“What charade is this?” Verhulst was aghast. “This woman is wearing your gown, Imogene!”
“So she is,” said Imogene carelessly. “This is the ‘arrangement’ I spoke to you about, Verhulst. I felt that it might be well to have a woman to attend me tonight, in case there is heavy drinking at the ball, and it seemed more prudent for Elise to attend as one of the guests. That way she cannot be fobbed off to some distant cabin to ‘wait for me.’ ”
Verhulst gave Imogene an uncertain look. Her suggestion made excellent sense—if indeed she meant it. He took another look at Elise’s rouged lips and cheeks, her whitened nose, her stiffly piled hair atremble with green satin ribands, her shining eyes—for Elise had dreams, too, even if they were repressed, and this was her first ball. Verhulst forbore a shudder.
It was with trepidation that the patroon of Wey Gat climbed into the longboat beside his wife and her newly resplendent maidservant.
On board the Sea Rover, they were all amazed to view the change that had been wrought overnight. It seemed a carnival ship. Colorful Chinese paper lanterns hung precariously from the yardarms, a portion of the deck had been hung gaily with colored ribbons, and after dinner the lanterns were lit and cast a magical glow of red and blue and green and gold across the delighted company. Dinner was served in great style by two grinning ship’s boys clad in maroon and gold livery.
“Stolen undoubtedly,” Verhulst muttered, gazing gloomily at the livery.
To Imogene’s embarrassment, van Ryker heard him. He leaned forward across the table, cocked a satirical eye at his guest. “From Spain,” he said lightly, “and not from Holland.”
The marriageable daughter tittered and was promptly silenced by a black look from her mother. The lady who’d been half a mind not to come nervously knocked over her glass and was drenched by its contents. She leaped up with a cry and as the Widow Poltzer and her pink-clad daughter dabbed cluckingly at the spilled wine with their table napkins, Captain Verbloom desperately launched into a rather incoherent story about a mermaid he had glimpsed one night off the Hebrides and this diverted the guests from the patroon’s lapse of manners. The company drank a whole array of fine wines and, thus warmed, wandered out on deck where two scarred buccaneers in leathern breeches and clanking cutlasses played on the viola da gamba, and a half-dozen others with good voices sang in a jumble of languages and stamped bare feet upon the deck.
“Allow me to exert a host’s privilege and claim the first dance.” The buccaneer captain, flamboyantly dressed tonight in black and silver with a wide scarlet baldric from shoulder to hip, stepped forward past a pouting young lady in pink to claim Imogene.
She gave him a dazzling smile and stepped forward to take his hand. It was a very steady hand but she felt a slight tremor go through it at her touch and was perversely glad. With Verhulst seemingly impervious to her charms, it was balm to her spirit to see flickering lights in van Ryker’s usually cold gray eyes and know they burned for her. Although she would go back to the Hilletje when the ball was over, her reckless heart rejoiced that she should be here tonight with the dangerous Captain van Ryker, whirling with him across a deck surrounded by watching buccaneers in the light of the Chinese lanterns that lit the bizarre scene.
The Widow Poltzer was mollified when Barnaby Swift, whom she personally considered the most dashing of the buccaneers, for she had always had a penchant for yellow hair, led out her blushing daughter. She stood beside Captain Verbloom, who had elected not to dance, and watched enraptured, sure that with every simper her daughter was making way with the stylish young buccaneer. What matter that Barnaby’s dancing did not come up to the cut of his suit? He was a bachelor, was he not? That fact she had already established at the dinner table. And her Geertje followed him well. See how well the girl looked! Her pink skirts were bouncing with the exertion and her sallow cheeks were taking on a deeper color. And the young buccaneer had spoken to her again—his lips were moving! And now Geertje was laughing—ah, this could ripen into something! The Widow Poltzer bobbed her head raptly in time to their steps so that her fat cheeks wobbled. Each time Barnaby whirled Geertje about so that her skirts flew and exposed her pink-striped petticoat, her mother gave an ecstatic little cry and tapped the captain’s arm with her fan until that gentleman, tiring of this unceasing tattoo, eased away from her side and asked Elise to dance.
It was too great an honor for Elise to refuse—the captain of the Hilletje, an eminent man, dancing with her! She let the dour captain lead her out and they stomped miserably upon each other’s feet until the captain admitted defeat—neither of them, he told Elise calmly, could dance a step. They belonged at the rail, not out on the floor.
As he led a crestfallen Elise back, the Widow Poltzer claimed his attention again. “Are they not a lovely couple?” she cried, pointing with her fan at her daughter and Barnaby Swift.
The captain growled an unintelligible response that sounded like “humbug.” Drat, he was back with that idiotic woman again, crowing over her daughter dancing with a buccaneer as if he were a prince of the blood!
He looked about for help and saw with relief that de Rochemont was heading for them. There, now he would be rid of her! But de Rochemont turned instead to the lady on his other side. He had noted the droop of Elise’s green velvet shoulders as she was led in defeat from the floor. Now he made her a sweeping bow.
“If madame will do me the honor?”
Elise was overcome—first the captain, now this handsome French doctor with his tweaky little mustache!
“I—I fear I am no dancer, sir,” she gasped.
“If madame will forgive a paraphrase,” said de Rochemont smoothly, “there are no women unable to dance—there are only awkward men unable to dance with them.” He gave the furious Captain Verbloom a withering look that said the French did it better and the next time the Widow Poltzer tapped him on the arm Verbloom bellowed, “What is it, mevrouw? What do you want?”
Elise, her eyes glazed in fright and fixed on de Rochemont with the rapt fascination of a snake for its trainer, gave the Frenchman her hand—doubtfully. Stiff in every bone, she allowed him to lead her out on the floor and so expert a dancer was he, so nimble on his feet, that she trod on him only once. Flushed with her triumph and beaming, de Rochemont exchanged partners with Barnaby Swift—that little pink mouse of a Geertje Poltzer was showing surprising animation—and Elise was off on the floor again for another try at high life.
Over van Ryker’s broad shoulder Imogene smiled affectionately at Elise. She was confident she was giving her old friend an evening she would never forget.
Captain Verbloom, driven too far by de Rochemont’s jibe and this infernal tapping, stomped over to the lady with wine spilt upon her dress and asked her ringingly if she would tread a measure with him. The lady gave a harried look round at the circle of buccaneers and asked in a hoarse stage whisper, “Do you think we should? With all these cutthroats about?”
“I think they’ll not harm us until the music stops,” said Verbloom grimly. “Our antics are providing them too much amusement.” He danced his frightened lady past the Widow Poltzer, who—now that Barnaby Swift had claimed her daughter for a second measure—was almost jumping up and down in delight. Her jowls shook, her eyes gleamed, all the fringe on her ruffles danced, and her big breasts were aquiver with excitement. The captain tore his eyes from the sight and glared at two convulsed buccaneers, holding each other up as they watched her and wiping their eyes with quiet mirth. They'd be laughing over this night in the grog shops of Tortuga for years to come, the captain predicted with an inward groan.
His wine-drenched partner trembled whenever they whirled too near the throng of watching buccaneers lounging about the edge of the “dance floor” and once, when one of them turned and accidentally rattled his cutlass, she gave a short sharp scream. Verbloom was grateful to be able to return her to the Widow Poltzer, who gave a delighted little skip as Barnaby led out her daughter again.
“Do
n’t they make a lovely couple?” she gushed.
“Who?” cried the wine-drenched lady nervously. “Oh, do look at that man with one loop earring over there? Have you ever seen such a vicious scar? It reaches clear down his chest into his belt. Oh, dear, why ever did I come?”
The Widow Poltzer’s jowls wavered to a stop as she gave her an affronted look. She at least knew why she had come. Mothers of marriageable daughters—especially if those daughters were not well endowed in either face or fortune—must seize every opportunity and these buccaneers seemed well enough mannered men. She sniffed contemptuously as the wine-drenched lady cringed against her.
“It is a romantic setting,” she said heavily.
“ ‘Romantic’?” Her friend’s voice rose in a little protesting shriek. “Romantic?” She gazed across the deck at what seemed to her a sea of devilish faces. “I shall be glad to get back to the Hilletje,” she said faintly.
The Widow Poltzer had already forgotten her. “There! See them there!” she cried triumphantly, tapping the lady’s arm sharply with her fan. “He’s going to ask her again—oh, no, he’s not! The doctor has claimed her. But he’s heading this way—he’s going to ask one of us to dance!”
Her friend shrank back and Barnaby, driven by van Ryker’s stern instructions earlier that his ship’s officers must dance with all the ladies, bowed low before the Widow Poltzer and requested the honor. She was so excited she did not wait but grasped his hand and led him out. Every second of the dance she spent asking him pointed questions about his background, his present situation, his expectations.
Barnaby blinked at this barrage. It had been a long time since the young buccaneer had been badgered by the mother of a marriageable daughter—the fleshpots of Tortuga and Port Royal were hardly teeming with respectable young ladies and those few who were there were more apt to be closely chaperoned and guarded against buccaneers, who were considered to have a short life expectancy, than thrust into their arms.
Under questioning, he allowed weakly as how he had a little nest egg “put away” and was rewarded by a roguish beam of approval as the Widow Poltzer missed a step to give him a smart tap with her fan. “And how do you like my little Geertje?” she demanded. “Is she not a pretty thing in her pink dress? And all made of the very best materials—nothing but the best for my Geertje! See how the doctor looks at her? Why, I swear he’s quite taken!”
“She’s very pretty, ma’am.” Barnaby felt the lace at his throat growing uncomfortably tight. His face reddened as she crowed, “Ah, I knew you two would get along well! Geertje isn’t right for that Frenchman—she’s always fancied blond men!”
With a sigh of relief Barnaby returned the Widow Poltzer to her wine-drenched friend and firmly claimed Elise for the next dance. Across the floor de Rochemont gave Barnaby a nod of approval; he had been about to ask Elise again himself but he was not sure he was nimble enough to dodge for any length of time her heavy feet—best to let young Barnaby suffer for a while. He turned affably back to the Poltzer girl. A foolish twit, but pretty enough now that she looked animated; she would doubtless give some man a bland and uneventful life. Now, the confection that swayed in van Ryker’s arms was something else, but the Frenchman knew better than to interrupt that duo.
Across the floor the Widow Poltzer’s gaze sharpened. That handsome Frenchman, de Rochemont, had danced twice with her daughter! She puffed out her fat cheeks in perplexity. The Frenchman was not so young as Barnaby of course, and he was not blond, but doctoring was a moderately good trade—in this boisterous age, they were always in demand to bind up a wound! Was it possible that a ship’s doctor made a better living than a ship’s master? She must ask Captain Verbloom tonight as they were rowed back to the Hilletje. Ah, it promised to be a lovely voyage with perhaps a wedding at the end of it!
From the rail where he stood beside Captain Verbloom, Verhulst van Rappard turned his sulky gaze from the sight of his wife dancing and laughing with the lean buccaneer captain and glanced upward at the colorful paper lanterns, swaying more perilously now that the breeze had freshened.
Beside him. Captain Verbloom’s gloomy gaze was upon the handsome pair who overshadowed all others on the dance floor. Resplendent as peacocks, he thought grimly, sure of themselves, evenly matched. And—reluctantly he admitted it— made for each other. Anyone with half an eye could see it.
He listened to the wailing music, and looked keenly around him. There was a feeling of excitement in the air, and Verbloom was not immune to it. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was engendered by the tall buccaneer captain, raptly swaying with the dashing lady in flame and gold. In any event, it could become a problem. Nights like this might be all right in the Caribbean but something was being ignited here on the cold northern seas. It was a powder keg that could blow up in all their faces.
He chewed thoughtfully on his lip for a moment, then turned with a sigh to the young patroon. “Mynheer van Rappard.” The words came reluctantly. “I would look to my wife, if I were you. Perhaps she should feign an illness and find herself unable to attend further functions aboard this vessel.”
Verhulst, who had been hoping wistfully that one of the candle-filled paper lanterns might fall and ignite the ship, thus giving this damned pirate something to think about beside Imogene, turned to Verbloom with a startled glance.
“It is not that I wish the Sea Rover to abandon us,” explained the Hilletje's captain sheepishly. “But after all this is your wedding voyage. I can see that you would prefer not to spend it in the company of a man who looks at your wife as if she were a goddess.”
Or a glass of wine to be swallowed up and forgotten, thought Verhulst, gazing truculently at the magnificent black and silver figure who swung Imogene so lightly across the swaying deck. “I’ll claim her now,” he muttered. “There’s no reason why she should dance with him all night!”
He would have shouldered forward but the Hilletje's captain detained him with a hand on his arm. “Not yet,” he advised. “Best to let matters go on as they are. No harm’s been done.”
“You aren’t suggesting he might make off with her?” Captain Verbloom had indeed been considering that possibility; he did not want the matter on his head. He cleared his throat. “This is a formal evening and you have nothing to fear, mynheer. But—after tonight I would be careful.” He looked around him uneasily. “I marvel at this buccaneer captain’s control of his men,” he muttered. “We might be aboard a ship of His Majesty’s Navy, for the discipline I’ve seen! But this flaunting of skirts before the faces of men long at sea is dangerous. Tomorrow our buccaneer may decide to give a general ball and insist that all the passengers aboard the Hilletje attend! With so many women milling about, there could be an incident.... Heed my warning, mynheer—urge your wife to take to her bed and feign illness.”
“Will van Ryker not send over that damned French doctor?”
Captain Verbloom turned to consider Raoul de Rochemont, who had led Elise out upon the floor again and at the moment was achieving a kind of martyrdom by keeping a set smile on his face as she trod heavily on his feet. It was true the Hilletje had no doctor on board; the buccaneer captain might well insist on sending de Rochemont over in a boat. “Even so,” he frowned, “the lady can fake some illness and pretend her head pains her too badly to leave her bed.”
“From the look of van Ryker,” said Verhulst moodily, watching the flame satin skirts sweep in and out past the buccaneer’s wide-topped boots as the pair of them whirled across the floor, “he might decide to come and get her!”
Captain Verbloom gave him a wounded look. “On one thing you can rely, mynheer: No unwilling woman will be taken by force from aboard my ship!” His chest expanded as he spoke and sparks flashed from his eyes. “Nor do I think it will come to that. Captain van Ryker may show a marked preference for the lady but if she does not wish to see him, he will remember that he is after all a Dutchman and a civilized man. He will stay aboard his own vessel. Besides, if he attacked a Dutch shi
p, the port of New Amsterdam would be closed to him and he would not want that—the captain has a profitable trade with the burghers there.”
“I hope you are right,” gloomed Verhulst, for he saw crowded about the rails, watching the dance proceed, the sturdy forms of the Sea Rover's battle-scarred buccaneers, victors of many a bloody rough-and-tumble on sea and shore. The crew and passengers of the Hilletje would stand scant chance against them even if the Sea Rover chose not to use her forty guns.
The dance went on. The ship’s master, who stumbled over his own feet—and the ship’s French doctor, who danced delightfully, for all that his toes were numb from the punishment Elise had given them—dutifully danced with all the ladies.
And again and again the dark captain claimed beautiful Imogene van Rappard for his partner.
Imogene was enjoying herself. She smiled winsomely up into the buccaneer’s rapt face.
“Do you have anything on board the Hilletje that you value?” he asked her suddenly.
“My clothing and jewels—don’t tell me you intend to ransom me!” she laughed.
“Your clothing I can easily replace in the markets of Tortuga.”
“Easily,” she mocked. “But then there’s Elise—I value her; she is my maidservant.”
Van Ryker’s thoughtful gaze sought out Elise, flushed and intent and nervous in her velvet dress, alternately stomping on Barnaby Swift’s feet and wincing as he awkwardly trod on hers. He ignored Imogene’s blithe, “They appear to be having a good time—and they’re well matched, since it’s obvious neither of them have ever danced before.”
“The woman can be brought along on some pretext,” he told her. “Possibly to look for some trinket you will tell your husband you have lost on my ship. But place in your purse or wear any jewels you particularly value and bring them with you tomorrow.”
“And why,” she wondered in a lazy voice, although her heart was of a sudden stilled, “would I do that, Captain van Ryker? Particularly since I have no reason to suppose I will be on board the Sea Rover tomorrow! These trysts in mid-ocean are slowing down our voyage—Captain Verbloom complained of it only this morning.”
Bold Breathless Love Page 18
