Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  "Do you kiss your bank clerk the way you kiss me?"

  "I did not kiss you, sir!"

  "Believe me, Governess," he said in a silky, low voice. "I know when a woman is merely tolerating a kiss...when she is enjoying it...and when she is craving more."

  Summer made a small sound in her throat. Her head was swimming, suddenly, and she raised a trembling hand to her temple.

  It must be the wine, she thought dizzily. Why else would I be listening to such effrontery without scratching his eyes out?

  She went to set the glass down, to remove the temptation of drinking any more, fully intending to storm past him and show him precisely what she thought of his outrageous presumptions. But the glass missed the edge of the table and tipped over, splashing some of the deep red wine down the front of her gown.

  "Oh! Oh no!" She stepped quickly back as the glass crashed to the floor, scattering more wine and shards of crystal across the polished wood. "Oh dear, look what I have done. I am dreadfully sorry."

  "It doesn't matter," Wade said, grasping her shoulders to prevent her from bending over to pick up the broken pieces of glass.

  She glanced up and met the dark blue gaze, and for a full minute she could not move, could scarcely breathe. Her chin trembled and her eyes grew inordinately round, and she was a aware of a spreading heat where his hands burned her flesh through the thin muslin sleeves...but she could not move.

  "Th-the goblet..." she stammered weakly.

  "I will have Jonas clean it up."

  "But the dress...perhaps if I rinse it out at once the stain will not set."

  His grip became more forceful. "I said it doesn't matter."

  Summer's heart was lodged in her throat, she could feel the beat through her entire body. The room began to sway alarmingly, and the sound of his breath, now so close to her cheek, drowned out all else, even the sounds from the beach.

  "It was...inexcusably clumsy of me, Captain," she persisted in a whisper. "If you tell me the cost of replacing the goblet and the dress, I would happily reimburse you."

  His expression was curiously restrained as his hand moved up to cradle her chin. "You have no money, remember?"

  "Oh. Yes...I forgot."

  "However, if you insist on making amends, you already know what I accept in lieu of coin."

  His mouth was only inches from hers. Summer watched it move, watched his lips form words that were wrong...all wrong. His fingers seemed to be tipping her head higher. Something was doing it, because she was only a breath away from touching those bold, warm lips with her own.

  "This isn't fair," she cried softly.

  "What isn't fair?"

  "The wine..."

  "Ah yes, the wine." He smiled. "Wine often makes people say things, do things without the distraction of a conscience."

  His fingers moved up from her chin to her cheek, gently brushing back the wisps of hair before his lips brushed ever so gently across the blushing flesh.

  "Are...are you going to kiss me again, sir?"

  His lips moved from her cheek to her temple, lingering over the pulse he could feel fluttering wildly there. "I believe I am, Governess. Are you going to keep pretending you don't want me to?"

  His lips travelled down, following the line of her jaw. They paused just below her ear, nipping and lightly grazing the skin before skimming across to her mouth. Summer's hands were pressed flat against his chest. When his lips began to tease hers, brushing back and forth, barely alighting, her hands started to inch slowly upward, following the lapels of his jacket to his shoulders...then around his neck. At the first slow, deep incursion of his tongue, she whimpered softly, feeling her knees buckle and her spine melt into her belly. She pressed her body into his and clung to him for as long as it took his arms to wrap tightly around her. Her brazenness shocked her as she responded to his kiss. Her lips parted wider, her tongue thrusted eagerly, greedily to meet his with a need that drove every other thought from her mind.

  His body crowded her against the book shelves and his hand slid down from her shoulder to her waist, sliding up beneath her breast to cradle the shape and weight of it in his palm. Summer groaned, her mouth still captive, and her arms tightened around his neck. His fingers caressed and teased the pebble-hard nipple until her entire body was quivering, drowning under sensations she had never felt before. Bold fingers stroked down to her belly and, when she did not pull away, pushed against the light layers of the dress, tracing the sensitive juncture of her thighs, touching on sinfully erotic places that turned her whimpers into soft, shivered cries.

  Wade swung her easily up into his arms and strode out the french doors, carrying her along the veranda to the rear flight of stairs.

  She raised her head off his shoulder briefly when she saw him stop outside the doors to her room. The midnight eyes searched hers and somewhere in the back of her mind she understood this was the last time she would be given the choice. She lowered her head to his shoulder again, pressed her lips to his neck, her sigh of assent barely audible as he carried her inside and kicked the doors shut behind them.

  CHAPTER TEN

  July 1811

  Sir Lionel Cambridge was a gruff, burly man in his early sixties. He possessed a head of snow white hair that led down onto his fleshy jowls in a froth of sprightly muttonchops. His moustache was waxed into two swooping curls. He had heavy-lidded hazel eyes and a mischievous twinkle in them that gave strangers the impression he was a jolly old chap. The dispatch Stuart Roarke had sent on ahead to Government House had preceded their arrival by only minutes, for there was a crowd of servants gathered on the wide stone steps as the coach drew up to the front entrance. Behind them, emerging with his cravat only partially tied, was a nervous and red-faced Governor Cambridge.

  He clutched Summer and Michael to his bosom, weeping openly. First one, then the other, then both were crushed like rag dolls, held away to arm's length, then crushed again with much weeping and giving of thanks to God. There was a grand introduction to the servants as if the Cambridge offspring were strangers to their own house. Some of the staff shouted the joyous news to strolling passers-by, who in turn spread the news like a bushfire through the streets of Bridgetown.

  It had been reported that the Sea Vixen had gone down with all hands. The windows and railings of Government House were draped in black bunting, proclaiming the grief of the island's governor over the loss of his two children. The memorial service had filled St. Michael's Cathedral with dignitaries from neighboring islands, representatives from the Admiralty, and from the entire merchant community. Sir Lionel had also opened the services to include the friends and relatives of the other twenty-two passengers who had gone down with the ship, a gesture which had endeared him to his stout supporters.

  He had no thoughts of politics now. A miracle had happened; Summer and Michael were home. They were hugged and petted and praised for their courage. The were swept along in a sea of excitement and taken to their rooms, there to be lavished with baths and perfumes, fussed over and treated like baby chicks fallen from the roost. Summer was not permitted to lift a finger on her own behalf. Three maids saw to her bathing needs. Her hair was washed and scented and shaped into a slippery mass of golden curls. Her face was creamed and massaged, the all-but-healed wound inspected thoroughly by Sir Lionel's physician. Her whole body was rubbed with oils, then clothed in silks so sheer a rough thumb would pierce the fabric. She relaxed with a hot, spiced pitcher of sangaree, and when she felt she was up to it, she descended the grand spiral oak staircase to the main drawing room where her father was anxiously waiting.

  Michael was already there, bristling under the rosy effects of a hot bath and vigorous scrubbing. Having enjoyed the freedom of a sailor's shirt and short canvas trousers for the past several weeks, he fidgeted in the stiff, formal clothing and constantly ran a finger under the tightness of the collar. He was also impatient to regale his peers, many of whom paced the street outside, with tales of his adventures. The stories would put h
im in good stead for months to come, despite the fact he could not divulge the best parts.

  One of the many discussions between the Cambridges and Stuart Roarke during the journey home on board the Vigilant had ended with them reluctantly agreeing that for the time being, it would be in everyone's best interest not to mention Morgan Wade's role in the rescue. The suggestion had originated with Wade himself, Roarke said, and it made sense. Sir Lionel's position would not be compromised, and Summer—being thought of still as Michael's governess—would not suffer the curiosity or abuse of gossips. Roarke had a far less flamboyant reputation; his name was rarely mentioned in conjunction with pirates and revenuers and blockade running. He had landed the Vigilant at Speightstown, ten miles down the coast from Bridgetown, a port normally used for local trade. The dispatch he had sent ahead to Government House had been signed simply: S. Roarke Esq.

  "Thank God, is all I can say," Sir Lionel beamed. "Thank God you have come home to us safely. We will have no more need of mourning clothes and black sashes covering the windows—by Jove, I must remember to cancel the headstone from the mason. Michael, my boy—" he thumped his son affectionately between the shoulders— "I can see now that I sent the right man to New Providence to meet your sister. A man who kept a level head and did not allow her to drown, no sir he did not."

  Michael blushed and grinned. "Actually, Father, we sort of saved each other."

  "Nonsense," Summer said quietly. "I fainted for several hours through the worst of it, and if not for Michael holding me on the raft, I very likely would have slipped under the water without ever waking up again."

  Sir Lionel dabbed at his eyes as he looked at his son, his face glowing with pride.

  "But if Summer had not got us out of the cabin in time," Michael insisted, "I should jolly well think we would have been crushed to splinters when the Vixen went down."

  Sir Lionel sighed heartily and trumpeted his nose into a square of linen. "I say, this calls for a toast. Several toasts."

  He signaled to a hovering servant, who immediately stepped forward with a tray of glasses and a decanter of the governor's best port. Sir Lionel handed one to Summer, one to Michael, and took a third one for himself.

  "To my brave and courageous children. To the Cambridge family!" He downed the glassful in a single large gulp and held it out to be refilled.

  The butler appeared in the doorway. "Excuse me, sir. A gentleman is here requesting an audience with Miss Summer. He says it is a matter of some urgency."

  Sir Lionel frowned. "Well? Who is it, man?"

  Captain Bennett Winfield, as sunbleached and golden as Summer remembered, brushed past the startled butler without waiting to hear his name announced. He tossed his bicorne onto one of the chairs and went straight to Summer, gathering her into his arms before she had time to even acknowledge his arrival.

  "Summer! Summer, it is you! When I heard that you had been brought home, I could scarcely believe my ears. I thought it had to be a cruel joke...but my God—" he gripped her hands tightly, letting his eyes devour her— "it is you. We searched and searched. We crossed back and forth over that damned stretch of ocean so many times the crew was threatening mutiny. And then, when we found the wreckage..." His voice trailed away, and raised each hand in turn to his lips, holding it there through a reverent, closed-eye kiss.

  "Well, ah-hem. I, ah..." Sir Lionel crooked an eyebrow and turned to Michael, winking. "I would say perhaps this calls for another round, what?"

  Bennett reluctantly stepped away from Summer and bowed stiffly to Sir Lionel. "Please excuse my impertinence, sir. I came straightaway when I heard the astonishingly good news, and I guess I have not quite had enough time to absorb it."

  "Nonsense, m'boy," Sir Lionel exclaimed. "Quite all right. Quite all right. Wilkins—pour the commodore a drink. We shall let our next toast be to impertinence...and to the sorry lack of it in my dear family's absence."

  Summer was genuinely surprised. "Commodore?"

  "Why, yes." Bennett smiled. "The promotion was waiting for me when I arrived back in Bridgetown."

  Sir Lionel chuckled. "You could say it was an engagement gift from your godfather, Admiral Stonekipper. Neither he nor I could see the use of having a mere captain for a son-in-law."

  Summer bit her lip. She had made no mention of having formally accepted Bennett's proposal of marriage, either by letter to her father, or by verbal agreement with Bennett himself. She exchanged a glance with Michael, who looked as surprised as she by the news.

  The glasses were filled and more toasts made. Summer recovered sufficiently to take a seat on the divan but her thoughts were tumbling around so fast she found it difficult to concentrate on any of the conversations swirling around her. The sight of Bennett had brought back the memory of those long hours spent drifting on the raft. Hope of seeing him again had kept her fighting to stay alive through many of those terrible hours. Now here he was, standing before her in his crisp naval uniform of dark blue coat and white breeches, the high gleaming black knee boots, the ropes of gold braid, the handsome face and neatly clubbed blonde hair. He was the man she had traveled halfway around the world to be with, truth be told, whether she had formally agreed to the marriage or not.

  And yet...

  And yet...

  She shivered as a ghostly finger traced a soft path down the back of her spine. Morgan Wade's finger. Morgan Wade's soft laughter in her ear. Morgan Wade's powerful body crushing her close.

  "Are you alright, my dear?"

  Summer looked up, startled. "What? Oh. Yes. Yes, Father, I'm fine."

  "Just happy to be home, are you?"

  "Yes," she said, forcing a smile. "Just happy to be home."

  Four days after their triumphant return, Summer and Michael were summoned to the library. Sir Lionel was clearly agitated as he waited for them to take a seat. Commodore Winfield was present also, but although Summer glanced askance, his face gave no hint as to why the meeting had been called.

  She had thus far managed to avoid being alone with Bennett, using headache or exhaustion as her usual excuse to flee to her room if it looked as though she was going to be cornered. It was a reaction she, herself, could scarcely understand. Bennett was here, and she was still the same Summer Cambridge who had left England wanting a fine home, fine parties, elegant clothes, servants to see to her every whim, and a handsome, dashing husband by her side.

  A few hot nights on a tropical island could not have changed all that. Surely not.

  "Is this important, Father?" she inquired casually. "I have promised to go shopping with Judith Gaile this afternoon."

  Sir Lionel harrumphed to clear his throat. "Well, quite frankly, I do not know how important this is. It concerns the note we received prior to your arrival home the other day."

  Summer frowned. "The note?"

  "The one sent by Captain S. Roarke."

  Summer moistened her lips and folded her hands neatly in her lap to keep them from trembling. "Yes. He thought it better to warn of our arrival ahead of time rather than have us simply appear on the doorstep. Was that wrong?"

  "No, no. I am not questioning the man's conduct...er, not entirely that is."

  "Then what are you questioning, Father?"

  Sir Lionel frowned. He paced the length of the oval carpet, stopping to meet Bennett's gaze before proceeding. "Frankly, I am questioning just who the deuce this Mr. S. Roarke is, and where he hails from. I inquired at the Colonial Offices to ascertain where I might forward a case of excellent brandy by way of thanks, along with an invitation to meet so that I might offer my heartfelt thanks in person. Imagine my surprise when I was told no one had ever heard of the man. You say his ship, the Vigilant, picked you up off Saint Barthelemy, yet he is not listed as one of the island's British residents. When I then searched the ship's title, I found she was not even on the official registry. What do you say to that, my dear?"

  Out of the corner of her eye, Summer saw Michael squirm lower into the cushions of the chai
r as if he could make himself invisible.

  "I would say, Father," she answered quietly, "that he would not be on the British registry because his ship was not an English vessel."

  "Ah-hah! Correct! And did you not think it an important detail to mention that he was a bloody American privateer?"

  "Forgive me, Father. I thought I had."

  "No. No, you had not. A fine omission to make, indeed," he said, spitting a bit of froth from the corner of his mouth. "Do you not see how this places me in a seriously awkward position? The relationship between our two countries becomes more strained by the day. The bloody Americans are adamant about their right to trade freely with whomever they choose—and lately they have been choosing France. France, I say."

  He harrumphed loudly again and paced back and forth. He looked to Bennett for guidance, but the commodore was more intent on watching the subtle changes on Summer's face.

  "Three weeks in the hands of one of those American scoundrels...I suppose he plagued you with all manner of questions about our government, our policies, our preparations in the event of war?"

  "Oh no, Father," Michael said hastily. "Mr. Roarke wasn't like that at all. He did not ask us a single question that would have been uncomfortable or disloyal to answer."

  "No? Then I suppose he tried to instill his own philosophies into you? All of this drivel about free trade and sailor's rights?"

  "N-no sir. The only thing Mr. Roarke tried to teach me was how to properly read the wind and clouds and how to judge the water currents by the changing colors, and..."

  "Yes, yes, all very interesting I am sure."

  "Well, it was, sir," Michael said defensively. "Mr. Roarke says it is all important to know if a man wants to go to sea."

  "You want to go to sea, do you? Even after what you and your sister went through?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. Mr. Roarke says you have to...to grab your fear by the throat and choke the life out of it, otherwise it will rule your life forever. He says he learned that lesson long ago from Captain Treloggan, and if anyone should know about—"