Bound by the Heart (38 page)

She lifted her eyes to his. "Do you? Do you and
your wife . . . I mean . . ."

He nodded and smiled. "Yes. We do. I've been
damned lucky in the past few years: to have found Morgan and become a friend to
him, and to have a woman like my Bett to go home to."

"I'm very anxious to meet her," said Summer
shyly. "And I daresay she would agree, Stuart Roarke, that she is the one
who is extremely lucky."

Roarke grinned. "Would you care to tell my
father-in-law that when you see him? I need all the support I can get. And yes,
I think you and Bett are going to become fast friends—which makes me three
times lucky . . . four, when I finish carving out that betrothal
agreement."

Summer laughed and followed his gaze over her shoulder
to see how close they were coming to the
Chimera.

"What is in those crates?" she asked,
shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight reflecting off the water.

"Tea and silk," he replied blithely, then
saw the look she threw him and laughed. "And gunpowder and copper."

"Copper?"

"Aye. Almost worth more than gold these days.
Navies cannot build ships without copper to sheathe the hulls. England has none
of her own; neither does America. Our buyers in Barbados found out about this
shipment when Winfield seized a Spaniard trying to break past the blockade. The
cargo was slated to be a part of the convoy that recently left Jamaica for
England, but our people managed to substitute the crates and—
voilà."

"The convoy? You mean the hundred ships? You knew
about it?"

"Not many secrets remain secret hereabout. We
knew about the convoy for several weeks before it sailed, long enough to alert
the right ears back home to have a reception committee waiting where the escort
ships broke away at Bermuda. Morgan even toyed with the idea of following it
and picking off the stragglers, but when he heard the
Caledonia
was one of the escorts, he
thought he could better stir Winfield's ire by being in Bridgetown for the
commodore's return."

"I see," she said softly.

Roarke squeezed her arm. "This was long before he
knew anything about you and Winfield. The rivalry between the two of them goes
back a long, long way."

"Yes, I know. To Tripoli and the war against the
Barbary Coast pirates."

"They were there under different flags," he
nodded, "and I suppose you could say it began there. But did you also know
that Bennett Winfield was on the
Leopard
when she opened fire on the
Chesapeake?"

Summer's eyes widened. "No, I didn't."

"Well, he was. Winfield was one of the officers
who went on board the
Chesapeake
after the bombardment to take possession of the four
American sailors. He and Morgan came within spitting distance of one
another."

Another small fragment of Morgan's life fell into
place. Would she ever completely know him, Summer wondered?

"Good, we're here," said Roarke, and leaned
out of the boat to assist one of the oarsmen in maneuvering the small craft
closer to the barge. They made use of the loading ramp to secure the two
vessels together, and Summer breathed an audible sigh when she had the solid deck
of the
Chimera
beneath
her feet. Roarke was a step or two behind her, and behind him, two of the men
working on the barge brought up the rear.

Roarke felt a prickle at the back of his neck and
slowed. Summer was laughing and saying something about the tribulations of
being a sailor's wife; she was smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt and shaking
out the dampness caused by the spray from the oars. Nothing looked wrong or out
of place, but. . .

Thorny was not at the gangway. Some of de Ville's men
were near the mainmast, several more were poised at the rails on either side of
the main entryway. There did not seem to be any activity going on, and yet most
of the faces were tense and shiny with sweat.

There was more. There were no men working in the
rigging. No men lounging about watching the Frenchies work. There was a netful
of crates sitting by the cargo bay, but the winch ropes were slack, as if the
full load had been sitting there for some time—
waiting.
Roarke glanced along the
quarterdeck and saw Jamie Phillips, white-faced and standing rigidly on the
bridge. There was an ugly gash down the side of his cheek, and the blood was
running in thin trickles down to the collar of his shirt. One of de Ville's men
was standing beside him, something strictly against Roarke's and Wade's orders.

All of this Stuart noted in a matter of seconds. His
eyes flicked to Summer, now almost a dozen paces away from him. He heard
himself shout and saw her startled reaction, but it was too late. Before he
could reach her and push her back toward the gangway, he saw three of de
Ville's men running forward to cut him off. His knife was in his hand and
without conscious thought, he slashed out at the first man who came within
range. The man screamed and staggered back, clutching at the split edges of his
belly. Two more replaced him, closing in on Roarke with their own knives
flashing in the sunlight. Something hot and sharp was driven into his back,
into his ribs, into his shoulder. He was spun around by the force of the blows,
and as he fell, his spectacles flew off and were lost to a glare of harsh
light.

Roarke heard a high-pitched scream and saw the blur
that was Summer, intercepted as she ran back toward him. He was on his hands
and knees, but even that effort seemed too much all of a sudden, and he let his
head hang from his shoulders, amazed at the clarity with which he saw the blood
splattering on the polished wood of the deck. He groaned and the sound filled
his brain, deafening him so that when he slumped forward onto the bloody
planks, the silence of the encroaching blackness was a welcome relief.

Summer's scream died on her lips. She continued to
struggle against the rough arms that circled her waist, but now her hands
covered her mouth, and she could only stare in horror as Stuart Roarke's life
ebbed out onto the deck.

"Release her," came a slick, cool voice from
the companionway.

Summer ran to Stuart and fell heavily to her knees
beside him. She brushed trembling fingers down the side of his face, smoothing
away the brown hair that had fallen to cover his eyes. The sob caught in her
throat when she saw how ashen his skin was. His shirt was soaking rapidly, and
the blood was staining her skirt and hands as she searched desperately for a
way to hold back the sluggish red rivulets.

"Someone, please"—she cried—"oh,
please, help me! He's still alive . . . he's—"

She heard a commotion from the bridge. Angry shouts
and a curse were silenced by the same silky voice at the companionway, and in
moments Mr. Phillips was on his knees beside her.

"Dear God, I'm sorry," he choked on the
words. "We couldn't do anything. We couldn't warn you off. We couldn't
fight them. They knew where everything was—the armory, the powder magazine—"

"The blood,"
Summer screamed.
"Can't you do something
to stop the blood!"

Mr. Phillips tore at his shirt. He folded it into a
wad and pressed it to the wound beneath Stuart's ribs, the one that was
bleeding hardest. The cut on Mr. Phillips's cheek had sent blood flowing onto
his shoulder, and it mingled now with his sweat to run in weblike paths down
his chest. He shouted for two of the
Chimera's
crewmen, who leaped forward without waiting for the
approval of their guards.

"Ease him on to his back—carefully, dammit!
Thorny! We need Thorny up here! Throw him in the water barrel if you have to,
but roust him up here right away . . . with bandages and the medicine
kit."

"Thorny?" Summer gasped. "What happened
to Thorny?"

"De Ville's bastards knocked him out cold when he
tried to break for the deck rail to shout a warning to Mr. Roarke."

"De Ville's men? But how—?"

Mr. Phillips looked up past Summer's shoulders. She
saw the anger and hatred distorting his young face . . . and something else.
She remembered the voice ordering her release, and she whirled to face the
companionway.

Farley Glasse, dressed in workman's breeches and a
rough cotton shirt, stood in the shadows, a smile curving the thin lips.

"Welcome aboard, Mrs. Winfield. I trust you
enjoyed your evening ashore?"

"You!" she cried, and the tears froze on her
lashes. "How did you get on board this ship?"

"It was . . . shall we say,
childishly
easy."

He saw a further jolt of
horror register in the gray eyes.

"Where is Sarah?"
she hissed. "What have you done with my baby?"

Glasse savored the flashing hatred a moment longer
before he tilted his head in a command. A girl was pushed roughly into the
sunlight, her arm pinched cruelly in the grip of a man dressed in the same
manner as Glasse. The girl was no more than twenty, deathly pale, rigidly
frightened, but holding Sarah protectively to her bosom as if there were not a
gleaming metal gun barrel thrust against her temple.

Summer cried out and started to rise, but Mr.
Phillips's hand stopped her.

"He won't allow anyone
near them," he whispered urgently.

Summer looked at Sarah and the
nurse, then at the gun.

"What do you want?"
she asked Glasse.

"Come now, my dear Mrs. Winfield, you know the
answer to that. What have I wanted all these long months?"

Morgan!
Dear God, she thought, Morgan would be rowing out to
the
Chimera
as
blind to the situation on board his ship as she and Stuart had been. He would
stand no better chance.

Stuart groaned in the depths of his pain. His body had
a spasm and the movement sent a fresh torrent of blood gushing from his wounds.
Summer was overwhelmed by a sudden sense of helplessness and did not care that
her voice came out in a pleading whisper.

"Please
...
he has to have help. A doctor . . . could we send for a doctor?"

Glasse arched a brow. "And announce to the world
and Morgan Wade that there is trouble on the
Chimera?
Really, Mrs. Winfield, you
must indeed think me a fool."

"I think less of you than that," she
retorted bitterly. "Will you at least allow him to be taken below out of
the heat and sun?"

Glasse studied her face a moment, then nodded.
"Take your Mr. Roarke wherever you like for the good it will do. He looks
quite beyond salvation, if you ask me."

Mr. Phillips started to surge to his feet, and this
time it was Summer who restrained him. "No. It won't help to get yourself
killed."

"Listen to her, young man, it is sound
advice." Glasse pointed to the gun. "And I will not hesitate to order
either the woman or the child shot if any other of these brave men take it upon
themselves to play hero. I would truly hate to see it happen, but I assure you
it will if I deem it necessary. Go ahead, Mrs. Winfield, move the man if you
like. In fact, I suggest you all wait together in the captain's cabin."

Mr. Phillips nodded to the two crewmen, who gently
eased Stuart onto a litter. He moved beside them slowly, keeping a steady
pressure on the wounds.

Summer remained on her knees on the bloody deck. She
saw something reflect the sunlight, and she leaned over, picking Stuart's
spectacles up off the planking. Her hands trembled as she folded the wire arms
neatly across the lenses. She wiped a smear of blood from the glass onto her
skirt, swallowing back the revulsion as she saw the other glaring blotches of
crimson marring the white muslin. Her hatred grew until it nearly choked her.
She looked up at each of Glasse's men in turn, but none of them held her gaze
longer than a few seconds. Only Glasse displayed neither shame nor discomfort
at her wordless accusation.

Summer stood slowly and walked past him into the
shadowy hatchway and down the short flight of steps. Thorny was bending over
the captain's bed when she entered the cabin, muttering orders to himself and
to Phillips. There was a badly discolored lump swelUng on his neck just below
his ear. His head and shoulders were dripping water down the front of his
shirt; his old eyes were blinking repeatedly, desperate to clear away the
residue of fog.