Bound by the Heart (37 page)

"And always will be," she promised.

"Always?"

Summer sighed and threaded her fingers into the glossy
mane of his hair, dragging his mouth down to hers by way of an answer.

* * *

Georges de Ville slid the wall panel into place
noiselessly.

So. The daughter of the Governor of Barbados. The wife
of Commodore Bennett Winfield. Wade's audacity was near epic proportions!

He should have remembered the reports Gaston related
last summer. Summer? Yes, and how could one fail to recall the name itself?
Summer Cambridge . . . Summer Winfield . . . Summer Wade. There could not be
three in the world with such an unusual name.

De Ville walked quietly out of the darkened cubicle,
closing the door carefully behind him. He was in what he affectionately thought
of as his inspiration chamber. Comfortable cushions, thick fur rugs—the couch
was seductively curved and plumped with pillows; the balcony afforded a
spectacular vista overlooking the harbor and the night lights of
Fort-de-France. A side door on the opposite wall opened to another viewing room
identical to the one he had just left, a room where one could relax and enjoy
without the need to participate.

He had many things to ponder as he left the suite and
went along the hallway to his upper-floor study. Like all of the rooms in the
villa, it was oversized and ornately decorated, a fact which obviously made his
guest feel uncomfortable.

De Ville arranged his features into a semblance of an
apology and went toward the hearth. "Forgive me for the delay. Business,
you understand."

"Of course."

De Ville made himself comfortable and poured a brandy.
"We were, I believe, discussing the reasons why I should allow you the use
of my harbor for your nefarious activities?"

Farley Glasse smiled wanly. "Morgan Wade is as
much of a threat to you as he is to us. He has not confined his activities to
harassing British shipping, as you well know."

"Nor have the French privateers," de Ville
said. "He captures our ships; we capture some of his countrymen; it is all
quite fair and equitable."

Glasse tried another tack. "Over the years, my
government has proven itself to be more than equitable. I believe the British
Admiralty has paid you handsomely for the return of our prisoners of war."

"Indeed, quite handsomely. And as I recall,
Admiral Stone-kipper's son was among the first lot offered.
Non, monsieur,
the one exchange has nothing
to do with the other. We are enemies. Our countries are at war. If anything, I
should be helping the privateer against you."

"Ah, but then you would not have the
Chimera
and all she carries to dispose
of as you will. I want only Morgan Wade. The ship, the cargo, her armaments—all
are yours, General. As to the crew and officers—a word to the American War
Office will provide you with a pleasant surprise. You will be paid extremely
well for their release."

"And the woman?" De Ville asked. "She
is of no interest to you?"

Glasse inhaled sharply. "None."

"Does Commodore Winfield share your
sentiments?"

The ferret eyes showed mild surprise, but it passed
quickly. "The man is a fool. He has allowed his jealousy to govern him
rather than his hatred."

"I was not aware the two were so different."

"Hatred is cold and efficient if handled
correctly. It allows one to look carefully for a man's weakness and exploit it
regardless of the cost. Jealousy is often irrational and renders a man
vulnerable to mistakes in judgment."

"We all make mistakes in judgment, Monsieur
Glasse. Just as we are all governed by emotions. Love, hate—"

"Greed," said Glasse.

De Ville looked up from his brandy. "Indeed.
Greed plays a prominent role in all of our lives. For instance, what is to stop
me from simply taking the
Chimera
myself? Ransoming Wade to his compatriots in the War
Department would bring as much as his ship and crew combined."

"It would also bring an end to the peaceful
coexistence we have shared in these islands," Glasse said pointedly.
"We have refrained from laying you under siege or bombarding your shores
because of your continued cooperation. You provide a service we need, but you
would be under British rule within weeks should our benevolence be place in too
much of a strain. You would not find the Americans rushing to your aid. Their
contempt for Napoleon is almost as great as our own."

De Ville sipped slowly, allowing the brandy to burn
the edge off his temper. He had taken a dislike to Farley Glasse the moment he
had laid eyes on the man, and it was showing no sign of improving.
 
He lacked finesse. He lacked the skill to be
a diplomat or to deal in matters that required delicacy. He was a crude man,
beneath contempt. And he had shown his trump card early on, a definite sign of
ineptness.

Two British ships had been taken by the French a month
earlier. The manifests showed that their cargoes had been forwarded to mother
France along with the prize ships, as per Napoleon's directives. . . but with a
few minor deletions. Deletions amounting to a tidy fortune once the goods were
resold on the black market. Glasse was now hinting at the existence of
duplicate manifests and at the possibility of their ending up in the hands of
the government. The discrepancies would be noted, and no doubt the guillotine
would be polished in anticipation of receiving one ex-commandant from the
island of Martinique.

"If I agree to your terms," de Ville asked
dourly, "how do you propose to take control of the
Chimera?
Wade's men are not fools, nor
are they easily overwhelmed."

"He has agreed to your terms for sanctuary, has
he not?"

"We arrived at a suitable figure,
oui."

"And he will expect your men to do most of the
work involved in the transfer of the cargo?"

"It has been so in the past," de Ville
murmured, disliking the Englishman more.

"And no doubt he will want to return to oversee
the work himself. I should think twenty of my men substituting for your
laborers should raise no undue alarm."

"Twenty men? You would need a brigade to take
Wade and his crew."

"Or one man who knows precisely where to strike
for Wade's weakness and how to use it against him." "And you do,
naturellement?"

"Naturellement,"
Glasse laughed gratingly.
"I can even tell you she has big blue eyes and auburn hair."

Chapter
22

S
ummer woke
to a pounding in the base of
her skull that threatened to blow the top of her head off. She was alone in the
bed: Morgan was standing at the window smoking one of his thin black cigars.

"Is it
...
oh
...
it cannot be morning
already," she moaned, holding her temples.

Morgan turned from the window and grinned.
"Unfortunately it is, and a fine one, too, if you had a head on you to see
it."

"I can see perfectly well," she said,
glaring at him. "Two of everything."

Wade snorted and tossed her the smock and underpinnings
she had come ashore in. She noticed that her fancy evening gown was gone from
the floor and in its stead, folded across the chair waiting, was the plain
white muslin frock and green bolero jacket she had worn when she left
Bridgetown.

"You'll have to dress quickly if you don't want
to leave here in a sack over my shoulder," he said, leaning down to catch
at her. He swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled her upright,
laughing at the wave of color that came into her face. "And if you haven't
the stomach for it, go in there first."

Summer followed his finger to the dressing room.
"I'm fine. If you just had the decency to wait until after dawn . .
."

"It is eight
a.m
., and I am leaving this château
in five minutes, with or without you."

Summer pushed her hair away from her face and
shoulders, shivering in the cool morning air. She reached for her smock and
tugged it over her head, fastening it quickly, not wanting to test Morgan's
patience. His frown was lazily interested as she wriggled into her pantalets
and snatched the underpetticoat up to her waist, tying it to every other ribbon
on the smock. The white sheath fluttered over her shoulders, followed by the
short-sleeved green jacket and the dainty green satin slippers.

She scowled at him as she walked past into the
dressing room.
 
When she emerged, her
face was scrubbed a soft pink, her breath smelled faintly of peppermint tooth
soap, and her eyes had regained some of their sparkle.

"I'm ready," she announced and glanced
around the room. Her gaze lingered a moment on the rumpled black satin sheets
and she flushed, recalling her behaviour of the night.

"If nothing else," he murmured, reading her
thoughts, "we will have interesting tales to tell our children about where
they were conceived."

He laughed at the look on her face and slung a bulging
kit bag over his shoulders.

De Ville, they were informed politely, was still abed.
Morgan declined the offer of breakfast and left a flustered group of servants
in his wake as he strode down the front steps of the chateau and assisted
Summer into the coach that seemed to appear at the gates from nowhere. The
driver's window slid open, and a familiar black face filled the square of
light.

"Cap-tan."

"Mr. Monday. Any sight
yet of the
Gyrfalcon?"

 
"None, Cap-tan. We post a double watch all night,
but all we see is a Frenchman."

"Rating?"

"Merchant. Two masts,
mebbe ten-gun."

"How long ago?"

"One hour. Her cap-tan come ashore quicklike, but
he doan put up no flags."

Morgan did not care for the sound of that. "Let's
get the hell away from here.

" The trapdoor slid shut again.

"What does it mean, no flags?"

"It means this isn't the port of call. She isn't
signaling the merchants she has a cargo for sale."

"Oh," Summer said and promptly lost
interest. Wade regarded her quietly for a moment, then glanced out the window
as the coach pulled away from the curb.

* * *

Georges de Ville dropped the curtain back into place
as the coach rounded the curve in the road and rattled out of sight behind the
trees. The harbor was visible through the sheer lace, and he directed his
attention to the scattered vessels of all shapes and sizes moored within the
bay. Further out he saw the harsh outline of the French warship
Condor
dwarfing the nearby fishing
boats. Sixty-four guns were at his disposal on a signal to the captain, but
what could he do . . . order the
Chimera
blown out of the water?

His gaze wandered to the sleek silhouette of the
privateer standing against a brilliantly blue sky. The thought that it might
soon be his did not please him. The thought of a scavenger like Glasse
triumphing over an eagle like Wade did not please him. There too, what could he
do?

"Georges?"

The voice was a soft purr behind him. De Ville turned,
and his heart did a peculiar flip, the way it seemed to do each time he was met
with the sight of Héloïse's magnificent body. She lay there unashamedly exposed
to the bright daylight, showing off every curve and swell to perfection. His
wife's body was pale and bloated with soft living; her disposition was as sour
as her breath. How could he even contemplate returning to France, whether in
favor or not?

"Are you coming back to bed?" she murmured
sleepily.

"Soon,
ma vie.
Soon."

De Ville frowned at a sudden urgent tapping on the
bedroom door. Héloïse stirred and nestled deeper into the pillows as he drew on
a robe and answered the summons. It was a red-faced, out-of-breath aide holding
out a crumpled dispatch.

"Mon général. . .
the captain of the merchantman
...
he brings news and begs his
apologies, but he insisted you be disturbed . . ."

De Ville took the paper and unfolded it, scanning the
cramped lines in annoyance. His eyes widened, and he stopped halfway down the
page to return to the top and begin again.

"Where is he? Where is Captain"—he looked at
the signature— "Prudhomme?"

"Below, sir, in the parlor. He said to bring the
note first—"

"Yes, yes . . . Jacques—" He looked up
sharply. "Call for my carriage at once. And send a man immediately to the
harbor—
non!
Go
yourself. At once! Find Captain Wade and tell him he
must not return to his ship
until I have spoken to him!”

"Oui, mon général."

"And send Captain Prudhomme up to me at once. I
will speak with him as I am dressing."

"Oui, mon général."

"Allez! Vite!”

* * *

Stuart Roarke met the carriage at the dock. He reached
out a hand to Summer and helped her disembark, answering the question in her
eyes before she could ask it.

"Sarah is fine. The girl
I
hired from the village is
clean and respectable and looks nearly as happy with the babe as you do."

"Does she have children of her own?"

Roarke shook his head. "Neither her husband nor
her only child survived the trip across from France recently. She has been
nursing a woman's son since then, but
I
gather she is not happy with
the arrangement. You'll like her though," he added wryly. "She has a
fine sense of what should and what should not be endured on a ship. She also
has Mr. Phillips tripping over his own feet."

Summer looked thoughtfully out across the harbor to
the
Chimera.
How
many times would Sarah provide Morgan with the necessary excuse to forbid her
going ashore with him or doing the countless other things she was determined to
share? The pain in her breasts had diminished; the past four or five days had
been too hectic. She knew her milk would come back if she wanted it to, and yet
...
if she hired a wet nurse . . .

"Morgan—"

He sensed her question and forestalled it. "We'll
discuss it later. Roarke—how do we stand?"

"De Ville's men arrived about an hour ago. Thorny
and Phillips have everything well in control."

"Where did she come from?" Wade asked,
indicating the French merchant brig with a nod of his head.

"I
don't know, but she sure came
in in a hurry.
I
was just thinking of moseying on over to ask."

Wade's eyes shifted to the flat-bottom barge pulled up
alongside the
Chimera.
It
was low and squat in the water
and already stacked with crates. He heard a disturbance behind them and saw a
horse and rider galloping down the road from the direction of de Ville's
chat
eau. Both he and Roarke
stepped protectively in front of Summer; both unsheathed the dirks they wore
strapped to their belts.

The horse and rider skidded to a dusty halt only a few
feet from the two men, scattering pedestrians and winning a volley of hurled
oaths.

"Captain Wade!"

"Stop right there," Roarke said, holding out
a warning hand, "and state your business."

"I come on the general's orders," the man
gasped. "He begs that you wait and speak to him before you return to your
ship."

"So where the blazes is he?" Wade demanded.

"Not ten minutes behind me,
monsieur."

Wade glared up the road, then along the wharf and out
across the harbor. "Very well, I'll wait and see what the prince wants.
Roarke, you might as well go on ahead and take Summer across. There is no need
to come back. Monday and I will stay here until the barge is away from the
ship. I might just mosey over myself while I'm waiting and find out what goes
with the merchantman."

"Aye, Morgan, as you like."

"Run up a signal if you sight the
Gyrfalcon."

"Aye. Coming, Summer?"

She hesitated, torn between a desire to remain with
Morgan and a longing to see her daughter. Wade solved the problem by turning
her toward the waiting longboat and whacking her affectionately on the rump.

"You're needed more on the ship now. I might be
here for a few hours. Go on. Go and hire yourself a nurse."

Summer's face lit up with a smile. She ran back two
steps and kissed him fleetingly before she joined Roarke on the jetty. He
climbed down into the longboat first and swung her carefully down, waiting until
she was settled before he gave a sign to the two burly oarsmen.

Summer watched Morgan move away from the water's edge
and walk along the wharf, his head bent slightly in conversation with Mr.
Monday. She saw the negro break away and head for the crowded storefronts, and
in those few seconds, she lost sight of Morgan behind an old shed.

She sighed and felt Roarke's eyes on her.

"How did the rest of the evening with de Ville
go?"

"Fine. He's quite a dandy, isn't he? And
H6loise"—Summer tilted her head ruefully—"she made me want to keep
straightening my skirts and sitting taller and checking to see that my hair was
not hanging all about my shoulders. She is lovely."

"I suppose she is. I don't think you have much to
worry about, though."

Summer sighed again and startled Roarke pleasantly by
slipping her arm through his. "Oh, Stuart, it worries me sometimes that I
feel so content. I have gone against every rule I have been raised to respect
and obey. Heaven knows I tried to fight it, but I just seem to end up fighting
myself."

"They have a word for it, you know," he
smiled.

"Yes. Yes, I do love him. And I'm not really
afraid of anything when I'm with him
...
do you think that's wrong?"

"Not at all. Everyone should feel that way once
in their life."