Read Online Bound by the Heart by Marsha Canham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Marsha Canham
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on either pedestal. The brush froze midstroke as she contemplated
the inviting lack of locks on each of the drawers.
Michael had said there was never any way to prove
Wade's illegal dealings. What if she could return home with the proof Sir
Lionel needed to put an end to Morgan Wade? Even a pirate had to keep records
of some sort. How much would Wade trust to memory and how much would he confide
to his records?
Summer set the brush on the desk top and moistened her
lips. Suppose she could find references in Wade's handwriting to the cargo
taken from—what was the name of the schooner Michael had mentioned? The Reliant! If she could find the proof
and hand it to Sir Lionel when they were ransomed free, he could turn around
and toss Wade into prison.
Summer glanced at the unlocked door. How long would
she be left alone? Thorny had tidied up, Wade was busy with his ship . . . an
hour? Two?
She sat in the deeply padded leather chair and
noiselessly slid the wide center drawer open.
Papers. Invoices. Bills of lading. She shuffled
through them carefully, keeping the neatly bundled sheaves in the order she
found them. There were no references to the Reliant, nothing that looked remotely
suspicious. If anything, the papers looked disturbingly innocent. . . too
innocent?
Summer found and opened a leather-bound writing
tablet. The top was dated simply "June" the opening salutation began
with a perfunctory "Stephen." She read it hastily, frowning over the
brief greetings, the seemingly endless descriptions of weather they had
encountered and forecasts he was predicting, all the way to where the bold
script broke off two sentences into a paragraph concerning the cane harvest on
Saint Christopher.
Weather forecasts? Harvests?
Summer shrugged and replaced the tablet where she had
found it. The second drawer she tried was slightly more rewarding. She saw more
folded documents, all bearing an official government seal. The first she opened
was in Spanish. Her knowledge of the language was poor, but she recognized the
official seals and signatures that flowed over the bottom half of the
parchment. The other documents were identical, although each was in a different
language: One was French, one Dutch and the last in the king's own English.
They were Wade's letters of marque: his formal
permission to trade in ports held by the respective nations. He had one for
each of the predominant countries claiming colonies in the Caribbean. A ship's
captain might understandably have one or two letters of marque in his
possession if he conducted regular, legal trade between two sanctioned ports .
. . but four? Each letter would have cost a small fortune to purchase, and each
would have come with strict embargoes as to where the goods could be
transported and sold—embargoes Wade evidently paid little heed to.
Summer was replacing the documents in the drawer when
she felt something which obstructed the pages deeper inside. She reached in to
the back of the drawer and her fingers brushed against cold metal. It was a
small gold case, its lid beautifully embossed with a family crest. The lion's
paw hasp opened with a touch of her thumbnail, but her excitement waned as quickly
as it had risen. There was nothing dangerous or mysterious about three sticks
of indigo sealing wax and an ingot of gold bearing the raised impression of a
falcon in full wingspread.
Summer snapped the lion's paw closed and was sliding
the case back into the drawer when she paused and angled it toward the bright
light. The coat of arms on the lid depicted two rearing griffins on either side
of a shield carrying the unmistakable cross of Saint George. Above the shield
was the same falcon that had been tooled into the stamp. It was a magnificent
crest and an unusual combination of elements that normally signified nobility.
Nobility? She grimaced and guessed that the only noble
thing Wade could be accused of was saving the case and seal from a watery grave.
She replaced the gold
the inviting lack of locks on each of the drawers.
Michael had said there was never any way to prove
Wade's illegal dealings. What if she could return home with the proof Sir
Lionel needed to put an end to Morgan Wade? Even a pirate had to keep records
of some sort. How much would Wade trust to memory and how much would he confide
to his records?
Summer set the brush on the desk top and moistened her
lips. Suppose she could find references in Wade's handwriting to the cargo
taken from—what was the name of the schooner Michael had mentioned? The Reliant! If she could find the proof
and hand it to Sir Lionel when they were ransomed free, he could turn around
and toss Wade into prison.
Summer glanced at the unlocked door. How long would
she be left alone? Thorny had tidied up, Wade was busy with his ship . . . an
hour? Two?
She sat in the deeply padded leather chair and
noiselessly slid the wide center drawer open.
Papers. Invoices. Bills of lading. She shuffled
through them carefully, keeping the neatly bundled sheaves in the order she
found them. There were no references to the Reliant, nothing that looked remotely
suspicious. If anything, the papers looked disturbingly innocent. . . too
innocent?
Summer found and opened a leather-bound writing
tablet. The top was dated simply "June" the opening salutation began
with a perfunctory "Stephen." She read it hastily, frowning over the
brief greetings, the seemingly endless descriptions of weather they had
encountered and forecasts he was predicting, all the way to where the bold
script broke off two sentences into a paragraph concerning the cane harvest on
Saint Christopher.
Weather forecasts? Harvests?
Summer shrugged and replaced the tablet where she had
found it. The second drawer she tried was slightly more rewarding. She saw more
folded documents, all bearing an official government seal. The first she opened
was in Spanish. Her knowledge of the language was poor, but she recognized the
official seals and signatures that flowed over the bottom half of the
parchment. The other documents were identical, although each was in a different
language: One was French, one Dutch and the last in the king's own English.
They were Wade's letters of marque: his formal
permission to trade in ports held by the respective nations. He had one for
each of the predominant countries claiming colonies in the Caribbean. A ship's
captain might understandably have one or two letters of marque in his
possession if he conducted regular, legal trade between two sanctioned ports .
. . but four? Each letter would have cost a small fortune to purchase, and each
would have come with strict embargoes as to where the goods could be
transported and sold—embargoes Wade evidently paid little heed to.
Summer was replacing the documents in the drawer when
she felt something which obstructed the pages deeper inside. She reached in to
the back of the drawer and her fingers brushed against cold metal. It was a
small gold case, its lid beautifully embossed with a family crest. The lion's
paw hasp opened with a touch of her thumbnail, but her excitement waned as quickly
as it had risen. There was nothing dangerous or mysterious about three sticks
of indigo sealing wax and an ingot of gold bearing the raised impression of a
falcon in full wingspread.
Summer snapped the lion's paw closed and was sliding
the case back into the drawer when she paused and angled it toward the bright
light. The coat of arms on the lid depicted two rearing griffins on either side
of a shield carrying the unmistakable cross of Saint George. Above the shield
was the same falcon that had been tooled into the stamp. It was a magnificent
crest and an unusual combination of elements that normally signified nobility.
Nobility? She grimaced and guessed that the only noble
thing Wade could be accused of was saving the case and seal from a watery grave.
She replaced the gold
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