Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  "No? I would call working in the bilges fairly risky business."

  "In the bilges?"

  "You don't think you are along for a free ride, do you? The Chimera was caught in the same storm as the Vixen. We took some damage to the keel. Nothing too serious. We have managed to repair the worst of it, but the pumps will have to be manned, and since I am shorthanded..."

  Summer stiffened and snatched her hands out of his grasp. "You would put me to work like a...like a galley slave?"

  "Come now, no need to get too dramatic. Think of it as you and the boy earning your passage to port."

  "Earning—? Michael—? You would dare put Michael Cambridge to work in a ship's bilge?"

  "If I would dare to put you there, I see no reason why the lad should be treated otherwise."

  "But...but he is Sir Lionel Cambridge's son! He is the governor's son! You cannot treat him like a common sailor."

  The mocking smile returned. "You still question what I can and cannot do on this ship, Governess? Perhaps my lesson wasn't thorough enough?"

  He leaned closer and she leaned an equal distance back, her eyes going wide again. "I do not doubt your authority amongst your men for a moment, Captain Wade," she said quickly. "But would it not be to your benefit if, when Michael is ransomed home, he is able to testify that he was treated with respect and care?"

  Wade abruptly lost interest in the plump half-moons straining against the front of her shimmy. "Ransom? Now where did that lofty idea come from?"

  "Do you deny it, sir? Why else would you not set us ashore immediately."

  "I told you why."

  The look she gave him rivalled his own for insincerity. "Yes, and I believed every word."

  "I am not in the habit of lying, Governess." His voice was low and silky and the warning chill was back in his eyes. She did not flinch from his gaze, however. Indeed, she held it until the blue of his eyes seemed to freeze clear through to her spine. It was only when she discovered that she could not breathe that she faltered and lowered her lashes.

  The strong, even teeth appeared in a grin. "By God, you are an obstinate creature," he murmured. "And too outspoken for the good of your hide. You had best mend your ways, Governess. Curb that tongue of yours, or I will be obliged to do it for you."

  "Then you are refusing to set us ashore?" she whispered.

  "I confess you have intrigued me. I think I shall hold on to you a while longer."

  "And...and the manner of your holding? Will you truly force us to work for our passage?"

  Several moments passed before she heard a deep, rumbling laugh. "Rest easy, Governess. I hardly think the results would be worth the effort."

  He moved away from the side of the bed and she stole several peeks as he shoved his arms into a black woolen coat and tucked several cigars into the pocket. Her hands were sleek with the unguent but the pain was considerably diminished and she was able to slowly draw the quilt back up and around her shoulders, restoring a modicum of modesty.

  She heard the deep chuckle again and knew he had been watching the gesture.

  "You're welcome, by the way."

  "For what?"

  The grin broadened. "Not raping you."

  She looked up sharply.

  "The crew will assume I have, of course, and they will be wanting their share. For your own sake," he added, "I would highly recommend you stay put."

  He unlocked the door and left the cabin without another word. Summer waited until the sound of his boots faded along the companionway. When she was well and truly certain he was gone, she gave way to a huge, all encompassing shudder then covered her face with her hands and wept.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was well over an hour before Summer's anxious pacing was again disturbed, this time by Thorny. His arrival was preceded by much dragging and scraping of wood on wood, and she nearly wept to see it was only a small sawed-off oak cask that he and another crewman maneuvered through the narrow door.

  "Don't know 'ow ye did it, lass, but the cap'n said as 'ow an empty rum barrel would do ye for a bat'. Ye're a small enough t'ing so ye might fit."

  "Oh, thank you, Mr. Thorntree. And please...thank the captain."

  He grumbled by way of a response, then spied the empty platter on the desk. It was cleaned of even the smallest trace of a crumb.

  "Keep eatin' like that, lass," he cackled, "we'll have to get ye a bigger barrel next time."

  "Once I started, I couldn't stop," she admitted with a blush. "I'm afraid I haven't left anything for Michael."

  Thorny pushed and pulled at the cask until he had it near the small pot-bellied brazier. He selected a handful of coals from a metal tin and made a show of building a fire in the stove.

  "Cook is b'ilin' up some water now. Won't take but a nip."

  "Thank you."

  "As fer yer brither, ee's not shy when it comes to 'is belly, never ye worry there, miss. Ee's been hoverin' round Cook like a lapdog since long afore ye woke up."

  "I trust he is not making a nuisance of himself."

  "Nah. Full o' questions, mind, but none 'ave swatted 'im away yet, not even the Cap'n."

  "Indeed," she said coldly. "I should think it would serve his purpose to keep his hostages happy and well fed."

  Thorny worked his jaw furiously, frowning and scratching his bristly pate until the strain proved too much.

  "Cap'n Wade, now, ee's not arf bad, not truly. Ee 'as a temper on 'im, I'd be the first to admit that, but—"

  Summer interrupted, her lips tingling with a reminder of how brutishly and contemptuously Morgan Wade had forced a kiss upon them.

  "Please do not insult me further by trying to paint the man with bright colors. His behavior thus far toward two ship-wrecked survivors has been nothing short of deplorable."

  "Wa-a-ll now, I wouldn't go that far, miss. Ee's given ye 'is cabin an' ee's sent ye down this ripe fine bat'."

  "A bath that reeks of spirits, and a cabin I am advised to remain locked inside lest I run the risk of being ravaged by the entire crew. Both fall sadly short of praiseworthy comment, Mr. Thorntree, as does his behavior toward two British subjects who have already endured enough of a nightmare to haunt them through the rest of their lives."

  Thorny sucked in his cheeks, which made the stubble on his jaw stick out like porcupine quills. "I'll just go an' fetch that water fer ye, miss."

  "And soap."

  "Eh? Aye...aye, I'll see what we 'ave. Seems ter me there were sum'mit smelled suspicious like it down below in the stores."

  "Mr. Thorntree?"

  He stopped at the door and mumbled under his breath before he turned back. "Aye?"

  Some of the stiffness relented from her shoulders. "I am sorry if anything I said or did this morning caused you unwarranted trouble with your captain. I should not be taking my anger out on you. You have been very kind and helpful so far."

  The wizened old sailor blushed up to the roots of his hair. "Bah, no trouble, lass. The cap'n had ripe fine larf, ee did. Right. Be back in a twitch."

  Summer stared at the closed door. "A good laugh," she muttered, the indignation returning with a flush. She would see who laughed last when the full brunt of the Royal Navy bore down upon his puny ship. She intended to report every infraction, every ill-spoken word, every insult inflicted upon herself and Michael, though she could hardly think where to begin.

  Her anger remained at a healthy simmer until Thorny returned with two buckets, slopping hot, steamy water over the brims. He emptied them into the cask and produced a small wedge of hard soap from the pocket of his canvas breeches.

  "Filched it, I did," he said, winking. "Off'n a lad what misses 'ome and likes ter smell o' roses."

  "Thank you. Will you reach the key down for me?"

  "Eh? The key?"

  "For the door. It is on the top shelf of the bookcase. Unless of course you prefer I drag furniture in front of it to barricade myself in. I wish to ensure that my bath will go undisturbed."

  Tho
rny frowned, but he retrieved the brass key from its perch. "N'owt much privacy on board a ship, lass."

  "I am painfully aware of that Mr. Thorntree. Oh, and—"

  Thorny rolled his eyes as he paused at the door...again. "Aye?"

  "Will you please find Michael and tell him I wish to see him in short order?"

  "Ee's topside, watchin' the Frenchies take their pound o' flesh."

  "The Frenchies?"

  "Aye. They wanted a couple 'undredweight o' Cap'n Wade's cargo ter let us in the 'arbor fer repairs. Smacks o' piracy if'n ye ask me, but the cap'n didn't 'ave much choice. We was takin' on too much seawater ter make a fair run 'ome."

  "Exactly where are we, Mr. Thorntree?"

  "Ye know these 'ere islands?"

  "Not well, I'm afraid."

  "Mmm. Wa-a-ll, I reckon it wouldn't do no 'arm fer ye ter know we be off Saint Martin."

  "Saint Martin," she repeated softly. She tried to remember her geography, but all she could think of was the immediate area around Barbados. There were so many islands, so many with similar names and so many that changed hands and nationalities so often, depending on who attacked and who held strong, it was difficult to keep track one year to the next. Saint Martin was obviously north, but how far?

  Summer scarcely noticed Thorny leaving. She twisted the brass key in the lock and hung it on a carved notch in the jamb, wondering as she did so why the island's name was still ringing a nagging little bell in the back of her mind. Something about it she should recall...but what? The fact it was in the hands of the French hardly gave her a moment's pause. An American privateer or a French governor—she and Michael were hostages either way. The difference would be the time involved in negotiating a return to Bridgetown. There were always prisoner exchanges taking place throughout the islands. As soon as Father heard they were alive and awaiting rescue, he would move heaven and earth to have them home, regardless of the monetary demands.

  Furthermore, the French were gentlemen. The daughter and son of the British governor of Barbados would be treated with every courtesy available. Not like this—she looked around the stark, masculine cabin, devoid of anything so frivolous as a rug underfoot or a curtain across the gallery windows.

  Summer dropped the quilt from her shoulders and touched her fingertips to the water in the cask. It was hot, but not unbearably so, and she stripped off her skimpy underpinnings and stepped in quickly, slender enough to be able to sink to her knees and take advantage of the heat the water afforded. The rising steam smelled strongly of the rum the cask had once held, and the edges were raw enough to suggest it had recently been sawed in half to meet her demands.

  She sighed and ladled several pitchers full of water over her head. The soap earned a distasteful wrinkle of her delicate nose, but it lathered well enough and, when rinsed from her hair, left it considerably cleaner than when she started. Twice she soaped her body, scrubbing with a rough scrap of towel until she was pink and tingling. She found several bruises to explain the aches she felt in her limbs and hips, and she nearly wept to see the perfect whiteness of her flesh bearing such ugly marks.

  When she finished scrubbing, she simply sat in the milky water and let it cool around her, paying no mind to the time slipping away tick by tick on the gold timepiece on the desk.

  It was the sound of the ship's bell jangling the end of a watch that finally roused her sufficiently to leave the tub. She dried herself with a blanket, then sat down to shake her hair dry in front of the stove while she contemplated what to do about clothing. She had rinsed her smock and pantaloons in the bathwater and hung them over a chair to dry, but she needed something other than the quilt to wear in the interim.

  Bolstering her nerve with a resolute breath, she opened one of the captain's huge sea chests. It was stuffed full of papers, books, maps...useless to her. In the second, she found what she was looking for: several cambric shirts, some breeches, a leather jerkin, and two rather fancy frockcoats, all folded far more neatly than she would have expected in a man's care.

  She chose the shirt that looked the least like one of the ship's sails, though when she slipped it over her head, the hem still floated well below her knees. The shoulders were midway to her elbows, and the cuffs of the sleeves hung a foot or more below her hands. The neckline was fastened by a crisscross lacing which ran up the front of the shirt, but even though she tugged the thongs as tight as she could, there were still gaps of bare flesh peeking through from her collarbone to her waist. Chewing her lip thoughtfully, Summer took the straight razor she found amongst Wade's toiletries and solved the problem of the sleeves with two swift slashes. A third shortened the length of the hem.

  The breeches were hardly better—worse, in fact, for when she stepped into them and pulled them high to her waist, she could not help thinking she was stepping into a garment Morgan Wade had worn next to his skin. The image made her flush and she was quick to push the memory of his long, taut legs out of her mind. She performed more surgery with the razor and, after wrapping a leather belt twice around her waist, was able to secure it tightly enough to keep the breeches from sliding down to her knees.

  All of this made the burns on her palms ache like the very devil himself.

  Wade had left Thorny's pot of unguent on the washstand and it was when she went to fetch it that she caught sight of herself in the small, square mirror that sat beside the jug of water. The shock of seeing herself for the first time was enough to make her drop the mirror into the washbasin. Aside from the smudges beneath her eyes caused by the fear and worry, there was an enormous, purple and blue bruise down one whole half of her face. There was a scratch running down the center of the bruise where something had struck her or where she had rolled up against something rough in the fall from the Sea Vixen. It distorted the left side of her face and jaw, and with her wet, tangled hair sticking out of her head like a rat's nest, it made her look like one of the trulls who hawked fish along the London waterfront.

  For one irrational moment, she was thankful it had not been the Caledonia that had found them, thankful Bennett Winfield did not have to see her like this.

  Fresh hot tears flooded her eyes and welled over her lashes. She had always been pampered and treated like a rare, exquisite china doll. Her every whim had been catered to; she had never been without servants, never even had to dress herself let alone worry how to untangle the mass of yellow hair that hung halfway down her back. She had been the toast of London society. She had been to Court three times! She had flirted with and won the hearts of some of the wealthiest, most influential men in England. Why, oh why had she ever left?

  Now she was hostage on board a smuggler's ship. She was held captive by a man who threatened her with rape and bilges and rats...and no wonder! He thought her to be the governess of a rich man's son, but she looked the part of a wharfside doxy; more so now in breeches and a shirt ten times too big. Oh, how he would laugh if he discovered she was Summer Cambridge, daughter to the governor, third cousin to the king's first council.

  Oh! How others would laugh and gossip and whisper vicious rumors if it was discovered that Sir Lionel's daughter had been taken captive by an infamous privateer. Such a scandal would rock the family to its foundation, not to mention the harm it might do to her relationship with Bennett Winfield. If Summer knew nothing else about her prospective groom, she knew his back was too stiff, his lips too rigid to ever endure a whisper of impropriety concerning his future bride.

  No. Morgan Wade must not discover her true identity. Rumors concerning a governess would hardly cause a ripple of interest and would be forgotten an instant after they were whispered.

  Shaken by this newfound fear, she took a further liberty and used the privateer's silver-backed brush on her hair until it was free of tangles and hung in a straight, damp mass down her back. There were no pins or combs of any kind to keep it from scattering around her shoulders, but she salvaged a length of red silk ribbon from her smock and used it to tie her hair into a thick tail
at the nape of her neck. That done, she finished tending to her hands, applying the soothing unguent and wrapping them lightly in strips of cambric cut from the discarded hem of the shirt.

  Feeling slightly less naked and vulnerable, she unlocked the cabin door and replaced the key on the top of the shelf. She inched open the door and, seeing no armed guards in the gloomy companionway, she tiptoed out and climbed the brief flight of wooden steps to the sunlit main deck.

  Her courage suffered a momentary lapse when the first thing she saw was a long row of black, dully gleaming cannon crouched behind their closed gunports like silent lions. There were twelve of the monsters down each side of the deck, giving the Chimera an inordinate amount of firepower. The Sea Vixen had mounted eight guns all told, including two small bow chasers, and the captain had declared her to be fearsome.

  Summer stepped clear of the hatchway and examined the rest of the ship. Above and behind her was the quarterdeck; ahead were the forecastle and bridge. Three towering masts rose high overhead, strung with a maze of rigging and ratlines, thick oak spars holding bundles of reefed canvas. Judging by the activity around her, Wade was indeed in a hurry to leave port. There were men scrambling up and down the rigging, men working with hammer and nails, men shouting to other men higher up, across, below. All three masts were a buzz of carpentry and confusion.

  Summer heard the distinctive rumble of Wade's voice issuing commands. She craned her neck to see around the mainmast and located him easily where he stood on the bridge. The breeze was blowing crisply out to sea and his black hair was being whipped to and fro as he turned to bark orders to the crew. He paced slowly from one side of the bridge to the other, the dark blue eyes seeming to dart everywhere at once.

  Summer saw him nod and say something to the huge negro who stood beside him. She vaguely recalled the black giant from the first night when she and Michael had been pulled from the sea. He nodded to acknowledge the captain's command and cupped his ham-like hands around his mouth, bellowing an order to cut loose the main and steering sails.