Bound by the Heart (22 page)

The pale blue eyes were glittering strangely; the jaw
was squared and taut.

"How dare you," he hissed.

Summer's mouth went slack, and she blinked her eyes
clear. "Wh-what?"

"How dare you call out to another man in my
bed," he snarled.

Summer was unprepared for the sharp quick slash of his
hand across her cheek. "It was bad enough I had to take his leavings, but
by God, I'll not take this."

"Bennett, I—"

The hand came down twice more, shocking her into
silence. He pushed himself free in disgust and sat at the side of the bed,
needing several deep breaths to calm himself. When he had regained control, he
stood up and began to draw on his clothes, taking the same methodical care as
he had in removing them. He did not look at Summer again, did not heed her
weeping or the sight of her cringed into a small ball. He dressed and strode
from the room, slamming the door hard behind him.

* * *

September 1811

Chapter
13

"O
h, there is
no mistake, Mrs. Brown,
I
assure you." Doctor Von
Zernak wiped his hands on a square of white towel and came around the side of
the curtain just as Summer was fastening the ribboned belt of her frock. He was
a short, wiry man with a huge split-veined nose that gave him the appearance of
a parrot.

Summer's gaze was fixed out the window, watching the
crowds mill about on the street. She had come to a doctor in Speightstown to
avoid any undue attention; now she was glad.

"Mrs. Brown? Mrs. Brown, are you all right?"

She started at the touch on her arm.
"What—?"

"I
know, my dear, sometimes these things come as a shock.
Still, you did say your bodily functions have been awry?"

"Well, yes, but
I
thought . . ." Summer ran
out of words. She had thought it was the shock. The ordeal of the shipwreck.
The tension. . . her two months of marriage had produced a great deal of that.

Doctor Von Zernak frowned. The young woman's reaction
was hardly one of pleasure. He shrugged and scribbled the name of an
alchemist's shop and a blend of herbs that would ease the internal discomforts.

"You must try to take better care of yourself in
the future months, Mrs. Brown," he chided gently, handing her the slip of
paper. "The cramps and sickness you have been experiencing are quite
normal, but we must try to build up your strength. You'll have to find your
appetite again if you want to bring a strong, healthy child into the
world."

Summer only smiled halfheartedly.

"Well, no matter. Babies are remarkably
determined at times. Once they conquer the first three months, they often become
downright tenacious.
I
would say you are well out of the danger period, and
since you appear to be reasonably healthy—"

"What did you say?"

"I beg your pardon? Oh, about the danger—?"

"No . . . no, you said . . . three months?"

"Why, yes. Judging from the size and position
...
of course, you can appreciate the
difficulty in being precise, but together with your own corroboration"—he
nodded and pursed his lips—"I would say three months at the very
least."

Summer's gray eyes enlarged until they seemed to
overwhelm the pale face. She took a firmer grip on the edge of the table.

Three months!

Three months ago she had not even been in Bridgetown.
Three months ago she had been
...
on
board the
Chimera!
 
She had been with Morgan Wade!

"Mrs. Brown?" Doctor Von Zernack was openly
concerned. Her face was turning ashen before his eyes. Her hands were trembling
and ice-cold; her lips were all but bloodless. "Mrs. Brown, you mustn't
upset yourself."

"No, no . . . I—" her hand reached out suddenly,
grasping his arm. "Are you absolutely certain? Is there any way you could
be mistaken? Forgive me; I don't mean to question your ability, but you did say
there was no way to be precise."

He sighed and took both of her hands in his. Too many
times he had been asked the same question for the same indiscreet reasons: a
husband away, or a husband too inattentive to his wife's needs
...
or simply no husband at all. This one
was so young and so vulnerable, and he saw the desperation in her eyes. He
wished he could tell her anything she wanted to hear.

"My dear Mrs. Brown. It is my opinion that
barring any unforeseen difficulties, in less than six months' time you will
give birth to the child you are now carrying. You may wish a second opinion,
and if that is the case, I can recommend several good physicians on the
island."

"No," she whispered, and her hands slipped
from his. "No, that will not be necessary. I believe you; it's just that
...
I wasn't prepared. I mean . . ."

"There now." He smiled and tried to sound
cheerful. "Nothing extraspecial in life is ever expected. That is why we
refer to them as surprises. And this little surprise you are carrying will
bring you more happiness than you think possible now; you just wait and
see."

Summer took a deep breath and reached for her gloves.

"Now I want you to promise me you will take this
herbal mix. We want to deliver you of a strong child, and in these tropical
climates the tendency leans to early, sickly arrivals."

"Early!" She gasped the word without
thinking.

The doctor glanced over the rims of his pince-nez and
sighed. He took back the slip of paper, jotted down the names of two more herbs
and inked a small star beside both.

"Have a separate sachet of these made up. Brew a
strong tea out of them and drink it twice a day, once in the morning and once
late in the evening. There are no guarantees, of course, but
..."

"Thank you. You've been very kind."

"Mmmm. You just see that you take care of
yourself. You'll have to fatten yourself up some, or all the herbs in the world
won't help. I take it you have your own family doctor?"

Summer flushed slightly. "Yes, in Bri—" and
her jaw snapped shut.

"Bridgetown, eh? Well, there is no need to see
him at once if you'd rather not, but I would be inclined to tell him about the
herbs should any complications arise."

"Complications?"

"Bleeding near the end of term. Excessive
swelling of the joints—ankles in particular. And of course if you should go too
far past the nine months."

"I promise I shall tell him."

He assisted her to the office door. When she was out
on the stoop and down the stairs, he shook his head and clucked inwardly over
his own foolishness. She must have known what she was doing at the time. He was
just a soft touch for big eyes and small miseries.

Summer walked the two blocks of storefronts to where
the carriage was waiting and signaled for the driver to take her back home. The
trip would take an hour, perhaps long enough to settle the churning in her
stomach.

Three months.

Morgan Wade's child.

Why? Why did it have to happen to her, and why now of
all times? Her relationship with Bennett Winfield was not the best, especially
since he had returned from his first patrol with the
Caledonia.
He had been surly and
short-tempered, and it had been only through bits and pieces of conversations
she had learned the reason for it. He had scoured the islands north of
somewhere called the Sirens for a month, waiting for the
Chimera
to make an appearance. When he
returned to Bridgetown, he was met with the news that Morgan Wade had somehow
slipped past him and had been seen several days ago lying off Saint Lucia.

Summer closed her eyes and leaned back wearily in the
seat. The carriage rolled and swayed in the ruts of the roadway, and she noted
absently that the crest they were on skirted the same bay where Stuart Roarke
had docked the
Vigilant.

It was foolish and childish and naive, but in all of
these weeks she had not considered the possibility that she had left Bounty Key
carrying Wade's child. There had to be some semblance of love present to
produce a child, surely there had to be. She may have been swept up in the
turmoil, the excitement, the intrigue, despite all of her protests to the
contrary . . . but it certainly was not love. Love was tenderness and affection
and easy laughter. It was a look or a word or something to make the world grind
to a breathless standstill without even having to touch. That was love, and she
had no such feelings for Morgan Wade.

Only that once—in the study—but it had been the wine.
The amount of wine she had consumed and the accident with the crystal goblet
had made the world stand still for an eternity.
But it had just been the
wine!

Summer felt a splash of wetness on her hand and
brushed her fingertips across her cheeks, dashing away the warm spill of tears.
It was too late for any of this. She was carrying the consequences of that one
night when she had allowed her body to overrule her conscience, and it was too
late for recriminations. There was far worse to come: She still had to face
Bennett and suffer the cold accusations in the pale blue eyes.

He had left Bridgetown on the
Caledonia
two nights after the terrible
scene in the bedroom. In those two days he had barely spoken to her and on his
departure had kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, but only because Sir
Lionel had been present. Summer's anxiety and guilt had festered during the six
weeks of his absence. She had lost weight and lost most of the sparkle from her
eyes.

When Bennett arrived home, she had been as nervous as
on her wedding night. She'd changed her dress three times before being
satisfied; she'd scolded two maids and worried a third into tears when her hair
refused to respond to the curling tongs. Bennett had walked into the front
hall, and for all of five seconds she had felt that her efforts had not been in
vain, that he had forgiven, that he was determined to forget. His eyes had
quickly lost their glint of approval, and the smile had been caught and forced
into submission. That evening he had remained in the study with Sir Lionel
until she began to wonder if he would retire to the bedroom at all. But he did.
And he had taken her with such careless brutality she was still numb from the
shock of it the next morning. Each night since had been a repetition. Her body
ached; her flesh was marred with scores of bruises. And now she had this to
face him with.

The carriage seemed to make remarkable time, and it
drew to a halt on the cobbled drive of Government House long before Summer had
collected her thoughts. She murmured her thanks to the coachman and entered the
house as if she were walking through a dream. She heard voices coming from the
receiving room and veered away from the door, knowing the last thing she needed
or wanted was to have to pretend to be charming and gracious for her father's
boorish associates. Thankfully the doors were closed but for an inch or so, and
she could move stealthily past without being seen or heard.

"The last sighting we had of the
Chimera
placed her just off Ragged
Point," a male voice said sharply. "She should make port within the
next day or so if our information is correct."

"Bloody cheek," Sir Lionel snorted.
"You'd think he'd stay well away from this island."

"It wouldn't be sporting," Bennett said
dryly. "And it is more or less what I expected of him. The sheer arrogance
of the man would prompt him to touch in on Barbados."

Summer held her breath, frozen in front of the doors.

"You say he does business with the Marlowe
Brothers here?"

"Yes, sir. They appear to act as the middleman
between Wade and the Spaniards."

"Have we enough men watching the
warehouses?"

"More than enough. If Wade makes arrangements to
purchase those guns through Marlowe, we'll know it within the hour."

"And you've managed it all without rousing any
suspicions?"

"The guns have changed hands so many times,
gentlemen," came a thin, nasally voice, "I find it difficult to
recall myself exactly where they originated."

Summer pressed herself flatter against the wall, her
heart leaping up into her throat. Farley Glasse.

"Fine. When we take him, I want every crate and
barrel smashed to splinters. I want that entire ship torn apart stem to stern
if need be. I want to be able to show the difference in black and white—what he
purported to load and what he was found to be holding. Commodore Winfield—you
still think your best chance is to take him off the Sirens?"

"I do, Admiral Stonekipper. When he picks up
those guns from Port-of-Spain, he's not going to want to dally too long getting
them back to Bounty Key. He'll have heard by now that the navy has stepped up
their patrols, that we have begun stopping all ships suspected of dealing with
the enemy. He'll assume, as we've planned, that the Sirens offer him his only
safe option. To that end, I propose we send the
Northgate
on ahead—immediately if
possible—to reach the Sirens and block his escape on the far side of the
reef."

"And the
Caledonia?"

"I intend to take her out of port and lie far
enough offshore to avoid detection. When the
Chimera
has loaded her cargo, we'll
follow in her wake and hopefully catch her between us at the Sirens."

"Rather extraordinary measures, wouldn't you say,
Commodore?" was the hesitant reply. "Two heavy frigates? Two
warships on an open hunt? The Americans won't like it if they get wind of
it."

Summer could almost hear Bennett grinding his teeth.

"That is precisely why we cannot take him too
close to a British port, sir. Nor can we bottle him up in the harbor in
Trinidad; the Spanish would be on us in no time. And he has speed as well as
neutrality on his side. Trying to take him in open water has already failed
more times than the navy would care to admit. One warship trying to chase him
through the Sirens, as Captain Forbes would have told you, is inadequate. If he
makes it through the reef, we lose him in the islands. This is the only viable
way, sir. The
Northgate
facing his bow and the
Caledonia
on his stern. Hopefully he
will realize the futility of even trying to break past us, and we will take him
without firing a single shot."

"If you do have to fire, though . . ."

"If I have to fire, sir, I promise you, you'll
have his obituary in my report."

"If you have to open fire," Glasse said
coldly, "there will be no report. The French will be taking the blame for
the kill."

"Just how do you expect to accomplish that?"

"Quite simply. A word here and there, a rumor
that Wade tried to win out against a warship
...
all neatly supported by debris from the French vessel the
É
toile."