Bound by the Heart (6 page)

She felt a blush come and go in her cheeks and forced
her eyes to travel up the column of his neck and concentrate on his face. His
jaw was square and sharply defined even through the three or four day growth of
black stubble. His nose was thin, but well sculpted, his mouth wide and
expressive—mostly in the ways of scowling. The cold blue eyes were guarded by
black lashes; his brow was creased as if subjected to a great deal of frowning.
His hair was black as sin and left to fall unfettered to his shoulders, the cut
as indifferent as his manners.

Summer thought of Bennett Winfield's golden blond
hair, how it was neatly gathered and clubbed at the nape of his neck with just
the fashionable amount formed into flat curls on his brow and cheeks. She
doubted if he would ever be seen unshaven or if his uniform would ever be a
notch from perfect. His whites would be white; his boots would be polished to a
shine; his bicorne would be centered straight and true over his handsome face.

"I take it I am not comparing favorably,"
Wade murmured, seeing the wry twist to her mouth.

The blush spread down her throat, and she replied
tautly, "In all honesty, I cannot think of a single
thing
to which you might be
compared."

He glanced up. Her eyes did not flinch away when he
stared into them. If anything, the color seemed to deepen, to lose much of the
softness of the gray and draw strength from the green sparks. They were an odd
color, unlike anything he had seen before. The surrounding fringe of lashes was
long and thick, several shades darker than what he guessed her hair would be
underneath the dull film of salt. Her skin was smooth and creamy white, another
oddity in tropical waters, and one not likely to last overlong. Her body was as
smooth and unblemished as her face, her breasts firm and temptingly shaped to
fit a large hand. Her waist was trim, her legs long and slender . . . but it
was her eyes that held him. The more he looked into them, the more he could
feel them luring him in, like quicksand, to danger.

"Thank you very much," she snapped and
pulled her hands out of his.

"You'll need more of Thorny's salve if you don't
want them burning from infection."

"I'll not be doing anything to get them
infected," she declared.

"No?" He arched a brow. "I'd call
working in the bilges pretty risky business."

"In the bilges?"

"Certainly. You don't think you're along for a
free ride, do you? The
Chimera
was caught in the same storm you were. We took some
damage to the keel. Nothing too serious. We've managed to repair the worst of
it, but the pumps will have to be manned day and night, and, since I'm
shorthanded as it is . . ."

Summer's mouth formed a perfect O. "You would put
me to work like a . . . like a
galley slave?"

"Come now; let's not get too dramatic. Just say
you and the boy will be earning your passage to port."

"Earning—! Michael—!" She jerked upright,
gaping at Morgan Wade in horror. "You would dare to put Michael Cambridge
to work in a ship's bilge?"

"If I would dare to put you there, I see no
reason why His Lordship should be treated otherwise."

"But
...
he is Sir Lionel Cambridge's son!" she spluttered. "He
...
we
are sailing under Sir
Lionel's protection. You cannot do this!"

The mocking smile returned. "Madam, I usually do
whatever I damn well choose to do on board this ship. I am surprised to see you
still doubt that."

"I don't doubt it for a moment," she
retorted, glowing hotly as his eyes lingered deliberately over the shape of her
breasts. "But wasn't my humiliation sufficient? Must you add insult to
your ransom demands by torturing a ten year old boy?"

"Ransom?" Wade lost interest in the plump
swell of flesh that peeped over the edge of the quilt. "Now where did that
lofty idea come from?"

"Do you deny it, sir? Why else would you not set
us ashore immediately?"

"Here?" The black brows arched higher.

"Michael has told me we are at anchor near an
island. How long, indeed, how much effort would it take for you to have us
rowed ashore? You voiced a dislike for passengers. If holding Sir Lionel to
ransom is not your intent, then I demand we be set ashore at once."

"And if ransom is my intent?"

Summer held his gaze until the blue of his eyes seemed
to sear right through her. She faltered and lowered her lashes, fighting the
sting of tears that signaled another of his triumphs.

The strong, even teeth appeared in a grin. "By
God, you are an obstinate creature. And too outspoken for the good of your
health. You'd best mend your ways, Governess. Curb that tongue of yours, or I
will be obliged to do it for you."

"Then you are refusing to set us ashore?"
she whispered.

"I confess you have intrigued me. I think I shall
hold on to you a while longer."

"And . . . and the manner of your holding? Will
you truly force us to work for our passage?"

Wade saw the brightness of tears well along her lashes
despite her efforts to contain them.

"Rest at ease, Governess. I hardly think the
results would be worth the effort; the bilges will be spared your company. I
suppose there are other ways you can make yourself useful. Can you cook?"

Summer curled her lower lip between her teeth.
"No. I helped make a gooseberry trifle once, but—"

Wade's laughter cut her short and sent a renewed surge
of color into her cheeks. He moved away from the side of the bed, and she could
hear him dressing, pulling on breeches and shirt, stamping his feet into his
tall black boots. She did not raise her head or look at him even though she
knew he kept glancing in her direction.

The deep chuckle vibrated along her spine again. This
time she did look up, but he was already out the door, closing it behind him.
When it clicked shut, she waited until there was no more noise from the
corridor; then she covered her face with her ice-cold, trembling hands and
wept.

Chapter
4

I
t was well
over an hour before Summer was again disturbed, this
time by Mr. Thorntree. His arrival was preceeded by much dragging and scraping
of wood on wood, and she was relieved to see it was only a sawed-off oak cask
he maneuvered through the door. He avoided meeting Summer's eyes, avoided
staring too hard at the torn shreds of her clothing that littered the floor.

He was, however, still briny from the confrontation
earlier.

"Cap'n says ye earned a bat'," he grumbled
under his breath. "An' ee said
I
was ter tell it to ye jest like that. Ye
earned
it."

Summer shivered and plucked the quilts higher.

"'Ow 'ot d'ye want the water?"

"Scalding."

"Aye."

He shuffled about for a few minutes and stopped when
he saw the tray of barely touched food. "Waste o' good victuals, that."

"I
'm afraid
I
lost my appetite."

"Aye."

He pushed and pulled at the cask until he had it near
the small potbellied stove in the nook occupied by the cupboard and sea chest.
He selected a handful of coals from a metal tin and made a show of building a
fire in the stove.

"Cook's b'ilin' the water now. Won't take but a
nip."

"Thanks you."

He worked his jaw furiously, frowning and scratching
his bristly pate until the strain proved too much.

"Cap'n Wade, now, ee's not arf bad, not truly. Ee
'as a temper on 'im, mind,
I
'd be the first ter admit, but—"

"Please do not insult me further by trying to
defend the man," Summer interrupted coldly. "His behaviour so far to
two shipwrecked survivors has been nothing short of deplorable."

"Aye. Mebbe so, but—"

"There are no buts, Mr. Thorntree. There are only
deeds to judge a man by. Your captain falls sadly short of any recognizable
codes of conduct known to the human race. And if you intend to report the gist
of this conversation to him—again—allow me to simplify the quote: He is an
animal. A vulgar, despicable animal who should be roaming the jungles with the
rest of the baboons."

Thorny sucked in his cheeks and contemplated his
gnarled hands. "Aye. B'ilin' 'ot water ye'll get, lass. 'Ot as I can fetch
it."

"And soap," she insisted.

"Eh? Aye. . . aye, I'll see what we 'ave. Seems
ter me there were sum'mit smelled suspicious like it down below."

"Mr. Thorntree?"

He stopped at the door and sighed. "Aye?"

Some of the defiance drained from her face. "I'm
sorry if anything I said or did this morning caused you unwarranted trouble. I
should not be taking my anger out on you."

"Bah, no trouble, lass. Cap'n Wade 'ad a good
larf, ee did. Right. Be back in a twitch."

Summer Cambridge stared at the closing door. "A
good laugh!" she muttered, and the fury rose in her again. It remained at
a healthy simmer until Thorny returned with two buckets, slopping hot, steamy
water over the brims. He dumped them into the cask and produced a small wedge
of hard soap from his pocket.

"Filched it, I did," he said, winking,
"off n some lad what likes ter smell o' roses."

"Thank you. Will you reach the key down for
me?"

"Eh? The key?"

"It is on the top shelf of the bookcase. Of
course, I could always push the furniture in front of the door and barricade
myself in if you prefer. I do not care as long as I know my bath will go
undisturbed
...
by anyone."

Thorny frowned, but he retrieved the brass key from
its perch. "Ye'd best not take too long about it."

"Why? Will your captain fail to see the humor of
it? Simply tell him that among other things, I earned my right to privacy this
afternoon."

"N'owt much o' that on board a ship, lass."

"I am painfully aware of that, Mr. Thorntree.
Still, it isn't asking too much if I am to be kept here against my will for God
only knows how long. And Michael. . . where is he?"

"Topside, lass. Watchin' the Frenchies take their
pound o' flesh."

"The Frenchies?" She turned to the windows
again.

"Aye. They be wantin' a couple o' 'undredweight
o' Cap'n Wade's cargo ter let us in the 'arbor fer repairs. Smacks o' piracy,
if n ye ask me, but the cap'n didn't 'ave much choice. We was takin' on too
much seawater ter make a fair run 'ome."

"Exactly where are we, Mr. Thorntree?"

"Ye knows these 'ere islands?"

"Not well, I'm afraid."

"Mmm. W-a-all, I reckon it wouldn't do no 'arm
fer ye ter know. We be off Saint Martin."

"Saint Martin," she repeated in a whisper.
She tried to remember her geography, but all she could think of was the
immediate area around Barbados. There were so many islands, so many with
similar names and so many that changed hands and nationalities so often it was
hard to keep track from one year to the next. Saint Martin was obviously north,
but how far?

Summer scarcely noticed Thorny leaving. She twisted
the brass key in the lock and hung it on a carved notch in the jamb, wondering
as she did so why the island's name was ringing bells in the back of her mind.
Something about it she should recall . . . but what? The fact that it was in
the hands of the French gave her hardly a moment's pause. An American privateer
or a French general—she and Michael were prisoners either way. The difference
would be the time involved in negotiating a return to Bridgetown. There were
always prisoner exchanges taking place throughout the islands. As soon as
Father heard they were alive and awaiting rescue, he would move heaven and
earth to have them home, regardless of the monetary demands.

Furthermore, the French were gentlemen. The daughter
and son of the British governor of Barbados would be treated with every
courtesy available. Not like this. Not like . . . this.

Summer dropped the quilt from her shoulders and
touched her fingertips to the water in the cask. It was hot but not unbearably
so, and she stepped in quickly, sinking to her knees to chase the reflexive
shivers out of her body. The rising steam smelled faintly of rum, and she
suspected the cask had once been a part of the ship's stores. It was large
enough to sit in with a degree of comfort, deep enough for the water to cover
all but the rounds of her knees and the tops of her shoulders.

She sighed and ladled several pitchers full of water
over her head, letting the heat soothe away the throb in her temples. The soap
earned a distasteful wriggle of her delicate nose, but it lathered well and,
when rinsed from her hair, left it squeaky clean. Twice she soaped her body,
scrubbing with a rough scrap of towel until she was pink and tingling. She
found several old and yellowing bruises to explain the aches she felt in her
muscles and several new bluish ones to explain the rawness that kept her tears
close to the surface.

When she finished scrubbing, she simply sat in the
milky water and let it cool around her, paying no mind to the time slipping
away tick by tick on the gold watchpiece on the desk.

It was the sound of the ship's bell jangling the end
of a watch that finally roused her sufficiently to leave the tub. She dried
herself with a blanket she found folded over the sea chest, then sat down to
shake her hair dry in front of the stove while she contemplated what to do
about clothing. Thorny had not taken her seriously. Her smock and pantaloons,
already badly abused from the travail in the ocean, had been torn beyond repair
by Morgan Wade.

She bolstered her nerve with a deep breath and opened
the teak doors of the cupboard behind her. It held only the bare essentials:
three neatly folded cambric shirts, several pairs of black canvas trousers, a
leather jerkin, and a second pair of high calfskin boots.

The small square mirror attached to the inside panel
of the door gave Summer a shock. Aside from the smudges beneath her eyes caused
by the fear and worry, there was an enormous ugly bruise down one side of her
jaw. There was a scrape in the centre of it where something had struck or where
she had rolled up against something rough in the fall from the
Sea Vixen.
It distorted the lower half of
her jaw, seeming to pull the skin taut over her cheekbones. Her lips were dry
and cracked, her hair more of a rat's nest than a thing of beauty.

For one irrational moment she was thankful it had not
been the
Caledonia
that
had found them. She was thankful Bennett did not have to see her like this.

Tears glistened in her eyes, welled over her lashes,
and streamed down her cheeks to her chin. She had always been pampered and
treated like a rare and exquisite china doll. Her every whim had been catered
to; she had never been without servants, never had to lift a finger to do
anything menial. She had been the toast of London society. She had been to
court
three
times!
She
had flirted with and won the hearts of some of the wealthiest, most influential
men in England! Why on earth had she ever left! Why!

Now she was a prisoner on board a smuggler's ship. She
was held captive by a man who had used her carelessly and would no doubt brag
of his accomplishment from here to whatever pirate's port they were bound.

"Damn you, Morgan Wade," she hissed.
"Damn you for what you have done!"

Feeling better for the profanity, she turned from the
mirror and dashed away the wetness on her cheeks. She was convinced now more
than ever that Morgan Wade must not discover her true identity. Rumors concerning
a despoiled governess would hardly cause a stir of interest. Stories and gossip
about Sir Lionel Cambridge's daughter would rock the family to its foundations,
not to mention the harm it might do to her relationship with Bennett Winfield.
He would have to know, of course, and then he would be bound by honor to avenge
her. The thought of what form that vengeance would take raised Summer's spirits
and brought back the anger she needed to see her through.

She snatched one of the folded cambric shirts from the
shelf and shook out its creases. It was huge and floated almost to her knees.
The shoulders were midway to her elbows, and the sleeves hung a foot or more
below her hands. The neckline was fastened by a crisscross lacing which ran up
the front of the shirt, but even though she tugged the thongs as tight as she
could, there were still gaps of flesh showing from her collarbone to her waist.
Chewing her lip thoughtfully, Summer took the straight razor she found among
Wade's toiletries and solved the problem of the sleeves with two swift slashes.
A third shortened the length of the hem and provided her with a belt to cinch
the waist. Trousers were next, and she performed the same surgery on a pair
until they suited her purpose.

Looking somewhat more decent, Summer took a further
liberty and used the privateer's silver-backed brush on her hair until it was
free of tangles and hung in a straight wet mass down her back. There were no
pins or combs of any kind to keep it from scattering around her shoulders, but
she salvaged a length of red silk ribbon from the torn smock and caught the
hair together at the nape of her neck. That done, she resolutely unlocked the
cabin door, walked the length of the gloomy companionway, and climbed the brief
flight of wooden steps to the sunlit main deck.

Her heart suffered a momentary lapse in function when
the first thing she saw was a row of black, dully gleaming cannon. They were
spaced evenly along both sides of the ship, crouching behind closed gunports
like silent lions.

She firmly pushed them out of her mind as she stepped
clear of the hatch and examined the rest of the ship. Above and behind her was
the quarterdeck; directly ahead were the forecastle and bridge. Three towering
masts rose from the deck of the
Chimera,
strung with a maze of rigging and spars and reefed
canvas. Judging by the activity she saw around her, the ship was being prepared
to get under way. There were men scrambling up the rigging, men already
positioned on the yards, men shouting to other men higher up, across, below—all
three masts were a buzz of organized confusion.

Summer heard the rumble of Wade's voice issuing
commands. She craned her neck to see around the main-mast and located him
easily where he stood on the bridge. The breeze was a smart one, and his black
hair was blowing recklessly to and fro as he turned his head to mark the
movements of the crew. His shirt was unlaced and billowed open to his waist.
The sleeves were full and gathered at the wrist, and as he stood with his hands
braced on his hips, the wind puffed out the loose folds, giving an even greater
breadth to his arms and shoulders. He paced slowly from one side of the bridge
to the other, the dark blue eyes seeming to dart everywhere at once.

Summer saw him nod and saw his lips form a command.
The huge negro she recalled vaguely from the first night grinned, cupped his
ham-like hands around his mouth and bellowed an order to cut loose the main and
steering sails.

Almost immediately there was a sound of lashings being
released, of yards creaking to take the strain of canvas unfurling. Nimble
sailors shouted exuberantly as they skittered down the guide ropes and moved
hand over foot through the maze of rigging. Summer held her breath as she
watched the splashes of white canvas blossom open against the blue skies. The
sails seemed to tremble hesitantly as they were startled out of their wrinkles;
then with an exploding crack of energy, they took up the challenge of the wind
and curled against the spars.

The
Chimera's
response was instantaneous. She rose eagerly in her
bows and began gliding through the blue water, carving aside a wash of bubbling
white foam as she nosed her way toward the open sea.

Summer walked to the deck rail and braced herself
against the gentle roll and sway. Her first glimpse of Saint Martin was one of
rapidly shrinking land, and she was surprised to see how far out from shore
they had been anchored. She could barely see the town where it nestled in the
curve of a shallow bay. The fringe of palm trees was solid green; the beaches
were only a trim border of white. A walled garrison which capped a promontory
of land was starkly outlined against the sky, and two small vessels were moored
sleepily at the single dock.