Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  "I'm fine. If you just had the decency to wait until after dawn..."

  "It is eight a.m, and I am leaving this villa in five minutes. You will have to dress quickly if you don't want to leave here in a sack over my shoulder."

  Summer pushed the tangled mane of her hair off her face and shoulders. Her clothing was folded neatly over a nearby chair, but it was more than she could manage. Morgan stood her up and, after admiring the shape and firmness of her breasts, which were full of morning milk, helped her into her smock and pantalets, then ordered her arms up while he pulled the gown on over her head. Fastening the bodice over her aching breasts made her whimper but she trudged dutifully into the adjoining dressing room to use the commode and splash cold water over her face.

  When she emerged, her hair had been hastily tamed with a length of ribbon and she was somewhat more steady on her feet.

  "I'm ready," she said, and tried not to blush as she glanced at the rumpled black satin sheets.

  "Yes, you did," he said, answering the question in her eyes. "And yes, you were."

  De Ville, they were informed by a polite servant, was still abed. Morgan declined the offer of breakfast and asked for a carriage instead. When it drew up to the front door, he assisted Summer inside and nodded up at the familiar black face of the driver.

  "Cap-tan."

  "Mr. Monday. Any sight yet of the Gyrfalcon?"

  "None, Cap-tan. We post a double watch all night, but all we see is a French supply ship, the Condor."

  "Rating?"

  "Two masts, mebbee ten gun."

  "How long ago?"

  "One hour. Her cap-tan come ashore quick-like, but he doan put up no flags."

  Morgan did not care for the sound of that. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  Mr. Monday clucked to the horses and the coach pulled away from the villa.

  "What does that mean, no flags?" Summer asked.

  "It means she is a supply ship that isn't signalling ashore for her supplies to be offloaded."

  "Oh." She promptly lost interest and rested her head on his shoulder. Morgan regarded her quietly for a moment, then turned to look out the window as the carriage made its way down to the harbor.

  Georges de Ville dropped the curtain back into place as the carriage rolled out of sight. The glittering sheen of the harbor was visible from his bedchamber and he redirected his attention to the scattered vessels of all shapes and sizes anchored peacefully in the bay. Sometime during the night, Stuart Roarke had brought the Chimera closer into shore and he could see the longboats rowing back and forth, like a trail of ants, transferring the cargo that had been bartered for safe sanctuary.

  It did not sit well with him that he was about to betray a man like Morgan Wade. The captain was popular amongst his brethren and word would soon spread that de Ville had sold out one of their own in exchange for Judas gold. Nor did it sit well with him that a scavenger like Glasse would triumph over an eagle like Wade, but what could he do? His little island was vulnerable and the British were on all sides, in strength. Glasse was correct in saying his presence there was only humored because of his ability to negotiate prisoner transfers between the French and English governments. The fact the Americans were still neutral meant that Wade could do nothing to help against the threat of attack, which, in turn, meant de Ville had to do what was best for him, and for his island. If that meant giving up Wade, then unfortunately...that was how the Fates had decreed it.

  He only hoped that the Fates would keep Bull Treloggan from sailing into port until after the Chimera had been moved and hidden.

  "Georges?"

  The voice was a soft, luscious purr, and he turned toward it. His heart did a peculiar flip, the way it seemed to do each time he was met with the sight of Heloise's magnificent body. She lay there unashamedly exposed to the bright daylight, her lovely legs spread, a slender hand between them slowly rubbing up and down. She held up moist fingers and wiggled them at him.

  "Come back to bed," she cajoled. "I have something for you."

  He smiled and felt an instant response in his flesh. His wife's body was pale and bloated with soft living; her disposition was as sour as her breath. How could he even contemplate having to return to France, which would surely be his own fate should the British take his island?

  He growled happily and started back to the bed when an urgent tapping on the bedroom door halted him.

  "What is it? I said I did not want to be disturbed."

  "Mon général...it is I, Lieutenant LaRoche. Captain Prudhomme, from the Condor insisted I interrupt. He brings a dispatch and says it is of the utmost urgency and cannot wait. He came straight from the harbor to place it in your hand."

  De Ville frowned and cast an apologetic glance at Heloise, who seemed unperturbed enough to whimper and set her hand rubbing faster between her thighs.

  De Ville yanked the door open and snatched the dispatch from his aide's hand. He broke the seal and scanned the cramped lines of writing. Halfway down the page his eyes widened and he returned to the top to read it again.

  "Where is he? Where is the man who brought this?"

  "Below, mon général. He was so anxious, I gave him wine and—"

  "Yes, yes...Jacques—" he looked up sharply— "call for my carriage at once. And send a man immediately to the harbor. Non! Go yourself! Find Captain Wade and tell him he must not return to his ship until I have spoken to him!"

  "Oui, mon général!"

  "And send Captain Prudhomme up to me at once, I will speak to him as I am dressing."

  "Oui, mon général."

  "Allez! Vite!"

  Stuart Roarke met the carriage at the dock. He reached out a hand to Summer and helped her disembark, answering the question on her lips before she could ask it.

  "Sarah is fine. The girl I hired from the village is clean and respectable and looks nearly as happy with the babe as you do."

  "Does she have children of her own?"

  Roarke shook his head. "Neither her husband nor her only child survived the recent voyage from France. She has been nursing a woman's son since then, but I gather she is not happy with the arrangement. You will like her though," he added with a chuckle. "She has a fine sense of what should and should not be endured on a ship and has already ordered the cabin scrubbed top to bottom. She also has Mr. Phillips tripping over his tongue like a schoolboy."

  Summer looked thoughtfully out across the harbor to the Chimera. How many times would Sarah provide Morgan with the necessary excuse to forbid her going ashore with him or doing the countless other things she was determined to learn and share? The pain in her breasts was diminishing; the past four or five days had caused a noticeable change. She knew her milk would provide if she wanted it to, and yet...if she hired a wetnurse...

  "Has the bastard finished raping my cargo holds?" Morgan asked.

  "De Ville's men arrived at first light. Thorny and Phillips have everything well in control; they are counting each crate and barrel carefully."

  Morgan tipped his head toward the two-masted frigate. "Where did she come from?"

  "I don't know, but she sure came in a hurry. I was just thinking of meandering over to check her out."

  Wade's gaze shifted to the flat-bottom barge tied up alongside the Chimera. It was low in the water and stacked with crates, but he could see no movement on deck or in the hatchways.

  His frown was diverted as he heard a disturbance behind them and saw a horse and rider galloping down the road from the direction of the governor's villa. Both he and Roarke stepped protectively in front of Summer as the horse skidded to a dusty halt only a few feet away and a young French lieutenant jumped down from the saddle.

  "Captain Wade!"

  "Stop right there," Roarke said, resting his hand on the pistol he wore tucked into his belt. "State your business."

  "Général de Ville sent me," the lieutenant gasped. "He begs that the Captain wait and speak to him before returning to your ship. It is a matter of utmos
t urgency."

  "Utmost urgency?" Wade snarled. "He better not be trying to change our arrangement." He scanned the empty road behind the officer. "So where in blazes is he?"

  "Not ten minutes behind me, monsieur. He was dressing and coming at once."

  Wade blew out an exasperated breath. "Very well, I'll wait. Roarke, you might as well go on ahead and take Summer across. Monday and I will stay here and see what de Ville wants."

  Roarke nodded. "Aye. As you like."

  "Run up a flag if you sight the Gyrfalcon." He glanced across the harbor. "And get those French bastards off my ship."

  Summer hesitated, torn between a desire to remain with Morgan and a longing to see her baby. Wade solved the problem by steering her toward the waiting jolly boat and whacking her affectionately on the rump. "Go," he said. "I might be ten minutes, I might be two hours depending on how many layers of lace de Ville puts on."

  Summer gave him a warm kiss before she followed Roarke to the shallow jetty. He climbed into the jolly boat first and swung her gently down, waiting until she was settled before he gave a sign to the two burly oarsmen.

  Summer watched Morgan move away from the water's edge, his head turned slightly in conversation with Mr. Monday. She saw the big negro nod and break away in an easy loping stride that took him along the shore to the other side of the bay where the French frigate was moored. In those few moments, watching Mr. Monday, she lost sight of Morgan, who vanished into the crowd along the waterfront.

  She sighed and felt Roarke's eyes on her.

  "How did the rest of the evening with de Ville go?"

  "It was fine. I think Morgan won a great deal of money from the general; he was not at all happy when he bid us goodnight. And Heloise—" Summer reached up self-consciously and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear— "she made me want to keep straightening my skirts and sitting taller and...and, well, she was simply lovely."

  Roarke smiled. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."

  Summer sighed again and startled him by slipping an arm through his. "Oh, Stuart, it worries me sometimes that I feel so happy. By all that is right and holy, I shouldn't. I have gone against every rule I have been raised to respect and obey. Heaven knows, I did try to resist, but..."

  "They have a word for it, you know."

  "Yes, I know. And yes, I do love him. I'm not really afraid of anything when I am with him. Do you think that's wrong?"

  "Not at all. Everyone should feel totally safe when they're in love, especially knowing they are loved back."

  She matched his smile and squeezed his arm a little. "Do you? Do you and your wife feel this way?"

  He nodded and squeezed back. "Yes, we do. I've been damned lucky in the past few years: to have found Morgan and become a friend to him, and to have a woman like my Bett to go home to...and now a son too."

  "I am very anxious to meet both of them," said Summer shyly. "And I dare say she would agree, Stuart Roarke, that she is extremely lucky as well."

  Roarke grinned. "Would you care to tell my esteemed father-in-law that when you see him? I need all the support I can get. And yes, I think you and Bett will become very good friends, which makes me four and five times lucky when I finish carving out that betrothal agreement between Sarah and Alexander."

  Summer laughed. They were rapidly approaching the Chimera and she had to shield her eyes against the glare of the morning sun off the water.

  "What is in those crates, anyway?" she asked.

  "Tea and silk," he replied blithely, then saw the look she threw him and laughed. "Gunpowder and copper."

  "Copper?"

  "Aye. Almost worth more than gold these days. Navies cannot build ships without copper to sheathe the hulls. England has none of her own; neither does America. Our buyers in Barbados found out about this shipment when your...ah, when Winfield seized a Spanish ship trying to break through the blockade. The Spaniard was sailed into Barbados under a prize crew and the copper was transferred to a warehouse on shore. We found out about it, managed to substitute the crates, and voilà. Here we are."

  "That was the business deal Morgan referred to in Barbados?"

  Stuart adjusted his spectacles and nodded. "It was arranged before Morgan found out about you and Winfield. The rivalry between the two of them goes back a long, long way."

  "So I gather. To Tripoli and the war against the Barbary Coast pirates? I overheard my uncle discussing it one day."

  "They were under different flags and yes, I suppose you could say it began there. But did your uncle also happen to mention that Winfield was on board the Leopard when she opened fire on the Chesapeake?"

  Summer's eyes widened. "No. I didn't know that."

  "Well, he was. Winfield was one of the young officers who went on board the Chesapeake to arrest the four so-called deserters. He and Morgan came within spitting distance of each other, and indeed, as I heard it, some bodily fluids were exchanged in a scuffle involving fisticuffs."

  Another small fragment of Morgan's past fell into place. Would she ever completely know him, she wondered?

  "Good. We're here." Roarke leaned over the side of the jolly boat to toss a rope to one of the men working on the barge. They made use of the loading ramp to board the Chimera, and Summer breathed an audible sigh of relief to be back on the familiar decks. Roarke was a step or two behind as they went through the gangway to the main deck, followed by two of the men who had been working on the barge.

  Roarke felt a prickle at the nape of his neck and slowed his steps. Summer was laughing, saying something about the tribulations of being a seaman's wife; she was smoothing the folds in her skirt and shaking out the beads of moisture caused by the spray from the oars. Nothing looked wrong or out of place...and yet...

  Thorny was not at the gangway to greet them. Some of de Ville's men were near the mainmast, several more were poised at the rails on either side of the gangway. There did not seem to be any activity going on and yet most of the faces were tense and shiny with sweat.

  He looked up. There were no men working topside. None of the crew was standing around watching the Frenchies work. There was a net full of crates swaying gently over the open cargo hatch but no one on the ropes pulling it to the side.

  Roarke glanced along the quarterdeck and saw Jamie Phillips, white-faced and standing rigidly against the rail. There was an ugly gash down the side of his cheek, and the blood had spattered onto the collar of his shirt. One of de Ville's men was beside him, his right hand—and whatever weapon was in it—hidden behind Phillips' back.

  All of this Stuart noted in a matter of split-seconds. His eyes flicked to Summer, now almost a dozen paces away from him. He heard himself shout and saw her startled reaction, but it was too late. Before he could reach her and push her back toward the gangway, he saw three of de Ville's men run forward to cut him off. His hand went to his pistol without conscious thought; he drew and fired point blank at the closest man. The shot caught him just below the collar bone, sending him spinning back in a spray of blood. Two more attackers closed in on Roarke, their knives flashing in the sunlight. Something hot and sharp was driven into his back, into his ribs, into his shoulder. He staggered back under the force of the blows, and as he fell, his spectacles flew off and skidded across the deck.

  Roarke heard a high-pitched scream and saw the blur that was Summer intercepted as she tried to run back to him. He was on his hands and knees, but even that effort seemed too much all of a sudden, and he let his head hang down between his shoulders. He saw, with amazing clarity, drops of bright red blood splattering on the deck beneath him. He groaned and the sound filled his brain, deafening him as he slumped forward onto the bloody planks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Summer's scream died on her lips. She continued to struggle against the rough arm that circled her waist, but now her hands covered her mouth, and she could only stare in horror as Stuart Roarke's life ebbed out onto the deck.

  "Release her," came a slick
, nasally voice from the shadow of the hatchway.

  Summer ran to Stuart's side and fell heavily to her knees. She brushed trembling fingers down the side of his face, smoothing aside the brown hair that had fallen to cover his eyes. The sob caught in her throat when she saw how ashen his skin was. His shirt was soaking rapidly, and the blood was staining her skirt and hands as she searched desperately for a way to staunch the flow.

  "Someone, please—" she gasped and looked around frantically. "Oh please help me! He's still alive! Please!"

  She heard a commotion from the bridge. Angry shouts and a curse were silenced by the same silky voice at the hatchway, and in moments, Mr. Phillips was on his knees beside her.

  "Dear God, I'm sorry." He choked over the words, pain and rage twisting his face. "We couldn't do anything. We couldn't warn you off. We couldn't fight them. They knew where everything was, they knew—"

  "The blood!" Summer screamed. "Can't you do something to stop the blood!"

  Phillips tore at his shirt. He folded it into a wad and pressed it to the wound beneath Stuart's ribs, the one that was bleeding hardest. The cut on his own cheek had sent spidery threads of blood down his neck onto his shoulder, and it mingled now with sweat to run down his chest. He shouted for two of the Chimera's crewmen, who leaped forward without waiting for the approval of their guards.

  "Ease him onto his back—carefully dammit! Thorny! We need Thorny up here! Throw him in the water barrel if you have to, but bring him around now!"

  "Wh-what happened to Thorny?"

  "De Ville's bastards knocked him out cold when he tried to break for the rail to shout a warning to Mr. Roarke."

  "De Ville's men?" Summer gasped, unable to comprehend what was happening. Five minutes ago she and Roarke were laughing, discussing betrothal arrangements. Now he was laying in her arms bleeding to death. "But how—? Why—?"

  Mr. Phillips looked past Summer's shoulder. She saw the hatred flare in his eyes and she whirled around, remembering the voice. The distinctive, slimy, nasal voice.