Farley Glasse, dressed in workman's breeches and rough woolen shirt, stood in the shadows, a smile curving his thin lips.
"Welcome aboard, Mrs. Winfield. I trust you enjoyed your evening ashore?"
"You!" she cried. "How did you get on board this ship?"
Glasse drew a deep breath, filling his chest with pompous triumph. "It was...shall we say...childishly easy."
Summer felt her heart skip a beat, then start to thud so loudly in her ears they ached. Her entire body turned so cold, it felt as though someone had flushed ice water through her veins. "Where is Sarah? Where is my baby?"
Glasse savored the look of terror on her face a moment longer, then tipped his head to someone standing behind him in the darkness of the companionway. A girl was pushed roughly into the sunlight, her arm gripped tightly by another of de Ville's men, who also held a cocked pistol against her spine. She was no more than twenty, deathly pale, rigidly frightened, but she was holding Sarah cradled protectively against her body as if she defied any man to dare pry her free.
Summer cried out and started to leap up, but Mr. Phillips stopped her.
"He won't let anyone near them," he whispered urgently. "He promises to shoot the baby first if anyone tries."
Summer looked at Sarah, then the girl, then the gun. Lastly she turned huge, tear-filled eyes to Glasse. "What do you want? Why are you doing this?"
"Come now, my dear Mrs. Winfield. You know the answer to that. What have I wanted all these long months?"
Morgan! Dear God, she thought, Morgan would be rowing out to the Chimera as blind to the situation on board his ship as she and Stuart had been. He would stand no better chance, he would not even put up a fight, not with a gun held to his daughter's head.
Stuart groaned in the depths of his pain. His body had a spasm and the movement sent a fresh torrent of blood gushing from his wounds. Summer was overwhelmed by the helplessness of being unable to help him, or help Morgan, or even touch her child.
"Please...he has to have help," she begged through her tears. "A doctor. Could we at least send for a doctor?"
Glasse arched an eyebrow. "And announce to the entire island—and Morgan Wade—that there is trouble on board the Chimera? Really, my dear, you must indeed think me a fool."
"I think less of you than that," she said bitterly. "Will you at least allow him to be carried below out of the heat and sun?"
Glasse studied her face...and the glowering faces of the rest of the crew...and nodded. "Take your Mr. Roarke wherever you like for all the good it will do. He'll be food for the crabs soon enough."
It was Summer's turn to reach out and stop Mr. Phillips from surging to his feet. "No. No, please. It won't help Stuart if you get yourself killed."
"Listen to her, young man, it is sound advice." Glasse pointed to the gun. "And I will not hesitate to order either the woman or the child shot if any other of these brave men take it upon themselves to play hero. I would truly hate to see it happen, but I assure you it will, if I deem it necessary. Go ahead, Mrs. Winfield, move the man if you like. In fact, I suggest you accompany him and wait together in the captain's cabin."
Mr. Phillips nodded to the two crewmen who gently eased Stuart onto a makeshift litter.
Summer remained on her knees on the bloody deck. She saw something reflect the sunlight and she leaned over, picking Stuart's spectacles up off the planking. Her hands trembled as she folded the wire arms neatly across the lenses. She wiped a smear of blood from the glass onto her skirt, swallowing back the revulsion as she saw the other blotches of crimson soaked into the cloth. Her hatred grew until it sat like a lump in her throat. She looked up at each of Glasse's men in turn.
"What kind of man holds a gun to a baby's head?" she asked in a whisper. "You should all die of shame."
Each man looked away, unable to hold her gaze. All but one shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot: Farley Glasse.
Summer stood and approached the hatchway. "I want my baby," she said calmly. "Your animal may hold the gun to my head, but I want to hold my baby."
He held her gaze while he weighed the advantages against the faint murmur of grumblings around the deck. In the end, he smiled. "Of course, my dear. Take her. Take the girl below as well, but my guards will accompany you all and if anyone gives them cause, they will shoot the child first. Is that quite clear?"
Summer went to gather Sarah into her arms, but when she saw the blood all over her hands, she curled them and drew back. "I...I can't..."
"It's alright, m'um," the girl said softly, "I have her tight. I'm right with you. You can hold her just as soon as you...tidy up a bit."
Summer blessed the girl with a smile, and without another word or glance at Glasse, she ducked through the hatchway and went down the steps, the young girl and the two guards close behind.
When they entered the cabin, she saw Thorny bending over the berth, muttering orders to himself and to Phillips. There was a huge lump swelling on his neck just below the ear. His head and shoulders were dripping water, and his old eyes were blinking repeatedly, desperate to clear away the fog the dousing had not accomplished.
The cabin was a shambles. The drawers of the desk had been rifled and emptied, as had the shelves and cupboards. The lock on the cabinet behind the desk had been smashed and the contents scattered carelessly across the floor. Lying open on top of the desk was Morgan's logbook, his bundled letters of marque, and most damning of all, the small gold case that contained the Granville seal.
Glasse would be convinced he had his proof now. There would be nothing to stand between a mock trial and a swift hanging. Summer wondered what Glasse's reaction would be if he found out his efforts had been centered around the wrong man all this time.
Summer laid Stuart's spectacles carefully on Morgan's desk then went to the corner and poured some water into the basin. She rinsed her hands, and dried them well, then took Sarah into her arms and held her as tight as she possibly could without frightening her.
Thorny set the girl...Gabrielle...to tearing a bedsheet into strips. He was bending over Stuart and muttering to himself, passing quiet orders to Mr. Phillips, who lit a fire in the small brazier and found an eating knife. The guard came alert and snarled a warning at once but Thorny only spat and looked him straight in the eye.
"I need ter burn the wound," he explained impatiently. "I need ter seal it shut, ye pillock, or ee'll bleed ter death. I'd do the same ter you if'n ye were lyin ere, so don't go wavin' that thing at the wee bairn or I'll rip off yer snout 'n fill yer skull full o' maggots."
When the metal was glowing red, Thorny wrapped the handle in several layers of cloth to protect his hand from the heat, then nodded to Mr. Phillips to hold Stuart's shoulders, another crewman to hold his legs.
Summer had to turn away and bite down hard on her lips to keep from screaming as she heard the wet sizzle of burning flesh. The smell sent her rushing to the open gallery window.
Stuart remained blessedly unconscious through the ordeal. He had lost a great deal of blood and Thorny was not hopeful he had retained enough to keep his heart beating. He bandaged the damaged ribs then worked with needle and thread over the other wounds.
When there was nothing more he could do for Roarke, he stitched and bandaged the deep gash on Mr. Phillips head, then slumped into a chair, his shoulders drooping, his hands limp on his knees.
"I don't know, lass," he mumbled. "We stopped the bleedin' but Roarke there, ee's weak. Ripe weak ee is, an' I can't say as I know 'ow ee's lasted this long. Must o' lost arf the blood in 'is body. Wish't I knew if'n there were sum'mit else a proper physic would do. Sum'mit ter stop the p'isen if'n there be any. Ee's like me own son, ee is, 'im an' the cap'n both. Like me own sons."
Summer's eyes filled and she laid a hand gently on Thorny's shoulder. "You've done all you can, he knows that."
"I only 'ope it's enough, lass. I only 'ope it's enough."
Glasse's patience was suffering with the failure of Morgan to appear in a j
olly boat. It had become necessary to send the laden barge back to shore in order to allay any suspicions caused by a further delay. De Ville's men had returned with the news that the privateer was nowhere to be found along the waterfront. They had checked the taverns and inns, the stores and crowded marketplace. Neither he nor the huge negro had been seen for several hours, or if they had, no one was willing to say.
Summer had managed to keep the relief from showing on her face. The longer Morgan remained on shore, the more likely it was that Glasse would make a mistake. Already his hands shook and his expression was strained. The ferret-eyes moved constantly from the clock to the door, from the door to the windows to the shadows to the guard standing over Summer and Sarah. He had been confident the trap would spring swiftly shut, now he was forced to wait, and it was beginning to tell on his nerves.
One mistake and Morgan would know something was wrong...had it been made already? Summer, Thorny, and Mr. Phillips had been confined to the cabin and knew little of what was going on up on deck. There were one hundred and forty of Wade's men aboard. A word, a signal was all they needed, but no one would or could do anything as long as Glasse controlled the gun at Sarah's head. She was Morgan's child and no one would do anything to jeopardize her life in any way. For that, Summer was filled with pride and a fierce new loyalty, but it also sickened her at heart to see the humiliation they were forced to endure.
Stuart had not moved, had not made a sound in over an hour. His body was ice cold to the touch and frequently wracked with shivers. Thorny had piled on blankets to counter the shock, but he seemed to grow paler by the hour, to sink a little deeper into the void.
Mr. Phillips' wrists had been bound together and the rope then tied to a beam, keeping his arms stretched overhead and limiting his movement.
Summer had changed out of the blood-soaked dress and was wearing one of Wade's shirts belted tightly over a plain brown skirt. Glasse was about to comment on her peasant appearance when he heard footsteps out in the companionway.
"A boat, sir. Heading this way."
Glasse's face became animated at once. "Wade?"
"No sir. It is General de Ville."
Glasse snarled. "What the devil is he playing at? My God, if Wade is watching—" he stopped and balled his fists. "If he thinks he can demand more money for his cooperation, he is sadly mistaken."
"His cooperation?" Summer gasped. "He knew about this?"
Glasse glared at her. "Shocked, Mrs. Winfield? Allow me to shock you further, then, by telling you he not only cooperated, he fully intends to collect the Chimera as his payment."
"You surprise me, Mr. Glasse," Summer said calmly. "You work for the British government. You say your loyalty borders on that of a zealot. You decry traitors and sympathizers, yet you form an alliance with a Frenchman in order to catch one man whose alleged crimes in no way equal those of the enemy with whom you are making your devil's pact. Why?"
"Alleged crimes? There is nothing alleged about the crimes Edmund Granville has committed. He will pay for what he has done; I have made a solemn vow to that effect."
"No court in the land," she countered evenly, "not even the King himself would condone the use of a three-month-old child as a means of capturing a man."
The rage and hatred burning inside Glasse had turned his eyes into two black holes. "I will use any means at my command, Mrs. Winfield. I have spent the last thirteen years of my life searching for Sir Edmund Granville, and I do not intend to let him slip away from me now. I thought your husband would be the one to finally end it, but the fool let him get away. Now I will use Granville's own ship, his crew, his whore, and his bastard child if need be. Oh yes, Mrs. Winfield, his child. Your husband confided his shame to me one night over a bottle of rum. The use of Wade's woman and child is a greater irony than I could have hoped for.
"Thirteen years ago, you see," he continued in a low voice, "he killed my only daughter. He beat her to death in a sordid little hotel room then ran away when his money and his title could not buy him an easy way out. I vowed I would find him one day and make him pay—if it took my last dying breath to do so. And I will, Mrs. Winfield. If I have to take you and your daughter with me, I will."
"But...he didn't do it," Summer cried. "He didn't kill her!"
"How would you know that?"
"H-he told me."
"He confessed to you?" Glasse took a step toward her. "Edmund Granville confessed his crimes to you?"
"He told me he did not do it. He told me that he was drugged the night it happened, that he was framed by the dead woman's husband and—"
"Ronald?" Glasse's momentary shock changed swiftly back to rage. "And you believed the lies of a murderer? What would you expect him to say, Mrs. Winfield? Would you expect him to admit to kidnapping and brutally beating a young woman to death while he was in the process of luring you away from your husband? Lies, Mrs. Winfield. Blatant, cold lies that he told you and you believed. Well—" he laughed maliciously— "all the lies in the world will not save him now. All the lies and all the pleading and all the bastard children he has sired will not save him now."
Summer flinched from Glasse's hatred as if it were a living thing. When she was stopped by the hard edge of the berth, she turned and saw to her greater horror that Stuart Roarke's eyes were open and burning directly into hers. His hand trembled and his fingers clawed their way to her wrist and wrapped tightly around it. His jaw muscles worked frantically, and the bloodless lips curled back with the effort it took to form a single plea. There was barely audible sound behind it; she doubted anyone but she could hear.
"Tell him."
The tears spilled over her lashes and ran in shiny paths to her chin. She covered his hand with her own and held it tight a moment before she reached for the cloth she had been using to wipe his brow. She patted it across his forehead and temples, looking everywhere but into the soft brown eyes.
Farley Glasse witnessed none of the exchange. He stood at the gallery windows, striving to regain the composure of which he was so boastful. He had almost succeeded when a tap on the door announced Georges de Ville's arrival.
The French commandant was impeccably dressed in tight white breeches and a cutaway blue jacket, the gold braid and gold epaulets of his rank matching the tawny gold sparks in the depths of his eyes. He took in the condition of the cabin, the grim expressions of the occupants, and ended his inspection when he saw the look of utter contempt on Summer's face.
"Madam. A pity we meet again under such adverse conditions." He bowed curtly and turned to Glasse. "But what is the meaning of this, monsieur? I do not see the captain."
"Because he is not here," Glasse replied tautly.
"Not here?" De Ville frowned. "But where is he?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. The men I sent ashore could learn nothing. The good citizens of your town are a close-mouthed lot."
"Mmm. To you Englishmen, perhaps. I shall make enquiries myself. In the meantime...what is that dreadful smell?" De Ville produced a lace-edged handkerchief drenched in bay rum, and pressed the scented folds to his nose.
Glasse smirked. "Cooked meat, General."
De Ville coughed with distaste. "What happens now, monsieur? You have the crew safely under lock and key, I presume?"
"Naturally. They're all nicely penned up in the hold sharing space with the hogsheads of black powder they were so eager to smuggle. Any hint of an alarm and my men will blow up the powder...and the ship along with it, if necessary."
"I see. And if the captain does not soon arrive? How long do you propose to sit here in my harbor?"
"He will arrive. When you return to shore, General, you find him and you will deliver an ultimatum to Wade. His life in exchange for the woman and child."
"And if I cannot locate him?"
Glasse clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the ceiling "It is three o'clock now. He has until dusk. That's when the Northgate has orders to move into position and block the harbor. This ship a
nd anything that stands in our way will go up in flames at that time if Captain Ashton-Smythe does not hear differently from me. Go ashore, General. Find Wade. You have as much at stake here as he does."
"That was not part of our agreement," de Ville said quietly.
"Consider this a new agreement."
De Ville pursed his lips. "What of Commodore Winfield? Was he not supposed to follow the Chimera out of Bridgetown?"
Glasse's cheek twitched. "He was. However, with or without his support, I will accomplish what I have set out to do."
"I have no doubt you will, Monsieur Glasse." De Ville approached the bedside and kept his nose delicately covered as he peered down at Stuart Roarke. Summer did not move or avert her eyes. She summoned every last scrap of derision in her body and directed it toward the Frenchman.
"Monsieur Roarke's condition...it is serious?"
"If he dies, the blame will rest squarely on your shoulders," she said evenly.
De Ville glanced up and marked the puffiness around her eyes, the swollen evidence of her tears.
"Such a lovely face," he mused. "It pains me to see it so distorted by grief."
"The grief will be yours, monsieur, when Morgan learns of your treachery."
"In matters of business and politics, madam, one cannot allow emotions to dictate the rules. I regret seeing the brave captain in such an untenable position, however..." He shrugged and started to turn away.
"I thought you were friends."
"Friends?" The handkerchief waved again. "My dear, in times of war there can be no friends, only illusions of such. A friend one hour becomes an enemy the next. Harsh, perhaps, but the Captain understands this, as I do."
"If you have finished wasting time, de Ville...?" Glasse broke in impatiently.
"Yes. Yes." The general looked back at Summer. He frowned and wiped at a dried spot of blood on her chin. "Hold fast to your illusions, ma chère. They will see you through."
He pressed the handkerchief into her hand and bowed, striding briskly toward the door. "Monsieur Glasse, a word in private if I may?"
Bound By The Heart Page 31