Master of My Dreams (4 page)

“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.”