Bound by the Heart (26 page)

* * *

JUNE 1812

Chapter
16

S
ummer's child
was born during a torrential downpour, on a dark and
foreboding night the first week of April. She was a delicate pink mewling bundle
with vivid blue eyes and a froth of auburn hair that Sir Lionel Cambridge
declared was the exact shade of his own dear departed wife's. The birthing was
a slow and torturous affair, watched over by a physician and an alchemist, both
of whom shook their heads over the excessive bleeding, but who continued to
reassure the mother-to-be that it was perfectly normal to feel as if her
insides were being torn apart and that seventeen hours of drenched, writhing
agony was not unheard of.

Commodore Bennett Winfield, when advised the trauma
was at last ended, climbed the stairs from the library where he had been
drinking heavily and strode into his wife's room unannounced. He took one look
at the wrinkled, exhausted child and left again without a word or glance at
Summer. The nurse was shocked. The maids wept in sympathy for their poor,
weakened mistress. Only Summer was unaffected. She closed her eyes and savored
the total absence of pain for the first time in forty-eight hours.

Sir Lionel was euphoric. Champagne flowed like water,
and no praise was too grand for his brilliant son-in-law. Visitors and
well-wishers streamed through the doors, and the piles of beribboned,
multicolored gifts and parcels grew by the score. Summer opened some, showed no
interest in others and rarely left her room to greet guests. Her only constant
visitor was Michael, who was intrigued by the tiny hands and tiny feet and tiny
toothless expressions of his new niece.

The child was christened Sarah Hogarth Winfield, Sarah
for Summer's mother, Hogarth for Bennett's mother's maiden name. Sir Lionel was
jovially insistent that the next child would be a boy, named Lionel Humphrey
after the respective grandfathers. His gift to the new parents and Bennett in
particular was an additional two-thousand-acre parcel of land which, when
combined with the acreage of Dover plantation, ensured Bennett's wealth and
prosperity.

Sarah Winfield plumped rapidly into a beautiful child.
She rarely cried and seemed almost as content to while away the hours of each
day in the loving arms of her mother as Summer was simply to hold her. The baby
blatantly refused the services of a wet nurse, to the nanny's consternation and
Summer's acute pleasure, and stubbornly wailed her annoyance when anyone other
than her mother or her adoring new uncle tried to pick her up.

Michael was thrilled and decided Old Winifred was a
prude and definitely a bit "grotty" for thinking a son could have
been any kind of improvement over Sarah. He sang to her and told her stories.
He became Summer's steadfast companion and loyal supporter, taking Bennett's
place by her side for long walks in the public gardens.

Aside from the formal ceremony of the christening,
Bennett did not show any interest in his daughter. His public reticence became
undisguised hostility when he and his wife were alone, and Summer would often
find him staring at her or at Sarah, drink in hand, his cold pale eyes as flat
and lifeless as a stranger's.

Her dread of a confrontation with Bennett was not
eased by the almost constant talk of war. Dinner conversations were dominated
by politics; luncheons and teas were apt to erupt into shouting matches; even
the gardens and streets were crowded daily with uniforms, as the parade grounds
of the Savannah Garrison became a training camp for recruits to the home guard.
Talk of an invasion was on everyone's lips—not of the Caribbean but of America.
The British fully expected to reclaim their territory from the churlish Yankee
upstarts and teach them once and for all who ruled the seas.

To that end Commodore Winfield's patrols increased.
His prize record grew impressively, and he stopped more ships and seized more
illegal cargo than a score of revenue cutters combined. His main target
continued to elude him, but his coups were so profitable to the government and
so inspiring to his fellow officers that his embarrassment at the Sirens was
readily forgotten. In its stead grew a speculation that when and if Morgan Wade
ever dared to return to the islands, the sleek black panther—as the
Caledonia
was fondly referred to—would
run him to ground within the month.

* * *

The Governor's Ball had been an institution in
Barbados since the first appointed governor had declared the morals too lax and
the climate too fertile, eroding the good honest structure of English society.
Only the rich and the very rich were presented with the small gold invitations,
and this year, like every other, the ball was held on the eve of June
twenty-fifth. The coaches and carriages of diplomats and wealthy plantation
owners lined both sides of the boulevards in front of Government House for a
mile in either direction, each with liveried manservants proudly displaying the
house and family colors.

Inside, the buffet tables sagged under mountains of
food and drink. Crystal glasses were filled with champagne from a three-tiered
fountain, and pastry chefs beamed from behind platters of their finest
concoctions, intoxicated by the praise of sticky-fingered guests.

The enormous ballroom swelled with colorful, beautiful
people, who swayed to the music of a twenty-piece orchestra. The gowns of
greens, peaches, and yellows swirled in amid a sea of proper dress uniforms.
The lights were dazzling. The sparkle from dozens of candelabra glistened
overhead like a wreath of silver
Stardust,
falling here and there to
highlight a flash of jewels or a gleam of buckles, buttons and swords.

Sir Lionel Cambridge headed the reception line,
resplendent in the snow white breeches and scarlet coat of office. His
moustache was waxed to needle-sharp points, his cheeks were rosy, and his eyes
were an eruption of tiny red veins from sampling and approving wines all day.
Michael stood by his side wearing a replica of his father's uniform. He was
very stiff, very formal and extremely proud to be participating in the
festivities for the first time.

Summer and Bennett Winfield were next in line. He was
the man she remembered from her first heartrending introduction in
London—poised, charming, exceedingly handsome with the flush of sea air still
on his cheeks. His mood had improved remarkably over the past few weeks,
although Summer could not have explained why. He had been exceptionally
good-humored and attentive since returning from an escort duty four days
earlier. As a result, Summer was lulled by a sense of well-being she had not
felt in a longer time than she cared to think about.

Her gown was partly responsible. Bennett had selected
it for her at an extravagant cost, and its simple, flawless design drew the
eyes and admiration of every man and woman present. It was of cream-colored
satin, so slippery and sensuous it seemed to mold to every curve of her body.
Cut astoundingly low across the bosom, it dipped into a wide vee before meeting
the high waist of the skirt. There, nestled enviably in the center of the
generous expanse of rounded flesh was the second cause of Summer's
light-headedness: Bennett's belated gift for the birth of their daughter: an
emerald-and-diamond necklace that lay against her skin like a ring of green
fire.

Summer laughed and smiled and radiated happiness. She
greeted each guest as if they were warm, personal friends, accepting
compliments and flattery under the approving eye of her husband.

"Well, Commodore Winfield, I see I must commend
you again on your capture of such an exquisite bride. She grows lovelier each
time we meet."

Summer smiled tightly and lowered her lashes as Farley
Glasse bowed over her hand. His black eyes were boring through her gown,
causing her flesh to crawl and a shiver to race along her spine.

"May I be so bold as to steal her away, just for
this one dance?" Glasse asked. "I fear once the receiving is
officially ended, I may not have a chance to compete with the scores of her
admirers."

"I don't mind at all," Bennett said.
"And I'm sure Summer will appreciate the interruption."

She looked up into the pale blue eyes, and saw nothing
but the warmth of his smile. She murmured her acceptance to Glasse and daintily
took up the train of her gown. Glasse was clumsy and wooden in his movements,
unable to follow the flow of the music, and seemed unable to concentrate on
anything above the level of her bosom.

"Your husband is a lucky man indeed, Mrs.
Winfield," he mused. "He will go far in this man's navy, due in no
small part to a supportive family life."

"Thank you, Mr. Glasse."

"Your daughter is how old now?"

"Nearly three months," Summer answered,
tensing perceptibly.

Glasse felt it, and his mouth curved down at the
sides. "As lovely as her mother, I'm informed . . . although to hear Sir
Lionel tell it, she is the exact image of his wife."

"I'm afraid I have only fleeting memories of my
mother. She died when Michael was born."

"Ah, yes, one of the tragedies of this climate.
So hot and sultry babies are often brought into the world at a terrible
price."

Summer glanced around, hoping for a reprieve.

"Isn't that so, Mrs. Winfield?"

She turned quickly. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said . . . unlike the slave population. It
appears to double almost daily despite the heat and inconveniences. Then again,
they do represent a profitable industry for the islands. Those born and raised
here command top prices in America."

"I find the slave trade rather repulsive,
myself," Summer said and flinched as his boot scuffed against her ankle.

"You and many others," he agreed. "Why,
only last week a shipful was waylaid by a corsair and the cargo set free on one
of the islands. You know of whom I speak, of course. Morgan Wade."

Summer held her breath. She had not heard that Wade
was back. In fact, she had not heard much about his activities at all of late.

"I'm told he sets the blackbirds free whenever he
takes a ship and finds them on board. Not very enterprising for a man in the
business of making profits, is it?" Glasse misstepped an intricate
movement in the dance and laughed. "But I had forgotten, you bear some
admiration for Captain Wade."

When Summer did not respond, he clucked his tongue.
"He was becoming quite a hero in these waters, wasn't he? Hopefully all
that will change now that your husband has acquired his sea legs, so to speak.
If I were a gambling man, I might even be persuaded to place a sizable wager on
which of the two will triumph: the
Caledonia
or the
Chimera."

"Are you so certain they will come
together?" Summer asked. "The captain has managed to disappoint you
before."

"You refer of course to the incident last
September? We certainly did have prime fools made of us then—or more
particularly, your husband. One cannot help but wonder how Wade knew he was
being followed or how he knew to avoid the area of the Twin Sirens."

"Perhaps he does not travel the same routes
twice," she suggested blandly.

"Or perhaps his plans were altered at the last
minute?"

She gazed unwaveringly into the glittering eyes.
"I suppose that is the difficulty with setting traps: The intended victim
does not always cooperate."

"Trap, Mrs. Winfield? . . . may I call you
Summer?"

"I prefer Mrs. Winfield. And what else would you
call it, sir? Lying in wait for his ship, plotting in advance where he would be
the most vulnerable—the word
trap
seems to come to mind so easily."

"Your husband discusses his plans with you, does
he?"

"Rarely," she said evenly.

Glasse laughed, and his eyes reverted to the rise and
fall of her breasts as the music and the dance came to an end. "How
fortunate for us all that we learn from our mistakes. This time your Captain
Wade will not find us so easy to dupe
...
no matter how many spies he has set out to warn him."

"This time?"

"Why, naturally, Mrs. Winfield. We cannot allow
him to simply take up where he left off after all these months. You speak of
traps and strategems with such authority, it might interest you to know that
your husband has personally offered the perfect bait this time."