Wild Willful Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  “I do it for both those reasons,” he agreed in an icy voice. “But I would do it in any event to discomfit Don Luis. Not a day have I sailed these waters that I have not yearned to find one of his ships looming over the next horizon—and Don Luis himself aboard her. I have longed to face him across the length of a sword.”

  “Feeling as you do, I am surprised you have not sought him out in Spain!” she exclaimed.

  His gaze narrowed. “Be assured that I have thought about it on many a long night,” he said tersely. “But reaching Don Luis is like reaching the king of Spain himself—he is almost as heavily guarded.” His sudden laugh chilled her. “But some reward has come my way at last. Don Luis must have valued his young wife to wreak such vengeance upon her. I will see that word is circulated throughout Spain that she lives, that she has sought the very arms of the buccaneer who took his flagship, El Cruzado, from him and turned her into the Sea Rover that seized the treasure flota. And that he is further dishonored because the buccaneer holds her in light esteem, keeping her about as a sometime mistress and plaything.”

  Imogene flinched before the cold fury of his merciless tone. “Does Veronique know that you plan this?” she gasped.

  He cocked a cynical eyebrow at her. “She joined me in planning it. She hates Don Luis with a bitterness that almost surpasses my own. She says that he will crawl inwardly and worms of doubt will gnaw at him, that he had sought to entomb her while living and now—neither dead nor alive as he sees it, but flitting by like some wraith, ever striking at his pride—now he will be made to suffer eternally, for he will not know what to believe.”

  And together they would bring about that eternal suffering—van Ryker and Veronique. Imogene realized with sudden loneliness that their very hatred was a bond between them. A bond that, much as she loved van Ryker, she could not really share.

  ‘I owe Don Luis a debt,” van Ryker told her softly, speaking almost to himself. “A debt for the murder of my parents, for my mother died of grief, a debt for the impoverishment of my family. It is a debt that will have something on account before ever I leave Tortuga.” He roused himself from his angry reverie. “So now you understand, Imogene. Now you know all.”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “Now I understand.”

  But any woman would dislike having her husband seek another woman’s company, flaunt it to the world—even in a charade. And Esthonie had been so certain there was something between them.

  Could there be? Could love be founded on hatred?

  At that point something half remembered came back to torment her. She had hated van Ryker before she had loved him. Veronique and van Ryker were drawn together by strong passions and who could say what random spark might ignite a flame between them?

  She pushed the thought from her mind and melted seductively into his strong arms, fitting her slender body to his, telling herself fiercely that she would bind him to her with a thousand intimate caresses, a sweetness beyond anything he had known, a night of unforgettable passion that would erase from his mind all other women and make him remember only her. Only her.

  Sensing the tinder of her mood, he took her fierily, elegantly, teasing her, caressing her, sweeping her along with him, driving her to heights of ecstasy. His touch was liquid fire in her veins, each thrust an agony of delight, each retreat a madness. Her senses wavered, dazzled, righted themselves—careered and careered again. So overcome was she, she was near fainting in his arms. Her breath gasped in her throat, tears of joy stung her lashes, and feelings so deep she felt that before tonight she had only splashed about in the shallows of them, immersed her, enveloped her, overwhelmed her, left her drowning in desire and pleasure.

  The night noises of Cayona reached them muted, ethereally transformed. Drunken laughter from buccaneers staggering home assumed an angelic sound as it drifted past them on the perfumed trade winds. A night bird’s sleepy call to his mate, the rustle of the palms—all of it added to the night’s magic for these star-crossed lovers.

  As Imogene strained against her buccaneer’s sinewy frame, moaning, sighing, whispering, loving, in the turbulence of her tumbled thoughts she became truly one with him, flying to the stars. And the full moon over Tortuga bathed them in its golden light and looked down tolerantly on the storm that shook them, consumed them, ennobled them—and flung them to the farthest shores of passion and fulfillment.

  Still, the woman who lay sleepless, staring at the ceiling after van Ryker had been long asleep that night was very thoughtful. His masculine body could not lie to her, could it? The marvelous delicacy, the tenderness of his touch... it could not be a sham?

  Oh, no, she told herself with a shudder, it could not.

  Morning dawned at last and she turned over in bed to face him, letting her long fingers trail over his splendid naked chest to wake him.

  “Van Ryker,” she said softly.

  His gray eyes opened and she realized that he had been awake, for he was looking at her keenly, half humorously. “You were a wild lover last night,” he grinned.

  Imogene thought of the storms of passion that had tossed them. “I had—thought I was losing you,” she admitted shyly.

  He drew her to him, stroking her back. “I never knew you to be jealous before,” he said tenderly. He was caressing her hair as he spoke, separating out big soft curls and winding them around his fingers and blowing them away to watch them bounce and gleam.

  “I never realized I could be jealous before,” sighed Imogene. “I wanted to scratch your face and tear her eyes out!” She laughed ruefully. “Now I know the feeling I must have caused in so many women.”

  “ ’Tis a gnawing pain,” he agreed, “that will not be assuaged. The thought of the Dutchman bedding you was more than I could bear.”

  “He never did,” she said carelessly. “He wasn’t capable.”

  “His ill fortune was my good luck,” he grinned.

  “No, it was nobody’s luck,” she said soberly, leaning against him. “His love for me cost him his life. Let us not talk about Verhulst, van Ryker. It makes me sad. It makes me remember. ...”

  She did not have to tell him what it made her remember. It made her remember Georgiana, the child who had been born to her only to be snatched away.

  But there was comfort to be found in van Ryker’s arms—comfort and forgetfulness. “I have sworn in my heart to make you happy, Imogene,” he said softly against her ear. “Let me do it.”

  “You speak of happiness but your heart is set on vengeance.” Her voice was muffled as her lips brushed his chest. “Against Don Luis. Your hatred is absorbing your life.”

  “I will have done with it before ever you set eyes on Amsterdam,” he promised, rubbing his cheek gently against her hair. “And in England your mind will be occupied with other things—like redecorating Ryderwood. I have heard it is in sad shape, that the new owners let it run down badly.”

  “I will be all right when at last we are at sea and watching the stars through the big stern windows of the great cabin.”

  She felt a slight stiffening of the strong male figure that held her. “I have said I will not risk you,” he reminded her. “You sail aboard the Goodspeed.”

  “No.” She twisted herself into a position so that she lay sprawled along his naked body, her soft breasts resting on his lightly furred chest. “Nothing good has ever come of our separations. If you had snatched me from the Governor’s Ball in New Amsterdam as you threatened, Georgiana would be alive, Elise would be alive, Verhulst would be alive.... If you had not left me in Jamaica, so many terrible things would not have happened. No, it is settled.” She rolled over and rose from the bed, stared down at him regally, a golden woman at the height of her beauty.

  For a moment his steely gaze bit into hers.

  “I am going with you!” she cried stormily. “If we die, at least it will be together!”

  To her surprise, he did not argue about it. Instead he reached out and drew her back to the bed, flinging a long arm about her
pliant naked waist, dragging her slender form lingeringly along his long body, caressing her, making love to her. All quarrels were forgotten in the glory of those long pulsating moments as their passions flared as hotly as the golden ball of a sun that stormed down upon Tortuga and plundered its dark secret places.

  Later—much later when it was too late—she was to remember with bitterness that he had said neither yes or no.

  CHAPTER 11

  The day that was to remain for a long time like a scar on Imogene’s memory dawned brightly.

  They were leaving Tortuga at last. Everything was packed, crated. Most of it was already aboard ship—the remainder would go tonight under cover of darkness.

  Last night there had been an urgency in van Ryker’s lovemaking and his fervor had communicated itself to lmogene, who had clung to him desperately. She had flung herself into his arms with reckless abandon, letting her body tell him more vividly than words that she forgave him for letting all Tortuga think he had taken a mistress even if it was not so. She had moaned in his arms, nuzzling, caressing, thrilling to his every touch. Caught up in a web of passion, their storm of love had shaken them, sent them reeling past the wild reaches of desire and—at last, for van Ryker had chosen to drag out this heartfelt ecstasy, holding them ever back from the brink—swept them breathlessly into shuddering fulfillment.

  Remembering the wild passion of that joining, Imogene was puzzled. She stood in the late morning sunlight of this, her last day on Tortuga, a slight lovely figure in a wide-skirted calico dress of soft yellow with a figure-hugging bodice, and asked herself what sense of panic had seized them the night before? There had been none of the tantalizing, languorous, half-playful lovemaking they had known of late. All spirit of playfulness had departed, leaving instead a sense of desperation—as if they played for great stakes and well might lose. It was the feeling of the night before the battle that had stalked them, driving them violently into each other’s arms. A last kiss feeling— as if, whatever happened, they both knew they were going to be separated for a long time. That was the feeling van Ryker had summoned up in her, communicated to her.

  Which was ridiculous, for she had announced that she was going with him on the Sea Rover and van Ryker, for all he had looked thoughtful, had not demurred.

  She frowned as she saw Esthonie’s carriage drawing up. Esthonie must not see that the house had by now been completely dismantled—it would tell her that their departure was imminent. She ran to the door to intercept her before she could alight.

  “I was just leaving for the market,” she told the governor’s wife. “We are in need of fresh fruit. I certainly never expected to see you here today, Esthonie—not when you sent word yesterday that Virginie’s fiance has arrived from France!”

  “Jean Claude has indeed arrived,” sighed Esthonie. “I will admit he is not quite what I expected. He is years older than I was led to believe and has a dissolute air. He took an immediate fancy to Veronique and I have asked her”—Esthonie’s face took on a kind of fury—“I have asked her—quite pleasantly, you understand, since she is after all my guest—to stay away from him.” She looked about to gnash her teeth.

  Imogene hid her amusement. “And what did Veronique say?”

  “She was quite vague in her answer. She said of course she never intended anything untoward, that it is not her fault if men fall in love with her at first sight. ‘Love’!” cried Esthonie derisively. “He is interested only in women of easy virtue and I am afraid he is not good enough for Virginie!” She peered at Imogene from beneath her bronze silk hat and her bronze plumes quivered. “Can’t your servants attend to the marketing? Never mind. I’ll take you there—my next stop is to be the quay, anyway. I am looking for Gauthier. I will tell him that both Veronique and Jean Claude have disappeared and that he is to find Jean Claude and bring him back. Immediately. Well, do get into the carriage, Imogene—no, of course you must go back and get your hat and gloves. I will wait for you. Hurry!”

  Imogene dashed back inside and struggled into a pair of fashionably tight yellow silk gloves. She could not help chuckling at Esthonie’s determination, even in the face of such formidable vexations as Veronique and Jean Claude, to keep up appearances here in lawless Cayona.

  She, of course, knew where Veronique had gone—although where Jean Claude was, she could not imagine. Probably searching out the grog shops and taverns for suitable company. But Veronique and her Diego were at this very moment on board La Belle France, sailing out of Cayona Bay on their way to whatever lay in store.

  Van Ryker had told her the plan. Veronique had donned her riding habit this morning as usual and ridden through the town on the black stallion van Ryker had lent her. This time she had kept on riding until she reached a secluded beach where Diego waited for her with a coarse brown kirtle and a tattered shawl and a big basket of fruit. He too would look threadbare—in a battered, wide-brimmed straw hat to hide his face, hunched over and stumbling—which would be easy enough since his limp still plagued him. Her lovely riding habit would be consigned to the sea, tossed far out, and together the pair of them, weaving as if they had had too much to drink, would meander through the uncaring crowd on Cayona’s quay and board La Belle France as if they were hawking fruit to the departing passengers. Once there, La Belle France's captain, who had been alerted to this charade, would quietly spirit them below where they would doff their beggarly clothes and dine soberly tonight as Monsieur and Madame de Jonquil, on their way back to their native France.

  It was a lovely plan and it had some chance of success, for Veronique’s jewel case was already waiting for her in that cabin reserved for the de Jonquils—van Ryker had seen to that.

  The horse might not be missed, for the governor’s grooms were a careless lot, but Veronique’s absence at supper would surely be noticed. Esthonie, already at outs with her guest, would probably assume Veronique was keeping some romantic rendezvous, so it would be tomorrow before any real search would be instituted combing the island for the governor’s houseguest, who might have come to harm.

  The searchers would find the black horse, wandering saddled along the beach (Arne would find him, for van Ryker had already told him where to look and given Arne the stallion for his own). A woman’s footprints would lead down to the sea and disappear (the tide would have washed clean the footprints of a man and a woman as Diego and Veronique hurried away through the lacy surf to their destiny). And all would conclude that Veronique had decided to wade out into the sea and come to grief—perhaps from a shark or barracuda.

  Imogene grinned as she settled a wide-brimmed lemon silk hat, afloat with golden plumes, onto her thick shining blond hair. Tortuga’s gossip being what it was, the governor’s wife might well be rumored to have murdered her splendorous guest—if word got out that Esthonie feared Veronique might take Jean Claude from Virginie!

  Arranging her features into a suitable gravity, she went out to join Esthonie, who was tapping her slipper and fanning herself in the heat.

  “I am surprised you stopped by when you were in such a hurry to find Gauthier,” she observed as she climbed into the carriage. ‘‘When you are so worried,” she added innocently.

  “I am surprised Captain van Ryker allows you out without a guard!” countered Esthonie in a tart voice. She let her fan drop upon her bronze silk lap. “Oh, I heard how those men attacked you!” She gave a brief theatrical shudder.

  “Look behind you, Esthonie,” directed Imogene casually as she settled her light yellow calico skirts on the seat opposite the governor’s wife.

  Esthonie turned her head, her bronze-plumed hat dipping as she did so—and blinked.

  Arne, who had fully recovered from the blow he had taken in the pimento grove although his head was still bandaged, had fallen in behind them. And behind him lounged half a dozen other rough-looking fellows, all armed to the teeth.

  “Oh.” Esthonie gave Imogene a rather blank look. “So we do have an escort. I must say, 1 think that is wise
. Is that a new dress?” And at Imogene’s nod of demurral, “Well, I have not seen it before. How clever to trim it in yellow silk ribands! Van Ryker spoils you shamefully, Imogene.” She reached up and tapped the driver on the back with her fan. “We’ll walk the horses, Ramon. There’s no need to make Madame van Ryker’s guard run to keep up with us.” She nodded graciously to the men who slouched along behind her carriage, delighted to move thus conspicuously through the town with an armed buccaneer escort. For, to strangers—and Cayona was always full of strangers—it would appear that the governor’s valuable wife always roamed about under heavy guard.

  “I stopped by to see you, Imogene”—Esthonie’s heavy bustline strained against the black-braided bodice of her bronze silk gown with the import of her words—“to invite you and van Ryker to my party tonight.”

  “A party?” But this was awkward. How could they attend a party when they were sailing around midnight? There would be so many last-minute things to see to! “Isn’t this rather sudden?” she asked, playing for time. “You always plan your parties days in advance.” And why had Esthonie come herself, instead of sending around a note?

  Esthonie looked uncomfortable. “Jean Claude arrived so unexpectedly—we had not expected him till next month, as you know. Of course, it seemed very fortuitous at the time—’’ She stopped. She did not intend to tell Imogene that after all the excitement over buccaneers climbing to Virginie’s window, she had questioned the girl closely and learned that Virginie had skipped her period the month before. That alarming news had led her to welcome Jean Claude with open-armed relief and when Veronique had set her velvet claws into him, she had reacted with surging anger. “The party is to announce that the wedding will be held next week—here on Tortuga. We shall not wait to send her to France to meet his family and hold the wedding there as originally planned.”

  The fierceness of her tone caused Imogene to study her keenly, and Esthonie, before that level blue gaze, realized suddenly that Imogene must have guessed the whole situation. Her reserve melted. “It is terrible having daughters,” she groaned. “Isn’t it?”