Master of My Dreams by Danelle Harmon Page B

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