Bound by the Heart (39 page)

The cabin was a shambles. The drawers of the desk had
been rifled and emptied, as had the shelves and cupboard. The lock on the
cabinet behind the desk had been smashed, and the cabinet's contents scattered
on the floor. Lying open on top of the desk was Morgan's logbook, his bundled
letters of marque, and the small gold case that contained the Granville seal.

Glasse would be content that he had his proof now.
There would be nothing to stand between a mock trial and a swift hanging.
Summer wondered what Glasse's reaction would be if he found out his efforts had
centered around the wrong man all this time? If he was to discover he already
had Edmund Granville in his possession, would it be enough? She did not think
so.

Summer laid Stuart's spectacles carefully on Morgan's
desk. She stared at her bloodstained hands briefly, then went to the corner and
poured some water into the metal washbowl and carried it to the bedside. Thorny
barely grunted an acknowledgment. She stared at the blood on her hands again
and went back to the pitcher, washing first, then stripping off the frivolous
green jacket and snatching at the hem of the spattered white dress. No one paid
any attention as she flung it aside and took one of Morgan's shirts out of the
cupboard, belting it overtop of her shimmy and petticoat with a length of
twine.

She wanted to help, but she feared she would only be
in the way. Instead, she moved quietly about the cabin tearing cotton into
strips when she heard an order for bandages; she fetched water from the barrel
in the corridor when it was needed and emptied the bowls of bloodied water out
the gallery windows when the contents became sickeningly dark. Thorny called
for a fire to be lit in the stove, and Summer had to look away and bite down
hard on her lips to keep from screaming when a heated iron was applied to the
wounds to cauterize them. Stuart remained blessedly unconscious through the
ordeal, through the hours Thorny worked over him like a man possessed.

When there was nothing more to be done, the old sailor
slumped brokenly into a chair, his shoulders drooping, his hands limp on his
knees, his fingers still clutching the needle and thread he had used to stitch
one of the lesser wounds.

"I don't know, lass," he muttered. "We
stopped the bleedin', but ee's weak. Ripe weak ee is, an' I cain't say as I
know 'ow ee's lasted this long. Must o' lost 'arf the blood in 'is body. Wish't
I knew if n there were sum'mit else a proper 'ealer would do. Sum'mit ter stop the
p'isen, if n there be any. Ee's like me own son, ee is. Tm an' the cap'n both,
like me own sons."

Summer's eyes filled, and she laid a hand on Thorny's
bony shoulder.

"Very touching," Glasse drawled, watching
from the leather chair. His boots were propped up on Wade's desk, and he was
enjoying one of the thin black cigars. He had come below a half hour earlier,
and his patience was obviously suffering with the failure of Morgan Wade to
make an appearance in the harbor. It had become necessary to send the laden
barge away from the
Chimera
to allay any suspicions that might arise on shore. The
men had returned with the news that the privateer was nowhere on the
waterfront; neither he nor the negro had been seen for hours, or if they had,
no one was willing to say.

Summer had managed to keep the relief from showing on
her face. The longer Morgan remained on shore, the more likely it was that
Glasse would make a mistake. Already his hand shook as he knocked ash from the
tip of the cigar onto the floor. The ferret eyes moved constantly—from the
clock to the door, from the door to the gallery windows, from the windows to
the ceiling to the clock to the door. He had expected the trap to spring
swiftly, shut, catching them all at once. Now he was forced to wait, and it was
beginning to tell on his nerves.

One mistake, though, and Morgan would know something
was wrong. Mr. Phillips was watching Glasse's every move and praying for an
opportunity to strike. The two crewmen who carried the litter to the cabin had
been ordered out, but Summer had seen the quick exchange between them and
Phillips. There were one hundred and forty of Wade's men aboard and twenty of
Glasse's. A word was all they needed, she was sure, but no one would or could
do anything as long as Glasse controlled the gun at Sarah's head. She was
Morgan's child, and no one on the
Chimera
would do anything to jeopardize her life in any way.
For that, Summer was filled with pride and a fierce new loyalty, but it also
sickened her at heart to see the humiliation she was causing them.

She poured water into the small metal bowl and rinsed
out a square of linen torn from her petticoat. Stuart's face was beaded with
sweat even though his body was ice-cold to the touch and frequently racked with
shivers. Thorny had piled blankets on him to counter the shock, but he seemed
to grow paler by the hour, to sink a little deeper into the void.

There was a knock on the cabin door, and Glasse was on
his feet instantly. A boat was heading out for the
Chimera,
he was told. It was not Wade.
It was the Frenchman, Georges de Ville.

Glasse's face mottled with a sudden rush of anger.
"What does he want now? Why the hell is he coming out here? My God, if
Wade is watching—" He stopped and flexed his fists. "If he thinks he
can demand more money for his cooperation, he is sadly mistaken."

"His cooperation?" Summer asked. "He
knew about this?"

Glasse glared at her. "Shocked, Mrs. Winfield?
Allow me to shock you further then by telling you he not only cooperated, but
he fully intends to collect the
Chimera
as his payment. He must have been told you were
brought on board several hours ago and wants to be assured of receiving his
property intact. Sit down, Mr. Phillips—" Glasse snarled at the young
second mate. "You'll have plenty of opportunities to deal with Monsieur de
Ville after we've finished here."

"You surprise me, Mr. Glasse," Summer said
calmly, leaving the bedside. "You work for the British government. You say
your loyalty borders on that of a zealot. You decry traitors and sympathizers, yet
you form an alliance with a Frenchman—to catch one man whose alleged crimes in
no way equal those of the enemy you are dealing with. Why?"

"Alleged crimes?" said Glasse hoarsely.
"There is nothing alleged about the crimes Edmund Granville has committed.
He will pay for what he has done."

"No court in the land," she countered
evenly, "not even the king himself would condone the use of a
three-month-old child as a means of capturing a man."

The rage and hatred had turned the two black eyes
boring into her into glowing coals. "I will use any means at my command,
Mrs. Winfield. I have spent the last thirteen years of my life searching for
Sir Edmund Granville, and I do not intend to let him slip away from me again. I
thought your husband would be the one to finally end it, but the fool let him
get away. Now I will use Granville's ship, and I will use his crew. I will use
you, and I will use his daughter without any qualms whatsoever. Oh, yes, Mrs.
Winfield,
his
daughter.
Your husband kindly confided his shame to me one night over a bottle of rum.
The use of Edmund Granville's mistress and child is a greater irony than I
could have hoped for."

He stopped and wiped at the sheen of moisture on his
brow. He stared at the dampness on his hand and frowned, rubbing it
distastefully on his trouser leg.

"Thirteen years ago," he continued in a low
voice, "he killed my only daughter. He beat her to death in a sordid
little hotel room and then ran away when his money and his title could not buy
him an easier way out. I vowed I would find him one day and make him pay—if it
took my last dying breath to do it. And I will, Mrs. Winfield. If I have to
take you and your daughter with me—I will."

"But
...
he didn't do it." Summer cried. "He didn't kill her."

"And how would you know that?" Glasse
demanded.

"H-he told me."

"He confessed to you?"
Glasse took a step toward her.
"Edmund Granville confessed his crimes to you?"

"He told me he did not do it! He told me that he
was drugged the night it happened, that he was framed by the dead woman's
husband, and—"

"Ronald?"
Glasse's momentary shock
changed swiftly back to rage. "And you believed the lies of a murderer?
What would you expect him to say, Mrs. Winfield? Would you expect him to admit
to kidnapping and murdering a young woman while he was in the process of repeating
his crime by luring you away from your husband? Lies, Mrs. Winfield! He told
you lies, and you believed him. Well"—he laughed maliciously—"all the
lies in the world will not save him now. All the lies and all the pleading and
all the bastard children he has sired will not save him now!"

Summer flinched from Glasse's hatred as if it were a
living thing. She backed away, fighting to hold in the tears that were brimming
in her eyes. When she was stopped by the hard edge of the bed, she turned and
saw to her greater horror that Stuart Roarke's eyes were open and burning
directly up into hers. His hand trembled, and his fingers clawed their way to
her wrist and wrapped tightly around it. His jaw muscles worked frantically,
and the bloodless lips curled back with the effort it took to form a single
plea. There was no sound behind it, only a silent, despairing plea:
Tell him!

The tears spilled over her lashes and ran in a shiny
path to her chin. She covered his hand with her own and held it briefly before
she pried the fingers loose. She reached for the dampened square of linen and
resumed patting the moisture from his brow. The soft brown eyes were still
pleading with hers, but she only smiled gently and dabbed at the tears that
flowed down his temples.

Farley Glasse witnessed none of the exchange. He stood
with his back to the cabin's occupants, striving to regain the composure of
which he was so boastful. He had almost succeeded when a tap on the door
announced Georges de Ville's arrival.

The French commandant was dressed impeccably in tight
white breeches and a cutaway blue jacket, the gold braid and gold epaulets of
his rank matching the tawny gold in the depths of his eyes. He took in the
condition of the cabin, the grim expressions on the faces staring up at him,
and ended the inspection with Summer Winfield.

"Madam. A pity we have to meet again under such
adverse conditions." He bowed curtly and turned to Glasse. "But what
is the meaning of this,
monsieur;
I do not see the captain."

"Because he is not here," Glasse replied.

"Not here?" de Ville frowned. "But
where—?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. The men I sent
ashore could learn nothing. The good citizens of your city are a closed-mouthed
lot."

"Mmmm. To you Englishmen, perhaps. I shall make
enquiries of my own. In the meantime . . . what is that dreadful smell?"
De Ville took out a lace-edged handkerchief and pressed its scented folds to
his nose.

Glasse smirked and sat on the corner of the desk.
"Cooked meat, General. With all of your experience on Napoleon's marches,
I'm surprised you can forget the smell so quickly."

De Ville coughed disdainfully. "What happens now,
monsieur?
You
have his crew safely under guard, I presume?"

"Naturally. They're all nicely gathered together
in the hold sharing the space with the hogsheads of black powder they were so
eager to smuggle. Any hint of an alarm and my men will open fire on the kegs
and—pfit! It will be all over for Wade's men—for the whole damned ship, I'd
wager."

"I see. And if the captain does not soon arrive?
How long do you propose to sit here in my harbor?"

"He'll arrive. When you return to shore, General,
you will deliver an ultimatum to the captain. His life in exchange for the
woman and child."

De Ville took a deep breath. "And if I cannot
locate him?"

"You just spread the word around; someone will
find him. It is three
p.m
. now. He has until dusk. That's when the
Northgate
has orders to move into
position. This ship and everyone on it will go up in flames at that time if
Captain Ashton-Smythe does not hear differently from me. You spread the word,
monsieur.
You have as much at stake here
as he does."