear me, mine!” Kneeling,
Deirdre got down on her elbows and crawled under the desk. “You come out of
there right now, ye miserable, mangy, cur!”

Suddenly the cabin door banged
open, a hand grasped her by the arm, and she was hauled forcibly out from
beneath the desk.

It was the Lord and Master, his face
dark with fury. “What the devil is all that shouting about? You’ve got the
whole ship in an uproar!”

“Yer bleedin’ dog ate my bread!”

“What?”

“I said, yer dog ate my bread!”

“The bread? Dear God, what was
wrong with it?”

She only yanked herself free of his
grip, snatched up the canvas bag, and stormed toward the door.

Terrified for his dog, he made a
grab for her, his fingers biting into her shoulders. “What was wrong with it?”

Deirdre spun around. “It was from Ireland!”

He stared at her, gaping—and then
understanding swept in.

Ireland.

“Bloody deuced hell,” he swore, turning
away in disgust. “All that carrying-on over a piece of stale bread just because
it came from Ireland? By God, if it makes you feel better, you
can have a whole confounded bag of ship’s biscuit, and with my
blessing!” His voice softened as he saw the sudden hurt in her eyes, and damning
himself for his insensitivity, he reached out to take her hands. “Hang it,
girl, you really know how to frighten someone, you know that? Here I thought
something dreadful had happened to you—”

She tore free of him, her eyes
blazing. “Somethin’ did!” she cried, diving into the opening he’d so
unwittingly provided. “And maybe you can tell me just what it was!”

“What?”

“Ye heard me, ye stiff-lipped
paragon of honor an’ conceit! Last night! Don’t be actin’ like ye don’t know
what I’m talkin’ about! Ye did somethin’ to me, somethin’ vile, unspeakable, sinful,
and I want to know just what it was!”

He stared at her in confusion.

“How dare ye stand there and
pretend ye don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, when all I can remember is—is—”

Her face went crimson at the
thought of putting those vivid images into words.

“Is what?” he demanded.

“Shameful things . . . Such as yer
hands touch—” She flushed and choked out, “Touchin’ me when I was
sleepin’!”

“Touching you?” Sudden
understanding darkened his features and he made a noise of frustration. “Perhaps
you’d like to know where your hand was, dear girl, when I opened my eyes
this morning. To say nothing of your body itself, which I distinctly remember
having assigned to the adjacent cabin.”

Humiliation burned her cheeks.
“Only the worst sort of person would take advantage of a lass in her sleep!”

“And only the worst sort of person would
consider taking a man’s life in his, Miss O’Devir.”

“What are ye talkin’ about?”

He inclined his head toward the
floor, where the brass navigational dividers gleamed in the sunlight. “I
suppose they just crawled off my desk and ended up there under their own power?
Or let me guess. The dog did it.”

“So maybe I did think of
killin’ ye. Or maybe I didn’t! I don’t have to be remindin’ ye that yer list of
enemies on this boat is rather long!”

“So, you admit it.”

“I admit nothin’, except the fact
that I could’ve ended yer miserable life and didn’t, a fact I now regret with
all my heart after the vile things ye did to me last night—”

“I did nothing to you,” he snapped,
furious that she could stand there and accuse him of something he knew
he hadn’t done, something he knew he couldn’t do.

“Ye touched me!”

“You flatter yourself to think I
even dreamed of it.”

“Oh? And what did ye dream
about that had ye so torn with grief, eh? Who is it that lays the Lord an’
Master so low every night, huh?” She glared up into his harsh face, now turning
white with anger. “Emily?”

The gray eyes went cold.

“Did ye envision yer precious wife
beneath ye when ye touched me, kissed me—”

He grabbed her wrists and yanked
her up against him, his mouth a slash of pain. “I did not touch you,” he
ground out, his voice tight with rage, “and I will make something very clear to
you, once and for all. I have no intention of touching you, not now, not ever.”
He drew her so close that her frightened eyes were a mere inch from his
nose. “And as for your precious virtue, you needn’t worry about me compromising
it, Miss O’ Devir. I have been unable to feel anything for any woman since my
wife died, and you, I can assure you, haven’t a prayer of stirring lusts I no
longer have.”

He pushed her away and turned to go,
his shoulders stiff with fury.

“Unable to feel anythin’? Lusts ye
no longer have? What’s the matter, doesn’t yer wedding tackle work?”

He froze, turned, and Deirdre,
stung to the quick by his words of rejection, knew that her reciprocal barb had
hit home.

“So that’s it, isn’t it?” she spat,
her eyes glinting with triumph, her heart sinking even as she railed against
the truth revealed so blatantly in his stricken face. “The haughty Lord and
Master—decorated hero of Quiberon, pride o’ Britain’s Navy, and master of its
swiftest warship—is useless as a man!”

“Silence,” he said, his face paling
as he stumbled backward, away from her.

“Useless!” she repeated, swiping
viciously at a tear that had leaked from one eye, then another. “He cannot
function! He’s less than a man! He doesn’t work!”

She threw back her head and
laughed, overcome with hysteria and a strange, inexplicable grief that blinded
her to the unforgivable and awful thing she had just done— stripped him of
every shred of his masculine pride.

He turned on his heel and all but
fled the cabin, her wild laughter following him, mocking him, and chasing him
into the depths of hell itself.

Chapter 15

“I tell ye, this is turnin’ out to
be the voyage from hell,” Skunk spat, kicking viciously at a neatly
coiled line and sending it snaking across the deck. “First he has us cleanin’
the decks, then he has us practicing sail drills, then he takes our Delight
from us—Christ, I’d as soon stayed in bloody England!”

It had been more than three long,
miserable weeks since HMS Bold Marauder had shown her heels to
Spithead—and things weren’t getting any better. Although the marine who guarded
the cabin where the two girls now stayed was easily coerced—by a very
manipulative Delight—into admitting “visitors” while Deirdre was absent, the
rebellious spirit with which the ship had left England was sadly lacking. Sail
drills had everyone’s backs and arms aching. Gun practice had them all
exhausted and half deaf. Strict observation of quarterdeck rules and Navy
protocol had everyone wishing he’d taken duty on another ship. Only Delight
maintained her bright and bubbly spirit, and she alone kept the men smiling when
they found nothing to smile about.

The Irish girl, however, was
another matter. She spent her time standing at the stern rail with her canvas
bag clenched in one hand, her sad face turned toward an Ireland that was now
nearly three thousand miles away.

And the aloof and unapproachable
Lord and Master spent his time watching her.

Neither spoke to the other, both
went out of their way to avoid each other, and the tension between them escaped
nobody’s notice.

Now the men, just finishing their
morning task of scrubbing the decks, watched their captain with mutinous eyes.
As usual, they were full of complaints—but that was the extent of it, for none
dared to cross him. His unorthodox punishments, beginning that awful day he had
forced Teach to clean all the objects in the weapons chest, were doled out
swiftly and mercilessly. Hibbert, having been caught once too often in his
filthy uniform, had been forced to soap and scrub the uniform of every officer
on the frigate. Skunk, caught swearing in front of the ladies, had been made to
stand before his shipmates for an entire hour and read from the Lord and
Master’s big leather Bible. Worse, all punishments were carried out to the slow
beat of the marine drummer’s drum, with the entire crew and officers assembled
to watch. Such humiliation was enough to make even the most recalcitrant of Bold
Marauder's men think twice about raising the Lord and Master’s ire.

But it did nothing to make them
like him.

“Aye, Skunk, it just ain’t fair,”
Teach grumbled, scratching at the chin he kept clean and well shaven—not to
please his commanding officer but Delight, who happened to prefer smooth faces.
He turned toward his shipmates, his huge, burly arms outstretched in a silent
plea. “Why the hell did we have to end up with the stuffy prig, anyhow?
Ain’t he a ship-o’-the-line captain? What’s he doing on a mere frigate?”

“Dunno, Teach, but I don’t believe
all that rot about him being a decorated hero for one bloody minute,” Wenham
muttered, staring up at the set of the topsails and sullenly tugging at his ear
with the stubs of his missing fingers. He risked a glance at the bosun, for
Rico Hendricks was usually within earshot. “Probably made one too many
embarrassing mistakes somewhere and the Admiralty thought they could squirrel
him away on Bold Marauder—at our expense!”

“Decorated hero, my arse! Besides,
whoever heard of a naval captain who wears a wig aboard ship!”

“Maybe he’s got a big bald spot
he’s tryin’ to cover up!”

“Maybe ’e’s afraid wot little
brains ’e has’ll leak out if ’e don’t keep a top on ’em!”

“Maybe he thinks he looks right
handsome in it and is trying to impress the girl!”

“Ha, he’s doin’ a fine job of that,
ain’t ’e!”

They howled with glee, remembering
the now-faded bruise that the wig couldn’t quite conceal. Every man on the ship
had heard about the latest falling-out between the Irish girl and the Lord and
Master, but only Delight knew what it was about, and she, as Deirdre’s
cabin-mate and friend, wasn’t telling.

“Hero or not. I’ll bet my last
shilling he ain’t never seen action in his life! Prob’ly bought all
those fancy medals!”

“Here, now, Skunk, ye be mindin’
your tongue,” Ian chided, frowning. “Ye canna put doon the mon when ye’ve never
seen battle yerself!”

“None of us have, Ian, but we
ain’t the ones wearin’ the rank of a post captain or carryin’ a fancy dress
sword, an’ we ain’t the ones with medals of valor affixed to our best coat! I still
bet he bought ’em off someone, or stole ’em off some corpse. Why, I’ll bet when
this here ship gets into a battle—not that I think she ever will—our fearless
leader’ll go running below with his tail between his legs!”

“Aye, and leave us to do the
fighting!” Rhodes spat, detaching himself from his place by the pinrail. “Why,
it wouldn’t surprise me a bit to find his Lordship hiding down in his cabin,
fussing with his wig and taking tea!”

Hibbert, who’d been watching with a
gleam in his eye, swaggered out from Wenham’s shadow, his lips curved with
mischief. “Aye, taking tea,” he sniffed, striking an exaggeratedly
dandified pose, flaring his nostrils, and making a big show over smoothing his
rumpled uniform.

The crew roared with laughter.

“Aah, ye show ’em, laddie!”

To windward, far off over the
leaping wave crests that rolled endlessly toward the frigate’s bows, tiny
splotches of white hung suspended from the clouds that lay piled on the
horizon.

But no one saw them, nor heard the
distant echo of gunfire—not even the lookout, who, at the moment, was lying
flat on his back on the maintop, with a boyishly disguised Delight straddling
his belly and putting his mind on other things.

“Keep it up, Hibbert!” Skunk
roared, slapping his thigh. “’Sdeath, we could do with some amusement to
brighten these decks!”

Laughing, Hibbert primped his
ill-kempt queue and pranced across the deck in a exaggerated caricature of his
commanding officer. Pinching his nostrils shut to affect an exaggerated nasal
drawl that sounded nothing like the clipped, educated tone of their captain, he
sniffed, “Mr. MacDuff, I daresay we’re in for a devilish blow . . . would
you please put a reef in the forecourse?”

A burst of raucous laughter went up
from his mates, and several threw wary glances forward, where Ian had gone off
to use the head. Their first lieutenant was no fun anymore, refusing to join
his shipmates in making jokes about the Lord and Master.

Grinning, Hibbert pushed his hat
back, primped and preened some more, and then, clasping his hands behind his
back, strode slowly across the deck. He sank his chin into his neckcloth and
drew his brows close in a threatening scowl. “Oh, and, Mr. Skunk, please see to
it that the deck is scrubbed and clean before I come topside!”

Skunk threw back his grimy head,
roaring with laughter. “Ye’ve got it, boy! Ye look just like the blasted blue
blood!”

“Aye, just like ’im!”

“More, Hibbert, more!”

On the horizon, the triangles of
white began to take on distinct shapes as they detached themselves from the
cloud mass.

The midshipman grabbed a boarding
pike from the rack at the mainmast, and leaned his weight on it in imitation of
the captain with his sword. His eyes half lidded, Hibbert stiffened his back
and drawled, “Oh, and, Mr. Teach, please remove that growth from your
face. This is a fighting ship, not a barbershop!”

“Not fighting ship,” Skunk
cried, “A king’s ship! If yer gonna do it, do it right!”

Hibbert struck a pose. “This is a king’s
ship!”

“Ha, ha, ha!”

Someone coughed.

But Hibbert, lost in the game,
never saw the object of his ridicule standing behind him, silently watching him
and cradling three tiny puppies in the broad shelter of his arm. Primping his
hair, the youth swaggered to the wheel and stared haughtily down at the
compass. “I daresay, Mr. Wenham, the forecourse is not in proper trim
for this wind. Pray, do see to the matter!”

“Er, Hibbert—”

“Mr. Rhodes, please do not
interrupt your commanding officer,” Hibbert said, with an imperious wave of his
hand. He turned to face the second lieutenant. “You know how it
grieves—”

He broke off abruptly and dropped
the pike on his toe. The Lord and Master was standing a mere ten feet away,
coldly watching him.

“Are you quite finished, Mr.
Hibbert?” The frosty gray eyes, hard with anger, raked the boy’s face. “Pray,
remind me to purchase tickets next time you decide to stage such an amusing
performance.”

Hibbert paled, gulped, and stared
down at his shoes. “Aye.”

“Aye, sir. And get your
damned hide below and change out of that miserable excuse for a uniform and
into something presentable!”

Hibbert fled, nearly colliding with
the returning Ian MacDuff in his haste to escape.

“Hey, watch it, ye imperious wee
upstart!” Ian roared, raising his fist. But the midshipman was gone.

Christian strode to the rail that
separated the quarterdeck from the waist of the ship. His cold gaze swept the
sea of smirking faces beneath him, noting the exchanged glances, the quickly
muffled guffaws, the twitching lips. He let the silence build, knowing that
their attention was on him and him alone. Then he cleared his throat and,
cradling the three puppies to his chest, stared down at them.

“It is a pity,” he said, his tone
emotionless and cold, “that here we are, only a few days out from Boston, and
you, as a company, are no closer to doing your Navy proud than you were when we
left England. I had truly hoped to make a favorable impression upon the admiral
there, but I’m afraid that I shall be ashamed, not proud, to bring this vessel
into that harbor and present her to my superior.”

Skunk and Rhodes exchanged smirks.

“You think that having me as your
commanding officer is the worst thing you could have imagined, don’t you?”

Skunk opened his mouth to reply in
the positive, but a quick jab in the ribs from Rhodes silenced him.

The action was not wasted on the
captain. “Why must you comply to discipline and tradition? you ask. What reason
is there for saluting the quarterdeck, for touching your hat to your commanding
or superior officers, for manning the side when your captain leaves the ship?”
Christian’s hand tightened around the rail. “Do you think me so pompous that I
ask your compliance for my sake? Do you think me so arrogant and
conceited that I demand it for myself?”

They stared at him,
uncomprehending. No one spoke. Above, wind sighed softly in the shrouds and
made the great sails taut and hard against the blue, blue sky.

“Death at sea can come swiftly, in
any form, at any time. A sudden squall. A battle. A mistake in interpreting a
chart, a position, an enemy’s strength. At such times, when chaos may reign,
there is one thing, and one thing alone, that will keep a ship together, and that
is called discipline.”

He stared hard at them, letting
them absorb his words. “Our Navy is the most powerful sea power in the world,
with possibly only the French to challenge it. That strength does not arise out
of the independence of each vessel, but out of unity amongst them all, and the
men who serve them. That strength is rooted in discipline and strict allegiance
to tradition—they are the cement that holds our Navy together, not something to
be sneered at, scoffed at, ridiculed. Now, if everyone decided not to respect
their seniors, and they, in turn, did not respect the flag that flies above
their heads, where, then, would this Navy be? Indeed, where would England
be?”

Nobody was smirking anymore. A few
men looked down at their feet, visibly ashamed.

“I do not chastise you for your
impertinence and disrespect to me; I chastise you for your impertinence
and disrespect for that flag—the flag of Britain. Your blatant
disrespect of me is not an insult to me—it is an insult to your country.”

More men stared down at their toes,
their faces reddening with shame. Even Deirdre had turned away from the rail to
listen.

Christian gazed up at the pennant
that streamed proudly from Bold Marauder’s jack. “When you salute
me, or your flag, or the quarterdeck, you are partaking of a ceremony that is
far older than you are, and one which shall persevere long after you are gone.
Since you are representatives of your king and country, your conduct as seamen
is representative of England. By seeking to anger me, you disgrace not
only your country, but your ship and the men you may someday fight beside.

‘Tradition, ceremony, discipline,
and obedience are the essential glue that holds together a fighting ship. A
fighting ship is the essence of a fleet; a fleet, the pride and guardian of a
nation. Remove one chink in the armor, one link in the chain, and it is
weakened. Do you want to be remembered by those you love and protect
back home as being that weak link?”

No one moved.

“Do you?”

They stared at him, while high
above, the pennant undulated with majestic grace in the wind.

“I have nothing more to say.”
Turning his back on them, the Lord and Master touched his hat to those proud
colors above his head, and, passing his gaping officers, his strangely silent
crew, went below.

But even he did not see the distant
puffs of white far off the starboard bows—puffs that might have been clouds,
but were no clouds at all.

###

“Lo, Deirdre, I wish you’d come to
me earlier,” Delight said, plopping down on her bed as the Irish girl came
miserably into the cabin. “I told you before, there are ways of bringing a man
to his knees. Surely, whatever damage you’ve done is repairable, no?”

“I accused him of havin’ faulty
weddin’ tackle,” she blurted out.

“You what?”

“And then I laughed at him.”

“Oh, dear.”

Deirdre twisted her hands. “But ye
say that all insults can be forgiven, right?”

“All, I’m afraid, except that
one. Lo, Deirdre, you’ve sorely wounded the man’s pride! ’Twill take a lot to
make him forgive you.”

Deirdre put her face in her hands
and sank down on her bunk. “Oh, Delight, I didn’t mean it, I was just so angry
. . . I woke up that mornin’—I mean, I got in bed with him the night before
because he was havin’ that awful, awful nightmare . . . and I felt bad,
and just . . . well, I wanted to comfort him, so I got in bed with him. The
next mornin’ I woke up and he was gone, and I had all these thoughts that maybe
he touched me, that maybe he might’ve stolen me virginity—”

“You mean, you didn’t know?”

“How would I? I was
sleepin’!”

Delight threw back her head and
laughed. “Lo, child, if he’d taken your maidenhood, I can assure you
that you would know it!”

“Maybe he did,” she replied
stubbornly.

“And besides, you would’ve found
your maiden’s blood on the sheets, no?”

Deirdre looked down, her face
beginning to redden.

“Ah, you are more innocent than
even I would’ve thought. What you must do, Deirdre, is win your man back to
you. He carries more scars than a battle warrior, no? Scars of the heart, that
is. Someone has hurt him deeply, probably this Emily. You have a formidable
opponent in this dead wife, but she is dead, and you are not, and our
Lord and Master cannot make love to a dead woman, no?”

“But, Delight, it’s wrong that I
have such feelings. He took my brother from me—“

“No, Deirdre.” The other woman
placed her hands on Deirdre’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “The Royal
Navy took your brother from you, not Captain Lord.”

“Besides,” Deirdre persisted
stubbornly, “he’s English.”

“I know, a stuffy, pompous race,
but we cannot dictate the direction of our hearts.”

“Ye make it sound like I’m in love
with him!”

“No, Deirdre, you make it
sound like you’re in love with him.” She smiled patiently. “My advice to you is
to get to work immediately on proving to him just how you feel.”

“How? He hates me, he does, and
with good reason after what I said to him.”

“No, he does not hate you. He
merely thinks he loves another. And you have sorely wounded his male pride. But
you are a woman, Deirdre. A living, breathing woman. He will not stand a
chance against you once you put your mind to it to go after him, no?” She gave
a wicked smile, curved an arm around Deirdre’s shoulders, and, guiding her to
the door, scooped a gown out of her armoire. “Now, here, put this on, and make
sure you tug the bodice down so that the top of your nipples show just above
the lace.”

“Delight!”

“Don’t be a ninny. ’Tis time you
started thawing our handsome Ice Captain! Lord knows I cannot! Now go,”
she said, grinning. “We’ll be in Boston in a few days, and the ladies there
will all be falling over each other to get their claws into your man. Make an
effort to have the advantage over them!”

Deirdre clutched the gown to her
chest, thinking of the captain’s reaction to the tame, by comparison, scarlet
one that he had so despised. But at that moment sudden cries drove down from
above.

“Two sail off the starboard bows! And
another, fine off the starboard beam! She’s an English ship—and she’s being
attacked!”

Chapter 16

On deck, the crew of HMS Bold
Marauder wasted no time in summoning their commanding officer. Now they
stood anxiously beside him, staring into his harsh face for reassurance as he
took a spyglass from Midshipman Hartness and trained it on the three ships.

“What do ye make of it, sir?” Ian
murmured, as each distant explosion of gunfire came rolling back to them from
over the water.

The Lord and Master studied the
three vessels for a moment longer, then closed the glass with a snap. Handing
it back to the midshipman, he turned and walked toward the wheel. “One is a
French corvette, Ian.”

The big Scotsman lifted a brow at
the captain’s use of his first name, but Christian continued as if the
familiarity were of no consequence. “The second is a sloop, flying no colors at
all. And the one they are attacking”—he looked at him gravely—“is an English
cutter.”

“But it’s peacetime, sir!”

“I know that, Ian.”

Young Edgar Hartness was pointing
at the flags being run up from the English ship. “The cutter is signaling for
our assistance, sir!”

Teach, scowling, had climbed into
the shrouds and now called over to the quarterdeck. “The sloop—the one flyin’
no flags—I’ve seen her before, sir. It was on my last voyage to the colonies.
She’s a smuggler, mark my words.”

Christian put the glass to his eye
once more. Through it, he saw a fox-featured, laughing rogue with high
cheekbones and glossy black curls caught in a length of purple velvet, standing
at the tiller of the sloop. Probably its captain, judging by the fine cut of
his clothes and his stance of command. The absence of a flag confirmed Teach’s
words, and Christian felt a wave of contempt. “Bloody freebooter,” he snapped.
“I have no stomach for smugglers, and even less for one who would attack a lone
English ship!”

“What’ll we do, sir?” Ian asked,
anxiously.

“Send the women below to the surgeon,
where they will be safe. Then clear for action and beat to quarters.”

“B-beat to quarters . . . sir?”

The crew exchanged glances, their
faces white with horror. Then they stared at their captain, and saw the cool
detachment and resolution in the steady gray eyes.

“Yes, that is what I said, Mr.
MacDuff. Beat to quarters.” He handed the glass back to the
midshipman. “We are going to fight.”

###

Belowdecks, the two women heard it
all: the urgent tattoo of the marine drummer, the shrill of bosuns’ pipes; the feet
pounding up the companionways and across the decks; the ominous crashes and
bangs and heavy rumblings from above as the frigate’s cannon were moved into
place.

Deirdre, watching Delight roll
bandages under Elwin’s instruction, didn’t need the surgeon to tell her what
was happening up there. “They’re clearing for action now,” he said bleakly, as
though taking comfort from the sound of his own voice. His bony hands shook as
he laid out an array of saws, knives, tourniquets, and bandages on the table.

Deirdre stared at the gleaming
instruments, at the bottles of rum that, when the wounded were brought down,
would be the only respite from the pain as Elwin dug and cut and—

Her blood went cold, and she hugged
little Tildy close, trying to still the mad, frightened pounding of her heart.
Then she put the dog down with her puppies, safely nestled in their box that
one of the crewmen had brought down.

“Is it goin’ to be that bad,
Elwin?” she whispered.

Even Delight paused, her eyes wide
and frightened.

“Might be.” He tied on his
surgeon’s apron, then positioned a wooden bucket beneath the table. Moments
before, that same table had been where the midshipmen took their meals; now it
might be seeing horrors she could only guess at. Above, the swinging deckhead lanterns
threw spidery shadows over the operating table, the deck flooring, and Elwin’s tense
face.

“What will happen, d’ye think?”

“Hopefully, nothing. This here
ship’s never been in a fight and I doubt today’ll be any different.” His lips
thinned and he swung away, busying himself at tearing bandages from a fresh
piece of linen. “But then, she’s never had a captain like this one, either.”

Cannonfire boomed somewhere outside
as Bold Marauder drew closer to the fight.

She’s never had a captain like
this one.

“Elwin . . . I’m scared.”

The small man glanced around to see
if anyone was within earshot. “So am I, girl.” He glanced about the sick bay, assuring
himself that he’d done all he could to prepare for what looked like the
inevitable. “I have friends up there. This could be bad.”

Outside, more gunfire boomed out
from the other ships, rolling like thunder across the water. Deirdre shut her
eyes and wrapped unsteady hands around Granuaile’s cross. But there was no
strength to be had there, no comfort.

Think of Ireland .
. . stone fences and misty skies  . . . whitewashed cottages and rocky pastures
. . . sheep bleating on twilit hills . . .

Ireland.

With a start of horror, she
realized she’d left her precious canvas bag in the Lord and Master’s cabin.
More cannon boomed from somewhere beyond the hull, deep and reverberating and
awful. Tildy whined with fear and Deirdre picked her up once more, cuddling
her. Beneath Deirdre’s chin, the spaniel buried her face against her chest,
shaking in terror.

Please, God, be with us. Please,
Mother Mary, keep us safe. Be with this ship, and . . . and be with our Lord
an’ Master. Please, oh heavenly Father, guide him, let the crew follow him,
help him to get us out o’ this and keep everyone safe. She squeezed her
eyes tightly shut, feeling the misty sting of tears behind her lids. And
please, dear Jesus, I beg of ye, please, please, please keep him
safe.

Here she was, praying for the
safety of a man she had once vowed to kill.

Dear God.

From above came another resounding
crash, and a chorus of shouts and yells. Bold Marauder was getting close
now. Very close.

“I hope Captain Lord knows what
he’s doing,” Delight said nervously.

“They say he’s been captain of many
ships,” Elwin murmured. “That he saved the day at Quiberon. That his last
command was a mighty first-rate man-of-war carrying one hundred guns . . . Ever
see a hundred-gunner, girls? It’s so big, it’d make this here ship look like a
sailboat.”

They heard a low, menacing rumble
as a gun was hauled across the deck, a shout, and then Bold Marauder’s
own bellowing voice as one of the nine-pounders in her bow was fired. The deep
reverberation sent thunder echoing through the room. Two bottles of rum clinked
together, and Delight’s face went pale.

“No.” Deirdre’s voice was a bare whisper.
“I’ve never seen a hundred-gunner, Elwin. After this, I don’t think I ever want
to.”

Another cannon boomed out from
above, sounding like a thunderclap striking too close. Deirdre tightened her
arms around Tildy, while Delight hastily gathered the three puppies into her
arms.

Oh, dear God, please be with our
Lord and Master . . .

What went through a man’s mind at a
time like this? What must he be thinking? Feeling?

She thought of the hateful words
she had last spoken to him. She wished with all her heart she could take them
back.

“I don’t hate him, Elwin.”

“Eh?”

“I don’t hate him . . . I said
awful things to him, and if something were to happen to him—”

She couldn’t complete the thought.
Couldn’t bear to think of him injured or dead. She bit her lip, and felt the
comforting touch of Delight’s hand upon her shoulder.

Another gun banged out, making the
instruments shake and rattle atop the table. “Soon now,” Elwin said nervously, wiping
his palms on his apron.

More pipes shrilled, bare feet
stamped across the deck overhead, and then the floor beneath them began to tilt
upright, leveling out for a brief moment before the ship angled over onto the
other tack. A pair of forceps slid down the table and clattered to the deck
flooring. They heard wild shouts from above, then felt the frigate pulling
herself up out of the water, the hungry, surging motion as she gathered speed .
. .

Elwin shut his eyes. “The Lord and
Master’s sending her in now . . .”

From above came shouts, rumblings .
. . then an expectant silence as the ship tensed for the overwhelming might of its
own impending broadside.

Deirdre clapped her hand over her
ears, hearing her heartbeat thundering against her palms.   And then the world
erupted in unholy sound as Bold Marauder engaged the enemy.

###

“Topmen aloft, and men to the
braces! Stand by, Mr. Wenham, and prepare to come about!”

Pipes shrilled, and men swarmed up
the shrouds and out along the frigate’s yards. Moments later, Bold Marauder was
nose-up to the wind, fighting her crew and trying desperately to fall off.

“Now, Mr. Wenham!”

The deck seemed to drop away
beneath them as the man-of-war flung herself onto the other tack and charged
down toward the battle.

“Steady as you go, Mr. Wenham!”

“Course south by southwest, full
and by!”

Christian stood at the quarterdeck
rail, watching the ships drawing closer and closer through the heavy smoke. His
mouth was tense and set, his eyes emotionless. Yet he was very conscious of Ian
standing beside him and gripping a huge Scottish claymore, his red beard
blowing in the wind, his eyes fierce. He was very aware of Rhodes, in place
beside Skunk and the larboard battery of guns; he was very aware of the lively
response of the frigate, and he was very aware of the nervous crew, their
fixated, glassy stares directed ahead toward the fight. Thick, roiling smoke
hung above the three ships, broken topmasts and streaming pendants poking up
through the acrid gray cloud.

Christian tugged at the lace of his
sleeve. There had been one or two snickers of disdain about his “primped”
appearance, but only he and Rico Hendricks, whose black eyes met his from some
thirty feet away, knew the real reason he’d donned a fresh shirt and his finest
coat, and clipped his best sword to his belt frog—he was a king’s officer, and
if he fell today, he would do so with honor.

If he fell.

How many times had he sent ships
into battle with that same thought running through his mind? How many times had
he counted on the strength and loyalty of men who would blindly follow him into
hell itself?

But these men . . .

Fiercely gripping the quarterdeck
rail, he peered across the double batteries of guns and their anxious,
crouching crews. Faces ran with nervous sweat. A few men looked ready to bolt.
Only Rhodes seemed calm. Christian met his gaze and gave the briefest of nods,
then stared over the lieutenant’s head. Just beyond, Bold Marauder’s
plunging jib-boom seemed to swallow up the sea as she charged down toward the three
smoke-cloaked ships.

“The sloop’s makin’ off,” Ian
yelled, pointing at the ship that flew no colors.

Christian took the glass from the
midshipman. The little one-masted vessel swam into view, and his eyes narrowed
as he trained the glass toward its helm. There was her captain, looking back at
him with a hand raised in mocking farewell, and Christian frowned, for
somewhere, at some time, he knew he’d seen the man before—

“Shall we chase him, sir?” Ian asked,
pointing at the fleeing ship.

“No.” Christian snapped the glass
closed. “The cutter has requested our assistance, and I’ll not desert her to a
damned Frenchman.”

Gunfire echoed across the water.
Christian saw the ornate stern of the French corvette showing dimly through the
smoke, her masts poking up through the thick cloud that engulfed her. More guns
boomed out in flashes of orange against black, and there was a splitting crash
as the small English cutter’s single mast toppled, dragging spars, rigging and screaming
men with it down into the sea. A great cry went up from Bold Marauder’s
crew at the sight of their fellow countrymen floundering in the waves.

“By the saints,” Ian gasped, with a
desperate glance at his captain.

“Mr. Hibbert!” Christian caught the
midshipman’s scrawny arm, his gaze on the men floundering pitifully in the
swells. “Bring up some hammocks from below, make sure they’re tightly rolled,
and toss them to those people out there so they have something to hold onto
until we can send boats to rescue them.”

The middie, terrified, just stared
at him.

“Damn you, move!” Christian
shouted, shoving the boy into action. “Bring her up a point, Mr. Wenham, right
up around that Frog’s stern. With a bit of luck, I daresay we can strip the
guts from her with a broadside or two.”

Cold spray hissed and dashed over
the frigate’s plunging beakhead, soaking the decks, the men, the guns.

“Starboard battery, run out!”
Christian yelled.

All along the deck, men strained
and heaved, muscling the big guns into position.

Not fast enough, Christian
thought, in despair.

“All run out, sir!”

Christian stepped forward, his face
in shadow beneath his hat. He saw the gun captains staring aft, awaiting his
signal, and beyond them, Bold Marauder's jib-boom, just thrusting into
the frayed edges of the thick cloud of smoke.

Drawing his sword, he raised his
arm, the Irish girl’s face swimming into his memory once more, her words coming
back to haunt him.

Useless as a man.

Savagely, he brought the sword
down. “Fire!”

The world exploded.

###

It was a scene from hell itself.
Midshipmen racing through the smoke to relay orders from quarterdeck to gun
deck; flashes of musket fire from the French ship as her marksmen tried
desperately to pick off Bold Marauder’s blue-and-white-clad officers;
iron shrieking overhead, spars and pieces of burning rigging bouncing off the
nettings spread above the deck, guns belching death and destruction, and men
falling, only to be dragged, screaming, away to the surgeon’s knife below.

And the Lord and Master, steady,
aloof, and unruffled, veteran of countless sea fights, and the one, the only,
force holding Bold Marauder's frightened crew together.

“Starboard broadside, fire!”

The big guns roared out, one by
one, leaving his ears ringing and thunder vibrating up through the deck and
into the soles of his shoes. It wasn’t a timed broadside; it wasn’t even close.
By God, we have to do better, or we 're all done for!

An answering boom roared through
the smoke from the French corvette, and a cannonball screamed across the deck,
smashed against one of the starboard guns, and exploded. Several gunners, grimy
with smoke and sweat, fell screaming, blood streaming from their broken bodies
and their legs kicking in death.

Through the smoke and haze,
Christian saw the French ship’s yards turning as she abandoned the English
cutter and came about, the water glistening dully from her side, her ports open
and her guns poking their black snouts toward them—

“Reload and run out!” he shouted,
gripping his sword. “Give them a good drubbing, lads!”

Beside him, one of the helmsmen cried
out and, clutching his side, crumpled to his knees.

“Fire!"

Guns belched smoke and flame,
recoiling against their tackle. The raw scent of sulfur singed the air. Several
feet away, Teach, cursing, stumbled back in horror as his nine-pounder slammed
inboard, nearly crushing him.

Christian shut his eyes, clenching
his sword hilt.

“For God’s sake, sir!” Hibbert
raced back to the quarterdeck. ‘They’re killing us!”

“We’ll nae win this fight, sir;
they be too strong for us!” Ian yelled desperately.

Christian turned on them, his eyes
fierce. “I’ll be damned if I lower my colors to a bloody Frenchman! Mr. Wenham!”
Cupping his hands over his mouth, he yelled, “Hard-a-lee, and prepare to ram . .
. now!”

“R-ram, sir?”

“Yes, Wenham, ram!”

Several feet away, a pigtailed
seaman, slamming a fresh charge down one of the starboard guns, suddenly threw
his hand over his eyes and fell to the deck, a musket ball buried in his brain.
Guns roared from the corvette, and a nearby pinrail exploded in a shower of
wood. Then the helm went over, and with slow, stately purpose, Bold Marauder
drove her jib-boom into the French ship’s rigging. The jarring smash of hull
against hull hurled men to their knees, the Lord and Master against the wheel,
guns onto their sides.

“Stand fast, lads, and prepare to
repel boarders!” Christian yelled, his voice raw with smoke as he fought to
pull himself up from the deck.

Slowly, the two vessels pivoted,
locked nose to shoulder as their guns pounded each other at close range with
vicious fury. The English cutter drifted away, her battered crew trying to
bring her under control. Then Ian grabbed his captain’s arm and pointed at the
stream of yelling, cutlass-wielding Frenchmen leaping across to Bold
Marauder’s deck.

“They’re boarding us, sir!”

Shot whined past, and Wenham gasped
and slumped over the wheel. From above came a high, terrified scream and a
marine fell, spiraling and kicking, to the deck. Somewhere forward, one of Bold
Marauder’s guns banged out, and Christian heard the pop of muskets as his
marines fired across at the enemy.

“They’re onto us, sir!”

Thank God, Christian thought
insanely. He took one look at his men—dirty, ragged, untrained, and defiant—and
in that fleeting instant, knew that his decision to ram the other ship had been
the right one, the only one. They were inexperienced at fighting the guns of
their frigate, yes; they were quarrelsome and rebellious, yes; but they were
English sailors, and as such, there were none on God’s earth who would fight
harder, nor more fiercely, when it came to defending their home.

And Bold Marauder was their
home.

Drawing his sword, he leaped down
the quarterdeck ladder and into their midst. “To me, lads!” he heard himself
shout, his blade coming up to clash with the steel of the first wild-eyed
intruders as they swarmed over the side like a horde of angry wasps.

For one awful moment, the crew did
not move, stunned by the courage of the man they’d thought to be nothing but an
aristocratic fop.

Then they reacted.

“Holy hell,” Skunk cried, his eyes
bulging as the Lord and Master swung his sword against a Frenchman’s with a
ringing clash, and then disarmed the man with a mighty blow. Rico Hendricks had
already run toward his captain to help defend him and now Ian, his claymore
high, charged toward the pair, instinctively placing his back to his captain’s
as the three single-handedly took on the yelling, screaming boarders.

And now more and more of the French
devils were leaping over Bold Marauder’s rails, their
rails, their swords slashing.

Bold Marauder's crew began
grabbing pikes, pistols, and axes, and, yelling in fury, raced to join the
bosun and their two senior officers. Not to be left behind, Skunk seized a
cutlass and threw himself into the fray. And then, with a wild, rushing roar,
the rest of the men abandoned their guns and, howling like Indians, charged into
the melee, fighting as they fought best—hand to hand, in bloody, ruthless
combat.

Christian, parrying an enemy’s sword,
saw flashes of red streak past as his marines joined the fight, their bayonets
gleaming, thrusting, stabbing. A gun, then another, banged out from forward as
some levelheaded soul fired into the corvette’s hull. He felt a brief swell of
relief, but there was no time to thank God that his plan had worked, that his
men were finally behind him. He knocked aside an attacker’s sword, chopped his
own blade into the man’s ribs and jerked it free, only to stumble over a
sprawled body. He fell heavily to the deck. A shadow filled his vision, and, momentarily
helpless, he stared up into the maniacal eyes of a Frenchman leaping down at
him from out of the smoke.

Christian saw his life flash before
his eyes as the Frenchman, his face wild and triumphant as he stood over the
fallen English captain, raised his sword with a wild yell—

Then Teach was there, bellowing
with fury, his massive arm knocking aside the Frenchman’s cutlass, his sword
impaling the man through the heart.

Christian’s eyes met his for the
briefest of seconds. “Well done, Mr. Teach—”

But Teach was gone, pounding across
the deck to take on another.

Dazed, Christian felt Skunk hauling
him roughly to his feet. “You all right, sir?”

“Hibbert . . .”

Swinging around, Skunk saw the
young midshipman raising his pitiful dirk against the charging might of a
boarder’s pike. With a howl of rage, Skunk knocked the pike aside. The full
weight of his big body was behind the impact, and as the Frenchman fell to the
deck, Skunk turned back to the Lord and Master, only to see him flinch, drag
off his hat, and clap it to his shoulder.

“Bloody captain,” Skunk said,
knocking aside an enemy musket with the ease of a child fending off a stick. “Now
isn’t the time to stand on ceremony by doffin’ ‘is hat!”

“Shut up, Skunk. The bloody
captain’s the only hope we have of surviving this”—stab, thrust, stab—“massacre!”
Ian yelled, beating back a boarder with vicious swings of his claymore.

But even Ian was too crazed with
excitement and bloodlust to notice the color draining from his captain’s face. All
he saw was that they were steadily driving the enemy back onto its own decks
as, whooping in triumph and glee, Bold Marauder’s men, now joined by
those from the English cutter, leaped over the side and dropped from the
jib-boom as they took the fight to the French ship.

The tide had turned.

Tiring rapidly and still holding
his hat to his shoulder, Christian jumped for the gangway. Someone on the
corvette had already chopped away the spars and lines tangled in Bold Marauder’s
bowsprit, and now the French ship, freed, was beginning to draw away, her
officers screaming encouragement to the retreating sailors as the gap of blue
sea between them grew wider and wider. Gauging the expanding distance between
the two ships, Christian leapt, hearing Skunk, Ian, and Teach yelling in
triumph behind him.

Protecting my back, he
thought dazedly.

His feet hit the enemy’s deck and
he almost went down. Shouting with excitement, their swords flashing, his men
rushed past him, nearly knocking him to his knees. Then Hendricks was there,
lifting him by his elbow, and he was carried forward on the tide of English
seamen.

His vision swam, and he pressed his
hat to his shoulder, not wanting his men to see the seriousness of the wound
and lose heart.

Pray God, let me hold out just a
bit longer, he thought. Then he slashed and fought his way toward the
corvette’s quarterdeck even as its flag tumbled to the deck in surrender.

A great cheer went up from Bold
Marauder's men as Skunk and Teach grabbed the corvette’s commander and
hauled him unceremoniously toward Christian.

“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”

“Three cheers for our Lord and
Master!”

“Here ye go, sir, the bleedin’
bastard ’imself!”

Dirty, cut, and bleeding, Christian
wearily accepted the other captain’s sword. Then, still holding his hat, he
lowered his arm and for the first time, his men saw the perfect, round hole
punched neatly below his shoulder and the spreading blood that turned the blue
coat around it to purple.

“Well done, lads,” he said, with a
faint smile. “Well done.”

Then his knees buckled and he fell
heavily to the deck.

Chapter 17

In the surgeon’s area, Deirdre
choked back nausea as the wounded were dragged below. Above, the guns boomed,
making conversation nearly impossible, making her ears ring with pain, making
her fear the very deck was going to come crashing down atop them—

“The captain!” she cried, overcome
by sudden terror as a seaman dragged a moaning Wenham into the little room and
laid him on Elwin’s table beneath the swinging lantern.

“Huh?”

“The captain!” she shouted,
trying to be heard over the unholy roar of cannon.

Wenham shut his eyes. “Leading a
boarding party onto the enemy. Ain’t seen nothing like it . . .” He groaned in
pain as Elwin, aided by two assistants, positioned him on the bloodied table
and tore off his shirt.

“Nothing but a scratch,” snapped
Elwin. He slapped a needle and thread into Deirdre’s hand as another seaman was
dragged below, this one with a gash across his arm. “If you’re going to stand
there, then get busy, girl! Sew up that man’s arm before he bleeds to death!”

From above came more firing, then a
deafening cheer.

“We must be beatin’ ’em, lads!” yelled
the injured man, sitting upright. “The Lord and Master must be driving the
bloody Frogs back onto their own ship!”

Christian, Deirdre thought
wildly, her hands shaking as she tried desperately to thread the needle. Beside
her Delight, tight-lipped, washed the blood from the man’s wound with a wet
rag. Steeling herself, Deirdre pinched the ragged edges of flesh together and
slowly pushed the needle into the man’s flesh. He went white with pain, and as
the moments dragged on, the only way Deirdre was able to hold her breakfast
down was to imagine the scene above, her lips moving in a desperate prayer for
the captain’s safety.

There was no use lying to herself
anymore. She, who had spent years dreaming of killing him in revenge, was terrified
for his safety, his welfare, his life—

Suddenly, through ringing ears, she
realized that the firing had stopped. Another cheer came from above, and then
Hibbert, breathless, came flying into the room, his face dirty and streaked
with sweat. “We saved the English cutter, the sloop fled, and we took the
Frenchie!” he gasped, swiping at his brow. His eyes were wild with pride. “They
surrendered to our captain! To us!”

Ian crowded the space behind him,
his ruddy face bleak. “Aye, but at what cost.” He met their gazes and, in the
sudden, awful hush said solemnly, “The Lord and Master’s down.”

Deirdre was dimly aware of
Delight’s hand upon her arm; then the blood faded from her face as she looked
past the midshipman, past Ian and the milling, silent, crew, and to the huge man
who suddenly filled the doorway.

It was Arthur Teach.

He was carrying the body of an
officer in his great, thewed arms. Blood darkened the officer’s shoulder, soaked
his sleeve, followed the curve of his lax fingers, and dripped silently to the deck
flooring.

Deirdre uttered a silent cry. She
didn’t have to see the man’s face to know just which officer he was.

###

Christian clawed his way up through
the darkness and opened his eyes to the sight of Rico Hendricks standing
protectively over him. Elwin Boyd stood at the big Jamaican’s shoulder, his face,
silhouetted by a swinging lantern, strained. The pungent scents of blood and
death lay thickly around him, and Christian realized that he was laid out on a
table in the surgeon’s quarters, its surface hard beneath his spine.

With a gasp, he sat up.

“Don’t move, sir,” Elwin muttered,
pushing against his chest and trying to force him back down.

“Let me up, damn you, I’ve a ship
to see to, wounded to care for—”

“The Frogs’ve surrendered, sir,
don’t ye remember? And Ian and Rhodes are seeing to the ship.”

“How many dead?”

“Twelve. Now, lie back and relax.
You’ve got a musket ball in your shoulder, and if I don’t get it out, you’ll be
joining them before the day is out.”

Christian tried again to rise. “I
don’t have time for this—”

“Sir, I must insist!”
Roughly, the surgeon shoved him back down on the table.

A voice exploded above Christian’s
head like a cannon blast. “Ye be easy with him, Elwin, or I’ll have yer head on
a pike!”

“Look, just get the hell out of
here, all of ye!” Elwin spat, waving his bloodied hands to push away the group
of seamen that were clustered around the table. He picked up a rag and doused
it with vinegar. “How’s a man supposed to do his work if ye’re all—”

Skunk lunged forward and grabbed
the surgeon’s wrist. “You put that on the cap’n’s wound and you’ll be answering
to me, ye hear me, Elwin?”

“For Christ’s sake, Skunk, I’m
merely cleaning my instruments in it—”

“What’s this?” Ian barged in, his
Scottish cap askew. “Is Elwin mistreating the captain? So help me God, Elwin—”

“Damn you, damn all of you, just
clear out and let me do what needs to be done!” Elwin raged, angrily wiping his
bloodied hands on his apron. He snatched up a metal probe and, waving it at
them, snarled, “Pack of useless, good-for-nothing loafers! Now, get out!”

Christian saw that long, wicked
piece of metal coming toward his shoulder and went stiff, bracing himself for
the pain. Fierce but gentle pressure tightened around his fingers, and rolling
his head sideways, he saw that someone was standing on the other side of the
table and holding his hand, someone he now realized had been standing there and
holding his hand all along.

Deirdre O’ Devir.

Tears sparkled on her lashes, and
her eyes were huge pools of sorrow in a face that was pale and strained. She
squeezed his hand, and the moisture in her eyes spilled over and traced a
glittering track down her cheek.

He stared at her, confused. “Miss
O’Devir?”

“Teach carried ye down,” she
whispered. She bent her head, and he felt the brush of her hair against his face.
The heavy cross that hung from her neck dangled near his nose, and he closed
his eyes as she reached up and laid a soft hand against his cheek. “The whole
crew’s bragging about how ye led ’em to victory and saved the ship.”

“Damn right he did!” Skunk snarled.
“If it weren’t for his bleedin’ Lordship, we’d all be at the bottom of the
sea!”

“Or at the mercy of those
Frenchies!” Teach thundered.

"Gentlemen,” Elwin
warned, lowering a knife to the bullet hole in his patient’s coat and deftly
thrusting its tip beneath the bloody fabric, “if you don’t let me attend to my
business, your captain won’t live to see the next sunrise. That ball is lodged
in a vascular area, and if I don’t get it out . . “

With a flick of his wrist, he jerked
upward, slicing through the blood-soaked uniform coat.

Christian turned his head to look,
but the girl loomed above, her eyes dark with compassion . . . and something
else. Her hand still cupped his jaw, and now she gently coaxed him to look
toward her so that he couldn’t see Elwin’s ministrations. He closed his eyes, relaxing
under her gentle touch as the surgeon’s knife ripped through his coat. “Elwin’s
right,” she said quietly. ‘The ball has to come out. But I’ll be here, holdin’
yer hand through it . . . Christian.”

Christian.

He swallowed hard, several times,
against the sudden sting of emotion.

She called me by my name.

He took a deep, shaky breath, his
pain, and apprehension of what Elwin was about to do to him, suddenly
forgotten. Skunk and Teach came forward, sliding their hands beneath his
shoulders and lifting him up so that Rico could remove his blood-soaked uniform,
waistcoat and shirt. He tried to move, and could not, and was alarmed at how
weak he’d grown.

Christian, she’d said.

As they lowered him back to the
table, he shut his eyes against the raw emotion. Then cool air swept against
the exposed wound, and he didn’t have to hear Delight’s soft cry, or the
collective gasps of dismay, to know how serious it was.

Rolling his head, he looked up at
the girl and managed a smile. “That bad, eh?”

She was pure white. The fierce
pressure of her fingers around his was answer enough.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” the surgeon
muttered, wiping his hands on his bloodied apron and picking up the needle-like
metal probe once more. “And you’d be luckier still if you hadn’t woken up,
because I can tell you right now, you’re going to feel this.”

“I’m warnin’ ye, Elwin!” Teach
snarled, pushing forward. “Ye make one slip and yer going to be eating steel
and shittin’ bullets, you hear me?”

Pushing past Teach and ignoring the
crowd anxiously gathering in the cramped space, Elwin offered a mug of rum to
Christian. “Drink this, sir,” he urged. “It’ll dull the pain somewhat.”

“And have the men see me helpless
beneath a haze of alcohol? Thank you, Mr. Boyd, but I happen to value my
coherence.” He steeled himself for the inevitable. “Now get on with it,
please.”

Elwin gave a noncommittal shrug.
“As you wish, sir.”

Christian shut his eyes, and only
the girl, fiercely holding his hand, felt the tension  in his grip. Then she
brought her other hand down to his lips, her fingers gently touching his mouth
and coaxing him to take and bite down on a strip of leather. He gazed up into
her eyes, knowing that he could endure anything as long as she looked at him
like that. He saw apology in their depths, kindness, and yes, even forgiveness.

Forgiveness.

Beyond her, the three young
midshipmen stood with the anxious crew. Christian gave them an encouraging
smile. Then Elwin moved close, and he tensed in expectation of the first touch
of cold steel against his flesh.

Pulling the girl’s hand close, he
pressed her fingers to his lips.

“Don’t leave me,” he murmured.

Her eyes were soft, luminous, and damp
with tears. “’Tis a . . . a wonderful smile ye have,” she said, her voice
breaking. “I wish I’d noticed it before.”

The knife touched the raw edge of
the wound and Christian shut his eyes.

The girl bent close, her hair
hanging over one shoulder and brushing his cheek. “And I’m sorry for everything
I said to ye that day Tildy ate my bread,” she whispered, her lips moving
against his temple. “Ye’re a good man, Christian, a fine man, and I think ye’re
very brave an’ worthy.”

Elwin was digging around in his
wound now. Nausea flared in his stomach, and his shoulder throbbed with fresh
agony, the pain radiating into his neck and down his back as the surgeon probed
the wound in an unsuccessful attempt to locate the musket ball. Christian
gripped the girl’s hand like a lifeline; from far away he felt her breath
against his face, her soft hand stroking his cheek, his hair.

“Damn,” the surgeon snapped,
holding the edge of the wound aside with a two-pronged retractor as he dug and
probed the hole. “I can’t find this godforsaken thing—”

Christian sank his teeth into the
leather, hearing the girl’s voice fading in and out, coming from a great
distance away.

“And I was wrong about Englishmen .
. . some of ye can actually be quite nice . . .”

The probe, deep in the wound now,
scraped against raw bone, and his testicles seemed to shrivel in agony. The
girl’s grip on his hand tightened. His molars grinding into the leather,
Christian rasped, “I have not forgotten my promise, Miss O’ Devir . . . when we
reach Boston, I shall do all in my power to . . . find your brother. So help me
God.”

Elwin was going deeper, and pain
was exploding in great sheets of agony behind his eyes, throbbing in time with
his pulse. Christian shuddered, felt the sweat breaking out along his brow and
neck. He breathed deeply, trying not to faint as again, the probe scraped
against the raw underside of his collarbone.

“Let go,” the girl was saying, her
lips close to his ear. “Let go, Christian. Succumb to the darkness . . . I’ll
watch over ye . . .”

But the surgeon straightened up,
wiping bloody hands on his apron. “I can’t get it out,” he muttered, glaring at
his gathered shipmates as though daring them to defy him. “I can’t even find
the damned thing.”

“You’ve got to get it out,” Ian
insisted.

“Now,” Teach threatened.

“Ye heard what Elwin said! He’s
going t’ bleed t’ death if ye don’t!”

Elwin swept up the probe once more,
and with his scalpel, opened the wound further. Fresh blood bubbled out, the
captain went rigid and the Irish girl rounded on him. “Jesus, Joseph, an’ Mary,
ye’re hurtin’ him, Elwin!”

In a fit of temper, Elwin flung the
scalpel down and raged, “What do you want? He won’t take rum, I can’t get the
ball out, and there’s nothing else to do!”

“Ye’d give up just like that? What
kind o’ surgeon are ye?”

Elwin ripped off his apron and
flung it to the floor. “Fine, then—if you think you can do better, do it
yourself!”

He shoved past the stunned officers
and crew, pushed through the marines, and slammed out.

In the ensuing silence, only the
deckhead lantern moved, swinging eerily in the gloom.

Deirdre stood there, shocked, and
for a startled moment, she could only stare at those around her. Her stricken
gaze moved from Teach to Skunk to Ian to Hendricks to a pale and green-looking
Hibbert, to the seamen and red-coated marines pressing against the doorway, and
finally to Delight, standing quietly beside her.

They were staring at her. Every
last one of them.

“It’s your decision, cherie,”
Delight said softly.

Deirdre looked down. The captain
was fading fast, the blood, obscene and purple in the glare of the lantern
light, pulsing down his chest with every beat of his heart. His eyes, glazed
with pain, were half closed.

“You can do it, foundling,” he
murmured. Then he dragged his eyes open to gaze up at her face. “That is . . .
if you want to.”

The others looked at her, holding
their breath.

You can do it.

She stared down at the raw, ominous
hole just beneath the ridge of the captain’s collarbone, and swallowed hard.

They were waiting. All of them.

She glanced about, but there was no
help to be found. The small space was suddenly too hot, the air too thick to
breathe, her heart pounding too loudly in her ears. “I—I don’t know what to do
. . .”

“Just dig the thing out,” Skunk
said. “Here, we’ll all hold him down. Get over here, lads—”

“No,” the captain said quietly, his
voice now so faint, that Deirdre had to bend down to catch his words. “There . .
. there is no need. Just get on with it, girl.” He gave a strained smile. “I
have a ship to run, you know.”

Aware of every eye in the room, she
nodded and, taking a deep, shaky breath, bent over the wound.

Christian closed his eyes as he felt
the heavy cross brushing, then resting upon, his bloody chest. Her fingers
touched his shoulder. They were gentle, warm, perhaps, if he allowed his mind
to drift, even loving. Slowly, he let out his breath on a long sigh, the
tension leaving his body as she held his shoulder with one hand and gently
slipped her fingers into the ragged hole of the wound.

Her fingers.

It came to him that she would not
use the steel probe, the knife, or any of the other wicked instruments of
torture in the surgeon’s collection.

She would use her fingers.

He studied her face as she worked,
watching her lovely features tighten with concentration. Once, she glanced up
at Hendricks as though for reassurance; he nodded, and Christian felt her fingers
in his flesh once more. Pain began to throb up into his neck, down his back. He
shut his eyes and bit down on the leather, the inside of his cheek, until he
tasted blood.

“Easy, Christian,” she whispered,
her face so close to his shoulder he could feel the warmth of her breath
against his skin, the torn flesh itself. Her fingers pushed in deeper, and he
bit back a flood of nausea as she touched the raw edge of his collarbone.

Deirdre, however, was nearing
despair. She looked up and caught the anxious gazes of the crew. “I can’t find
it.”

“Go deeper,” Skunk commanded
harshly, pressing closer and blocking the lantern light.

Taking a deep breath, Deirdre
pushed her forefinger back into the hole, feeling the warm embrace of muscle, sinew,
and tissue.

The captain moved beneath her, the
sweat beginning to roll down his temples. “Keep going,” he rasped. “Deeper . . .”

Hot blood pulsed over her fingers. She
felt bone, muscle . . . and then something round and hard—

“I found it—I think I have it!”

But the ball was slippery, and
eluded her.

“Oh, dear God, sweet Mary—”

She glanced down at the captain.
Mercifully, he had fainted.

“Quick, girl, get it now, while he
can’t feel it!” Hendricks urged, shoving forward with the crowd.

“And mind ye doona miss any pieces
of his clothing that might be in there, too!”

Her lips tight with concentration,
Deirdre pushed her finger back into the hole. Fresh blood welled up and flooded
over her knuckles. Holding her breath, she explored deeper—and found the musket
ball.

She gripped it between thumb and
forefinger and pulled.

“I lost it!”

Teach was there, his hands against
the captain’s powerful chest to hold him down. “Quick, Deirdre, he’s coming
to—”

Desperately, she gripped the slick
ball once more and, with a cry of triumph, pulled it free.

The room erupted in wild, deafening
cheers as Teach grabbed the bloodied bullet and held it up for all to see. “She
did it! The lass did it, by God!”

“Three cheers for our Deirdre!”

“Hip, hip, huzzah!”

“Hip, hip, huzzah!”

“Hip, hip, huzzah!”

The pent up sobs came at last. She bent
her head to the captain’s chest, uncaring that his blood was warm against her cheek
and mixing with the tears she could no longer hold back. She felt his wet, wiry
chest hair beneath her cheek, his hand resting weakly upon her head—and heard
the beat of his heart beneath her ear.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He was alive.

And that was all that mattered.

Chapter 18

Through careful questioning of its
captain, Lieutenants MacDuff and Rhodes learned that the French corvette and
its consort, the sloop, had happened upon the lone English cutter while transferring
arms . . . easy prey, they had both thought, until HMS Bold Marauder had
come upon the scene. But even the combined menace of Arthur Teach, Ian MacDuff,
Rico Hendricks, and Skunk could not convince the Frenchman to disclose the name
of the sloop, which had promptly fled as the powerful English frigate had
closed in.

As for the corvette herself, she
now lay far astern, her crew confined in her hold. With survivors from the
cutter now manning her, they would sail her on to Boston, where the admiral
there would decide her fate.

Deirdre, however, was only
concerned with her patient, whose side she had not left since she’d extracted
the musket ball six days before. She had carefully packed and bandaged his
shoulder, walked beside him as Teach and Hendricks had carried him back to his
cabin, and held his hand until he had finally succumbed to a strong draught of
laudanum. In the days since, she had maintained a faithful vigil beside his
bed.

Now, on this night nearly a week
after the battle, she stood on deck, gripping the salt-sticky rail and gazing
up at the panorama of stars twinkling in the vast sky above. The ocean merged
with the night around her. Moonlight frosted the sails, the guns, the deck
planking; a harsh wind gusted off the North Atlantic and drove through her
clothes, chilling her to the bone.

But she felt alive, exhilarated,
and strangely . . . free.

Beneath her feet, the frigate rose
and plunged and rose again in a timeless rhythm that brought with it a sense of
eternity. From around her came the sounds of masts creaking and groaning, the
hiss of spray at the bows, waves breaking against the hull. She drew the sea
air deeply into her lungs. Then she gazed out over the blackened waters, where
the reflection of moon and stars coasted atop the restless wave crests.

“Christian,” she said softly.

She felt strange and new, as though
her heart had been flushed clean of the bitterness, hatred, and need for
revenge that it had carried for so long. and was now aching to be filled with
something good, something joyous, something wonderful.

Below, the sea fell away in great
sheets of foam that glinted in the darkness as the frigate smashed down on each
heavy swell. Above, the stars were so close she could reach up and touch them. “Christian,”
she said again, her voice carried away by the breeze. “It doesn’t matter
anymore that ye’re an Englishman, one of the enemy. I’m tired of fightin’ what
I feel for ye in my heart. I know, now, that what ye did to me brother all
those years ago was somethin’ ye didn’t want to be doin’. Ye was just followin’
orders. That’s what ye do. Ye’re an officer, who knows no other way of life but
discipline and servin’ yer country.”

The wind snapped the pennants high
above.

“It was the Navy’s fault,
Christian. Not yers. And to think of all these years I hated you . . .”

She didn’t hate him now . . . But
just when had she begun to love him?

Perhaps when he had discovered her
aboard the frigate, intervened on her behalf, and carried her to safety in his
powerful arms. Perhaps with that first, unforgettable meeting, thirteen long
years ago. She did not know. She did not care. But the seeds had been sown,
somewhere, sometime, and that love had grown with each act of kindness and
patience he’d shown her, each time she’d watched him tending his little canine
family, each instance he would have been justified in punishing his crew with
the harsh and brutal discipline for which the Royal Navy was famous—but had
instead reacted with compassion, inventiveness, and yes, humanity.

Love.

The final revelation had come
during those terrible moments in the surgeon’s bay—when Teach had carried him
down and she had thought him dead. When fate in the form of a Frenchman’s musket
ball had placed him in her hands. When he had gazed up at her, his calm gray
eyes reflecting trust and confidence that she, Deirdre O’Devir, could succeed
where the surgeon had failed.

When he had trusted her with his
life.

Love.

Above, the stars grew brilliant,
sparkling like chips of crystal in a vast and inky sky. The ocean took on a
mysterious beauty, and the frigate’s lights spread searching fingers of gold
across the waves, as though the ship was reaching out across forever toward her
own destiny.

But the frigate, all alone on the
sea as she drove steadily on toward Boston, had no one but the lonely helmsman and
the bow watch with whom to share the beauty of the night.

The spot at the rail where Deirdre
O’Devir had stood was empty.

###

He had beautiful hair.

With trembling fingers, she reached
out and touched it.

The Lord and Master was asleep,
deeply so, thanks to a strong draught of laudanum that Hendricks had slipped
into his tea. But it gave Deirdre the opportunity to study this enigmatic man
without those cold gray eyes taking her measure. In sleep, and softened by the
glow of the single lantern, his face wasn’t quite so austere and forbidding; in
sleep, it was handsome and youthful, the years dropping away, until he was once
again the fair-haired lieutenant who’d bent down to calm and reassure a
frightened little girl.

Somewhere in a darkened corner of
the cabin, she heard the sounds of the puppies in their box, of Tildy quietly
licking their tiny bodies. Beside her, the captain’s steady, rhythmic breathing
was the only other sound. Deirdre sighed, a warm, loving feeling suffusing her
heart, and suddenly she wished that she had a family, too. A man to love
her, care for her, cherish her . . .

Christian.

By the light of the lantern swinging
gently from the beams above, she pulled up a chair and sat beside him.
Carefully, she took his hand, letting her gaze move over his face. Yes, he had
beautiful hair. It was thick and pale and wavy, the color of sunlight at the
hottest part of the day, though in the soft light of the lantern, it was almost
amber. Leaning forward, she reached out to touch it, and found it soft and
springy to the touch.

She looked at him, seeing him as
though for the first time. At the haughty, well-shaped brows . . . the nose
that was straight and proud; his lashes, thick and pale, bleached at the tips
and lying heavily against high and prominent cheekbones. She’d never realized
that a man could have such long lashes, that a man could have such beautiful
hair; she’d never realized how handsome and vulnerable a man could look in
sleep; and never, ever, in a thousand years had she thought to apply any of
those words—handsome, beautiful, vulnerable—to the cold and enigmatic captain
of His Majesty’s Ship Bold Marauder.

The cabin seemed suddenly stuffy,
the air cloying and still. Mesmerized, Deirdre let her fingers drift to the pale
locks that swept back from his temple, and then the faded bruise just beneath.
Her touch lingered there, feeling the fragile pulse that beat beneath her
fingertips.

Her eyes filled with gentle wonder.

He was an Englishman. The
enemy. Part of that hated race that had been tramping on the rights and land of
her people for centuries. But enemies were supposed to be cold and alien,
monstrous and inhuman—weren’t they? Yet this man’s skin was as warm as her own.
His pulse beat just as strongly as hers did, his chest rose and fell with the
same breath, and the blood that had flowed so freely from his shoulder was just
as red as hers.

Her throat tightened as she
remembered his agony during the surgery. As stoic as he had been, he had felt
pain as acutely as any Irishman she’d ever known.

Weren’t enemies supposed to be . . .
different?

But no. He was human, warm and
alive and breathing. He had hopes and fears, dreams and visions, and somewhere,
people who cared about and loved him. He was no different than she was—except
he’d been born in a different place.

Deirdre swallowed against the lump
in her throat.

“I’m sorry, Christian,” she
whispered, her heart aching. “God help me, I’m so sorry . . .”

She lifted his hand and held it to
her cheek, seeing his face, the pulse beating at his throat, the magnificent,
muscled expanse of his chest—and remembering how safe she’d felt when he’d
gathered her against it and let her cry all those weeks ago when the men had
been about to whip her.

She reached out and touched his
bandaged shoulder, then placed her hand directly over his heart, feeling it
beating steadily beneath her palm. Then, unbidden, her gaze moved downward, to
the covers that draped his hips.

Heat flooded her cheeks. She did
not have to lift the blankets to know he was naked beneath.

His tortured confession—that he was
unable to function as a man—suddenly came back to her. And as for your
precious virtue, you needn’t worry about me compromising it, Miss O’ Devir. I
have been unable to feel anything for any woman since my wife died, and you, I
can assure you, haven’t a prayer of stirring lusts I no longer have.

What was wrong with him that he
lacked this . . . ability? What possible defect could he have? And who, God
help her, would ever know if she lifted the blanket for a wee second, just to
see for herself what this horrible defect was?

She bit her lip and shot a nervous
glance toward the door. What if Hendricks came? What if Evans looked in on
them? What if—

No. It was late. No one would come.
It was just her, and Captain Lord.

Go ahead. Look. He’ll never know
. . .

Swallowing hard, Deirdre reached
down and, gingerly gripping the blanket between her thumb and forefinger,
lifted it.

###

Emily.

He braced himself, even though he
knew it was the nightmare in all its horrifying familiarity; he heard the same
noises downstairs, crept from the empty bed, descended the stairs, and paused
behind the door. He heard her laughter and saw the two bodies entwined; he
heard his own howl of rage and saw the intruder, terrified and cowardly,
fleeing.

This time, Christian vowed, he’d
bloody well kill the bastard.

But this time, the nightmare was
different.

Her voice rang out behind him,
pleading and desperate. “Christian, no! Let it go! You know what will happen if
you don’t! He’ll throw the lantern and there’ll be a fire! I’ll die,
Christian, and this nightmare will haunt you for the rest of your days!”

She knew about the
nightmare? Confusion drove through him. The hall seemed unreal and fantastic,
and beneath his feet, the cold marble floor surged back and forth, not unlike
the deck of a ship. Yes, it was a dream. But if he kept going, it would become
the nightmare.

“Don’t do it, Christian!”

He paused, hearing her lover
fleeing the house; then, with a fierce cry, Christian turned and ran back to
that closed door, knowing this would be the only chance he would ever have to forgive
her, put an end to the nightmare—

He flung open the door and saw her.

“Christian,” she said in a husky
dream-voice.

His mouth fell open and the breath
caught in his throat. He stumbled back against the doorframe, shaking badly.

She was lying on the sofa. Her legs
were open, her eyes were hungry, and she was naked.

Waiting for him.

###

Deirdre hadn’t meant to do more
than just peek at him, and briefly at that. She hadn’t meant to do more
than just look at his maleness for a moment, to see what it was about it
that made him unable to function.

She had only seen one man naked,
and that had been this one, at the beginning of this eventful voyage, but she
had seen stallions, she had seen dogs, she had seen cattle and sheep—and yes,
she had heard stories.

Unable to function, he’d implied.

And her words: Useless as a man.

He’d been right.

There was no big secret beneath the
covers, nothing to hold one’s breath over, and with an odd, empty feeling of
sadness, she stared at the limp and flaccid flesh that lay nestled in the patch
of hair between his thighs.

Useless as a man.

She felt pity for Captain Lord, and
then anger that she felt the pity. He had told her the truth. There was no way
that this sad bit of pale flesh could ever do a man’s work, like the proud
stallion with the feisty mare. What lay beneath her gaze was slack and still.

Her breath came out on a sigh.
Slowly, she peeled the blanket back, farther and farther, finally laying it
across his knees and exposing the whole of his loins to her blushing gaze. Pity,
that such a proud and handsome specimen of a man—even if he was English—was
so . . . deformed.

But here was the proof.

She reached down, thinking to pull
the covers back up over his groin, but instead, her fingers strayed to the limp
curve of flesh.

It was warm; quite so, in fact.
Holding her breath, she nervously glanced at its owner’s face. He didn’t move.
Bolder now, she looked back at the thicket of springy hair, slid her fingers
into it and then, carefully, beneath the male flesh. She stared at it; then she
stared up at his still face; then she stared back at the warm flesh in her
hand, and felt it give a little quiver.

Deirdre’s brows drew close in a
frown. Slowly, she passed her thumb over the warm flesh, and felt it quiver
once more.

She gave a little start and glanced
at his face, her own cheeks flaming red. He was deeply asleep; no doubt the
tremor she’d felt against her suddenly moist palm was nothing more than some
perfectly normal body function, or, perhaps, a twitch from a dream.

Her heart began to pound loud
enough to echo in her ears. She bit her lip, held her breath, and touched the
limp flesh again, wondering at its soft and velvety texture.

Again that involuntary tremor.

“Oh, my . . .” she breathed,
frowning. It felt different; a bit warmer, maybe, a bit firmer. She stared hard
at it, wondering, in the lantern-lit gloom, if there was something suddenly
different about it; then her eyes widened.

Heat washed over her face. She
wasn’t imagining things. That alien bit of anatomy was not only warmer, not
only firmer—it was bigger.

The captain sighed softly in his
sleep, and then groaned. But Deirdre was no longer looking at his face. Frozen,
she cupped the growing—yes, it was growing—length of him in her hand and
watched, mesmerized, as it began to transform itself before her very eyes,
growing stiff and hard and hot in her hand.

And large.

Very large.

“Oh, dear,” Deirdre said, her cheeks
hot.

Replace the covers. Get out of
here before he wakes up. Now, before, before—

But transfixed, she couldn’t move.

###

Emily.

Her hair was dark and glorious,
spread out over the arm of the sofa, trailing halfway to the floor. Her thighs
were open with invitation, the dark patch of hair at their center glistening,
eager, and damp; her arms were raised, her eyes hungry.

His felt himself stirring.

“Come to me, Christian . . . you
know he never meant anything to me . . . it is you I love, you I want
. . . this is your only chance, darling. Your only chance to say goodbye
before I leave you forever . . .”

“No, please . . . Don’t go .
. .”

“Christian, darling, you know
this is a dream. . . . I’m dead, remember?”

No, not dead. No dead woman looked
like she did.  Tears stung his eyes, that he should be given this chance to
make things right after all these years, even if it was a dream, even if the
woman on the sofa was not the soft and shy Emily he had married, but a sultry
vixen with the eyes of a courtesan. With a helpless groan, he went to her,
shedding his robe and letting it slip to the floor as he fell to the sofa with
her.

Wake up, Christian . . . it’s a
dream . . .

No. He fought the tug, the pull, to
awaken.

His body hardened in response to
her. Her arms came up to touch his shoulders, rove down his back, skim over his
buttocks. “There now,” she breathed, her voice warm against the curve of his
shoulder. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t chase after him? Aren’t you glad you came
back to me?”

“You’re . . . this is a dream.”

Her hands were on him, sweet and
gentle, yet harsh where they needed to be, when they needed to be. One
moment feathery and grazing; the next, bold and exploring. Desire rocked
through him, and he sprang to life in her hands, tightening in soundless
pleasure, his breathing harsh, his heartbeat filling his ears.

Such gentle hands. Such soft
hands.

He groaned, and broke out in a
sweat. He felt the fog swirling around him, and in that weird way of dreams,
the scene shifted and she was suddenly above him, no longer Emily but someone
else.  He couldn’t see her face, but that didn’t matter, for his eyes were closed.
He couldn’t hear her voice, but that didn’t matter, either, because it was a
dream. The only thing that mattered was that she was loving him, and he,
tortured, hardened and alone, had not been loved by anyone for so very, very
long . . .

She was pulling at him now,
stroking him, cupping him and rubbing him between her hands. He gritted his
teeth, and his eyes rolled up behind tightly clenched lids.

“Dear God,” he said roughly, one
hand gripping the sheets. “Dear God, please don’t stop.”

###

“I won’t,” Deirdre said.

Her cheeks burned hotter than
summer in Hades. Her eyes were wide and staring, her breathing thick and
measured. Strange feelings gathered in the pit of her belly, burned between her
legs, and she felt a spreading moisture there that only increased with each
movement the captain made on the bed beneath her, with every rasp of his
tortured breath, with every twitch of his legs, his hands, his—

No limp and flaccid piece of sorry
flesh, this! Dear heavens, the thing filled her hand and defied the span of her
encircling fingers; it was hard as marble, proud and stiff and tall, and with
every brush of her thumb across the engorged head, it jumped.

A pearl drop had gathered on the
blunted tip, gleaming in the lantern light. Deirdre stared at it for a moment,
then recklessly smudged it over the velvety cap.

He moaned, still in the throes of
sleep, and his head moved restlessly on the pillow.

Heady excitement surged through
her. She had brought him to this state. She would give him this gift of
confidence, and prove to him that there was nothing wrong with him, despite
what he believed. She would show him, make him understand, that he was far from
being “useless as a man.”

Encircling him between thumb and
forefinger, she squeezed him gently. His breathing quickened, and a fine sheen
of sweat glistened on his brow.

“Yes . . .” he murmured thickly.

Deirdre smiled, watching his face,
the harsh mouth that was now slack with passion, the eyes that moved rapidly
beneath his lids.

“Please, don’t stop . . .”

She tightened the circle of her
fingers, feeling the answering heat in her own blood, in the thundering of her heart
against her ribs, the flooding dampness between her thighs.

“Don’t stop . . . please . .
.”

She couldn’t stop even if she
wanted to. Breathing as hard as he, she stroked harder . . . faster . . .
velvet over steel, up and down, faster, faster—

He suddenly stiffened and cried out
in his sleep, his body convulsing in great, mighty shudders, and as she froze
in terror, wondering if she’d killed him, something warm and wet spurted over
her hand, her wrist, her arm, his belly.

The gray eyes shot open.

Her heart was thundering. Her blood
was racing. She jumped up and took an involuntary step backward, away from that
confused stare . . . a stare that reflected recognition, horror—and then raw,
bone-chilling fury.

Chapter 19

“By God, woman, have you no shame?”
Christian roared, mortified, as he came suddenly, and rudely, awake. Snatching
the blanket, he hauled it up over his thighs and snarled, “Go, leave me!”

“Ye can order me to leave, Captain
Lord, but I doubt ye’re as strong as ye’d like to think ye are,” she said, with
a pointed glance at his bandaged shoulder. “I’m staying.”

“You will leave now, by God, or
I’ll toss you out on your bloody ear!”

“I only looked because I wanted to
see what ye meant when ye said ye were useless as a man—”

“You said I was useless as a
man—I merely said I couldn’t function as one!”

“—and I did what I did because ye asked
me to!”

He froze, his eyes narrowing. “Asked
you to?”

“Aye. Ye not only asked me to,
ye told me not to stop.”

He set his jaw and turned his face away,
his lips a slash of anger. Deirdre pushed the chair aside, moved closer to the
bed, and sat down beside him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her chin came up and
bravely, she met his angry, accusing glare. “But I thought I could help ye,
especially since ye’ve been goin’ on so about how deformed ye are—”

“Deformed?” he thundered,
bolting upright. “Deprived, madam, but, I can assure you, not deformed!”

“Ye don’t have to be yellin’ at me!
I just wanted to see what was wrong with ye, so I could . . . so I could help
ye to get over it . . . And now I think there be somethin’ wrong with me,
because my—my—oh, I ache in funny places, and—”

Christian swore roundly.  Then, damning
himself for a weak fool, he gathered her close, his fingers tangling in her
curls. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“No, I am. I never meant to make ye
feel bad, Christian.”

“You didn’t. You made me feel . . .
good.”  He felt her arms going hesitantly around his neck, and shut his eyes in
defeat. “There is nothing wrong with you . . . Deirdre. What you are feeling is
simply a healthy female attraction and response to the male species, a feeling
no doubt exacerbated by the shocking spectacle your virgin eyes have just
witnessed.”

Against his neck, she whispered,
“Do you . . . do you have these feelings, too?”

“Yes, I have them, too . . . for
all the good they do me,” he said bitterly.

“I don’t understand . . .”

“They do me no good, Deirdre,
because I . . . because I—” He set her back and looked away, too ashamed to
meet her questing gaze. “Oh, the devil take it, because I cannot function as
a man!”

She stared at him, at the proud,
hawkish profile, the sharp cast of his nose, the lips that were compressed in a
slash of pain and humiliation. “But wasn’t that a manly thing ye just did while
ye was sleepin’?”

“Aye,” he said tightly.

“Then ye must be able to function
quite well as a man.”

“I was asleep!” he snapped, as
though that explained everything. “Awake, I fear I cannot sustain that—that state
long enough to—” He looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “This is most
uncomfortable for me to discuss. I have my pride, and you are making a shambles
of it by forcing me to admit that I am . . . that I am . . . impotent.”

“But what just happened—”

“I told you, I was asleep!”

“Why can’t ye do such a thing awake?”

“Because a certain jealous specter
of my past—my dead wife—will not allow it.” His eyes were raw with
anguish and shame. Then he saw the confusion on her face, and his manner
softened. He took a deep, steadying breath. Quietly, he said, “You see,
Deirdre, there is nothing anatomically wrong with me.” He sighed, and
pointed to his temple. “It’s all in here. My . . . my jealous specter,
if you will. As long as I blame myself for the death of my wife, I am of no use
to any woman.”

The silence hung heavily between
them. Topside, the sound of voices drifted down to them, and the deck began to
slant as the frigate leaned hard over onto the opposite tack. Deirdre looked
down at his hand, lying stiffly atop the blanket, and reached out to take it in
her own.

He did not pull away.

“Ye are of use to me,
Captain Lord, whether or not ye can . . . function.” Against her hip,
she felt the hard ridge of his thigh, and it took all of her will not to reach
out and touch it, just to see how hard and muscled it was.

He didn’t answer, only the sudden
tightening of his fingers over her own indicating that he’d heard.

“Christian?” she said softly.

He looked up, his eyes tortured, his
mouth a grim line of pain. “You are too young, too innocent, to speak of such
things,” he said sharply. “Now go, leave me, while I still have my pride and
you, the remains of your innocence. This discussion should not be taking place
. . . it is . . . it is improper.”

“Nay, Christian, it should
be takin’ place. It should’ve taken place a long time ago.”

“By God, just go, before I
lose my patience as well as my damned dignity.”

Her chin came up and she faced him
defiantly. “And yer heart, Captain? ’Tis innocent I may be, but I’m not stupid.
I know the look a man gets in his eyes when he sees a woman he finds bonny.
D’ye think yer Emily has robbed ye of even that? No, the only thing
she’s robbed ye of is yer confidence. I don’t believe for an instant that she’s
made ye as useless as ye’ve led yerself—and, for a while, me—to believe.
Oh, no, I think ye can function as well as any man.”

“This is not a subject I care to
discuss.”

“What, are ye afraid, then?”

“Do not challenge me, girl. You may
find yourself in waters over your head.”

“No, Christian, ’tis you, I
think, who’s afraid. Afraid of settin’ yerself free to love another. Afraid of
followin’ the wants of yer heart, yer body, for fear of discoverin’ that ye can
love someone else—someone who’s not yer dear Emily. And that scares ye, doesn’t
it?”

His face hardened.

“Doesn't it?”

“By God—”

“The good Lord didn’t put us on
this earth to suffer. Maybe ye think it’ll atone for whatever happened to yer
wife, but torturin’ yerself isn’t going to bring her back.”

He looked away.

“What happened to her, Christian?
What happened, that smiling comes hard to ye, and ye can’t sleep without
nightmares that are so terrible that they frighten even those of us who’re on
the outside lookin’ in?”

“Isn’t it obvious?  She died.  Because
of me.”

Deirdre said nothing, and waited
for him to continue.

He took a deep, steadying breath,
and looked up at the deckhead, his eyes distant. “It was five years ago. I had
been away at sea. I came home, and was awakened in the night by an empty bed,
and voices downstairs.  Hers . . . and a man’s.” He swallowed, hard. “I got up
to investigate, of course, and found that she’d taken a lover in my absence. Because
of my absence. I chased the fellow . . . he threw a lantern, and in moments,
the house was in flames. He escaped. Emily did not. I was unable to save her,
and she—she died in the fire.”

From outside, came the hum of wind
in the rigging, the endless creaks and moans of a wooden ship at sea.

The clang of the ship’s bell, the
sound of the watch being changed.

“I’m sorry, Christian,” Deirdre said
quietly. “And I’m sorrier, still, that ye blame yerself for what happened.
That’s a heavy burden to bear, but don’t ye think five years is a long enough
time to be pullin’ it?”

He turned his face away, blinking.
“You should go, Deirdre.”

His hand gripped hers, belying his
words.

“Nay, Christian. I cannot, and I
will not. Ye need me.”

“I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”

“Well, I need you.” She took
both his hands in her own. “I need that fair-haired lieutenant who came to Connemara,
a man who laughed and smiled and took the time to calm a frightened child.
Where is that man now, Christian?”

“He is long gone,” he said harshly,
his face still averted.

“Nay, I see him still. I see him in
the captain who tries so hard to appear cold and distant, yet who croons to and
cuddles a little dog when he thinks no one is lookin’. I see him in the man who
cannot stand to see anything helpless and hurt. I see him in the officer who
follows Royal Navy customs and rules to the letter, but who hasn’t the heart to
have an offender whipped. Oh, no. That man’s still in there.” She laid her palm
across his heart. “Right here. He just needs someone to show him out o’
the prison he’s locked himself in.”

“Why should you care? After what
I’ve done to you?”

“Christian . . . ye didn’t want
to do what ye did to me brother those thirteen years ago. I didn’t know it
then, but  after watchin’ ye, and gettin’ to know ye these past weeks, I know
it now. Ye’re a product of the Navy. Ye live by its rules, its traditions, its principles.
If I blame anyone for taking me brother, ’tis them, not you.” She reached out
and touched his jaw, his cheek. “I forgive ye, Christian.”

He shut his eyes, unable to speak.

She leaned down and, ever so gently,
placed her lips against his brow. He trembled violently. The cross slipped free
of her shirt and lay heavily upon his chest. She felt him blink his eyes, the
tips of his lashes grazing the underside of her throat, and gently kissed the
faded bruise at his temple. Then she drew back, cupped his face in her hands,
and looked deeply into his eyes, pretending not to notice the tell-tale
glassiness of unshed tears, the rising emotion he was desperate to contain.

“For an Englishman, ye’re very
handsome,” she said. “’Specially when ye smile. Ye just need someone to make ye
do it more often.”

He took a deep, measured breath.

“And ye need someone to bring ye
laughter and joy, someone to be making a big fuss over ye and tellin’ ye how
special ye are.”

He trembled with the supreme amount
of will it took to control his emotion.

“And ye need someone to . . . to love
ye.” She gathered her thick, curly fall of hair, draped it over one shoulder,
and pulling back the covers once more, climbed into the narrow bed beside him.

Her arm went around his chest,
holding him close to her own body, and answering heat began to beat in his
blood even as the dimly lit cabin went blurry with unshed tears.

Don’t do this to me, he
thought desperately, as she drew him close, her tiny hand warm against his ribs,
gently stroking him with overwhelming tenderness. Don’t shatter these
defenses . . . they're all I have.

The back of his throat began to ache,
and he fought to control himself. He did not trust himself to touch her in kind,
to respond to her, to even push her away. He did not trust himself to move. He
did not trust himself to—

“I love ye, Christian,” she said.

He shuddered and shut his eyes,
hoping that in the gloom, she would not see the wetness that was spreading down
his cheek.

“And ye don’t have to suffer this
alone.”

He began to shake, and a single,
desperate sob caught in his throat.

“I’m here for ye, Christian. For as
long as ye want me to be.”

He couldn’t move. His heart’s final
defenses were slowly crumbling.

Tumbling.

Crashing to the feet of this young woman.

She had saved his life, when she’d
had every reason to hate him enough to see him dead. She had dug a musket ball
out of his shoulder—not with the steel probe, not with he harshness of a cold
piece of metal, but with the loving gentleness of her bare fingers.

She had said she loved him.

“Nobody should live in the kind of
hell ye put yerself in every night, Christian. It’s time to let it all go. Time
to forgive yourself. To live the life that God set before ye.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Hug me, Christian.”

He needed no encouragement. He
turned toward her, and she was suddenly crushed against him with a desperation
that nearly broke her ribs. She felt his big body begin to quake with deep,
awful sobs that shook him to the core.

“It’s all right, Christian,” she
whispered, holding him close. “It’s all right . . .”

He clung to her, and her own arm
went around his shoulders, holding him close.

“Go ahead and let it out,” she
murmured, hugging him, rocking him, holding him, loving him. “No wound’s ever
healed till the poison comes out. Yers has been festerin’ for five long years. There’s
no shame in lettin’ it go.”

“She haunts my dreams every night.
I see her face in the flames . . . I hear her screams as she’s dying . . . dear
God, I smell her b-burning.” Harsh sobs racked him, and she felt his pain
as her own, felt her own tears running hotly down her cheeks and splashing upon
his proud shoulder.

“She’s dead, Christian, and nothin’
ye say or do can bring her back,” she said gently, feeling dwarfed by his size
and strength as she held him close and her own tears mixed with his. “Ye’ve
given five years to torturin’ yerself about it. Do ye want to sacrifice the
rest of yer life to sufferin’ as well? Ye’re healthy and whole. If the good
Lord didn’t want ye to live, he’d have taken ye, too. Such decisions aren’t
ours to question, merely to accept.”

Her hands, gently and soothing,
roved down his back. Christian clung to her, ashamed that she should see him
thus: he, a proud and decorated sea warrior, veteran of countless battles, laid
low and sobbing in the arms of a woman.

She’s dead, Christian.

The words pierced him.

Dead. Powerless. Unable to give
him nightmares unless he allowed it. Unable to torment him unless he permitted
it. Unable to harm him, hurt him, haunt him. For five long years he had allowed
it, yes, perhaps even wanted it, as atonement for his failure to get her
out of the burning house, as punishment for leaving her for so long while he
was away at sea. The nightmares, the guilt, the grief—Emily had not done that
to him; he had done it to himself.

In the quiet darkness, lit only by
the soft glow of the lantern, he felt something open in his soul, like huge
black clouds filing out after a heavy storm, and the pain and grief that had
been his sole companions for so long began to file out with it. He saw Emily’s
face, lingering briefly; then she began to fade, until there was nothing left
but a quiet exhaustion and a tremulous, fragile hope.

Through the stern windows, dawn’s
pink light began to glow against the sea.

Christian cupped the wet cheeks of
the woman who held him so tightly. “Deirdre,” he breathed, and on a broken,
victorious sob, claimed her lips with his own.

Chapter 20

Deirdre melted against him, feeling
the hard strength of his arm behind her back, sighing as his lips drove against
hers and his tongue slipped out to gently coax her lips apart. She wiggled
closer to him. She felt the gentle pressure of his tongue against her teeth,
and opened her mouth to him, touching her own tongue to his, hesitantly at
first, then growing bolder as her confidence grew. Her heart began to pound.
Her clothes began to feel too warm, too tight, too constricting. The strange
heat between her thighs began to thread its way up her belly. Breathe,
she thought, somewhat dizzily.  She sucked in a great lungful of air
through her nose. She had it now. She was breathing, all right, and breathing
hard.

So was he.

He dragged his mouth away from
hers, and when she looked up into his face, she saw that his eyes were dark,
heavy-lidded and intense—and that he was smiling. Smiling. For her, and
at her, in relief, in triumph . . . in wonder.

“Deirdre,” he said simply, and
touched her cheek.

He was looking at her as though he
had just discovered something beautiful and revered.  His gaze roved over every
detail of her face, and she blushed, feeling suddenly shy. He reached out and
cupped her jaw against his palm, his thumb gently rubbing her cheek as he
studied her with an intensity that brought a swirl of heat to her insides.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank
you . . . for not leaving me, even when I asked it.”

His hand slid back, through her
hair, cradling the back of her head and pulling her close. She closed her eyes
as his lips, so hard, so warm, found her own once more. She moaned deep in her
throat and pressed against him, feeling his other hand come up to gently touch
the rise of her breast, and then, the gold chain that hung around her neck,
following it down until he came to the cross.

Slowly he pulled away, his head
bent and his pale hair falling over his brow as he gazed down at the talisman
in his hand.

“It never leaves me,” Deirdre said,
feeling a need to explain.

“I know.”

“’Tis part of me . . . part o’ me
heritage . . . but if it disturbs ye for me to be wearin’ it in light of what’s
about to happen between us, well . . . I suppose I can take it off.”

“Do you wish, uh, something to
happen between us?” he asked, with a little smile.

“I don’t think I’d be lyin’ here in
a narrow bed with a man as naked as the day he was born, if I didn’t.”

He looked up then, smiled, and
gently let the cross fall back against her shirt. Then he leaned close. His
lips touched her brow, and his breath grew warm against her temple. “Leave it
on, then,” he murmured. “It is as much a part of you as . . . as that bottle of
Irish seawater, or the bread that Tildy ate.”

“Aye, Christian,” she said soberly.
“’Tis more than a part o’ me. ’Tis a part of Ireland.”

He gathered her close, clasping her
tightly to his chest. She shut her eyes again, her chin just touching his
bandaged shoulder, every nerve in her body jumping, every inch of her skin
tingling. Neither spoke. The silence stretched on, until it became awkward for
both of them; he, knowing what he wanted but afraid of failing himself and her;
she, knowing what she wanted but innocent, unsure, and afraid to push him too
far, too fast. The cabin began to glow pink in the light of the strengthening
dawn, and tiny orange diamonds began to glint off the waves beyond the stern
windows as the sun slowly heaved itself above the horizon. But neither noticed.
They were aware only of each other: he, of her soft, soapy scent, a strand of
hair that was tangled in his eyelashes, the swell of her breasts pushing against
his bare chest; she, of the hard muscles of his shoulder, the little scar on
the side of his neck only an inch from her nose, the scent of his skin and the
thump of his heartbeat against her own.

“I”—he took a deep breath—“I do not
know if I . . . if I can do this, Deirdre.”

She pulled back slightly and looked
into his eyes. Gently, she said, “If ye can’t, Christian . . . only the two of
us will ever know.”

He tightened his mouth and stared
at the checked flooring. Long moments went by, and she sensed the inner war he
was waging; for him, the courage he had to muster for this most manly of acts,
this most supreme test of his masculinity, must be far more than that of
sending a ship into battle.

And then he raised his head and
looked at her, his voice commanding and direct.

“Go lock the door, Deirdre.”

Her heart began to race. She slid
from the bed and did as he bade. It took her a moment to accomplish the task,
so badly was her hand shaking. Then, taking a deep breath, she turned and slowly
faced him, suddenly aware of the sensuous feel of her hair falling in thick,
riotous disarray around her shoulders and back and breasts.

He smiled, looking unbearably
handsome in the warm, pink and orange light.

“Come here, Deirdre.”

Shivering, she wrapped her arms
around herself and moved back across the cabin to where he lay, her gaze never
leaving his. Every sensation was heightened, acute: the scent of the sea
outside, the taste of nervous anticipation in her mouth; the fear and eagerness
of the unknown; the chill of the air, the hard deck beneath her shoes, the
thunderous echo of her heartbeat in her ears.

He raised his hand, stopping her
several feet away from the bed.

“Deirdre—” His voice was hoarse,
shaky, a direct contrast to the boldness of his eye. “I think this is the last
chance I shall have to invite you to leave.”

She hugged herself tighter, knowing
that despite his injured shoulder, his fears, and his tenuous, slipping grasp
on his standards of behavior as an officer and a gentleman, he did not want her
to leave.

She walked straight up to him and
into his arms. “I don’t want to leave, Christian. Not now . . . not
ever.”

“Ah, Deirdre,” he murmured, pulling
her down with him. “Against every principle I hold dear, against every rule I
enforce, against every shred of my conscience, my morals, my better judgment . .
. you have broken me.”

She cradled his face in her hands,
shamelessly kissing his lightly-stubbled cheek, his jaw, the corners of his
mouth.

“You’re shivering,” he said.

“I haven’t done this before.”

“Slide under the covers with me.”

She did so, wrapping her arms around
his neck as he kissed her once more, his mouth moving urgently against her own.
Beneath her shirt, his hands—big and warm, the palms rough with callous—cradled
her breasts, teased the nipples, burned a path over her skin. She kicked off
her shoes, heard them thump on the deck flooring, and broke the kiss long
enough for him to coax her shirt over her head, the trousers following it on
its way to the floor. Cold air swept against her skin; his palm roved over her
bottom, down her thighs, and then he pulled her protectively close and back under
the blankets with him.

The heat of his powerful body was
like a furnace. She molded herself to it, delighting in the roughness of his
chest against her naked breasts, the rocky muscles of his arm pulling her
close. There, that stab of sensation deep in the pit of her belly again; there,
a flood of dampness between her legs. Her toes curled with pleasure, and she
quivered in eagerness as he drew the blanket up to their chins, encasing them
in warmth and making her feel delightfully wicked and wanton in the knowledge
that they were both shamelessly naked beneath.

She felt his breath, warm against
her nose and cheeks and brow. She moved restlessly as sensation built within
her and her nipples tingled with a gnawing ache. Anticipation rocked her body,
and suddenly she realized that now it was she who was shaking, he whose hands
were confident and masterful.

“Yer shoulder,” she said weakly,
pushing back a bit so that they lay side-by-side, facing each other.

“Bugger my shoulder.” Beneath the
blanket, his palm trailed down her arm and over the concave dip of her hip. “I
know what it is capable of.”

Face-to-face on the pillow, they
gazed into each other’s eyes, touching each other beneath the covers, learning
the shape and feel of each other’s bodies. Never had Deirdre experienced the
sensation of a male body against hers, and the feeling left her deliciously
weak. She was aware of his chest hair against her breasts; the heaviness of one
hard, muscled leg thrown possessively over her thigh; the scrape of his foot as
it moved up and down her calf. . .

And the feel of his manhood—strong,
rigid, hot, and pulsing with life—against her soft belly.

She reached down beneath the covers
and touched it, feeling it throb with response; but he gently pulled her hand
away, guiding it upward and murmuring that she must not rush things.  Her
fingers splayed against his chest, tangling in the mat of crisp hair as his
hand moved over her skin. Her breathing grew harsh, raspy, erratic with each
new spot he touched, each previously unexplored inch of flesh.

Gently he pushed her onto her back
and, supporting his weight on his good side, he pushed the blanket down her
belly, leaving it bunched above her knees. She shut her eyes, trembling as he
rained gentle kisses over her face, her lips, her eyelids.

“Relax,” he murmured, remembering
that she was an innocent virgin. “You have taught me how to hug, how to smile, encouraged
me to live again. Now let me show you what it feels like to be cherished,
adored, worshipped . . . loved.”

Deirdre melted inside.

Unsure what to do, she settled
back, quaking at the vibrant bursts of sensation each touch of his hand, each
press of his lips, brought her. She felt his fingers moving over her
collarbone, her breasts, the rise of her ribs, and the curve of her hips. His
mouth grazed her cheek, leaving hot  kisses in its wake; then he kissed her,
gently at first, then fiercely, drawing the very breath and soul from her with
the searing intensity of his desire. Fear filled her, fear that she was not
behaving the way she was supposed to, that she might do something wrong, that
in doing so she might upset the delicate balance that he was so afraid he would
lose.

But he did not seem to share her concern.

He lifted his head again, his
breath coming harder. “I am going to kiss you now, Deirdre.”

“But . . . wasn’t that what ye were
just doin’?”

“I have only just begun
kissing you.”

She shut her eyes tightly,
quivering and hot inside, as his mouth roved deliciously over hers once more.
And then, kiss her he did—her forehead, the base of her nose, her cheeks, her
fluttering lashes, the coarse spirals of her hair. He lifted each of her hands
and kissed her palms; he kissed the inside of her elbow, her forearm, and
touched his tongue to the underside of her wrist until gooseflesh puckered her
skin and feathers of sensation darted through her belly. He bent to take her
mouth once more, and she felt his thumb grazing the wildly beating pulse at the
base of her throat as she met his kiss with building need and a hunger she was
only just beginning to understand.

His head lowered, and she threaded
her fingers in his hair, holding him close. His lips were warm against the side
of her neck, her collarbone. He nuzzled the cross aside and she heard herself
making little noises in her throat as his mouth brushed across her breasts,
warm and gentle and leaving her wanting more. She felt his lips against one
aching peak. Wetness as his tongue slipped out to touch and taste the erect and
hardening nipple. Deirdre caught her breath and sat up with a gasp.

“Lie back, foundling.”

“Are ye supposed to kiss me
there?”

“Yes, love. I’m supposed to kiss
you everywhere.”

“But, Christian, I don’t know if ye
should. I mean it’s been a long time, and ye might be forgettin’ just where
ye’re supposed to be kissin’—”

His lips twitched and he bent his
head once more, hefting her breast in one hand and kissing his way around her
nipple. “I can assure you, dearest, that I’ve not forgotten a single, blessed
thing.” He looked up, touched her cheek to reassure her, and pressed firmly
against her shoulder to coax her back down to the bed. “Now, lie back . . . or
do you not enjoy this?”

“I . . . I’m scared, Christian.”

“Shall I stop?”

“N-no!”

He smiled then, and never had she
thought a man could be more handsome than her Lord and Master. And then she forgot
all else as his head lowered once more, his lips, and then his tongue, playing
with her tightened nipple until the fire between her thighs became unbearable.
She sucked her lips between her teeth and touched tremulous fingers to his
hair, crushing the pale locks in her fist as the pressure of his lips became a
little less gentle, a little less hesitant, a little less restrained . . .

His mouth moved to the other
breast, and she gasped as she felt the hot-cool wetness of his tongue against
that nipple, too, tracing circles over it until it tingled and ached. His hand
was warm against the underside of her breast, pushing it up so that he could
better taste it, and then he drew the nipple fully into his mouth, sucking it
hard while his hand returned to the other breast and his thumb stroked the
hardened peak. Deirdre whimpered with need, her lips clinging desperately to
his, and then felt his palm skimming down the curve of her waist, flaring out
over her hip, his thumb nearing that aching, throbbing, burning part of her
that was begging so shamelessly for his touch.

His mouth left her breast, and cool
air rushed in to take its place. She lay there, her breath coming hard and fast
through her lungs as he eased himself onto his side, resting his weight on his
good shoulder while his admiring gaze swept over her.

Deirdre blushed, hotly.

“You,” he murmured. “Are beautiful.”

She was all to aware of his hand,
warm and delicious against her belly, the nearness of his fingers to that part
of her that seemed to have caught on fire.

“But Christian, I don’t know what I’m
supposed to do,” she said, in a little voice.

He smiled, a soft, lazy smile that
warmed her heart. His hand fanned out over her belly, the fingers spreading,
now, to slide against her pubic bone and the soft curls that lay between her
legs. “Deirdre, love, you needn’t do anything . . . yet. Next time,
maybe, but for now . . . for now, just let the captain be in command . . . eh?”

She took a deep, shaky breath, and
realized, suddenly, that that male part of him that had so fascinated her
earlier was pressing against her thigh like a hard board. “Aye, Christian. Ye
teach, and I’ll do my best to learn.” She shut her eyes, stiffened her arms at
her sides, and waited.

He gave a little laugh, and spent a
few moments dragging his hand through a long, spiraling curl that trailed over
her shoulder, encouraging her to relax, allowing her time to get used to the
feel of a man’s hand and mouth against her virgin flesh.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

His hand left her hair, roved down
over her breast, and she shivered as his thumb circled her nipple and teased it
back into a taut peak. “Aye, Christian—after one last, wee request.”

He rose onto his elbow, the wide,
powerful breadth of his chest and shoulders filling her vision. “Yes?”

She gazed up at him, and swallowed
hard. “Which way . . . is Ireland?”

His hand stopped abruptly. “Ireland?”

“Aye.” Sheepishly, she added, “I
need to know which direction it’s in so that when this monumental thing ye’re goin’
to do to me happens, I can be facin’ it.”

He stared at her. A corner of his
mouth twitched with amusement. Then his face crumpled and rich, heady laughter
tumbled out of his chest. “Bless me, Deirdre, nowhere on this earth is there
anyone like you. Ireland lies far beneath the horizon, and at your feet.
Precisely where it should be.” His laughter faded away, and he stared down at
her, his eyes becoming soft with love once more. “Now, pray, is there anything
else you demand of me?”

“Aye, Christian.”

Her hand came up to touch his
cheek. “And that is, my dear, homesick little boglander?”

“I want ye to keep kissin’ me.”

Smiling, he claimed her lips,
drinking of the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. Her arms wound around his neck,
and he knew, suddenly, that his time was limited and that every fear he’d had
about his ability to complete this act had been for naught. The sweet anguish
was growing harder and harder to bear, and it was all he could do to slow
himself down as he moved his hands over her trembling body, soothing her,
calming her, teasing her . . . arousing her.

Five long years since he’d had a
woman. Five long years since Emily had been taken from him. He cringed, waiting
for his dead wife’s face to appear before him and smash his desire to pulp. But
there was only the loveliness of this sweet, brave young woman beneath him,
only the pale and untried sweetness of her body, only the reverent adoration in
her wide purple eyes that drove through his heart and wrapped itself around his
hungry soul.

He pressed his face into the curve
of her shoulder, burying his nose in her fragrant curls as his hand caressed
her belly and his fingers twined in the soft, silky curls at the junction of
her thighs. She clamped her legs together, instinctively, her whole body going
tense.

“Open, love,” he murmured against
her neck. “Open, and let me touch you.”

“It . . . it tickles, Christian.”

He drew back, forcing himself to go
slow and easy with her. But his staff was hot and throbbing, driving itself
against her thigh and begging for release. Control, he told himself. Just
go slow.

He slid his fingers through the
silky triangle between her thighs, seeking her opening. He found her slick and
wet and hot, and it was a struggle to get his own breathing under control as
she responded to his touch with an answering shiver, the lips of her femininity
clamping around his gently questing fingers.

“Relax,” he murmured. She did so, and
allowed him to gently ease her legs apart . . . then she caught her breath as
he slid a finger between the soft folds of her womanhood and stroked her gently,
back and forth, over and over again. He took a deep and steadying breath and bent
his head to her nipple once more, his fingers smearing her dampness through her
curls as she pushed herself upward against his hand, seeking a deeper touch.

From somewhere, he heard her soft
voice: “Aye, Christian . . .  it feels good, real good, just like ye said it would
. . .”

“It will feel even better, in a
moment.”

“Oh, Christian, I don’t think it can
feel better—”

And then his thumb, wet with her
dampness, found the hard, swollen bud of her womanhood, gently kneaded it—and
with a little cry, Deirdre bucked upward on the bed as the first waves of
climax began to rush down upon her. Christian kept stroking, his mouth coming
down against her own to muffle her cries, his thumb still against her even as
he slid his fingers deep inside her wet cleft.

She writhed against him. Panting,
he tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in the curve of her shoulder,
drawing the last shudders of pleasure from her with his fingers and moving
himself into position above her. May God help me, he thought, and then, on
shaky limbs, he took a deep, steadying breath, abandoning all hesitations, all
good sense, and all gentlemanly intentions he’d sought to employ.

With a harsh groan, he leaned back
and drove his knee between her thighs. She was still breathing hard, dazed by
the force of her first climax; now, she turned her head, her breath feathering
against his wrist where it lay alongside her head, her lips moving over his
skin, kissing him, loving him, tasting him.

He gazed down at her perfectly
formed breasts, her taut belly, the soft indentation of her navel, the wet, silky
black triangle between her thighs. Then he stared down at his arousal.

He was ready. By God, he had never
been more ready.

“Open for me, Deirdre.”

His knee pressed harder, and Deirdre,
just beginning to recover from the heights to which this wonderful man had
brought her, gazed up in wonder at him as he slowly, carefully, lowered himself
down to her. She wound her arms around his back and opened her legs, waiting as
he paused, looking at her with dark, hungry eyes in an unspoken question.

She gave him a shy little smile of
encouragement.

He smiled back.

Then he bowed his head, the
handsome, sun-bleached locks tumbling down over his brow as he grasped himself
in one hand and slowly guided it to her entrance. She tensed, waiting for pain,
feeling only gentle pressure, and exquisite, slippery sensation as the velvety
head slid gently between her hot and moist folds. He released himself and
leaned forward, favoring his shoulder as he slowly, carefully, began to slide himself
inside her, stretching her, filling her with a deep and pleasurable fullness.
She felt him give a mighty shudder, as though the effort was too much for him,
and his face went rigid with concentration.

And then he stopped, his great body
quivering as if on the verge of something tremendous.

“Christian?”

She felt his hot breath against the
curve of her neck and shoulder, heard it rasping in her ear. “I can go no
further, Deirdre . . . without taking your maidenhead.”

“I don’t want my maidenhead
anymore. Make me yers, Christian.”

He needed no further invitation nor
encouragement. He slid his hands up into her hair, anchoring her head as his
mouth claimed hers and his tongue plunged between her teeth and desperately
sought her own. She moaned, arching upward to meet his kiss. Then he tensed,
drew back, and sheathed himself within her.

The pain was searing, a lance of
white fire. She drove herself upward, meeting it bravely, boldly, and
gratefully. Slowly, the discomfort faded away on waves of dampness that ran
hotly between her thighs, and as it left her, she realized that in its place
was a depth of feeling so intense, so agonizingly wonderful, that she thought
she would die from it.

And now he was thrusting himself
into her, pulling out, thrusting in, and building a rhythm that made her writhe
with sweet agony. His tongue melded with hers, his mouth ground against her
lips, his hand gathered her hair and crushed it in his fist. Faster and faster
he moved, no longer gentle and slow, no longer able to take his time. His
breathing came faster. Harsher. Hotter. Moisture broke out between straining
bodies. Breath mingled and mixed, became one—

It started. She felt it in the
deepest, darkest, most hidden recesses of her body, her soul, building, pulsing,
welling up and up—

“Christian!”

She arched up to meet him, her
senses exploding with a violence that shook her to her core. Her hands clawed
at his back, her nails sank into his skin, and she clung to him, gasping, as she
spasmed uncontrollably and her legs clamped fiercely around him. His body went suddenly
rigid, and he drew back and thrust himself one last time into her, impaling her
to the hilt of himself. She felt his seed, pulsing and throbbing warmly inside
her, and it brought another glorious release, another cresting wave of sweet
agony that left her sobbing with joy and wonder.

Exhausted, triumphant, he sank down
atop her, supporting his weight on his forearms and breathing hard. Slowly, the
burning sensation faded away, and the last waves of pleasure radiated out
through her fingertips, her toes, the nerve endings of her skin. After a long
moment, he finally moved off her and lay alongside her, one arm thrown possessively
over her waist and drawing her close, until she was pressed against his
still-pounding heart.

“Deirdre?”

“Aye, Christian?”

A long moment went by in which the
only sound was their intermingled breathing, the fading tattoo of their
heartbeats.

He raised his head and looked at
her, and the depths of his soul were reflected in his eyes.

“Thank you.”

Chapter 21

“I don’t know wot the two of ’em
are doin’ down there, but I think ye might wanna go get the cap’n and tell ’im
we’ve just sighted land off the starboard bows.”

“I ken what they be doing,
Skunk,” Ian said importantly. “The same thing they’ve been doing for the past
five days. Let ’em be. A pretty lass to warm his bed is just what our cold and
aloof Lord and Master needs to warm up a bit.” Ian turned away, shading his
eyes as he stared out over the thousands of diamond-like waves, all dancing and
jumping in the cold sunlight. The frigate dipped into a trough, heaved herself
up again, and impatiently tossed spray over her bows. But there, it was
unmistakable. A thin purplish line penciled atop the horizon of blue, blue sea.

Land.

For a crew that had left England
hating its new commanding officer, their change in attitude toward him and
their vessel was nothing short of astounding. Ever since the heated engagement
in which they’d taken the French corvette, pride in themselves and their ship
had run rampant. Men at their watches sang “Hearts of Oak.” Hibbert was as
likely to be found in a clean uniform as a rumpled one, Skunk no longer
grumbled while scrubbing the decks each morning, Teach had taken it upon
himself to care for Tildy and her puppies, and Ian diligently oversaw daily gun
practice.

But as for their strict
disciplinarian of a captain, the idea of him being in love was an endearing and
richly amusing one, and there was not a soul aboard the frigate who didn’t
watch the blossoming romance with a keen mental telescope—and comment upon it
daily. Oddly, this rough group of seasoned tars felt strangely protective of what
was happening between their commanding officer and his Irish girl, and though
most of them were a good deal younger than he, they saw themselves as
protectors of those fragile seeds of newfound love.

Of course, such feelings of mutual
protectiveness—the Lord and Master watching over them in battle, and the crew
watching over his romance with the girl—went far to foster the sort of respect,
liking, and loyalty that every captain strives for between himself and his
men—and which no previous captain of HMS Bold Marauder had ever enjoyed.

Until now.

“Yeah, ’bout time someone thawed
the Ice Captain,” Teach remarked, crossing his arms and leaning his bulk
against one of the boats snugged securely in the frigate’s waist. He gave a sly
grin. “God knows even Delight couldn’t do it.”

“Heard she tried, though,” Milton
Lee put in.

“And failed.”

Skunk waved his hand and scoffed,
“Delight ain’t his type.”

“The captain and Deirdre belong
together,” Elwin snapped. “Any fool can see that!”

“Still, isn’t it something, the two
of ’em being in love.” Ian rubbed his beard, and his eyes grew reflective. “And
tae think how much our bonnie Irish lassie hated our very English captain when
she first came aboard.”

“To think how much we all
hated him,” Teach added, with an expression of mixed shame and puzzlement that
was echoed by his companions.

They stared down at their shoes,
and even Skunk distractedly kicked at the deck seams. Finally he said, “Ah, but
the girl’s good for him. She makes him smile. She makes him mad. She makes him
anythin’ but emotionless.”

“Aye, I’ve actually heard him laughing,”
Rhodes said, craning his neck as he gazed out over the whitecaps toward the
distant land. “Can you imagine?”

Ian laughed. “’Bout bluidy time!”

“I say, Ian,” Wenham said, “in all
seriousness, if you want to make our commanding officer happy, do send
someone to tell him we just sighted land. By my reckoning,” he added, looking
down at his chart and tracing the coastline with his finger, “it’s Cape Cod.
The captain’ll want to make the ship presentable for his admiral.”

“Presentable?” Ian drew himself up,
peeved about being reminded of his duty. “What’s wrong with her? I doona see
anything amiss!”

Rhodes coughed and raised a mocking
brow. “Salutes, and all that, Ian?”

Skunk nodded. “Ceremony
stuff. Things we don’t know nothin’ about.”

“Of course,” Ian said, flushing and
puffing out his chest. “Hibbert!”

Like some of the others, the youth
had a spyglass to his eye. However, his was not trained toward the distant
land, but up at the maintop, where Delight had gone to share a “picnic lunch”
with one of the marines.

“Hibbert!” Ian roared, purpling
with rage. “’Tis angry ye be making me! Get yer wee tail over here before I
thrash ye to within an inch of yer life!”

Flushing hotly, Hibbert snapped the
glass shut and came to stand next to his lieutenant.

“Aye?”

“That’s ‘Aye, sir,’ and
doona be forgetting it!” He glared fiercely down at the boy, his hands fisted
against his hips, his red beard blowing in the wind. “Now, go rouse the
captain. Give him my respects, and tell him we’ve raised Cape Cod.”

Hibbert frowned, snapped off a
sloppy salute, and with a last, wistful glance up toward the maintop, went
below.

“Wot was ’e looking at, anyhow?”
Skunk murmured, scowling as he tipped his oily head back and stared aloft. But
there was nothing to be seen up there but acres of proudly set sail, all bloated
with wind and pushing the frigate on a steady course toward Boston.

###

“Christian.”

He lay beside her, one well-muscled
arm thrown possessively over her ribs and anchoring her body to his, his face
turned into the mass of spiral-curling black ringlets that toppled over her
shoulder and onto the pillow.

She hated to wake him. But the
knocking on the door was not going away.

“Christian!” she hissed.

Sweet Mary, the man slept like the
dead! She wriggled out from beneath the heavy weight of his arm, let him settle
into the space where her body had been, and dipped her head to press gentle
kisses atop the hard rise of his shoulder, where a fresh bandage stood clean
and white against his skin. Her fingers twined in the hair that curled boyishly
against the back of his neck; her palm smoothed it away from his temple. He was
warm and heavy and heartbreakingly handsome. Just looking at him made her want
him all over again.

The knocking came louder.

“Christian!” She put a hand against
his arm and shook him. His heavy, regulated breathing didn’t change. She stared
down at him, realizing that, for the first time since she’d known him, he had
not had the nightmares.

No wonder he slept so deeply.

The knocking stopped. “Captain?”

Hibbert. Desperately,
Deirdre leaned down, nuzzled aside the golden waves of hair, and put her lips
against his ear. “Christian, my love. Wake up! Yer men be wantin’ ye!”

He made an unintelligible noise,
reached out, and hauled her close to his body. “Don’t leave me, Deirdre . . .”

“Wake up!” she hissed, wishing
she could strangle Hibbert for disturbing their newfound happiness.

He groaned and turned over, his
gray eyes opening to regard her with lazy adoration. “What is it, dear girl,
that you invade my dreams?”

“Yer dreams?” She laughed. “I hope
I’m in them!”

He reached up, captured a curl, and
pressed it to his lips, smiling, his warm gaze holding hers. “Yes, love, you
are in them. I daresay you are the mistress of my dreams . . .”

“And ye be the master o’ mine.
Stop, Christian!” she gasped as he gently pulled her head down to his via his
grip on her curl. “Hibbert is outside the door.”

The knocking became a downright
pounding. “Captain?”

“Damn your bloody eyes, Hibbert,
what the devil do you want?”

“Mr. MacDuff’s respects, sir, and
he’s just sighted land off the starboard bows. Mr. Wenham says we’re off Massachusetts
Bay, sir, and that we’ll raise Boston Harbor soon.”

Christian sighed and gave an inward
groan, suddenly wishing this voyage could go on forever. “My compliments to the
first lieutenant, and tell him to prepare the ship as though the king himself
is awaiting us. We’ll make a fine show for those rebellious colonials, eh, Mr.
Hibbert?”

“Aye, sir. We’ll show those
colonial upstarts we’re not a navy to trifle with! We’ll show ’em we’re a king’s
ship!”

Christian threw back his head and
laughed the sleep out of his sluggish body. “Aye, we’ll do that, young fellow.
Now go, do not tarry. I shall be on deck shortly.”

“Boston!” Deirdre cried excitedly.
Impulsively, she threw her arms around her lover’s hard body. “Oh, Christian.
How can I thank ye enough? Just think, my cousin is there. I haven’t seen him
in years! He’ll help me to find my brother, Christian, ye wait an’ see!”

He looked at her soberly. “And so,
as God is my witness, shall I, Deirdre.”

###

The people of Boston, which had
been closed to colonial trade since the establishment of the hated Port Act, saw
her first as yet another royal frigate, sent to quell resistance and restore
order. They wasted no time dispatching messengers to let the rebel leaders know
of her coming. The nervous governor might rejoice over the arrival of a smart
and powerful frigate, but otherwise, her appearance was unwelcome by all except
the Tory population, the British troops camped out in Boston Common eager for
news of home, and, of course, the crusty old admiral whose small squadron lay
at anchor in the harbor.

The flagship of Vice Admiral Sir
Geoffrey Lloyd was a huge, double-decked leviathan boasting a murderous array
of seventy-four guns. The admiral himself, a stiff-lipped, cantankerous old
salt whose long years of sea service had left him tired, achy, irritable, and
dreaming about his upcoming retirement, sat now at a fine table in his day
cabin, squinting his eyes and frowning as he read the latest broadside, initiated
and distributed by that hotheaded rabble-rouser Sam Adams.

Lately, though, the rebels were not
all that occupied Sir Geoffrey’s weary mind. Yesterday, he had received the
distressing news that the king’s frigate Bold Marauder—which he’d been
expecting for several days now—had encountered the smuggler known only as the Irish
Pirate in company with a French freebooter while the pair had been attacking a
lone English ship. Although Bold Marauder had taken the French vessel,
the Irish Pirate had managed to escape and bring the embarrassing news back to Boston,
where it had been enthusiastically received—and spread—by the upstarts.

Outside the door, the marine
thumped his musket smartly on the deck, interrupting the admiral’s musings. “Halcyon’s
captain to see you, sir!”

“Send him in,” Sir Geoffrey said,
shoving the broadside away with a tired motion.

The door opened and Captain Merrick
entered, his cocked hat held respectfully in his hands, his chestnut hair
shining in the sunlight that slanted down through the hatch behind him.

“Ah, Brendan. It is good of you to
join me for the midday meal. Do come in.”

The young man was tall and
handsome, an intelligent, promising young rake with a quick wit and a mirthful
grin. Clever and compassionate, the captain of the frigate Halcyon,
anchored in the lee of nearby Castle Island, had climbed far and fast through
the naval ranks. And now, as usual, the young half-Irishman was in high
spirits.

“You’ll be pleased to know, sir,
that His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Bold Marauder has just been
sighted, standing for the harbor.”

“Bold Marauder!" the
admiral exclaimed, the tiredness instantly fading from his sloped shoulders,
his aching limbs. “Damme, Merrick, it’s about time. I’ve been itching to ask
her captain just what happened between him and that blasted Irish Pirate, and
why he failed to capture the rogue. And as for the ship herself, why, one can
never have enough frigates, eh? Bold Marauder will be a welcome addition
to our little squadron.”

“Faith, sir, that she will,”
Brendan said hesitantly.

Their gazes met. Both were well
aware of the frigate’s bad reputation, but a missive written by Rear Admiral Sir
Elliott Lord and delivered into Sir Geoffrey’s care by a fast-sailing packet
had already advised the admiral of the identity of Bold Marauder’s
commanding officer. The frigate might be the most rebellious ship in the king’s
fleet—but her new captain was the most principled, disciplined, and upstanding
officer the Navy had.

Something, certainly, to raise his
spirits after the worsening situation here in Boston!

Sir Geoffrey rose to his feet with
rare agility and clapped his subordinate on the back, the matter of the rebel
broadside already forgotten. “Ah, ’tis good that she’s here, eh? And Captain
Lord is a fine officer with a long and distinguished record. A capable,
competent, and thoroughly dislikable chap, but one who can be trusted to bring
his ship in with a fine show!”

The young frigate captain frowned.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I served with Captain Lord aboard the old Londoner
and I did not find him dislikable.”

“Forgive me, Brendan. I had forgotten
his, er, loss. Such things can change a man, and not for the better.” The
admiral finished the last of his tea, and called impatiently for his steward. Normally
cranky and dour, Sir Geoffrey was beaming with boyish excitement. “Ah, Bold
Marauder is just what these Bostonians need. Captain Lord can be counted upon
to put on a fine display of competence, seamanship, and discipline! He’ll set
an example, not only for our people, but also for these damned rebels who think
His Majesty’s forces are nothing but a bumbling display of misplaced pomp and
arrogance.” He beckoned for his steward to enter. “And these bumpkins have
grown troublesome enough, have they not? They ridicule our troops, they
ridicule our seamen, they ridicule the governor, they ridicule our attempts to
maintain order.” He raised his arms, allowing his steward to help him into his
coat. “No, not that one, Percy, the other one. Yes, the dress coat. And my finest
sword, if you please! I will not honor Captain Lord with anything less than
perfection!”

From above came excited cheers as
the flagship’s crew welcomed the arrival of the new ship.

“My flag captain is on an errand
ashore, Brendan, so I’m counting on you, instead, to ensure that Bold
Marauder is received with highest ceremony. I want every officer in his
best uniform, every tar at attention, and a proper, rousing salute from the
guns of every ship in the squadron. I want no effort spared, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Off with you, then, and do not
tarry!”

The dashing young captain touched
his hat and strode swiftly from the cabin. Still in his twenties, he was as
much a part of his crew as he was captain of it, well loved and much respected
by his subordinates. As he went topside, the flagship’s men joked and traded
barbs with him and called him by his first name, privileges that few seamen in
His Majesty’s Navy would have dared and few commanders would have allowed.

But then, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick
was quite unlike most commanders in His Majesty’s Navy.

His coxswain, a big, strapping
Irishman who’d been his best friend since the days when they’d grown up together
in Connemara, grabbed his elbow and pointed out over the sparkling harbor
toward the majestic sight of the incoming frigate. “God Almighty, Brendan,
she’s a sight t’ make a lad’s heart weep, ain’t she? Don’t ye just swell with
pride, knowin’ ye designed ’er?”

The young captain, a modest and
humble sort, smiled and shrugged. “If she’s lovely, Liam, it is because of her
captain’s hand, not mine. He deserves the credit for making her look so smart.”

The frigate was taking on detail,
the tall shadows of her masts falling across the trees of a nearby island as she
moved gracefully past it. Her topmasts boasted proud squares of pale,
gold-tinted sail, and her yards were smartly angled to make best use of the
unsteady breeze. She was a glorious sight, the water curling back from her
rakish bow, sparkling in the sun and gleaming upon her stem, and despite
himself, her young designer experienced a surge of pride.

He felt a presence at his elbow
and, turning, found the old admiral beside him, his face as bright as a
schoolboy’s, his eyes crinkling with humor as he gazed out at the approaching
frigate. “I see, sir, that you could not resist,” Brendan said, grinning.

Impatiently beckoning to a
midshipman, Sir Geoffrey snatched a telescope from the boy and raised it to his
eye. On the deck behind them, the first lieutenant was snapping orders, and the
bosun and his mates were driving the men into a state of order. “I may be an
old man, Brendan, but not so old that the sight of a well-run, smartly
disciplined fighting ship doesn’t bring a tear to my eye. Damme, she’s lovely.”
He handed the telescope to the young captain. “Leave it to Captain Lord to put
on a display of seamanship our Navy can be damned proud of!”

Brendan raised his glass to his
eye, never flinching as the deck beneath his feet quaked to the might of the flagship’s
guns as she welcomed the proud new arrival. Answering puffs came from Bold
Marauder’s gunports, the salute smartly done and as precisely calibrated as
a ball to a musket’s barrel. Brendan moved the glass, saw the officer who stood
rigidly on the quarterdeck, and smiled as he recognized the man who had once
been his captain.

On shore, there were already crowds
gathering to watch the new arrival.

“This is just what we need
to show these rabble-rousers what is meant by a king’s ship!” The
admiral’s voice was tight with pride as he stared out over the water at the
glorious, majestic frigate. “And, by God, there’s Lord himself, the absolute
epitome of what a king’s officer should be! Damme, Brendan, don’t keep the
glass all to yourself, man! Have some pity on an old tar who’s half blind as it
is!”

But the young officer had gone stiff,
the color draining from his face.

Impatiently, Sir Geoffrey snapped,
“Damme, Brendan, the glass please!”

Slowly, the captain brought the
telescope down, blinking in shock and then horror. His face was very white. He
looked at Sir Geoffrey. He looked back at the frigate, and had a sudden,
desperate urge to hurl the telescope overboard before his admiral could
discover for himself what he had seen through that circular field.

Something that, judging by the sudden,
thunderous commotion from shore, the jeering crowds had already discovered.

Something that the flagship’s crew
was rushing to the rails to see, pushing and shoving in their haste.

Something that the admiral, smiling
triumphantly as he raised the glass to his keen and bleary old eye, would be
seeing just . . . about . . .

Brendan shut his eyes, wincing.

“Great GOD above!” Sir
Geoffrey thundered, and the glass dropped from his hand to smash upon the
flagship’s deck.

Now.

The old man clutched at his heart.
“He has a . . . a woman in the maintop!” he croaked, his face going
purple. “And she’s totally naked!”

Chapter 22

“I have never been more humiliated,
ashamed, and embarrassed in my life!” Sir Geoffrey raged, storming up through
HMS Bold Marauder's entry port with Captain Brendan Jay Merrick close
behind him. He cringed as the ceremonial trill of pipes, meant as a salute,
rang mockingly around him.

Captain Lord, splendidly turned out
in his finest uniform and wearing a gold-tasseled dress sword at his hip,
stepped forward to receive them. He was smiling, and his shoulders were squared
and straight. Solemnly, he doffed his hat. “Welcome, sir, to His Majesty’s
frigate Bold Marauder. I am honored to—”

“Spare me your damned pleasantries,
Captain Lord! By God, you have made me the laughingstock of Boston, and
I’ll see you in your cabin now!”

“Sir?” the captain said, confused.
At his side and slightly behind him, his first lieutenant, a big, ruddy-faced
Scot with a shock of red hair, exchanged puzzled glances with the second
lieutenant. And coming up from the hatch was a fat white spaniel, who took one
look at the enraged Sir Geoffrey—and promptly emptied her bladder in terror.

“I said now!” the admiral
thundered.

“Yes, sir. By all means,” Christian
said tightly, grabbing Tildy and wondering what the devil had riled the admiral
so. Bold Marauder had put on a fine show, one the king himself would have
been proud of. She was clean and smart and beyond reproach. Keenly aware of his
men’s equally confused stares, he turned abruptly and led the way to his cabin,
holding himself upright and feeling his shoulder beginning to throb. The
quarterdeck loomed ominously over their heads, and from long habit, he ducked.
“Pray, sir, please watch your head—”

“Hold your damned tongue, Lord,
I’ve been on warships a damn sight longer than you! God rot it, I have never
been so humiliated in my life—”

They were now beyond earshot of Bold
Marauder's crew. Angrily, Christian swung around, his eyes blazing. “Pray,
sir, I don’t know what grieves you so! My ship is faultless!”

The admiral was a head shorter than
Christian, but in his rage, his stature was considerably increased. Glaring up
into the captain’s gray eyes, he roared, “There is a woman in your
maintop, Captain Lord, and she is not wearing a stitch of clothing!”

Christian stared at him. Sick,
sudden horror drained the color from his face and left it white, then gray.

Dear God, he thought. Delight.

Cold sweat broke out of every pore,
and he turned just outside his cabin door, trying to maintain the last shreds
of his dignity. The admiral’s rage was a tangible thing, and Christian was
keenly aware of not only Sir Geoffrey, but also the young Captain Merrick—who
looked quite sympathetic, if not a little amused.

Ian MacDuff, his own Scots temper
ready to blow, came charging down the short corridor. “Here, now, Captain, ’tis
looking right bonnie we be! What the saints has the old fart all riled—”

Sir Geoffrey went purple.

Quietly, Christian said, “Mr.
MacDuff, please send someone up to the maintop immediately to fetch
Delight down.”

“Del—” Ian’s jaw came unhinged.

“Yes, Ian, Delight.” He bent
his brow to his hand, feeling his career sliding into ruin around his feet.
“Pray, do so now . . . before the damage becomes irreparable.”

Ian left at a dead run.

“My apologies, sir,” Christian began.
“I had no—”

He couldn’t say he had no idea. It
would only pound another nail into his coffin. Besides, there was no use trying
to make excuses. He was already incriminated. Finished. Doomed to court-martial,
disgrace, and the rest of his life spent on the beach. With a defeated sigh, he
shoved open his cabin door, forgetting, too late, about—

“Great God above, Lord, do
you run a goddamned brothel or a fighting ship?” the admiral cried as the
raven-haired girl on the bed, clad in nothing but the captain’s shirt and a
pair of baggy trousers, flung aside the covers and flew across the cabin.

Christian shut his eyes.

“Brendan!” she shrieked. And
with a happy cry, the girl threw herself into the startled arms of Sir Geoffrey
Lloyd’s next consideration for flag captain.

Christian was too devastated to
feel surprise that the two knew each other. He was too devastated to feel
jealousy at the way Deirdre was clinging to the dashingly handsome Captain
Merrick. He was too devastated to feel the sudden, throbbing agony in his
shoulder, the hollow nausea in the pit of his stomach, the numbness that was even
now permeating his limbs.

His career was finished.

“Deirdre, please address the
captain with the respect he deserves,” he said quietly, putting Tildy down with
her puppies and already hearing the death knell of a court-martial.

But Captain Merrick had swept
Deirdre up in his arms, swung her around and around, and was now hugging her
fiercely. “Nonsense, Captain Lord! Faith, the lass is my cousin! How
very good of you to bring her all the way across the Atlantic just to
deliver her into my care!”

Cousin. Brendan. Boston.

Of course.

“What?” Sir Geoffrey snapped,
whirling.

Merrick’s pointed gaze met
Christian’s from above Deirdre’s shoulder, and Christian was quick to grasp
what the shrewd younger captain had so quickly offered. Escape.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said
lamely, feeling the piercing gaze of the old admiral driving between his
shoulders. “She had a most trying time of it, but I daresay she made a good
sailor.”

“She always did, even when I took
her up to Mayo in my little sailboat so she could see the castle where her
ancestress lived. Never once got seasick, did you, Deirdre?”

“Oh, never, Brendan! And remember
climbin’ Crough Patrick, an’ the awful storm that hit us on the way home? Why,
if it weren’t for yer skill as a sailor, the angels would’ve collected us that
day for sure—”

Sir Geoffrey glared at the two
cousins, glared down at the puppies, and glared up at Captain Lord. “You mean
to tell me you were merely transporting this—this girl to Boston,
Captain Lord?”

Christian met the sharp stare
unflinchingly. “Yes, sir.”

Hastily, Deirdre offered, “Me mama
died, ye see, and Brendan’s the only family I got left.”

“I saw no mention of a female
passenger in the dispatches from your admiral back in Portsmouth, Captain
Lord!”

“Uh, Sir Elliott has had a lot on
his mind lately, sir. Perhaps he . . . forgot.”

“Your brother is not the type to forget!
And this still doesn’t explain that—that female in your maintop, shamelessly
waving a kerchief in greeting to the people of Boston upon your glorious
arrival!”

A commotion sounded just outside
the door as the “female” in question was escorted aft.

“Oh, dear God,” Christian began, graying
with horror as he realized that Ian was bringing Delight in.

Just then, the door swung open and
Delight, clad in nothing but a wool blanket, sauntered in, much to the pop-eyed
consternation of Sir Geoffrey.

“Why, Captain Lord, you did so
spoil my fun by bringing me down from the maintop! Lo, I got the most awful burn
on my derriere on the way down,” she purred, suggestively rubbing her
bottom through the blanket. “Why, hello, sir . . .” Her eyes gleaming, she
sauntered over to the suddenly apoplectic Sir Geoffrey. “You must be the
admiral. I just love a man with power,” she crooned, sidling
close to him and dragging a fingernail down his seamed, suddenly white cheek.
“You’d just love a little romp with Delight here, no? I have the most wickedly
wonderful methods of—”

“Ian, get her out of here!”
Christian roared.

Even Brendan looked shocked, though
his eyes were glinting with mirth.

“IAN!”

“Uh, aye, sir, ’tis trying I am—”

Delight rubbed herself against Sir
Geoffrey’s chest, her hand roving down his waistcoat toward his breeches. The
admiral’s face was going a bright, alarming red, a shocking contrast to the
whiteness of his hair.

And then Delight allowed the
blanket to slip to the floor.

Christian shut his eyes and groaned.
Brendan Merrick gulped and nearly dropped his cousin. Delight Foley touched a
hand to the admiral’s groin—

And Sir Geoffrey slid to the floor
in a dead faint.

###

“’Twas too much for his heart,
sir,” Elwin Boyd said matter-of-factly, leaning over the admiral and fanning
him with a piece of paper. “But I think he’s coming round now.”

Sir Geoffrey, who’d been laid on
the bed, blinked and tried to sit up, his hand going unconsciously to his
heart. “Let me up, you bumbling fools!” he snarled, pushing aside their hands.
The blonde doxy was nowhere in sight. Young Merrick stood nearby, his lips
twitching with suppressed laughter. His Irish cousin—a comely young thing with
striking eyes and an out-of-control mane of wild black hair—sat beside the bed,
her worshipful gaze passing between Brendan and the tight-lipped Captain Lord. She
held a glass of water in her hand, and seeing that he had recovered his senses,
tried to press it to Sir Geoffrey’s lips.

“Here, sir. Drink, and ’twill make
ye feel better.”

Angrily, Sir Geoffrey knocked it
away, spilling water to the deck flooring. “There’s nothing wrong with me! The
devil take the lot of you, treating me like some blasted invalid! Damn your
eyes, Captain Lord, you have much to answer to!”

“Yes, sir.” The captain turned to
the surgeon. “Please leave us, Elwin.”

The Irish girl’s hand came up to
touch a strange, ornate Celtic cross at her throat. Lifting her chin, she
fastened her steady gaze on the admiral. Her eyes were beautiful, stormy, of a
brilliant purple shade that reminded him of violets in springtime. “Please,
sir, don’t be takin’ yer anger out on Captain Lord,” she said in her gentle
brogue. “He’s a fine and upstandin’ officer, and wouldn’t tolerate any
shenanigans.”

“And what do you call that—that spectacle
in the maintop?” Sir Geoffrey raged, more to Captain Lord than to the young
Irishwoman.

Again the girl answered, unfazed by
his anger. “Oh, her name is Dolores. She has a bit of a problem, ye see? She’s
coming home after living in Normandy for a few years, and got rather . . .
well, corrupted. Ye know how those French people are, Sir Geoffrey.”

The admiral’s eyes narrowed, for as
a true Briton, he had no love for the French. “Yes, I know exactly how
they are.”

The girl gave a sad, gentle smile.
“Well, sir, they ruined her and poisoned her mind. She left Boston as a sweet
and innocent woman of virtue, but those awful French had their way with her, ye
see, and, well . . . She ended up in Portsmouth after her French husband died,
and Captain Lord, bein’ the gallant naval officer he is, took it upon himself to
deliver her safely back to her family here in Massachusetts. He put so much
time and effort into makin’ somethin’ of this crew—a real hard-to-manage one,
if ye’ll recall—that it wasn’t always easy for him to keep an eye on Deli—I
mean, Dolores. But she can’t help herself, sir. ’Twas the French influence.”

The admiral’s eyes narrowed.
“French influence, you say?”

Bless you, dear girl,
Christian thought, shutting his eyes.

“Oh, aye,” Deirdre was saying.
“French influence. She was there for some time, subjected to their ways and
all. No wonder she came out of it as a . . . well, changed woman.”

Brendan’s eyes were dancing with
mirth as, behind the admiral’s back, he exchanged glances with the speechless
Christian. “Quite right, Sir Geoffrey,” he said, careful to keep his tone
properly sober. “An immoral and lascivious people, you must agree. Faith, I
shudder to think of any impressionable young female at the mercy of their
carnal ways!” He cast a pointed glance around the orderly cabin and looked up
at the deck-head, as though he could see through the great beams to the decks
above. “That aside, Captain Lord, please accept my congratulations on what
wonders you have achieved with this vessel! The last time I saw her, I was
ashamed to admit that I had designed her . . .” He turned to the admiral and
said cheerfully, “Really, sir, don’t you think that Captain Lord’s success at
making something of Bold Marauder’s crew far outweighs the, uh, little
incident with Miss Dolores?”

Deirdre dramatically clasped her
hands before her chest, as though in prayer. “Poor Dolores. And oh, think of
her father, and how ashamed and distressed he’ll be when he sees what has
happened to his sweet, innocent daughter.” She sighed and shook her head. “But
those French are a vulgar people, aren’t they, Captain Lord?”

Brendan, caught up in the game,
answered before Christian could reply. “Faith! The whole country’s a den of
iniquity, if I do say so myself!”

His eyes narrowing, Sir Geoffrey
snatched the glass of water from the girl’s hand, and stared at his young
captain. Merrick’s logic, as usual, was sound. Captain Lord had managed to work
wonders with the finest frigate in the king’s fleet, and yes, that ought to
count for something more than a court-martial. Granted, his pride stung, and
he’d have to account for the humiliating incident before Governor Gage, but
Brendan was right.

He drained what water there was in
the glass and thrust it back into the Irish girl’s hand. “I suppose there’s
nothing to be done for it, then, but to return the woman to her father and let him
deal with her,” he muttered irately. “You say her family lives here in Boston?’

“Well, almost. She tells me her
home is on the west side o’ Cambridge, wherever that may be.”

“Less than ten miles from here,” Sir
Geoffrey said gruffly. “I suppose it falls upon me, then, to escort her
back.”

Brendan cleared his throat and drew
himself up, his eyes suddenly eager. “Faith, sir, but I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would,”
Sir Geoffrey snapped. “But I’ll not have my finest officer tarnishing his name
and reputation by being seen in the woman’s company until a cure can be found
for her . . . condition.” He turned to Christian. “I trust that she has
something besides a blanket she can wear, so that she can be escorted
from this ship with some degree of dignity?”

Christian paled, thinking of the
trunk of gowns—and other equipment—that Delight had had hauled up from
the brig and now lay close, too close, in a nearby cabin. “Er, yes, sir,
though I daresay they could use some . . . uh, alterations.”

“Fine. See to it that your
sailmaker has them done. I want that woman off this ship by sundown.”

Brendan, fidgeting, persisted.
“Will you, then, be escorting her back to her family, sir?”

“You seem quite bloody eager,
Captain Merrick!”

Brendan flashed a quick grin. “Aye,
sir. I wouldn’t want you to tarnish your name, either.”

“Oh, go on with you!” the admiral
retorted. “I don’t give a king’s damn who takes her, as long as she’s removed
from this vessel before she can cause our Navy any more embarrassment. By the
way—“He frowned and turned to Deirdre, his eyes narrowing. “Who is this father
in the unenviable position of having sired her?”

“All I know, sir, is that his name is
Foley, and that he and his family live outside o’ Boston in a place called
Menotomy.”

The admiral stared at her. “Foley? Menotomy?”

“Aye, sir.” Her brow furrowed in a
frown. “Do ye know the family, then?”

“Oh, I know them, all right.” He
snatched up his hat. “Captain Merrick, you may have the afternoon to catch up
on old times with your cousin, but I expect that girl to be safely delivered into
her father’s care by sundown. You will receive additional orders shortly. And
you, Captain Lord”—his harsh stare settled on Christian—“I shall see you aboard
the flagship at eight bells. We have much to discuss.”

Christian heaved a silent sigh of
relief. Then he picked up his own hat and, squaring his shoulders, followed the
admiral out the door to see him properly off the ship, his shoulder aching, his
head throbbing with suppressed tension.

But at the door he paused to flash
his beloved a look of indebtedness and admiration.

No matter what trouble she’d caused
him back in Portsmouth, here in Boston she had just saved his career.

###

Sir Geoffrey announced an informal
dinner for his officers in his cabin aboard the massive, seventy-four-gun Dauntless,
whose dining area alone made the entire cabin of HMS Bold Marauder seem
small and cramped in comparison. But there was more than enough room in the
cabin for Sir Geoffrey, his captains, and the huge array of food brought in by
stewards and smartly turned-out midshipmen.

They were a small but diverse group:
the cranky, stooped old admiral with his shrewd and piercing eye; his flag
captain, Stanley Cutler, already well into his cups; Captain Hiram Ellsworth, a
high-minded but ambitious prig; Lieutenant Peter Atkins, loud, swaggering, and
boastful; a varied array of young officers—and Christian.

He sat at the polished mahogany
table, watching the admiral’s servants clearing away the rich meal which his
stomach, used to the horrors of naval fare, had accepted first with glee, then
with hesitation and now, a growing remorse. His queasiness was not helped by
the open hostility of the cabin’s other occupants.

Cutler raised his glass and downed
its contents in a single gulp. “So, Captain Lord,” he said, exchanging a sly glance
with the others, “I’m told you made something of that worthless rabble you left
Portsmouth with.”

“I could not make something of them
if there was nothing there to begin with.”

Ellsworth made a snorting noise.
“Huh! Bold Marauder's previous captain is a dear friend of mine. He told
me her officers and crew are naught but a bunch of incompetent arses who don’t
know a stem from a stern.”

Laughter rippled around the table,
but Sir Geoffrey, thanking a midshipman for bringing him a pillow to put
between his brittle old back and the unforgiving chair, didn’t notice the open
insult to Christian’s crew.

“I say, they must still be a
bunch of incompetent arses, Ellsworth!” Cutler said recklessly, sniggering as
he poured himself another glass of port. “They’ve already bungled the very
thing they were sent here to do—apprehend that damned Irish Pirate! Can you
imagine? Why, Bold Marauder had the rascal right under her guns, and
still the fellow got away! Ah, Captain Lord, I pity you, having to take command
of those dolts!”

“My crew behaved admirably and to
my satisfaction,” Christian said tersely. “And what do you mean, Irish Pirate?”

“Don’t tell us you didn’t know. All
of Boston is abuzz with it.”

Christian put down his glass.
“Abuzz with what?”

“Why, the news, of course. You
really don’t know, do you? That smuggler you engaged off the Maine coast? He’s
the Irish Pirate.”

More snickers.

No. He hadn’t known.

“That will be enough, gentleman,”
Sir Geoffrey said crossly. “Captain Lord has only just arrived. One cannot
expect him to know it was the Irish Pirate he’d engaged, as the scoundrel flies
no colors. Finally, do not forget that he had an English cutter to assist, a French
corvette to man, and other things to occupy him.”

“Aye, such as doxies in the main
top!”

“Would that we all had such
. . . diversions!”

“Poor Merrick. He designed your
frigate, didn’t he, Lord? How ashamed of her he must be!”

“Aye, to think of his masterpiece
crewed by a bunch of pillocks with nothing better to do than cause trouble and
make their gloriously esteemed captain, whose lofty heights we
shall never aspire to, look terrible!”

Their laughter was abruptly
silenced by Christian’s fist slamming down atop the table. “My crew behaved
gallantly under extreme circumstances, and I found no fault with their
behavior, none at all!” He threw down his napkin and lunged to his feet. “I will
not sit here and suffer hearing them maligned!”

He felt Sir Geoffrey’s eyes on him,
scrutinizing him, his old mouth beginning to curve in an approving smile.

“Sit down, Captain Lord. And the
rest of you, hold your damned tongues. I daresay none of you would’ve fared any
better. Regardless of Bold Marauder’s reputation, I have nothing but
respect for a captain who will defend his crew even when he knows that some
improvement could stand to be had. You have my admiration, Captain, for all
that you have accomplished with them in such a short time. For the most part,
your ship made a fine showing upon entering the harbor today.”

“So did the girl in the maintop,”
Cutler said, sniggering.

“I said, enough!” Sir
Geoffrey said sharply, unwilling to see one of his officers embarrassed, no
matter how displeased he was over the incident with Dolores. He leaned forward
to adjust the pillow behind his back. “I called you together to share a meal,
and to allow you and Captain Lord the opportunity to acquaint yourselves with each
other. With tension mounting by the day between our forces and the rebels, we
must work together. Dissent will get us nowhere.”

The admiral leaned back in his
chair. “As you all know, Lord Dartmouth has sent orders to General Gage, the
governor here in Boston, to arrest the rebel leaders of this so-called Massachusetts
Provincial Congress. These men—Adams, Hancock, and the physician, Dr. Warren—have
no respect for the king’s authority, and will stop at nothing in their quest to
seed dissent and rebellion amongst the general populace. They have just
commemorated that unfortunate event they call the Boston Massacre in a way that
nearly set off a war in itself, but that just goes to show the nature of these
upstarts with whom we are dealing. They grow bolder by the day, heedless of the
fact that the town is filled with our troops and supported by our ships here in
the harbor. Now, reports are coming in that they are gathering arms and
ammunition and secreting them in the countryside.” He paused, and let his hard,
penetrating stare rake each of them in turn. “Tell me, gentlemen, just who
do you think they’re preparing to use these arms against?”

Christian said nothing, his
shoulder, throbbing more and more the longer he sat, forgotten. He had known,
of course, that matters on this side of the Atlantic were bad, but he had not
known that the people here were actually taking up arms against the king’s
forces . . .

The meal wore on, the situation in Boston
was further discussed, toasts to king and country were drunk, and eventually,
the admiral, his tired old face showing the strain of the day, dismissed them
to go back to their ships.

Christian rose to his feet.

“A moment, please, Captain Lord.”

He paused, absently massaging his
wound and waiting until the others were out of earshot. “Thank you, sir, for
defending my people’s honor. It is most appreciated.”

“Nonsense. From what I’ve observed,
you’ve shaped them into a fine and respectable crew. Sir Elliott advised me in
his missives about the exact nature of what you were taking on when he assigned
you to Bold Marauder, you know.” The admiral allowed a hint of a smile.
“Not that I had not already known. But make no mistake. While I defended you
before your peers tonight—who, I might add, are merely envious of your
accomplishments—I remain most distressed about the debacle with that
Foley woman and so, I’m afraid, is General Gage. However, even the most
embarrassing incidents are capable of bearing fruit. As this one did.”

“Sir?”

“Please have a seat, Captain. I did
not detain you for additional rebuke, but to discuss the Navy’s mission for
you.”

“The Irish Pirate,” Christian said,
smiling wryly. “My apologies, sir. Had I known that sloop was his, I can assure
you—”

“Never mind that, Captain. We will
catch the rogue—or, shall I say, you will catch him.” He leaned forward
and poured them each another glass of port, the lights of Boston twinkling in
the darkness beyond the great stern windows behind him. “Things have grown
tense here over the past several months. Last year’s Port Act—which, as you
know, was intended to punish Boston for that wretched Tea Party incident—met
with anger and rebellion, and while meant to starve and choke the town into
submission, all it did was unify and strengthen the rebels.”

Christian took a sip of his port.

“This, and other punitive actions meant
to clip the wings of Massachusetts’s self-government, have only made the rebels
even more defiant. General Gage, between you and me, is ineffective. He draws
up declarations and refuses to enforce them, pretending ignorance while the
bumpkins blatantly defy them right under his nose. We have warships in the
harbor, thousands of troops in and around Boston, and London standing on her
tiptoes watching the whole damned mess, yet he is loath to enforce his own decrees.
As a result, the rebels grow more and more bold.” Sir Geoffrey gave a weary
sigh. “Their Dr. Warren drew up a set of resolutions declaring that there was
no need to obey the Port Act, and implored the people to prepare themselves for
a war against England. Last fall, they sent representatives to Philadelphia to
partake in a colony-wide assembly of rebels calling themselves the Continental
Congress, and have since proceeded to downright steal money from the
royal collections to fund their treasonous schemes. Altercations break out
between our troops and the populace. Things are so damned tense, ’twill only
take a spark to blow everything to kingdom come.”

“I had not realized the situation
has deteriorated to such an extent,” Christian said quietly. He looked down at
his glass. Suddenly, its contents looked like blood to him.

“I believe war is imminent,” Sir
Geoffrey continued. “The rebels have established Committees of Safety to
oversee a new militia, a motley rabble calling themselves minutemen, so named
because they are ready to muster, march, and move at a minute’s notice.” The
admiral made a disgusted noise. “Can you imagine? Bumpkins—farmers, ordinary
citizens, merchants—taking up arms against the finest army in the world.” He
shook his head. “They haven’t a bloody chance.”

Christian looked down at his port
again and, suddenly unable to drink it, slid the glass away from him.

“In any case, Captain, as I
mentioned earlier, I was most intrigued to learn the name of this woman you
took aboard as a passenger. Dolores Ann Foley LeBrun—it appears she has dropped
her married name following the death of her French husband—is the daughter of
one Jared Foley, a printer who lives in the western part of Cambridge, in the
village of Menotomy. He claims to be loyal to king and Crown, but recent
intelligence reveals a suspicious amount of activity to and from the
Foley home at all hours of the day and night. Activity that is highly suspect
for a man purported to be a Loyalist.”

“Are you saying that Foley is a
rebel?”

“I’m saying we suspect he’s
a rebel. He is most assuredly a printer, Captain, and as such, is  in a
position to print and distribute inflammatory broadsides.”

“I see.”

Sir Geoffrey took a sip of his
port. “The fact that Gage’s spies have seen Foley in company with Adams,
Hancock, and Warren is not, of course, the Navy’s concern. But I’ll tell you
what is,” he said, pausing and looking hard at Christian. “Foley has also been
seen with the Irish Pirate.”

Christian raised a brow. Suddenly
he remembered Delight, cornering him in the brig and bragging that she was
going to seduce and win the notorious smuggler for herself, and began to wonder
if there was more here than had initially met the eye . . .

“And just who is this so-called
Irish Pirate?” he asked.

“That’s the only name we know him
by. What difference does it make? He’s a rebel, and he must be stopped. Were he
a simple smuggler, I would not be so concerned with him, but the Americans are
secretly moving guns into the countryside, and they are obviously coming from
somewhere.”

“And you suspect that source is this
Irish Pirate?”

“One of the sources, certainly, and
a major one at that. Had the exchange not already been made, you undoubtedly
would have found the hold of your French corvette packed with crates of
muskets. So you see now why you must apprehend the scoundrel. Gage won’t move
against the rebel leaders, but the Irish Pirate is my responsibility, and
I am not content to sit back and watch a bloody war unfold. This rogue is
procuring arms from Philadelphia and Baltimore, smuggling them into ports north
of Boston, and passing them to the rebels who are, in turn, hiding them in the
countryside with the intent of using them against our forces. This, Captain
Lord, is why the Irish Pirate must be stopped.”

The admiral stood up and began to
pace. “There is no time to waste. Your mission is to apprehend this smuggler as
quickly and efficiently as possible, using every resource at your command. He
and Jared Foley run in the same circles, so it may be a matter of killing two
birds with one stone. You will call upon Miss O’Devir at the Foley home in
Menotomy.”

Christian stiffened. “Sir?”

“Since the Foleys claim to be
Loyalists, they cannot protest a respected officer of the king’s Navy calling
upon their daughter’s friend, now, can they? And speaking of Miss O’Devir—and
by the way, that was most gallant of you to deliver her to Captain Merrick,
though I am not so old or blind that your obvious affections for each
other have escaped me—’twould be most unseemly for her to remain upon a
man-of-war with one hundred and fifty tars. Especially,” he added, wagging a
paternal finger, “in light of how you and the girl share such affections.”
He chuckled. “Because she is kin to one of my finest officers, I will do all
that I can to preserve her reputation, as well as yours—which I daresay your
envious peers would take great delight in tarnishing. To that end—and because
she may be of use in reporting the activities of the Irish Pirate to us—I have
arranged for her to lodge with the Foleys.”

“But—”

“The matter is settled, Christian.”
The admiral drained his glass, then put it down on the table with an air of
dismissal. “Captain Merrick is escorting both young women to the Foley home as
we speak.”

Christian looked away to hide his
dismay.

“I know you don’t wish to be
separated from the girl, but it is necessary. I believe the Irish Pirate to be
a secret friend of Jared Foley, whose own activities are highly suspect. Your
courting of Miss O’Devir at the Foley household is the perfect foil for this
assignment, and will keep anyone from suspecting your true purpose for being in
the countryside, which is, of course, to gather information so we can apprehend
this smuggler. That is between you and me, and no one else.”

Christian took a deep breath, unconsciously
pressing his fingers to his throbbing shoulder. “Does Captain Merrick know of
this plan? And why was he, a frigate captain himself, not chosen to apprehend
the Irish Pirate? Surely he is more than capable.”

“Merrick is half Irish himself,
Captain, and as you know, the Irish are a clannish race. I would not send him
against one of his own. Though I have no doubt that he would do his duty, I
would not ask such a thing of him. In fact, I think it would be in everyone’s
best interest if I send him off to join the frigate Lively in patrolling
the coast.”

With that, the crotchety old
admiral got to his feet. Christian did the same, his heart heavy. Poor Deirdre.
He hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to her, or to properly thank her
for coming to his rescue this afternoon. And no doubt she was homesick, lonely,
frightened, and miserable . . .

The admiral walked with him toward
the door. “Take heart, old boy,” he said, clasping his shoulder and missing Christian’s
wince of pain. “’Twill not be forever. In fact, you might even begin calling on
Miss O’Devir tomorrow. Now, that’s something to look forward to, eh?”

“Indeed, sir.”

But at the door, the admiral gave
him a level, warning look. “Just . . . watch yourself, Captain, and keep your
nose clean in all of this. This assignment could be very dangerous. There are
those who would delight in shooting you down, and I would not have the career
of England’s future admiral jeopardized.” He gave a tight smile. “Do I make
myself clear?”

“Yes, sir. Very clear.”

“Very well then. Now please, if
you’ll excuse me? It has been a most trying day.”

Chapter 23

Deirdre hated Massachusetts from
the moment she stepped off the wharf, staggered, and nearly fell at the
unfamiliarity of solid earth beneath her feet.

It didn’t take her long to discover
that Boston was cold and ugly, the buildings as bleak and forbidding as the
faces of the people who inhabited them. Red-coated soldiers patrolled the
streets. Most of the shops were closed, some showing the effects of vandalism.
Hungry, mean-looking dogs ran in packs looking for a stray chicken or a heap of
garbage, their teeth flashing if one came too close. Drunken seamen were thick
along the waterfront; some, upon sighting Brendan, saluted respectfully. But
there was no such respect amongst the out-of-work townspeople who lounged idly
about, their expressions sullen and cold as they watched him help the two girls
into the carriage he had hired to take them out to the Foley home.

The countryside west of Boston was
just as bleak as the port town, and no friendlier. Treacherous ruts carved up
roads that were muddy and half frozen. The trees were still bare, their
branches gray and skeletal against the cold sky. The earth was carpeted with
dead grass that was not green, as it should be, but brown, and flattened to the
ground like a head of dirty, uncombed hair. Here and there, snow made a tired,
dingy crust upon a shaded slope, and fields divided by rambling walls of granite
boulders loomed on either side of the road.

With each mile that brought her
farther and farther from Christian, Deirdre’s heart sank. Blocking out
Delight’s chatter, and Brendan’s responsive laughter, she pressed her nose
against the window and blinked back tears of homesickness and despair.

“Christian,” she whispered
miserably, her gaze fixed on the distant hills. “Oh, why couldn’t I just have
stayed with ye? Why does yer admiral have to be so concerned with my reputation
when he doesn’t even know me?”

The admiral. He had invited, nay,
demanded that Christian dine with him aboard the flagship, and as Deirdre had
solemnly watched her lover changing into his best uniform and calling for his dress
sword, she’d had no idea they were to be separated. Her anticipation of
stripping off that dashing uniform upon his return had been hopelessly dashed
when, shortly after Christian had left, Brendan had arrived to take both her
and Delight out to the Foley home in Menotomy.

Deirdre had protested fiercely, but
her cousin had only apologized for having to follow orders that he admittedly agreed
with.

Finally, stormy-eyed and angry,
Deirdre had gathered up her few belongings, grabbed one of Christian’s shirts
so she’d have something of his to comfort her, and, joining Delight and
Brendan, departed the home she had known for the past month.

“Tell Christian where I am!” she
had said, desperately taking Ian’s hand just before she’d left the ship. ‘Tell
him the Old Fart’s sendin’ me away! Tell him to come rescue me as soon as he
can!”

“Aye, lassie. Now keep your chin up,
and hold tight. The Lord and Master’ll not abandon ye.”

No, surely he wouldn’t, she
thought, staring out at a hard blue sky that was strangely naked of cloud. It
looked nothing like the misty gray skies of home, reminding her again of how
far away her beloved Ireland was. But Ian was right. Christian would not
abandon her here. In her heart, she knew that as soon as he could get away, he
would come for her.

But as they traveled farther inland,
she couldn’t prevent the mounting despair and homesickness. The sky was not the
only feature of this bleak and barren land that was strange. In fact, nothing
was the way it should be. Back home, the trees would just be starting to
branch and bud. Back home, daffodils would be poking up through lush grass that
was so brilliant and green it hurt your eyes to look at it. Back home, the
weather would be raw and moist, not frigid, dry—and bitterly cold.

She glanced at her cousin for reassurance,
but he obviously didn’t notice the alarming differences between the two lands,
so caught up was he in responding to Delight’s subtle remarks and not-so-subtle
invitations.

Deirdre turned away to stare out
the window once more, her heart sinking with every mile.

“Here we are!” Delight cried as the
carriage drew up beside a squarish, two-story house painted a humble shade of
brown. “Now, Deirdre, you must remember not to call me Delight, especially
after all the pains I have taken to appear . . . presentable!” Laughing, she
indicated her modest blue dress, then yanked her shawl over her shoulders to
conceal the tempting swell of her bodice, which had been purposely bared for
the benefit of Brendan’s appreciative eyes. “And you, Captain Merrick, simply must
join us for supper! Mama will be most distressed if you do not, and”—she
trailed her fingernails down his sleeve and gazed invitingly up into his
eyes—“so will I.”

“Yes, Brendan, please stay,”
Deirdre pleaded, unwilling to be left with these people she didn’t know, distressed
about losing contact with her cousin, terrified about being abandoned in this
bleak and foreign land. She gripped his sleeve, her eyes desperate. “’Tis only
for supper—”

The door to the house opened and a
woman appeared on the threshold. Clad in brown-and-white calico, she had a
white apron around her ample waist and blond hair tucked severely beneath a
muslin cap.

“Dolores Ann!”

“Mama!”

Delight leapt out of the carriage,
raced across the lawn, and flung herself into the woman’s arms. There was much
hugging and weeping and cheek-pinching before Delight, dragging her mother back
across the muddy lawn, could make introductions. Brendan had already stepped
down from the carriage and now stood on the lawn, holding his fancy, gold-laced
hat. “Oh, Mama, I have brought guests!” Delight bubbled happily. “My friend is
in the carriage—she’s from Ireland—and our gallant escort here is her cousin,
Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, who was kind enough to accompany us from Boston to
ensure that no harm befell us. He’s in the king’s Navy, Mama!”

That last word—Navy—was
oddly stressed, almost as if in warning. Deirdre, still inside the carriage,
saw a fleeting look of alarm cross the woman’s face as she looked at Brendan in
his handsome uniform; then she allowed him to take her hand and bow over it, a
gesture that soon wiped the uneasiness from her eyes and had her cheeks
flushing pink, for Brendan was uncommonly handsome and full of Irish charm.
“How do you do, madam,” he said, grinning warmly. And then, turning to hand
Deirdre down from the carriage,  “My cousin, Deirdre O’Devir.”

Mrs. Foley’s eyes widened as she
looked at Deirdre, taking in the seaman’s jacket that covered her shoulders,
the trousers that hid her long legs. Then she saw the misery in her eyes, and her
demeanor changed. With a sudden smile, she reached out and hugged Deirdre as
fiercely as she had her own daughter. “Oh, do come in, poor thing, you must be
absolutely frozen! A cup of chocolate will restore you in no time.”

“Thank ye, Mrs. Foley. I . . . I’m
sorry to be intrudin’ like this. I’d just as soon have stayed aboard the ship .
. .”

“My, you have the most delightful
brogue!” She put her hands on Deirdre’s shoulders and stood back, admiring her
and pretending she didn’t notice the tears welling up in Deirdre’s eyes. “Why,
just listen to her talk, Dolores Ann! And, good heavens, don’t speak such
nonsense; you’re not intruding at all. Any friend of Dolores’s is a friend of
ours. Besides, we were expecting you; the admiral in Boston sent word ahead
that my daughter had arrived and was bringing a friend. Come, come, my dear,
let’s get you out of those atrocious clothes and into something a bit more
ladylike. And you, Captain Merrick, do come in and join us for supper!”

“Faith, that’s kind of you, madam,
but I really couldn’t—”

“I insist! Jared is at the shop
right now, but he’ll be home shortly. Meanwhile, you must come in and
tell us what our gallant Navy is doing to protect us from these horrible
rebels.”

“Yes, Captain Merrick, you simply must!’’
Delight echoed, eyeing him appreciatively, suggestively, hungrily, from behind
her mother’s back.

No man could resist such an
invitation, not even a king’s officer. And so it was that Brendan found himself
ushered into the Foleys’ house, a pale and wan Deirdre trailing in his shadow.

###

It was hours later and Deirdre,
seated morosely beside Brendan and listening to the effusive Delight babble on,
was as miserable, lonely, and homesick as Christian had feared she would be.

Outside, the night pressed against
the windows, and the fire in the hearth did little to dispel the sense of
loneliness that pervaded her very soul. Wind moaned under the eaves, made the
flames waver and jump in the grating. Home had never seemed so far away. Christian
had never seemed so far away. It was almost as if both belonged to another
time, another place.

“Deirdre? Are you all right, lass?”

She glanced up at her cousin, whose
mirthful eyes were dark with worry. “Aye, Brendan. Just . . . just a wee bit
homesick, ’tis all.”

She looked down, her heart raw and
aching.

“Why, I’ll bet you’re just missing
your handsome Lord and Master,” Delight chirped, shooting Brendan a bold glance
from beneath her lashes. The look went unnoticed by her mother, who had gone to
the hearth to ladle more stew from the pot, and her father, who had been subtly
studying the naval officer all during supper.

Brendan laughed, ever his cheerful
self. “No, she misses Ireland,” he said, noting the canvas bag in her lap.
“Don’t you, Deirdre?”

“Oh, let the poor girl alone, you
two!” Mrs. Foley scolded with mock sharpness. She plunked a steaming bowl of
beef stew down and reclaimed her seat. “She’s been across an ocean, traveled
all day, and is probably tired to the bone. No wonder she’s feeling poorly!”

Poorly was not the word for
it, Deirdre thought, picking up her spoon and trying to pretend she had an
appetite. And both of them were right—she missed Christian as much as she
missed Ireland.

She took a deep breath and took a
spoonful of the stew. It tasted as it should, but the yellow, coarse bread that
accompanied it was dry and tasteless. She stared down at it, hating it as much
as she did everything else in this awful place.

Beside her, Brendan reached down
and squeezed her hand. She looked up and saw a reassuring twinkle in his russet
eyes, a mirthful grin on his lips. Imitating her dejected look, he gave her a
black scowl, turning down the corners of his mouth and lowering his eyebrows
until she couldn’t help but smile. But her response was short-lived, and as
soon as he turned back to his meal—and Delight—Deirdre was again staring down
at her lap, her eyes on her bag of Irish mementos.

Oh, Christian, she thought. If
only I was with ye right now, safely wrapped in yer strong arms and snuggled
against yer big, warm chest . . .

She poked at her stew, making
herself take a few bites so she wouldn’t appear rude. Outside, it was awfully
black, the darkness thick and alien and hostile. The wind shook a loose pane
against a casing, and a cold draft whispered across the wide-boarded floor and
curled around her ankles.

American stew. American darkness.
American wind.

American cold.

Her hand tightened around the bag
in her lap, and she took a deep, steadying breath.

I want to go home.

She was able to keep her composure throughout
the meal, knowing that the time would soon come when she could be alone, free
to feel the misery of her heart without having to put on a brave face. Beside
her, Brendan was already beginning to fidget, and she knew that soon he would
leave, abandoning her in this foreign, unfriendly land with a family who ate
strange food and talked with a strange accent.

“You all right, Deirdre?” Delight
asked gently.

Deirdre nodded quickly, too
quickly, and tried to smile. Delight’s father glanced at her. No doubt he was
angry that he had another mouth to feed. He had barely said two words to her
all night, instead watching Brendan and her with a look in his shrewd blue eyes
that did nothing to make her feel welcome.

Talk went on, with the elder Foleys
idly inquiring what the Navy was doing to quell smuggling, and Brendan giving
bland answers that disclosed nothing. And all too soon, the steam stopped
rising from the stew, the flames began to die in the hearth, and Deirdre caught
her cousin glancing repeatedly at the shelf clock standing on a nearby table. Raw
loneliness filled her, and she felt a momentary stab of panic.

Don't go, Brendan, she
thought desperately. Oh, please, don’t go and leave me here all by myself . .
.

But the dreaded moment finally
came. Brendan gave a great sigh, complimented Mrs. Foley on the meal, accepted
a chunk of cornbread carefully wrapped in linen for the “trip back,” and picked
up his black, gold-laced hat.

Deirdre followed him outside. “Oh,
Brendan, I wish ye wouldn’t leave me here,” she said forlornly. “I can’t bear
it, truly, I can’t.”

“Faith, Deirdre, such carrying-on!
’Tis not the end of the world, you know!”

“This place is awful. Everything’s
different, no one is friendly, and I just want to go home. In fact, the sooner
you and Christian can find Roddy—”

“Yes, Roddy.” Her cousin reached
down and gently grasped her upper arms, his eyes, for once, serious and dark in
the pale starlight as he gazed down at her. “I know you told me on the ride out
here that you came to Boston to find me, so that I could help you find your
brother, but faith, Deirdre, that’s not going to be as easy as you may think.
He could be anywhere.” He sobered further. “Even dead.”

“I know that, Brendan. But I
promised Mama that I would find him and bring him home to Ireland so she could
rest in peace. I’ve got to at least try.”

“Yes, I suppose you must,” he said
resignedly. “Just don’t get your hopes up, Deidre. I’d hate to see you get your
heart broken.” He embraced her tightly, his arms closing around her shoulders. He
had grown taller, stronger, even more handsome since she’d seen him last, but
he was still the laughing, beloved cousin she remembered so well—and, he
carried the blood of Ireland in his veins, the brogue of Connaught in his
voice, the soul of Connemara in his heart.

Home.

She clung to him, unwilling to
relinquish him to the night, blinking back quiet tears of pain as their parting
grew closer by the moment. She did not want to be alone out here in this cold
and wretched place, with strangers. She did not want him to leave.

And she ached for Christian. Oh,
God help her, did she ache . . .

“Well, Brendan, if anyone can find
Roddy, ’tis you and Christian,” she said at last. “I have faith in the two of
ye.”

“Yes, and I’m sure that Captain
Lord will be here just as soon as he can get away. He’ll help you find your
brother, I’m certain of it.”

She stared at him. “Aren’t ye goin’
to help?”

He shook his head. “Sir Geoffrey is
sending me back to sea tomorrow, to cruise the north shore and make sure things
don’t get out of hand there.” He saw her stricken look and touched her cheek.
“But I won’t be gone forever, lass. When I come back, I  promise to help find
Roddy.”

“D’ye think he’s still alive,
Brendan? Do ye?”

A shadow passed over his face.
“Thirteen years is a long time, Deirdre.”

“He’s alive,” she declared, raising
her chin. “I feel it in my bones. We’ll find him, Brendan, ye just wait and
see. Christian already promised he would do everything in his power to get him
back for me. He feels responsible, as it was his press gang that took Roddy in
the first place, but I don’t hold him accountable for it anymore. He was just
doin’ his duty.” Fire flashed in her eyes. “Nay, Brendan, ’twas the Navy’s
fault, and it’s up to the Navy to return my brother to me!”

He looked down at her, his eyes
affectionate, his face beloved and dear. “Ah, lass, you certainly have the
determination of our Grace O’Malley in you, don’t you?” He smiled and walked
with her toward the waiting carriage. “And now I must go. Can’t keep the
admiral waiting, you know.”

On sudden impulse, she flung her
arms around his neck, clinging tightly to him. They embraced each other for a
long moment, she wearing her homesickness on her sleeve, he well used to this
strange land and uncharacteristically silent as he pondered all she had told
him over the course of the afternoon. Finally he stood back and with a
reassuring grin, reminded her that Christian was not so far away, and then
climbed swiftly up into the carriage.

Moments later, it was fading into
the night.

Deirdre stayed out on the
half-frozen lawn until the horse’s hoofbeats had faded and the carriage’s
lanterns had shrunk to mere sparks in the distance. At last they were gone
altogether, and she was alone.

Her shoulders drooped, and she took
a deep, shaky breath. Finally, she turned and trudged back into the house and
up the narrow wooden staircase to the room that Mrs. Foley had prepared for
her. Someone had brought her bag of Irish mementos up and placed it on the
little stand just inside the door. The bed was neatly turned down, waiting. She
retrieved her bag, pulled a thick, heavy quilt from the bed, wrapped it around
herself, and went to the window. After much tugging, she managed to get it
open. Cold night air swept in. She sat down on the bare floor and gazed out
into the night, imagining her beloved cousin traveling somewhere out there in
the darkness, away from her—and toward Boston, where everyone she now held dear
in this world, seemed to be.

“Oh, Christian,” she murmured, staring
out into the darkness. Before leaving the frigate, she he had taken one of his
shirts from his sea trunk and stuffed it into her bag; now, she pulled it out, pressed
it against her lips, and breathed deeply of his scent. The heartache that had
been building all evening grew unbearable. “Please, come and get me. Please,
oh, please, don’t let me rot out here.”

Stars twinkled above the treetops and
low-lying hills. Wood smoke lay heavily in the air and wafted through the
window on crisp, breezy puffs of cold wind. Just cross the road, the windows of
a tavern glowed orange in the darkness. Figures in silhouette moved back and
forth behind the panes.

Was Christian aching for her as
much as she was, for him? Had the elderly admiral forgiven him? Was his
shoulder causing him pain? What was he doing right now? She hugged the shirt to
herself, feeling the tears welling behind her eyelids, in the back of her
throat. In her lap was her precious bag of Irish mementos, and she touched it,
her fingers moving over the odd lumps and bumps and knowing each shape in the
darkness.

Far, far off in the distance, a dog
barked, the sound lonely and sad in the night.

How far away from her now was
Brendan? A mile? Two?

She reached into the bag and found
the soft clump of wool from an Irish sheep. That tiny connection with home—so
near, and yet so far—brought a piercing ache to her heart, and she bent her
head, burying her face against the canvas bag to try and hold back the tears.

Home. Where was it? In which
direction did it lie?

She looked up into the night sky.
Alarm spread through her when she could not find the North Star. Dear Lord,
were the stars that shone over this godforsaken place different from those that
stood over Ireland? Shivering with cold, Deirdre clutched the tuft of wool and
leaned far out the window, craning her neck and peering up at the peaked roof
of the dark house.

There. The North Star, beloved and
familiar, like an old friend. Choking relief swept over her, and she shut her
eyes in silent gratitude. Thank God. That, at least, was reassuring. She
leaned out the window once again, contorting her body at an unnatural angle so
that her face was turned homeward.

At that moment a gust of wind came
up, tearing the wool from her hand. She cried out and make a mad lunge toward
it, but the lonely white tuft drifted off into the darkness, dancing on the
wind, fading away until it was swallowed by the night.

Far away, the dog barked again.

Stricken, she pressed steepled
hands to her mouth as hot, salty tears finally began to course down her cheeks
and over her fingers. “Oh . . . oh, dear God, no . . .

Ireland.

Another piece of it gone.

She wrapped her arms around her
knees, bent her head, and, clutching Christian’s shirt to her heart, wept until
she could weep no more.

###

“Heavens, Deirdre, what was all
that bumping and thumping going on up there last night?” Delight asked at the
breakfast table the next morning. She stuffed a spoonful of strange yellow
pudding into her mouth and reached for the pitcher of tree sap—which, Deirdre
had been told, was called maple syrup. “I thought the house was going to come
down!”

Deirdre raised her head. She had
not found much rest last night, and she knew it showed in her face. Only when
she had made some adjustments to her bed, then fiercely hugged Christian’s
shirt in her arms and pretended she was hugging him, had she been able
to find sleep.

Mr. and Mrs. Foley were regarding
her curiously. Outside, sunshine was bright across the land, making the
low-lying hills in the near distance look as purple as the Twelve Bens back
home. Deirdre’s cheeks flamed, and sheepishly, she murmured, “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean to keep anyone awake. I was . . . movin’ the bed.”

“Moving the bed?”

She stared down at her hands, suddenly
embarrassed. “I wanted it to . . . to face Ireland.”

Even the stern and stoic Jared
Foley was hard pressed to keep his lips from twitching in amusement.

“Well, I never!” Mrs. Foley
exclaimed. “You have got to be the most homesick young lady I’ve ever known. You’ll
just have to meet our Irish friend soon. Perhaps that will make you feel
better.”

“Irish friend?” Deirdre asked,
suddenly brightening.

“A seafarer, just like your man,”
Delight said, her eyes glinting.

“What?” Mr. Foley asked, peering at
Deirdre from over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “You have a suitor?”

“Oh, he is most handsome,”
Delight said. “He masters a ship, is that not so, Deirdre?”

“Aye,” Deirdre said proudly.

Mr. Foley put down his fork. “Which
one?”

“His Majesty’s frigate Bold
Marauder. Christian is a king’s officer. A captain in the Royal Navy.”

“I see.” Mr. Foley  exchanged a
quick glance with his wife and, picking up his fork, cast his gaze back down
toward his plate.

“Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“No, Deirdre.” Mrs. Foley patted
her hand. “Not at all.” Again she glanced at her husband. “We should like to
meet him sometime. Wouldn’t we, Jared?”

“Aye,” he grunted, attacking his
hasty pudding.

Deirdre looked at them, wondering
what she had said to upset them. Certainly, the mood around the table seemed to
have suddenly changed. She glanced at Delight, hoping to find an answer, but
her friend was looking down, smiling, and picking a bit of shell from her eggs.

The sudden silence was
uncomfortable. Bending her head, Deirdre picked up her fork and, shunning the
strange hasty pudding, went for the more familiar eggs instead.

They weren’t from an Irish hen, but
at least they didn’t taste any different.

Perhaps there was hope here, after
all.

###

Despite Sir Geoffrey’s assurances,
and Christian’s desire to race off to Menotomy at the first chance he had, it
was two days before he could get away from his duties. Meetings with his
admiral and General Gage to discuss rebel movements, and the presentation of
his bold plan to net the Irish Pirate, kept him near his command. But by the
third morning, when he awoke bleary-eyed, lonely, and exhausted, he knew he
could delay no longer.

Tildy, leaving her growing puppies sleeping
in a pile, had climbed into bed with him, but though her presence was a small
comfort, no one could take the place of his beloved Deirdre. Every time he’d
rolled over and looked at the pillow, he imagined his Irish girl’s thick,
spiraling black curls spread over it, her innocent purple eyes gazing at him
with adoration. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her until he was forced
to sleep alone.

How had she fared through the
nights? The poor mite was probably homesick as hell, out there all by herself
in an unfamiliar countryside with people she didn’t know. Anger swept through
him at the unfortunate circumstances that had separated them. He rose from his
bed. There was no sense in allowing her to suffer any longer.

Mechanically, he went through the
motions of washing, shaving, dressing. He packed a bag with a few civilian
clothes, then chose his finest shirt, his dress coat, and his gold-tasseled
presentation sword. He made a handsome picture as he appeared on deck, and
could not have been more pleased with the smartness and ceremony with which his
men saw him over the side.

They stood by the hammock nettings,
watching his gig carry him across the sparkling harbor, threading its way
between the other anchored warships.

“Something’s troubling our Lord and
Master,” Hibbert said, as though no one else had noticed.

“Aye, he’s in a bad way. The Old
Fart must ha’e given him a good setting-down the other day,” Ian said, glaring
at the huge flagship that shimmered in her own reflection.

“It ain’t his fault none of
us knew Delight was up there,” Skunk muttered.

“Elwin says the Old Fart was so mad
he was spitting nails.”

“Should’ve let Delight work her
charms on him,” Teach growled, joining them. He held a flintlock
pistol in his hand, and was cocking the empty weapon, pulling the trigger,
cocking the weapon, pulling the trigger, his annoyance obvious and beginning to
become annoying in itself. “Might’ve done the Old Fart a world of good.”

“She tried,” Elwin said, scowling
at Teach, then picking at a callus on his finger. “But it was Deirdre, not
Delight, who got the old crust softened up enough that he finally quit raging
at our Lord and Master. Never saw anything like it. Had him eating out of her
hand, she did.”

Click, snap, click, snap,
went Teach’s pistol.

Wenham scratched at his great,
jutting ears. ‘Too bad that young Irish captain had to take Deirdre from us.
I’ll bet that’s what’s got our poor Lord and Master in such a sorry state,
having her stolen away from him like that.”

‘That young captain be her cousin, y’
know,” Ian said.

“Her cousin?”

“Aye. Ye can see some resemblance
around the mouth. Same smile.”

“Same way of talkin’, too.
Boglander brogue,” added Skunk.

Click. Snap. Click.

“Christ, would ye quit with that
noise? It’s irritatin’ as all hell!” Skunk snarled.

Teach merely grinned, and kept on
doing it.

Ian cleared his throat. “Well, I
think we need tae be cheering up our captain. What do ye all think of inviting
him tae the wardroom to dine with us tomorrow night? That way he won’t have tae
eat all by himself. Besides, ’twill show him how much we’re behind him,
no matter what the Old Fart says or does!”

“Aye, good idea, Ian!”

Rhodes melted out of the shadows
and seated himself upon the gunwales of one of the ship’s boats. His tone was
solemn. “When I accompanied him over to the flagship yesterday, one of the
lieutenants told me our captain isn’t well liked. The other commanders are
jealous of his record, envious of what he’s accomplished.” He swept them with
his black eyes. “They’ll not make things easy for him here.”

“Huh! Piss on them, I say!”
Skunk said, his eyes flashing. “Sufferin’ bastards, I hear any of ’em
sayin’ one bad word about our captain and I’ll skin the wrinkles from their
hides and stuff ’em down their bloody throats!”

“Aye!” they echoed in unison, their
eyes fierce, protective, and angry.

Teach raised his pistol and pointed
it at the huge flagship. Click. Snap. Click. “And that goes for that old
fart of an admiral, too!”

Chapter 24

Christian was not sorry to get away
from Boston for the day. The tense and explosive atmosphere of the town made
him uneasy, with red-coated troops spoiling for a fight, bored sailors lounging
along the wharves, and resentful colonists who’d been out of work since
Parliament’s Coercive Acts had deprived them of their jobs idling about. Now
the townspeople had nothing better to do than taunt the British troops, monitor
their every movement, and report back to the infamous Sons of Liberty, who were
behind this whole wretched mess.

Beneath him, his horse, a strapping
chestnut stallion he’d leased from a Welsh major eager to pay off a gambling
debt, sensed his anxiety and began to prance. Christian’s hands tightened on
the reins. If only Sir Geoffrey hadn’t discovered Deirdre aboard the frigate;
he’d give anything to have her safely behind the protection of Bold
Marauder's guns should the inevitable explosion between colonists and the
king’s forces occur.

And, of course, there was the
undeniable fact that he loved her . . .

Rico had barged into his cabin that
morning while Christian had been eating his breakfast. “Every man jack aboard
the frigate knows you’re pining for the Irish girl,” his friend had said as
Christian morosely toyed with his boiled egg and ship’s biscuit. “Why don’t you
just marry her and get on with life?”

“Marry her?”

Why not? It was a simple solution
to the loneliness that had plagued him for the past five years. He had lived in
hell for all that time, but now that he’d had a taste of heaven, thoughts of
even one more day alone were suddenly unbearable.

Deirdre. He loved her, yes, he knew
that now . . . and she, by her own word, loved him. He gazed ahead, through the
pricked ears of his mount, smiling as he pictured that beloved face, those spiraling
black curls, her sometimes stormy, sometimes childlike, but always loving
amethyst eyes that had haunted him for the past month.

Eyes that he knew now had haunted
him for the past thirteen years.

He shifted in the saddle, nudging
his horse into a trot and gritting his teeth against the sudden pain in his
shoulder. What would marriage to her be like? She’d already proved she could
adjust to life aboard a king’s warship; would she be happy as the wife of a
king’s officer?

And could he, a battle-scarred,
sometimes cynical king’s officer who’d seen far too much of the world, make her
happy? Was he good enough for her?

Holding the reins in one hand, he
reached down and checked to be sure the ring he’d put into his pocket this
morning was still there. Of purest gold, it was a lion’s body, its eyes
blood-red rubies, its mouth glinting with diamond chips, its tail the band that
would wrap itself around a delicate finger. The ring was exquisite, and as
ancient as the title that Christian’s ancestors had held for centuries. Upon
the death of their father, Elliott would inherit, but Elliott had ardently
professed that he would sooner fall victim to a cannonball than matrimony, and so
the ring had long ago fallen into Christian’s possession.

The fact that Elliott had
fallen victim to matrimony hadn’t changed things.

Christian still had the ring.

Deirdre O’Devir Lord. His heart
warmed as he tried out the name on his tongue, and he found himself smiling as
the horse, skirting the occasional puddle, carried him closer and closer to
Menotomy. Yes, he liked the sound of that name. Liked it very much.

Deirdre O’ Devir Lord . . .

He wanted her as his wife.

But would she have him?

He was, after all, an Englishman,
and not just any Englishman, but the one she’d spent the past thirteen years of
her life hating. And despite having made inquiries amongst some of the other naval
officers and their men, he was no closer now to fulfilling his promise to find
her brother than he had been last week, no closer to righting the dreadful
wrong that he—and England—had done to her and her family all those years ago.

By God, he would right it.
He would find her brother if it was the last thing he did, and reunite
the family that he, in the king’s name, had torn apart.

So caught up was he in his musings
that before he knew it, he was crossing a bridge over the Mystic River Brook,
passing beneath the branches of two old elm trees that guarded the little
village of Menotomy, and entering the settlement itself. He looked about with a
critical and assessing eye for this was, after all, where Deirdre would have to
live until he made her his wife.

A typical New England town, it was
tiny and picturesque. Stone walls and fences bordered the road. Fields strewn
with a haphazard scattering of granite, sheep, and cows rolled away into the
distance, melting into gentle hills of birch, pine, oak, elm, and maple. Yet
despite the mildness of the early spring morning, he sensed a tension in the
air.

He touched the inside of his elbow
to his sword hilt. The day seemed tranquil and serene, but he could feel unseen
eyes upon him, eyes that watched him with suspicion and no small degree of
hostility.

He slowed the horse to a walk,
passing the Black Horse Tavern and Spy Pond, where geese honked loudly and
shook the water out of their broad wings. From somewhere he heard the distant
sound of fife and drum, and wondered if even now the so-called minutemen were
mustering, preparing to practice their futile maneuvers.

The thought both saddened and
alarmed him.

The Menotomy minutemen, he’d been
told, were a new unit, led by a farmer named Benjamin Locke whose house lay
farther west along the Concord Road. Christian gazed at the peaceful fields and
the humble dwellings that spilled smoke from their chimneys. Why had things
come to this? Why couldn’t Englishmen live in harmony with one another? Why
couldn’t Parliament be more sympathetic to those who lived across the sea, and
all those in power back in England be more understanding about the concerns of
the colonists? God help the poor bumpkins if and when things came to blows
between them and the king’s forces.

They wouldn’t have a chance.

The haunting music was disturbing
and depressing. Christian urged his mount faster, wincing with each jolt to his
shoulder but preferring the sound of the beast’s hooves over that of fife and
drum. Mud splashed up and splattered the animal’s belly, its forelegs, and
Christian’s gleaming boots, but the horse shook its head, wanting more speed.
He tightened his hands on the reins, keeping the stallion’s pace contained. The
traffic was heavier here, the other travelers staring at him as he passed.
Seeing an open carriage with a pair of women in it, he touched his hat in
polite greeting. Their eyes raked him with disdain. A youth no older than
Hibbert glared at him with open hostility from behind a stone wall, and a group
of farmers, leading a milk cow, spat on the ground in open contempt. Disturbed
and feeling increasingly ill at ease, Christian continued on.

He passed another tavern, where
movement at the windows indicated his presence was not unobserved. By God, was
the whole village watching him? He wondered if people had seen him coming and
spread the news of his arrival long before his horse had even neared the place.
But then, perhaps they had reason to be suspicious. There was no reason for a naval
officer to be this far inland.

Ahead was an intersection, a store,
and a small, steepled church, beyond which lay a small graveyard, its headstones
bleak and forbidding even in the bright sunlight. He passed several more houses,
another tavern, and there, directly across the road, stood the simple brown
house that, according to Sir Geoffrey’s roughly drawn map, belonged to Jared
Foley.

At last.

He pulled his horse to a halt,
content just to sit for a minute in the sunshine and gaze upon the girl who
stood at a well in the front yard, toiling with a rope and what must have been
a rather heavy bucket at its end. Instantly, he forgot his throbbing shoulder.
Her bent back was toward him, her bottom outlined in a plain skirt of green
linsey-woolsey, her muslin petticoats barely clear of the squishy mud in which
she stood. Her hair, black as pitch and caught in a loose braid, followed the curve
of her spine and brushed her hips. He saw her shoulders working as she wrestled
with the heavy rope.

Vaulting from the saddle with an
ease that was rare amongst mariners, Christian strode quietly across the lawn,
his boots squishing in damp turf. But she didn’t hear him. He came up behind
her, grasped the rope, and began to pull, his strength making quick work of the
task.

“Need some help?”

“Christian!”

She flung herself against him, squealing
with surprise and delight and burying herself against his coat. His arms closed
around her, and for a long moment he could only hold her, burying his face in
her hair while a fierce sense of love and protectiveness welled up in his
chest. His heart constricted, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think.
But it was a good feeling. It was an even better one to see how happy his
appearance had made her. How different she was, in every way, from how Emily
had been.

Closing his eyes, he held her
close, wishing with all his heart he could take her back to Bold Marauder
with him. Tonight. Now. Forever. She smelled of road dust and spring sunshine,
clean wind and freshly baked bread. She was soft and warm, utterly feminine,
totally guileless. He liked that. He liked the feel of her in his arms. He
liked everything about her.

By God, there was nothing he didn’t
like.

“Oh, Christian, ye don’t know how
lonely I’ve been without ye! I hate it here, I do! The birds are different, the
animals are different, the people are cold and unfriendly, and they talk funny,
act funny. The air is cold, the grass is brown. Thank God ye came to take me
back t’ the ship, because I’ll surely die if I have to stay here another day!”

“Deirdre, I did not come here to
take you back to Bold Marauder.” He took a deep breath and looked down
into her eyes. “I came here to ask you to—”

The front door of the house banged
open. “Deirdre?”

A girl stood there, clad in a blue
woolen gown and a cloak of linsey-woolsey. She had blond hair, not bleached and
silvery like his own, but rich and tawny and yellow, worn severely braided and
entwined around her head. Her face was plain, fresh, and unpainted; her eyes,
smiling and knowing.

The eyes, bold and brimming with
raw prurience, were what gave her away.

“Delight?” he gasped,
shocked.

She picked up her skirts and
hurried across the lawn, her finger laid across full lips that had been, at his
last sight of her, red and painted. “Don’t call me that in front of my
mother—she’ll have my hide!” Nervously, she glanced back toward the house.
“It’s Dolores Ann!”

Stunned, he peeled Deirdre off his
chest just as the woman in question appeared on the threshold.

If Christian had any doubts as to
where the Foleys’ true loyalties lay, they were instantly abolished by the
woman’s reaction to the presence of a king’s officer on her front lawn. Her
face drained of color. Her eyes went wide, and a wet dishcloth fell from her hands
and splashed into a mud puddle at her feet.

Just as quickly, she regained her
composure and stepped forward, only her darting eyes and high, jittery voice
betraying her nervousness. “Why, sir, ’tis not often we receive naval visitors
out here in Menotomy! First Captain Merrick, now you . . .  I assume you must
be, uh, Deirdre’s suitor?”

Stepping forward, Christian tucked
his hat under his elbow and bowed gallantly over the woman’s hand. It was, he
noticed, trembling. “Captain Lord, at your service.” He straightened up.
“Forgive me for not sending word ahead, but I was desperate to see Miss O’
Devir. And, of course, pay my respects to your lovely daughter and her family,
from whose hospitality my dear Deirdre has obviously benefited.” He regarded
the woman, his gray eyes steady and keen. “Given the hostility my presence
seems to have elicited from your neighbors, I can only thank God that my
beloved has found sanctuary with a family that is loyal to king and Crown. I
hope I have not come at an inconvenient time?”

“Oh—oh, no, n-not at all!” Mrs.
Foley said too quickly, her skittish manner as condemning as if she’d blatantly
admitted that she and her family were anything but loyal. “Why don’t you
come in for some refreshment? A cup of chocolate, perhaps?”

“I would enjoy that, madam. And if
I may allow my horse a drink of water before I join you?”

“Yes, yes, please do! You may tie
him up there, beside the watering trough. Dolores Ann? Please stop gaping and
come with me—now!”

Christian smiled wryly. It was all
too obvious that the woman had no desire this side of Hades to have him there,
but to be anything less than hospitable, especially toward a decorated and
respected officer of the king’s Navy, would certainly cast suspicion on the
Foley name.

Had she been this skittish around Brendan?
He wished he’d had the chance to speak to the other frigate captain before Sir
Geoffrey had sent him back off to sea.

He watched Delight’s mother hurry back
to the house. In typical New England fashion, the structure faced south, its
roof steep and sloping to rid itself of winter snows, its big chimney set
squarely in the center. Five windows reflected the sunshine from the top floor;
four more, with a door between them, looked out from the bottom. A barn stood a
short distance away from the house, ringed by a fence containing two horses
sleeping in the early spring sun.

“I see you’ve got yourself a steed,
Captain Lord.” Delight’s gaze roved over the stallion, whose coat, glinting in
the sunlight, was the color of rich cherry. She quirked a brow. “But then,
there are many activities besides riding that one can do upon a horse,
no?”

Christian started to deliver a
sarcastic comment, but just then the door banged open. “Dolores Ann! You come
in here this instant!”

Delight sighed and rolled her eyes.
"Oh, I really do wish I’d stayed in France sometimes. You’d think I
was still a blushing miss of seventeen, the way they’re both treating me.”
Still muttering, she sauntered off across the lawn, hips rolling. As she
reached the door, Mrs. Foley yanked her inside. The woman’s mouth was moving,
her hands gesturing angrily, and Christian wished he could hear what the
agitated woman was saying to her daughter. Feigning indifference to them, he
looked at Deirdre as she caught his sleeve.

“Oh, Christian, I’m so happy to see
ye. I’m so lonely, and missed ye so much last night, I thought my poor heart
would break!”

She looked up at him, smiling. Her
fingers rested against his lapels; her slim, lithe body pressed against his.
Her heart was in her eyes, brimming with love and joy, and again he felt his
chest swell and threaten to burst. She was his. She had given herself to
him and, in her innocence, had made him a man once more, in all senses of the
word.

And soon, she would be his in name
as well as in heart. He couldn’t wait to give her the ring, couldn’t wait to
see her reaction.

By God, I love her.

Knowing that Mrs. Foley was
probably observing them from her window, he gently pried Deirdre’s hands from
his lapels. “Come, dearest. Let us go in and behave ourselves for a bit, shall
we?”

“Oh, Christian. Please don’t ask me
to be behavin’ myself for too long. I want to be alone with ye and show ye how
much I’ve been missin’ ye!”

His loins tightened in instant
response. As she took his hand and led him to the house, he wondered how he had
ever thought he might be impotent. “Well, then,” he said, smiling down at her
walking beside him, “perhaps you can borrow a horse from the Foleys and we can
go, er, riding afterward?”

“Oh, Christian, can we?”

It would be the perfect time to ask
her to be his wife. His heart fluttered in excitement, but he managed to
maintain his composed demeanor. “Aye,” he said, tipping her chin up and gazing
into her wide purple eyes. “Now let us go and be sociable.”

But as they entered the house
Deirdre, with Delight trailing in her wake, fled up the stairs with an excuse
about having to change her clothes, and Christian was left standing all alone
just inside the door.

He looked around, his hat in his
hands. The house was small, plain, lived-in. He walked into the main living
area, which appeared to double as a kitchen, feigning casual interest while his
keen gaze searched for anything that would further boost suspicions that the
Foleys were anything but Loyalists. But there was nothing incriminating. The
house smelled of herbs, cooking, and years of fires burned on the huge hearth
that dominated the room in which he stood. They were strange smells to his
mariner’s nose, just as the room itself, a palace compared with the size of his
cabin aboard Bold Marauder, was strange to his seafarer’s eyes. Wide-boarded
floors were scuffed smooth by years of shoes. The massive, soot-blackened hearth
was framed by cooking utensils of various sizes, shapes, and forms. He smelled
baking bread, peered into a stewpot and saw a pudding boiling in a cloth. Herbs
hung from overhead rafters, and a set of chairs surrounded a rough-hewn table
spread with clean linens.

He looked at the chairs. In which
one had his Deirdre taken her supper? Sat and talked to her hosts? Pined inside
with homesickness?

By God and all that was holy, she
would not be out here for long. As soon as he gathered the evidence Sir
Geoffrey needed to brand the Foleys as rebels of the Crown, as soon as he
himself found and chased down the Irish Pirate—who was, as Sir Geoffrey had put
it, “putting weapons in the hands of babes”—he would marry her and get her out
of here.

That day couldn’t arrive soon
enough.

Mrs. Foley came bustling around the
corner, absently patting her hair, her lips drawn tight, an anxious frown
creasing her brow. Her hand flew to her chest at the sight of him.

“Oh! I hadn’t realized you’d
already come in—”

“My apologies, madam. I did not
mean to startle you.”

She hastily indicated a chair. “No
matter, Captain. As you know, things are so tense I suppose we are all in a
state of agitation, what with those awful rebels whipping up the countryside as
they are!” She turned away, unable to meet his eyes, and quickly changed the
subject. “Dolores Ann tells me you took extraordinarily good care of her during
the passage, and that your crew was most obliging to her every need.”

Christian swallowed the wrong way,
coughed, and out of the corner of his eye caught Delight’s amused gaze as she
entered the room in time to hear her mother’s comment. “They were, uh, quite
attentive,” he said slowly, grabbing the cup of hot, steaming chocolate that
was set before him.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mrs. Foley
said. “Of course, one can never be too safe nowadays, what with such riffraff
as that awful Irish Pirate terrorizing the seas! Why, I’m told that he struck
again just last week . . . engaged himself in battle with an English frigate!”

Christian nearly scalded his throat
at the woman’s reckless taunt. He set the hot chocolate down. “Battle? There
was no battle, madam. The English frigate in question was under my
command, and any damage she sustained was dealt by a Frenchman, not an
overgrown brat playing at being a smuggler.”

His remark, carefully delivered
with just the right amount of anger and righteous British indignation, had the
desired effect. He saw his hostess’s eyes gleam before she quickly set a slice
of pork pie before him. “Is that so, Captain? I don’t think the Irish—I mean,
the scoundrel—is ‘playing.’ In fact, I hear he’s become quite successful at his
game.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Christian said
mildly, carefully sipping his chocolate and pretending a blithe disregard for
the subject. “He didn’t have the courage to stay and fight. Not that it
matters. My admiral views him as a paltry inconvenience, and so do I. The Navy
has better things to be doing than chasing after vermin, and I certainly wasn’t
sent across three thousand miles of stormy North Atlantic for the sole purpose
of apprehending this nuisance who seems determined to get himself hanged.”

His hostess took the bait. “You
mean, you’ve been sent all the way from England just to catch the Irish
Pirate?”

“Ridiculous, is it not?” Christian
gave a benign, planned smile. “Of course, one cannot blame me for my lack of
interest in the assignment. I have far more important matters on my mind.”

“Such as?” she prompted, trying to
conceal her inquisitiveness.

Christian picked up his knife and
fork and cut a piece of the pie. He allowed a smile to touch his mouth. “Oh,
such as the pursuit of other, more . . . shall I say . . . romantic
interests.”

She stared at him.

“Really, Mrs. Foley,” he said,
smiling patiently. “After that display on your front lawn, is there any doubt
in your mind as to what brought me to Menotomy? I have fallen in love with Deirdre
and wish to marry her at the earliest convenience. Have you never been in love,
madam? Do you not know, or remember, what it is like to be unable to think of
anything but the object of your affection?” That much, at least, was true. “My
beloved Deirdre consumes my attention, my dreams, my every waking moment. I
have little thought for this Irish Pirate, and even less care for what bit of
glory I might earn by catching him.”

Bit of glory indeed,
Christian thought to himself. He had been tasked with apprehending the
scoundrel, and he would do just that. But first and foremost, he had to gain
the Foleys’ trust—and fool them into thinking he did not take his assignment
seriously.

Apparently his plan was working;
his hostess had visibly relaxed, and it occurred to Christian that marrying
Deirdre, and thereby removing his excuse to visit the Foley household, would be
quite welcome in Mrs. Foley’s eyes indeed.

“Well, then,” the woman said brightly,
“I shall not detain you in your courtship of the girl. Personally, I think you
make a striking couple! In fact—”

At that moment, Deirdre came flying
down the stairs, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Ye like it, Christian?” She
made a quick, childish pirouette, the skirts of her new riding habit flying to
reveal shapely ankles. “’Tis Del—I mean, Dolores’s. She gave me some clothes to
wear till I can sew some of my own.”

Judging from the tailored fit of
the bodice, and given the superior size of Delight’s bosom, Deirdre had already
been at work with needle and thread.

“You are beautiful, my love.” His
eyes warmed. “I am undone.”

He was also growing impatient.
Pushing the plate of pie away, he drained the last of the hot chocolate and got
to his feet. “Mrs. Foley, may I have your permission to take Deirdre riding?”

“Yes, yes of course, Captain Lord.
In fact, take one of our horses for Deirdre. Oh, would that we could all be young
again, and in love . . .”

Christian nodded, took Deirdre’s
hand, and, bending to kiss it, led her from the house, secure in the knowledge that
Delight’s mother thought him nothing more than an arrogant and smitten fool who
had little interest in actually apprehending the Irish Pirate.

But as the Foley women stood on the
porch, watching the tall and handsome officer escort their houseguest across
the yard, Mrs. Foley was anything but calm. She waited until they were out of
earshot, then turned frantically on her daughter.

“I don’t like this one bit!” she
cried, wringing her hands. “That’s all we need, to have a king’s officer
sniffing around here!”

“Really, Mama, he’s a naval
captain,” Delight purred, forgetting to use her normal tone of voice and
earning a sharp glare from her mother. “And naval officers concern themselves
with the affairs of ships and sea, not with patriot gatherings such as those
that you and Papa have become involved in.”

“Still, the man makes me nervous!
He’s too polished. Too controlled. And those eyes . . . they discern too much!
He knows, Dolores Ann!” She gripped her daughter’s arms, her fingers
biting into the soft flesh, her eyes wide with fright. “He knows!”

“Pooh, Mama. He knows nothing. He’s
merely in love with Deirdre, that’s all.” Delight smoothed a lock of golden
hair and tucked it under her mobcap. “Why, if you’d seen the utterly scandalous
way those two behaved aboard ship, you’d know just what I’m talking
about.”

“Dolores Ann, everyone knows he was
sent here to apprehend the Irish Pirate!”

“And by his own admission you heard
how little the task means to him.” Delight laid a hand on her mother’s arm.
“Really, Mama, you worry too much. Captain Lord is a brave and steady man, and
he will do his duty, but he is not cunning and clever like our Irish Pirate.
Why, Roddy will run circles around him. In fact, he already has. Now come. Let
us go and see to supper, no?”

Taking her mother’s arm, she led
her into the house.

Chapter 25

They rode side by side, he gazing
hungrily at her trim form, she admiring the way the sunlight picked out the
gold in his hair where it lay caught in a queue between his broad shoulders. He
smiled over at her, his eyes dark beneath the shadow of his hat, and she felt
suddenly giddy with happiness. Despite the hostile looks some of the
townspeople were giving him, she was proud to be at his side.

They rode onward, gazing at each
other so much that it was left to the horses to choose their path. To Deirdre, America
suddenly did not seem so bleak. She had been too homesick to appreciate her
surroundings, but now, at the side of the man she loved, the sunlight looked
brighter, the chickadees and cardinals and jays more colorful, the water of a
nearby pond cobalt with brilliance, the scents of springtime—mud, melted frost,
running water, fresh air— sharper.

And trees? She had never seen so
many in her life, for the moors of Connemara were bleak and barren and empty of
such thick woods.

“Christian?”

“Aye, my love?”

She was looking at a V of geese
winging high overhead, their brash honking drifting down in waves of sound.
“D’ye ever miss England?”

He smiled gently. “All the time.”

“The same way I miss Ireland?”

“Perhaps. Though I confess I don’t
carry a bag of trinkets with me to remind me of it.”

She frowned. “Are ye teasin’ me?”

“Who, me?” His lips twitched. “I
simply find it a most charming trait, your sentimentality for home. But
someday, you will learn that home is not where you happen to be living at the
moment, or even where you hail from—but where your heart is. Home can be any
place, as long as the one you love is there with you.”

“If that’s true, Christian, then I
am home now.”

He urged his horse closer to hers
and reached out across the short distance to take her hand. “Was it hard for
you, being alone these past nights?”

“Aye,” she said, the misery of
those lonely hours nearly forgotten now that Christian was there with her. “But
I managed.”

“Oh?”

“I took yer shirt,” she admitted.
“It wasn’t much, but holding it in my arms, I felt as if I had a part o’ ye
there with me. And ye know what else I did, Christian?”

“Pray, do tell.”

“I sat at my window and figured out
by the stars just where Ireland is—then I moved my bed so I can fall asleep
every night with my face toward it.”

He laughed in high amusement and
leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Christian, d’ye think all the
Englishmen who are here—I mean, all the men in the ships, and all the men of
the general’s troops—want to go home, too?”

“I am sure they do.”

“I don’t know why anyone would want
to live here, Christian. The land is ugly. And everyone’s so cold and unfriendly.”

“The people are unhappy with England’s
policies right now, Deirdre. When things are resolved, and agreements reached
between the colonists and Britain, then you will find America a very beautiful
place.”

“’Tis nothin’ like Ireland,” she
declared huffily.

“No, it is not. It has its own
beauty.”

“I see nothin’ beautiful about it.
The birds look different, the animals look different, the people talk
different, and the grass is brown. Whoever heard of brown grass? In Ireland
right now, the grass’d be green and pretty!”

He slanted her a grin. “In Ireland
right now, it would be raining.”

She clamped her lips shut.

“And,” he pointed out with another
gently taunting smile, “New England gets heavy snow in the wintertime—unlike Ireland—which
is why the grass turns brown. But you wait. I daresay in two or three weeks, it
will be as green as it is at home.”

“Ye promise, Christian?”

There was such a look of childish
hope in her eyes that he was nearly undone. “I promise, Deirdre.”

She looked away, and they continued
for some time before she spoke again. “Christian?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Have ye been thinkin’ of yer other
promise? Yer vow to help me find my brother?”

“Aye, Deirdre, I’ve been thinking
of it. And so, apparently, has your cousin. I have not had opportunity to speak
with him directly, and will not for some time, as Sir Geoffrey has sent him out
to patrol the coast. However, he did send me a note, pledging to do all that he
can to help us.” Christian did not add that locating her brother would be akin
to finding a minnow in the Atlantic, for that would only crush her. “In the
meantime, I will do everything in my power to restore your brother to you, so
help me God.”

“If anyone can find him, you
can,” she declared, her eyes reverent and full of childish trust in what she
obviously considered to be his godlike abilities. He knew he could never live
up to her expectations of him, and swiftly changed the subject.

“Are the Foleys treating you well?”
he asked.

“Aye.”

“You are managing, then?”

“Aside from losin’ my wool the
first night, aye.”

He gave her a puzzled, sidelong
glance. “Losing your wool?”

“’Twas from Ireland,” she said
defensively. “It blew out the window when I was tryin’ to figure out in which
direction Ireland was.”

“I see.” He hid a private grin.

“But I still have my Irish air
left,” she said, her face very serious. She patted her horse’s neck. “And my
pebble and my sand and shells. And, of course, I still have my cross, which I can’t
lose because I never take it off.”

“Never?” he teased.

“Never!”

He laughed, his eyes glinting with
amusement as they left the village behind them. The horses plodded along, their
ears flicking back and forth, their hooves thudding dully against the road. In
the distance, purple hills rose against the horizon, and here and there a
farmhouse, spouting a tuft of smoke from its chimney, made a splash of color
against the landscape. Eventually they found a small path that led off the road
and down through the trees. The horses slowed, slipping a bit in the mud as
they descended, and Christian ducked beneath low-hanging branches. Deirdre was
right behind him, admiring the way his shoulders stretched the fabric of his
uniform coat.

So intent was she in studying him
that she almost allowed her horse to plow into his when he stopped.

He turned then, smiling, his eyes
dark with unspoken desire. “Do you find this spot as pretty as any in Ireland,
Deirdre?”

She looked around. A stream,
swelled with spring thaw and rain, tumbled over a bed of brightly colored
pebbles and wound away into the woods. Sunlight shone down through a stand of
evergreens, dappling a carpet of pine needles and dead leaves from the previous
autumn. High above, a bright blue sky shone through the trees, and here and
there large boulders of granite, their color that of Christian’s eyes, rose out
of the leaf-strewn forest floor.

Deirdre shut her eyes, listening to
the happy babble of the brook. “I think it might be,” she admitted slowly.

“Do you find it a place that is
suitable to . . . being alone with each other?”

“Oh, aye, Christian. I wouldn’t
care if I was sittin’ in a mud puddle, long’s I was with ye.”

He gave a wolfish smile, and swung
easily down from his saddle. Her eyes hungry, she watched as he tied his horse
to a nearby tree, loosening the girth so the big stallion could relax. She
started to dismount, but he was there, his hands fastening around her waist.
She gazed happily into his face. Since when had that face, this man, become so
dear, so beloved, to her? A shaft of sunlight slanted down through the trees,
falling over his gray irises and picking out a hint of green there. “Please,
love,” he said, smiling up into her eyes. “Allow me the pleasure.”

“Christian, ye don’t always have to
be playin’ the officer and gentleman, ye know.”

“I am not playing,” he said
seriously, plucking her from the saddle as though she weighed no more than the
tuft of wool she had lost. She fastened her arms behind his neck and gazed up
into his eyes, sighing with delight as he carried her to a sunlit spot a short
distance away. “And though I intend to stretch the limits of the word
‘gentleman,’ I shall always behave with your interests uppermost in my mind.”

With that, he set her down, took a
rolled blanket from behind the cantle of his saddle, and spread it out over the
ground. Somewhat shyly, Deirdre helped him straighten the corners and stood
looking up at him. Dear God, she had never thought an Englishman could be so
utterly, achingly, handsome. And she had never thought she could love someone
as much as she did him.

He took off his hat, hung it on a
nearby tree branch, and, removing his sword, came to stand beside her. She was suddenly
aware of the muscled strength of his thighs, the heat of his powerful body, his
fierce need for her and her alone. He reached out and cupped her chin in his
hands, his thumbs warm against her cheekbones as he gazed down into her eyes
for a long, intense moment. “Do you love me, Deirdre?”

She returned his stare
unblinkingly. “I love ye more than I love life itself, Christian.”

“Do you love me enough to become my
wife?”

He couldn’t have stunned her more
if he had grown a third arm. Her eyes widened, her jaw went slack, and her lips
moved several times before she could form the words. “Ye mean . . . ye want to .
. . to marry me? Ye mean I wasn’t just hopin’ against hope that ye’d ask?”

“You had hoped I would ask?”

“I prayed ye’d ask, Christian.
But I didn’t think ye would, you being English, and me bein’ Irish ’n’ all.”

“English, Irish, it makes no
difference. I love you. You love me. I’d marry you tomorrow if I could, so
eager am I to get you out of Menotomy and back with me—where you belong.”

“I know, Christian,” she said
gently, her hands coming up to touch the hard planes of his cheeks. “Brendan
already explained it to me, that Sir Geoffrey wouldn’t like it none if ye kept
a woman aboard yer ship who wasn’t yer wife. He told me it might look bad for
ye when it comes to promotin’ time. I don’t like to be away from ye, Christian,
but I understand now why I have to be.” She shrugged. “Besides, the Foleys are
treatin’ me well. I know I won’t be out here forever.”

“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, broadsides 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!”

Deirdre, her heart beginning to
pound with the feeling that she was about to stumble upon something that was
going to change her life, crept across the room and, reaching for her robe,
wrapped it around her. Slowly, she opened her door and slipped quietly down the
stairs, hearing the voices getting louder and louder.

“Your swagger will be the death of
you, man,” she heard Mr. Foley say sharply. “Captain Lord is no buffoon, but an
officer of unqualified skill and tenacity, highly respected by his admiral and
his king. No doubt he has drilled that bumbling crew into one as smart
as any in the king’s Navy—”

“You mean there are some in the
king’s Navy that are smart?” another, mocking voice joked.

“Very funny, Hancock,” Foley
snapped. “And you, my fine Irish friend—you’d do well to cover your tracks and
have a care about becoming too cocky.”

Deirdre, just outside the parlor in
which the men were speaking, flattened herself against the wall, her fists
clenched in anger. How dare they talk about Christian like that! And who was
this Irishman who boasted so recklessly, whose voice was so familiar, but whose
face she could not place?

“Really, Papa,” came a woman’s
voice, “you are as skittish as Mama. Our Irish Pirate will run circles around
Captain Lord. Why, there is no comparison between their skills, their
intelligence, the quality of their crews. Besides, as I told you, the good captain
is, shall I say, otherwise occupied of late—too much, in fact, to be
placing much attention on his task of apprehending the Irish Pirate . . .”

Deirdre’s eyes widened with shock. Delight!
And if her friend had just called the speaker “our” Irish Pirate, then was
the infamous smuggler, whose rich, melodic voice evoked vivid images of home, right
there in the very next room?

She stood frozen, hardly daring to
breathe. No wonder Delight’s restlessness during supper . . . the pains she’d
taken over her appearance earlier . . . the renewed interest in her manuals
and her continued glances at the small shelf clock on the mantel. Lord above, if
Delight was in love with a rebel, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that she
was a rebel, too?

Along with her whole family?

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Deirdre
whispered, suddenly terrified. It was all she could do not to flee the house
and run all the way back to Boston, to the protective safety of Christian’s
arms.

“I met Captain Lord some time ago,”
came another, steady voice, “and he did not strike me as a buffoon, but a
capable, clever, and unbending disciplinarian, entirely devoted to his king,
his duty, and his command. I would not pass him off so lightly, my friend. Your
English nemesis is not a man to be trifled with.”

“Pshaw,” the Irishman said with reckless
laughter, “if ye’d only seen that frigate o’ his takin’ a beatin’ beneath the
guns of a little French corvette, ye’d feel as I do! ‘Twas pitiful, I tell ye,
to see a fine ship like that so poorly fought and sailed! So quit yer worryin’,
eh? The lovely Dolores Ann here crossed the Atlantic aboard her. She knows her
captain better than any of ye! Tell ‘em, love! Would ye say the man is
single-minded and determined? Obsessed with bringin’ me down?”

“He is clever and tactical, but any
single-minded determination he possesses is not directed toward capturing you,
but winning the love of our guest. As long as he is so . . . occupied, I
do not think him to be a particular threat.”

“Regardless,” Foley said harshly,
“the man is well decorated, highly respected, and dangerous.”

Another voice, thoughtful and
educated, came through the ajar door. “You seem to have an active dislike of
Captain Lord, my friend. Mind that such personal animosity does not dull your
own keen edge and land you within range of his guns.”

“Aye, you do seem to harbor a ripe
hatred of the fellow!” came the jovial voice of the man called Hancock. “Why is
that?”

“As Dr. Warren just said, my
reasons are personal, and none o’ yer concern.” Oh, where had she heard that
voice? Deirdre shut her eyes, trying to place it, and wishing she dared to pry
open the door and have a peek at her countryman’s face. “But I tell you this.
I’ll not enjoy a better revenge than makin’ the king’s captain look like the
fool he is. He’ll not catch me, by Christ’s blood!”

“Enough, then.” came another voice,
hard with authority. “Let us get down to business. Our minutemen companies have
been drilling tirelessly, preparing for the worst. Captain Locke here has done
an exceptionally fine job with his Menotomy lads, but all the training in the
world is useless without more guns.” A chair creaked, and there was the splash
of liquid into a glass. “My merchant friend in Philadelphia is sending us two
hundred French muskets, which we can expect by week’s end. Since it’s too risky
to try and bring the shipment into any of our nearby harbors, my plan is to
have our Irish Pirate here meet the vessel off Marblehead under cover of
darkness. The transfer must be done quickly and efficiently. Not only is
Captain Bishop’s Lively patrolling these waters, but now, so is the
frigate Halcyon.”

This was getting worse by the
minute, Deirdre thought. And then she felt a high, itchy sensation in the back
of her nose. Dear God, don’t let me sneeze now! Panicking, she pinched
her nostrils shut.

“Child’s play,” the Irish Pirate
boasted.

Adams continued. “Waste no time in
pleasantries. Land the guns in Salem, where they will be met by the Sons of
Liberty. Our men will transfer them to wagons, cover them with hay and
vegetables, and send them directly to Concord.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Delight said.
“The British have stepped up their patrols.”

“I don’t like it, either,” said
Jared Foley. “You get caught in that sloop under the guns of one of those
frigates and it will be all over for you.”

The Irish Pirate’s laughter rang
out. “Bah, I’ll not get caught. There are scores of small fishing and trading
vessels all up and down the coast. Mine is not so different as to arouse any
suspicion.”

“And we could use those
muskets,” Hancock proclaimed. “I say let’s do it.”

“Are you up to it, my fine Irish
friend?”

“For the love o’ God, o’ course I
am!”

“Very well, then. The Philadelphia
ship is due to arrive on Saturday night. She will flash two lanterns at her
bow, three times in succession. Your signal of acknowledgment is to be the
same.”

“Should he learn of it, Gage will
move to stop us,” came the steady voice of the one who’d been addressed as Dr.
Warren. “You may be sure of it.”

Deirdre’s nose was burning, and she
felt the sneeze building. She stepped backward, wondering if she’d have time to
make it back upstairs before it hit. Involuntarily, she sucked in her breath—

“And when he does, we will be ready
for him, you may be sure!” A fist pounded against the table. “The time has come
to make a stand against tyranny, oppression, and the cruelties imposed upon us
by a dispassionate monarch grown fat on—”

At that moment, Deirdre sneezed.

It was not a small, feminine burst
of sound. It was a full-blown, silence-shattering roar that seemed to shake the
walls, the ceiling, the door that suddenly shot open to reveal a room of
shocked and staring faces.

In the space of a heartbeat she saw
them. Delight, sitting beside her parents and staring at Deirdre in horror;
several men, dressed in the decent clothes of merchants and the well-to-do,
some with powdered wigs, others with their hair worn natural and clubbed at the
nape; and, dominating the center of the room, a tall, forbidding man with a
wildly curling mane of black hair that lay loosely about his broad and muscled
shoulders. He had a rogue’s smile, purple eyes like her own, and a face of hard
planes and sharp angles.

A face whose memory thirteen years
could not dim.

The blood drained from Deirdre’s face.
She swayed and clutched at the door for support. The occupants of the room suddenly
reacted, some cursing, some blanching with fear, some looking to the one who
was obviously their leader—this Sam Adams—who stood, at a loss for words,
beside the black-haired Irishman.

“Oh, dear,” Delight murmured,
finding her voice.

And then Deirdre, frightened and
shivering in her nightshirt and robe, was dragged forcefully into the room.

She stood staring into the eyes of
the legendary sea smuggler. Her hands came up, purposely drawing out from
beneath the closure of her robe, the gleaming cross that had belonged to
another Irish pirate. She let it rest blatantly, proudly, at her bosom, seeing
the rebel smuggler’s eyes widen in horrified shock as recognition swept the color
from his ruddy cheeks.

There were no secrets left.

Christian, unwittingly, had
fulfilled his vow to her after all.

“Roddy?” she whispered, the faces
of everyone else in the room dropping away into nothingness, until there were
only those darkly fringed violet eyes looking down at her. “Is it really you?”

He stared at the cross, then up at her.

“Aye . . . ’tis me,” he murmured,
still in shock.

Foley leapt to his feet, white with
fear. “Tarnal hell, she knows your identity, man!”

But the Irish Pirate turned and
laid a hand on Foley’s arm. “Fear not that she’ll betray me to her fair-haired
Briton,” he said. He gazed down into Deirdre’s face, and reached out to touch
one long black curl.

“What do you mean, ‘fear not’?
You’re as good as dead!”

“Nay,” Roddy said quietly. “The
lass is me sister.”

###

Sitting cross-legged before the
window, Christian’s legs and feet had long since fallen asleep, but his mind
was alert, wide awake and sharp. He had not moved from his position since
sitting down, and the spyglass, trained with a marksman’s aim at that single
glowing square of light that was the Foleys’ parlor, had not wavered so much as
an inch over the past hour.

He had seen it all. The first
horse, its rider in a dark jacket, materializing out of the night and turning
into the Foleys’ yard; another, and still another, until it was clear that
Gage’s suspicions about the whereabouts of the rebel meeting were correct.

That these men were, indeed, the
rebel leaders, Christian had no doubt. He had viewed descriptions and drawings
provided by Sir Geoffrey and General Gage, and one or two of them he had even seen
on the streets of Boston—the outspoken Sam Adams, and the tall, handsome Dr.
Joseph Warren.

Adams’s face, at the moment, was
dead-center in the circular field of his spyglass.

Other faces came into view as the
rebels moved across the room. John Hancock, pompously dressed, wealthy, much
given to laughter. The silversmith Paul Revere, middle-aged and a bit overweight.
Jared Foley, with his ink-stained hands, and his daughter, Delight. Her eyes
had been following the black-haired rogue whose face Christian did not need to
scrutinize with his glass to recognize.

The Irish Pirate.

His hand tightened around the
spyglass. How he wished he could go over there and arrest the bloody lot of them.
But no. With the exception of the Irish Pirate, the rebel leaders were in
Gage’s hands. His task was to apprehend the seafaring smuggler—something he
could not do until he caught the blackhearted rascal at his game.

As for Jared Foley being a rebel,
Christian had all the proof he needed.

He lowered the glass, rubbed at his
aching eyes, and raised it once more. Suddenly, the breath caught in his
throat. A woman had come into the room. A slim, fair-skinned woman with a
spiral-curling mane of raven curls, a woman who, as he watched, flung herself
into the arms of the man he had been ordered to apprehend.

It was Deirdre.

The spyglass fell from his hand.
Shock tore through him and he could only stare, blinking, at that square of
golden light, seeing the small figures within through the daze of disbelief and
denial.

No.

She was embracing him. Standing
within his arms and laughing up at him.

Kissing his cheek.

Christian stumbled to his feet,
reeled against the wall, and nearly went down. His hand flashed out and grabbed
the bedpost, gripping it so hard his knuckles went white. This couldn’t be
happening. This wasn’t happening. He put the back of his hand to his
brow and found it cold and clammy.

But the effort of standing was too
much. He felt suddenly sick, and sat down heavily, numb with shock and
beginning to tremble.

No . . .

But the awful truth was right there
across the street. Unmistakable. Undeniable. He bent his head to his hands, his
shock giving way to logic, logic giving way to grief, grief giving way to
anger, anger giving way to blazing, white-hot fury.

She had betrayed him. She—his
little Irish girl—had betrayed him.

I love ye, Christian. His
chest convulsed in grief, and he took a deep, shaky breath as he tried to get
himself under control. God help me, I love ye.”

“I trusted you,” he bit out, his
fist slamming into the wall. Blood sprayed from his knuckles, but he never felt
the pain, for it was insignificant in the face of the crushing blow he’d just
been dealt. “Damn you, I trusted you, believed in you, loved you  .
. .” He stumbled back to the window, seeing the Foleys’ door open and spill a
rectangle of pale yellow light upon the barren lawn. “How could you? Oh,
Deirdre, how could you?”

People were moving out onto the
lawn as the meeting broke up. Riders were mounting their horses, and
disappearing into the night, until there were only two people still out there
in the darkened street.

Deirdre.

And the Irish Pirate.

Her lovely, traitorous face was pale
in the gloom as she turned it up toward that of her lover. He wanted to shut
his eyes but he couldn’t. He wanted to turn away but, sickened, found he could
do nothing except stare as Deirdre pulled something out of a bag he recognized
as the one containing her Irish mementoes, and pressed something into the
smuggler’s hands. Then, her arms came up to wrap themselves around the man’s neck.

Betrayed.

He heard snippets of her laughter.
Heard the smuggler’s deep voice, and again, Deirdre’s happy giggle. The sounds
drove another nail into the coffin that contained his dying heart, then
another, until everything inside of him went dead.

For him, there was nothing left. No
feeling, no pain, nothing. Just—emptiness.

He stood there watching them, until
at last the smuggler mounted his horse and with a flourish rode away. Deirdre
remained, all alone in the road, the wind blowing her dark tresses around her
shoulders, her face turned toward the east.

Toward where her lover had gone.

Christian put his head in his
hands. Now he knew the real reason Deirdre O’Devir had been aboard his ship,
and it wasn’t to find her long-lost brother. Pain filled him as he realized how
foolish he had been. She had only wanted free passage to America so she could
reunite with her Irish lover—and, no doubt, learn every secret of the Royal
Navy, and of Christian’s own mission, that she could pass on to him.

Mouth tight, he stood staring down
at the lone figure out in the road outside. ‘Two can play at your game, dear
girl,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “So help me God, you will rue this
day, and so will your bloody lover.”

Chapter 27

The decks of HMS Bold Marauder
were lonely and dark, with only a few lanterns hung in the shrouds to make a
stand against the fog that lay heavily over the harbor. A few idle seamen swilled
their grog and bemoaned the absence of Delight Foley. A marine stood leaning
against his musket, his eyes scanning the mists, his thoughts far away. Ian
MacDuff was the officer of the watch and, to relieve the boredom, had brought
out his bagpipes, much to the dismay of those who happened to be on deck with
him. For a short time the pipes had honked and croaked and moaned, until the
accompanying curses and protests from his shipmates had sent Ian storming off
in high Scottish rage.

Now, he stood sulkily beside Skunk
on the empty quarterdeck, seeking shelter beneath the dripping tarp that had
been rigged against the earlier, drenching rain. Lantern light caught the
glimmer of moisture as it trickled down masts and tarred lines, pooled upon
booms and yards, and made the decks slippery and treacherous. Skunk pulled his
cap down over his grimy forehead and wiped away the moisture with the back of
his hand. “Quiet night out there,” he muttered. “Hibbert says the Lord and
Master’s still up.”

Ian, shivering in the cold, damp
rain that began to leak from the black sky above, cast a quick glance aft. Sure
enough, a glow from the skylight confirmed Hibbert’s observation. “Aye, I’d
say he is.”

“Somethin’s up, Ian. He’s been
silent and keepin’ to himself since he got back from visitin’ the Irish lass.
Ye don’t think somethin’ happened between ’em, do ye?”

“I doona ken, Skunk. But ’tis right
you are about something being in the air. The Old Fart came aboard this
afternoon and he and the captain met in his cabin for over an hour. Evans was
eavesdroppin’ outside the door, and said that tomorrow night we’ll see action.”

“Action?”

“Well, I know I shouldnae be
tellin’ ye this, it probably being highly confidential and all, but we are
shipmates . . .”

Skunk swung around, his eyes eager.
“Aw, Ian, just tell me!”

The big Scotsman shrugged. “Well, Gage
has his own system of spies, sprinkled throughout Boston and the surrounding
countryside. Ye ken, in taverns, inns, pretending tae be friends of the rebels
. . .”

“Go on,” Skunk urged, glancing over
his shoulder even as Hibbert, his uniform dull and drooping in the mist, and
Teach, joined them.

“Aye, tell us, Ian!”

The Lord and Master would be
furious if he found out that Ian was divulging secrets, but peer pressure
overruled Ian’s misgivings. Besides, the crew had long since abandoned their
animosity toward the man who treated them with a respect and humanity not often
seen in the Royal Navy. They would stand by him, no matter what.

“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 now, 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.

###

“Easy with those crates there,
lads,” the Irish Pirate said, anxiously watching as the men, toiling in the
rain, struggled to load the heavy crates aboard the sloop as quickly as
possible. The transfer was happening swiftly, silently, competently, as it had
been done countless times before, as it would be done countless times again.
Boats, struggling in the swells, moved back and forth between the hove-to
merchantman and the little sloop, their crews cursing and damning the wind and
the rain. Above, the flapping topsail sent down a continued shower, and rigging
banged noisily in impatience. A single lantern, set in the shrouds a foot above
Roddy’s head, provided the only light, and now it shone harshly upon the dark,
bearded faces of men grown hard by living just beyond the reach of the law.

“One more trip and that’ll do it,
Cap’n,” said a seaman, grinning up through the darkness as his boat nudged
against the rocking hull. He reached up and caught the wet line one of his
mates tossed down, then hauled himself nimbly up the side.

“Good,” Roddy said, glancing
nervously out into the night. A feeling of doom weighed heavily in his bones,
and he would be happy when the exchange was done and he was safely back in
Menotomy. “Just hurry the bleedin’ hell up, would ye? ’Twill be dawn by the
time ye laggards’ve finished.”

His good humor spurred them into
even more haste, and a half hour later, the boats were back aboard, the
merchantman was slipping away into the mists, and the crates of guns were being
transferred to the hold.

Roddy wiped the rain from his face
with the back of his hand, envisioned Delight’s silky thighs spread beneath
him, and, accepting a hot mug of buttered rum, went aft to join his first mate
by the tiller. Already his spirits were on the rise, and he breathed a sigh of
relief as the staysail was backed, the sloop turned, and wind began to swell
the big mainsail. The mists were clearing, filing away out to sea as though
being towed by an invisible force, and he could see stars beginning to shine
dimly through the lingering vapors and sliding in and out of the fuzzy haze.

“’Twill be a fine mornin’, eh,
Stubs?” he said to the one-eyed, scar-faced thief who’d escaped debtors’ prison
only to find his fortune at sea.

“Aye, Cap’n. Stars are comin’ out.”

“In more ways than one, me lad, in
more ways than one!” Roddy said, thinking of the woman he had once known as
Dolores Ann and now knew as Delight. He grinned, his teeth flashing white in
the gloom.

“Should I douse the lantern,
Cap’n?” asked a seaman just coming up from below.

“Nay,” Roddy said with an impatient
wave of his hand. He gazed out into the darkness. More stars were crystallizing
through the fading mists now, growing sharper and brighter as the night
cleared. ‘There’s no one out here but us.”

“Adams is going to be singing our
praises for sure,” Stubs said, accepting a mug from a passing seaman. “Christ,
this is getting easier and easier. The Royal Navy just ain’t what it used to
be!”

“Well, with such incompetent dolts
as Captain Lord to head it, what d’ye expect? He’s probably out combin’ the
seas off Cape Cod, the fool!”

Several nearby seamen hooted with
laughter. Stubs slapped his thigh, and Roddy raised his mug in a mocking toast.

“To the Royal Navy and its ships o’
fools!”

“Aye! A pox on the whole bloody lot
of ’em!”

Harsh guffaws rolled out over the
decks. Pipes were passed. More rum was poured; some was spilled.

And aft, the stars began to go out
as a tall, dark shape rose menacingly out of the darkness behind them.

But no one saw the giant squares of
canvas blotting out the heavens.

No one heard the increasing roar of
water as the bows of a mighty frigate swallowed the little sloop’s wake.

And no one happened to look around
to notice.

“I’ll drink to that!” Roddy cried,
his eyes dancing. “A pox on England, a pox on its ships, and a pox on Captain
Christian Bloody Lord, whose inability to capture the dreaded Irish Pirate will
land him straight in the annals of history as the biggest fool the Royal Navy
ever bred!”

At that very moment, the night blew
apart in a deafening roar of thunder and flame as the Royal Navy’s finest—which
had been silently trailing its quarry for the last quarter hour—opened fire. In
one deadly salvo from her bow chasers, the mighty Bold Marauder smashed
the mast from the little sloop and left her staggering helplessly in the water.

In disbelief, Captain Roddy O’Devir
picked himself up from the deck where he’d been thrown, and watched as the
powerful frigate slid out of the darkness, her guns glinting in the starlight.
He saw men behind their big muzzles, waiting for their captain’s signal to
fire. He saw marines gathered along the rail, their muskets trained down upon his
shattered decks. And he heard the clipped voice of the English commander and
knew that he had just made the most grievous error of misjudgment in his career
as a mariner—an error that would probably cost him his life.

“This is His Majesty’s frigate Bold
Marauder! In the name of the king, heave to and prepare to receive
boarders! You are all under arrest!”

A grievous error indeed.

The voice belonged to that same fool
whom Roddy had just scorned, a man who, he realized with a sinking heart, had
turned out to be no fool at all.

Captain Lord.

Chapter 29

“Deirdre!” Delight’s voice,
shrill with panic, cleaved the darkness. “Deirdre, wake up! Oh, God, the Lord
and Master caught Roddy! He caught Roddy!”

Instantly awake, Deirdre sat up
just as Delight, crying bitterly, threw herself into her arms. Outside, dawn glowed
upon the horizon, and gray light filled the room. “Paul Revere just brought the
news, Deirdre! Your Englishman caught him after he made the trade, and saw the
whole thing. Roddy’ll hang for this, Deirdre! He’ll hang!”

Deirdre began to swing herself out
of bed, but Delight was hysterical. “Oh, Deirdre, you have to do something,
anything, everything in your power to get the Lord and Master to release
Roddy! There’s no one but you he’ll listen to, no one but you who can persuade
him to let Roddy go!” Her fingers bit into Deirdre’s shoulders. “The man loves
you, Deirdre! He’ll do anything you ask!”

Deirdre embraced the other girl, trying
to calm her. “Aye, Delight, he will. Now stop yer cryin’. Christian made me a
promise that he’d find my brother and return him to me to make up for
press-gangin’ him all those years ago.” She smiled, serene in the face of her
friend’s panic. “So see? ’Twill be no problem a’tall. I’ll just go to Boston, tell
Christian who Roddy is, and he’ll let him go.”

Deirdre crawled out from beneath
the covers and padded across the room to stand at the window. The floor was
cold beneath her bare feet, the dawn strikingly vibrant upon the eastern
horizon. Ah, Christian, she thought, hugging her arms to herself. There
was no reason to be upset, no reason to fear that he wouldn’t honor his word to
return Roddy to her. Thank God, actually, that it had been him and not some
other Royal Navy captain who had apprehended Roddy!

“Oh, Deirdre, how can ye be so
sure?” Delight wailed. “Captain Lord is a king’s officer! He values
nothing as much as duty, loyalty, and service. What if he won’t listen to you?”
She burst into wild sobs. “Oh, God, what if he won’t listen?”

Deirdre’s head came up, and she
touched the ring. “He is to marry me, Delight. He will listen.” She turned
confident eyes upon her friend. “I promise.”

###

The puppies whimpered in their box,
tiny white blobs of fur that crawled over each other and pushed against their
mother’s belly as they suckled greedily at her milk-swollen teats.

Christian sat backward in a chair
watching them, his chin resting upon his wrists, his wrists resting on the top
rung. His coat was slung carelessly over a neighboring chair, and his fancy,
gold-laced hat was hooked atop one of its posts. Stripped down to waistcoat,
shirt, and breeches, he gazed sightlessly at the puppies, trying to glean some
small sliver of joy from their antics.

To no avail.

He had been working on a report to
Sir Geoffrey all morning, and sheer exhaustion had forced him to take a break.
He had not slept in two days, and his body was crying for rest. But he was
afraid to close his eyes and give in to the sleep his body craved, for in his
heart he knew that the nightmares would return.

Somewhere beneath him and deep
within the frigate’s hold was the man who was his Irish girl’s lover. That he
had succeeded in outsmarting and apprehending the rascal brought Christian no
sense of triumph. Revenge had been empty, hollow, meaningless. There hadn’t
even been any action, for the Irish Pirate’s sloop had mounted only a few
swivel guns that would have been ridiculously ineffective against the strapping
might of a king’s frigate. The tall, defiant-eyed sea rogue had surrendered
without a fight, knowing that any attempt to defend his ship against Bold
Marauder would only result in needless bloodshed.

Now the rebel crew was in a Boston gaol,
the Pirate himself locked in what had once been the playground of Delight
Foley. Christian was taking no chances. He dared not send the notorious
smuggler ashore for fear that the angry mobs would storm the gaol and free
their hero. But those same people who might storm a gaol would think twice
about approaching a thirty-eight-gun frigate.

His chin on his wrists, he stared dully
down at the puppies, not seeing them, but Deirdre. He thought of how she had tenderly
dug the musket ball from his shoulder, how she had loved him with her body, how
her eyes had shone so brightly when he’d given her his ring.

To think that her actions had been
superficial and false; to think that it wasn’t him she loved, but another.

The pain that ravaged his heart was
a hundred times worse than anything he’d endured at the hands of Elwin Boyd’s
surgery. It hurt such that he could not sit here and think about it. He rose
from the chair, picked up a puppy, and returned to his desk. There, he sat,
carefully positioning the baby in his lap so it would not fall, and retrieved
his pen. Exhaustion made his movements forced and mechanical. He dipped the
quill in the inkwell and willing the weariness from his brain, tried to
continue with his report. In his lap, the puppy fell asleep, contented and
warm. Christian’s head drooped, the fair hair falling over his brow. His eyes
flickered shut, opened again, and jerking his head up, he dipped the quill in
the inkwell once more. He was just starting the next page when he heard the
stamp of a musket against the deck outside his door. A moment later it opened,
and Ian MacDuff, with Evans standing grim-faced behind him, stepped inside.

“Prisoner’s asking tae see ye,
sir.”

The lieutenant held his hat
respectfully in his hands, and the scent of his damp clothes permeated the
confines of the cabin. Christian looked up and blinked, his eyes heavy and
aching with exhaustion. In his dazed, numbed state, it took a moment for him to
realize that someone had spoken to him.

Cradling the sleeping puppy, he got
to his feet and moved across the cabin to place the baby with its mother. Ian
took a step forward, thinking to assist his captain, for the Lord and Master
looked to be in a sorry state indeed.

“Are ye all right, sir?”

“Aye, Ian. Never felt better.”

“If there be anything ye want tae
talk about, doona hesitate tae ask . . .”

Christian paused. He stared dumbly
at the bulkhead, his throat working. Then he raked a hand through his hair and
looked at the lieutenant. “Thank you, Ian. I shall remember your kindness, but
I fear that talk will not aid me in the slightest.”

“The Irish lassie, sir?”

Christian said nothing.

“I know ye be missing her, sir, but
ye’ll be back together soon, now that ye’ve accomplished yer mission—”

“You do not understand!”
Christian’s eyes were suddenly blazing. Then his voice softened, became dead
and lifeless once more. “Forgive me, Ian. I have no right to be sharp with you,
none at all.” He put his hands on the back of a chair and looked down, his eyes
bleak. “After I went to Menotomy to call upon her—and ask for her hand in
marriage—I—I saw her in the arms of another man.”

Ian’s mouth fell open and his hat dropped
from his hands. “Another man, sir?” His face went slack with shock. “Why, she
loves you. She wouldnae do such a thing—”

“It was the Irish Pirate, Ian. And
the memory of her standing in his arms shall go with me into my grave.”

He looked at Ian, his eyes raw
with anguish. But the big Scot had no words of comfort, nothing from his own
vast experience with the bonnie sex to relieve the pain of his commanding
officer. “’Tis sorry I be, sir . . . I had no idea.”

Christian turned away. “Thank you,
Ian. Your concern will not be forgotten.”

“I’ll let ye be, then, sir,” Ian
said, quietly, sensing his captain’s need to be alone. “But please do think
about getting some sleep before ye have tae face the Old Fart. And I’m sorry
for disturbing ye . . . I just thought ye’d want t’ know the prisoner’s
demanding tae see you.”

“Damn the prisoner. He can bloody
well rot for all I care.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll tell ’im that.”

“Please do, Ian.” Christian was
aching with fatigue, his heart a raw wound whose pain was rivaled only by the
incessant throb of his shoulder. Dimly, he was aware of Ian moving away and
down the passageway, roaring for Skunk and Teach as he went.

Soon the news would be known
throughout the ship. Soon every man aboard would know that he’d been neatly
deceived by a lovely Irish girl with innocent purple eyes. But he found he was
too tired to care. Too tired to fight the anguish, the pain, the pity that
would surely come his way.

And the nightmares.

Too damned tired . . .

He stumbled to his bed and swayed
on his feet with exhaustion.

Sleep.

He sat down and slowly bent to take
off his shoes.

Sleep.

He was out before his head hit the
pillow, and sure enough, the nightmares found him.

Only this time, the treacherous
dream-woman who betrayed him was not the woman he had once wed, but the one
that he had hoped to.

Deirdre.

###

The summons to repair aboard the
flagship Dauntless came shortly before noon, and Christian was gently
shaken awake by a hand on his shoulder. He clawed his way out of the fog of
oblivion, opened his eyes, and saw Rhodes standing there, the silver wings of
his black hair shining in the sunlight coming in through the stern gallery.

“Sorry to wake you, sir. Sir
Geoffrey just sent his flag lieutenant across with orders to come aboard Dauntless.
He wishes to speak to you about the Irish Pirate before dinner.”

“Dinner?” Christian said, sitting
up and rubbing his eyes.

“Aye. He’s throwing a big
celebration aboard the flagship in your honor. Gage will be there, and so will
a host of other dignitaries.”

Christian swung out of bed, alarmed
to find himself in clothes that were now on a level of unkemptness with
Hibbert’s worst.

Rhodes added, “Gage wanted to give
the party at his residence in Boston, but Sir Geoffrey thought it unwise, given
the, er, present state of the townspeople.”

“State?”

“Aye. The people are in an uproar,
sir. You caught their hero. Adams and Hancock are stirring up the rabble with rousing
speeches. Warren is demanding the prisoner’s release. A fight broke out between
one of our majors and a crowd of rebels, and there was a near riot in the
streets. Our troops are doing all they can to contain the situation, but the people
are screaming for your head on a platter, and that’s putting it mildly.”

Christian sighed. “Very well, then.
I shall be up shortly.”

Rhodes’s eyes grew
uncharacteristically sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear about the girl, sir.”

“Thank you, Russell. You’ll
understand if I do not wish to discuss her.”

“Of course, sir.”

His face solemn, Rhodes went out.
An hour later, Christian had bathed and dressed. He left his cabin and went on
deck, clad in his finest dress uniform and carrying his gold-tasseled
presentation sword.

The sight that greeted him nearly
did him in.

Seamen clung to the rigging, holding
their hats to display their respect for him. Officers lined the rail, standing
stiffly at attention. Even Hibbert had taken pains over his appearance.
Whistles shrilled, drums rolled, and Bold Marauder's people saw their
captain over the side with a smart and moving salute that swelled his troubled
heart. He blinked to cover his emotion, for he knew that they were trying their
best to cheer him in the only way they could.

Even the gig’s crew was smartly
turned out, the oars rising and falling in perfect unison as the seamen rowed
him through the harbor toward the towering hulk of the flagship.

Christian kept his eyes straight
ahead lest someone see the anguish there—and thus missed the tiny rowboat that
passed him just off to starboard, carrying a young woman with spiral-curling
black hair toward the proud and mighty Bold Marauder.

“Christian!” she yelled, standing
up in the boat and waving her hat before Jared Foley or Delight could pull her
back down. “Christian!”

She saw his back go rigid, but the
handsome sea officer never turned.

“Christian!”

The little rowboat tipped
dangerously in the water as Deirdre fought to keep her balance. He did not turn
to acknowledge her, and sudden worry filled her. What was wrong? Why was he
ignoring her? Dazed, she sat back down and stared at Delight. “He went right by
me,” she whispered. “Sweet Mary, he didn’t even turn around, and I know he
heard me!”

“I fear we’re too late,” Jared
grunted as he saw the admiral’s side party preparing to welcome the British
captain aboard the flagship with all the fanfare due a hero. The shrill of
whistles cleaved the air, mocking their hopes of securing Roddy’s release.
“Your fine English sea officer has done what he came here to do,
Deirdre—apprehend the Irish Pirate. It appears that he has no further use for
you, or for anything but the glory such an accomplishment will bring him.”

“But no, he wouldn’t do that
to me, Mr. Foley! He has no reason to ignore me like that! He loves me!” she
cried, indicating the ring on her finger. “I know Christian, and he
loves me!”

“But he loves his country more,”
the man said, resting on the oars and watching as the blue-and-white-clad
officer scaled the great tumble home of the mighty flagship.

“No! He wouldn’t cast me aside like
this, Mr. Foley! He just wouldn’t!”

“I beg to differ, Deirdre.” The
printer’s eyes gazed hopelessly into hers. “He just did.”

Chapter 30

The elaborate dinner that Sir
Geoffrey threw to celebrate Christian’s success had been more fitting for a
king than a mere naval captain whose latest accomplishment was just one more in
a series of triumphs that marked a long and decorated career. Despite Sir
Geoffrey’s praise and General Gage’s pleasure, Christian was glad to see the
evening finally come to a close.

Tired, weary, and wanting nothing
more than the solitude of his own cabin, he left the flagship to the piercing
shriek of the side party’s salute and the stamp and clatter of Sir Geoffrey’s
marines. Now, with the sea wind driving the unpleasant scent of pipe smoke from
his uniform, he stared longingly toward the glimmering lights of the frigate he
called home.

In the darkness, he saw figures
moving on her decks, along her gangways, gathering at her rail. His coxswain
called up to the frigate to alert the watch to his arrival, and the decks
became a flurry of activity. The gig moved into the orange reflection that
sheeted the water around the ship’s hull, passing beneath the long bowsprit and
the figurehead crouched just beneath it.

The crew hooked onto the frigate’s
main chains, and he leapt the short distance. But as he made his way up the
black, forbidding side, he suddenly wished he were back aboard the admiral’s
flagship, where there were no memories to haunt him—and no nightmares waiting
to torture him the moment he closed his eyes.

Christian pushed open the door to
his cabin, and was not in the least bit surprised to find her waiting
for him.

She was sitting on his bed, her
thick curls scattered over her shoulders. Tildy’s puppies were cradled in her
lap and all but lost in the voluminous folds of her skirts. Lantern light
framed her face and hair in a soft, heavenly glow.

“Christian,” she whispered
brokenly.

“Get out.”

She didn’t move.

“Did you hear me?” he snarled. “I
said, get out!”

They stared at each other, his eyes
blazing, hers wounded and sad. She made no move to leave, and he didn’t trust
himself to touch her. A tantalizing bit of ankle peeped above her mud-spattered
shoes, and he turned away, furious that she could still arouse his interest
after the treacherous way she’d treated him.

The silence stretched on, until her
eyes filled with tears.

“Why?” he asked, his voice
tortured. He slammed his fist against the bulkhead and felt pain explode in his
wounded shoulder. “For God’s sake, Deirdre, why?”

She stood, carefully put the
puppies back with her mother, and turned to face him. “I might ask the same of you,
Christian.” Her eyes were tragic. “Does glory mean so much to ye that ye’d
abandon those who love ye?”

“What?”

“Ye gave me yer ring, asked me to
become yer wife— then ye pretended I didn’t exist. I didn’t do anythin’ wrong,
but ye ignored me when I called to ye in the harbor, treated me like I wasn’t
even there.”

He glared at her, his eyes blazing.
“Why the bloody hell should I have acknowledged you?” he roared, ripping
off his hat and hurling it to the table. “After what you did to me!”

“I did nothin’ to ye! ’Twas you
who treated me like I didn’t exist!”

“Oh? And who is the one who is
already cuckolding her future husband, eh?” he snarled, frightening her
with the intensity of his anger. “Who was the one who professed to love me when
all the time her heart belonged to someone else? Who was the one who worked so
damned hard to win my trust, then betrayed it with no care for the
consequences?” Her face went white with shock, confusion. “Don’t sit there and
pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about! You came here to try to save
your damned lover, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“My . . . my lover?”

“A plague on you for your bloody
deceit! The game is up, Deirdre! I knew you’d come to me today with some
wicked plea to release him, and that’s the only thing you haven’t disappointed
me in, so help me God!”

“Christian,” she whispered, her
eyes brimming with tears, her voice trembling with hurt, “I have no lover ’cept
you.”

“How dare you stand there and lie
to me!” He clenched his fists at his sides, his mouth a slash of anguish. “I saw
you in the bugger’s arms, by God! I bloody well saw you, Deirdre, so forget
trying to tell me there’s naught between you and him! I know now why you came
to America. I know now why you finally consented to stay with Dolores or
Delight or whatever the cursed hell her name is. You did it so you could be
close to him! I should have figured it out before—you’re Irish, he’s
Irish—by God, you even look alike—”

“Christian.”

She walked slowly across the cabin
toward him. Her face was very white, her eyes very purple, her lower lip very
red and swollen where she had caught it between her teeth. The cross glittered
from the folds of her shirt, a shirt, he saw now, that was achingly familiar
because it was one of his. Damn her. Damn her to hell and beyond.

She came right up to him and
stopped. He caught the scent of her soap, her damp woolen waistcoat, her rain-washed
hair. Tentatively, she reached out and placed one hand upon the gold insignia
of his sleeve, the other against his thundering heart. His jaw hardened and he
clenched his fists at his sides, every ounce of will straining to hold his
temper in check.

“The Irish Pirate is not my lover,”
she said flatly. Her eyes held his, beautiful, brilliant, and brimming with
unshed tears. “How could ye even think I’d betray ye like that,
Christian?” Her throat worked, and big, fat droplets began to roll down her
cheeks. “’Tis you whom I love. You. And it hurts me that ye have so
little trust in me that ye’d think I’d do anythin’ to ever hurt ye . . .”

“I—saw—you,” he gritted out,
shutting his eyes and turning his head so he wouldn’t have to look at her.
“Damn you, Deirdre! I didn’t go back to Boston after I left you the other night!
I turned around and took a room in the tavern across the road so that I could
spy on the Foleys’s activities.” He ignored her widening eyes. “Sir Geoffrey
had intelligence that they were rebels. Gage’s spies learned there was to be a
patriot meeting that night, and given that it was my task to apprehend
the Irish Pirate, and that he was suspected to be in league with the rebels, I
felt it prudent to learn all I could.” He tilted back his head, unable to look
into her eyes, unable to stand the soft pressure of her palm lying against his
heart. “But never did I expect to see you, of all people, standing out
in the road embracing the bastard. I saw you, Deirdre. I saw you hug
him, kiss him, give him one of your precious Irish mementos.” His eyes darkened
with anguish. “Damn you, I saw you . . .”

For a long moment she said nothing.
Then she gave a heavy sigh and, trembling, bent her head until her brow rested
against his crisp lapels. “Aye, that ye did, perhaps,” she said slowly. “Ye saw
me in the arms of the Irish Pirate, I’ll not be denyin’ it. And I’ll not deny
that I love him, too, but not as a lass loves her man, as I do you.”

“What other bloody way is
there to love a man?”

“A moment ago,” she whispered, “ye
said that the Irish Pirate and I look alike. Did ye ever stop ’n’ consider that
I might love him not as a lover . . . but as a brother?”

He stared at her for so long, his
heart seemed to stop beating. The breath caught in his chest, and speckles of
darkness danced across his vision. Her words hung heavily in the room, and her
eyes were steady, unwavering, questing.

“Did ye ever stop an’ ask yer
prisoner what his real name is?” she asked gently.

“Dear God . . .”

“And did ye ever stop and recall
the face of the lad yer press gang took from Connemara all those years ago,
Christian?”

He shut his eyes.

“Did ye?”

“No,” he murmured, kneading his
forehead. “Oh, dear God, Deirdre—”

More tears were tumbling down her
cheeks. “I would never, ever do anythin’ to hurt ye, Christian,” she whispered,
reaching up to knuckle her eyes. “But to think that ye trusted me so little as
to think I would, breaks my heart.”

He collapsed into a chair, his eyes
anguished. “Why didn’t you tell me, Deirdre? By God, why didn’t you tell
me the Irish Pirate was your brother?”

“I didn’t know he was my
brother until I saw him at the Foley house,” she confessed. “And I haven’t seen
you since ye left that evenin’. How was I supposed to tell ye?” She came
closer to him, her hands tightly clenched together, her lips white with pain.
“And would it have made a lick o’ difference if I had?”

“What do you mean?”

“Would ye still have gone after
him, Christian?”

He stared at her, then looked away.

“Would ye?”

He set his jaw. “I am a king’s
officer, Deirdre. I had no choice but to go after him.”

The breath left her chest in a
deep, ragged sound of defeat and despair. Slowly, she said, “And does that mean
that, as a king’s officer, ye can do nothin’ to free him?

Emotion warred in his face, and he
raked a hand through his hair. Then he lunged to his feet and began to pace. “I
must abide by my duty to king and country, Deirdre.” At the windows he turned,
his eyes dark with torment. “I cannot release your brother. He is an enemy of
the Crown and therefore must be punished for his activities against it.”

She raised her chin. The hope was
fading from her face, and terror began to fill her eyes. He turned away, unable
to look at her. “They will hang him, Christian.”

He whirled. “By God, Deirdre, what
am I to do about it? I can do nothing to help him, not now!”

“Ye could just let him go.”

“And face a court-martial?”

“No one has to know about it.”

“I am a king’s officer, Deirdre!
You don’t understand, damn you!”

“Oh, I understand, all right,” she
said bitterly, her wounded eyes flooding with fresh tears. “Ye speak of duty and
gallantry and being an officer and a gentleman. Aye, ye’re an officer, all
right, and a fine one at that—but ye’re no gentleman. Yer word, yer
honor, are as hollow as a rotten oak.”

She moved toward the door, her face
tight, her chin high. His hand flashed out and caught her arm. “What do you
mean?”

“Ye’re no gentleman,” she said. “A
gentleman always keeps his word. Ye promised, Christian, that ye’d help
me find me brother. Ye promised to return him to me, but now ye’re goin’ back
on yer promise. Ye’re goin’ to stand mutely by and let him hang, just so ye can
gather all the glory yer Navy can bestow upon ye. Another medal for that fine
and decorated chest, another step up the ladder to promotion. Aye, ye’ll be an
admiral someday, I’ve no doubt. But if it’s men like you who make admirals,
then I pity England.”

“Deirdre—“

She pried his ring from her finger
and held it in the palm of her hand, lamenting all that it had meant, all that
it could have meant. “I’ve no wish to marry ye now, Christian. I’ll not
have a man who lacks honor, a man who breaks his word to the woman he wants for
his wife.”

“Deirdre, please, let me explain—”

“There’s nothin’ to explain,
Christian. Ye made me a promise to help me find me brother. Ye found him, all
right But if he is hanged and put to death for believin’ in a cause that in his
heart is righteous and just, then ye’ve taken him from me not once, but twice.”

He stood, paralyzed, only his eyes
moving as they flickered to the ring.

She turned and walked slowly to the
door, choking on tears while she ached for him to say the words that would
bring her back to him, the words that would keep her from walking out of his
life, the words that were the only thing standing between Roddy and a hangman’s
noose.

The words that, once uttered, would
mean a lifetime of happiness for both of them.

She paused, her hand on the door latch
while her eyes beseeched his. “Let my brother go, Christian. Please . . . say
ye will. I beg of ye . . .”

He set his jaw and turned away.

Taking a deep, shaky breath,
Deirdre plucked the ring from her palm, laid it on the table, and quietly left
the cabin.

Chapter 31

“Captain, sir?” Midshipman Robert
Hibbert stood in the doorway, his gaze probing the cabin’s gloomy darkness
until he spotted his commanding officer sprawled in his chair. The Irish girl
had left a week ago, and the Lord and Master had been down here ever since; now
the captain stared dejectedly at a half-empty bottle of brandy, one arm cradling
Tildy, who sat in his lap and regarded Hibbert with sad eyes.

In their box, the puppies whined
pitifully.

“Captain?” Hibbert repeated,
stepping into the cabin.

Slowly, Christian raised his head.
His eyes were lifeless, bleak, his untouched breakfast congealing on a plate
near his elbow. “Pray, what is it, Hibbert?”

The young midshipman frowned at sight
of the brandy bottle. “Uh, Mr. MacDuff’s respects, sir, and says to tell you a
barge is setting off from the admiral’s ship and heading this way. Sir Geoffrey
is in it, sir.”

“Thank you, Hibbert.”

The Lord and Master remained
unmoving, staring dejectedly out the stern windows at the gray, rain-pocked
sea.

“Uh, begging your pardon, sir, but
don’t you think you might want to, uh, maybe make yourself look, uh . . .
presentable?”

The gray eyes remained fixed on the
sea. “Have a care to whom you’re talking to, Hibbert.”

“I am, sir.” The midshipman drew
himself up and smoothed his own smartly pressed uniform. “But this is a king’s
ship,” he said  pointedly, “and we wouldn’t want our captain taken aback.”

Christian turned his head and
stared at the boy. Then he looked down at his own uniform. He wore only his
shirt and breeches, and both were badly rumpled and in need of a wash. A large
spot of spilled brandy—or was it rum? he couldn’t remember—stained his shirt
front, and his hair was rumpled and unqueued. He swallowed hard and looked at
his hands, gripping the edge of the table. “Thank you, Hibbert.”

Drawing himself up, Hibbert swelled
with pride. “I’d be happy to help you buckle on your sword and clean up the cabin,”
he offered, with a fleeting glance at the bottle of brandy. “Ian says we have
maybe ten minutes before Sir Geoffrey reaches us. It’s windy out there, and his
crew’s having a hard row.”

“Yes, of course,” Christian said
woodenly. He got to his feet, swaying a bit unsteadily. He could feel the
midshipman’s worried eyes upon him. He was not making a very good role model
for the young officer, or for any of his men.

And he didn’t give a bloody damn.

Topside, he heard the side party being
mustered as the crew prepared to receive the admiral. Shaking his head to clear
it, Christian set Tildy back down with her puppies, and, pouring a pitcher of
water into his basin, plunged his hands beneath the surface and scrubbed at his
bristled face.

Hibbert saw his predicament
immediately. “Would you like me to shave you, sir?”

The tired smile was answer enough.
Christian sat down and closed his eyes, allowing the lad to lather his face.
From above, he heard Ian’s gruff voice coming down through the skylight as he
ordered the side party into position.

“I know you’re feeling poorly about
the girl,” Hibbert said suddenly, bravely, as his captain’s eyes opened to
regard him with anger. “And we’re all proud of you for outsmarting the Irish
Pirate and bringing him to heel.” The razor moved over Christian’s chin. “But
don’t you think you might just consider letting the man go? I mean, I’ve talked
to him, and we’ve been playing cards with him every night—”

"What?”

“He’s really a nice fellow, Captain
O’Devir. Not a criminal at all, sir, but a man who believes as strongly in his
ideas as, and pardon me for saying so, sir, you do in yours.”

“He is a treasonous rebel and
traitor to his king,” Christian snapped, “and do not forget it!”

“Aye, sir.” The razor scraped over
Christian’s cheek, but the youth’s hand was surprisingly steady. “I know you
think you can’t let Captain O’Devir go, because we might be angry with
you, but we held a meeting, sir, and we don’t want to see him hang.”

Christian seized the midshipman’s
wrist. “Why the hell does everyone on this bloody planet seem to think I can
just release the scoundrel? Such decisions are not mine to make! And, by God,
this is a king’s ship. I have a code of honor and duty to attend, and so do the
bloody lot of you.” He shut his eyes, cringing as he heard the bosun’s whistles
shrilling on the deck above. “Besides,” he added in a gentler tone, “I can’t
just release him. You know that, Hibbert.”

“I know, sir. But you’ve got to do
something . . . We know you’re loyal to the king; we know you’re loyal to this
ship and the flag that flies above her decks. But in the end, who wins if the
Irish Pirate is hanged? No one. The rebels are still going to transport arms to
Concord, and everyone knows that Gage will soon have to move against them.”

“Hibbert, you show a devilish
amount of wisdom for one so unadvanced in years.”

“And pardon me, sir, but you show a
devilish amount of stubbornness for someone as advanced in yours.”

“Pray, go to hell.”

The midshipman laughed, wiped the
razor clean, and toweled the streaks of lather from his captain’s austere face.
“Well, sir, I just wanted you to know that we won’t think any less of
you if Captain O’Devir . . . escapes. And—” He paused, looked away, and
then, unflinchingly, met his captain’s hard gaze. “I know this has been a long
time in coming, sir, but I have to say it. You’re the best Lord and Master
we’ve ever served under . . . and we only want to see you happy.”

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 those 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 Colonies, 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.

It was finally happening.

Deirdre shut her eyes, bent her
head, and, with the cross clasped between her hands and its chain wrapped
around her fingers like the beads of the rosary, prayed.

For the safety of Roddy, whom she
had not seen or heard from since that rainy afternoon when he’d left on his
final mission as the Irish Pirate, and who, according to Jared Foley, was
hiding at the Boston home of Dr. Joseph Warren following the brief scuffle with
the captain of HMS Bold Marauder during which he’d made his escape.

For the safety of her adopted
family, who had spent the night preparing for war, cleaning, oiling, and rolling
cartridges for their two muskets, and maintaining a state of watchfulness.

And most of all, for Christian,
whom she missed with every beat of her lonely, aching heart. If only he had
released Roddy, and honored his promise to her. But how could she have expected
him to forsake the values and traditions by which he had lived the past twenty
years of his life, turning his back on his own principles of what was just and
right?

He was a king’s officer.

Sadness weighed heavily in her
heart, and she pressed her lips to the spot on her finger where his ring had
rested for so brief a time. How stricken he’d looked when she’d taken it off
and laid it on his desk, then turned her back and left him. Anguish filled her.
At least he would be safe behind the frigate’s mighty guns should the worst
happen.

She raised her head and looked out
into the night. Figures moved in the darkness, their voices hushed and excited.
More and more people, alerted by the night messenger, were trickling from their
houses and standing in the road, some staring fearfully toward the east, whence
the regulars would soon be coming.

Deirdre shut her eyes once more.
Her lips moved against the hard edges of the cross, and she suddenly felt cold
all over.

“Please, God, watch over all those
I love, and those I do not love, those I know, and those I do not know. Please,
dear Father, keep everyone safe, especially Roddy, wherever he may be, and my
beloved Christian. I love him, Father, I love him so very much—even if he did
put duty before me. And please, oh, Father, don’t let the minutemen have to
take up arms against the regulars, for there are good and decent men on both
sides.”

She paused, shivering in the night
air that wafted in through the open window. The scent of wood smoke hung in the
air, and a faint breeze rustled the trees. It was early springtime, and soon,
everyone said, the leaves would be on the trees, just like they were back home
in Connemara. She saw the grass shining silver in the moonlight, and felt a
pang inside at the memory of Christian’s promise, for that grass—so brown and
dead and ugly when she had first arrived in America—was now growing every bit
as green as any field back in Ireland.

Downstairs, she heard Mr. Foley
snapping orders, instructing his wife and daughter what to do when the troops
came. Soon, she knew, someone would be coming up to get her, but she had a few
moments left. Precious moments before she had to leave the sanctuary of her
little bedroom.

Her gaze lifted to the eastern horizon
beyond the trees. She thought of the king’s soldiers, making their way even now
through the moonlight toward them, and a prickle of doom made the hairs rise on
her neck and shivers dance the length of her spine.

She bent her head once again, and
squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she prayed, “And oh, Father, please, oh
please, please, please—don’t let anyone get killed . . .”

“Deirdre?” It was Mr. Foley,
calling from the foot of the stairs. “Get dressed and come downstairs. The
regulars are out!”

As though she didn’t know.

“Aye, Mr. Foley . . . I’ll be right
down.”

She stood up, her muscles cramped
from sitting at the window for so long. She put on a green jacket, a thick,
quilted petticoat and a pair of boots. She had gone to bed in Christian’s
shirt—and she left it on beneath her stays, keeping the only part of him she
had close to her heart. Then she picked up her canvas bag, nearly empty now
except for the flagon of Irish air. That little bag had traveled the vast Atlantic.
It had never left her person since she had bidden good-bye to her beloved Ireland.
It would not leave her now.

She was just descending the stairs when
the first dogs began to bark wildly in the distance, piercing the quiet of the
night. Fear rose within her and a deep rumbling began to sound from the east.
The Foleys raced to the front window and peered out into the moonlit night. And
in the little cupboard, the plates began to vibrate. Louder and louder and
louder—

“Dear God above,” Mrs. Foley
breathed, paling with fright.

For just outside the window, the
measured tramp of their feet shaking the very floor upon which the Foleys
stood, was a vast, unending river of red-coated soldiers marching past, their
bayonets gleaming in the moonlight. Here and there an officer rode, his steed’s
hoofbeats like the knell of doom. The dark line stretched as far as the family
could see, and the rattle of wagons, the stamp of the war-horses, the measured
thunder of booted feet were enough to send Mrs. Foley reeling back from the
window, closing her eyes in terror.

“Dear God,” she repeated, and
leaned heavily against her husband. “Dear God, have mercy on us . . “.

They dared not light even a candle.
Some of the troops broke rank and darted across the lawn, stopping to drink
from the well before racing to catch up with their comrades. It seemed to take
forever for them to pass, and it was a long time before the frightened Foleys
dared to leave the safety of their house and venture outside to join the
neighbors milling about in the road.

They found people streaming from
their houses, standing in the moonlight and pointing toward the west, toward Lexington,
where the soldiers had gone. Lights began to glow from windows, and somewhere a
baby wailed. Then Solomon Bowman, the lieutenant of the Menotomy minutemen,
went racing from door to door, summoning his men and ordering them to assemble
on the green at the crack of dawn to march to Concord and Lexington.

Jared Foley wasted no time.
Gathering the powder cartridges they’d been making ever since the first rumors
of Gage’s planned raid on Concord had reached them, he laid them on the table
and turned to his wife. “Throw all of the pewter and silver into the well,” he
told her, gripping her trembling shoulders to steady her. “Gather up everything
of value, then take the girls and go to the Prentiss house with the other
women.”

“Oh, Jared,” she said, on the verge
of hysteria, “please do not ask me to leave my home!”

“I do not ask it, Joanne, I demand
it!” He lowered his voice. ‘There will be bloodshed this day,” he murmured. “I
feel it in my bones. You will take the girls and go to the Prentiss house with
the other women and children, out of sight and away from the road when the regulars
pass through on their return to Boston. Do no defy me in this, Joanne.” He
turned away, missing the mutinous set of his wife’s jaw, and the exchange of
glances between Deirdre and Delight, both of whom knew she had no intention of
carrying out her husband’s wishes. He picked up the rolled packets of black
powder and began to stuff them into his cartridge box. “If blood is shed today,
then I pray that those who die will not do so in vain. This moment has been a
long time in coming, Joanne.” Straightening up, he folded her quickly to his
chest. Then he set her back, and looked deeply into her eyes. “Whatever
happens, keep the girls safe. I will leave you with one of the muskets in case,
God forbid, you are called to defend yourself.”

And then dawn began to glimmer on
the horizon, and the urgent beat of a drum rolled across the fields, calling
the brave minutemen of Menotomy together. Grim-faced fathers and eager-eyed
sons bade good-bye to wives and children and sisters, and, toting muskets and
ammunition, raced to the town green to answer the call to duty, never knowing
that for some of them, it would be the last farewells to their loved ones that they
would ever make.

Shortly thereafter, the farmers
were marching toward Lexington under the command of Captain Benjamin Locke.

For the people of Menotomy, it
would be a day of bloodshed and death.

###

On the quarterdeck of HMS Bold
Marauder, Christian paced in agitation. His face was hard with tension, his
eyes bleak and worried. The nightmare had come to him last night, more intense,
more vivid, more frightening than ever before. A nightmare of blood and
fighting and death, only this time the victim was not the woman he had once
married—but the young Irish girl whom he loved.

And he, bound to the frigate by the
command of duty, was unable to save her.

Several hours earlier, eight
hundred troops under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith had left Boston
under cover of darkness with the intent of seizing the rebels’ military stores
in Concord. And now, reinforcements of some twelve hundred more, under the
capable command of Hugh, Lord Percy, had just left to join them.

Deirdre was out there. Alone.
Unprotected. In the middle of it, should that spark explode into flames.

He shut his eyes against the memory
of the nightmare and tried to shake the overwhelming sense of doom. The
nightmare was meaningless, merely a product of his own worry—surely, things
wouldn’t go that far, would they?

By now, Smith’s select troops,
tense and eager for action, would have reached Concord. They would already have
long since passed through the little West Cambridge village of Menotomy. Had
the awesome and terrifying might of nearly a thousand armed soldiers awakened
Deirdre as they’d marched through in the moonlight? Had she looked out her
window and trembled in fear? Where was she now? What was happening?

And oh, God, what the deuced hell
was he doing here aboard his ship when he ought to be with her?

Keeping her safe?

He leaned his brow against a tarry
shroud, anchoring a hand in the stiff ropes that supported the soaring mast. Go
to her. Tell her you did release her brother, after all. Damn your
pride, man, just go!

Footsteps sounded on the ladder that
led up to the quarterdeck, and turning, he saw Rico Hendricks approaching. He
frowned, and the bosun yanked off his hat and belatedly saluted the
quarterdeck.

“Sorry, sir.”

Christian merely gave a tight smile
and gazed off to the west, feeling Hendricks’s eyes upon him. The big Jamaican
cleared his throat. “Er, how’re you faring this morning, Captain?”

Distractedly, Christian reached up
to touch the lump on the back of his skull. “Fine, Rico,” he murmured, staring
off toward Boston. “’Tis my heart that worries me, and the dread that darkens
it.”

Hendricks joined him, his face
grave as he let his hands dangle over the rail. He had been the one to discover
his friend and captain out cold on the floor of the brig, the prisoner long
gone. But he knew of the inner war Christian had been fighting in the days
immediately preceding Roddy O’Devir’s escape. He knew his captain was not so
careless as to turn his back on a dangerous prisoner, and that it was no coincidence
that the entire crew had been ashore when the Pirate had gotten away. And he
knew that pride would never allow his commanding officer to admit that maybe,
just maybe, he’d had a hand in that escape . . .

Yes, there was more to it than
that, and every man aboard the frigate knew it. Sir Geoffrey had been enraged
to learn of the Pirate’s escape, and only the persuasiveness of his favorite
captain, Brendan Merrick, had saved Christian from a court-martial.

Abruptly, Christian said, “The nightmare
returned last night, Rico.”

Rico said nothing, merely looking
down into the gray water that swirled so far below.

“For five years, I was tormented by
the fact that I was unable to rescue Emily from that burning house. For five
years, I have gone to bed every night knowing I would see her standing in those
flames once again, screaming as they consumed her . . . burned her.” His
voice was harsh. “For five years, I have lived with the anguish and guilt of
not being able to get her out of that house.”

Rico looked down, pretending to
study the calluses on his broad hands.

“Now the nightmare is back, Rico,
but this time it is not Emily who is trapped and afraid . . . it is Deirdre.”
Christian took a deep, ragged breath, the shadow of his hat falling over his
hands as he bent his head. “And again I stand here, helpless.”

Rico said nothing, watching the
morning light glittering on the sea below.

“I shall not remain helpless this
time, Rico.” The shadow fell away as Christian’s head came up. “I must go to
her, get her out of there, keep her safe, tell her I love her. And”—he looked
away, his features contorted with anguish—“I must confess the truth. About . .
. about the other night.”

“Aye, sir. Perhaps you should.”

Christian looked at him sharply,
but Hendricks only gave a reassuring smile. “Have no fear, sir,” he said, “Your
secret is safe with us.”

A voice boomed out behind him. “Well,
sir, if ye’re going, ye’d best be off. Word has it that Lord Percy and his
reinforcements are long gone. But if ye hurry, you should be able tae catch up
tae them.”

Christian turned. Ian MacDuff stood
there, and he was not alone. Behind him, the entire crew had quietly gathered,
ready to support their captain in any decision he made, whether it be good or
bad, wise or unwise. He had won their trust, their loyalty, and, perhaps, even
their love.

He straightened up, the strain
easing from his austere face.

“You’re going, then, sir?” asked
Rico, smiling.

“Of course I am.” Christian faced
the big Scot. “I may return as your commanding officer,” he said quietly, “or I
may return in irons for disobeying my admiral. Either way, Ian, I leave Bold
Marauder in your hands.”

He strode resolutely down the
quarterdeck stairs, his back rigid and proud. Hibbert, who’d obviously been
eavesdropping, was standing there, holding his captain’s boat cloak. Already the
crew was assembling, organizing themselves into tight lines of discipline and
respect. The sight caught at Christian’s heart, for he knew it might very well
be the last time he was ever honored so.

His gaze moved over these men who
had come to mean so much to him. Teach, huge, and bristling and formidable, his
belt strung with weapons of every size, shape, and kind. Hibbert, trying hard
to emulate what he thought a good officer should be, his uniform fresh and
clean. Ian, his red curls glinting like fire, and Skunk, his pungent scent
enough to give him a private standing space of several feet. Wenham, sad-eyed
and hulking. Rhodes, tight-lipped and unsmiling. Evans, standing at the
forefront of his grim-faced marines, and Rico, his dark eyes shining with pride
as he came forward to present Christian with his sword.

The boat had already been lowered,
and far below, the oarsmen waited.

Slowly, Christian passed the
carefully formed lines of seamen and officers, smartly returning every salute.
At the rail he paused and looked up at the giant, billowing flag—the flag that
he had spent his life defending, the flag whose honor he had sworn to uphold,
the flag that would always swell his heart with pride.

Then Rico was handing him his sword
and Ian was touching his hat as he accepted command of the king’s frigate Bold
Marauder.

“Godspeed, sir. I hope ye find her,
and may the both of ye return to us safe and sound.”

Christian returned Ian’s salute.
Then he turned, climbing down the side of the ship and into the boat that
waited in the waves below.

###

Huddled in their homes and in the
crowded rooms of the Prentiss house, the women and children of Menotomy paled
at the first distant boom of gunfire to the west.

The alarming reports had come
trickling in as horsemen raced through the village, shouting the news. Fighting
had broken out at dawn in Lexington, and colonists and soldiers had been
killed. There had been a skirmish at the north bridge in Concord. The regulars
had failed to find the stores of munitions and ordnance, and were now headed
toward Menotomy on their way back to Boston

Earlier in the afternoon, a
twelve-hundred-man relief force under the command of Lord Hugh Percy had
marched past on its way to aid Colonel Smith, their bayonets glinting in the
sun, their mighty field pieces rumbling along on giant carts made especially to
carry them. And no one would ever forget the sight of a little girl, attending
her mother’s cow as it grazed by the side of the road, looking up to see the
oncoming redcoats. As the animal plodded through the ranks, the child, heedless
of the danger, followed it fearlessly. The regulars left her alone, and one or
two even paused to ruffle the child’s hair. Then the main column of Percy’s men
had passed, their measured footsteps sounding like the tread of one monstrous
leviathan. They were flanked by mounted officers, and trailed by carts and
wagons laden with supplies. It seemed to take forever for the road to empty,
and still stragglers came galloping by in their wake for hours.

In Concord, Colonel Smith’s
exhausted troops, failing to find the rebel stores and growing increasingly
alarmed at the sight of minutemen pouring in by the thousands from all over the
countryside, had turned and headed back toward Boston. Incited by the earlier bloodshed,
the rebels began to fire on them from behind stone walls, fences, and trees. Soldiers
fell, dying. Order began to dissipate. The troops returned the minutemen’s fire,
but it was impossible to hit men who fought like Indians, hiding behind trees and
stone walls, only to pop up and pick them off. Panic took over, and what had
begun as an orderly march back toward the safety of Boston and the warships
anchored there, soon became a downright flight. By the time the soldiers met up
with Lord Percy’s relief force outside Lexington, all semblance of order had
been lost. After a brief rest, the regulars resumed their hasty retreat, taking
fire from all sides.

As Smith’s weary forces fled east, desperate
to reach still-distant Boston, Major Pitcairn, knowing the men needed an outlet
for their fear and frustration, cunningly sent Percy’s fresh troops ahead and
outside of the main column with permission to burn and pillage everything in
their path. By the time they hit Menotomy, they had carved a path of violence
and destruction before them.

And Menotomy was not to be spared.

Deirdre, huddled at the window with
Delight, Mrs. Foley and several neighbors, felt her companions’ hot breath
stirring her hair, warming her neck; she smelled the sweat of their fear and heard
their sobs of terror, a terror that was reflected in her own heart as the sharp
crack of gunfire and the boom of cannon heralded the approaching arrival of the
fleeing British forces.

With a sound like rising thunder,
they came around a bend in the road, nearly two thousand men running as fast as
their legs could carry them. Officers galloped past, their coattails flying, shouting
desperately for order. Wagons toting the dead and wounded rumbled by, their
wheels lodging in mud and spinning free once more. Musket fire cracked around
them, and Deirdre saw a soldier fall, only to be trampled by the river of
red-coated regulars. A horse reared up and plunged over backward, crushing the
officer who had been so proudly mounted on its back. Minutemen, mere shadows in
the haze of gun smoke, darted from behind trees, their muskets spurting flame
and smoke.

Mrs. Foley cried out as she saw her
husband and Captain Locke dive headlong over the stone wall that bordered the
house, popping up to train their muskets on the fleeing troops. Thunder cleaved
the air, and more redcoats fell, some wounded, some dying, some already dead.
Flames and roiling black smoke burst from the windows of a nearby house as the
soldiers ransacked the building and then set it afire. People ran screaming out
into the road. Minutemen raced into the nearby house of Jason Russell, and
Deirdre saw the old man die on his front steps as a wild-eyed redcoat cut him
down, savagely bayoneting his body.

“Lock the windows!” Joanne Foley
cried, and sobbing, they slammed the shutters shut against the carnage outside.
Deirdre and Delight clung to each other. The windows rattled in their casings
with each thunderous reverberation. One blew apart as a musket ball burst
through, flinging the shutters wide and slamming into the mantel just above
their heads. Fists pounded on the door and angry curses rent the air. Joanne
Foley hefted the musket, swung it toward the door and fired, the thunderous
blast exploding in their heads. Outside, a man screamed in agony and another
hurled himself through the open window, only to be brought down by the musket
of an old man who took careful aim at the redcoat from his place on the
stairway. Blood exploded against the wall. Flashes of red drove past the
window. Horses screamed in fright, bellowed in agony. Smoke tainted the air,
and the cries of those who had been shot, those who had been bayoneted, those
who were dying, pierced the walls of the little house.

Gunfire roared from the house of
Jason Russell, where the minutemen had made their stand, and with each hollow
boom, each crack of a musket, the women sobbed and cried and huddled together.
The horror seemed to go on forever. Then the thunder began to fade as the
fleeing soldiers raced on toward Boston, leaving the wounded and dead in their
wake.

Like a land savaged by storm and
just opening its eyes, Menotomy began to stir. The fields were strewn with
bodies, some clad in the king’s colors, some in the ragged wool and homespun of
local farmers. Outside, in the muddy road where puddles of water were now
stained crimson with blood, the dead and dying lay. A few last shots rang out
as minutemen fired upon straggling British troops who, carrying their wounded
and dead, were too exhausted to fight back.

Long, keening wails came from the
townspeople as, here and there, someone recognized the corpse of a loved one.
Women comforted screaming babies and sobbing children, began to stagger out of
the houses in which they had barricaded themselves. The wounded and dying lay
in the road, in the fields, draped over fences and walls. A red-coated figure
stirred in the yard outside and reached for his musket, only to fall back, his
legs jerking, as a single shot cracked out.

And then, from the east, Deirdre
heard the hoofbeats of a single, approaching horse.

She knew. She knew, even before she
ran to the door and flung it open, who it was. She knew, even before she saw
him, that he had come looking for Roddy. And she knew, even before her mouth
opened in a desperate scream of warning, that it was already too late to save
him.

The glistening, foam-flecked hide
of the big chestnut stallion swept around the bend and burst into view. And
though a cloak covered his fine uniform, it was all too obvious that the figure
who sat so tall and straight in the saddle was a military man, no less British
than those who had slashed a murderous swath through the helpless village a
mere ten minutes before.

‘‘Christian!”

The horse kept coming, the rider’s
cloak billowing in the wind.

“Christian, no-o-o-o-o!”

She was racing across the lawn, her
skirts flying, before anyone could stop her. She stumbled once, fell, picked
herself up, and kept on running, even as his alarmed gaze found hers, even as she
saw a minuteman rise up from behind the shelter of a stone wall and carefully,
deliberately, bring his musket up to bear on the lone rider.

“No-o-o-o-o-o-oooo!”

The explosion seemed a thousand
times louder than the mightiest of Bold Marauder’s broadsides. In
horror, she saw smoke and fire burst from the gun in a brilliant cloud of
color. She saw the minuteman raise his fist in triumph. She saw the rider jerk
in the saddle, a streak of blood ripping along his thigh, his hand going for
his sword a moment before another shot sent his cocked hat spinning away into
the mud.

He tumbled from the horse, his
bright hair glinting in the sunlight.

Screaming, she raced to him and plunged
to her knees in the mud where he had fallen. The big stallion bolted,
thundering back down the road, the irons of the empty saddle slapping his sides.
Somewhere behind her, Jared Foley was yelling, and the boom of cannon and
gunfire was far off in the distance now.

Christian lay still and unmoving.
Blood seeped from the hair at his temple.

“No!” Deirdre screamed,
grabbing his hand and falling over his body. “No, no, no, you can’t die!” Sobbing
bitterly, she pressed his hand to her heart, to the cross, her tears dropping
upon the insignia on his sleeve that marked him as a king’s captain. “Please,
Christian, don’t die on me. Oh, dear God, don’t take him from me, please,
God, don’t take him . . .”

Shadows stamped out the sunlight.
Concerned hands grasped her shoulders, tried to gently pull her away. She heard
Delight’s voice, saw someone poke a musket at Christian’s chin, and, satisfied
that he was no threat, move away.

“Don’t die, Christian . . . oh,
please, don’t die.” She crushed his hand to the cross, never seeing the little
drops of blood that the sharp points raised, never feeling them trickle down
her wrist to stain her own sleeve as she bent over him. “Dear God, please,
don’t take him, he was just doing his duty, oh, God, oh, God, please—”

Jared Foley was there beside her.
He knelt down and grasped the captain’s other wrist, his thumb pushing up the sleeve
to find a pulse. “He’s alive,” he said, straightening up. “Merely a flesh
wound. Lucky he is, too, for he will live to see many tomorrows.”

“Don’t know what the tarnal hell a
sea officer’s doin’ way out here,” muttered another, peering down at the gold
lace of Christian’s coat where the cloak had fallen open.

“Aye, ’tis rather strange, eh?”

But Deirdre, clutching his lifeless
hand, knew why he had come. In that brief, awful moment when their gazes had
met just before the minuteman’s musket had felled him, she had seen the truth.

He had come for her brother.

Her throat constricting, she took
off her kerchief and pressed it to the blood that trickled through the pale
hair where the bullet had grazed his temple. Bitter shame coursed through her.
She had tried to make him choose between his promise to her and the principles
by which he lived his life. How could she have thought he would abandon his
values? How could she have thought he would turn his back on the Navy, on his
duty to king and country? In his eyes Roddy was a traitor, an enemy of the
Crown.

It was unfair of her to expect him
to abandon his principles, just for the sake of love. It was unfair to think
that the two of them would ever have a chance to be happy together.

But the fact that she loved him
would never change.

Slowly, Deirdre O’Devir reached up
and removed the chain that had kept Grace O’Malley’s cross against her heart
for so many years.

The cross that she had sworn never
to take off for as long as she drew breath.

She shut her eyes, her lips moving
in silent prayer. Then she enfolded it in her palm, and pressed it to her lips
for a long, tremulous moment. It was warm with the heat of her body, and before
it could cool, she lifted Christian’s lolling head, drew the chain over his
hair, and carefully eased his head back down, her lips lowering to touch his
skin, his parted lips, in a final kiss of farewell.

“I love ye, Christian,” she said
brokenly. “Dear God, I love ye . . .”

There the cross lay, against his
heart, the proud buttons and lapels of his coat. Deirdre got to her feet, her hand
coming up to touch the strangely empty, naked area at her throat. But she had
done the right thing. She had given him a symbol of her love, a precious part
of herself so that he would never forget her. Her eyes streaming, she turned to
Jared Foley, knowing that he and his family would take care of her captain
until he recovered.

There was nothing left in America
for her, and the colonists’ fight was not her own. If she and Roddy stayed here
any longer, her brother would surely be caught and hanged—if not by Christian,
then by someone else.

She had come here to find her
brother, and she had found him. She had come here to fulfill a vow to her dying
mama—and now it was time to honor that promise.

Find my son, Deirdre, and bring
him home to Ireland.

It was time to go home.

“Mr. Foley?”

He was kneeling down beside the
English captain, helping his daughter try to stanch his bleeding. He looked up
at Deirdre.

“Please take me to me brother,” she
said quietly, her proud, Gaelic face shining with courage and misery beneath
her tears.

“What?”

At her feet, Christian was
beginning to stir. She looked down at him through the blur of tears, her heart
breaking. “Christian will only hunt him down again, ye see? He’s smart and
determined, Mr. Foley. He’s the finest officer in the king’s Navy. He’ll find
Roddy and take him from me, only this time, ’twill be forever.”

“What are you saying, girl?”

She looked up, turning her face
toward Boston, and Ireland beyond. A gust of wind came up, carrying the smoke
of battle and tugging at her hair.

Brokenly, she murmured, “That it’s
time for me to go home.”

###

She stood on the shore at Boston Harbor,
her eyes seeking the British men-of-war anchored there. Her gaze moved over
each of them until it finally settled upon the one that was different from the
rest . . . leaner, lither, somehow more beautiful than the all the others. The
one with the pointer crouched beneath its proud bowsprit, the one that had
brought her here to America, the one that she would never, ever forget.

HMS Bold Marauder.

The wind blew from the east, making
the frigate’s pennants snap. It continued on toward shore, dancing over the
waves and making them crest with merriment, playing across the glistening blue
waters of the harbor, pulling at her hair and tugging at her clothing.

She threw back her head and opened
her arms, embracing the wind for a final time.

And then she uncapped the glass
flagon, letting the Irish air escape to be forever mated with its American
cousin. She allowed the flagon to fill with wind, then tightly capped it once
more.

Her brother stood nearby,
uncharacteristically quiet, and solemnly waiting to take her out to the little
brig he had hired to bring them home. His face was a mix of conflicting
emotion, his heart in turmoil, for only he knew of the unspoken promise he had
made to the man who had once been his enemy.

A promise he now considered
breaking.

Roddy stepped forward, biting his
lip.

And then he stopped, his eyes
tragic.

He couldn’t do it. For he had made
a promise, and Roddy O’Devir always kept his word.

Chapter 33

Connemara, Ireland

The press gang was in.

One could tell by the way a thick
pall had come over the land, like mist snuffing out the noonday sun. One could
tell by the way the little village that clung to the sea’s edge grew quiet and
seemed to huddle within itself, the people slamming shut the doors of their
whitewashed cottages and watching the roads from behind slitted curtains. One
could tell by the way the taverns emptied and the young lads fled into the hills
that climbed toward the majestic purple ridge of the twelve mountains, where
they would hide until the threat was past.

And one could tell by the big,
three-masted men-of-war that filled the harbor.

This time, England was at war with America
. . . and not everyone wanted to fight.

It was an infrequent threat, the
Royal Navy seeking its unwilling recruits from this bleak, storm-tossed area of
western Ireland that even God seemed to have forgotten. No able-bodied young
man was safe from the press gang. And so it was that Deirdre O’Devir solemnly
watched her brother sigh with exasperation and leave, grumbling as he headed
into the hills where the others had already fled.

Then Deirdre locked the doors and
waited.

So many years ago, this same scene
had enacted itself, just as it was happening now. She pulled a chair up to the
fire—a good, Irish peat fire that glowed warmly in the hearth—and sat staring
into the flames.

A flagon sat in a revered spot on
the table before her and she reached out, touching the cold glass, staring into
its seeming emptiness and remembering that last day in Boston, so many months
past.

She would never uncap the flagon
and let the American air out.

Just as she would never empty the
vial of American water scooped from that same harbor, toss away the felt pouch
containing Boston sand and seashells, discard the tuft of hair combed from the
Foley’s plow horse, or eat the bread—made of corn grown in Massachusetts
pastures and milk gleaned from the Foley’s cow, and baked over a good, American
wood fire—that was carefully wrapped in a square of linen and tucked away in
her bedroom.

Home was where the heart was,
Christian had once said. Home could be any place on earth, as long as it was
with the one you loved. And it wasn’t until Deirdre had returned to her beloved
Ireland that she realized the place of her birth was no longer her home. It
wasn’t until her heart began to pine for a handsome Englishman she could never
have, that she realized her heart belonged not to Ireland, but to Christian.

The fire had grown too warm, and
she stood up, the heat fading instantly from her face to leave her cheeks cold
and empty. She hugged her cloak to herself and stared morosely into the smoking
fire. There was a decided nip in the air, and in America, or so Roddy had told
her, the leaves would be starting to take on glorious colors of scarlet, orange
and gold . . . colors unknown to the trees of Ireland.

She walked to the window and looked
off toward the sea, where she could see the towering masts of the men-of-war
silhouetted against the western sunset. Over thirteen years ago she had seen
masts very much like these, from this same window, and had gone to see for
herself just what was so terrible about the English and their Navy that
everyone so hated and feared.

Now she knew there was nothing
terrible about the English, nothing terrible about their Navy.

She had learned a lot in these
thirteen years.

Outside, the wind began to rise,
moaning around the little cottage as it had done for centuries. The clouds grew
thicker, heavier, darker. She thought of Roddy, hiding up in the hills with the
others. She thought of her neighbors, terrified of losing their loved ones to
the dreaded press gang. And she thought of the new horse in the stable, a gift
from Roddy that she had named Booley in honor of Christian’s pony from his
childhood.

A desire to relive painful memories
finally got the better of her. Huddled in the cloak, she hurried across the garden,
saddled the horse, and, once away from the cottage, sent him galloping off toward
the sea.

Night was coming on; mist was
filing in from the ocean, and the shadows of dark clouds trailed over the land.
Recklessly, Deirdre urged the horse faster, not pulling him up until they had
crested the last rocky hill.

There she sat, a pale, ethereal
beauty, her hair whipping around a face dominated by the haunted eyes of a
grieving soul. Far below, the sea swapped kisses with the base of the hill,
thundering and booming and sending up great sheets of spray. She licked her
lips and tasted salt, and drew her cloak more tightly around her.

Then she clawed the wild snarls of
hair from her eyes and gazed out over the ocean.

A half mile out in the bay, a
British warship lay, majestic in all its dread, frightening in all its beauty.
And another, its pale sails furled upon its yards, its anchor cables stretching
down into the sea. And still another, sloop-rigged and nimble, and all but
dwarfed where it lay in the shadow of the fourth and final ship, a mighty,
towering wall of wood pierced by the snouts of what had to be a hundred guns.

Its mastheads seemed to scrape the
bellies of the low-hanging clouds themselves, and from one of those masts flew
the broad pendant of a commodore.

Not just a single warship this
time, but a squadron.

Behind her, a stone, loosened by
the horse’s hooves, skittered down the hill, the sound cleaving the stillness.
Deirdre gave a start and spun around, her skin crawling with the uncanny
feeling that she was being watched.

But there was no one there, and the
wind, peppered with rain, was suddenly cold and damp.

Beneath her, the horse began to
fidget. Then his ears pricked forward, his head lifted, and Deirdre’s breath
caught in her throat, for a boat had been lowered from the flagship, and was
plunging through the breakers toward shore.

She forgot the oncoming storm. She
forgot the approaching darkness. She forgot the feeling that she was being
watched.

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 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 --

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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 four dogs, an Egyptian
Arabian horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her
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on for information about additional titles for your Kindle from Danelle Harmon!

CAPTAIN
OF MY HEART

The
tale of Captain Brendan Jay Merrick and Mira Ashton!

MY LADY PIRATE

WICKED AT
HEART

and…

THE
BESTSELLING, AWARD-WINNING, CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED

DE
MONTFORTE BROTHERS SERIES:

“The
bluest of blood; the boldest of hearts;

the
de Montforte brothers will take your breath away.”

Meet
the dashing and aristocratic De Montforte Brothers by Danelle Harmon:

THE
WILD ONE

THE
BELOVED ONE

THE
DEFIANT ONE

THE
WICKED ONE

and
coming soon to Kindle:

TAKEN
BY STORM (the story of Christian and Deirdre’s son, Colin Lord):

and

PIRATE
IN MY ARMS

~~~~