De Ville's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps King George anticipates a quick victory this side of the ocean to bolster their spirits."
"Fighting on two fronts is never a good idea, General. A war with America would not be a quick one, either, and both sides know it."
"Then you have reason to doubt the further rumors that your congress is on the verge of declaring?"
De Ville was fishing, and Morgan deftly stepped around each trap. "The war hawks have been 'on the verge' of declaring war for two years. Each time the vote is put to congress, it is either defeated or ridiculed off the floor."
"And of course you are hoping there are enough cool heads to keep it that way?"
Stuart Roarke cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Morgan ignored the not-so-subtle warning and smiled flatly at de Ville.
"It is no secret, General, that I would welcome the opportunity to exchange broadsides with the Yes, sir."
"And to that end, you play your dangerous games with Commodore Winfield? The man is unstable. You are the only quarry who continually eludes him...continually and flamboyantly, I might add. This latest taunt with the Gyrfalcon, brilliant as it was, will undoubtedly strain the leash his superiors hold on him. It could well provoke him into a fatal error in judgment."
"One can only hope, General," Wade murmured.
De Ville chuckled. He set his hands on the table and pushed to his feet. "Shall we rejoin the ladies before they grow weary of waiting? You and your lovely wife will, of course, remain the night as my guests, Captain. The accommodations are quite modest, I am sorry to say, but she should find it a pleasant relief from the vulgarities of shipboard living.
Wade offered a curt bow. "She will be delighted, I'm sure."
"And you, m'sieur Roarke? I could arrange a suitable companion to make your evening more...amiable?"
"Thank you, no, General. I have work to do on board the Chimera."
"All work and no entertainment," de Ville shrugged. "But it shall be as you wish. Gentlemen..."
He led the way out of the elegant dining hall, his cigar trailing a thin finger of smoke behind. Roarke hung back slightly.
"Have you lost your senses?" he hissed at Wade. "Staying here tonight?"
"You worry too much. He wouldn't try anything on his own, not as long as he thinks Bull is on his way."
Roarke was unhappy. "Yes, well, if you don't mind, I will just keep worrying until you and Summer are safely back on board the Chimera and we're away from this damned cesspool."
Wade's husky laugh rolled along the length of the cantilevered hallway. He gave Stuart some last minute instructions, then followed de Ville through a doorway that led into a formal drawing room. He walked straight over to Summer and leaned down, grazing her lips briefly with a kiss.
"The general has generously offered satin sheets and a feather mattress for the night. Shall we accept?"
"But Sarah..."
"She will be alright. I've told Roarke to find a respectable girl from the village to take back on board with him tonight. She will see to Sarah's immediate needs. A feather bed, Governess," he murmured, brushing warm lips against her ear, "and urgent needs of my own that require tending."
Summer blushed red to the roots of her hair as Wade straightened and smiled at de Ville. "As you predicted, General, my wife would be delighted to accept your hospitality."
"Bon! Excellent! And now perhaps we shall amuse ourselves with a round or two of cards? Le Chien? Two thousand a set?"
"Fair," Wade agreed, and held out his glass to be refilled.
"Two thousand what?" Summer whispered, following him to the baize-covered oak game table.
"Sea shells, my lovely. And by evening's end, we shall own the whole damned beach."
Summer gasped as the last hook was unfastened and her breasts could spring free of the confining bodice. Morgan's hands slid around beneath the loosened cloth to capture each firm mound, earning a second gasp and an armful of swaying femininity. He laughed against the nape of her neck and released her while he helped her remove the rest of her clothes.
"One would think," he said dryly, "a lesson would have been learned having gone though a similar experience before. Too much wine tends to start the room swaying."
"Oh pooh. I had exactly two glasses of very delicious wine with dinner."
"And four brandies afterward."
"Four? I thought I only had one."
"One glass, perhaps, but it was refilled three times."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh. What is more, I am sure it isn't every day the General has a beautiful young woman singing God Save the King from his balcony."
Summer covered her mouth with her hand and swung around, staring up at Morgan in horror. "I didn't, did I?"
"At the top of your voice."
"Why didn't you stop me?"
"And miss the opportunity to see de Ville turning apoplectic? Not a chance. Around you go again, I'm almost finished."
Summer presented him with her back. He worked quickly and deftly to finish unfastening the gown and underpinnings, letting each layer fall to the floor around her ankles. Her hair had been twisted into a thick golden coil at the crown of her head and he took a great deal of pleasure in pulling the long pins out one by one and unraveling the thick blonde curls over her shoulders.
"Sarah is probably wailing at the top of her voice right about now," she sighed.
"She will be fine for one night."
"She will be hungry."
Wade smoothed his hands down her bare arms and planted a kiss low on the nape of her neck. "So am I," he murmured. "Get into bed."
She stepped out of the puddle of her clothing and approached the bed. "I have never seen black satin sheets before in my entire life. I was not even aware such things existed."
Morgan unbuttoned his coat and loosened the ruffled jabot. "You would be surprised at some of the trinkets de Ville keeps lying around."
"Trinkets?" She turned too quickly and had to reach out and grasp the newel post to keep from stumbling. The next few moments were spent fighting off a filmy length of mosquito netting which tangled in her arms and nearly ended up wrapping her in a cocoon. When she freed herself, she pushed the hair back off her face and said again, nonchalantly, "Trinkets? What kind of trinkets?"
The dark blue eyes grew speculative for a moment, then he laughed softly. "No, my pet, you are far too innocent. Perhaps in time, when I have corrupted you enough to let you forget you are a proper young Englishwoman."
"I have forgotten already." Her face fell as another thought swam through the haze of wine and brandy. "Poor Father. I hope the shock of my leaving has not been too great for him to bear."
"And Winfield?"
"Bennett Winfield." She fluffed out the netting as she said the name. "Why do you suppose I can say his name without hating myself? Or without hating him? I don't, you know. I think I could probably pity him if I tried, but I cannot quite bring myself to hate him."
Morgan removed his brocaded waistcoat and finished stripping off his shirt, not wanting to think exactly how much he could hate Winfield without trying.
Summer dragged back the heavy quilted satin coverlet and crawled onto the bed. The sheets were wickedly cool against her bare skin, and she purred in sheer pleasure when her body tingled with a thousand delicious sensations. She closed her eyes and stretched luxuriously, aware of Morgan moving closer and standing at the foot of the bed.
Her pale, willowy body stood out in such contrast to the black sheets, that Morgan had difficulty breathing as he watched her stretch and arch and slide her limbs seductively against the satin. Her hair was a shock of gold fanned out beneath her, her breasts were firm and round, holding to their perfect shape instead of pillowing flat on her chest as she sprawled. The cornsilk thatch of curls at the junction of her thighs caught the lamplight and lured his eyes to probe for the soft pearly folds beneath.
Morgan's heartbeat thundered throughout his body, and he was loath to move, loath to s
hatter the moment too quickly. He saw her eyes open slowly, cat-like, to feast on his bare chest, his hard belly, the obvious hard bulge in his breeches.
"Come and try the sheets, Captain Pirate," she invited.
"I am of a mind to tell you first: you have never looked so lovely."
"Nor you so far away," she whispered. "Come here to me, my Captain. I am of a mind to make you a son this night. A tall, beautiful son with black hair and eyes the color of a midnight sky."
His belt joined the shirt and waistcoat on the floor, then the buff-colored breeches were peeled down and flung aside.
"Oh my, yes," she said, exhaling softly. "A very fine son, I think."
Wade smiled and started to reach for the lamp to turn down the wick, but Summer's hand caught his hand and rerouted it, bringing it to her lips and kissing the calloused palm before she slid it down her throat and onto her breast. She whimpered softly as his fingers gently kneaded the sensitive flesh. She whispered his name and pulled him down beside her on the black satin sheets, shivering as his body strained hungrily toward her.
On impulse, she rolled with him, ending up above him, her legs spread, her thighs straddling his. With her hair cascading down around her face and shoulders, she glanced into his eyes for approval, then slid a hand down between their bodies, curling her fingers around the shaft of his flesh and holding it while she lifted her hips and brought them sinking slowly down over him.
The hard, full flesh stretched her and slid deep, deep inside. When she was firmly seated, she had to stop, to stay utterly motionless to catch her breath and adjust to the awesome sensation of being so exquisitely impaled. She braced her hands on his chest and closed her eyes, rocking slowly back and forth, feeling herself liquefy around him, testing how much she could move, how it would feel. She raised up and slid down again, whimpering as her whole body shuddered with the erotic friction. She combined the motions—rocking and sliding, lifting and sinking—and, after a few moments of this, his hands slid up to her waist and he stopped her with a warning growl. His breathing was heavy and he had turned his face to the side, almost as if he was in pain.
She stopped squirming against his grip. "Am I hurting you?"
He expelled an oath on a quick gust and when he was able to answer, his voice sounded as if it was squeezed out between two rocks. "Hurting me? Damn, woman, you can hurt me like this all the rest of our days. I just need...a moment...to stop myself from...ahh hell...!"
Saying that, his hands grasped her hips and held her as he arched up, thrusting to the very depths of her soul. Together they rocked and slid and stroked and plunged until the first shocks of raw ecstasy shattered them both, the spasms rippling from one body to the other, the pleasure intense and explosive. He held her tight, his groans primal and lusty, and when she collapsed in a weak, quivering heap over him, his arms went around her and held her close enough that she could feel as well as hear his heart thundering in his chest.
"I suppose," he laughed softly as he tried to catch his breath, "that came from my calling you an innocent."
She was panting against his neck; her face was tucked up against his throat, her body was slick with sweat, lush with the warm, buttery sensation produced by their joining. The ability to speak, move, think had deserted her.
He gathered up two streaming fistfuls of her hair and coaxed her up so that he could look into the misted green eyes. He kissed her soundly, his tongue ravishing her mouth the way his flesh had ravished her body, leaving her even more dazed and breathless than before.
"One day I will explain to you why it is a damned fool thing to do to take a man off guard like that," he murmured. He rolled her gently over, keeping his body firmly joined to hers, and gazed down at her for several long moments before the smile faded and his flesh grew hard and thick again. "For now, we will just make sure my son has a warm welcome."
Georges de Ville slid the wall panel back into place noiselessly.
So. She truly was the daughter of the Governor of Barbados. The errant wife of Commodore Bennett Winfield. Wade's audacity was near epic proportions.
He should have remembered the reports Gaston had relayed last summer about a ship being lost to a storm, the son and daughter miraculously rescued. Summer Cambridge...Summer Winfield...Summer Wade. There could not be three in the world with such a striking first name.
De Ville quietly exited the dark cubicle. He had observed the lovers from what he affectionately thought of as his inspiration chamber, a secret alcove behind one wall of the bedroom where one could relax, watch, and enjoy without the need to participate.
But now he had a great many things to ponder as he strolled along the hallway to his upper-floor study. Like all of the rooms in the villa, it was oversized and ornately decorated with rich brocades and gold gilding, extravagances which made his guest look sadly out of place.
De Ville arranged his features into a semblance of an apology and went to sit behind his desk. "Forgive me for the delay, monsieur. Duty, you understand, never sleeps."
His guest nodded but was hard-pressed to conceal his impatience. "Well? Have you made your decision?"
De Ville poured himself a brandy and studied the odious little man who sat opposite him.
"We were discussing the reasons why I should assist you in capturing Morgan Wade."
Farley Glasse smiled wanly. "Wade is as much of a threat to you as he is to the British, perhaps more so, since he has no qualms intercepting French ships and liberating their cargos."
De Ville shrugged. "He captures our ships, we capture American ships. It balances, and in the end, is all quite equitable."
Glasse tried another tack. "Over the years, I believe the British Admiralty has paid you quite handsomely for the return of our prisoners of war. I leave it to you to imagine what we would pay to have Morgan Wade in shackles, standing before an English court of law, his crew in chains, his ship destroyed."
"Selling English prisoners is strictly a business arrangement, monsieur Glasse. This is another matter, one which could have grave consequences should it be discovered I assisted you in this quest. Moreover, we are enemies. Our countries are at war. If anything, I should be helping the privateer against you."
"Ah, but then you would not have the Chimera and all she carries to dispose of as you will. I want only Morgan Wade. The ship, the cargo, her armaments—they are all yours, General. As to the crew—again, yours to dispose of as you will, either sent to the cane fields or sold to the Americans. I care nothing for them. All but one man, that is. A loyal and diligent spy who has, at long last, provided me with the means of capturing Wade once and for all. It was he who managed, before they sailed, to send a dispatch from Six Man Bay alerting us to Wade's destination."
De Ville mulled this information over as he poured another brandy. "What of the woman?"
Glasse's beady eyes glinted as they narrowed, detecting more than a casual interest in the French commandant's voice.
"She is yours as well. Keep her, sell her, whore her out as you like."
De Ville arched an eyebrow. "Does Commodore Winfield share your sentiments?"
"The man is a fool. He allows his jealousy to govern him rather than cold, hard common sense."
De Ville steepled his hands and tapped the fingertips together. "We are all governed by one emotion or another, monsieur. Jealousy, love, hate—"
"Greed," said Glasse.
"Indeed. Greed plays a prominent role in all our lives. For instance, what is to stop me from simply taking the Chimera myself? Ransoming Wade to his compatriots in the American war department would bring as much as his ship and crew are worth to me, combined."
"It would also bring an end to the peaceful coexistence we have shared in these islands. We have refrained from bombarding your puny little fortress here because of your continued cooperation. You provide a service we need—the safe exchange of prisoners—but you could be under British rule within weeks should our benevolence suddenly wane. You would not find the A
mericans eager to rush to your aid; their contempt for Napoleon is almost as great as our own."
De Ville sipped his brandy, letting the strong spirits burn the edge off his temper. He had taken an instant dislike to Glasse the moment he had laid eyes on the man, and it was showing no signs of improving. He was crude. He lacked finesse. The fool had opened the discussion with a proposal, which was mildly intriguing, but was now being tempered with a threat.
"Out of curiosity," de Ville asked, "how do you propose to take control of the Chimera? Wade's men are not fools, nor are they easily overwhelmed."
"He has agreed to your terms for sanctuary, has he not?"
"We arrived at a suitable figure, oui."
"No doubt grudgingly so, thus he will expect your men to do the work transferring the allotted amount of cargo ashore."
"It has been so in the past," de Ville murmured.
"I should think twenty stout men substituting for your workers would raise no alarm."
"Twenty men? You would need ten times that number to overwhelm Wade's crew."
"Or just one man, already a trusted member of his crew, who knows precisely where to strike for Wade's weakness and how to use it against him." Glasse laughed gratingly. "I can even tell you she has big blue eyes and dark auburn hair."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Summer woke to a pounding in the base of her skull that threatened to blow the top of her head off. She was alone in the bed; Morgan was standing at the window smoking one of his thin black cigars.
"Is it...oh...it cannot be morning already," she moaned, holding her temples.
Morgan turned and grinned. "Unfortunately it is, and a fine one too, if you had a head on you to see it."
"I can see perfectly well," she grumbled. "Two of everything."
Wade only laughed and came back to the bed.
He leaned down and swung her legs over the side of the bed before gently pulling her upright. After seeing the wave of color that ebbed and flowed in her cheeks, he pointed to the dressing room. "If you haven't the stomach for it, go in there first."
Bound By The Heart Page 29