Bound by the Heart (18 page)

"You had no difficulty in relating the two,"
Sir Lionel said bleakly.

"Only because Wade is a subject of personal
interest to me. I don't imagine there are five people on the island who even
know Stuart Roarke exists."

"Then how the blazes did you know?"

Bennett waved away the question. "It isn't
important. What
is
important is keeping his anonymity. If we handle this
correctly, it becomes entirely possible for the less-pleasant aspects of this
whole incident to go undiscovered."

"Explain yourself, sir," the governor
chafed. "What's done is done and cannot be undone."

"What exactly has been done?" Bennett arched
a brow. "Your son and my fiancée have been returned safely home by a
gentleman identified only as S. Roarke. Since both the name and his
less-palatable connections are somewhat vague, we can be fairly safe in
assuming that Morgan Wade's part in this might never come to light."

"You want us to lie about who rescued us?"
Michael cried, his visions of glory fading before his eyes. "You mean we
can't
ever
tell
anyone we were on the
Chimera?
Or that Morgan Wade himself jumped into the sea to
rescue us? Or that we were on board when—"

"Not unless you want your sister to suffer the
consequences," Bennett interrupted irritably. "Not unless you want
your father to bear the ridicule of his political enemies."

"Speaking for myself," Summer argued,
"I am not the frail soul you are painting me to be. I would not perish on
the mere speculations of a handful of frustrated rumormongers."

"Nevertheless, daughter, you have more to think
about here than your own reputation. Or have you forgotten that your fiancé has
a career in the navy? D'you think he should be saddled with a scandal as
promising as the likes of this one if it can be at all avoided?"

"I think perhaps," Summer slowly turned to
Bennett, "if there is any doubt as to his priorities, the commodore should
know that I would not hold him to any commitments he may have made. I would
understand completely if he wished to have the engagement postponed or
terminated altogether."

"Terminated? Good Lord, I had forgotten.
...
it already has been." Her father
reddened. "Because of those blasted memorial services. It wouldn't take
more than a greased palm here and there to get the wheels spinning again,
though. And the chapel is still reserved for the last Saturday in July."

"That is only three weeks
away, Father," Summer pointed out, shivering with a sudden chill that
swept through the room. "Perhaps Bennett and I should both take more time
to consider the consequences."
                                                               

"There needn't be any consequences," Sir
Lionel retorted. "And I believe appearances are of the utmost importance
here. If everything proceeds according to plan, there need never be an eyebrow
raised in speculation; if they're altered, the tongues will surely wag."

Summer disregarded her father and looked up at
Bennett. "You are not bound by honor to go through with the marriage, sir.
I repeat, I gladly release you from any and all commitments."

Commodore Winfield hesitated a fraction longer than
was comfortable in the heavy silence. In the end he raised one of Summer's
hands to his lips.

"But I am bound, dear Summer. Bound by far more
than words and conventions. I am bound by my heart and my soul to take you as
my wife. If you harbor doubts, if you wish to take a week or a month or a year
to make your final decision, so be it. . . but it will not change mine."

Summer felt a second chill sweep along her spine. The
pale blue eyes held the same degree of sincerity as they had the night in
London when he introduced her to responses she had not known she was capable of
feeling. Yet something was different. There was no innocent flush of eagerness
in her cheeks, no spidery thrills of anticipation racing through her limbs at
his touch. She knew the reason. It would be the same reason that a week or a
month or a year would do nothing to alter. But what choice did she have? What
choice did any woman have who had been pampered and spoiled into helplessness?
She was trapped by convention, just as surely as Bennett was trapped by his
strict code of honor.

Her lips moved, and she heard herself accepting
Bennett's proposal. She saw her father dab the linen across his brow in relief,
and she heard the joyous call for the finest champagne the cellars had to
offer. She felt Bennett's lips brush against her hand, and in the split second
that their eyes met and held, she knew there would be no further mention of her
nights on board the
Chimera.

Chapter 11

The marriage
of Summer Cambridge to Commodore Bennett Winfield took
place as scheduled, on a hot sultry day three weeks after the miraculous return
from the sea. Guests were drawn from the island's elite. Lawyers, bankers,
businessmen and merchants mingled with cane growers and rum exporters, who in
turn toasted the newlyweds with every high-ranking member of the Admiralty and
government present in Barbados and the neighboring colonies. It was not the
elaborate social event of the season originally conceived, for the shadow of
the
Sea
Vixen
still
loomed in the background, but it was impressive, and the bride and groom were
duly wined and dined both before and after in the usual rounds of luncheons and
teas in their honor.

The Winfields, on Sir Lionel's urging, took up
residence in the south wing of Government House. Bennett's naval duties would
be taking him away for long stretches of time and, her father declared, Summer
would appreciate the company as well as the excellent experience to be gained
acting as hostess at the government functions held daily under the vast tiled
roof.

A marriage was what was sorely needed in the family,
Sir Lionel decided. New blood. A firm hand. Summer was far more reserved than
her heated letters of the past year had indicated, but she could lapse at any
time, and she was still inclined to speak her mind without pausing to weigh the
outcome. A strong hand and a healthy dose of childbearing would straighten her
out in no time.

No one questioned or doubted the story of the rescue
by S. Roarke. It was left to speculate that he was a wealthy cane grower from
the Windward Islands who had luckily happened by after the storm had ravaged
the
Sea
Vixen.
As
Bennett predicted, no one associated Roarke with Morgan Wade, and in that
respect, the gossips of the town had a poor July.

Not so the cane growers, who harvested a record crop
that year, or the merchants, who were selling goods as fast as they could import
them—from whatever source—because of a growing fear of total embargo if war was
officially declared between America and Britain. The increased traffic in ships
going both ways naturally bred an increase in the numbers of ships and cargoes
waylaid by privateers of all nationalities. Many were caught and summarily
punished by the British revenue cutters that patrolled the area. Many more made
good their escape, growing both wealthy and notorious by capturing the ships
and their valuable cargoes. Summer was mildly disconcerted to learn that the
West Indies had become a veritable hotbed of intrigue in her four-year absence.
Every drawing room conversation centered on politics and the growing problems
of piracy. Worse still, rarely an evening went by that there was not some
mention of the most successful privateer of them all. . . .

"Morgan Wade! Bah! We've been trying to pin down
that bastard for three years now—begging your pardon, Mrs. Winfield—but he's
like a ghost. He comes and goes as if he's sprouted wings, and you never know
when he's going to light down next. Or where." The speaker was the senior
naval officer in charge of the port authorities on Barbados. Old and crusty,
Admiral Sir Reginald Stonekipper was a longtime friend of Sir Lionel's and
often shared a meal and exchanged opinions with him under the roof of
Government House.

"Why, only two months ago," the admiral
continued, "we had a report of a sighting—from a fairly reliable source, I
might add—
seven
hundred miles
due south of where he was raking the bejesus out of a pair of
Portuguese traders. We know it for a fact because when he finished with them,
he had the cheek to offer us the hulls at what
he
considered to be a fair
price."

"And did you take them?" Sir Lionel asked.

"Course we took them," the admiral snorted.
"Then we sold them back to the Portuguee for twice what we paid. But
that's not the point here. The point is, it's high time something was done to
put an end to his philandering. A definite and permanent end."

"You have to catch him first," Sir Lionel
said. "And you have to catch him raking a British ship. I don't mind
saying I give a hearty cheer every time word reaches us that he's downed
another foreigner. I also have to say he's pretty clean whenever he sails into
my jurisdiction. Never fails to send over a case of prime rum or brandy."

"Hmph. Twice he's been impounded in the harbor,
and twice, by God, he's had his ship searched to the timbers."

"More's the time, Reg, that he's sailed away
laughing out of the side of his mouth. We cannot touch him if he's holding
legal, and he knows it."

"Rubbish, I say. We know he just bought a huge
shipment of gunpowder and muskets from the French. Where is the legality in
that?"

"Show me on his manifests where it states guns and
powder— better yet, show me where it doesn't state guns and powder . . . then
show me the guns and powder—and I'll have him tossed in a jail cell before the
ink dries on the warrant." Sir Lionel leaned back in his chair, puffing
furiously on a cigar. "You cannot do it, because when you board him and
give search, you find not a whiff of it."

"Because we've only been able to search him in
port. If you could catch him and stop him on open water, my guess is we'd have
a treasure chest, gentlemen. A veritable treasure chest."

Commodore Winfield was present, and his adjutant,
Harvey Aslop. Seated next to him was a lesser naval attaché, and on the far
side of the room, Summer Winfield.

"So how does he do it?" Sir Lionel asked.
"How does he go from a legal cargo—complete with bills of lading and
official sanctions—to damned contraband?"

"He obviously stops somewhere along the way and
switches cargoes," Bennett drawled. "It is the where of it that
appears to be stumping the revenuers."

Admiral Stonekipper clamped down on the soggy end of
his cigar. "It isn't for lack of trying that they've failed to stop him.
For six months now they've sent one ship after another out to give him chase.
And that's precisely what he gives them
...
a merry chase."

"You have the
Northgate,"
came a thin, nasally voice
from the settee. "She's rated at fifty-two guns, if I am not mistaken. And
as of six weeks ago you took delivery in Barbados of the
Caledonia
—seventy-four guns. I hardly
think Wade should be laughing."

Sir Lionel squinted past his bushy white eyebrows at
the attaché seated opposite his son-in-law. Farley Glasse had been in
Bridgetown less than two months and had arrived on the doorstep tonight in the
company of Admiral Stonekipper. He was an oily little man and had not said much
all evening; now he needed to be put in his place.

"The
Northgate
and the
Caledonia
are both warships, sir. They have enough to do
worrying about controlling the blasted French, let alone starting an incident
with some damned Yankee renegade."

Glasse sighed. "This same damned Yankee renegade,
as you call him, is smuggling guns and armaments through the blockade lines to
the American mainland. You are not dealing with a simple smuggler carrying
embargoed tea to old Virginia ladies."

"What are you suggesting we do about it,
sir?" Admiral Stonekipper snorted.

"It seems to me that one well-placed
broadside—"

"Would give us another incident like the
Chesapeake,
or the
Little Belt,"
Bennett stated flatly.
"We would be at war with the Americans before the smoke cleared."

"The instances you refer to, Commodore, were both
justifiable. The
Chesapeake
carried British deserters; we merely removed them. As
to the other," Glasse shrugged, "I was not the only one amazed by
Parliament's reluctance to throw down the gauntlet."

In early May a British frigate had stopped an American
brig and had seized a crewman suspected of being a British deserter. In the
ensuing uproar, the Americans had dispatched one of their warships, the
President,
to search out the
Guerrière
and return the sailor.
Midmonth it had caught up to a British ship and opened fire, only to discover
it was not the
Guerrière,
but a smaller, inoffensive vessel, the
Little Belt.
The British public was
outraged at the effrontery of the Americans, who had simply apologized and sent
the brig on its way. The Americans touted their own as heroes and stirred the
patriotic spirit to fever pitch.

"Are you suggesting we take the initiative?"
Sir Lionel scratched savagely beneath his periwig. "When we are already
fighting both the French and the Spanish?"

"I suggest we cease to label piracy as anything
but. I suggest we stop sending inadequate cutters and naval sloops after Wade
when they haven't a hope of doing anything but increasing his reputation. He
has attacked and raided British merchantmen, has he not?"

"Only sporting, if you think of it," Admiral
Stonekipper grunted, "since our privateers have taken American ships. To
make a case hold against Wade himself, we would have to have proof."

"We would have
to
catch him in the midst of a
fracas," Sir Lionel remarked. "Or, as Reg has said, take him with the
illegal goods on board. Neither of which seems too likely."

Glasse pursed his lips. "Have you thought of
using a decoy?"

The admiral almost swallowed his cigar butt as he
rammed it into his mouth. "We've tried two, by God!"

"And?"

"Both ended up being sailed under a prize crew of
Wade's men, past the revenue ships that were sent to catch him, past the whole
goddamn fleet blockading the Yankee coastline, right into a goddamn American
harbor where they've been stripped and refitted and turned out again flying the
goddamn Stars and Stripes!" He agitated the cigar to the far corner of his
mouth and glared at Summer. "Begging your pardon again for the profanity,
my dear."

"That's quite all right, Admiral." She
smiled. "Would you care for more coffee or c
uraçao?"

"Don't mind if I do to both," he said, and
glared at Farley Glasse with the expression of a caged lion wishing his bars
were loose.

Summer smiled at her husband. "Bennett?"

"No. Thank you." His eyes flicked away from
her face without returning the smile.

"You know this man Wade, don't you?" Glasse
asked abruptly.

Summer was startled by the question, and the coffeepot
rattled the spoons on the tray as she set it down too heavily.

"Insomuch as anyone else who has followed his
escapades knows him," Bennett replied smoothly. "Although I must say
I have no deep admiration for the man."

"Have you taken the
Caledonia
out yet?"

"Not as yet, no. I have been having a few minor
alterations done to her while I have the chance."

"Really? I would be intrigued to see how one goes
about altering a supreme work of art."

"This work of art wallows, Mr. Glasse,"
Bennett said easily. "She was dragging at least ten wagonloads of
barnacles on her sheathing that had to be scraped before she could hope to
muster anywhere near the speed she was designed for. I have also taken the
liberty of moving some of her guns and substituting more thirty-two pounders
for the less-effective twenty-fours."

"You sound as if you know your business,
Commodore."

"I had a good teacher in Admiral Nelson,"
Bennett said as if it was the only explanation necessary.

Glasse nodded and gave what for him passed for a
smile. "Indeed. But when I asked you if you knew Wade, I was naturally
referring to earlier on in your respective careers. You were with Admiral
Nelson off the Barbary Coast back in
'02,
were you not? About the same
time Morgan Wade was serving in the American Navy."