Bound by the Heart (28 page)

S
ummer danced
and feigned gaiety through the rest of the evening
somehow, conscious of Bennett following her every move. She purposefully went
out of her way to avoid all contact, visual or otherwise, with Morgan Wade.

He did not lack for attention. He proved to be an
accomplished dancer and, when he was not with Arianna Teague, selected only the
most beautiful women to partner him. Rumors and speculations were rife, and
hardly anyone passed a word in conversation without lowering lashes and voices
and speaking about him from behind raised hands. He was thought to be by far
the handsomest man present. . . the broadest across the shoulder . . . the
finest tailored . . . the most outrageous . . . the most charming. . . . The
list of his attributes grew until Summer's head swam and her temples pounded
with the tension. The men in the room glowered at him unceasingly, affronted by
the attention he received. Remarks were made deliberately to be overheard,
which for the most part earned only an icy stare and a smile in return.

Wade and Mrs. Teague left shortly after midnight, to
the acute disappointment of many hopefuls.

Summer was relieved and managed to carry on for two
more hours until the baccarat and backgammon tables were set up in the gaming
rooms. It was the time for lovers to steal away unnoticed, for chaperones to
usher the younger charges home and for the serious gamblers in the crowd to
settle down to business. No one paid any heed to Summer as she headed wearily
up the stairs, feeling the aches and bruises in her feet at each step. The
party would go on until dawn, and the noise followed her, drifting hollowly up
and along the empty corridors.

She stopped first in Sarah's room, holding up a hand
to the nurse as she tiptoed over to the cradle. The baby was sleeping soundly;
her thumb was jammed determinedly into the pink mouth and was being fretted
with tiny, quivering suckles.

Summer smiled and touched her lips to the down-covered
head.

Nothing will ever hurt you, she declared inwardly.
Nothing and no one, regardless of what happens to me or what I must endure.

She walked slowly to her own bedroom and stood at the window
for some time, watching the stray couples strolling along the pathways and
around the fountain. The night air was cool where it brushed her cheeks,
helping to ease some of the burning fatigue. Her fingers were clumsy and leaden
as she began pulling the long hairpins out of her curls, letting them fall on
the window cushions like discarded petals. She unfastened the clasp of the
emerald necklace and let it trickle through her fingers; she removed the gold
earrings she wore and the delicate filigreed bracelets. She walked through the
bedroom into her dressing room, where she began shedding her clothes.

All of her motions were trancelike and wooden. She did
not want to think about anything; she wanted only to look at the water, the
towel, the hairbrush and not have to think about anything or anyone. The
loose-fitting nightgown sighed against her skin as she turned down the lamp in
the dressing room and walked back out to the bedroom.

She halted halfway across the slash of moonlight that
was streaming in through the open window. Her hand was poised on a brushstroke,
and her skin tickled lightly with the knowledge that she was not alone.

"Bennett. . .?"

She gasped, and the brush fell to the floor.

Morgan Wade was lounging in the brocade wing chair,
his coat unbuttoned, his silk cravat loosened and the ends trailing down over
the ruffles of his shirt. He looked as if he had been waiting comfortably for
some time.

"You!" she gasped. "How did you get
in?"

"The door was unlocked."

"But. . . what are you doing here?"

"I thought perhaps you could tell me." He
saw the confusion on her face and reached to an inside pocket of his coat. He
was only partially silhouetted by the moonlight, but she recognized at once the
folded sheet of personalized writing paper he produced. It was pale blue with a
delicate scroll of silver around the edges and the monogrammed initials S W in
the upper right-hand corner.

She lifted her eyes to his. "I don't
understand."

Wade arched a brow and unfolded the note.
"Morgan," he quoted, "I must see you as soon as possible.
Urgent. Please come. Summer."

"I
...
I didn't write it," she said lamely. "I didn't send you any
note."

"I realized you didn't as soon as I saw the look
on your face downstairs." He returned the note to his pocket. "Which
leaves very few alternatives."

Summer glanced nervously at the door. "You
mustn't be found here. My husband—"

"Your husband is thoroughly entrenched at the
backgammon tables. He is a devout gambler, so I'm told, and with the amount of
gold at stake down there, I doubt very much whether he'll leave without trying
for his share. Besides"—the dark blue eyes dropped lower, lingering on the
moonlit curves of her body—"he saw me leave several hours ago and would
assume I was being entertained elsewhere."

Summer's cheeks flushed a violent red. "How dare
you force your way into my bedchamber. This is not your ship, Captain Wade. You
cannot come and go as you please."

"You obviously did not want to be seen talking to
me downstairs."

"Nor do I want to talk to you here. Will you
please leave at once! Go to your . . . your Mrs. Teague. I'm sure you would
find a warmer reception there."

"Is that what has you worried?" he grinned.
"Mrs. Teague?"

Summer flushed again. "Nothing about you or your
Mrs. Teague worries me, Captain."

"I'm glad to hear it. Arianna is lovely to look
at, but she finds it difficult to string too many words together at one
time."

"No doubt she has other attractive qualities to
compensate."

"No doubt she has. Unfortunately I haven't had
the time or the inclination to discover them. Roarke merely thought it prudent
for me to have a suitable companion tonight."

"Roarke thought?" she whispered.

"Aye. He thought I might need a distraction to
keep both my temper and my manners in check. As usual, he was right."

"But you cannot stay here," she said through
clenched teeth. "I did not speak to you downstairs because I have nothing
to say to you. And contrary to what you may think, Bennett will not remain at
the party much after my departure."

"The loving husband, is he?"

Her mouth compressed into a thin line. "I fail to
see what business it is of yours."

"I noticed how loving and attentive he was all
evening. You would be astonished to know how many good people made it a point
to tell me how happy you and your husband are together. What a loving couple
the pair of you are. What a wonderfully dedicated husband and doting father he
is. It warmed me all over."

Summer's breath backed up in her throat. She opened
her mouth to answer his sarcasm, to defend Bennett and to order Wade out of her
life once and for all. . . but nothing came out.

He smiled as if he could hear the pounding of her
heart within her chest. He stood up and moved closer into the moonlight.

"Summer. The name suits you. I often wondered—but
then I suppose it was my own fault; I never asked. Names have a way of
interfering at times." He laughed softly and the sound quivered along
Summer's spine. "I had the devil of a time figuring out why someone would
date the note instead of signing it—until Roarke enlightened me, that is."

"Please . . . please will you leave? I have
already told you I have nothing to say to you. And so far you have said nothing
I wish to hear."

"Then what are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid."

"No?"

"No," she whispered. "I have stopped
being afraid of a great many things lately."

"Then it must be that pride of yours making you
tremble the way you are."

"Or anger," she countered neatly.

"Or anger," he agreed with a smile.
"Very well, Mrs. Winfield, you win. I'll leave
...
as soon as I have the answers to a few questions. Surely,
under the circumstances"—he patted the pocket where he had replaced the
note—"you cannot deny me that much."

Summer exhaled sharply. "I don't know why you
were invited here tonight. I don't know whose idea it was. I did not know a
thing about it until the moment you walked through the door."

"That was painfully obvious," he mused,
moving a step closer.

"As for the note—"

"The note did what it was supposed to: It made
certain I would come tonight. It also earned Roarke a dressing-down he won't
soon forget."

Summer moistened her lips. "Was that all you
wanted to know?"

"Not quite. What can you tell me about Farley
Glasse?"

"Not much. I avoid him whenever I can. He seems
to have some idea of proving you to be a titled Englishman"—she saw his
eyes narrow—"and to have you arrested on a charge of treason. He probably
has men watching you, and if they see you leaving my room—"

"No one will see me. His watchdogs have already
been led off on a merry chase."

"You knew about them?"

Wade chuckled dryly. "The harbor is so thick with
spies a man has difficulty pushing through the crowds. Your Mr. Glasse had the
bay blocked and the ship under constant surveillance. He even managed to
discover which tavern my men frequent and replaced the barmaid with a sloe-eyed
minx who is equally as energetic but nowhere near as comforting."

"And none of it worries you?"

"There is no reason to fear something you already
know is there. It is the unknown that takes a man by surprise. For instance—who
is Sarah's father?"

Summer's hand flew to her throat. "Wh-what? Her
father?"

"I told you, your guests were extremely
talkative. You were married three weeks after Stuart returned you. The child
was born less than the allotted time after
...
a case of being several weeks early or several weeks late."

"Bennett Winfield is my husband," she said
haltingly. "He was here at Sarah's birth. H-he named her after his
mother—"

"I'm told she has big blue eyes."

"Bennett's eyes are blue."

"And that she has dark hair."

"No," she said and backed up. "No . . .
she is nothing to you.
I
was nothing to you, nothing but an idle
way to pass the time."

"You were hardly that," he murmured and took
a step after her. "And had you admitted to being Sir Lionel's daughter at
the outset, you might even have arrived home with your virginity intact.
Although"—he paused and shook his head slightly—"I think not. We were
like spark and tinder from the very first moment."

"Don't come any closer.
..."
She stumbled back. "You sent me away. You didn't
care what happened to me then. . . . Why should you care now?"

He smiled briefly. "But I did care. More than I
should have, and that was why I had to send you away. I'm also admitting I made
a damned stupid mistake. It isn't the first one I've made in my life, but
possibly it was one of the worst."

"Oh, no, please . . ." She came up against
the solid wall and could do nothing as his hands reached for her.

"If you tell me it's too late, I'll go. If you
tell me the child is not mine and tell me that you love your husband, you'll
never have to see me again."

"I mustn't see you again," she gasped,
feeling his hands slide up her arms to her shoulders, up to cradle her chin and
force her to meet his eyes. "I mustn't ever—"

His lips covered hers and she moaned. She shuddered,
and her vision blurred with tears.

"Who is the father of your child?"

"No
...
no, I—"

He kissed her again, longer this time, and his body
crowded hers against the wall, pressing his heat against hers through the thin
nightdress.

"Who?"

All she could see was the incredible drowning blue of
his eyes. All she could feel was the surety of his hands, and all she could
think of was their ability to set her body and soul on fire. But it had been so
long
...
so long. . . .

"Summer—"

"You," she gasped.
"You are Sarah's father."

"And do you love him? Do
you love Winfield?"

"Oh, please, Morgan, you
have to go—"

Wade swore under his breath and kissed her again.
Deeply, purposefully, demanding a response. He loosened the ribbons of her
gown, and his hands searched beneath the fabric, caressing her bare flesh until
Summer's knees buckled and she had to reach up and hold him. His mouth was on
her lips, on her temples, her eyes, her throat
...
he pushed aside the edges of her nightdress and started
tracing a hot path downward. Summer sagged against him, sobbing under the
bittersweet torment.

"Do . . . you . . . love . . . him?" he
hissed.

"No," she cried. "No, no . . ."

He laughed softly and swept her up into his arms. He
carried her to the bed and tore off the offending nightdress in one smooth
stroke. The glow from the moonlight bathed her flesh in silver, turning her
hair into a web of shimmering silk. Wade's hands shook slightly as he stood
back to shed his clothes. In moments he was naked beside her, burning with
impatience yet forcing himself to move slowly, to reacquaint his mouth and
hands with every curve and valley that eagerly awaited him.

He kissed away the tears on her lashes; he kissed her
lips and murmured her name. He stroked his hands gently along her thighs and
swallowed her cries as his heat invaded her, expanded within her, became a part
of her.

"Morgan," she gasped, "oh, Morgan . .
."

Her arms, her long legs wrapped around his powerful
body. He twined his hands into the tousle of blonde hair and held her in a
kiss, smothering her screams as she shuddered beneath him again and again. Her
nails scored the flesh of his shoulders and she half laughed, half cried with
the joy of it.