The decks of HMS Bold Marauder were lonely and dark, with only a few lanterns hung in the shrouds to make a stand against the fog that lay heavily over the harbor. A few idle seamen swilled their grog and bemoaned the absence of Delight Foley. A marine stood leaning against his musket, his eyes scanning the mists, his thoughts far away. Ian MacDuff was the officer of the watch and, to relieve the boredom, had brought out his bagpipes, much to the dismay of those who happened to be on deck with him. For a short time the pipes had honked and croaked and moaned, until the accompanying curses and protests from his shipmates had sent Ian storming off in high Scottish rage.
Now, he stood sulkily beside Skunk on the empty quarterdeck, seeking shelter beneath the dripping tarp that had been rigged against the earlier, drenching rain. Lantern light caught the glimmer of moisture as it trickled down masts and tarred lines, pooled upon booms and yards, and made the decks slippery and treacherous. Skunk pulled his cap down over his grimy forehead and wiped away the moisture with the back of his hand. “Quiet night out there,” he muttered. “Hibbert says the Lord and Master’s still up.”
Ian, shivering in the cold, damp rain that began to leak from the black sky above, cast a quick glance aft. Sure enough, a glow from the skylight confirmed Hibbert’s observation. “Aye, I’d say he is.”
“Somethin’s up, Ian. He’s been silent and keepin’ to himself since he got back from visitin’ the Irish lass. Ye don’t think somethin’ happened between ’em, do ye?”
“I doona ken, Skunk. But ’tis right you are about something being in the air. The Old Fart came aboard this afternoon and he and the captain met in his cabin for over an hour. Evans was eavesdroppin’ outside the door, and said that tomorrow night we’ll see action.”
“Action?”
“Well, I know I shouldnae be tellin’ ye this, it probably being highly confidential and all, but we are shipmates . . .”
Skunk swung around, his eyes eager. “Aw, Ian, just tell me!”
The big Scotsman shrugged. “Well, Gage has his own system of spies, sprinkled throughout Boston and the surrounding countryside. Ye ken, in taverns, inns, pretending tae be friends of the rebels . . .”
“Go on,” Skunk urged, glancing over his shoulder even as Teach and Hibbert, his uniform dull and drooping in the mist, joined them.
“Aye, tell us, Ian!”
The Lord and Master would be furious if he found out that Ian was divulging secrets, but peer pressure overruled Ian’s misgivings. Besides, the crew had long since abandoned their animosity toward the man who treated them with a respect and humanity not often seen in the Royal Navy. They would stand by him, no matter what.
“Well, these spies of Gage’s have learned that the rebels are planning tae smuggle a whole shipment of guns ashore. ’Tis tae happen tomorrow night, off the coast of Salem.” He glanced over at the nearby Halcyon, her riding lights dim in the foggy darkness. “Ye ken how Captain Merrick returned from his patrol tonight? Well, apparently he spied a large merchant vessel in the waters off Cape Ann. He tried tae hail the ship, but she took advantage of the dusk and fled. Kind of suspicious behavior, don’t ye think? Sir Geoffrey thinks her presence only confirms the rumors of an exchange tomorrow night. He wants us to be there to nail the smugglers and catch ‘em in the act.”
“I wonder if it will be the Irish Pirate,” Teach mused, swinging his tomahawk.
“I doona ken. But a dangerous mission ’twill be, whoever the rebels send. I canna imagine they’d entrust the job tae anyone but their best—the Irish Pirate.”
Skunk’s smile was wry. “And I can’t imagine the admiral entrusting our job to anyone but his best.”
As one, they glanced toward the dim glow of the captain’s skylight.
“The Lord and Master.”
###
The ship was nearly empty, for Christian was one of the few captains who trusted his company enough to allow them shore leave. Given the harsh life of the Royal Navy, many seamen deserted ship given the slightest opportunity, but Christian’s humane efforts had earned him the loyalty of his subordinates, men who, not a month past, had wanted nothing more than to make his life hell.
It was a triumph, yes, and so was his success in linking Jared Foley and the Irish Pirate to the rebel leaders. But Sir Geoffrey’s praise for both accomplishments meant nothing to a heart that had stopped beating when Christian had seen the woman he loved in the arms of another man.
He got up and walked across the cabin to the open stern windows, absently rubbing at his sore shoulder. Beyond the glass, he could see nothing but darkness and fog, punctured here and there by the fuzzy glow of lanterns hung in the shrouds of neighboring ships, and, off in the distance, the lights of Boston. There were no stars. There was no horizon. Encased as the area was in a lonely cloak of mist and fog, it was hard to believe that thousands of British troops inhabited the town, trying to keep peace in a situation that was ready to explode into war. It was hard to believe that far beyond the fog, the shoreline, and Boston itself, rebels were secreting stores of arms in the countryside. It was hard to believe that, out to sea, a merchantman waited, carrying a vast shipment of arms—and it was hard to believe that the rebels would entrust anyone but the Irish Pirate to receive that shipment when the exchange was made tomorrow night.
In his heart, Christian knew that he would succeed in apprehending the notorious smuggler. He knew it as surely as he felt the damp tendrils of mist seeping through his clothes, chilling his skin, and making his hair curl damply, thickly, behind his ears and at his nape. But the assurance brought him no triumph, just a hollow, empty feeling of loneliness.
How would she react when he brought down this man who obviously meant the world to her? Would she come to him, begging for his release? Would she practice another form of deceit upon his scarred and wounded heart?
Christian stared out at the soupy blackness beyond the stern windows. His fingers brushed the bench seat where Deirdre had sat, touched the blanket that had once been wrapped around her shoulders. His throat constricted and he closed his eyes, feeling dead and empty and alone. But from behind him came the whines of the puppies as they snuggled together for warmth, and the gentle sounds of Tildy’s tongue as she washed one or two of the tiny, furry backs.
No. Not quite alone. Christian turned and went to them, his eyes sad as he looked down at the little bodies that Deirdre had helped bring into the world. Bending down, he scooped up the runt of the litter, so small that it fit in the palm of his hand, and, tucking the animal beneath the lapel of his waistcoat to warm it, carried it back to his desk.
The puppy nuzzled against him, mewing like a kitten. Its small mouth fastened around his finger, suckling it. Closing his eyes, Christian laid his cheek, stubbled now with bristle, against the tiny head. The fur was soft beneath his lips, sweetly scented and warm.
Like hers.
Emotion rose in his throat. He swallowed hard, and reached for his inkwell and pen. First Emily, and now Deirdre. Both had betrayed him and sought the arms of another. Why? He cuddled the puppy and shut his eyes against the sudden pain. Why?
The puppy licked his chin. Thank God for animals. At least they were faithful and true.
It was too bloody bad that the same couldn’t be said for women.
###
Several miles away, in the little village of Menotomy, the night was cold and raw. Rain fell from the blackened sky, and wind drove the dampness into one’s very bones. But Deirdre, wrapped in a quilt and sitting on the floor beside the open window of her bedroom, rejoiced in it. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was back in Ireland. About the only thing that was missing was the pungent scent of peat fires wafting in the damp air.
Her bag of Irish mementos was at her side, though now, it was nearly empty. The miniature of her mother and the old sliver of wood that had been part of her papa’s boat were carefully arranged on the little stand beside her bed. But apart from them, there was not much left that was from home. She had given the bag of sand and shells from the Connemaran beach to Roddy, and even now her heart warmed at the memory of how his eyes had misted over for the briefest of moments out there in the starlight at her simple but generous gesture. Of Ireland itself, she had only the pebble from the pasture, and the flagon of air left.
Her fingers came up to touch the Celtic cross that never left her neck.
And the legacy of Grace O’Malley.
She gazed off into the darkness, thinking of Christian. Missing him. She had not seen him since he had given her the ring, but just having it on her finger assured her of his love, and was a promise in itself that she would never again be alone.
But oh, what should she do about the awful predicament in which she now found herself?
She touched the ancient cross, trying to draw strength and guidance from it. Should she send word to Christian telling him that her own brother was the Irish Pirate? How would he react? What would he do? Christian was a king’s officer; would he choose his duty to apprehend Roddy over the vow he had made to restore him to her?
No. Surely not. After all, he had promised that he would find her brother and make right the wrong he had done to her family. There was no question in Deirdre’s mind that Christian would do the right thing.
Still . . . to think that Roddy, of all people, was the Irish Pirate. Deirdre was still dazed over the discovery—and very, very frightened. Her brother had not changed much in the years since she’d last seen him; he was still rash and reckless, still full of bravado, still hot-tempered and volatile, but just as easily given to laughter. Such traits could, as the rebel leaders had warned, bring about the downfall of a man whose successes against the British had apparently gone to his head.
Deirdre’s worry increased. Christian was not one of the village lads with whom Roddy used to delight in getting into fist-fights. He was no puffed-up and swaggering braggart who couldn’t see past the tip of his nose. He was no bumbling idiot, no incompetent idler. Christian was one of the finest officers in the king’s Navy, and he commanded a mighty frigate that was fully capable of smashing the little sloop that Roddy would captain tomorrow night when the arms transfer was made.
Only Delight seemed to feel no trepidation over the impending exchange. “Roddy knows what he’s doing, Deirdre,” she’d said when she’d come to apologize for not revealing the Foleys’ rebel tendencies. “This is just one more mission. The Lord and Master knows nothing of it, just as he knows nothing of our involvement with the patriot cause. You just watch. Roddy will get the guns, Adams and Revere and Hancock will meet him on shore, and the cargo will be safely transported to Concord. There is no need to be so scared.”
“I love my brother,” Deirdre had murmured, twisting the ring that weighed so heavily upon her finger. “But I love me future husband, too. And here I am, unable to protect either one of ’em, and stuck in the middle of hostilities between two lands that aren’t my own. Dear God, what a mess.”
“You’re not angry, then, that I never told you we’re rebels?”
“No. But please, don’t try to draw me into yer quibbles with England. I can sympathize with yer plight here in the colonies, for Britain treats yer people no better than she does mine—but the truth of the matter is that I love an Englishman, will marry an Englishman, and to help ye in any way would be to betray the man I love.”
“You’ll have to choose a side,” Delight had replied quietly. “Your betrothed may be a king’s officer, but your brother is a rebel, Deirdre.”
“Aye, and that creates a bit of a problem.” Deirdre had raised her head, and her eyes had shone with pride as she met the gaze of her friend. “But I am Irish. And as such, I’ll stay true to my own heart.”
Her heart—which lay ten miles away, in the cabin of a mighty frigate, in the care of the most wonderful man in the world.
Drawing the quilt around her, she laid her forearms over the damp windowsill, rested her cheek against her wrists, and closed her eyes. Moments later, she was asleep, her little bag of dwindling Irish mementos at her side, Christian’s shirt against her skin, and her face turned toward Boston.