Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

Almost immediately there was a sound of lashings being released, of yards creaking to take the strain of canvas unfurling. Nimble sailors shouted exuberantly to one another as they skittered down the guide ropes and moved hand over food like monkeys through the maze of rigging lines. Summer pressed back against the bulkhead and held her breath as she watched the sheets of white canvas blossom open against the stark blue of the sky. The sails seemed to tremble hesitantly as they shook out their wrinkles; then with an exploding crack of energy, they took hold of the wind and curled hard against the spars.

  The Chimera's response was instantaneous. She rose eagerly in her bows and began gliding through the blue water, carving aside a wash of bubbling white foam as she nosed her way toward the open sea.

  Summer forgot the state of her dress as she walked to the deck rail and braced herself against the gentle roll and sway. Her first glimpse of Saint Martin was one of a rapidly shrinking coastline. They had been anchored surprising farther from shore than she would have expected; Wade's suspicious nature had kept them well away from the harbor guns. She could barely see the town, where it nestled in the curve of a shallow bay. The fringe of palm trees was solid green; the beaches were only a trim border of white. A walled garrison capped a promontory of craggy rocks, the shape ominous against the sky.

  "I thought you were told to remain belowdecks," Wade said gruffly.

  "I thought you said the island was inhabited by rebellious slaves."

  "It is. But they tend to leave the French garrison alone."

  Summer turned to face him. "And so? Will you now toss me overboard for disobeying? If that is your intention, kindly do it before the distance becomes too tiring to swim."

  His eyes glowered for a moment, but in the end he simply laughed. "And what would you do once you reached shore, Governess?"

  "I would give myself over to the French commandant, secure in the knowledge of being treated with the utmost courtesy and respect."

  He snorted rather ungallantly. "Oh, you would be treated courteously, indeed. From one bed to the next you would be treated, and when the officers had taken their fill—as unimaginable as that might sound—you would be a treat for the rest of the garrison. It isn't often they find something as sweet and fresh as yourself thrown on their doorstep."

  "The French are not a race of barbarians."

  "Anywhere other than Saint Martin, I might be somewhat inclined to agree with you. But here, they are a unique breed unto themselves."

  "I don't believe you."

  "No? Perhaps you would believe your own eyes then. Have you any knowledge of sea codes?"

  "Whyever would I?"

  "See up there, on the crest of the hill? The large yellow square painted on the garrison walls?" He waited until she whirled angrily and followed his pointing finger. "It is a clear warning, Governess, a caution to all healthy men."

  The huge gray-green eyes reverted to his face.

  "Saint Martin," he explained patiently, "is the home of the French leper colony. It is, consequently, the only French-held territory for hundreds of miles in any direction that neither the British nor the Dutch have troubled themselves to fight over. Even the slaves keep their distance. The soldiers stationed here are the dregs of society, the commandant banished here for crimes against the French government. They are bitter men, having been sentenced to a death watch. They would have no qualms whatsoever in holding you until your flesh rotted and your fingers and toes began to fall off."

  Summer's anger drained away on a shiver of revulsion.

  "However," he added casually, "if you still prefer to take your chances with them, by all means jump ship. Do it before we pass the point, though, for the currents beyond the peninsula are strong and treacherous."

  He insolently touched a forelock and walked back across the maindeck to the ladderway leading up to the bridge.

  "A positively beastly man," Summer muttered under her breath. She wished fervently that she'd had the foresight to tuck the straight razor into her pocket. One slash. One ribbon of blood across that arrogant face would please her no end.

  "Beastly," she muttered again and turned to watch the ship's progress as the crew tacked into the wind. The order was given to crowd on sail and Summer was jostled not once but twice as men brushed past her to clamber up the shrouds. She looked around wondering where the devil Michael had taken himself, then she retreated angrily back through the hatchway and down to the captain's cabin. She passed Thorny in the companionway but did not stop to acknowledge whatever question he asked her. She slammed the door shut behind her and stood with her back pressed to the wood, fighting hard to suppress the urge to scream.

  The fire in the small brazier had gone out. Thorny must have been in to tidy up for the cask had been emptied of the cold bath water and there was a small tray of biscuits and cheese and cold sliced mutton on the desk. Remembering the razor, Summer hurried to the washstand and searched for it, but it was gone. She checked the floor and the desk in case it had fallen or been misplaced, but there was no sign of it. Thorny must have considered the welfare of his captain when he saw the remnants of the sliced shirt and breeches.

  "Cowards," she spat, and snatched up a slice of mutton. She stood at the gallery windows watching Saint Martin fall out of sight. The sound of rushing water and the brilliant sheen of sunlight glinting off the Chimera's wake helped to cool some of the frustration she was feeling. Using Wade's brush, she removed the red ribbon from her hair and kept herself occupied for the next half hour brushing it into glossy, golden waves. She wound it into a thick braid and when she turned to retrieve the ribbon, she noticed that she had thrown it on top of a chart that lay open on Wade's desk.

  The braid forgotten, she leaned over the chart and traced a finger around the squiggles and notations until she found the irregular mass of land marked as Saint Martin.

  The chart itself was a disgrace, water-spotted and wrinkled, with lines crossing every which way over minute pinholes, bold X's, and compass-readings that were scribbled on the parchment. It was apparently Wade's working copy, for there was a second chart beneath it, identical in every detail save there were no markings of any kind on it.

  Her heart completely sank when she found the tiny land mass that was marked Barbados. It seemed so very far away on the chart, even to someone who had no knowledge of how to read one of the wretched things. Moreover, there were so many lines and markings scribbled on the paper, she had no way of determining where he had been or where he was bound.

  Her gaze strayed to the desk itself. It was a massive thing, built in a keyhole style with heavy drawers flanking either side. Again her fingers strayed, tracing across the scarred and marked surface of the wood, tempted by the glaring lack of locks on any of the drawers. Michael had said there was never any proof of Wade's illegal dealings with the French, but even a pirate had to keep records of some sort. How much would Wade trust to memory and how much would he write down in his log book?

  Suppose she could find references in Wade's own handwriting to the fate of the...what was the name of the ship Michael had mentioned? The Reliant! Surely he would have noted the encounter between the two ships, the cargo in her holds, the prize taken after the victory.

  Summer glanced at the unlocked door. How long would she be left alone? Thorny had tidied up. Wade was busy with his ship. Michael was off being...Michael.

  She sat in the deeply padded leather chair and noiselessly slid the wide center drawer open. It was remarkably neat, containing mostly papers, invoices, bills of lading. She shuffled through them carefully, not entirely certain of what she was looking for, only hoping the name Reliant might leap out at her. But there was nothing that even looked suspicious. If anything, it was all very orderly and innocent...too innocent, perhaps?

  Summer found a leather-bound writing tablet and, with another cautionary glance at the door, opened it. The top page of what appeared to be a half-written letter was dated, simply: June. The opening salutation began with a perfunctory: S
tephen. She read it quickly, frowning over the brief greetings, the seemingly endless descriptions of weather they had encountered and forecasts he was predicting for heat and wind. In a neat, slanted script, she learned of the coming sugar cane harvest on Saint Christopher and Wade's concerns that there might be a long, hot drought.

  Weather forecasts? Harvests?

  Summer shrugged and replaced the tablet where she had found it. The second drawer she tried was slightly more rewarding. She found more folded documents, all bearing an official government seal. The first one she opened was in Spanish. Her knowledge of the language was decidedly rudimentary, but she recognized the importance of the seals and signatures that flowed over the bottom half of the page. A second document was similar, only in French. A third was in Dutch. The last two she unfolded were in the king's own English, one bearing the seal of the British Naval offices, the second stamped with what she supposed was the American naval seal.

  These, then, were Wade's letters of marque; his formal permissions to trade in ports held by the respective nations. He had one for each of the predominant countries claiming colonies in the West Indies. A ship's captain might understandably have one or two such permissions in his possession if he conducted regular, legal trade between two sanctioned ports...but five? Discounting the fact that the Americans traded willy-nilly with everyone, regardless of who was arming for war against whom, the various governments were still prickly about breaking trade agreements with other countries.

  Each letter of marque would have cost a tidy fortune to purchase, and each would have come with strict embargoes as to where the goods could be transported and sold—embargoes to which Wade evidently paid little heed.

  Summer was replacing the documents in the drawer when she felt something obstructing the pages deeper inside. She reached to the back of the drawer and her fingers brushed against cold metal. It was a small filigreed cask, the lid beautifully embossed with a family crest. The lion's paw hasp opened with a touch of her thumbnail, but her excitement waned as quickly as it had risen. There was nothing dangerous or mysterious about the three sticks of indigo sealing wax and an ingot of brass bearing the raised impression of a falcon in full wingspread, its claws gripping a highly stylized letter 'G'.

  Summer snapped the hasp closed again and was returning it to the drawer when she paused and angled it toward the brighter light. The coat of arms on the lid depicted two rearing griffins on either side of a shield, which bore the unmistakable cross of St. George. Above the shield was the same falcon that had been tooled onto the stamp. It was a magnificently regal crest and an unusual combination of elements that normally signified nobility.

  Nobility? She scoffed and guessed that the only noble thing Wade could be credited with was saving the case and seal from a watery grave. No doubt it was pillaged from some unfortunate ship that had crossed his path.

  She replaced the box and the letters of marque and was reaching down to try the third drawer when she felt an ominous prickle along her spine.

  "I see you have found a way to occupy your time."

  Morgan Wade was leaning casually against the doorjamb, his arms folded across his chest. How long he had been standing there, Summer had no idea, but the expression on his face gave every indication he was prepared for blood sport.

  "I...was just sitting here and...and..."

  "And you thought as if you might as well see if there was anything worthwhile to steal?"

  Summer blinked in shock. "No! No, I wasn't looking to steal anything."

  "I'm glad to hear it. The penalty for theft on board my ship involves a rather lengthy trial with a filleting knife."

  She blanched further. "I told you, I was not trying to steal anything. I was just looking...for paper. And ink. I was going to compose a letter to Sir Lionel."

  "And tell him what?"

  She moistened her lips. "That his son is alive...and unharmed. I was also trying to see where we were on this chart."

  "You already know where we are," he said with maddening insolence.

  "Saint Martin is just a name to me. I have no idea where it is."

  Wade tilted his dark head and regarded her for a long moment, clearly amused by her feeble excuses. "So you read charts, do you, Governess? You know all about latitude and longitude?"

  "I am not completely ignorant, sir. Although it could be painfully easy to become so, given the company I find myself forced to keep at present."

  His grin was crooked. "Clever and sharp-witted. I cannot say as I find comfort in my women being either one."

  "I am not your woman, mores to thank for that. And if cleverness and wit sour you, I shall do my utmost to excel at both."

  Wade's grin remained in place, but his gaze flicked to the center drawer and darkened when he saw the corner ajar. "I hope you were not bored with your reading...while you were searching for paper."

  "Outraged, perhaps. Not bored."

  "And what, pray, has outraged you this time?"

  "Your total lack of conscience and scruples for one thing. You apparently think nothing of dealing with the French and Spanish and Dutch as freely as you deal with the English."

  "It is called the freedom to trade with whomever we choose, madam."

  "It is called treason to deal with an enemy for profit," she countered.

  "In case you haven't noticed, I fly the Stars and Stripes. America is not at war with any of the countries you mentioned."

  "But her roots lie in England. England's enemies should be your enemies."

  "My dear Ignorant, if there is any country we should be looking to as our enemy, it is almighty Britannia. We have already had to fight once to prove we no longer want John Bull's rule as our own, and it is beginning to look as if we shall have to do so again."

  "You would see your country declare war on England? You would fight over a few measly pounds of profit?"

  "Hardly a few," he said dryly and pushed away from the wall. "And yes, I would fight any country and any ship that tried to dictate who I may and may not conduct my business with."

  "Business?" she arched an eyebrow. "Is it called business, then, to kidnap helpless women and children and hold them against their will?"

  His broad grin returned. "I'm not holding you, Governess. You are free to leave my ship any time you wish."

  She scowled at his sarcasm. "And where is Michael? What have you done with him?"

  "I have done nothing with him other than see he is kept occupied and out of the way of my crew."

  "Kept occupied? Are you forcing him to work?"

  "I am not forcing him to do anything. He has been watching Thorny repair sails for the past hour or so...of his own accord."

  "Mr. Thorntree's influence is not exactly what Sir Lionel Cambridge has in mind for his son's education."

  "For all anyone knows, the pair of you drowned in the storm and lie at the bottom of the sea."

  "A fact which makes you doubly cruel and heartless, sir," she said, tipping her chin up defiantly. "Sir Lionel is not a well man. How do you think the news will affect his health when he hears that his only son is drowned?"

  "Perhaps it will improve his disposition when he then hears the boy is alive. Whether he thanks me for returning you or not remains to be seen. I cannot see that your temperament would be of any benefit to anyone's health."

  Summer's lips pinched together. "There is nothing wrong with my temperament, sir."

  "For an alley cat, no. Or a spoiled child."

  Summer blew out an exasperated breath. There was no sense arguing with the man; he was baiting her and enjoying it. Michael's bright idea was beginning to tarnish badly, for as a governess she would have to recognize her own expendability and suffer the brigand's wretched humor in silence. She balled her fists and with a visible effort bit back any further comment.

  She was less successful keeping the dark green daggers out of her eyes, and Wade had the distinct impression she would have carved him into pieces given the chance. He bristled
slightly under the glare, his skin almost feeling like the blades were dragging along his flesh, so much so he almost jumped when a knock came to the door

  "Come," he barked.

  Thorny poked his head through the doorway. "I come ter see 'bout victuals. An' I brung yer rum."

  "Set it on the sideboard," Wade said. "I'll take my meal in here. Find the lad and send him down; he'll join us."

  "Aye, Cap'n." He set a thick-necked green bottle on the sideboard then cleared away the few items that cluttered the top of the dining table.

  Wade glanced up over the flame he held to the tip of a fresh cigar. "Tell Mr. Monday I'll be taking the eight o'clock watch."

  "Aye, right the way. Supper'll be 'ere in a lick."

  Wade waited till Thorny left, then crossed to the sideboard and selected two crystal glasses from one of the wire-fronted cabinets on the wall. Summer watched as he filled both with rum and held one out to her.

  "No, thank you. I do not drink harsh spirits."

  He grinned around the cigar clamped between his teeth. "Maybe you should. It might relax your spine a bit."

  "My spine is quite relaxed," she retorted. "If it was any more so, I fear your attempts at witty repartee would put me to sleep."

  Wade set the glass on the desk in front of her with a slightly impudent bang, then exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke. She coughed and stood up, fanning the air and turning to face one of the open gallery windows. The soft rush of sea air teased some loose strands of her hair forward over her shoulders, but did nothing to ease the discomfort of feeling his dark eyes boring into her.

  Wade, conversely, was enjoying her discomfort immensely. Her hair, washed clean of the dull film of salt, had dried into fine strands of pale blonde silk. It hung in a messy attempt at a braid halfway down her back, the ends bound by a scrap of red ribbon. With the light behind her, the oversized clothes did absolutely nothing to conceal the various curves and contours of her body; if anything they emphasized the trimness of her waist, the firm ripe roundness of her breasts and hips.

  Wade drained his glass and was pouring another just as Michael Cambridge came knocking on the door. Summer ran instantly to his side. She started to hug him, but caught herself in time and instead, squeezed his shoulders affectionately, as a governess might, and hoped he could read the reason for her restraint.