Bound by the Heart (13 page)

Wade's face remained impassive.

Then the
Chimera
was free of the reef. Mr. Phillips tore at the wheel,
spinning it to bring the rudder sharp about. She seemed to skid sideways for an
eternity before the sails filled to their limit and sent her leaping forward.
The eternity was no more than the ten promised seconds, however, and on a
signal from Captain Wade, the
Chimera's
cannon roared a murderous retort to the
Northgate.
The nineteen starboard guns
blasted almost simultaneously before Wade's arm had completed the arc. The
frigate rocked with the recoil, and the air filled with hot, boiling clouds of
acrid smoke and sparks.

As soon as the shots cleared the muzzles, the cannon
were pulled in, swabbed and reloaded, but the island winds had boosted the
Chimera's
speed, and the land mass moved
swiftly to block off their target. The last glimpse of the
Northgate
was relayed by a man high on
the mizzenmast and brought a resounding cheer from the rest of the crew. He
reported crushed sail and a blown mast with at least five direct hits on the
deck of the British ship.

Wade heard his men cheering, yet his face remained
grim. His ship was damaged, and he now had wounded men on board. The crew would
no doubt plead with him to swing about and chase the
Northgate
to continue the fight, but he
knew another hour would put them in total darkness. His men had heart, and his
ship had heart, but by God, they hadn't come this far to throw everything away
on a fool's ploy.

"Crowd on everything we have, Mr. Phillips,"
he ordered. "Get us out of here."

"Aye, sir."

"Thorny—damage?"

It was not nearly as devastating as it could have
been. The sails could be repaired, so, too, the length of rail that had been
blown away. The torn rigging and damaged spars would hold until they made
Bounty Key. Seven men were badly injured, and many more had suffered minor
burns from the fires. The main wounds were to the men's pride. The faces of the
crew all bore the same expression: They were raw and chafed by the humiliation of
being caught so easily. The British warship had wasted no time in pressing its
advantage, and the outrage left a bitter taste in every man's mouth.

"Mite too close fer comfort, wouldn't ye say,
Cap'n?"

"Just a mite, Thorny. Just a mite."

"T'ink ee'll be blamed fool enough ter foller
us?"

If the British commander is suicidal, Wade thought,
yes. It would take several hours to turn the heavy ship and be in position for
the run at the channel. There was no moon, and unless the captain knew these
waters, he was asking for an obliterated keel.

"I doubt it, Thorny. Not this far into
darkness."

"Bah! Prigs, the lot o' them. 'Ere, ye'd best let
me 'ave a look-see at that cut, sar, afore ye bleed all over the deck."

"What?" Wade glanced down. He had not felt
anything, but there was a quantity of blood on his shirt below his ribs. He
lifted the wet cambric and saw a shallow graze where a flying splinter or piece
of iron had found him. "I'll be damned."

Thorny chuckled. "Aye, that ye will, Cap'n. An'
ye'll 'ave the lot o' us along fer comp'ny."

Wade grinned briefly, then turned his thoughts to the
Chimera.

Chapter
8

Stuart Roarke
jammed his hands deeper into the pockets of his thin
jacket and started pacing the crest of the hill for the hundredth time. This
made the sixth night in a row he had paced, the tenth night of constant
twenty-four-hour watches, the thirteenth night since he had begun to consider
Morgan Wade overdue. It was not the first such vigil and by no means the
longest. It certainly provided fodder for the imagination, though. Whole
scenarios played themselves out in Roarke's mind, from simple mutinies to
full-scale tricountry wars—with Morgan blasting and roaring away in the middle
of everything.

He stopped at the highest observation point and
adjusted his round wire-rimmed spectacles.

He should have gone with Morgan this trip. It was the
first he'd missed in over two years, and during the past six nights of pacing,
he repeatedly vowed he would never do it again. The wound in his thigh would
have healed as quickly at sea as it had on land—more quickly, he was sure, for
he would have had other things to occupy his mind.

Roarke's soft brown eyes moved slowly over the
oyster-colored sea, and he cursed the poor visibility. The moonless night had
cloaked Bounty Key under fine clouds and shifting mists. The breeze was steady
but light, making any approach to the key a tedious one. Dawn was striving to
push over the horizon, and the chill of the long night had seeped right through
Roarke's clothes and dampened his skin as well as his spirits.

He saw an arc of lantern light lift and settle on the
opposite crest of the crater. A second arc appeared on his side, a third from
the point completing the triangular watch. Every direction was covered. On a
signal there could be thirty men in boats ready to tow the
Chimera
into the cove. On a signal he
could have the huts emptied and a hundred men manning the island's hidden
defenses. On a signal he could put the
Vigilant
out to sea and scour the direction Wade would be
coming from—but he knew many more days would have to pass before he could
justify that. For now he could only wait.

He debated lighting the pipe he carried in his pocket
to help him relax, to help him while away a few more minutes. But his tongue
was already coated with a bitter fuzz from the countless times he had done so
to no effect. The palms of his hands were clammy. His stomach churned like a
small volcano, and if something did not happen soon, he feared he would
explode.

All he had been doing for the past month was waiting.
Morgan had insisted he miss this trip, had insisted he take it easy until the
last of the infection worked its way out of the saber cut on his thigh.
Roarke's hand dropped to it now, and he scratched at the numb weal of scar
tissue, cursing Wade's assurances that it was to be only a quick run to Antigua
and back for the shipment of French guns. British revenue patrols were lighter
than usual, the Spanish privateers were asleep, and the Portuguese were off
chasing a Dutchman near Barranquilla. It was to have been a quick trip with
little risk and no chance of a confrontation along the way.

So why was he thirteen days overdue?

Roarke's wife, Bettina, had been overdue as well. A
full three weeks by her reckoning, and that was another reason Morgan had
ordered Roarke to remain behind. Not that he had been much help to his wife
when the time came. He had suffered every pain with Bett, every choked scream
had had an echo in his own throat . . . but he and his wife had a son; a
healthy, bright-eyed son born on the eve Morgan should have sailed into port.

Roarke looked up suddenly as the low, trembling echo
of a conch shell quivered across the hollow silence. It was coming from the
first-position watch, from the leeward side of the key. Roarke was running
before the sound had completely died, back along the pathway, tearing the scrub
and brush aside as he skidded and scrabbled down the quarter-mile descent to
the cove.

He hit the beach, and his arms and legs pumped in a
blur. He swerved past the iron bell and gave the pulley three hard jerks, then
was off again, circling around the seemingly endless curve of the lagoon and up
into the gap in the bordering palms where the path was. The grade was as steep
as the one he had just descended, and his injured leg began to cramp on him
less than half way up.
 
He was too
exhilarated to care. The
Chimera
was sighted. Wade was back, and . . .

He heard pounding footsteps ahead of him in the gloom.
The watches stood in pairs, and one of the men was on the way down on a
collision course with Stuart Roarke.

"Hold up there, man; what is it?" Roarke
gasped and grabbed the man's arm. "Isn't it the
Chimera?"

"It's the
Chimera,
sir, but she's in trouble. She's listing to port and
carrying damage in her yards. The flags are up for a tow."

"Damage—" Roarke repeated the word to
himself. He shook away the images that crowded into his brain and released the
man's arm. "Right then, off you go. Muster all the longboats and . . . and
make ready for any casualties they might be bringing in. Have them seen to
first. I'll want a full crew standing by to relieve Captain Wade's men."

"Aye, sir."

Roarke spurred himself up the steep path. At the top
he shouted for the watch and sprinted toward the answering hail.

"There she is, sir," the watch said,
pointing straight out.

Roarke removed his spectacles and lifted the
telescoping spyglass, bringing it to bear on the gently swaying shadow that
moved toward them through the mists. It was the
Chimera,
all right, and she was coming
in under half sail. He could see signs of activity on her decks; canvas was
being reefed, the mooring cables were being hoisted from below and being
secured for the coming tow. He followed the lights milling about on deck—men
with lanterns meant wounded were being brought topside.

Roarke blinked the chill out of his eyes and trained
the glass higher up, examining each of the three masts to their peaks. He could
see charred, hanging bits of canvas and at least two gaps where spars and
rigging should have been. He traced her hull from bowsprit to stern, hesitating
over a missing length of deck rail and one large pockmark where a shot had
glanced off her timbers. There were lights coming from the stern gallery, and
he hoped—he uttered a silent prayer—that he would find Wade on deck and not
prostrate in the berth of the aftercabin.

Roarke handed the glass to the silent watch. He
replaced his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, his movements precise and
calculated to buy a few moments of thought as he tucked each wire arm just so
behind his ears.

"I'll be below, Loftus," he said.
"Signal when she's within range."

"Aye, sir."

Roarke turned and swiftly retraced the route to the
beach. Men were scurrying about carrying torches and setting up lanterns along
the jetty. The six biggest longboats were dragged down off the sand and
launched by men who wore bleak, reflective expressions. Oars were loaded and
slotted into their locks. Ropes, cables, bitts were fitted in beside the men in
anticipation of any difficulties the
Chimera
might have.

Roarke hailed the longboat closest to him and climbed
aboard. He heard the conch moan from the peak of the crater, and he took a
steadying breath before he nodded for the oarsmen to go.

* * *

Summer's first glimpse of Bounty Key was a distorted
one. It was a dark blot against a dawn sky seen through the fractured surface
of the diamond-paned gallery windows. She guessed it to be their destination by
the way the
Chimera
was riding in the water: slow and easy, sidling up to
the island as she would to an old friend.

Summer had not seen or heard from Morgan Wade since he
had ordered them locked in a stuffy, airless storeroom deep down in the ship's
belly. When the terrible barrage of cannon fire had abated, she and Michael had
been taken back to the captain's cabin, but there again they had been locked
inside with no word of explanation. Summer had tried the door and found it
blocked and guarded from the outside. The man would not answer any of her
questions, would not tell her what had happened. He simply glared at her as if
she had personally invited the British warship to attack.

Wade had every right to be angry with her, she
conceded. He probably could have made it through the channel and eluded the
other ship without exchanging a single shot had he not taken the time to swim
out to save Michael and herself. She had been selfish and unthinking to risk
Michael's life in a reckless attempt to escape. She should have been able to
foresee his panic. He was so determined at times to present himself as a young
adult, she kept forgetting he was only a boy. A child. Thorny's vivid
explanation of what the rip currents would have done to them had left her
shaken and badly frightened. If not for Morgan Wade, both she and Michael would
have been torn apart.

She looked at her brother now, huddled beneath the
quilts on the captain's bed, and her heart missed a beat. His eyes were
squeezed shut as if he did not want to wake up. His body was curled into a
ball; his hands were clasped into fists. She knew she would not fight any
longer. She would stop fighting everything and everyone. She would scrub Wade's
decks on her hands and knees if he ordered it; she would polish his boots and
take his insults; she would hold the sheets on his bed aside if that was what
he wanted, if that was what it took to get Michael safely home again.

"Oh God," she whispered and pressed her fingers
to her temples. "Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry."

The bump and slide of something brushing along the
Chimera's
hull made Summer raise her
head and turn her tear-filled eyes to the gallery windows. She saw the
increasing lightness in the sky and knew the stars would have winked out of
sight one by one.

She tucked the quilt higher under Michael's chin and
went to the windows, unlatched one of the panels and pushed it wide. She knelt
on the leather chair and propped her chin on her hands as she watched the land
move slowly by. There was a mist hugging the base of the island. It clung to
the rocky shoreline and swirled out behind the
Chimera
in thinning whorls. There was
no beach that she could see, no bay to anchor in, no sign of a nestled village
or of any life at all on the high, formidable slopes.

The land began to close in behind them, and she
wondered if the
Chimera
were being turned around. But then a second wall of
greenery and rock appeared on the starboard side to block the view of the open
sea.

Summer straightened abruptly and lifted her chin off
her hands. She thought perhaps she was imagining the walls of land coming
together, but no—they had entered a narrow passage of some sort and were being
guided and towed around a sharp elbow. No wonder the revenue cutters had never
been able to follow Wade. His hideaway port was sealed off completely from the
outside. If the mouth of the passage were invisible from the sea—and she
suspected it was—he would seem to simply vanish once around the protective
screen of the island.

She was startled out of her contemplation by the sound
of laughter out in the companionway. She closed the window hastily and went
back to the bed, with only seconds to spare before the latch tripped and the
cabin door opened. It was Morgan Wade and a man she had never seen before.

The newcomer was tall and lean with short sand-colored
hair and dark brown eyes that were magnified slightly behind wire-rimmed
spectacles. Her surprise at seeing him in the cabin was matched by his surprise
in seeing her perched on the side of the bed, and the sentence he had been in
the middle of trailed away in a mumble.

Wade did not glance at the berth, did not acknowledge
there was anyone else in the cabin.

"I've made up a list of supplies we'll need to
make repairs. Where the hell did you say Bull went?"

"What? Oh, ah, he's off sounding out those four
new guns you brought back for him."

"Sounding them where?" Wade demanded,
knowing full well Captain John "Bull" Treloggan would not test a gun
unless he had a specific target in mind.

Roarke smiled wryly. "There was a rumor of some
Jamaican rum on it's way up through the straits making for Barcelona."