Bound by the Heart (16 page)

"Madam, you may have been virginal in body, but
your spirit was plainly impatient to be set free."

Summer had come to the end of the row. The only thing
between her and Morgan Wade was a small square table. Her head swam suddenly,
and she raised a trembling hand to her temple.

It must be the wine, she thought dizzily. Why else
would I be listening to such effrontery without scratching his eyes out? How
can he dare to stand there so calmly and accuse me of
...
of
wanting
his attentions!

She went to set the glass on the table, not wanting to
have anything more to do with the wine or the man, intending to storm past him,
to show him precisely what she thought of his assumptions, but the goblet
missed the edge of the table and tilted, splashing some of the deep red
Burgundy down the front of the white muslin skirt.

"Oh, no!" she gasped and stepped quickly
back as wine and crystal shattered onto the floor. "Oh! Oh, I'm . . . I'm
sorry . . . I—"

"It doesn't matter," said Wade quickly,
grasping her shoulders to prevent her from bending over to pick up the shards
of crystal.

She met the dark blue gaze, and for a full minute she
could not move. Her chin trembled and her eyes grew inordinately bright and she
was aware of a spreading heat where his hands burned her flesh through the thin
muslin gown . . . but she could not move.

"The goblet
..."
she stammered weakly.

"I'll have Jonas clean it up."

"But the dress . . . perhaps if I rinse it out at
once—"

His grip became more forceful. "I said it doesn't
matter."

Summer's heart refused to leave her throat. The room
began to sway alarmingly, and the sound of his breathing drowned out all else,
even the rush of palm trees and surf.

"It was inexcusably clumsy of me, Captain,"
she whispered. "If you tell me the cost of replacing the goblet and the
dress, I shall see to it that you are reimbursed."

His expression was curiously restrained as his hand
moved up to cradle her chin. "I told you once before, money means nothing
to me."

"But the goblet. . ."

"If you insist on reimbursing me, you already
know the cost."

"The . . . cost?" His mouth was only inches
from hers. Summer watched it move, watched it form words that were wrong
...
all wrong.

"Then again, I would not want it said that I
forced payment from you for something so trivial."

"No
..."
His fingers seemed to be tilting her head higher. Something was doing it,
because she was only a breath away from touching him. "This isn't
fair," she said softly.

"What isn't fair?"

His lips curved into a smile, and she thought of how
they felt, warm and searching, on her flesh. "The wine . . ."

"I did not force you to drink it. Although I'll
admit I did not stop you, either. Wine often makes a person see things. . .and
do things . . . without the distraction of a conscience. And I confess I wanted
you without a conscience tonight."

"But. . . why? What more could you possibly take
from me that you haven't already?"

"My lovely innocent," he murmured. "I
don't want to
take
anything from you."

His mouth began to brush hers, lightly, teasingly, and
even though her lips were parted, his did hardly more than graze them. Summer's
hands inched slowly up the hard surface of his chest and followed the lapels of
his jacket up and around his neck. Then she wrapped her arms around him and
pressed her body forward into his. Her brazenness shocked her, as did her mouth
by reaching greedily for his with a need that drove every other thought from
her mind. She heard him laugh softly, but it did not matter. Nothing mattered
other than the promise in his hands and the hunger in his strong, powerful
body.

He picked her up into his arms and went out the French
doors and along the veranda to the rear flight of stairs. She raised her head
from his shoulder when she saw him stop at the door to her suite. She only
sighed and lowered it again when he carried her inside and kicked the door shut
behind them.

* * *

JULY 1811

Chapter
10

S
ir lionel Cambridge
was a gruff burly man in his early sixties. He
possessed a head of snow white hair that led down onto his fleshy jowls in a
froth of sprightly mutton-chops. His moustache was waxed into two swooping
hooks. He had heavy-lidded hazel eyes and a mischievous twinkle in them that
had not been tamed at all in the years Summer had been away. The dispatch
Stuart Roarke had sent on ahead of them after docking in Speightstown, ten
miles up the coast from Bridgetown, must have preceded their arrival by only
minutes, for there was a crowd of servants gathered on the steps of Government
House as the coach drew up to the front entrance and, behind them, emerging
with his cravat only partially tied, a nervous and red-faced Governor
Cambridge.

He clutched Summer and Michael to his bosom, weeping
openly. First one, then the other, then both were crumpled like rag dolls, held
away to arm's length, then crumpled again. There was a grand introduction to
the servants as if the Cambridge offspring were strangers to their own house.
Some of the staff shouted the joyous news to strolling passersby, who in turn
spread the news like a bushfire through the streets of Bridgetown.

The
Sea Vixen
had gone down with a loss of all hands. The island was
draped in mourning, sharing the grief of their governor over the loss of his
two children. The memorial service had filled Saint Michael's Cathedral with
dignitaries from neighboring islands, representatives from the Admiralty and
from the merchant community. Sir Lionel himself had opened the services to
include the friends and relatives of the other twenty-two passengers who had
gone down with the ship, a gesture which had endeared him further to his stout
supporters and somewhat less to those beginning to show signs of dissension.

He had no thoughts of politics now. Summer and Michael
were home. They were hugged and petted and praised for their courage. They were
swept along in the excitement and taken to their rooms, there to be lavished
with baths and perfumes, fussed over and treated like baby chicks fallen from
the roost. Summer was not permitted to lift a finger on her own behalf. Three
maids saw to her bathing needs. Her hair was washed and scented and shaped into
a slippery mass of golden curls; her face was powdered and rouged; her whole body
was rubbed with oils, then clothed in silks so fragile a rough thumb would
pierce them. She relaxed with a hot, spiced pitcher of sangaree, and then when
she felt she was up to it, she descended the spiral oak staircase to the main
drawing room where her father was anxiously waiting.

Michael was already there, bristling under the rosy
effects of a hot bath and scouring. He looked plainly uncomfortable in clothes
that were stiff and confining, and he grew more impatient by the minute,
wishing he could be off to regale his peers with tales of his adventures. The
stories would have put him in good stead for months to come.

One of the few discussions between the Cambridges and
Stuart Roarke during the week on board the
Vigilant
had ended with them reluctantly
agreeing that for the time being, there was no reason to mention Morgan Wade's
part in the rescue. The suggestion had originated with Wade himself, Roarke
said, and it made sense. Sir Lionel's position would not be compromised, and
Summer—being thought of still as Michael's governess—would not be subjected to
the curiosity or abuse of gossips. Roarke had been deliberately vague in the
dispatch he had sent from Speightstown, signing it simply "S.
Roarke."

"Thank God is all I can say," Sir Lionel
beamed. "Thank God you have come home to us safely. We'll have no more
need of mourning clothes and black sashes on the windows—by Jove, I must
remember to cancel the stone from the masons. Michael, my boy"—he thumped
his son affectionately between the shoulders—"I can see now I sent the
right man to New Providence to meet your sister. A man who kept a level head
and did not allow her to drown, no, sir."

Michael blushed self-consciously. "Actually, sir,
we sort of saved each other."

"I fainted for several hours through the worst of
it," Summer said quietly. "If not for Michael holding me, I very
likely would have drowned without ever waking up again."

Sir Lionel looked at his son, and his face glowed with
pride.

"But if Summer hadn't gotten us out of the cabin
in time," Michael insisted, "I should jolly well think we'd be
crushed to splinters at this very moment."

Sir Lionel sighed heartily and trumpeted into a square
of linen. "I say—this calls for a toast. Several toasts."

He signaled to a hovering servant, who immediately
stepped forward with a tray of glasses and a decanter of port. Sir Lionel
handed one to Summer, one to Michael, and took a third for himself.

"To the Cambridge family," he announced and
downed the glassful in a single swallow.

Summer and Michael exchanged a smile and sipped.

The butler appeared in the doorway. "Excuse me,
sah. A gentleman is heah requesting an audience with Miss Summah. He says it is
a mattah of some urgency."

Sir Lionel frowned. "Well? Who is it, man?"

Bennett Winfield, as sunbleached and golden as Summer
remembered, brushed past the startled butler without waiting to hear the
introduction delivered. He tossed his bicorne onto one of the nearby chairs and
went straight to Summer, gathering her into his arms before she had time to
react to his arrival.

"Summer! Summer, it is you. When I heard you'd
been brought home, I didn't believe it. I thought it had to be a cruel joke or
a case of gossip gone awry . . . but my God, it is you." He held her out
to arm's length, letting his eyes devour her. "We searched and searched.
We crossed back and forth over that damned stretch of ocean so many times the
crew was threatening mutiny. And then when we found the wreckage—" His
voice trailed away, and he squeezed her hands in his, raising each in turn to
his lips.

"Well, ah—hem. I, ah. . ."Sir Lionel crooked
a brow and turned to Michael, winking. "I'd say perhaps this calls for
another round, what?"

Bennett stood away from Summer and bowed stiffly to
Sir Lionel. "Excuse my impertinence, sir. I came straightaway when I
heard, and I guess I have not quite had enough time to absorb the shock."

"Nonsense, m'boy," Sir Lionel exclaimed.
"Quite all right. Wilkins—pour the commodore a drink. We'll let our first
toast be to impertinence
...
to the sorry
lack of it in my family's absence."

Summer was genuinely surprised. "Commodore?"

"Why, yes." Bennett smiled. "One of the
reasons I was sent to England, as it turned out, was to acquaint myself with
the
Caledonia
before
I assumed command of her."

Sir Lionel chuckled. "You could say it was a
wedding gift from your godfather, Admiral Stonekipper. Neither he nor I could
see the use of having a mere captain for a son-in-law."

The glasses were filled and tipped, and Summer
recovered sufficiently to take a seat on the divan. The sight of Bennett
brought back the memory of those hours spent drifting on the raft. She had
clung to the hope of seeing him again, and now here he was before her, making
the past two weeks feel as though they had happened in a dream or a nightmare.
She and Michael might both have been sitting refreshed and rested after having
just disembarked from the
Sea Vixen.

She observed her father and Bennett as they smiled and
touched glasses. Sir Lionel seemed to have lost ten years in the past four
hours, and Bennett
...
in his crisp
naval uniform of dark blue coat and white breeches, his high gleaming black
knee boots, his gold braid, his neatly clubbed blond hair
...
he was the man she had traveled halfway
around the world to be with. Hope of seeing him again, of becoming his wife,
had kept her alive. He had been with her in her dreams through the hours she
had floated in the gray mists; he had been in her thoughts during the hurt and
humiliations she had suffered at Morgan Wade's hands. Bennett was here, and she
was still the same Summer Cambridge who had left England wanting a fine home,
fine parties, elegant clothes and a handsome, dashing husband . . . wasn't she?

"Are you all right, my dear?"

"What? Oh. Oh, yes, Father. I'm fine."

"Just happy to be home, are you?"

"Yes." She smiled. "Just happy to be
home."

* * *

Two days after their triumphant return, Summer and
Michael were summoned to the library. Sir Lionel looked somewhat disturbed as
he ushered them into seats and waited for the tea to be poured and served.
Summer glanced askance at Commodore Bennett Winfield, but his face gave no hint
as to why the meeting had been called. Twice her father had broached the
subject of their marriage, and twice she had neatly avoided giving any direct
answers. This time she suspected there would be no more corners for her to hide
in.

"Is this important, Father?" she inquired
sweetly. "I promised to go shopping with Clarissa Wallace this
afternoon."

Sir Lionel harrumphed to clear his throat. "Well,
quite frankly, I don't know. It concerns the note we received prior to your
arrival the other day."

A cool prickle touched the back of Summer's neck.
"The note?"

"The one Mr. Roarke sent on ahead of you from
Speightstown."

"Yes." Summer moistened her lips. "He
thought it was better to ease the shock of our return rather than to have us
simply appear on the doorstep. Was it wrong?"

"No, no. I am not questioning the man's conduct .
. . er, not entirely, that is."

"Then what are you questioning, Father?"

Sir Lionel frowned. He paced the length of the oval
carpet, stopping to meet Bennett's eye before proceeding. "Frankly, I'm
questioning just who the deuce this Mr. S. Roarke is and where he comes from. I
inquired at the Colonial Office to asce
rtai
n where I might forward a case
of fine Madeira by way of thanks, only to learn that no one there had ever
heard of him. You say his ship
Vigilant
picked you up off Saint Barthélemy, yet he is not
listed as one of the island's residents. When I searched the ship's title, I
found she was not even on the official registry. How do you explain that?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Summer saw Michael
squirm lower into the cushions of the couch as if he could make himself
invisible.

"Possibly because she wouldn't be on the British
lists, Father," she answered quietly. "She might be on the American
one, though."

Sir Lionel coughed over a mouthful of tea, spluttering
most of it back into the delicate china cup. "American! Did you say
American?"

"Yes, Father. Mr. Roarke is an American. I'm sorry,
I thought I mentioned it before."

"You most certainly did not," he said
indignantly, clearly undecided as to what his reaction should be. Britain's
relationship with America these past few months had been deteriorating at an
alarming rate. The Yankees were becoming adamant about their rights to trade
freely with whomever they chose—and lately they had been choosing France. Sir
Lionel looked to Bennett for guidance, but the commodore's expression had
become suddenly thoughtful as he studied the subtle changes on Summer's face.

Sir Lionel harrumphed loudly again and glared through
his bushy eyebrows at his son and daughter. "Two weeks in the hands of one
of those American scoundrels
...
I
suppose he plagued you with all manner of questions about our government and
our policies?"

"Oh, no, sir," Michael said hastily.
"Mr. Roarke wasn't like that at all. He wasn't the least bit
curious."

"No? Then I suppose he tried to instill his own
philosophies into you? All of this drivel about free trade and sailor's rights?"

"N-no sir. The only thing Mr. Roarke tried to
teach me was how to properly read the wind and clouds and how to judge the
water currents by the changing colors and . . ."

"Yes, yes, all very interesting, I'm sure."

"Well, it is, sir," Michael said defensively.
"Mr. Roarke says it is all important to know if a man wants to go to
sea."

"You want to go to sea, do you, Michael?"
his father asked gruffly. "Even after what you and your sister went
through?"