Bound by the Heart (7 page)

"I thought you were told to remain
belowdecks," came a gruff, all-too-familiar voice over her shoulder.

Summer turned to face him. "And what will you do
about it, Captain? Toss me overboard for disobeying? If so, kindly do it now
before the distance becomes too tiring to swim."

His eyes glowered for a moment, but in the end he
simply laughed.

"And what would you do once you reached shore,
Governess? Present yourself to the French commandant and demand an expedient
return to the bosom of your employer?"

"I should give myself over to the French, secure
in the knowledge of being treated with the utmost courtesy and decorum."

"Oh, you would be treated courteously, all right.
From one bed to the next, you would be treated, and when the officers had their
fill of you—as unimaginable as that may sound—you would be a treat for the rest
of the garrison. It isn't often they find something sweet and fresh like
yourself thrown on their doorstep."

She fumed. "The French are not a race of
barbarians, Captain."

"Anywhere other than Saint Martin, I might be
inclined to agree with you. But here they are a unique breed."

"I don't believe you."

"No? Perhaps you would believe your own eyes
then. Have you any knowledge of sea codes?"

"Sea codes? Why on earth would I have any—"

"See up there, on the crest of the hill? The
large yellow square painted on the garrison walls?" He waited until she
whirled angrily and followed his finger. "It is a warning, Governess. A
caution to all healthy men."

The huge gray eyes reverted to his face.

"Saint Martin is the home of the French leper
colony," he said pointedly. "It is, consequently, the only French
territory for hundreds of miles in any direction that the British have not
troubled themselves to fight over. The soldiers stationed here are the dregs of
society, the commandant usually banished here for some stupid crime against the
French government. They are usually bitter men, too, having been caught and
sentenced to a death-watch. They would have no qualms whatsoever in holding you
until your flesh rotted and you no longer were capable of giving them any
pleasure."

Summer's chin trembled, and her cheeks lost a degree
of their high color.

"On the other hand," he remarked casually,
glancing over the side, "if you prefer to take your chances with them, by
all means jump ship. Do it before we cross the point though, for the currents
beyond the peninsula are strong and treacherous."

He insolently touched a forelock and walked back
across the main deck to the ladderway leading up to the bridge. Summer felt her
stomach tightening into knots, and she wished feverishly she'd had the
foresight to tuck the straight razor into one of her pockets. One slash. One
ribbon of blood across that arrogant face would go a long way toward evening
the score.

The
Chimera
rounded the point and reared her head into the stiff
trades. The order was given to crowd on sail, and Summer left the deck to the
sounds of all three masts being fully rigged. She passed Thorny in the
companionway but did not acknowledge his mutterings or pause long enough to
allow him to manipulate the heavy buckets of cold bathwater safely past a
protruding cable. She heard the splat and crash of one bucket against the
bulwark, followed by a series of curses and a reference to the dubious origins
of all women.

Her response was to slam the door. She stood with her
back pressed against the wood, fighting hard to suppress the urge to scream.

The fire in the stove had gone out. Thorny's efforts
to tidy up had included removing the tray of cold chicken and biscuits, folding
the quilt across the bed and removing the scraps of shirt and trouser she had
merely flung on the floor. Remembering the razor, Summer hurried to the closet
and searched through the toiletries. It was gone. She searched the floor in
case it had fallen unnoticed, but there was no sign of it. Thorny must have
been considering his captain's welfare when he saw the remnants of his
clothing.

"Cowards," she spat, and snatched up the
hairbrush. She stood in front of the gallery windows, watching Saint Martin
fall out of sight. The sound of rushing water and the sight of sunlight
glinting off the
Chimera's
wake helped to cool some of the heat in her cheeks.
She removed the red ribbon and made use of the drafts to dry her hair and brush
it into a glossy golden cascade of curls. When she turned around to reach for
the ribbon again, she saw that she had thrown it on top of a chart on Wade's
desk. She traced a finger around the scribbled notations until she found the
irregular mass of land marked Saint Martin.

The chart itself was a disgrace; water-spotted and
wrinkled, with lines crossing every which way over minute pinholes, bold X's
and compass readings that were jotted on the parchment. It was apparently
Wade's working copy, for there was a second chart beneath it, identical in
every detail save that there were no markings of any kind on it.

Summer sighed and stroked the brush absently through a
handful of hair. Since the copy had been used several times already, there was
no way of distinguishing which set of penciled lines and navigational plottings
he was following this voyage. She had no way of determining where he had been
or where he was bound—even if she'd known how to read one of the wretched
things.

Her gaze strayed to the desk itself, to the double row
of drawers on either pedestal. The brush froze midstroke as she contemplated
the inviting lack of locks on each of the drawers.

Michael had said there was never any way to prove
Wade's illegal dealings. What if she could return home with the proof Sir
Lionel needed to put an end to Morgan Wade? Even a pirate had to keep records
of some sort. How much would Wade trust to memory and how much would he confide
to his records?

Summer set the brush on the desk top and moistened her
lips. Suppose she could find references in Wade's handwriting to the cargo
taken from—what was the name of the schooner Michael had mentioned? The
Reliant!
If she could find the proof
and hand it to Sir Lionel when they were ransomed free, he could turn around
and toss Wade into prison.

Summer glanced at the unlocked door. How long would
she be left alone? Thorny had tidied up, Wade was busy with his ship . . . an
hour? Two?

She sat in the deeply padded leather chair and
noiselessly slid the wide center drawer open.

Papers. Invoices. Bills of lading. She shuffled
through them carefully, keeping the neatly bundled sheaves in the order she
found them. There were no references to the
Reliant,
nothing that looked remotely
suspicious. If anything, the papers looked disturbingly innocent. . . too
innocent?

Summer found and opened a leather-bound writing
tablet. The top was dated simply "June" the opening salutation began
with a perfunctory "Stephen." She read it hastily, frowning over the
brief greetings, the seemingly endless descriptions of weather they had
encountered and forecasts he was predicting, all the way to where the bold
script broke off two sentences into a paragraph concerning the cane harvest on
Saint Christopher.

Weather forecasts? Harvests?

Summer shrugged and replaced the tablet where she had
found it. The second drawer she tried was slightly more rewarding. She saw more
folded documents, all bearing an official government seal. The first she opened
was in Spanish. Her knowledge of the language was poor, but she recognized the
official seals and signatures that flowed over the bottom half of the
parchment. The other documents were identical, although each was in a different
language: One was French, one Dutch and the last in the king's own English.

They were Wade's letters of marque: his formal
permission to trade in ports held by the respective nations. He had one for
each of the predominant countries claiming colonies in the Caribbean. A ship's
captain might understandably have one or two letters of marque in his
possession if he conducted regular, legal trade between two sanctioned ports .
. . but four? Each letter would have cost a small fortune to purchase, and each
would have come with strict embargoes as to where the goods could be
transported and sold—embargoes Wade evidently paid little heed to.

Summer was replacing the documents in the drawer when
she felt something which obstructed the pages deeper inside. She reached in to
the back of the drawer and her fingers brushed against cold metal. It was a
small gold case, its lid beautifully embossed with a family crest. The lion's
paw hasp opened with a touch of her thumbnail, but her excitement waned as quickly
as it had risen. There was nothing dangerous or mysterious about three sticks
of indigo sealing wax and an ingot of gold bearing the raised impression of a
falcon in full wingspread.

Summer snapped the lion's paw closed and was sliding
the case back into the drawer when she paused and angled it toward the bright
light. The coat of arms on the lid depicted two rearing griffins on either side
of a shield carrying the unmistakable cross of Saint George. Above the shield
was the same falcon that had been tooled into the stamp. It was a magnificent
crest and an unusual combination of elements that normally signified nobility.

Nobility? She grimaced and guessed that the only noble
thing Wade could be accused of was saving the case and seal from a watery grave.
She replaced the gold box and the four letters of marque in the drawer and was
reaching to try a third drawer when she felt an ominous prickle along her
spine.

"I see you've found a way to occupy your
time."

Morgan Wade was leaning casually against the doorjamb,
his arms folded across his
chest
.
How long he had been standing there, Summer had no idea, but the expression on
his face gave every indication he was prepared for blood sport.

"I
...
I
was just sitting here and . . . and
..."

Wade moved and kicked the door shut behind him.
"And you thought you might as well see if there was anything worthwhile to
steal?"

Summer was shocked. "No! No, I wasn't looking to
steal anything!"

"I'm glad to hear it. The penalty for theft on
board my ship involves a rather lengthy trial with a filleting knife."

Summer blanched. "I told you, I was not trying to
steal anything. I was
...
I
was"—she searched for a palatable excuse for being behind his
desk—"looking for a chart or a map other than this scribbled thing to give
me some idea where we are."

"You already know where we are," he said
evenly.

She flushed uncomfortably. "Saint Martin is just
a name to me. I have no idea where it
is."

Wade regarded her for a long moment, plainly not
amused by the feeble lie. "So you read charts, do you, Governess? You know
all about latitude and longitude?"

"I am not totally ignorant, sir. Although it
could be painfully easy to become so, given the company I am forced to
keep."

"Clever and sharp-witted," he mused. "I
cannot say as I find comfort in my women being either."

"I am not your woman!" she cried
indignantly. "And if cleverness and wit sour you, I shall do my utmost to
excel at both!"

Wade's grin was slow to come. His eyes flicked to the
center drawer and darkened when he saw the corner ajar. "I hope you were
not bored with your reading."

"Outraged, perhaps. Not bored."

"And what, pray, has outraged you this
time?"

"Your total lack of conscience and scruples, for
one thing. You apparently think nothing of dealing with the French and Spanish
and Dutch as freely as you would deal with the English."

"It is called free trade, madam."

"It is called treason to deal with an enemy for
profit," she countered.

"In case you haven't noticed, I fly the Stars and
Stripes. America is not at war with any of the countries you mentioned."

"But her roots lie in England. England's enemies
should be your enemies."

"My dear ignorant, if there is any country we
should be looking to as our enemy, it is almighty Britannia. We have already
had to fight once to prove we no longer want John Bull's rule as our own, and
it is beginning to look as if we shall have to do so again."