Bound by the Heart (3 page)

"Of course it will," Summer said, putting
more confidence into her voice than she felt. "Why, I imagine if we had
something to make a sail out of, it would carry us all the way to
Bridgetown."

"If there were stars," he said hesitantly,
"we could even determine where we are now. I'm afraid I bothered Captain
Burnby into letting me follow the course he'd plotted. As of last night we were
off Saint Barthélemy. If we could find out how much we've drifted and in what
direction . . ."

Summer let him talk, only partially listening to what
he said. She was relieved that for the moment something had taken his mind off
the horror around them. Let him dream about being rescued, she thought. Let him
fantasize about living an adventure like Robinson Crusoe. She herself would
give anything to be washed up on a deserted island about now. Anything at all.

"Summer?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you decided to
come home."

"So am I," she whispered and squeezed his
narrow shoulders impulsively. She smoothed the dark, tousled hair, sticky from
the salt water, and planted a kiss on his brow. "Why don't you try and get
some sleep now. We're going to need all of our strength for tomorrow."

* * *

Summer knew the fog was dense by the way it clung to
her skin, by the droplets that formed together into one large bead, gathering
more and more speed as it trickled down her throat and into the cleft between
her breasts. Michael was dozing fitfully. She had no idea if she had slept or
how many hours had passed or if any time had passed at all. A trite phrase kept
spinning through her mind: A watched kettle never boils. Where had she heard
it? Did it apply to this smothering blackness? She kept watching for a sign of
the dawn streaking across the horizon, but it seemed like it would never come.

Summer closed her eyes. She shifted on the raft to
ease the cramps forming along her legs and spine and in doing so evoked a
whimper from Michael.

Her eyes opened wide, searching the darkness.

There it was again. A faint, barely perceptible
gurgle, as if someone were breathing through a mouthful of water. There was no
direction to the sound. It came from everywhere . . . and nowhere. She would
almost have sworn that she imagined it except that she felt Michael stiffen. He
had heard it, too.

"What do you suppose it is?" he whispered.

"I don't know. Listen and see if you can hear
where it's coming from."

"A monster," he breathed, dragging out the
word to ten terrible syllables.

Summer swallowed hard. "Don't be silly. There are
no such things as monsters."

Michael pulled out of her arms as the gurgle came
again, closer this time and followed by a low, plaintive groan.

"Then what
is
it?" he cried.

"I don't know!"

Summer risked swamping the raft as she rose to her
knees. The sound was constant now, a curdling moan that seemed to be coming
closer on each heartbeat. She felt the terror building in her throat. She turned
to reassure Michael—a split second before the fog parted and she saw a looming
black shape rearing high above them. It had a single glowing eye that bore down
in a yellow fury as jaws yawned toward the tiny raft. Summer pushed her brother
into the water and dove clear herself only moments before the flimsy planking
was crushed to splinters.

Summer screamed for Michael as she felt herself being
dragged by the thing's slow forward motion. She heard an answering scream and
flailed desperately for it, but she was too late: The water suddenly thrashed
alive, and something cold and solid reached for her, coiling around her throat.
Michael screeched a third and fourth time before the sound was choked into
silence and she knew he had been caught. For a moment the salt water streamed
clear from her eyes and she saw the towering black thing again. The pressure
around her throat increased, and she knew she was being hauled toward the
glowing yellow light. She struck out at it; she kicked and scratched and fought
until she had no more breath to do it, and then she felt the water swirl over
her head as a weight pushed her down . . . and then she felt nothing.

Chapter
2

S
ummer coughed
and retched a small lungful of salt water over the
corner of her mouth. She was draped over something hard and round and was being
rolled to and fro slowly to coax the ocean out of her stomach and chest. Her
hair dangled in long wet strands, picking up the filth and spittle from the
deck. She could hear Michael crying somewhere close by, sobbing and hiccuping
intermittently.

"M-Michael?" she gasped and moved her arms
in a swimming motion. The roll of the barrel stopped at once, and a pair of
hands grasped her under her arms and propped her upright. The world swayed
sickeningly for a long moment, but she did not have time to think about it. A
frantic burst of sobbing energy flung himself into her arms, burying his face
in her shoulder as someone else leaned over and draped a rough wool blanket
around her. Some of the nausea lifted, and she was aware of a low murmur of
voices.

The
Caledonia!

She raised a trembling hand to her eyes, brushing
aside the yellow web of her hair. Expecting to see the white canvas trousers
and short blue pea coats of His Majesty's Royal Navy, she was unnerved by the
sight of a score of burly barrel-chested men who needed only cutlasses at their
sides and dirks between their teeth to fit the nightmare of a perfect pirate
crew. They were hardened, surly men who frowned at Summer and the boy as if
deciding whether to keep them or toss them back over the side.

Summer scanned the unfriendly faces until she settled
on one who made the breath catch in her throat and her heart grind to a painful
standstill in her chest. He stood a full head taller than the rest, with long
black hair curling damply to shoulders easily twice as broad, twice as massive
as any on board. His chest was bare, and where the water clung to the swarm of
black hair, it glistened like a breastplate, emphasizing boldly sculpted
muscles that had been burned to a rich mahogany by the sun. His trousers were
wet and hugged his thighs like a second skin. His feet were bare and spread wide
apart, his arms were crossed over the incredible span of his chest, and he was
staring down at Summer Cambridge with two of the coldest, deepest blue eyes she
would ever live to see.

"I suppose I should ask what the hell you two
were doing floating around in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?" His voice
was a low rumble of thunder and spoke of unquestioned authority.

Summer opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came
out past the dry and puffed lips except a pitiful rasp of air. Michael sat up,
still sniffling, still hiccuping, but able to speak.

"W-we were on the
Sea Vixen,
sir. B-bound for B-Bridgetown.
The storm this m-morning . . . yesterday morning
...
we were thrown overboard."

"The
Sea Vixen?"
The man's black brows furrowed
together.

"Out of S-Southampton, sir."

"Is that where you've come from?"

"N-not exactly, sir. She stopped in the Bahamas
first. I b-boarded her in New Providence."

The dark blue eyes narrowed further, and he raised a
hand to one of the men standing by. A huge, muscular black man stepped forward,
his ebony skin gleaming in the lantern light as if it had been oiled. He moved
the light closer to the two sodden figures on the deck.

"You're the whelp of Sir Lionel Cambridge, are
you not?" the tall man demanded.

Michael blinked in the harsh light, plainly startled.
"H-how did you know that?"

He smiled humorlessly. "I've run the
Chimera
into Bridgetown a time or two.
I've also run into Sir Lionel."

The men surrounding them chuckled and sent a quick
murmur to update those out of hearing range.

"Th-the
Chimera?"
Michael's hazel eyes widened
in terror.

"Aye. You've heard mention of her?"

"S-some," Michael said, choking on the
understatement.

The blue eyes shifted back to Summer. "And the
silent mermaid here, who might she be?"

Summer felt Michael jolt out of her arms. "She .
. . she's my governess, sir. She's been in England. There was a
...
a death in the family, and . . . and
she's just newly come back."

"Governess, eh? Well, she scratches like a bloody
she-cat. She's damned lucky I didn't just push her under and leave her for food
for the sharks." He stopped suddenly and raised his shaggy head, staring
intently out into the darkness for a moment. "Mr. Monday, I believe we're
tasting a breeze off the bow. I'll want more sail aft to see if we can't catch
into it."

"Yas, Cap-tan." The negro grinned, an
enormous slash of white, and turned quickly, handing the brass lantern to
another sailor. He began shouting orders and dispersing the crowd as another
sailor approached the captain.

"Where d'ye want me ter put 'em?" he asked,
thumbing his hand toward Summer and Michael.

The captain looked briefly annoyed. "Put the boy
in with the crew; he can make do with a hammock."

"An' the wench?"

The blue eyes raked carelessly over Summer's soaked
and clinging muslin smock. "We're not a passenger ship, Mr. Thorn-tree,
but you'd best put her in my cabin for now."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"E-excuse me, sir?" Michael called, halting
the black-haired giant in his stride.

"Well, what is it?"

"W-we haven't thanked you. For rescuing us. I'm
sure Father will r-reward you amply as soon as we r-reach Bridgetown."

The captain grinned at the boy. "I'm sure he
will, too. Quite amply."

Michael stared after him as he swung his huge frame up
the narrow ladderway leading to the bridge.

Mr. Thorntree cleared his throat to draw attention. He
was a scrawny, weathered gnome of a man with short-cropped gray stubble
covering his head. His eyes were sunk into folds of leathery crow's-feet, and
when he spoke, it was out of the corner of his mouth, past his only two
remaining front teeth.

"Ye'll both foller me down now. Ye 'eard the
cap'n's orders."

"Captain . . . Wade?" Michael asked
tentatively.

"Aye, Morgan Wade. The devil 'imself taken to the
'igh seas, so ye'd best not ply'im with too many o'yer questions an'
argumentations. Ee'd as like t'row ye back where ee found ye as bother ter
carry ye ter port."

"Oh, yes, sir," Michael said, scrambling
hastily to his feet. "And we are ever so grateful he's willing to fetch us
back to Bridgetown."

"Eh? Bridgetown?" The old sailor cackled.
"N'owt likely, lad. Barbados is where we're comin' from, not where we be
bound."

"But
...
but I told him
...
my father, Sir
Lionel—"

"Is a ripe fine barstard," Mr. Thorntree
interrupted on a wheeze. "An' will still be there a month from now'r a
year from now, so stow yer 'igh-fangled notions 'bout bein' the guv'ner's son.
It don't carry no weight on board the Kameery—as a fact, ye should be t'ankful
ee's in a ripe fine mood tonight'r ye'd be swimmin' from the scuppers on a keel
rope."

Summer's cheeks were pink with indignation at the
reference to their father. She glanced at Michael and frowned at the hurried,
unspoken warning.

The old man crooked a spiky eyebrow appreciatively as
Summer wobbled unsteadily to her feet. She swayed against Michael until the
dizziness passed, then she drew the blanket protectively around her shoulders.

"Where are we heading, please?" she asked
through a shiver.

"Nort'," Mr. Thorntree grunted.

"North!" Michael cried. "But. . .
Barbados is south and west of here."

"So ye're a sailor as well as a nob's son, eh?
Cap'n'll be ripe glad ter 'ear that. We be a mite short'anded this run. 'Ere,
'ang on ter the lass afore she falls flat on 'er arse. Come on, come on, we'll
get 'er below where it's warm, an' then ye can both jaw yer tongues
loose."

Summer was grateful for the sailor's surprisingly
gentle support as he led them down a stairwell and along a shadowy companionway
running beneath the quarter-deck. At the end he opened a heavy oak door,
letting it swing wide against the wall. It was a large cabin, furnished in oak
and mahogany, with scrubbed and gleaming pine flooring and enough shelves and
wire-fronted bookcases to house a small library. Gallery windows ran in a
semicircle behind a huge, cluttered desk, and in another corner sat an
elegantly carved dining table and four chairs. The berth was at least three
times the size of the one Summer had occupied on the
Sea Vixen,
and she cast a covetous eye to
the raised mattress and the thick, quilted blankets.

"Up ye get, lass, an' make use o' the bed whilst
ye 'ave the chance."

"What about Michael? Where are you taking
Michael?"

"Ee'll be bunked in with the crew, never ye mind
'bout 'im. Course, if n ye'd rather, ye can share a cot there yerself. There be
more 'n a 'unnerd-fifty bucks willin' ter keep ye warm."

Summer ignored the cackle of laughter. She reached for
the support of the high-sided berth and winced at the pain in her burned hands.

'"Ere," Mr. Thorntree grumbled, inspecting
her palms, "best let me get a salve ter put on 'em. Take the burn away.
'Ow'd ye do it, lass?"

"I don't remember
exactly. On a guide rope, I think."

"Mmm." He thrust out
his jaw. "Bad, were it, on the
Vixen?"

"Yes." She shivered
and pushed the wet hair back off her face.

"Mmm. Back in a
nip," he said, and left the cabin.

Summer held her breath until
she heard his footsteps fade down the corridor.

"What are you playing at, Michael?" she
whispered. "Why did you tell them I was your governess?"

"Because," Michael hissed urgently,
"he's
Captain Morgan Wade!”

"I must still be in shock. . . . What are you
talking about, Michael? Who is Captain Wade? He cannot be too sinister if he
says he has been to Bridgetown several times and has met Father."

"He's an American privateer! One of the worst
thieves and cutthroats in the Caribbean, according to Father. He's a smuggler
and a gunrunner and . . . and
...
oh,
Father has been trying to catch him up for months now."

"Catch him up?"

"He moves back and forth in the islands buying up
legal cargo and making an absolute fortune selling it to the French, who he's
not supposed to sell it to. Then he turns around and runs French guns up
through the blockade into the colonies, right under the nose of our navy. Can
you imagine what manner of ransom he would demand from the governor of Barbados
for the return of his family?"

"Ransom?" Summer gasped.

"Of course. Didn't you see the way he smiled when
he recognized me? And didn't you hear him laugh when I mentioned a
reward?" He lowered his voice even more. "What do you suppose he
would do if he thought he had
two
Cambridges on board? He's dangerous, and he's
unprincipled, and according to Father, he's killed men with his
bare hands
just for
talking
to him the wrong way! And as
for the
Chimera—"

Michael stopped abruptly and straightened as the
footsteps approached the cabin door. It was Mr. Thorntree, followed closely by
Captain Morgan Wade.

Summer bit down savagely on her lip. Seeing the rugged
features of the privateer in the brighter light of the cabin, she knew
Michael's tale was more than the wild imaginings of an adventurous
ten-year-old. The captain ignored her and went to a cupboard tucked into a nook
behind the berth. From it he took a dry cambric shirt and shrugged into it.

"I sent a lad ter fetch an 'ot cup o' tea fer the
two o' ye," Mr. Thorntree said, pulling Summer's gaze away from Morgan
Wade. "Told 'im ter put a dram o' rum in it whilst ee were at it. Won't do
no 'arm. Give us a look-see at them 'ands now, lass."