Master of My Dreams by Danelle Harmon Page A

his hands behind his back and
rocked on his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ian
MacDuff eyeing him nervously and stroking his beard, as though
fearful that it would meet the same fate as Teach’s. MacDuff had
damned good reason to be nervous. As the frigate’s
second-in-command, he should be setting an example, not provoking
more rebelliousness. Facial hair would not be tolerated—and
neither would that outlandish Scottish garb.
    Sudden anger inflamed Christian. By God, this
was the Navy, not a damned circus show!
    But he would wait until they were at sea
before addressing the matter of Ian’s beard—as well as Hibbert’s
filthy uniform and a score of other outrages he’d already noted in
his log. Weighing anchor and getting the ship under way was a
delicate enough operation without further complicating matters by
alienating his first officer. And as for the crew itself . . . they
hated him now, yes, and they’d probably hate him even more once
they got away from England and the ocean rolled beneath their
keel.
    Not that it bothered him, for he was not a
man who courted friendship or popularity. For now, all that
mattered was getting Bold Marauder safely away from
Portsmouth without mishap in sight of his acquaintances, his peers,
or—God forbid—his admiral.
    His apprehension built. The wind was blowing
fresh, and it wouldn’t take much to land Bold Marauder in
trouble—literally. He laced his fingers together behind his back
and took a deep breath. Forward, the anchor was nearly hove short,
the men swearing and straining at the capstan, the great cable
thundering and clanking through the hawseholes. A bosun’s mate
stood astride the bowsprit, his greasy pigtail whipping in the cold
wind, one hand wrapped around a stay, the other circling in
indication of how much cable was left to bring in.
    Suddenly the man raised his hand, and Rhodes,
who’d been supervising the capstan party, yelled, “Anchor’s hove
short, sir!”
    Christian gave the barest perceptible nod. He
glanced quickly at the signal tower on the shore, where flags
fluttered in the wind, giving him permission to proceed.
    Yes, they are all watching. The whole damned
harbor . . .
    “Bring it in,” he commanded.
    But something was wrong. He knew it even as
the men at the capstan heaved, swore, and glanced in mock confusion
at each other. He knew it even as he heard several amused guffaws.
And he knew it even as he saw several seamen exchange glances and
turn away to hide their sudden smirks.
    Above, the wind blew impatiently, and out of
the corner of his eye Christian saw the flash of sunlight against a
telescope from shore.
    “Is there a problem, Mr. Rhodes?”
    Rhodes turned, a helpless look on his face
that was directly at odds with the glint in his eye. “Uh, the
anchor seems to be fouled, sir.”
    Bloody hell. Christian closed his eyes
and mentally went through a vocabulary of much bluer naval
language. “Are you certain, Mr. Rhodes?”
    The lieutenant was peering over the bulwarks.
Christian heard the crew snickering, and his apprehension turned to
raw fury.
    Sabotage.
    Rhodes straightened up, feigning innocence.
“Aye, sir,” he called. “Seems to be caught on something.”
    Silence, with only the wind and the lap of
the waves. Christian thought of those who were watching: Sir
Elliott . . . the men in the signal tower . . . the hundreds of
spectators, as well as other captains, officers, and seamen in and
around Portsmouth Harbor and Spithead—
    “Your orders, sir?” Rhodes called, with a
seemingly benign smile.
    The embarrassment of losing an anchor
couldn’t have come at a worse time, and there were only two things
he could do: either delay his departure and try to retrieve it, or
cut the cable and get the hell out of there.
    He thought of all the eyes watching from
shore, from the other ships, and wasted no time on a decision.
    “Hands aloft to loose tops’ls.”
    From below the quarterdeck rail, he