Wade glared and muttered an oath. But he left the deck and ducked into the hatchway leading down to his cabin. He stopped outside and caught himself about to knock—knock on his own door for Christ's sake—then set his mouth in a grim line and wrenched it open.
Summer was still sitting in the chair, the babe suckling at her breast. Her hand fluttered up instinctively to shield her nakedness, but fell again, slowly, when she identified the intruder.
"There is a draft from the door, Captain. Please close it."
Morgan shut the door but remained where he was, frowning over at the mother and child, feeling suddenly awkward for some ungodly, unknown reason.
"I...only came to fetch a clean shirt," he muttered. "It can wait. I can come back later...when you've finished."
"Have you never watched a child nursing?"
"Of course I have," he lied.
"But not one of your own?"
The dark blue eyes narrowed. "What kind of a question is that, woman?"
"A logical one. It has occurred to me as I sit here on your ship being spirited away in the dead of night—for the second time, I might add—that I know precious little about you other than what the gossips and penny sheets report. I do not think it is at all inappropriate of me to want to know if there are any more little Wades toddling about."
"And if I say there are scores?"
She hesitated barely a beat before answering blithely, "Then I would have to say you lacked character."
"Lacking character, Governess, would be the least of my faults."
Since he had said he was here for a clean shirt, he walked over to his sea chest and dug one out. He tugged the torn, bloodied one over his head and discarded it in a heap on the floor, then shrugged into the new one, glancing over as he tucked the hem into his breeches.
The baby had sensed this new disturbance and her mouth stopped suckling. Midnight blue eyes met midnight blue eyes and held for the span of several seconds before she returned to more important matters and clamped around the nipple again.
A faint grin tugged at the corner of Morgan's mouth. "Does that mean I pass some sort of muster?"
"She has a fair temper. You will know it immediately if something is not to her liking."
"Just like her mother," he murmured wryly.
"Whereas I was thinking: Just like her father."
His gaze lifted to hers and held.
"How is your arm?" she asked.
"It will mend. How is your disposition?"
"Improving...slightly."
His eyes wandered over her hair, down to the curve of her cheek where there were still traces of tearstains. They roved lower, following the slender column of her throat to the ivory whiteness of her breasts. Without warning he reached forward and laid his fingertips a scant inch from Sarah's busy mouth, feeling the pull and suck as the child fed. A tiny fist uncurled and batted at this new impertinence, grasping at one of the long, calloused fingers when she saw it waggle at her.
Summer had to lean her head against the backrest of the chair. The combined sensation of Sarah's mouth and Morgan's hand on her breast sent a rush of heat flooding through her body.
"She seems to enjoy that as much as I do," he said, noting the flush rising in her cheeks and the more telling response from her body. He bent his dark head to the breast Sarah had already fed from and circled the nipple with his tongue, leaving behind a moist, warm kiss. He raised his head at Summer's stifled gasp, but only as much as was needed to cover her mouth with his own and kiss her as thoroughly as he dared.
Her eyes were shining and her breath stilted when he finally straightened.
"Morgan," she whispered, "what are we going to do? Bennett will come after us. And Father—"
"You let me worry about them."
"Bennett's pride and arrogance will not let him rest now until he finds you and kills you. He went to a great deal of trouble to ensure you were in Bridgetown at the Governor's Ball; he would not have simply let you sail out of port without knowing exactly when you did so and where you were going. He went into a terrible rage after you tricked him at the Sirens, and he'll not let that happen again. I know he has something planned this time, and now...with Sarah and me on board..."
"I am well aware of the trap he set; it was as transparent as water. And a man who lets rage govern his actions will always make mistakes. He will never catch the Chimera," Wade assured her. "Not unless I want him to. He won't catch me, and he won't touch you...not ever again, you have my word on it."
"I wish I could believe you," she cried softly. "I wish I could." Her eyes filled with tears, choking off the rest of her words.
He cradled her face in his strong hands. "Then do it. Believe me. Because I do not intend to ever lose you again. And in case I still have not made myself clear enough, Governess—" his voice lowered to a whisper— "you have managed to get under my skin and into my blood, and I rather like the feeling of you being there. If that is what love feels like...then I am in love with you. I can't think of another reason why I would act like damned addled fool...can you?"
Summer could do little more than stare up at him.
He wiped tenderly at the tears flowing over her lashes, but they continued, and in the end he gave up trying to staunch them and laughed gently, kissing her, smiling against her mouth when felt a grasping hand reach up between them and tear at a fistful of hair on his chest.
"Exactly like her mother," he murmured.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Stuart Roarke was standing on the main deck, taking a reading from the sextant, when he saw Summer stroll past. He set the instrument aside and smiled.
"Good morning, Mrs. Winfield. I hope you slept well."
"Shamelessly well, Mr. Roarke. And please, call me Summer."
She stopped beside him and looked out over the rail. The sea was a deep aquamarine blue, the sky a blaze of azure. The sails overhead were a startling white and were curled so tautly forward with the strength of the wind, they might have been carved from marble. There was not a ripple or a snap to betray the tension, only the low hum of the rigging lines.
"In that case," he said, smiling as he presented a wiggling finger to Sarah, "I shall settle for nothing less than Stuart."
"I would like that, thank you. I would also like to have an honest friend on board...one who would tell me if there were any sign of a ship following us. Morgan has brushed the question aside, as much as telling me I should not worry about it, when indeed, that is exactly what I do."
Roarke smiled again. "There is no sign of any ship following us."
"Not even a dot on the horizon?"
"Not even a speck of dust. Morgan is a careful man, though it often appears the opposite. He likes to give me credit for taking most of the precautions, but he went to the Governor's Ball knowing full well a trap was set and the game was in play. A great deal of money went into the right hands to make it seem as if he had nothing more important on his mind than enjoying an evening of social amusement."
Sarah chortled and leaned abruptly forward, attracted by the play of sunlight on Stuart's spectacles. He laughed and steered mother and daughter toward a thick coil of cable so that they might sit down.
"The game will begin in earnest once they realize the Chimera has left port," she said bleakly, "and that Sarah and I are on board."
"Well, ah, as far as they are concerned, the Chimera has not left yet."
"How could they miss seeing her go?" Summer frowned. "Morgan said himself the harbor was crawling with spies. There would have been an alarm sent up as soon as the anchor was hauled on board."
"Yes, there would have been. I'm sure the whole island would have been alerted to it—if anyone saw her move."
"I don't understand," she sighed. "My father spoke at great length about the embarrassment of having the Chimera anchored in Bridgetown."
Roarke laughed. "The Royal Navy was seething over the Chimera's presence in their pristine port, watching her, plotting every move she made. They cl
early saw Morgan leave her in a longboat to attend the ball, and fully half a dozen carriages followed at a discreet distance behind him as he fetched the lovely Mrs. Teague. Just as many followed and reported him being rowed back to the ship later that evening."
"Later that evening?" Summer frowned. "But he was..."
"Elsewhere," Roarke said delicately. "Yes, I know. And I would not have fooled anyone on a close inspection or in daylight. But at night, at a distance—" he shrugged and smiled modestly. "I passed muster as easily as the Gyrfalcon."
"The Gyrfalcon?"
"Another of Morgan's whims, but a rather clever one. The Chimera, you see, was never near Bridgetown, she was anchored on the other side of the island. Did you not wonder why you were being directed to Six Man Bay and not the harbor?"
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again, realizing she had never even asked herself that question.
"The Gyrfalcon is an exact duplicate of the Chimera, a twin if you like, right down to her markings and trim. She has come in handy on more than one occasion like this, not the least when we need to confuse the hell out of the Yes, sir as to our whereabouts."
"The reports," Summer whispered. "The conflicting sightings, the accounts of seeing the Chimera in two places at once, hundreds of miles apart."
Roarke grinned. "A clever bit of chicanery, aye."
"The guns last September...?"
"Morgan picked them up from Congor Bay, but thanks to a gentle whisper in the ear, we knew it was a trap. The plan was hastily made, but he had the Gyrfalcon circle around ahead of us and come in under cover of darkness. While Winfield thought he was keeping a close eye on the Chimera, the ships traded places and the Gyrfalcon took up her position, lights blazing, cargo bays empty of any contraband. Winfield woke the next morning, saw what he thought was the Chimera ahead of him, and sallied forth blithely unaware that we had peeled off and were a hundred miles to the east. The warning you gave us—" he glanced sidelong at Summer and saw her blush softly— "essentially saved both ships, since the Gyrfalcon was originally supposed to sail straight back to Bounty Key...and would have sailed straight into the guns of the Northgate."
"What will happen now? What will you do if the Gyrfalcon is blockaded in the harbor?"
He nodded. "That is an unpleasant possibility, but one we had to risk. Her captain is a...bull-headed man, however, and I somehow think he will come away in one piece."
"Bull-headed? You mean the Gyrfalcon's captain is Bull Treloggan?"
"My illustrious father-in-law, aye." Roarke nodded. "Rather a cozy arrangement to say the least."
"Why has no one discovered the ruse? Surely the men in the harbor would have noticed, especially with so many eyes watching the Chimera and Morgan's every move."
"You would think that, wouldn't you?" He chuckled softly. "They even anchored the Caledonia directly off her stern, like a big bad watchdog...a move that suited Morgan's fine sense of humor perfectly."
"I wasn't aware he had one," she said dryly.
"Oh, he has one, believe me. I've been the brunt of it long enough to know."
Summer studied him over the top of Sarah's downy head. It was all so absurd. So foolishly, brilliantly, masterfully absurd! A child should not have been duped so easily and for so long. No wonder Morgan scoffed openly at men like Farley Glasse and Bennett Winfield. They were all pomp and arrogance, but blind as beggars when it came to seeing past their own sense of superiority.
"I hope you will not take offence in this, Stuart, but you and Morgan—you seem an odd combination to be friends."
"We are more than just friends. We are brothers. Half-brothers, to be more precise. Same father, different mothers."
For the second time in as many minutes, Summer's mouth popped open in surprise. "Morgan never mentioned it."
"He rarely does—by my request, not his."
"But why?"
Stuart took a thoughtful breath and adjusted his spectacles. "Well, obvious differences aside, I just don't think I compare favorably with Morgan. As Stuart Roarke, I am good at what I do. I command a certain degree of respect, something that might be harder to come by if I was thought to be moving in Morgan's shadow."
"What exactly is it that you do?"
He smiled and toyed with Sarah's finger. "For one thing, I designed and built the Chimera and the Gyrfalcon. Everything from topsail to keel is by my own specifications, according to my own designs, which, by the way, British shipbuilders scorned years ago as being impractical. Even the cannon we carry are cast out of specially alloyed metal to make them stronger and less likely to crack under the heat of constant fire. You won't find a faster pair of ships on the water, nor safer ones. Part of me is built into every beam and spar, and I'm damned proud of them."
"So you should be," she said in awe. "But why are you here in the middle of the Caribbean smuggling illegal cargo and playing cat and mouse with naval warships? Why not build your own shipyards? You could become a very wealthy man on the reputation of the Chimera alone."
He regarded Summer with the same strange gleam in his eye she had once seen in Morgan's gaze. "I suppose I could."
She sighed. "And I suppose you are going to tell me you have all the money you need, just as Morgan says he has more than he could possible spend in two lifetimes."
"What is the difference, when you come down to it, between being rich and being very rich? It's just that much more to keep track of."
She was being gently mocked, and she knew it. "It doesn't explain why either of you risk your necks so outlandishly to prove you can out-sail and out-think the Yes, sir. Even riskier now with war looming behind every cloud."
"Someone has to do it. Americans will never go back to being British colonists, but so far all they've done is shout slogans and wave their fists around. We have no navy to speak of, no army either, truth be told. We do have brashness on our side though, and a careless type of courage that comes with the arrogance Britain herself forced on us forty years ago. It is ludicrous to think we could enter into a naval war with England and win—but I would be willing to wager my last shirt that we will do exactly that. Hell, they didn't think our ships could break through the blockade lines, but men like Morgan do it every day."
"Then what Farley Glasse said is true—if war is declared, America will have to rely heavily on her private forces to survive beyond the first months?"
"First months? We'll be dammed up tighter than a drum within days. Our supplies will be cut off completely, and if caught with their pants down, the half-dozen heavy warships we do have will be bottled up in their ports and useless. Up to now, we have paid a small fortune to keep certain shipping lanes free. That fortune will double and treble in the coming months."
"Then all of this—the smuggling and the gun-running and the cat and mouse...it is all a big rehearsal for war?"
"Morgan did say you were clever."
"I am also a British subject," she said quietly. "And if Mr. Glasse was not mistaken, so is Morgan."
Roarke's eyes narrowed. "Morgan?"
"Is he or is he not Sir Edmund Granville? A titled Englishman who fled to America years ago to avoid a charge of murder? And does he not now spy for Captain Stephen Decatur, who, I assume, knows all about the Chimera and the Gyrfalcon?"
Roarke studiously avoided her gaze as he wriggled his fingers again for Sarah.
"Your Mr. Glasse appears to be remarkably well-informed," he said after a lengthy pause. "Except for one small detail. Morgan is not Sir Edmund Granville...I am."
"It isn't an uncommon story," Roarke began. "I'm only surprised it still interests anyone after all these years. My father was a titled and prominent member of the King's Council. My mother was soft and frail and seemed fated to suffer at the hands of the foolish men in her family. Like the true English gentleman Sir Hugh was, he married wealth but gave his heart to a raven-haired, dark-eyed beauty he had met on a voyage to America. A couple of years later, he received a letter telling him that she
had died shortly after giving birth to his son, and that the boy was now an orphan and what was to be done with him.
"Sir Hugh sent for the child and took the boy into his home. Mother was not altogether pleased and wasn't very kind to him I'm afraid to say. It took four years and three daughters before she produced a legitimate heir for the Baron—me—but by then her health was showing the strain, and I arrived early, sickly, and without an encouraging word from any of the attending physicians.
"I remained pale and sickly throughout my youth while Morgan"— he stopped and laughed "—Morgan was much like he is today. He cowed the servants into obeying him. He terrified his tutors and called them fools when they tried to teach him things he considered useless—then turned around and astonished them by the amount of knowledge he could absorb if he set his mind to it. He spent hours walking along the cliffs staring out to sea, and hours at the wharfs learning more by listening to the old tars than he could glean from a hundred geography lessons. He laughed off the punishments he was given and constantly challenged anyone who tried to discipline him or make him adhere to any rules but his own. And as I recall, by age fourteen, he had most of the female servants stumbling about the house in a daze.
"Mother finally reached the end of her good humor and generosity when she caught him, ah, in a delicate state with her favorite niece. She didn't bother to ask who had instigated the tryst, and she skimmed over the fact her niece was five years older than Morgan—she simply insisted that Father have him sent away to Europe, to a school run by monks where he might learn some restraint.
"I remember the day he came to tell me he was leaving. The door to my room blew open, and he stood in the entrance like a storm cloud, a cape three sizes too big whipped over his shoulder and a crazy grin on his face, as if it had all gone according to some master plan of his. He was running away to America, he said. Hang the monks, hang Europe, he was going home to America and he was going to join the navy. If I ever took it in my head to shake off the lunacies of my birthright, I was welcome to join him."
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