Master of My Dreams by Danelle Harmon

fainting—either from lack of air or from the
strong odors coming from her savior’s unscrubbed body. But they
were going down, and that was all that mattered.
    “He think’s he’s gonna impress his admiral by
straightenin’ us out, but he’s got a thing or two to learn about
us, and we’ve got a thing or two of our own to show the
admiral! You just wait till we set sail, hee-hee-hee!” Skunk
descended as easily as if he were going down a flight of stairs
and Deirdre, opening her eyes the barest slit, breathed a prayer of
relief as the faces of those below grew larger and larger. “Aye,
you wait. We don’t take no rubbish from no one, mark me well.” He
swung himself onto the deck and, kneeling, put her down. “Now, run
along, boy, and don’t let the Lord an’ Master see ye, else he’ll
flay the skin off yer back and smile while doing it.”
    Deirdre needed no urging. Humiliated, and
keenly aware of the smirks, sneers, and taunts of Skunk’s
shipmates, she snatched up her canvas bag and fled forward, where
she melted safely into the group of seamen gathered in the
forecastle. They stared at her as though she had grown a horn in
the middle of her forehead. Finally she found a hatch and ducked
below. Dear God, the ship wasn’t even out of port yet and she was
already in trouble. How on earth would she last the passage to
America?
    But she had no choice.
    Brendan was in America, and he was her only
hope of finding her brother—and the hated British lieutenant who’d
pressed him.
     
    ###
     
    “Get the ship under way, please, Mr.
MacDuff.”
    Captain Lord stood near Bold
Marauder 's great, double-spoked wheel, his hands gripping the
hilt of his sword and his eyes in shadow beneath the brim of his
hat. He emanated authority and discipline, and the Royal Navy
couldn’t have boasted a more capable commander.
    The men hated him.
    His hat, turned up in the back, sporting a
black cockade, and nearly spanning the width of his shoulders, was
edged with gold lace and set smartly atop his head. His blue coat,
its gold buttons winking in the sun, was open to show his
scrupulously clean white waistcoat and breeches. His neckcloth was
smartly tied beneath his chin, his sleeves were frothed with lace,
and not a speck of dust marred the black shine of his buckled
shoes.
    He looked every inch the naval captain that
he was. But only he knew of his trepidation at the thought of his
admiral, and his peers, watching from the shore, the signal tower,
and the decks of other vessels. Some of them, he knew, had delayed
their own departures, obviously unwilling to miss what promised to
be quite the spectacle.
    He tightened his jaw, vowing there would be no spectacle.
    Beside him, his first lieutenant stood,
anxiously watching the anchor party. Christian glanced up at the
snapping masthead pennant and tried to ease the tension between
himself and his first officer. “A fine day to put to sea, eh, Mr.
MacDuff?”
    The lieutenant looked nervous. “Aye, sir,” he
muttered, slinging something over his shoulder.
    Christian turned, frowning. “Pray tell, what is that hellish contraption, Mr. MacDuff?”
    “Bagpipes . . . sir.”
    “And what is their purpose, Lieutenant?”
    “Er, tae make music, sir.”
    “Have they any place in a battle?”
    “No, sir. Not in a sea battle, that is . .
.”
    “Very well, then. I’d prefer that you leave
them in your cabin when you are in the capacity of your
command.”
    “But—”
    “Mr. MacDuff, that is an order.”
    Christian tightened his lips. Bagpipes? By God, what the devil was the Navy coming
to? Shaking his head, he glanced at the sailing master. A heavyset
man, Tom Wenham had great, jutting ears that seemed to hold up his
hat. Several fingers were missing from his left hand, and the tip
of his bulbous nose was raw and sunburned. Beside him stood a
feral-looking lad dressed in the dirty and stained uniform of a
midshipman, a slate in one hand, a pencil in the other.
    Christian put