Bound by the Heart (51 page)

Summer reached into the cradle and
lifted Sarah out, holding her tight and rocking her until the terrified wailing
stopped. There wasn't time to do more. Summer settled the tearful baby back
into the nest of blankets and crawled past Stuart to check on the wounded man
who had been thrown from the bench in the turmoil. He was alive but
unconscious, and she struggled with the deadweight fruitlessly for what seemed like
eternity before Gabrielle roused out of her shock enough to help.

That done, Summer looked back at
the door. The bar had fallen back into place and was rattling furiously as
someone on the outside strove to get in. Her hand was still on the latch when
the door was flung inward and the body of a dead crewman tumbled through and
onto the floor. Summer started to bend over him, when a flash of white caught
her eye. She looked out into the companionway and gasped when she saw the
bloodied tip of a sword pointed unwaveringly at her throat.

"On your feet," Bennett
Winfield hissed. "Slowly, though, I wouldn't want my hand to slip and
sever that lovely neck of yours."

Summer could not move. She
continued to stare at him, to refuse to believe what her eyes were telling her.
. . until the sword moved and the cold blade depressed her skin.

"I said on your feet,"
Bennett snarled. He bent forward, and his free hand grasped her roughly around
a wrist, yanking on it until she was standing in front of him. He twisted her
arm sharply, pinning her hand and wrist up between her shoulders.

"Now then, you're going to
come with me. We're going to back out slowly, we're going to climb up to the
top deck, and then we are going to go back to my ship." The pale eyes
circled the cramped storeroom. "If anyone moves or tries to stop us, she's
dead. You"—he looked at Gabrielle—"relieve your friend of his pistols
and bring them over here."

Gabrielle moved haltingly to where
Stuart was sitting and took the two heavy pistols from him. Winfield lowered
the sword long enough to tuck one of the guns beneath his gaping tunic and to
dump the second into a nearby barrel of water. He pressed the edge of the blade
into Summer's throat again and tightened his grip around her wrist, forcing her
to lean hard against him. He backed up slowly, dragging her with him into the
corridor.

"You see, my dear, how easy it
was to make this decision?"

"Morgan will kill you,"
she whispered.

"Your lover is dead, Mrs. Winfield,"
he snarled. "His ship and crew are mine."

"Dead?" she gasped.

"Very much so. I told him, I
told you both there would be no more offers forthcoming. He chose to ignore me
and so paid the
price. You will pay my price as well, Summer clearest. Every single
day for the rest of your life . . . however long that may be."

He kept her arm twisted high, but Summer was too
numbed by shock to feel the pain of it or to care where he was taking her.
Morgan was dead. Morgan was dead. . . .

Bennett pushed her toward the stern, past the wreckage
strewn about, to the ladder leading up to the gun deck. She stumbled up the
first flight of steps, then the second, and emerged on the quarterdeck just as
a burst of wild cheering erupted from the bridge of the
Caledonia.

Bennett's eyes were glazed with triumph as he raised
them to the deck of his ship. His jaw hardened, and his face drained of color.
His fingers dug into the flesh of Summer's wrist as he saw the Union Jack
hauled down from the foremast and waved aloft by a half-dozen of Wade's crew.

"No
..."

"Let her go, Winfield. It's over."

Summer cried out softly and turned as much as the
blade of the cutlass would allow, searching through her tears for the source of
the deep baritone.

Morgan stepped out from behind the trunk of the
mizzenmast. The breeze blew his ebony hair forward over the bright blue
bandanna; his shirt was torn and bloody, and even though he clutched his ribs
to control the flow of blood, one side of his trousers was soaked crimson.

He raised his sword toward Winfield and held it
steady.

"Let her go, Commodore. This is between you and
me; it always has been. Finish it here and now
...
if you're man enough to face me without the help of a
squadron of guns behind you."

Bennett had not moved so much as a muscle. The men on
the
Caledonia
slowly
fell silent, and both the American and the British crews focused on their
commanders.

Bennett's fingers loosened from Summer's wrist. She
heard the hard metallic clang of his sword hitting the deck as he threw it
aside, but her relief was short-lived. She was shoved roughly out of the way as
Bennett reached beneath his tunic jacket and withdrew the pistol he had taken
from the storeroom. He seemed to move in slow-motion, taking the perfect
dueling stance, cocking the gun as he turned and aimed for a point dead center
of the wide brow opposite him. The silence of the deck
was ripped
apart in the ensuing explosion of gunpowder and shot.

Summer screamed and started running
toward Morgan. Terror froze the last of her tears on her lashes so that she
could see both men clearly and she could see the enormous, growing red blotch
marring the white shirtfront.

Bennett's look of triumph faded and
was replaced by disbelief. He stared at the pistol in his hand, then at the
spreading stain on his chest. He had only a fraction of a second to focus on
the dark hatchway before his eyes dimmed.

.Stuart Roarke lowered the smoking
pistol and leaned heavily on the support of Gabrielle's narrow shoulders. Sweat
had soaked the front of his shirt, and his skin was a sickening shade of gray.

Morgan threw aside his sword and
reached his brother's side in time to catch him as he fell forward out of
Gabrielle's grasp. Together he and Summer guided Stuart to one of the
flat-topped capstans and eased him to a seat.

"You were supposed to be
dead," Stuart gasped. "I heard him say you were dead."

"So I would have been if you
hadn't come along," Morgan said, slumping down beside him on the capstan.
He cursed and pressed a hand to his ribs again. "And don't sound so
disappointed. There's still time."

"A fine pair we make,"
Stuart grinned. "Are you certain we've won?"

Morgan raised his dark blue eyes to
the deck of the
Caledonia.
Mr. Monday was there, his fist
clenched around the captured Union Jack. By his side, grinning with equal
abandon, was Michael Cambridge. Further on, Jamie Phillips vaulted down to the
Chimera's
deck and
caught Gabrielle as she ran into his arms.

Morgan looked across at Bennett
Winfield's sprawled body, then at Summer's golden beauty. His arm tightened
around her shoulders, drawing her close to him as he buried his lips in the
silk of her hair.

"Aye, Roarke, aye. We've
won."

Chapter 29

M
organ
W
ade stood
on the bridge of the
Chimera,
his hand braced on the deck
rail, his face carved from granite as he watched the last of the salvage
brought aboard from the
Gyrfalcon.
The frigate was still wedged to the bow of the
Caledonia,
although she was showi
ng
evidence of breaking away as the weight of the water
in her belly dragged her down. Bull Treloggan's body had been found and sewn
reverently into a burial shroud and committed to his watery grave along with
the bodies of the forty-three other dead comrades. The British saw to their own
casualties—a horrendous one hundred and twenty in all.

There were shouts and groans from the
Caledonia's
wounded as they were lowered
into the longboats to be ferried to the small crusty knoll of Bird Island. Now
and then a body turned up among the living, and it was slipped unceremoniously
over the side with a hasty sign of the cross and a muttered prayer. Morgan
intended to keep only a skeleton crew of British on board to supplement his own
men; the rest would await rescue from a passing ship. Part of him wanted to
sink the
Caledonia
where
she stood, but the practical side of him knew the value in terms of morale of
towing such a prize to an American port. It would prove that the invincible
British Navy was not so invincible after all.

Bennett Winfield's body had been set into a Utter and
covered by his country's flag. The surviving officers had insisted that it be
allowed to accompany them to Bird Island for eventual burial on British soil.
Captain Ashton-Smythe had been the one selected to put the request before
Captain Wade.

"You can do whatever you like with him,
Captain," Wade said, wincing as he stood away from the rail. His wound had
been cauterized and bound in linen strips, but he steadfastly refused to go
below until the last of the wounded were seen to and the transfer of prisoners
was completed. The Briton marveled at the man's strength even as he suffered
the nauseating aches and weak flushes from his own days-old wounds.

"I would as soon set him to rest here,"
Ashton-Smythe remarked, looking away from the American, "but we must have
our pomp and ceremony to whitewash the disgrace."

"There was no disgrace in the loss," Wade
said carefully.

"Firing on a surrendered ship?"
Ashton-Smythe shook his head slowly. "I still cannot believe he ordered
it. Worse, I cannot believe the men obeyed. It seems as if I am always
apologizing to you for our conduct, Captain Wade. You are always the victim of
our worst moments, yet always the gracious victor."

"Our countries are at war, Captain. Suppose we
save our apologies until the end of it."

"If it was that simple, I could. But we both know
this had nothing to do with politics. I believe Winfield was quite insane in
the end. Not that it gives us an excuse for this day's behavior. We had an
opportunity to stop him, and we didn't. . . . That makes us all a little mad,
doesn't it?"

With difficulty, Ashton-Smythe withdrew his saber from
his scabbard and held it out to Morgan. "You would do me an honor by
accepting it this time. They're bound to strip it from me when we reach
Bridgetown anyway."

"This was none of your doing."

The captain smiled wearily. "Can you honestly see
them crucifying a dead hero? No, not if what you said about the
Belvidera
is true. My God, three ships
in under a week? We'll be lucky if we come out of this war with any
self-respect at all. We've sadly underestimated you Yankees . . . again. I
repeat, sir, the honor would be mine."

Wade accepted the burnished sword and the formal
salute from Captain Ashton-Smythe.

“Ten of Winfield's crew carry papers proving them to
be Americans. Another dozen or so have no papers but are vehement about their
birth
not
being
on British soil. I have left the names and documents with one of your
men."

"Thank you," Wade said and watched the
officer turn to leave the bridge. "Emory . . .?"

Smythe halted and half turned.

"You're welcome to join us. We need good men in
command."

The Briton looked startled, then smiled sadly and
shook his head. "But thank you. You need someone on the other side to give
you a little trouble."

"Like that night on board the
Africa?
Were you really that poor a shot?"

Ashton-Smythe looked into the dark blue eyes and his
own sparked suddenly in their depths. "I believe at the time I held both
the silver and the gold crosses for regimental sharpshooting. Of course, we all
have our bad days."

"Of course." Wade stretched out his hand.
Captain Smythe took it and held firmly for a moment before he turned and left
the bridge.

Summer waited until the tall officer had limped away
from the ladderway before she joined Morgan.

"You British never cease to surprise me," he
murmured, placing the saber carefully to one side.

"I thought you were beyond surprises."

He snorted. "Madam, if I ever say that again in
your company, you have my permission to take another shot at me." "I
think I shall hold you to that."

He arched a brow. "I believe you would. How is
Stuart?"

"Resting. Finally. As you should be." Morgan
waved away the comment impatiently. "He insisted on having his own cabin,
however. He said he wouldn't have as far to climb the next time he was
needed."

Morgan grinned. "And the child?"

"Hungry. I don't think she will forgive me too
soon for ignoring her all day. But then, I'm afraid I'm not much use to her
anymore. . . . I'm not much use to anyone right now. Thorny hasn't spoken to me
since he found out I unlocked the door; Gabrielle is taking care of Sarah. . .
."

He saw the shine on the edge of her lashes and pulled
her into the circle of his arm. "Never mind. You'll have my son to look
after one of these days. If he's anything like his father, he'll be hungry
twenty-four hours a day, and he'll not be content to settle for
second-best."

Summer smiled up through her tears. Morgan felt
himself drowning again in the huge gray eyes and wondered that she could ever
consider herself useless. She had worked as hard as any of his men today—harder.
She hadn't complained once since leaving Fort-de-France and hadn't shown any
sign of weakening or faltering even though he knew she must have died a
thousand times over the past two days.

He glimpsed a slender figure moving across the deck
below them.

"Mr. Cambridge!"

Michael skidded to a halt and mounted the steps to the
bridge.

"Aye, sir?"

"Captain Ashton-Smythe has just left the deck.
See if you can find him and ask him to join us briefly before he leaves the
Chimera.
I have a small favor to ask of
him."

"Aye, sir. Has it to do with the
Caledonia?"

Morgan frowned. "No, Mr. Cambridge, it does not.
If it was your business to know—
which it isn't
—I might tell you it has to do
with making an honest woman out of your sister."

Michael's mouth popped wide. "Aye, sir!"

He started away but halted after only a few paces.
"Does this mean I can expect a promotion, sir? To midshipman perhaps? I
mean, you can't very well keep your brother-in-law a powder monkey forever, can
you?"

Wade's eyes screwed into slits, and his chest swelled
with a deep breath. "By God—"

"Yes, sir!" Michael said quickly. "On
my way, sir!"

He flashed an impish smile at Summer and ran off. She
tried very hard not to smile, but it was hopeless.

"You find his brass amusing, do you?" Wade
demanded.

"I think he will fit in perfectly with the
company, yes. As for you making an honest woman out of me, I don't recall being
asked. I call it extremely brassy to assume I would want to leap into another
marriage when I have just managed my freedom from the first. I rather like the
idea of retaining some independence."

Morgan regarded her several long moments before a
half-smile came to his lips. His arm tightened around her, lifting her inches
off the deck as he kissed her full on the mouth. Some of the crew stopped what
they were doing to cheer and hoot. Many more copied the startled look on
Ashton-Smythe's face as he and Michael paused by the deck rail.

Summer was flushed and breathless when he finally
released her. Her heart was pounding in her breast, and her limbs were wobbly
as he slowly set her back down.

"Now, what was that about keeping your
independence?"

"Nothing," she whispered. "Nothing at
all."

* * *

AUTHOR’S
NOTE

In many
ways, Bound by the Heart remains my favorite novel, being the first of two
major ventures onto the high seas. Morgan Wade was my first true swashbuckling
hero, and I owe him a great deal. If I were to say that the awards that came
later, crediting me with some skill in the category of historical adventure,
came about mainly because of the lingering effects of Morgan Wade, or that all
of my later heroes were based, in part, on qualities that evolved from his
character, Morgan himself would have replied with a wry smile and an
indifferent shrug of his broad shoulders. Yet the plain truth is that both he
and the swashbuckling films of Enrol Flynn share equal blame in giving me this
love of writing historical romances.

Severn
House, for this first hardcover edition, graciously offered not only to correct
some errors, but to give me the opportunity to revise portions of the text
which I felt would enhance the mood of the adventure and romance.

Please
notice, I say
enhance,
not alter or change in any way anything that would affect
the story itself. Then and now, I remain quite proud of Bound by the Heart,
and, humility be damned, consider it one of my best books.

I hope
you enjoy reading Bound by the Heart as much as I enjoyed writing it. And, if I
may, a final word of thanks to Kathe Robin, who gave me the greatest compliment
I could imagine when she told me that my stories were written like
old-fashioned adventure films. That was all I ever wanted to do.

Marsha Canham

May 1991