Master of My Dreams by Danelle Harmon

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