Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  Glasse followed the Frenchman to the door, muttering gruffly to the guard standing watch over Gabrielle and Sarah. She was yanked to her feet and pushed out the door ahead of Glasse, the gun in plain view at her temple. Summer cried out and tried to follow, but the door slammed shut. Mr. Phillips spun around, cursing at the ropes that kept him bound to the beam.

  "He won't do anything to harm the baby," he whispered fiercely. "He knows that without her for leverage, he doesn't stand a chance holding his ship hostage."

  Summer sagged against the door, her hands balled into fists, her cheek pressed against the wood in helpless frustration.

  Mr. Phillips looked around the cabin. It was the first time they had been left alone without a guard watching their every move.

  "Thorny...the cabinet. On top, behind the carving."

  Thorny was too short to reach, but he stepped up onto a chair and ran his hands along the depressed surface. He took down two razor-sharp daggers and a short-snouted pistol with a bag of shot and powder. One of the knives he tucked under his shirt, sheathing it in his belt. The other he used to cut the rope that was slung over the beam, freeing Phillips. The young officer quickly unbound his wrists and tucked the second dagger into the top of his boot. He then loaded the gun and looked around quickly for a place to conceal it.

  "Mr. Phillips?" Summer's face was ashen.

  He finished secreting the gun under the mattress of the berth and covered it with a corner of the blanket. He looked at Summer, then at her outstretched hand and saw the lace handkerchief and the small note that had been concealed within the perfumed folds.

  "It's from Morgan," she said, her voice trembling. "It was meant for Stuart."

  Phillips was by her side in a flash. The note was brief, cramped onto a two-inch square of paper. Phillips read it twice, and when he looked back up at Summer, his expression showed hope for the first time. His grin, in fact, was almost eager as he read the contents to Thorny then tore it to shreds and fed it to the hot coals in the brazier.

  "Danged Frenchies," Thorny grumbled. "Cain't trust a one o' them, can ye? Jest when I were plottin' how to slice 'is guts from 'is gizzard too."

  "Can Morgan do it?" Summer asked Phillips. "Can he find a way to get on board?"

  "If anyone can do it, he can. But we have to be ready to help him. First thing is to find a way to get the baby away from the guard."

  "If'n ye distract the barstard two winks, I'll take care o' him," Thorny declared, patting the hilt of the knife.

  "De Ville nicely managed to warn us how conditions stand with the rest of the crew—that they are locked in the aft cargo hold with the barrels of powder. He also gave us a time: One hour."

  "'A friend one hour becomes an enemy the next'," Summer quoted softly.

  Phillips nodded. "He also referred to an illusion...twice. A chimera is an illusion; that could be his way of telling us the Gyrfalcon is somewhere within range."

  "But de Ville specifically asked Glasse about Bennett," Summer reminded him. "So it might well be that he was also warning us that if the Caledonia followed the Gyrfalcon out of Bridgetown, Winfield is not far behind. Thus the one hour time frame."

  "By God you may be right," he murmured, causing Summer to flush under the look of admiration he gave her.

  "Hsht!" Thorny crabbed away from the door, where he had been listening for footsteps, and went to stand by the berth. Phillips quickly wound the ropes around his wrists again and grasped the cut ends in his fists as he slung it over the beam.

  "Whatever happens, stay beside Mr. Roarke," he whispered.

  "But Sarah—"

  The door swung open and Glasse strode through, his black eyes warily searching the cabin as he checked on the whereabouts of Thorny and Mr. Phillips. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he nodded to the guard to bring the nurse and baby back inside. Glasse sat behind Wade's desk and laid a fully cocked gun within arm's reach. The guard pushed Gabrielle toward the table and chairs, a jolting movement which set Sarah wailing at the top of her lungs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Morgan Wade's mouth and nose broke the surface of the water long enough for him to clear his lungs of stale air and suck in fresh. He ducked back beneath the side of the fishing ketch, clinging to the rope that was slung under the keel. The ketch moved swiftly out from behind the French ship, Condor, hugging the shoreline until it could unobtrusively join the slow-moving flotilla of fishermen rounding the point into the harbor, returning with their day's catch.

  The Chimera was several hundred yards away. The pilot of the ketch stayed on the inner edge of the flotilla, drifting as close to the privateer as possible without drawing suspicion from the eyes watching on deck. Mr. Monday's dark shadow clung to the rope beside Morgan. He was naked but for a belt strapped to his waist holding an assortment of knives, while Wade was dressed all in black hoping to cover any hint of paler skin that might be visible against the rich, dark blue of the water.

  De Ville had reported the positions of the guards, the conditions under which the crew was being locked in the hold, and the situation with the hostages in the aftercabin. The entry ports and gangways were all under guard. There were men in the bow and men in the stern, and one perched high on the mainmast sweeping the bay periodically with a spyglass. There was only one way there might be a hope of getting on board undetected, and that was a long shot. A small loading bay had been built into the stern just above the storeroom where the barrels of fresh drinking water were kept. Roarke had designed it for two purposes: For easier loading of the heavy barrels, and to act as an escape hatch should men be trapped below deck during a battle. It was an unusual addition, invisible unless one knew it was there, and Wade was counting on the fact that Glasse would have overlooked it in a search of the ship.

  The fire in Morgan's lungs signaled the need for more air. He stayed as flat to the hull of the ketch as he could, knowing the wary eyes on board the Chimera would be concentrating on the flotilla, searching for anything out of place. Their ketch was as innocent-looking as the others, filled to the gunwales with nets and silvery fish. The two elderly oarsmen rowed lazily and smoked on hand-carved pipes.

  Mr. Monday's bald head was beside Wade's this time. He breathed slowly, deeply before the massive chest swelled and he slipped back down the rope. Wade remained on the surface a moment longer, risking a glance over the side of the hull to see how close they were to his ship.

  A hundred and fifty yards, and already there were shouts from the deck of the Chimera warning the fishermen to steer well clear.

  Wade sank back into the dark blue depths. Mr. Monday was curled against the spine of the keel like a huge black barnacle, his eyes wide open, watching Wade descend.

  Thank God for you, Monday, Wade thought. He had barely frowned when Morgan had proposed this wild-assed scheme for getting on board; he had simply stripped and waited by the gangway, his belt bristling with weapons sharp enough to slice off body parts if he swam the wrong way.

  Wade heard three watery taps on the hull of the ketch. They were as close as they dared get to the Chimera.

  Wade and Monday rose to the surface for their last bearings and to prime their lungs for a final fill-up of air.

  Over a hundred yards.

  Morgan refused to think about the distance. On a signal, a boat farther ahead in the flotilla began to veer away from the pack and head straight toward the privateer. By the time it was within twenty-five yards of the hull, the guards had gathered in the bow and were shouting down at the fishermen, threatening them with cocked muskets.

  To Wade and Mr. Monday, moving like black wraiths more than a fathom beneath the rippling surface of the water, the sounds were indistinguishable from countless other muted plops and hums. They ignored everything but the mottled green gleam of the copper-sheathed hull that came closer and closer with each powerful stroke of their arms.

  Two thirds of the way across, Wade's chest and legs started to cramp. His heart was pounding in his ears and he re
alized, with a pang of alarm, that he had risen closer to the surface than he should have been. He had no way of knowing if they had been spotted from the deck. He was counting on the diversion of the fishermen to draw everyone's attention forward, but there was no guarantee a keen pair of eyes were not looking aft.

  He released a thin stream of tiny silver bubbles as he swam, and angled his body deeper, noting that Mr. Monday had pulled well ahead and appeared to be swimming evenly and effortlessly. Wade clenched his teeth and released another jet of air to relieve the pressure in his chest. His hands clawed the water and legs kicked with all his strength but the ship seemed to be coming no closer.

  Fifty feet to go...forty...

  His vision blurred and he could no longer see Mr. Monday or the Chimera. He knew when he swam into the shadow of the frigate because of the inkiness of the water, but he no longer had a sense of direction or distance. The cramps were spreading up his legs into his belly, into his arms.

  The last of his air was expelled on a groan just as a stray current washed by and somersaulted him end over end. He fought toward where he thought the surface should be, but the current played with him a second time, tossing him painfully into the crust of barnacles clinging to the keel of his ship. He groped for handfuls of the hard shells, hoping to pull himself hand over fist up the side of the rounded hull. Something tangled around his wrist, and he struggled against it furiously until he saw Mr. Monday's face loom close to his. He was dragged to the oily-bright surface and when his head surged free, he gulped frantically at mouthfuls of air, his cheek pressed against the timbers as he fought to bring the pain and panic under control.

  "You all right, my Cap-tan?" Mr. Monday asked quietly.

  "Fine," Wade gasped. "Fine. Lead the way. I'll be fine."

  "Aye, Cap-tan." Monday took one of Wade's scraped hands and hooked it around his belt. "You hold tight. I doan want to go fishing for you again."

  Wade knew better than to object. He needed all his strength back for what lay ahead.

  They were amidships and had to swim half the length of the hull before they were beneath the bowed section of the stern where the hatchway was located. There were no crosspieces attached to the timbers to afford Monday an easy climb, but he used finger and toe-holds to swing himself up out of the water. Sliding one of his thin blades through the crack in the wood, he worked the iron bolt free of its seating to release the inside latch, then grinned down at Wade as the timbers moved outward an inch, indicating there was no lock on the inner hatch. That had been the one glaring drawback to their plan, the only insurmountable flaw that both men refused to mention or even think about.

  Monday worked the hatch open and swung his body onto the platform. He reached down and pulled Wade up, then together they crept into the hold and drew the portal shut behind them. It took several moments to clear the salt water out of their eyes and adjust to the gloom of the storeroom. Barrels were stacked high on both sides, most filled with fresh water, some with ale, some with rum.

  The two men moved stealthily along the familiar corridors between the storerooms until they arrived at the ladderway leading to the gun deck above. Wade saw one of Glasse's men stationed at the top and flattened himself against the bulkhead. Mr. Monday had already shared his collection of knives and daggers, and Wade, using one of the finer examples of Spanish weaponry, crept soundlessly up the steps and slit the guard's throat before the man was even aware there was danger. Monday caught the musket as it slipped from the twitching fingers and together he and Wade lowered the body to the darkened deck below.

  They located a second and third guard on the gun deck, pacing between the forward ladderway and the galley. Mr. Monday disposed of one, Wade the other, then they crept to the door of the galley, startling the cook into dropping a slab of bacon on his foot.

  "By all that's holy, Captain! Where'd you come from?"

  "Never mind that now. Other than the two guards we just dispatched, are there any more on this deck?"

  "Two more for'ard, watching the hold where the crew is locked up. The scurvy dogs have 'em sitting in with the kegs o' black powder, and they say they'll blow the whole ship if one of 'em tries anything."

  "Any word from the aftercabin?"

  "No, sar. Last I 'eard, he were still alive."

  Wade's dark eyes narrowed. "Who was still alive? Was someone hurt?"

  The cook glanced from Mr. Monday to Wade. "Mr. Roarke, sar. He's bad hurt. The bastards caught 'im when he brung the lady aboard. Fought like Satan, he did, but weren't no use. Four of 'em went after Mr. Roarke with knives—would ha' left him to bleed to death, too, if not for the lady."

  "The others?" Mr. Monday asked sharply.

  "Mr. Phillips were cut some. T'orny bought a lump on the back of 'is noggin the size of a gull egg, but it were Mr. Roarke took the worst of it."

  Wade's face had turned to stone. Only his eyes were alive, searing into the beams overhead as if he could see through the barriers into the cabin.

  "Cap-tan?" Monday touched his arm.

  "We'll deal with the guards in the hold first and release the men," Wade said coldly.

  The cook swallowed nervously. "They have orders to set off the powder if'n they see or hear anything."

  "Then we will just have to make sure they don't ever see or hear anything again," Wade snarled. He wiped the blood from the blade of his knife and added a length of iron bar to his arsenal. Mr. Monday and Cook were close on his heels, their expressions as grim but not nearly as terrifying.

  Sarah had not stopped crying. Despite all of Gabrielle's efforts to soothe her, to whisper to her, to rock her, the baby wailed and batted her fists and threatened to drive Glasse's last nerve to the breaking point.

  "I can stop her from crying," Summer said calmly. "She sees me over here quite clearly and she wants me to hold her. What is more, Gabrielle's milk has stopped...mine has not; I can feed her and help her sleep."

  "How very motherly," Glasse sneered.

  "She is hungry; she is wet and miserable, and she will not stop crying until she is dry and fed. You can have your bully hold his gun on me all the time, if you like. I will not do anything other than see to my baby."

  Glass pondered his answer and as if on a signal, Sarah's wails became louder. He waved a hand curtly to the guard, who oversaw the transfer of the baby from Gabrielle's arms into Summer's. The wailing stopped instantly and the big blue eyes peered up at Summer's face as if to say: finally!

  She whispered endearments, kissed and petted her daughter as she carried her over to the berth. It was wide and Sarah took up little space at the bottom, beside Roarke's feet. Summer could feel the guard breathing over her shoulder and she could sense the muzzle of the gun pointed at her back as she swiftly unwrapped the blankets and unfastened the sopping linens on her daughter's bottom.

  She could also see the edge of the gun barrel where it was tucked beside the mattress.

  She made a fuss of smoothing the quilt before she gathered up the wet linens and turned away from the berth.

  "I am only fetching water and clean cloths," she said.

  The guard queried Glasse again, and received another impatient nod, but instead of staying by Summer's side, as she hoped, he merely moved the pistol so that it was pointed at the baby. Sarah gurgled and reached playfully for the gleaming iron barrel. Summer's heart sank and her mouth went instantly dry. She saw Mr. Phillips stiffen and Thorny's eyes bulge out of the crow's feet, but she quickly fetched a new clean nappy and dry clothes from the purchases she had made the previous day and went back to the bedside with a fresh basin of warm water.

  "Excuse me," she said bitterly and stepped between the child and the gun.

  How much time had lapsed, she wondered? She knew she held Glasse's full attention now but she also knew the guard would be doubly watchful for any sudden moves.

  Her heart flew into her throat again at the sound of another sharp knock on the door.

  "Come," Glasse barked.

&n
bsp; It was one of his men. "You said to tell you if there was any movement out in the bay."

  "Well?"

  "Boats. Fishermen, by the look of it, comin' around the point."

  Glasse consulted the timepiece. Fishermen? Of course, they would be returning with the day's catch. "Anything unusual?"

  "Not what I could see. Nets 'r full, the crews aren't too interested in us. Couple came close a while back but we chased 'em away."

  Glasse cursed. "Warn them all to stay well clear."

  "Aye." The slits that were the man's eyes turned to Summer, and she felt a chill of recognition. Even more telling was the look on the faces of Thorny and Mr. Phillips.

  "Beavis," Thorny muttered. "Ye ripe bluddy bastard. No wonder the limey sods knew where ter find us."

  The man grinned, revealing several missing front teeth along blackened gums. "Captain ought to be nicer to his crew, matey," he sneered. "Should've shared the spoils equal."

  Summer stiffened as the rasping voice struck a chord in her memory. The afternoon so long ago...in the hold...the attempted rape. It had been this man who had grabbed her and dragged her into the empty hold.

  He saw that Summer recognized him and his leer broadened. "Remember me now, do ye, Governess? I'm not forgetting you owe me something an' mayhap I'll get around to collecting it this time."

  "Get back on deck," Glasse ordered. "And keep a sharp eye on those fishing boats. If any of them ignore your warning, open fire."

  "Aye." Beavis grinned and blew a kiss at Summer before he left the cabin.

  "An old acquaintance of yours, Mrs. Winfield?"

  Summer's gaze was iced with loathing as she looked at Glasse. "His presence here appeals to me as much as yours."

  Glasse laughed thinly and replaced the cigar between his teeth. "Beavis is one of my best men. He was, after all, able to ingratiate himself with Wade's crew for the past fifteen months. Perhaps I should reward his diligence by allowing him the pleasure of your company until Captain Wade deigns to join us."