Bound by the Heart (24 page)

"What kind of understanding?"

He advanced a step, and she saw the fine sheen of
moisture on his brow. The pale eyes were frightening in their intensity, and
she took an involuntary step back.

"The understanding that you belong to me body and
soul, Mrs. Winfield. When I tell you to come, you will come. When I tell you to
get down on your knees, you will get down on your knees. If you try to deny me
anything, in any way, I might be forced to seek further redress at the cost of
your father's peace of mind."

"You would tell him?"

"About the so-called rape? I would indeed. And
about how I, as the injured party, have striven to please you to no avail. An
annulment at this stage of our relationship would hurt you, madam, far more
than it would hurt me."

"You wouldn't dare," she whispered, shaking
her head.

He held out the key. "Try me. Unlock the door,
and we shall see which of us has the most to lose."

Summer thought of the child growing in her womb, and
her face lost it's color. Annulment was out of reach. Divorce was unthinkable;
the scandal would draw even the king's attention, and the child, when it came,
would be regarded with nothing but scorn and ridicule. And yet. . . perhaps the
very thing that locked her into the marriage could save her.

"I'm pregnant, Bennett," she announced
coldly. "I was at the doctor's this afternoon, not the dressmaker's. He
informed me I was two months with child. Two months, Bennett. What do you
estimate your chances would be for an admiralty were you to discard a wife and
unborn child?"

Bennett stiffened, and his face lost the edge of
triumph. His eyes narrowed and fell in spite of himself to the smooth plane of
her belly.

"Would you still care to go and see Father
now?" she asked, matching the scorn she had heard in his voice. "You
might find it harder to convince him of what a shrew I am, of how cold and
unloving I have been."

Bennett's gaze bored into her. The muscles in his jaw
tensed, and his fingers curled around the key until the knuckles were white.

"Two months, you say? Meaning that in seven
months' time we should have a blond, blue-eyed infant to show for our loving
efforts? Wade's hair is black, as I recall, as black as his eyes—and his
soul."

Summer did not flinch from the veiled insinuation.
"I would appreciate it if you would unlock the door now. I thought I might
go down and tell Father the happy news."

He stared at her another full minute before walking
slowly past her and slotting the key into the lock. Before he allowed her to
leave the room, he blocked her path one last time.

"If, in seven months' time, madam, I have any
cause to doubt the parentage of the brat you are carrying, these last few days
will seem like a blissful fantasy to you."

Chapter 14

T
he night
was moonless. The chill had driven people off the streets
and into the warmth of the crowded taverns. The interior of the coach was damp
from the sea air that reached through the open windows and pressed Summer into
a shivering bundle in the corner. The colder she became, the closer she came to
the limit of her patience. It had been a foolhardy idea from the beginning. She
had no way of knowing if her note had been delivered to the correct tavern or
if anyone would respond to the name of the merchant she had overheard Admiral
Stonekipper mention in the study.

She was on the verge of signaling the driver when the
sound of a slow footstep on the cobbled street brought her sharply forward on
the seat.

The shadow was tall and lean. He walked with a wary
eye on the street as well as on the darkened, recessed doorways.

"Mr. Roarke?"

The man halted abruptly. He was trapped in a splash of
light from one of the windows, and the brightness slanted off the round
spectacles as he sought the source of the whisper.

"Mr. Stuart Roarke?"

"Aye," he said slowly, squinting to see
through the darkness, "my name might be Roarke."

"Please—" She unlatched the carriage door
and nudged it open. "I mustn't be seen talking to you, but please believe
me; it is very important that I do."

Roarke glanced over his shoulder. It was well after
midnight. There was no one else on this side of the street, no one within a
hundred paces.

"I have an aversion to entering dark coaches,
madam. Especially when I do not know whose it is."

"I am alone, Mr. Roarke," Summer said,
leaning further out of the window. She pushed the hood of her cloak back so
that her face was silhouetted in the soft glow. "And I am already absent
far too long from my home."

Roarke recognized the muted blonde features at once.
He crossed over to the coach and stepped inside, taking the seat opposite her
in the darkness.

"Mrs. Winfield. I confess you have managed to
startle me. Doubly so, since you obviously knew the right name to use in order
to arrange this meeting."

"I apologize for the deception. I used the name
Marlowe because I did not think my own would succeed in bringing you here . . .
but you knew who I was?"

She could not see his face, but the light jumped off
the surface of his spectacles as he nodded. "I knew you were Sir Lionel's
daughter as soon as I read the list of passengers presumed lost with the
Sea Vixen.
As to your marriage, I only
heard of it this afternoon."

"Does . . . does Captain Wade know?"

"No," Roarke said bluntly. "He doesn't.
And I am too well acquainted with his temper to want to be the one to enlighten
him unless it is absolutely necessary. He and Commodore Winfield share little
affection for one another."

"I would prefer if he never found out. About
Bennett or about our meeting here tonight."

He said nothing, but the spectacles winked again as he
glanced out the window.

"I should also like to apologize to you for my
behavior on board the
Vigilant.
It was unpardonable, and I had no right to vent my
anger and hostility on you."

"Mrs. Winfield, there is no need to apologize. My
own mood was less than companionable as I recall. But I'm sure that isn't why
you asked to meet me here tonight."

"No, no it isn't."

"You implied you had important information for
me."

Summer moistened her lips. She was beginning to see
his face through the shadows and wondered briefly if she had made a wise choice
after all. "Yes, Mr. Roarke. Not so much to tell you something as to warn
you."

"Warn me?"

"Yes, my . . . my husband is setting a trap for
the
Chimera.
He and
several others have worked out what they consider a perfect plan to capture Mor
. . . Captain Wade and arrest him for transporting an illegal cargo."

The silence stretched taut between them.

"What kind of a trap do they have in mind, Mrs.
Winfield?" he asked quietly, and Summer could detect the instant
suspicion.

"My husband took the
Caledonia
out of Bridgetown two days
ago, but he is staying well within range to see you when you leave the harbor.
He plans to follow you to Port-of-Spain, to wait until you have the guns you
have purchased on board, and then he will follow you again as far as the
Sirens. He has already dispatched the
Northgate
to wait on the far side of the reef."

Stuart Roarke's face gave absolutely no indication of
any reaction, but inwardly he was stunned.

"How do you know all of this?" he asked
finally.

"Does it matter, Mr. Roarke? The fact that my
husband and half the navy know Captain Wade's plans for the next few weeks
should be of more concern to you."

"It is," he admitted grimly.

"The guns," she said and chewed savagely on
her lip. "I'm not positive, but I think they were part of the
arrangements. I think my husband arranged for the men you deal with to have
access to them so that they would innocently be a part of the trap."

"I see."

"Then you believe me?"

"To a point I would have to say you leave me no
choice but to believe you."

"To a point?"

"How does your husband plan to follow us around
the Caribbean undetected? The
Caledonia
is a first rating, unless our information is wrong.
Not altogether invisible against the horizon."

Summer forced a calmness into her voice that she was
far from feeling. "He has a new spyglass
...
a telescope of some kind. I gather it allows him to stay well down on the
horizon while it presents you quite clearly."

Roarke was silent another minute.

"Mr. Roarke, I know you find it hard to believe
me, but I am telling you the truth. I can even tell you that should the captain
not surrender at once at the Sirens, they plan to sink the
Chimera
and leave no witnesses behind.
They intend to blame it on a French warship . . . the
Étoile,
I believe
...
so that there will be no repercussions
from your government."

"Tell me, Mrs. Winfield, why are you here? Why
are you warning us? Forgive me for being blunt, but you are obviously going
against the wishes of your father and your husband, not to mention your
country. It is more than mildly treasonous for you to be here at all."

"I am well aware of that, Mr. Roarke. I have
asked myself the same questions a hundred times in the past several hours. I
should be doing everything in my power to help my husband, not Morgan Wade. And
please do not think that under any circumstances I would be inclined to do it
again. No, perhaps the answer is simply that I owe him this one favor. By
warning him of the trap at the Sirens, I clear the debt I owe him for saving my
brother's life."

Roarke noted the glaring omission but let it pass. He
was watching her hands tearing and worrying to death a corner of a lace
handkerchief.

"I. . . please, Mr. Roarke . . . will you act on
the information I have given you?"

"I will consider it, yes, Mrs. Winfield."

Her hands stopped trembling as if by magic, and she
sank back against the seat cushion. "Thank you," she whispered.
"And about our meeting—?"

"You have my word, madam, that Morgan will not
hear of it from me. And now I had better let you be on your way."

The coach rocked as Stuart Roarke opened the door and
stepped down onto the street. He made sure the latch was fast and was about to
back away when he felt Summer's hand rest lightly on his.

"Yes? Was there something else?"

He waited, but the words swimming in her eyes would
not come to her lips.

"Good night, Mrs. Winfield," he said gently.

"Godspeed, Mr. Roarke."

She melted away from the carriage window, and he heard
a faint tap on the driver's box. A few moments later he was alone on the
cobbled street, listening to the sound of the hoofbeats clopping away. He
turned and hurried down a series of winding streets, his brow furrowed in
concentration, his mind a whirl of questions. As he approached the front of one
particularly noisy tavern, the door swung open to an uproarious bellow of
laughter.

"There you are, you bastard!" Morgan Wade
grinned drunkenly and swaggered out onto the boardwalk. His arm was draped
around the shoulders of a buxom redhaired beauty, and she was giggling as his
hand fondled lustily beneath the bodice of her blouse.

"Stuart, me buck-o, Lettice and I had all but
given up on you. Where the hell have you been?"

"Some last-minute business," Roarke said
uneasily.

"Business, eh?" Wade belched and leered down
at the whore. His leather jerkin was unlaced; his shirt was spread wide over
the black curling hairs on his chest. The woman had her arms around his waist
and was running her hands greedily over his hard flesh. "What do you think
of a man who thinks of nothing but business on a fine night like this?"

She giggled again and sidled closer, whispering
something in Wade's ear. His brow shot up, and he regarded her in some
amazement.

"A damn fine idea," he murmured. "But
are you sure you can handle the two of us?"

Stuart grimaced and glanced down the street. "I
could use a few drinks," he muttered. "Would you care to join
me?"

"Join you?" Wade squinted at Roarke, then
moved his hand so that the cotton blouse was scooped beneath the woman's
bounteous breast. "And leave all this warm woman-flesh to grow cold?"

"We have to talk," Roarke insisted quietly.

"Talk?" Wade grumbled and blinked slowly.
"No wonder Bettina loses patience with you if all you want to do is
talk."

Roarke sighed and reached into his pocket, producing a
gold coin. He held it up in plain view and beckoned to the whore to remove
herself from Wade's embrace. Her eyes shone greedily and she weighed the coin
against the promise of the drunk swaying heavily against her shoulders. She
snatched at the coin and twirled out of Morgan's grasp and was gone in a wink
back into the noisy interior of the tavern.

Morgan straightened with a relieved sigh. "A true
savior, Roarke. She was becoming downright persistent."

"Did you find out anything?"

"Aye. The
Caledonia
left on Wednesday's tides. That white-assed bastard
Winfield was at the helm."

"So that much of our information was correct. . .
. He's going to try to catch us with the guns."

"So it would seem."

"Any ideas as to how he found out about
them?" Stuart asked casually.

"None," Morgan grunted. "But I don't
like it. Perhaps I should have been the one to meet with Marlowe."

"I don't think it came from him. He has more to
lose than we do."

"His fine reputation?"

Roarke shrugged. "If he loses that, he loses his
livelihood. Besides, I found out some interesting things tonight."

"Come along then, we can talk on the way."

"On the way?"

Morgan grinned. "We've another meeting tonight
that might require your fine touch."

Roarke knew better than to ask any further questions
and fell into step beside the captain. Morgan tucked his shirttails into his
breeches and retied the laces of his vest as he walked.

"That wench's hands were faster than a
hummingbird's wings," he muttered absently.