Bound by the Heart (34 page)

A hot surge of color flooded Summer's cheeks as she
stood up. "I would expect you to treat me as if I meant more to you than
simply a convenience for your bed. If there is a war coming, I am just as much
a part of it as you are. If I wanted to shirk all responsibility and bide my
head in the sand to avoid the unpleasantness, I could have done so quite comfortably
with Bennett."

She spun on her heel and in her haste to leave the
deck ran headlong into Thorny. He steadied her and the baby and touched a
finger to his grisled brow.

"I jest come ter tell ye, I cut a ripe fine crib
owt'n an odd crate we 'ad lyin' about. The wee lass should fit in snuglike,
better 'n a heap o' canvas on the floor—eh?" He stood gaping after Summer
as she brushed past him, then glanced at the captain. "Did she jest say
what I fought I 'eard 'er say?"

Morgan strode past him without a word, his expression
as ominous as a thundercloud.

Summer went directly to the cabin. Her eyes were
burning, but she refused to give in to the tears, knowing that if she did, it
would only reinforce Morgan's view of her capabilities. Good heavens, she didn't
want to go into battle with him, but neither did she want him to assume she
would be content to trade one stale life for another. She saw the cradle Thorny
had fashioned and blushed deeply at the thought of the expletive that had come
so easily to her lips. It was proof, if nothing else, that she could adapt.

She was settling Sarah into the cradle when she heard
the door open behind her. She turned, expecting to see Morgan, but it was
Stuart Roarke.

"Oh. Sorry, Summer. I should have knocked. I
thought you were still topside. I just, all—" He indicated the desk with a
clumsy gesture, his words trailing off when he saw her expression. "I'll
only be a minute."

"Take as long as you like," she snapped.
"Or just pretend I am not here at all. I gather from your captain I should
familiarize myself with the feeling."

Roarke smiled warily and adjusted his spectacles. He
crossed over to the desk and shuffled through the papers on top until he
located the one he sought. Summer glared at him throughout, remembering that he
had a wife and child as well. No doubt he had offered her the same conditions
that Wade took for granted.

Roarke kept glancing at her as one might glance at a
pane of glass about to shatter. A dull red crept up under his tan, darkening
him to a ruddy hue by the time he was back at the door.

"I have a notion you and my father-in-law are
going to get along just fine," he muttered and pulled the door shut behind
him.

Chapter 20

T
he
C
himera
glided past several heavy cannon emplacements as she
sailed into the French port of Fort-de-France an hour before midnight. Morgan
Wade had an understanding with the French commandant: sanctuary if the need
arose, in exchange for a share of whatever cargo he was running at the time. He
did not often make use of their generosity. He considered the French boorish
and greedy, their islands nothing more than penal colonies, their governing
officials corrupt and not to be trusted.

Summer had remained in the cabin all afternoon and
evening, emerging only when she heard the anchor splash into the water. Morgan
had come below twice in all that time: once to scribble hasty notations in his
log, once to change for going ashore.

"Are you expecting trouble?" she asked,
seeing him tuck a long-snouted pistol into his belt.

"The French are fickle in handing out their
favors," was the only grunted answer. He paused by the cradle and glanced
down at the sleeping child before he strode to the door.

"Morgan?"

He stopped and half turned.

"Be careful," she whispered.

He said nothing, and she was left with the echo of his
boots as he climbed to the deck. A general murmur of orders followed, then the
creaking of oars being fitted into the oarlocks of a longboat.

Summer went up on deck and stood in the shadow of the
bridge, tracking the progress of the boat by the slip and swish of the oars. It
was a black night, and the stars were well hidden behind banks of cloud and
low-lying mists. Droplets of moisture clung to the rigging, glittering like
jewels in the faint glow of the riding lights. The
Chimera,
she was not surprised to see,
was well out in the center of the bay with a clear sighting on both flanks to
forestall any surprise visits from stealthy boats. Her gunports were closed,
and the appearance was of an easy watch, but she had heard the scraping of
movement below and guessed that Wade's gun crews were not far from their posts.

Moored within four hundred yards was a French frigate,
her masts showing like skeletons, her own ports open and aimed squarely at the
privateer.

Summer shivered and wondered what Roarke's orders were
in the event he suspected trouble or if Wade failed to return within a
specified time.

"Ye should stay b'low, lass," Thorny's voice
rasped out from the darkness beside her. "'Tis a ripe foul night, an the
dampness'll work a rot in yer lungs if n ye don't 'ave a mind."

"How long will the Captain be gone?"

"Dunno. Depends on what the devil wants in
trade."

"The devil?"

"Aye. Napoleon's pimp, ee is. Biggest t'ief in
the Caribee, monsewer de Ville. Deals with bof the Brits an us privateers,
dependin' on who offers the best profits fer 'is troubles." He spat over
the side to emphasize his contempt. "Ee 'as a ripe fine respect fer Cap'n
Wade, though. Ain't 'ad the balls ter refuse 'im n'owt yet."

Summer turned back to the rail. Lights were sprinkled
along the broad curve of the bay, brighter where the activity on the wharves
would be at its peak. She gave up hope of catching a glimpse of the longboat
and walked slowly back toward the stern.

"Summer?"

She looked up and saw Roarke leaning over the rail of
the bridge. "Still angry with me?"

"No, of course not," she sighed, accepting
his hand as he helped her up the ladderway. "And I'm sorry. I should not
have behaved so childishly."

"You had every reason to behave as you did. I
doubt whether many women would have behaved as calmly as you have this
far." He grinned and handed something to her. "Here. You want to have
a look?"

It was a brass spyglass, almost three feet in length
when fully extended.

"Just hold it to your eye and turn this ring at
the bottom to sharpen the image."

Summer obeyed his instructions and was startled to see
the shoreline come so close she felt as if she could reach out and touch it.
She lowered the glass and the lights were just a distant twinkle again.

"He's about halfway across," Roarke said,
pointing out where to aim the end of the spyglass. Summer raised it and slowly
shifted it back and forth over the water until she located the shadow of the
moving dinghy. She could see the reflection of the lights in the water dripping
from the oars. The passengers' features were in shadow, but had it been
daylight, she was sure she could have counted the hairs on their chins.

"This is rather a remarkable glass," she
said, handing it back.

"Isn't it, though. Makes even a dot on the
horizon take shape."

Summer saw the faint smile on his lips and shook her
head in amazement. "Are there any limits to what you think you can get
away with?"

"If there are, we haven't found them yet,"
he chuckled. "It certainly wasn't out fault the British were slipshod at
guarding their prized panther when it was in port."

"You went on board the
Caledonia?"
she gasped.

"I had to amuse myself somehow while Morgan was
at your father's party. Between watching him and watching the
Chimera
. . . or the
Gyrfalcon.
. .no one bothered to watch
the
Caledonia."
He lowered
the glass. "We only intended to copy some of her documents, but this
beauty just happened to be lying on the commodore's desk, and—"

"—and of course you could not resist," she
concluded. "My God, I am beginning to believe everything I have heard about
how easy it is to make fools out of Englishmen."

"Only some of them," Roarke said pointedly.
"Others seem to be determined to bring it on themselves."

She met the dark eyes and was surprised to see,
without the spectacles, a faint resemblance she had not been aware of before.
Both brothers managed to say a great deal without having to move their lips.

"You obviously agree with him that a woman's
place is at home by the hearth," she said bitterly.

"It isn't a case of whether I agree or not, or
even if I want it that way or not. It's strictly a case of where a man's mind
is in the crucial second before he makes a decision that could either save his
life or lose it for him. Where do you think Morgan's mind is right now?"

"On his wretched meeting."

"You think so? Take another look. Go on, the boat
should be in some light now—tell me what you see."

She took the telescope and peered through it,
resentful of being treated like a child.

"Do you see the boat?"

"I see it."

"And Morgan?"

"No—yes, there he is
...
I think. . . yes, he's facing this way."

"Facing this way?" Roarke said evenly,
taking the glass back. "A man rowing into hostile surroundings, not
knowing what to expect on shore—and he's facing this way?"

Summer bit down on her lip. Stuart saw the confusion
misting her eyes and smiled gently. "Don't worry, Mr. Monday will keep an
eye on him."

"Oh, Stuart, it's all my fault. Most of the
arguments we have are my fault. He says it's because I'm stubborn and obstinate
and have a terrible temper.
..."

"Which you are and you do. But then so does he.
And don't forget, he's used to having had absolute control over his life for
thirty-four years. It will take him a while to adjust."

"But what if we don't have a while?"

"I beg your pardon?" Her voice had been so
soft, Stuart had to lean forward to hear.

"I said what if we don't have a while?" She
was looking out over the water, and the tears in her eyes were reflecting the
harbor lights. "Stuart, you've had him for nine years; I've only had him a
handful of nights and days, half of which were spent plotting a way to stick a
knife between his ribs. All of the months I carried his child I kept
remembering a look or a touch or a gesture.
...
I
could bear it, though. I could bear
it because I
knew
I would never, ever be seeing him again.

"I know full well one of these days I really will
lose him. It may not happen tonight or next month or next year—please, dear
God, perhaps not for a dozen years. But it will happen. He has to pay for all
of these risks and chances he takes. It is inevitable. And I can accept it, I
have
accepted it because he takes
too great a part in shaping his own destiny for me to even think of trying to
stop him or discourage him. At the same time, I don't think I could watch him
sail away from me and survive to see him sail away again . . . not knowing if
it was the last time or not. His way of life terrifies me, Stuart, but living
without him now terrifies me even more."

Stuart Roarke regarded the slender, lithe wisp of a
girl standing beside him, and his heart went out to her. He remembered the
endless hours he had spent pacing the crests of Bounty Key waiting for an
overdue ship, and he was surprised by his lack of insight. He thought of his
own wife, wondering if she had this same, burning fear in her eyes at this very
moment.

"I'm sorry, Summer. I honestly do not know what
to say."

She faced him and the tears were glistening down the
length of her throat. "Say you'll watch out for him. Say you'll keep him
safe and make sure he comes back to me."

Stuart took her into his arms, holding her while the
sobs racked her slender shoulders.

"He'll come back to you," he promised
quietly. "You have my life on it."

* * *

Morgan returned to the
Chimera
three hours after his longboat
had gone ashore. His mood was grim, and he was obviously displeased with the
concessions he was expected to make. Summer was wakened out of a light sleep by
the sound of voices in the cabin and turned a sleepy eye on Morgan and Stuart
Roarke conferring over a sheaf of papers at the desk. A quantity of rum was
consumed while the two men debated in barely audible tones. Cigar butts were
tossed one after another out the open gallery window, and finally, with the
dawn streaking across the sky, Roarke pushed away from the desk and left Morgan
alone, staring thoughtfully out the window.

Summer slipped out of the bed, gathering the folds of
the oversized shirt she was using as a nightgown around her. She went and stood
behind the chair, and it took five full minutes before he realized she was
there.

"Sorry," he murmured, setting a partially
smoked cigar in the tin cup. "Did we keep you awake?"

"Yes." She smiled and ran a hand through the
shaggy black hair. "But I didn't mind. I rather like listening to you—to
both of you. Do you know, the more I see you together, the more alike you seem.
I'm amazed I did not see the resemblance before."

He welcomed her into his lap and wrapped his arms
around her, burying his face and lips in the scattered silk of her hair. She
sighed and rested her cheek on the hard curve of his shoulder, content simply
to share his warmth.

"You sounded angry when you first came in,"
she said. "Do the French want too much from you?"

He sighed wearily. "They always want too much.
This time the bastard thinks he has me over a barrel. He wants a third of my
cargo—he says his protection is easily worth twice as much, but he is, after
all, a reasonable man. Reasonable. I should line up my guns on his chateau and
show him how reasonable I think he is."

Summer stroked her hand over the swell of his broad
chest, letting her fingers steal beneath the loose cambric. She was astonished
at how the mere scent of his skin made her body tingle.

"And then he had the gall to insist we join him
for dinner tomorrow. If there is one thing I detest, it's eating pea soup and
crow at the same meal."

"Will you go?" Summer ran her hand down to
the hard, flat belly and started working the leather belt tab free of the
buckle.