Bound by the Heart (15 page)

"Maybe one day I ain't gonna wait. Maybe one day
I'll just take me the first man I see comin' off that hill. Maybe I got me
better things to do than standin' around waitin' on some dumb nigger boy who
don't know he got a good thing when he sees it. Well? Ain't you got nothin' to
say?"

Mr. Monday's eyes narrowed during the ensuing laughter
from the rest of the crew. His teeth appeared in a formidable snarl, and his
head bent forward to take one of the woman's thrusting brown nipples into his
mouth. His arms went around her waist, and he lifted her, tearing off the red
sarong in the same eager move as he brought her grinding against him.

Morgan Wade reached over and took a gaping Summer Cambridge
by the arm, leading her away past a wave of shrieking half-naked women running
to greet their men.

"I believe in keeping my crews happy," he
said easily.

"Yes, I can see that," she stammered,
feeling her cheeks throb dully with embarrassment.

"I also have my own ways of disciplining them
when they get out of hand. You could have saved yourself a swim yesterday if
you'd come to me first."

Wade waited for the huge gray-green eyes to lift to
his before he released her arm and joined Roarke on the path skirting above and
behind the cluster of huts. Summer stared at his broad shoulders, at the
profile of his face as he conversed with his companion before she slowly
started walking after him. She felt Michael's cool hand slip into hers and
squeeze it for reassurance.

They arrived at the wide front steps of the main house
and climbed noisily to the vine-draped veranda. A servant appeared as if by
magic, his livery picture-perfect, his woolly black head bobbing as he grinned
a greeting to Captain Wade.

"Captain, sah. Good to see you home safe."

"Jonas. You old fox, I hear you've been worrying
Reeny while we've been away. It's taking ten men to hold Mr. Monday down."

The black eyes popped enough to threaten the safety of
the sockets, then he saw Wade's grin and seemed to shrivel where he stood.

"Mastah Wade, Captain, sah, you got no call to go
foolin' wid an oF man's heart."

Wade's laughter rumbled from his chest. "It keeps
you young, Jonas. Have you my rum poured and my cigar waiting?"

"Yas, Captain, sah. Everythin's ready and waitin'
on you and Mastah Roa'ke in the study."

"Bless you, Jonas—oh, we'll be having two extra
guests staying with us. I want you to take them upstairs and see that they have
everything they want. . . hot baths, fresh clothes, whatever."

"Yas, Captain, sah."

"That's it then, Governess," said Wade,
turning to Summer and Michael. "I trust you can find a way to make good
use of the day.
 
Mr. Roarke and I have a
great deal to do, but perhaps you will join us for supper this evening. Nine
o'clock?"

He did not wait for an answer. He nodded curtly and
disappeared into the cool interior of the house, leaving Summer and Michael to
the servant's care. He smiled and requested politely that they accompany him
around the side of the veranda, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, as if
the captain always returned home with a woman and a young boy in tow.

Summer and her brother exchanged a glance but said
nothing as they warily fell into step behind Jonas. When they walked around the
corner of the porch, Summer saw a staircase at the end of the wing which led to
the balcony above. The bedrooms they were shown to were light and airy, with
dazzling white walls and polished mahogany floors. The furnishings were simple
but made from the finest fruitwoods and richest fabrics. There were separate
bathing and dressing rooms off each bedroom, bellpulls on the walls for
summoning the servants and broad-leaved palmetto fans suspended from the
ceilings and operated by a series of ropes and pulleys that led out into the
hallway. There were no partitions on the balcony to divide one room from
another, only doors opening onto the breezy walkway from each suite.

Convenient, Summer thought, noting that and the
absence of locks on any of the doors.

The brass bathtub in her room was filled and waiting
for her by the time she returned from seeing Michael settled in his suite. She
was shown where the soap, towels and bath salts were and given a thick white
bathrobe to wear until Jonas could find suitable clothing.

The bath was heavenly. The tub was enormous—deep
enough for the water to reach her chin, long enough to stretch her legs flat.
Jonas had been generous with the perfumed salts, and she luxuriated in the
jessamine-scented bubbles until the skin of her hands and feet was wrinkled
white. She wrapped herself in the thirsty bathrobe and stretched out on the
cool sheets of the four-poster bed, intending only to ease the ache behind her
eyes and steal a few quiet moments to sort out the thoughts colliding about in
her brain.

When she awoke, the louvers had been partially shut,
and a bright orange-and-red sunset showed behind the flimsy veiled curtains.
The room was steeped in soft shadows and deliciously scented by the riot of
blossoms growing outside her window.

Neatly laid out on a wicker chair was a set of woman's
clothing, complete to the flesh-toned satin shimmy and pantalets.

She held the white muslin dress up to her shoulders
and stood in front of the full-length mirror in the dressing room. The size was
almost perfect. She would have had little choice in any event since the shirt
and trousers she had arrived in had vanished.

Summer dressed slowly, as excited about feeling satins
and silk next to her skin again as she had been the first time she had dressed
for a ball. The muslin gown had a tiny fitted bodice and a straight skirt,
gathered under the breasts and belted with a sash of embroidered blue satin.
The sleeves were long and divided into several sheer puffs by matching thin
bands of blue. There were no stockings and no dainty slippers, but as she
tucked her feet into the leather sandals and examined herself critically, she
decided a person would be hard-pressed to find much fault with her appearance.

She brushed her hair vigorously and twisted it into a
glossy golden coil, holding it in place with the ivory combs she found on the
dressing table. She teased and licked and wound just the right number of wisps
to form a shimmery haze against her cheeks and throat. She pinched her cheeks
and bit her lips and corrected a final tendril of hair before pronouncing
herself fit.

There was no timepiece in the room, no way of knowing
what the hour was. Judging by the progress of the sunset, she guessed it to be
near enough to nine o'clock to collect Michael and face the ordeal of a dinner
hour. If Wade had indeed consumed a full bottle of rum, he would be drunk and
surly. And if his henchman's display of humor this morning was any indication
of character, there was another source of irritation she would have to contend
with.

She refused to worry about it. She refused to worry
about anything other than keeping a cool and level head. Summer walked the
length of the balcony to Michael's room, reaffirming inwardly her resolve not
to create any more ripples on the surface of Wade's little pond. She could do
it. She could show these barbarians a thing or two about perseverance.

Michael's room was empty.

Summer retraced the route Jonas had taken, mildly
disconcerted but certainly not daunted. She descended to the veranda by the
steep back staircase, making very little noise on the wooden slats as she
paused in front of several brightly lit windows to peek inside. The dining room
was prepared and waiting, lit by multi-tiered silver candelabras centered on a
table set with immaculate white linen and gold-edged china.

Probably stolen, she thought. Looted from one of his
hapless victims like the seal and crest.

The room beside the dining room appeared to be a
library. A single lamp glowed from a side wall sconce, but she saw enough to
know it was probably one of Wade's personal, private sanctuaries. No frills,
nothing stood in the way of wood and leather and practicality. There was
nothing to distract him from plotting his raids and counting the profits from
his smuggling ventures.

Summer arrived at the end of the veranda and stood for
a moment at the railing, gazing out at the last fading glimpse of pink washed
across the horizon. The water was faintly brushed with silver, the surf
glittered where it crept onto the white sand. Tiny cocoons of lamplight marked
the windows of the huts, and farther out along the beach, she could see where a
bonfire had been lit in anticipation of an evening of celebration.

Summer held her breath and turned.

Morgan Wade was standing on the veranda less than a
dozen paces away. A cigar smoldered between his long fingers, forgotten for the
moment as the dark eyes savored the soft white outline of Summer against the
failing sunset.

He had shed the familiar cambric shirt and
salt-stained trousers and had scraped the ten-day's growth of black fur from
his face. His ebony hair was trimmed neatly to his collar; the starched points
of the collar touched against the square jaw, and the black silk cravat he wore
was tied to within an inch of fashionable fullness. His coat was deep blue
velvet, cut away over a richly embroidered silk waistcoat and pearl gray
breeches. No amount of tailoring, however, could conceal the broad shoulders,
and no amount of mellow evening dusk could take away the rakish effects of sea
and sun from his complexion. The combination of elegance and savagery left
Summer almost as speechless as she had been the first time she had seen Wade
aboard the
Chimera.

Chapter
9

"My god
," Wade murmured, moving in and out of a shadow
as he walked over to Summer. "What a truly lovely woman you are. Sackcloth
did not do you justice, madam."

"Thank you, Captain Wade," she said
haltingly, feeling suddenly awkward and tongue-tied. "And thank you for
the hospitality you have shown thus far. The dress . . . everything is
wonderful."

"I can see that. And it is my pleasure, I assure
you." He stopped within arm's reach, and she had no choice but to look up
into his face. Her lips parted slightly, and her eyes remained locked to his as
if by a physical bond. The hollow fluttering spread from her stomach to her
knees to the ice-cold tips of her fingers.

The line of Wade's jaw softened into a smile, the
first she'd seen that totally removed the threatening, guarded expression that
had seemed permanently etched around his mouth and eyes.

"I believe I would have planned this evening
differently had I had my full wits about me," he said quietly. "And l
doubt if I would have insisted that Mr. Roarke take you back to Bridgetown
tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" she whispered.

"Aye. You did express a wish for haste, did you
not? Besides, I have a cargo to retrieve and a delivery to make. And then I've
a mind to see just how thick the blockades are becoming along our coastline.
I'm afraid I wouldn't be very good company for the next month or so."

Summer was as yet unable to break out of his visual
embrace. "Tomorrow will be quite satisfactory. Thank you."

"Stuart is a good man. He'll see you home safely
within the week."

With an effort Summer turned and stared out across the
beach again. A week, she thought, and closed her eyes gratefully.

"What of the ransom?" she whispered.
"Do you trust Mr. Roarke to collect that as well?"

At the sound of a brief laugh, Summer faced him.

"There will be no ransom,
Governess."

"No ransom?"

"There was never any
intention on my part to collect one."

She frowned. "But you
said—"

"You
said, madam. I merely listened. It was your assumption
that all men who sail under a particular flag are barbarians and pirates. I,
however, never once mentioned kidnapping or ransom demands."

"That first day . . .
when you recognized Michael
..."

"What exactly did I
do?" He arched a brow.

"You
...
you . . ."

"I put you in a cabin—my own, to be precise—and
endeavored to make you both as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.
It was no fault of mine your imaginations carried you off in twenty separate
directions at once."

"I did not imagine being raped," she said
coldly, feeling her face and throat flush a deep angry red.

"No." He paused and a tic pulled at a muscle
high on his cheek. "No, and for what it is worth, I regretted losing my
temper at the time."

"So much so you repeated it that same night? And
each night afterward, demanding my cooperation in return for the privilege of
being allowed to eat and sleep aboard your ship? Really, Captain! Your remorse
is touching."

"I said I regretted my methods, madam, not the
deed itself. My only complaint would be that you wasted so much time and energy
fighting me."

Summer was shocked. A retort as scornful and cruel as
the situation demanded refused to come to mind, and she could only gape up at
him in disbelief.

He extended his arm and bowed. "Shall we? The
others are waiting."

"I am not hungry," she said icily.
"Please make my excuses; I prefer to return to my room."

Wade smiled easily and caught her elbow as she whirled
to leave. "Whereas I prefer your company at the dinner table."

Summer winced as his grip tightened. For a moment she
debated fighting him—slapping the arrogant smile from his face, kicking out and
wrenching free—but she knew it would only amuse him and make her look like more
of a fool than she felt already.

She allowed him to guide her along the veranda and
through a set of sparkling French doors into a brightly lit room. It was a
formal receiving room, furnished in rich brocades and striped velvets. The
walls glittered with silver sconces, and in the corner a marble fireplace commanded
a seating arrangement of three low divans. Michael was there, scrubbed and
combed, looking quite gentlemanly in a plain white shirt and navy breeches.

He jumped to his feet as soon as he saw Summer.
"There you are. I was just about to run up and fetch you. We've all been
sitting here and smelling dinner for absolutely
hours!
Gosh . . . you look
wonderful."

Wade seated her at one of the divans. "Dinner
will be in a few minutes. You know everyone here, I believe."

Summer refrained from rubbing the tender flesh of her
arm as she glanced around the room. Stuart Roarke was standing beside the
hearth, dressed as elegantly as Morgan Wade and just as unable to conceal his
pleasure in her transformation. It was a reaction shared by Mr.
Thorntree—himself looking starched and polished in a tight-fitting dinner
suit—and Mr. Phillips, the
Chimera's
young second mate. The only face that remained stonily
indifferent was Mr. Monday's.

"Traditionally," Wade said, drawing her
attention away from the company, "I enjoy the first dinner ashore with my
officers. I hope you do not mind being included, especially since they have all
promised to be on their best behavior."

A few smiles appeared, and the men took their seats
again.

"It shouldn't be too hard," Wade continued,
"since the main source of ribaldry happens to be absent for a few days.
Which reminds me, Roarke—how did your son's arrival affect Bull's
disposition?"

Stuart Roarke reddened slightly beneath his tan and
adjusted his spectacles. Before he could formulate an answer, Michael had
straightened bolt upright on his chair.

"Bull Treloggan!" he exclaimed.
"Captain Bull Treloggan . . . the
pirate!”

"You know of him, too, I suppose?" Wade
asked, amused.

"Everyone knows about Bull Treloggan,"
Michael said in awe. "He's an honest-to-goodness pirate, isn't he, sir? I
mean, he and Jean Lafitte . . . why, they practically
own
New Orleans, don't they? My
gosh . . . I've heard he wrestles with lions and bears and even has his teeth
filed into points so that he can chew his enemies to pieces. Do you know him?
Do you honestly know him?"

"We've shared the odd meal together," Morgan
said dryly.

"Gosh." Michael breathed. "And are all
the stories true?"

"In all honesty, lad, I'd have to say his tongue
is sharper than his teeth. Mind you, I'll admit he did rather a gruesome job on
a Dutch slaver last year. Tore him to shreds, didn't he, Roarke?"

"Without batting an eye," Roarke agreed,
staring intently at the drink in his hands.

"And Stuart's the man to know, lad," Wade
said. "He's had a run-in with Bull once or twice himself."

Michael gaped at Stuart Roarke. "Have you, sir?
Have you actually fought with Bull Treloggan?"

Stuart's finely shaped mouth twitched at the comers.
"Well, ah, verbally, yes. We have had several warm discussions."

Thorny spluttered over a mouthful of rum, and Mr.
Monday's teeth appeared in a grin.

"Oh." Michael's face fell. "That isn't
the same thing, though, is it?"

"Depends on 'ow ye look on it, boy," Thorny
snorted. "Bull's growl is ripe enough ter put a man under at the best o'
times. An' rare's the man who walks away with dry britches. Roarke 'ere not
only walked away, but ee walked away with the man's only daughter. Eloped, they
did, an' both still alive ter enjoy it."

Michael regarded Mr. Roarke with a new respect.
"Bull Treloggan is your father-in-law, sir?"

"That he is," Roarke sighed. "Much to
his everlasting regret, I might add. Bett and I can only hope he'll mellow in
the coming years."

"He can hardly help it now that you've made him a
grandfather," Wade laughed and lifted his glass. "To that end, I
propose the first toast of the evening: To Alexander Roarke. May he grow to be
as fine a man as his father."

The men rose and murmured a hearty "To
Alexander" and downed their drinks.

"Your wife is not here?" Summer ventured to
ask.

Roarke smiled. "She gave birth only two weeks
ago. Alexander is a strong babe, and the birthing was difficult. Bett sends her
apologies and her regrets. She would have liked to hear all the news from
England."

Jonas appeared in the doorway then and announced
dinner.

Summer saw Morgan Wade moving toward her, and she
reached for Roarke's arm before the captain had covered half the distance. She
saw him hesitate and frown, and she saw Roarke's complexion darken, but she
smiled steadfastly and chatted about some trivial nonsense as she walked beside
Roarke down the hallway toward the dining room.

Summer's appetite completely deserted her. She felt
uncomfortable in the all-male company, though she could not find fault with
their manners or behavior. The flow of small talk was steady and bland, and
after the tiny coup in the receiving room, Wade seemed content to ignore her.
That plus the fact that Jonas hovered nearby to tip the wine bottle each time
the level in her glass fell helped to ease her through the two-hour meal.

Summer declined the offer of brandy and conversation
in the drawing room, pleading a slight headache and a wish to retire early to
her room. The men seemed relieved, and she could imagine the cravats being
loosened, the language becoming freer, and the cigars being lit as soon as she
departed the room.

The doors to the library happened to be open onto the
veranda as she strolled past. With a curious detachment that came with the full
glass of wine she was taking to bed, Summer walked inside.

Her first thought was that for a renegade privateer,
Wade's collection of novels and manuscripts was impressive. She perused the
titles and authors along one row of shelves, and when she arrived at the end,
she stopped—not knowing how she knew he was there, only knowing that he was.

"Have you read all of these, Captain?" she
inquired without turning.

"Sad to say, no. I have always had the honorable
intention of doing so, however."

"Honorable?" She arched a brow delicately
and glanced at him. "You must define the word for me someday, Captain, for
surely nothing in your nature so far indicates you know the meaning of the
word."

His mouth betrayed a smile as he watched the glass
rise to her lips and come away again somewhat lighter.

"Tell me something, Governess. You seem overly
anxious to get back to Bridgetown. I take it the sole reason is not your
undying loyalty to Sir Lionel. Have you . . . other commitments you are
returning to?"

"If I have? What possible interest would they be
to you?"

He laughed and moved away from the door. "None.
Although I suppose if I thought I was sending you home to the arms of some
stableboy, I might be tempted to keep you here until you came to your
senses."

"Keep me here? But you said—"

"I said you were leaving for home tomorrow, and I
meant it," he assured her. "Unless of course you would prefer to
remain here as my guest for a few days."

Summer found herself looking into the unreadable dark
eyes, wondering why the casual question suddenly did not seem so casual.

"Are you asking me to stay?"

Wade saw the greenish tint flare into her eyes and
neatly parried the sarcasm. "No. I already told you I wouldn't be here. I
merely thought you might want to take a day or so to enjoy the feel of solid
land beneath your feet."

"I will enjoy the solid feel of Bridgetown
beneath my feet, sir. Between then and now I wish only speed."

"Will noon tomorrow suit your purposes?"

"Adequately. But will the
Chimera
be ready?"

"The
Chimera?
Good God, no. She'll be a month or more on the blocks.
You'll be going back on Mr. Roarke's schooner,
Vigilant."

"Oh. I see."

The smile was back. "She isn't as large as the
Chimera,
and there are not nearly as
many corners to snoop into, but she's light and fast. You'll be in the arms of
your stableboy soon enough."

Summer flushed under his steady gaze. Her discomfiture
was divided equally between the word
snoop
and the deliberate reuse of the term
stableboy.
She turned and started walking
back alongside the bookshelves, her fingers tapping lightly on the wineglass.

"This stableboy of yours," Wade grinned,
"is he a tolerant lout?"

"Tolerant?" she snapped, her flush deepening
as she halted. "By tolerant I assume you are asking if he is a gentleman?
The answer
is
yes. A very fine,
respectable
gentleman. One who puts your
own tawdry behavior to shame."

"Meaning he will forgive and forget?"

She stiffened. "There is nothing to forgive.
7
have done nothing to be
ashamed of."

"No, indeed," he murmured, "and it
pleases me to hear you say that. I would hate to think of you pining away for
an innocence you neither had nor wanted."

"Not wanted!" she gasped. "How can you
possibly say such a thing!"