Wild Willful Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  She had turned away a moment too soon. In the golden rays of the setting sun Harry had unfurled another sail, a small one. And the sail he had unfurled was red.

  Clara’s “boat with the red sail” was heading for St. Agnes—and the man at the helm was Harry Hogue.

  CHAPTER 26

  So Imogene slept well that night, unaware that Ennor Castle was currently harboring the brains behind the wrecking operations on St. Agnes Isle.

  She woke to brilliant sunlight flashing through the castle windows. After so much sleep yesterday and the night before she felt refreshed. She stretched luxuriously and sprang up, ran to look out the window at a beautiful new day. Yesterday had been cloudy but today the very air sparkled. Below her was spread out Bess Duveen’s small walled garden and it was bursting with narcissus in full bloom and a host of other plants that crept over the ground or climbed over the granite walls or simply burst forth in glorious profusion like the golden narcissus.

  There was no one about.

  Lured by the outdoors, Imogene did not even stop to comb her hair. Pulling on her blue dressing gown, she peered out into the corridor. No one there either. She stole down a side stairs and found herself in the little garden Bess had worked so hard on years ago. Now she saw that it was bursting with new additions that Bess must have brought in recently.

  Imogene leaned on the low stone wall and looked out to sea, drinking in the clear cool salt-laden morning air, looking out into the blue distance at a pair of great wheeling cormorants.

  The shipwreck, hiding in the rocks on St. Agnes, shivering through the dark hours, dreading the coming of each day’s light—all that was now forgotten. This was the Scillies as she remembered them: a glorious place. Her gaze left the cormorants and swung around to the windbreak hedges planted to soften the bite of fierce Atlantic gales, colorful flowers massed against dark ivied walls, and where there was no ivy covering the granite, yellow lichen splashed against the castle’s proud old stones.

  She looked up again at the wild cry of a group of black-backed gulls. Huge and white with long black wings, they circled above her, then sped away, swooping out over the brilliant blue emerald of the sea. Now another great flock of seabirds flew over, filling the air with their wild sounds, for it was spring and they came to these islands in the millions. At sunset, she guessed, that flock would stream back toward the little island of Annet to their nests, burrowed under mounds of enormous sea pinks.

  And they would find Mr. Robbins, the bird-watcher, crouched there staring at them, she thought amusedly.

  The ghost of a smile was still on her face when she turned at a sharp exclamation behind her and found herself looking into Ambrose Duveen’s startled countenance.

  Ambrose had changed a bit, she saw, since the old days. He was a good twenty pounds heavier and much better dressed than he had been the night he had taken Stephen Linnington to a ball at Star Castle and warned him—futilely, of course!—to beware of Imogene Wells, for she was the wildest girl in the Isles and had jilted his brother! Imogene wondered if Bess had been fitting him out, for his bright yellow doublet and trousers rivaled the daffodils, and the lace that spilled from his neck and cuffs was more expensive than he could have afforded in the old days. But the look he gave-her was just as disapproving. The priggish youth had grown into a sententious man.

  “Imogene!” he gasped. “How come you here?”

  “By way of the stairs yonder, Ambrose,” she said blithely, ignoring the fact that she was standing there in her dressing gown, a fact that could not fail to scandalize circumspect Ambrose. “It’s been a long time!” And when he still hesitated. “Come now,” she coaxed, holding out her hand, “aren’t you glad to see me?”

  Ambrose wasn’t in the least glad to see her for he’d always deplored Imogene’s influence on his sister Bess, but courtesy forbade him to say so. “Of course l am.” He stepped forward and with some difficulty made a leg. Still it was more graceful than the last time she’d seen him do it, she thought—he must have been practicing. No doubt for the bride-to-be who must needs have a settlement!

  “I hear you’re to be married, Ambrose.”

  “Aye,” he said stolidly. “To Marcy Dane, Lady Moxley’s niece. You met her once. We’re to marry in the fall.”

  Imogene looked puzzled. Anyone so sought after she would surely remember! Then she reminded herself that four years had passed and that Marcy Dane might not have been sought after then—she might have been a schoolgirl sewing samplers! “I do hope you’ll be happy, Ambrose,” she said warmly.

  Ambrose acknowledged her sentiments with a solemn nod and would have brushed by her but he paused suddenly and frowned. “Bess wrote us you’d married a pirate.”

  “Buccaneer,” corrected Imogene automatically. “Yes, I married him.” And lost him... .She didn’t feel she had to add that.

  “Is he here with you?” asked Ambrose bluntly. She noted he looked perturbed.

  Imogene shook her head carelessly and Ambrose’s young face cleared. “Well, ’tis good to see you, Imogene,” he said with more heartiness. “Will you be staying long?”

  “No, not long.”

  “I’m sure Bess is pleased. She was always fond of you. Well, I must be off. I’ve a message from Marcy for her aunt at Star Castle that won’t wait.”

  So Lady Moxley had already departed—well, that was good news!

  Ambrose’s parting glance showed Imogene plainly that he hoped she would put some proper clothes on before anyone else saw her, but he bowed most correctly and went on his way, self-important and dignified as always.

  Imogene watched him go, trying desperately to conceal his limp and maintain a smooth gait over the uneven ground, and all the old life here surged back upon her. She was Imogene Wells again, fighting off the unsuitable suitors her guardian, old Lord Elston, so determinedly thrust upon her. Falling in love with Stephen on a moonlit night on the parapet of Star Castle. Finding ways to elude her chaperon and meet him during the long lazy days. Lolling with him on white beaches, making love recklessly in the shade of tall and ancient standing stones that frowned down eternally.

  It was all so different from her life with van Ryker.

  She sighed. Why had she never missed it? she wondered. Was it because the lean buccaneer had filled her life so completely?

  But he was gone now and she was alone.

  She felt very much alone as she retraced her steps back to her bedchamber.

  She put aside the gray voile dress, which she could now return to Bess, and told herself recklessly she would not let loneliness spoil her morning. She had a whole life to live without van Ryker and she might as well get started! But as she dressed herself in the sky blue velvet gown, she was reminded that this had been van Ryker’s choice for her. Or perhaps, she told herself bitterly, it just hadn't suited Veronique. And it would have been Stephen's choice for her as well, she told herself perversely as she turned back and forth before the mirror—that deep, square-cut neckline, that bodice that molded her round breasts and emphasized the slimness of her waist, that great flaring skirt that billowed out over a blue silk petticoat embroidered in shimmering silver. A faint perfume from some bottle that must have spilled in the chest during the storm rose from it, and the wide blue velvet sleeves allowed a froth of white ruffles to spill out gracefully over her elbows.

  It was a dramatic dress of great beauty, and Imogene, looking narrowly at the reflection of a golden woman clad in blue and silver in the mirror, remembered the days when she had shocked Lady Moxley by tossing away her whisk. With a sigh, she picked up the white lawn whisk Bess had provided and tucked it in demurely to conceal her white breasts against that shocking low neckline. On Tortuga she would not have done it, but she felt she had done enough to shock Bess yesterday.

  There was a discreet knock on her door, and a servant’s voice saying Mistress Duveen said she was to come down, breakfast was being laid.

  With a last pat to her golden hair, which she had dressed
simply but stylishly, Imogene strolled downstairs to breakfast, where everyone was waiting.

  The effect of her sky blue gown on the company was immediate and electric.

  Not until he saw her floating toward him, a vision of blue and gold and silver, did Harry Hogue realize his real reason for giving Imogene the dress—he had wanted to see her wearing it; it was as simple as that. And now there she was—ravishing! In the gown that he had given her. No matter that it had been hers in the first place; it was he, Harry Hogue, who had restored it to her. He drew in his breath at the dazzling sight of her as she moved gracefully across the dining room—and across from him Melisande’s brows drew together sullenly. Mr. Robbins regarded this blue vision with stupefaction as he might some new and remarkable bird of plumage.

  “Why, you look lovely, Imogene,” cried Bess. “Suits you much better than the gray.”

  “Thank you.” Imogene sank into the chair Mr. Robbins sprang forward to pull out for her. She rather enjoyed the sensation she had created, basking in Harry’s obvious admiration and watching Melisande squirm. They were a pair of wandering rogues, she’d decided, but of the two Harry was far the better! “Ambrose has put on weight,” she remarked to Bess.

  “Ambrose?” Bess blinked. “Where did you see him?”

  “You mean you didn’t know he was back?”

  “No, I was with the carpenters—”

  “Oh, there was a short gentleman arrived looking for you,” put in Harry. “I told him you were probably in the garden at this hour, and he told me if he missed you, not to wait breakfast. He had an errand.”

  “He found me in the garden,” said Imogene. “And after half a dozen words, he was off to Star Castle to deliver a message to Lady Moxley from Marcy Dane.”

  “But Lady Moxley just left!” cried Bess. She got hold of herself. “I suppose they won’t meet,” she said. And then because both Harry and Melisande were favoring her with curious glances, she added weakly, “Lady Moxley is sure to pry the wedding plans out of Ambrose and advise against everything. I had so hoped to catch him first before he could agree to anything. She’s Marcy’s aunt, you know.”

  Imogene nodded. She was beginning to remember a ten-year-old gamin who had visited at Star Castle and been forever tearing her petticoats climbing about the rough stones of the castle walls.

  “Yes, you met her, I’m sure. She was visiting here from Sussex and—” Her voice dwindled away at a noise outside in the hall, the clatter of boots.

  Flush-faced from exertion, his limp much more pronounced than it had been earlier, and with his golden-plumed hat awry, Ambrose Duveen swept into the room.

  At sight of his anguished expression, Bess dropped her spoon. “What is it?” she cried, white-faced.

  Oblivious of the others, Ambrose burst out, “Bess, Lady Moxley’s carriage caught up with me on the road. When I told her I’d just been speaking with Imogene Wells”—Bess held up a warning hand but it was too late to stop Ambrose— “she was so incensed she turned her carriage around and insisted on driving back.” He turned an angry glance on Imogene. “You might have warned me Bess was keeping your visit a secret!”

  “But we aren’t!” cried Bess in an agonized voice. She was only too aware of the dead silence that had greeted this pronouncement.

  Even that did not stop Ambrose. “Anyway, she’s outside and will come storming in at any moment. She says she’s going to tell your mother it’s being kept from her who’s visiting in her own house, and what’s more—”

  He fell silent. Behind him, her large girth surging inexorably forward in a sea of lavender ribands. Lady Moxley had entered the room. She seemed to fill it.

  “Lady Moxley.” Pale but composed, Bess rose and went to greet her returned guest. “I didn’t expect you back so soon,” she said on a note of irony.

  ‘‘Dear Bess,” trilled Lady Moxley, setting every riband aflutter as she came to a sudden halt. “I clean forgot my shawl—and on such a windy day too! It must be in your mother’s room.”

  Bess, who remembered very well seeing Lady Moxley off in that shawl, maintained a discreet silence. “I believe you have met all my guests. And of course, you remember Imogene?”

  ‘‘Ah, yes.” Lady Moxley’s disapproving gaze passed over Imogene with distaste. “Who could forget Imogene Wells? Although it is Imogene something else now, if reports are correct?”

  “Van Ryker,” said Imogene clearly.

  Bess winced, for she had but recently introduced Imogene all around as “Imogene North.” But Imogene felt as if she were a rebellious sixteen again, falling under the shadow of Lady Moxley’s disapproval every place she went. She wanted to shock the older woman.

  “Lady Moxley,” she said on a note almost of derision. “I don’t find it at all cool. In fact, it’s terribly warm in here. So warm I feel no need of my whisk!” In a moment she had pulled it free and sat fanning herself with it.

  Six pairs of eyes fled to the lovely expanse of white bosom bared by that swift gesture, the pearly tops of two round breasts that were suddenly displayed to their surprised view.

  Mr. Robbins straightened up and cleared his throat awkwardly. He would write his brother he’d had something more than fowls to observe today! Bess gave a small gasp and looked worried at this obvious taunting of a powerful adversary. Ambrose reddened resentfully. Lady Moxley drew herself up with a lavender quiver and said, “Well!” in an alfronted tone. Melisande bit into a piece of bread so hard her teeth clashed together, and turned to look at Harry. Harry controlled a chuckle. He was gazing in delight at this luxuriant display.

  “I’ll remind you, Imogene, that you’re a married woman!” said Lady Moxley tartly. “And not some long-haired girl of sixteen!”

  All the slights she had endured from Lady Moxley over the years crowded in upon her. Smiling into Lady Moxley’s pale snapping eyes, Imogene reached up and pulled the pins from her long hair and shook it out. She moved quite deliberately and her smile was insulting.

  Lady Moxley drew in her breath sharply and then surged forward. “I intend to speak to your mother, Bess!” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared from the room.

  “Imogene, how could you?” muttered Bess and fled after Lady Moxley.

  “Imogene North-van Ryker-Wells?” said Harry lightly. “Pray, in what order do your multiple surnames appear?”

  “She’s Imogene Wells who married van—I thought it was Rappard,” exploded Ambrose, who was hot with shame over the incident. “At least, there was a name like that in there somewhere, but there isn’t any North unless she’s thrown van-what’s-his-name over and married another one!”

  “Thank you for supplying my background so well, Ambrose,” said Imogene silkily. She was feeling reckless today and her encounter with Lady Moxley had only heightened that feeling.

  “And from whence do you hail?” wondered Harry. “Surely not from Helston?”

  “No, I’m from Penzance originally. But after my parents were killed in the civil wars, I went to live on Tresco with my guardian. Bess and I have been friends for years.”

  “Ah, so you live on Tresco?”

  “I used to. I’ve been. .. living abroad.”

  “Van Ryker,” he mused. “A Dutch name. You married a Dutchman, I take it?”

  “Yes,” said Imogene shortly. “I married a Dutchman.” But she was thinking of her tragic first marriage to Verhulst van Rappard and not of van Ryker.

  “Van Ryker,” pondered Harry. “An uncommon name that. The only van Ryker I can recall is—” His eyes twinkled as he studied Imogene.

  Imogene was tired of keeping up this charade. “The only van Ryker you can think of is the famous buccaneer. Captain Ruprecht van Ryker, who seized the Spanish treasure fleet,” she said dryly.

  “Ah, yes, that is the one,” said Harry instantly. “Good of you to remind me. Is he any relation, then?”

  “My husband,” said Imogene.

  You could have heard a pin drop at that table. The birdwat
cher choked. Melisande was staring at Imogene fixedly. Her jaw had dropped and it had given her a stupid expression. Even Harry, who had begun his inquiries with such aplomb, looked startled. Bess had come in and was beckoning to Ambrose, but she too froze at this sudden announcement.

  “Is it really true?” ejaculated Harry. “Or are you having us on again?”

  “It is true,” said Imogene calmly.

  “Then where is he?” cried Harry. “Are we about to meet this famous individual?”

  “No, you are not,” said Imogene. “I am visiting Bess alone.”

  “Ambrose, mother wants to see you—right away. Please keep Lady Moxley from upsetting her any further, if that’s possible.” Bess had regained her composure and now she resumed her seat at the table. She turned to Harry without breaking the flow of her conversation. “Imogene came down from London to visit me. She did not want a great fuss made over her or wild stories flying about, so we decided to call her ‘Mistress North’ and say she came from Helston.” The story sounded thin even to her own ears.

  Melisande’s gaze now raked Imogene up and down. No jewels, save for that single square-cut emerald ring set in heavy gold. Surely a buccaneer’s woman—and such a buccaneer!—would have come in with a blaze of diamonds.

  Imogene continued to eat in desultory fashion. She was uncomfortably aware of Melisande’s appraising inspection.

  “Tresco is the right place for your flower plantation, Harry,” said Bess, desperate to change the subject. “Everything grows there—it’s a tropical paradise. Ask Imogene if it isn’t true—cinammon and bamboo, prickly pear and citron, belladonna lilies and ferns—even palms and bananas.”

  “Everything does grow there,” affirmed Imogene.

  “You must take me there,” smiled Harry. “I’m impressed.”

  Bess tossed her a warning look and Imogene was again reminded that on Tresco—and St. Mary’s as well, indeed throughout the Scillies—even though she had never been formally charged, she might yet be implicated in a “murder.” For it was doubtful that time had healed the hurt the Averys had felt at Giles’s death, or dulled their vengeful feelings toward her.