Master of My Dreams

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?”