He looked changed somehow in the few short hours since she had last seen him. The ever-present smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose had expanded to cover both cheeks. His eyes were bright and clear, his complexion ruddy with a slight sunburn. His smile was wider than one would expect to see on a boy forced to toil unmercifully on a pirate crew. The rounded hazel eyes flicked over to Wade and were so full of awe for the infamous privateer that Summer wanted to shake him.
"Good evening, Captain Wade," he said formally. "Thank you for the invitation to supper."
"No trouble, boy. In fact, you can save me some trouble by telling your governess here that we haven't whipped you into servitude. She seems to think I have sent you slaving belowdecks like a Moorish half-caste."
Michael looked at Summer and, if possible, his eyes grew even rounder and brighter. "Oh no. They're being ever so jolly nice to me. Thorny...er, Mr. Thorntree has taught me how to stitch canvas and tomorrow he says I may even be allowed to splice ropes and help him repair rigging lines."
Wade arched an eyebrow at Summer. "Satisfied?"
A voice bellowed out in the companionway, "W'hup ho!" and Thorny pushed his way into the cabin burdened under the weight of a large tray. He spied Michael first and grinned, displaying his two peg teeth. "I 'ope yer 'ungry, lad. Ripe fine victuals Cook prepared."
"Famished," Michael admitted eagerly.
"Good. We'll fix up some lard on them bones o' yers afore too long. Sea air, good victuals an' clean bowels, lad. That'll 'eal up whatever ails ye."
Summer had more or less decided not to share anything with Wade, let alone a meal, but the aroma from the two covered crocks Thorny set on the table launched an assault on her senses that flooded her mouth and set her belly rumbling. Two more sailors had followed Thorny into the cabin bearing plates and platters, and by the time they left and the table was laid out, her capitulation was complete.
Wade took a seat at the head of the table. Summer, playing her role of governess, held back any comments about his manners, but smiled when Michael held her chair for her then took a seat opposite.
Wade drew on his cigar and waved a hand absently. "Go ahead, Governess. Portion it out."
Summer moistened her lips. "Pass the plates, Michael please."
Biscuits, soft and fluffy, were in the first crock when she lifted the lid. She removed the second lid and felt a wave of dizziness sweep through her as she saw and smelled the rich mutton stew. There was a big wheel of yellow cheese, a bowl of stewed vegetables, two kinds of fish and pickled sweetmeats. She filled a plate with selections of everything for Morgan Wade and placed it in front of him. He watched her like a big cat might watch a mouse, never taking his eyes off her face until she leaned forward to settle his plate. A flick sent the dark eyes down to where her shirt...his shirt...had gaped open slightly to give a glimpse of pale, soft flesh beneath.
He drew a deep breath and snuffed out the stub of his cigar. When he picked up his fork and made to dive into the food, Summer paused, not quite finished ladling the stew onto Michael's plate.
"Do you not give thanks, Captain, for the bounty you receive?"
He hesitated only briefly before biting off a chunk of biscuit sopped in gravy. "God and I are not exactly on speaking terms. The bounty I receive, I catch or kill myself."
Summer passed Michael his plate, then put a biscuit and a small helping of stew on her own. She then folded her hands on her lap and bowed her head; a cool glance bade Michael to do likewise, for there was a decided limit to how much heathen behavior she would allow.
While Wade chewed and watched, Summer and Michael murmured a prayer of thanks, with Summer deliberately adding softly whispered hopes to be reunited soon with home and family.
Wade refilled his glass.
Summer tasted a spoonful of the gravy and found it well worth the tantalizing aroma. It was thick and heavily spiced; the mutton was tender and the vegetables succulent. She ate every last morsel despite her resolve, and only wished she had taken a larger portion. Across the table, Michael's plate was so clean she doubted it would require washing, and, at Wade's insistence, he heaped it full again. Neither of them had had food this savory since leaving New Providence. The cook on board the Sea Vixen had believed firmly in salted beef, cod, and pickled eggs.
Thorny had brought a large bottle of wine with the meal and after first refusing to partake, Summer made no objection when Wade casually reached over and filled their glasses. The rich red Madeira, like the food, was delicious and Summer found it so soothing after the strenuous day that she drained two goblets full and nursed a third.
Michael had broken down early in the meal and between mouthfuls plied the privateer with questions about his ship. How many cannon did she carry? (Thirty-eight, spread over two decks.) Were they all the same?" (Long guns and carronades, four bow-chasers, he explained. Different weights, different ranges.) Had he sunk many ships, been in many battles? (A fair share, he admitted.) Had he fought any British ships?
"Michael!" Summer looked at him aghast, but Wade only laughed.
"In an all-out battle, no," he said. "But the revenuers do tend to chase me around the Caribbean a good deal."
"What would you do if a warship opened fire on you?"
"Why would a British warship open fire on me?"
"Well...one does hear stories, sir."
Wade leaned back and lit another cigar.
"What kind of stories?" he asked easily.
"Jolly good ones, for the most part. They say you are not much better than a pirate. That you're responsible for a great many of the ships that are waylaid and have their cargoes stolen. That you hide behind your country's flag and use it as an excuse to buy guns and contraband then run it through the blockades to the colonies. They say you are helping build up provisions for war."
"They say all that, do they?" Wade mused.
"Oh yes. And a great deal more. Father says you cannot get away with it much longer. He says the Colonies will have to choose soon who to declare as their allies, England or France, and if they choose wrong, it will be belly-up for the lot of you."
Michael heard a gasp and glanced over at Summer but she was too shocked to do more than stare back.
"Well, that is what Father says."
Wade grinned. "And which side does he think we'll choose?"
Michael bit his lip and answered with slightly less enthusiasm. "France. He says you have too many war birds in your congress for you to ever reach a peaceful agreement with Britain."
"I believe the term is 'war hawks', and he is undoubtedly right about that. However, it is not just us, boy. Too many men on both sides of the ocean want to fight."
"Then you agree...you think we shall soon be at war?"
"Both sides are stubborn. Both are convinced they are superior. I can see no other end to it."
Michael digested this and frowned. "Will you fight us? If it comes to war, will you fight us?"
Wade studied the boy's earnest expression. "Well, lad, I have always taken life one stride at a time. War could be two, three...ten years down the wind yet, and I cannot say what my inclinations would be."
"Aside from profit," Summer murmured under her breath. If Wade heard, he gave no indication for Michael was still demanding his attention.
"You have not said, sir, what you would do if a British man-of-war were to intercept us tomorrow."
"They would have to get close enough to do so first," Wade answered with a smirk. "The Chimera is a high-spirited lady with a high-spirited crew and she can outrun any ship the British can put against her. But that aside, yes. If I was fired upon by a British ship, I would most certainly fire back without a minute's hesitation. Just as I would fire on the French or the Spanish or anyone else who tried to get in my way and stop me from going about my business. You might bear that in mind if you are hoping...or praying...to see a friendly sail on the horizon. We are in open water now. There are no rules out here as far as private merchant ships
go; any and all of us are fair game, not just for revenuers."
"You mean the Chimera could be attacked by other privateers?"
"There are some who might try," he nodded. "But I rather think it would be the other way around."
Michael blinked, his awe firmly restored. "You would attack another ship if you saw one?"
"If the mood was on me, aye."
"Honestly?" Michael leaned forward excitedly. "A real sea battle? Oh...jolly good!"
"Michael, that will be quite enough," Summer said through her teeth.
"Oh, but—"
"Michael!"
His face fell and his eyes turned down to his lap. "Yes ma'am."
Wade studied both of them as the silence stretched out to fill a full two minutes. In the end, he was the first to move, pushing his chair back and standing. He shut and latched the gallery windows to seal out the dampness, then lit the brass lanterns, one on his desk, one suspended from the central beam in the ceiling.
"I'm due up on the bridge," he said. "I will send someone in to clear away the dishes."
"Captain Wade?"
He paused at the door and looked back over his shoulder.
Summer blushed slightly. "I...just wanted to thank you for supper. And...and to apologize if Michael was too forward."
He grunted a dismissal and carried on out into the darkened companionway, leaving a thin finger of cigar smoke trailing in his wake.
Michael waited until the sound of his boots faded, then leaned forward with a conspiratory grin. "Well? I got the bounder to admit he would open fire on the Royal Navy."
Summer leaned forward an equal distance, her voice a furious whisper. "You got him to admit he would return fire...something any ship's captain would do. And why on earth were you hounding him about his motives and intentions? Calling him a pirate? Accusing him of hiding behind his flag? Have you completely lost your senses?"
"Just look at what we will be able to tell Father when we are rescued. No one, apart from her crew, has ever been on the Chimera during one of her voyages."
"You mean no one has ever survived to tell."
"Oh, but we will. We will be able to tell all about her cannons and her men, what he carries on all three decks...his strengths, his weaknesses. The crew likes me. They have given me free run of the ship and I have already managed to peek into most of the cargo holds. But most importantly, Father says the revenuers have tried countless times to follow him to his home port but they always lose him in the islands. Wouldn't it just be a treat if we could take that information home?"
"You want to play at spies," she said, slumping back in her chair. "With the most dangerous brigand in the Indies. Are you certain you are only twelve years old?"
Michael grinned and stuck his finger into the empty stew pot. He sucked at the traces of gravy then set about swabbing the crock clean with the last of the biscuits.
CHAPTER FIVE
Summer shifted uncomfortably on the wooden chair, grumbling as a slender thigh found little relief against the hard round spindles.
Captain Morgan Wade dripped melted wax on the last of the dispatches he had written, then pressed the brass seal into the semi-solid blob, leaving behind the impression of a falcon in full wingspread. He tested the hold of the wax and, satisfied, slipped the letter into a bundle with four others. Instead of returning them to the drawer, he took the bundle, along with the seal and the leather-bound writing tablet, and locked them away in a cabinet behind his desk. Noting Summer's squirmings, he pulled his log book forward and started jotting down the day's events.
Summer yawned herself fully awake, startled to see Wade sitting calmly behind his desk, scratching away with pen and ink. His face was trapped in the glow of a nearby hurricane lamp; behind him there was only darkness showing through the panes of the gallery windows. In her lap, forgotten, was the volume of Shakespeare's sonnets she had found amongst his many books and started reading. Michael was fast asleep, rolled up in a canvas hammock that hung between two corner beams and swayed gently back and forth with the ship's motion.
The softly ticking timepiece declared it to be a quarter of three.
She struggled to push herself upright, having slumped uncomfortably low in the chair.
"I must have fallen asleep," she murmured, wiping a hand across her eyes.
Wade glanced up from his writing but did not comment.
"I...hope I did not disturb you."
"You were quiet enough," he remarked dryly. "It was a pleasant change."
Summer scowled and pushed some strands of hair off her face, tucking them behind her ear. She would have dearly loved to stand and walk the cramps out of her legs, but she did not want to further annoy a man who seemed to be perpetually annoyed at the best of times.
She watched the movement of his hands for a few minutes as he worked the points of a compass over a chart. His fingers were long and blunt-tipped, his hands calloused from many years working with rigging lines and canvas. Her gaze strayed up to the frowning brow, the square jaw, the long-lashed eyes. There would, she supposed, be women who would consider him a handsome man. Perhaps even extremely handsome.
When her gaze settled on his lips, she felt a shiver ripple down her spine, remembering how they had felt crushing down over hers. His arms too. They were solid muscle, not an ounce of softness, and when they had wrapped around her...
She took a deep breath. "Will we be at sea much longer? Before we reach wherever it is that we are going, I mean."
"A few days. It depends on the weather. Why?"
"I was merely curious to know. Will you be sending a missive with your demands to Sir Lionel as soon as we arrive?"
A brief flash of irritation glittered in his eyes as he glanced over again. "Is that what you would suggest I do, Governess?"
She shifted uncomfortably and gently closed the book in her lap. "I would suggest that the sooner you return his son to him, the easier it will be on you in the long term. He is a powerful man with much influence in these islands."
"So you keep telling me."
"He will be distraught beyond measure to hear that his only son has gone down in a storm. How cruel can you be to let him continue believing this?"
"How do you suggest I inform him, madam? Hand a missive to a sea gull and hope it flies to Barbados?"
"You could have left a letter on Saint Martin."
"Who is to say I didn't?"
She blinked. "Did you?"
He smiled. "No." And returned to his scratchings.
"He is a wealthy man. He will pay handsomely for our safe return."
"Suppose I said his money does not interest me?"
"Suppose I said I didn't like diamonds or pearls," she retorted sarcastically.
"I might believe you...if you already had more than you wanted or needed."
"You have more money than you want?" she scoffed.
"Let us just say I have more than I could reasonably expect to spend in ten or so lifetimes."
Summer was momentarily taken aback. "Ill-gotten gains from your smuggling trade, no doubt?"
He merely smiled.
"You told Michael this evening that your trade was of the utmost importance to you, and now you suggest it is not."
"I said my freedom to trade was important," he corrected her pointedly. "And freedom of any kind is always of the utmost importance."
"But if not for profit, what could you possibly prefer over money to make you risk your life and your ship smuggling illegal cargo?"
He shrugged. "I enjoy what I do."
"You enjoy it?" Summer folded her hands tightly on her lap. "Does that enjoyment include brutalizing women and children?"
"Come now. You don't look very brutalized sitting there all curled up like a kitten, reading sonnets. If I had truly wanted to brutalize you, I'd have you caged in the hold with nothing but the dampness and rats to keep you company. I certainly wouldn't feed you prime meals and clothe you and allow you the use of my own cabin...my own
berth," he added in a murmur, letting his eyes roam across the rounded swell of her breasts.
Summer felt a ripple pass across the surface of her skin, as if his eyes were hands and they were brushing over her nipples.
"Perhaps," he mused, "you could pay the ransom yourself. Think how grateful Sir Lionel would be then."
"Myself? I have no money."
The dark blue eyes rose again, trapping hers so that she could not look away. "I told you, I'm not interested in money."
"Then what—?" Her heart slowed to a dull thud in her chest and the chill that had gathered her nipples into tight little peaks spread outward to engulf her whole body. "Oh. No. No, that would not be possible."
"Anything is possible."
"Not that."
His chuckle was deep and husky as he leaned back in the chair. "You do realize I could simply take what I want...if I wanted it badly enough."
She felt her cheeks warm as she was reminded, yet again, of her vulnerability. He was right, of course. There was nothing she could do to stop him from raping her. There was no one she could call for help, nowhere she could run to hide. She had managed thus far to avoid thinking too much about it, and had used her own false bluster to give her more courage than she possessed. But she knew the fate of most female captives, regardless of their nationality, regardless of their lineage, regardless of the names they could throw up as protective shields...their fate was to be used however the captain saw fit. If he chose to throw her down on the deck in broad daylight, with the crew cheering him on, there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
Some of what she was thinking must have shown on her face, for Wade stood up slowly and started to come around the side of the desk. "Think how grateful Sir Lionel would be if you were to pay his debt in advance."
Summer's eyes widened. Then widened further. She jumped to her feet, unmindful of the book falling to the floor. "I shouldn't think he would really care," she said in a whisper. "I am...only a governess, after all."
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