Master of My Dreams by Danelle Harmon Page A

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