"Aye. Boneypart's pimp. Biggest t'ief in the Caribee, Monsewer de Ville. Deals wi' bot' the Brits an' us privateers, dependin' on who offers the best profit fer 'is trouble." He spat over the side to emphasize his contempt. "Ee 'as a ripe fine respect fer the Cap'n, though. Ain't 'ad the ballocks ter refuse 'im n'owt yet."
Summer lost the jolly boat briefly as it went between two ships closer to shore.
"Summer?"
She looked up and saw Roarke on the quarterdeck bridge.
"Still angry with me?"
She smiled and sighed. "I was never angry with you, just...frustrated."
"Morgan has that effect on people," he chuckled. "Come. Would you like to have a closer look?"
He reached a hand down and assisted her as she came up the narrow steps to the bridge. Once there, he handed her something—a brass spyglass, almost three feet in length when fully extended.
"Just hold it to your eye and turn this ring at the bottom to sharpen the image."
Summer followed his instructions and was startled to see the shoreline leap so close into view that she could actually see through the windows of a tavern to the occupants inside. She lowered it again and the lights were just a distant twinkle.
"He is just about at the wharf," Roarke said, pointing out where to aim the spyglass. Summer put it to her eye again and slowly shifted it back and forth over the water until she located the jolly boat; she could even see the sparkle of the water dripping off the oars as they dipped up and down. The passenger's features were all in shadow, but she had no trouble identifying Morgan Wade's broad shoulders. Had it been daylight, she suspected she could have counted the hairs on his chin.
"This is a rather remarkable glass," she said, handing it back.
"Isn't it though? Makes even a dot on the horizon take shape."
Summer saw the faint smile on his lips and she shook her head. "Are there any limits to your audacity?"
Roarke chuckled. "If there are, we haven't found them yet. And in our defence, it wasn't our fault the British were slip-shod at guarding their prized panther while it was in port."
She stared. "You went on board the Caledonia?"
"I had to amuse myself somehow while Morgan was at your father's party. Between watching him and watching the Chimera...or the Gyrfalcon...no one bothered to watch the Caledonia." He lowered the glass and grinned. "We only intended to copy some papers, but this beauty just happened to be lying on the commodore's desk, and, well—"
"And you could not resist," she finished for him. "My God, I am beginning to believe everything I have heard about how easy it is to make fools out of Englishmen."
"Only some of them," he amended. "Others seem to be determined to bring it upon themselves."
Without his spectacles, there was a faint familial resemblance she had not noticed before. Both brothers managed to say a great deal without having to move their lips.
"You obviously agree with him that a woman's place is at home by the hearth?"
"It isn't a case of whether I agree or not, or even if I want it that way or not. It's strictly a case of where a man's mind and thoughts are in the crucial second before he makes a decision that could either save his life or lose it. Where do you think Morgan's mind is right now?"
"On his meeting with the French commandant, of course."
"You think so? Take another look. Go on, the boat should be in some light now. Humor me. Tell me what you see."
She took the spyglass and peered through it, resentful of being treated like a child.
"Do you see the boat?"
"I see it."
"And Morgan?"
"No...yes! There he is...yes, he's facing this way."
"Facing this way?" Roarke gently took the glass back. "A man rowing into hostile surroundings, not knowing what to expect on shore...and he's facing this way?"
Summer bit down on her lip.
"Don't worry, Mr. Monday will keep an eye on him."
She sighed. "I had no real reason to get angry with him. It's just...happening all so fast, and it's all so confusing."
"You have every right to be confused and worried. I doubt many women, finding themselves in your position, would feel any different."
"He says it is because I'm stubborn and obstinate and have poor control over my temper."
"All of which is true. But then he's no saint either. And don't forget, he is accustomed to having had absolute control over his life for the past thirty-four years, with no responsibilities that even came close to you and Sarah. It will take him a little time to adjust."
"What if we don't have a while?"
"I beg your pardon?" Her voice had been so low, Stuart had to lean forward to hear.
"I said, what if we don't have a while?" She was looking out over the water, and the tears in her eyes were reflecting the harbor lights. "Stuart, you have had him for nine years; I have only had him a handful of nights and days, half of which were spent plotting a way to escape. All the months I carried his child I kept remembering a look or a touch or a gesture. I could bear it though. I could bear it because I knew I would never, ever be seeing him again.
"I know full well one of these days I really will lose him. It may not happen tonight or next month, or next year—please dear God, perhaps not for a dozen years. But it will happen. He has to pay for all of these risks he takes. It is inevitable. And I shall have to accept it. I have accepted it because he takes too great a part in shaping his own destiny for me to even think of trying to stop him or discourage him. At the same time, I know it will terrify me each time he sails away...not knowing if it will be for the last time or not. His way of life frightens me, Stuart, but the thought of living without him now frightens me even more."
Stuart Roarke regarded the slender wisp of a girl standing beside him, and his heart went out to her. He remembered the endless hours he had spent pacing the crests of Bounty Key waiting for an overdue ship, and he was surprised by his lack of insight. He thought of his own wife, wondering if she had this same burning fear in her eyes at this very moment. Was she pacing those same crests, watching the endless void of the horizon for his return?
"I'm sorry, Summer. I honestly do not know what to say."
She faced him and the tears were glistening down the length of her throat. "Just say that you will watch out for him. Say you will keep him safe and make sure he comes back to me."
"He will come back to you," he promised quietly. "You have my life on that."
Morgan returned to the Chimera three hours after his jolly boat had gone ashore. His mood was grim, and he was obviously displeased with the concessions he was expected to make. Summer was wakened out of a light sleep by the sound of voices in the cabin, and opened a sleepy eye to see Morgan and Stuart conferring over a sheaf of papers at his desk. She started to push herself upright, but thought better of it and just lay there, content to watch while they consumed rum and smoked cigars and debated back and forth in barely audible tones.
Eventually Roarke pushed away from the desk and left Morgan to his own thoughts. The lamp had burned low and apart from the sound of water lapping gently against the hull, there was only the dull scratch of his pen moving swiftly across paper to disturb the silence.
Summer slipped out of the berth, her bare feet touching the floor soundlessly. She went and stood behind the big chair and it took a full minute for him to become aware of her presence.
"Sorry," he murmured, setting aside the quill. "Did we keep you awake?"
"Yes." She smiled and smoothed her hands across his shoulders, then down over the front of his chest, leaning over so she could press a soft kiss into the side of his neck. "But I didn't mind. I rather like listening to you—to both of you. Do you know, the more I see you together, the more alike you seem. I'm amazed I did not see the resemblance before."
He took up her hand and pulled her gently around until she was seated on his lap. He buried his face and lips in the scattered blonde silk of her hair, making her sig
h, content to simply share his warmth.
"You sounded angry when you first came in," she said. "Do the French want too much from you?"
"They always want too much. This time the bastard thinks he has me over a barrel. He wants a third of my cargo—he claims his protection is easily worth twice as much, but he is, after all, a reasonable man." Wade snorted. "Reasonable my arse. I should line up my guns on his precious waterfront and show him how reasonable I think he is."
Summer slid her hand over the contours of his chest, letting her fingers steal beneath the loosened vee of the cambric shirt. She toyed with the dark mat of hair and marveled at the hard, sculpted contours of muscle.
"And then he had the gall to insist we join him for dinner tomorrow evening. If there is one thing I detest, it's eating pea soup and crow at the same meal."
"Will you go?" Summer traced her fingers lower on his belly and started working his leather belt free of the buckle.
"I have no choice. Furthermore, I will probably have to meet his price, for I have little choice in that either. But not without making him squirm, you can be sure of that."
She kissed the underside of his chin and murmured, "Oh, I have no doubt at all, Captain Privateer. You are very good at making people squirm."
"I happen to know his superiors in la belle France are not too happy with monsieur le général. They fail to see the humor in his making a small fortune selling the English prisoners of war they send him back to the British instead of putting them to work in the cane fields." He looked down at her busy fingers. "What the devil are you doing, wench?"
"Squirming. But do go right on telling me about Monsieur de Ville. I am simply yearning to know everything about cargoes and prisoners and...whatever..."
Morgan's eyes narrowed. "Yearning, are you?"
His hand slid up beneath the oversize shirt she was wearing as a nightdress. He filled his palm with the exquisite tautness of her breast, feeling her shiver and press closer to his chest.
"So you are," he mused. He scooped her up into his arms and carried her over to the berth, his mouth moving hungrily over hers.
He set her down gently then stepped back to strip out of his clothes. For a moment, Summer did not relinquish her grip on his shoulders; she kept her arms around his neck so that he could not immediately straighten.
"Morgan...I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry about this morning, about what I said. It's just that, well, every time I turn around, I seem to be facing something I have never had to face before. I don't want to be a burden on you. I don't want to be the cause of you worrying, or...or..." She stopped and released his neck when she saw the amusement curving the corners of his mouth. "That is twice I have apologized to you, sir. It would do irreparable damage to my character were I forced to do it again."
Morgan laughed as she used his own words against him. He kissed the tip of her nose then peeled his shirt up and over his head. "You don't have to apologize to me, Governess. For anything. You just have to be patient with me. You are not the only one facing things you've never had to face before."
She looked up at him, and her eyes shone. "In that case," she whispered, "could you please first deal with my name? Summer...Winter, if you prefer...Spring...anything but—" she wrinkled her nose— "Governess. The ruse was Michael's idea, and I did not think much of it at the time."
"Summer," he murmured, and his hand parted her shirt. He kissed each firm, rounded breast, before his lips moved slowly and purposefully up to the arch of her throat. "Summer Wade. Aye, it has a certain ring to it, I must agree."
"Summer...Wade? But—"
"No buts," he said against her mouth. "To my mind you have been my wife since you gave yourself to me on Bounty Key."
"I...hardly gave myself," she protested breathlessly, aware of his hands, his lips, his hard, naked body stretching out alongside her. "It was the wine. You deliberately plied me with wine and—" her words broke off with a whimper and her arms went up and around his shoulders again. "You truly do not play fair, sir."
"Not when the stakes are this high, no. I do not."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Madame Wade. How can one country declare the open sea her private domain? How can England dare to suppose they may blockade the entire Atlantic? How can they dictate where ships may go, who they made trade with, and where they may purchase their goods? The English accuse our Emperor of being a fanatic and a despot, while at the same time your king seeks to control the entire world trade."
Summer glanced uncomfortably across the table at Morgan, but only earned one of his maddeningly lazy smiles in return. She looked at General de Ville, a lean, elegant man in his middle forties, and saw that he was patiently expecting an answer to his question.
"Monsieur de Ville, I might remind you that England is not the only country guilty of seizing the ships of other nations. The Americans could have just as much cause to complain against your own policy of simply confiscating the cargo you desire and throwing the crews into French prisons. Your captains do not even pretend to have a valid reason for doing so."
"And British captains do?"
"It is a well-established fact that British deserters hide out on American ships."
"So many desertions, madam, would surely leave your Yes, sir sorely undermanned. They use that excuse merely as a convenient reason to stop and search ships, nothing more. And if there are no deserters on board, they pick a sailor at random and accuse him anyway."
"That is a preposterous accusation, monsieur. The Royal Navy would never stoop to such tactics."
General de Ville smiled and turned to Morgan. "Captain Wade, we defer to your superior knowledge on the matter. You were on board the Chesapeake, were you not, in that sordid case of mistaken identities?"
"There was no mistake," Morgan said quietly. "The British boarded her ten minutes out of Norfolk and demanded the arrest of four of our crewmen, claiming they were deserters. Three of the men were born and raised in Virginia. The fourth had not seen England for over a decade. The British had false documents for their arrests and made sure they stopped the Chesapeake when she was unprepared...or unable...to fight back...a bad habit they seem to have maintained over the years."
"Why would they invent false papers?" Summer asked.
"The Chesapeake was a heavy frigate," Stuart Roarke interjected. "They wanted an excuse to search her. They also wanted to demonstrate just how far they were prepared to go if our ships insisted on trading with countries not allied with Britain."
"Captain Wade, you were serving in the capacity of lieutenant at the time, were you not?" The general leaned back in his chair and swirled the contents of his wine glass. "As I remember hearing it at the time, the incident was the cause of your resigning from the navy."
"There were several reasons why I resigned," Wade countered evenly. "The court-martial of an innocent man only brought them to a head."
"Ah yes, Commodore Baron. A true gentleman. Cited for taking an unready ship out to sea. The first American ship to strike her colors and surrender, was she not?"
"The commodore had no choice. The decks were laden with cargo, the crew not yet settled to its duties. The British fired broadsides into us before we could even signal our intentions. Had the colors not been struck, there would have been a needless loss of human life."
"All the same, it was a gallant gesture of yours to stand behind your commanding officer. A true shame for the American Navy, however, for you would have been a credit to them now instead of a mere pawn to anger their enemies."
Morgan's expression did not change apart from the slightest darkening of his eyes. De Ville looked disappointed that his bait was not taken, and glanced at Summer.
"Madam Wade, you are a refreshing change from most English women I have met. I am pleased to see the captain has the same luck in his women as does in his business dealings. But surely all this talk of politics must bore you? My own wife refuses to listen to any conversation that does not concern itself with
scandals or gossip. She also flatly refuses to leave Paris for the heat of the tropics. Heloise, ma chère —" de Ville smiled wanly toward his mistress— "perhaps you and Madam Wade would care to freshen up before we adjourn to the gaming room? We have some business details to settle, and then we shall join you directly."
"Of course." Heloise nodded and a servant instantly appeared behind her chair. She was tall and gracefully slim; every movement seemed calculated to entice the eye of the beholder, from the shocking depth of her cleavage, to the almost scandalously sheer layers of silk that hugged her every curve as she swayed from the room.
By contrast, Summer wore a plain emerald gown hastily purchased in town. The fabric was dull, the fashion a year out of date, and the bodice so tight she feared her breasts might spring forth over the top at the slightest provocation.
The gentlemen stood until the ladies had taken their leave. Immediately thereafter, cigars were produced, the brandy was poured, and the conversation changed from light banter to the more weighty matters of finance.
"You have doubtless heard of the convoy sent out of Jamaica by the English not two weeks ago?" de Ville asked.
"The one hundred merchant ships?" Roarke nodded. "Aye, we heard rumors."
"I assure you, they are not rumors. It does not pique your interest?"
"One hundred armed vessels and two first-rated ships of the line?" Wade said. "I cannot say it made me want to rush out after them, no."
De Ville grinned. "A pity. Together we could have captured some of the profits from their excellent sugar cane harvest this year. They were transporting most of their illegal gains back home to the English treasury, were they not? Much like the Spanish plate fleets in the days of harvesting gold and silver."
"The Marlowe brothers tell me the warehouses on the islands have indeed been stripped clean. The British are anticipating a war and want nothing left behind that might benefit the enemy. Much like the Russians burning the ground behind them as they retreat, leaving nothing to feed Bonaparte's army."
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