Bold Breathless Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  Holding her brilliant blue eyes locked with his own, van Ryker reached out and caressed her breast with his free hand. A tremor went through her and she struck at him. “I gave you no leave!”

  Without answer, he hauled her into his arms—so suddenly that her breath left her. His kiss had all the impatience of a lover’s first kiss, all the violence of a man who had been away at sea for more than a month, all the fierce yearning of a man who is saying good-bye. lmogene struggled fiercely.

  As suddenly as he had taken her, his lips left hers.

  “I’ve brought you a gift,” he said tonelessly.

  Imogene was shaking with indignation—and something else, something she refused to name. “I need nothing from you but my freedom—I’ve told you that.”

  “Ah, but wait till you see it.” He went over to the big press in the corner which was crammed with her gowns—captured Spanish gowns that he had given her, gowns rummaged from the trunks of Spain, lovely things she had admired in the marketplace along the quay here in Tortuga. He pulled out a handsome garment of black velvet that could have been intended for the wife of a Spanish grandee and thrust it at her.

  “What’s this?” she demanded, bewildered. “Mourning? But you forbade me to wear mourning when I proposed it!”

  “Not mourning—’tis a wedding gown. Yours. I thought black might be appropriate,” he added ironically, “for having known me, you are sure to wish yourself back in my arms.”

  Imogene pushed back her bright hair and stared at him. “Have you been drinking, van Ryker? You’re not making sense.”

  “I said I’ve brought you a gift and I have. His name is Stephen Linnington. He is here in Tortuga, and tomorrow morning we’ll have a parson and a wedding. I’ll stand for the wedding feast and give the bride away. You shall have your freedom, Imogene.”

  Stunned, Imogene stared at him. Stephen was back? In these last weeks she had given him up. Until this minute she had believed he was never coming for her. Van Ryker was right—she had adjusted to the life here, to social calls from the governor’s wife, to the courtly bows of his friends when she strolled down toward the market in the company of big Arne; she had become used to taking charge of the house and Arne was becoming submissive in following her orders.

  She had thought constantly about this moment when van Ryker would return—and promised herself he would never use her in that fashion again. She was not cut out for a life of lust! She would escape! She had friends on the quay now, she would have no trouble finding a merchant ship to transport her almost anywhere.

  And if the Sea Rover overtook her and brought her back, why, she would escape again!

  Now her mind was whirling. Stephen was back, Stephen to whom she owed everything—Stephen who had rescued her and come so near to losing his life. She turned to the impassive buccaneer. “Why are you doing this, van Ryker?” she demanded suspiciously. “It is not like you to hand me over to another without a fight.”

  “Well spoke,” he murmured. “And I will admit that I do it with a wrench. But I will ask you to believe that I do it out of the fullness of my heart and the greatness of my love.”

  “ ’Love’!” she scoffed. “You never loved me! You deserted me in New Amsterdam!”

  He gave her a twisted smile. “Just as I warmed you with my body when you were chilled,” he said lightly, “I’ll now warm your cold heart by giving you the one thing you want—another man.”

  Imogene felt a flush rising that spread all over her body at the memories his words evoked. “Are you really—doing this?” she asked haltingly. “Is it true? Is Stephen here?”

  “As real as this gown in which you’ll be wed tomorrow!”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “I can’t be married in black,” she demurred.

  ‘‘No? Then red might be appropriate.” With some violence he pulled from the press a gown of scarlet satin and flung it at her. ‘‘Or gold for a golden woman.” He tossed her one of gold silk. ‘‘Or choose your own. You’ll be leaving Tortuga in it.”

  It was true, then! He was letting her go!

  In a burst of gratitude she leaped from the bed and flung herself at him, twined her arms around his neck. “Oh, van Ryker,” she choked. “I do thank you—I do.”

  Dazzled by her shining face and cut to the quick by her ardent desire to leave him for another, van Ryker untwined her arms and pushed her away. “You’ll not go sleepy-eyed from my arms into the arms of your bridegroom,” he said bitterly. “You’ll sleep alone this night, Imogene. I have decided I want a willing woman to warm my bed—and there are plenty of them here in Tortuga!”

  He strode out, slamming the door behind him, and she could hear his boots clattering down the stairs. She threw a light silken shawl about her and went out on the balcony and leaned on the rail, drinking in the night air. Van Ryker had put on his sword and now she saw him swinging down the street below with the moonlight glinting on its basket hilt. He was going down into the town—to find one of those willing women, no doubt!

  Van Ryker was going to let her go—she still could not believe it! He was going to let her wed Stephen! Old dreams raced through her mind, old longings. It seemed centuries ago that she had met and loved Stephen Linnington beneath the stars of the Scillies. So much had happened since then—so much. . . .

  She had borne a daughter—and lost her. Her face saddened. And she had lost Elise. And Verhulst—tragic, misunderstood— lay buried in the family plot at Wey Gat beside a stone that bore her name. . . .

  And yet as she leaned upon the balcony’s iron railing, she found her mind dwelling most of all upon the tall buccaneer who had—at last she faced it—treated her on the whole so kindly. With hot cheeks she remembered his caresses and her whole body tingled to the memory. Time raced by as she recounted their long nights together. The sea air cooled her hot face. Below her the lights of Tortuga were going out one by one. Dawn would be breaking soon.

  Why had van Ryker done it? she asked herself. Was his lust so strong? And why was he letting her go now that their wager was over? Remorse?

  She was still standing there when van Ryker came back up the street, weaving a little as he walked. He had drunk deep, she guessed. Because he was giving her up?

  On the street below he stood with both feet planted wide and looked up at her silently. She would never know how beautiful she looked to him with her creamy silk shawl and the moonlight gilding her long hair. Without speaking to her, he went unsteadily into the house.

  Imogene heard his uneven footsteps coming up the stairs and realized that in all the time she had known him, she had never seen him really drunk. She winced as she heard a loud crash and a low curse. Van Ryker must have collided with his bedroom door.

  She waited until all was quiet and suddenly it sank in on her that in his way he must really love her. That was why he had got drunk tonight. For the first time there was a tenderness in her gaze as she thought of him.

  He would be sleeping down the hall—lonely without her. And something in his stance as he stood on the street below the balcony, something bereft, had told her that he had not had a woman this night after all. He had honored their wager. Scrupulously he had kept his word and not touched her since they had reached Tortuga—and now, without touching her, he was letting her go.

  On an impulse—for she was a woman given to reckless impulses—Imogene stole down the hall and quietly opened his bedroom door. In the moonlight that struck through the open window she saw that he had flung himself, sword and all, fully dressed upon the bed. At the small sound of the door opening his big body tensed and his dark head swung around so that one bloodshot eye was staring at her. She came toward him, barefoot, graceful, her long fair hair swinging about her slim body.

  “VanRyker,” she said, and her voice was low and caressing. “I know what this must have cost you. And so—this last night—if you want me . . .” Her voice drifted away like rose petals on the wind, but every word had fallen on him like a blow. Imogene—offering
him one last night as a consolation prize before she went to her bridegroom’s arms!

  He shook off the feather-light touch of her fingers on his cheek. “Imogene,” he said thickly, “go away.” And turned his dark head away from her.

  She leaned down and pressed a kiss lightly upon his ear. It was the first time she had ever offered him an endearment—what he had had from her, he had had to take; it was never given freely.

  “You are better than I knew,” she said softly. “And I will never forget you. Never.”

  She was gone. He heard the door close behind her.

  Van Ryker, lying there stiffly with his eyes closed, was furious to find there were tears on his lashes.

  CHAPTER 32

  At Captain van Ryker’s white-stuccoed residence, a most unusual wedding was about to take place. A crowd of hastily assembled buccaneers—most of them from the crew of the Sea Rover—shuffled their feet in the pleasant patio. Notably absent were the governor and his lady and van Ryker’s aristocratic—though not necessarily law-abiding—friends.

  Stephen Linnington, carelessly attired in russet, his copper hair uncombed—for the four buccaneers who had burst into his room at the Green Lion and brought him here at gunpoint had given him only time to get into his clothes and not to make himself truly presentable—stopped stock still at sight of the man who stood in the open grillwork doors. The lace at Stephen’s throat had been hastily knotted on the way here and he was irritably aware that one of his garters was about to leave his leg.

  He gazed, frowning, at the tall buccaneer—meticulously dressed in gray, with a wide red satin baldric slung over one shoulder—who stepped aside to let him enter.

  “So we meet again, van Ryker,” he said as his escort pushed him inside and shoved him along the hall.

  “You may leave him now—but stay by the door. This man is not to be allowed to leave without my permission,” van Ryker told his men.

  “This is your house, I take it?” said Stephen.

  “Correct.” Van Ryker turned his wintry gaze on Stephen. “I intercepted your note, Linnington.”

  So that was why he’d been dragged here! “I had to let Imogene know the fate of Elise and the child,” defended Stephen.

  “Of course.” Van Ryker inclined his head in a nod of becoming gravity. “She already knew of her loss and has become reconciled to it. For that reason I did not give her your note.”

  “Oh—well, then I’ll be on my way.”

  “Not quite yet, my friend.”

  Stephen looked uneasily around him. What was this gathering? What were all these men doing here? And why was van Ryker dressed as if for a ball? Nobody had told him anything. He was beginning to feel nettled. And alarmed, for had not van Ryker said he was not to be allowed to leave?

  “What is the matter?” he demanded. “Has Imogene run away from you again?”

  Van Ryker gave him a grim look. “She has not!”

  “Look, I realize that she is your woman now, van Ryker,” Stephen burst out.

  “On the contrary,” his host told him mockingly. “She pines for you constantly.”

  Stephen’s mouth dropped open. He stared at van Ryker. “But I thought you and she—”

  “Cease to think,” he was advised. “Consider me as Cupid, for it is I who have brought you together again.”

  “I consider that you and Imogene mousetrapped me into snatching her from her husband!” Stephen was indignant. “Was your Dutch trade so valuable to you that you would send a lone man to a fortress like Wey Gat to bring your woman out?”

  “So that is what you thought?”

  “Yes! I still think it!”

  For a moment the gray eyes went steely and there was a faint tremor of van Ryker’s sword arm. “You make me wish that I had not brought you a doctor and sent you to the Culps to recover,” he drawled, “but instead left you bleeding on the farmhouse floor where I found you!”

  Stephen flushed. “I am grateful to you for that,” he muttered. “And I will find a way to pay you back—”

  Van Ryker raised a hand to silence him. “You will pay me back, never fear.” He gave Stephen a cold look. “But so that we understand each other, had I known that Imogene was unhappy I would have battered down the walls of Wey Gat to reach her!”

  Before the controlled violence of that tone, Stephen blinked. There could be no doubt this tall buccaneer loved Imogene!

  “Then why bring me here?” he asked argumentatively. “You could have sent a message to me at the Green Lion and I’d have been on my way.”

  “On your way?”

  “Yes—back to Barbados. There’s a lady there I wish to marry.”

  “Ever hot to marry,” van Ryker murmured. “But then, you have a prior commitment.” He smiled, a cold, wolfish smile that showed his strong white teeth and turned his saturnine face demonic. “You will find that I am not one to stand in the way of true love,” he told Stephen with heavy irony. “Imogene wants you—and so she shall have you. Over there is a parson. This company is here to witness your wedding—and I myself shall give the bride away!”

  Stephen’s jaw dropped in astonishment. “Have you—tired of her, then?” he demanded.

  For a moment he thought the buccaneer was going to strike him. “No man could tire of such a woman,” van Ryker growled. “I am but giving Imogene her heart’s desire.”

  “But you know that I am already—” Stephen was about to say “married” when van Ryker interrupted.

  “I know what you are about to say, Linnington. But Imogene does not. And since in these islands it can never matter, you will forget to mention it. But I tell you this: You will either walk forth from this place a bridegroom with your bride by your side, or you will be carried from it on your way to your funeral. The choice is yours.”

  They were standing a little apart from the others and to the assembled company, they must have appeared to be engaged in pleasant conversation. Van Ryker was smiling at him. It was a bright, dangerous smile that made the copper hairs at the back of Stephen’s neck crawl—he had had that same feeling once when an assailant was about to leap upon him with a meat cleaver. And so deadly was the low tone in which this ultimatum was delivered that Stephen little doubted this grimly smiling buccaneer would do exactly as he said. He squared his russet shoulders and stood a little straighter. He had loved Imogene, and she had borne his child, she had even written that she would have waited for him. . . . For a tortured moment his heart bled for Bess, waiting for him on Barbados. Best not to let her know, better far to let her think that he had died trying to rescue Imogene—and there was even a tombstone at Wey Gat to prove it. Sweet Bess need never know of this forced wedding in a buccaneer’s lair on Tortuga! In time a woman as lovely, as true as Bess, would find someone else, she would marry. His throat constricted at the thought.

  “I see you are hesitating,” van Ryker said softly. His hand closed around the hilt of his sword.

  “No.” The word was wrenched from Stephen. “I stand ready to marry Imogene if that is her desire.”

  “It is her desire.” Van Ryker gave him a mocking smile and motioned Stephen to precede him into the patio. “See that you do not falter,” he warned. “For my temper is short and it is I who will give the bride away.”

  He paused at a general stirring in the room and looked upward. Imogene had come out of her room and down the hall. Now she stood at the head of the stone stairs and every head swung around to look at her—all stood spellbound.

  She was attired in the kind of daring gown she most favored—a low-cut white silk that clung to her delightful figure and moved lissomely when she moved. Its sweeping skirt was caught up cleverly over a petticoat of pale flowing Chinese gold silk. From her fluffed out virago sleeves gleamed gold satin rosettes that caught up the spilled lace at her elbows. And—both Stephen and van Ryker drew in their breath sharply—she had thrown away her whisk—again. Her rosy nipples were barely covered and in danger of peeping out at any minute. Her b
right hair was swept up into a gleaming mass with golden curls spilling down upon the snowy whiteness of her shoulders.

  No innocent quivering bride was this. But as she smiled gently down upon the assembled buccaneers from the head of the stairs—a lovely and tantalizing woman—not a man in the company but felt a thrill of desire go through him.

  Regally she beckoned to van Ryker, who thundered up the stairs to offer her his arm.

  For a moment they smiled into each other’s eyes, these two antagonists who had clashed so often. It was the friendliest smile they had ever exchanged and filled with memories. Stephen watched in perplexity from below. Then Imogene was floating downstairs light as a feather on the arm of her tall and jaunty buccaneer and the crowd parted, cutlasses clanking, to let then pass.

  And then she came face to face with Stephen—but only for a moment, for van Ryker signaled to the parson, who stepped forward. Imogene’s face was dreamy as she took her place beside Stephen in the sunny patio beside the tinkling fountain. She felt that an old dream was coming true. Stephen loved her, he had saved her, he had come for her and now he was going to marry her—just as she had planned so long ago. Strange—all last night she had tried to remember him, to blot out van Ryker’s sardonic face that seemed to fill her thoughts. Why should she feel so sorry for van Ryker? she asked herself rebelliously. Had he not kidnapped her, kept her prisoner, used her? The fact that he was now trying to make amends changed nothing. But sorry for him she was, and her preoccupation with the buccaneer as she stepped forward to her destiny kept her from hearing the words the parson was solemnly intoning.

  She must pay attention, she told herself—she was getting married! And to the man she had loved for so long! In a moment now she would be Stephen’s wife!

  “Does any man know cause why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy wedlock? If so, let him speak!’’