“I do,” caterwauled a loud voice from the back of the room. As startled heads swung around, a woman pushed through the throng of buccaneers. “He already has a wife—me! And you wouldn’t be the only wench he’s married without divorcing me,” she called mockingly to Imogene. “There’s another one in Lincoln!”
In the stunned silence, the buccaneers stepped back to let her pass. Cutlasses clattered as Kate swaggered past them, thoroughly enjoying the sensation she was causing. Her wild black hair had been combed for this occasion but she still wore it long and loose. It swung about her flaunting red satin hips as she sidled forward barefoot—Kate had always hated shoes. She shook her head chidingly at Stephen with a mocking jingle of gold earrings. “Surprised to see me? Thought ye’d seen the last of me in England?” She turned her bold gaze on Imogene and laughed.
Stunned, Imogene stared back at this woman who was now leaning forward impishly, hands on hips, her piquant face turned up toward Stephen’s. This was Stephen’s wife, had been his wife all along while he . . . made love ... to her. Imogene was white to the lips as, speechless, she studied her rival, her—predecessor!
Van Ryker’s glittering eyes were on her all the while, watching her sardonically.
Now she turned to him. “So this was your wedding gift,” she said in a tight voice.
“Aye,” he told her steadily. “The gift of truth. Better now than later.”
Imogene turned back toward the silent panorama with a little sob that caught unwittingly in her throat.
Stephen was standing with his copper head slightly bent, his russet-clad body shocked into rigidity. But the lissome wench with the thick black hair and the bold roving eyes had put her hands on her swiveling red satin hips and cocked her head at him.
“Come,” she wheedled. “D’ye not remember me, Stephen? Although I do seem to remember that ye married me under the name of Kent—not Linnington. Ye thought I didn’t know your real name!” Her laughter pealed. “I always thought ye’d come after me—after we heard ye’d escaped from that jail.”
“I looked for you, Kate,” he said thickly.
“Did ye now?” Something in her wary eyes brightened. “Well, that’s something! Ah, don’t look so downhearted, Stephen, lad! Ye’ll have many a roll in the hay yet and live to bloody many a sword!”
“That I will do right now!” Stephen’s head went up and he whirled to face the buccaneer who had had him dragged from the inn, duped him, arranged for him a mock wedding—and now planned to snatch the bride away—for he had no doubt that was van Ryker’s purpose. “Draw your blade, van Ryker!” he snarled. “And we’ll settle this right now.”
That menacing challenge and the sudden lithe movement of the tall buccaneer to answer it brought Imogene to her senses. There was a murmur from the crowd of buccaneers, who edged back to give the contestants room to fight. In a moment the best blade in the Caribbean and the best blade south of the Humber would square off on the stone-floored patio to settle, buccaneer-style, the possession of a lady.
And to both men—whatever harm they had done her emotionally—she was beholden for saving her life.
With a sudden arrogant gesture, Imogene stepped between them.
“There can be no marriage,” she said with finality, “for there’s already a bride—has been, I can see, for some years, since the lady’s ne’er so young.” She flashed a contemptuous look at her dark-haired rival who bridled and returned her a smoldering glance. “This—this buccaneer—” (and here van Ryker winced inwardly that Imogene could not bring herself to use his name)—“who would seem to be in control of our destinies, has given us ‘wedding gifts.’ To me he has given the truth at last, and to you, Stephen, he has told me he is giving a part of his share of the loot from the Santa Dominica—with that you may get you gone and set up this lady as you no doubt feel she deserves.”
“I’ll not take his gold!” roared Stephen, still trembling with wrath as he focused all his attention upon the scornful golden-haired beauty before him.
“Ah, but I will!” caroled Kate impudently, twitching her hips to give him an eloquent nudge. “With the captain’s gold, however you came by it, you can buy me all the little things I’ve had to do without all this time—along with your company!” Again she was laughing, that rich, full-bodied laughter that went so well with her deep bustline and provocative swaying hips.
Stephen turned to snarl something at her and for a moment was arrested by something in Kate’s laughing face—an impudent challenge, flung once again, reminding him even in the full flush of his anger that he had loved this woman once. . . .
Imogene saw it, too. And with a flash of inner clarity she saw how it had been with them, how it could be again. Easy liars, easy lovers, riding the wild highroads of life together. She had never been Stephen’s woman, she had borrowed him—from this laughing, black-haired wench whose dark eyes mirrored the tigerish look of Stephen’s own.
She had not lost him—she had never had him! It was all the illusion of a bored young girl who had seen something in a man’s face and mistaken lust for love.
Well, she had suffered for it! And Stephen—grant him that—had come to save her, and done so, there on the ice.
But now he had lost his halo. . . .
Imogene turned blindly to van Ryker. “Get him out of here,” she said thickly. “I don’t want to look at him.”
For a moment the buccaneer hesitated. Then he sheathed his sword, watched as—still trembling with fury—Stephen Linnington sheathed his and went plunging through the crowd toward the door with his red satin lady trailing behind him.
Gone together, thought Imogene bitterly, watching as they disappeared. Like to like!
Imogene did not do Stephen justice. Outside the white-stuccoed house he came to a halt. “We can’t take the gold, Kate.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because ’twas a gift to another—to the woman in there. ” He jerked his head at the buccaneer’s house.
“I care not where gold comes from,” declared Kate insolently. “ ’Tis what it buys that counts!”
“Aye, that’s always been your trouble, Kate,” he sighed. For a moment there she had beckoned him, she with her bright predatory smile and her wild ways—as more compellingly, Imogene had beckoned him once, drawn him to the circle of her white arms. But now the moment was over, memories were but memories and there was Bess to be thought of.
“We’ll leave the gold,” he said sharply.
Kate’s hand lashed across his face. “We will not! I’m going back and get it!”
Stephen shrugged and dragged her away, down toward the tavern where she worked. It was the best thing that could have happened to him, that slap. It showed him where Kate stood. “Was it for passage to England that ye needed the gold, Kate?” he asked when they reached the tavern—and he was breathing hard, for she had struggled with him all the way.
“ ‘England’?” Kate tossed her head and gave a scornful laugh. “They’d hang me there—as they would you! No—’twas for fine clothes and a coach!”
“Good luck to you, then, Kate.” I hope you get your coach someday.” He left her glaring at him from the tavern door and turned quickly away, hurrying along toward the quay. With every step away from them all he felt better. Somehow, some way he was going back to Bess—although just how he was going to do it he was unsure, for he was down to his last coins. But he was feeling better about his life. He’d done what he could by Imogene and been—thank God—rejected. Whatever happened now, he was going back to his sweet Bess to live all his life in her shadow. If only he could offer her marriage, just as all along he had offered her love!
Back in the white-stuccoed house he’d just left, Imogene had lifted her skirts and flown like a skimming swallow up the stairs. All the way to her bedroom she ran and slammed the door behind her with a force that shook the house. Below her the milling wedding guests left in a body, led out by van Ryker, who promised them “all the grog they could
drink” in the nearest tavern.
He was gone a very long time.
Dry-eyed, Imogene sat in her wedding finery, and stared blankly at the rough plaster of her bedroom walls. She could not understand her emotions today. She felt caught up in a wild turbulence, a maelstrom that left her confused, bewildered, uncertain. Daylight faded and darkness came—and still she sat. The sudden velvet night of the tropics descended. The stars came out and moonlight drenched the red-tiled roofs of Tortuga, turned the gently waving green palm fronds to silver, gilded the magnificent bougainvillaea. And still she sat.
There was a knock on the door. It was Arne.
“Go away,” she called tonelessly.
“The Cap’n asks that you come down to the chart room, m’lady. He says to tell you he’s readying up for a long voyage and he wants to tell you good-bye.”
“Tell him—” lmogene was about to give Arne a devastating message for van Ryker but she decided she’d rather deliver it herself. Come to think of it, she had quite a lot of things to say to the tall buccaneer!
Head high, she strode down the stairs with Arne stumping along behind her on a leg that was more silver than wood—and marveling at the strange relationship between the Cap’n and his lady.
Arne held open the chart room door for her—and jumped out of the way as lmogene slammed it behind her. She was alone now in the long room with van Ryker. The captain had not been looking at his maps. No candles had been lit, but the shutters were open and the room was bathed in moonlight. At the far end of the room, past the long table, van Ryker—who seemed not to have heard the door slam—stood impassively with his back to her, a dark and silent figure silhouetted against the moonlight streaming in through the open shutters. He had divested himself of his red satin baldric and of his silver-shot doublet. He was wearing now a loose white shirt. She could see the billow of its wide sleeves, the ruffle at the cuffs, for he was leaning on one hand on the windowsill and the moonlight played over his sun-browned fingers and picked out a sparkle of gold and green from the emerald ring he always wore for luck.
He did not turn to look at her. “lmogene.” His voice was calm and tired, weary with the emotional storm that had racked him. “Sit down. I have something to say to you.”
“More truths? I will take them standing!” She was amazed at how cool she sounded. She was not cool—her nerves were taut to the breaking point. “What new revelation do you have to confound me?”
“One you will like better than the last,” he said quietly. “It is not true about Linnington—he is not married to that woman you saw.”
“What?” lmogene sank down upon one of the high-backed chairs, feeling as if her breath had been knocked from her body. "How do you know?’’ she whispered.
“I told you Linnington and I had met before—in the Bahamas. In fact, I tried to recruit him for my ship’s company, but he declined—he had an offer as a factor in Barbados.”
“But the woman said—”
“Sometime after that I met the woman, Kate, here in Tortuga. She had fled England with her brother—a notorious highwayman who is still recovering from his wounds. ’Twas she who told me the story of how she, for a lark, had arranged a bogus ‘marriage’ while Linnington was drunk. The ‘preacher’ was a cutpurse, the witnesses thieves. It was no legal marriage and she left him soon after.”
“But—but the other one?”
“He married the tavern maid in Lincoln, but ’twas a bigamous marriage on her part, for she was already married. Kate knew all about it and considered it a great joke. Linnington was not a villain, lmogene, but he trusted women. He was twice duped.”
"Then—?” Her head was whirling.
“He is free to marry you.” Still van Ryker did not turn. "But—” his voice hardened into steel—"while I live, you will not go to him. Do you understand that, Imogene? You are mine.
I gave you up once, to the Dutchman—and lived with regret. I will live with regret no longer.” He made a violent gesture with his arm and his shirt sleeve billowed. “You are my woman, Imogene—mine!”
Her voice was bewildered and filled with pain. “You knew all along. . . . Why did you do it, van Ryker? Why?”
Against the pale moon, she could see him running a distracted hand through his heavy dark hair. “A man does many things in the name of love,” he said heavily. “You were slipping away from me, Imogene, you were going to die— perhaps by your own hand. I had to give you a reason for living and so I did: hatred of me. I knew that if you could learn to hate me enough to want to escape me at any cost, even to kill me, you would live—if only to do the thing. And now, Imogene—,” he sighed—“you shall have your chance. My sword lies there on the table.” She glanced at the long table with its pile of charts and maps and saw that that was so; its basket hilt gleamed in the moonlight. “The blade is unsheathed. I have given Arne orders that no matter what happens you are to be allowed to leave the house and not be pursued. If it is your pleasure, you can run me through. I will do nothing to stop you, for I doubt not that I deserve it. If you wish to leave me. you must use that sword—for while I live, I will never let you go!' ’
Imogene stared at that broad back in the moonlight. What he was saying was incredible! He had lied to her, mocked her, plundered her of a woman’s most sacred treasures, and in the end betrayed her trust when he had led her to the altar with Stephen Linnington. And he had done it all in the name of love?
Van Ryker waited for a long time. The room was very quiet. And then he heard it, his senses quickened at the delicate sound behind him—a rustle of silk. Imogene had risen from her chair. His ears alert to those tiny rustlings, he presently heard another sound, more menacing than the first—a chilling sound he knew only too well, the sound of a naked blade scraping over a table’s wooden surface.
Imogene had taken up the sword!
All his muscles tensed, waiting for the moment when that deadly point would be plunged between his ribs.
Well, he had given her leave to kill him! And reason enough to want to.
“Van Ryker,” he heard her say coolly. “Turn around. I would not strike you from the back.”
Taut and ready, he turned slowly around to face her, expecting as he did so to see a single flash as the long blade entered his chest.
Instead a dazzling sight met his eyes.
Imogene had loosened the hooks of her bodice and chemise and allowed petticoats and all to slide to the floor. The delicate lawn and lace of her chemise foamed up around her slender ankles, rising from an island of white and gold silk, but the rest of her stood naked to his gaze in the moonlight. Her golden hair had been loosed and now it streamed down around her white shoulders and the rosy-tipped mounds of her pulsing breasts pushed temptingly through its silken curtain. Long strands of shining golden hair cascaded along her white arms and caressed her smooth stomach and the soft curve of her hips. She stood very straight and proud, her thighs gleaming pale in the moonlight. In her hands she was holding the sword, which suddenly she turned about and offered him hilt first.
“Van Ryker,” she said softly. “I believe you love me.”
His throat constricted at the richness of her tone. “And if you do not—” the blue eyes were very steady—“I would ask that you take this blade and kill me now, for I am a woman who cannot live without love.”
“Imogene.” His own voice was husky. “How could you ever doubt it?” In a single stride he had reached her side. He took the sword from her and tossed it skittering to the stone floor.
His strong arms were about her. Exultantly he swept her up, burying his dark face in her lemon-scented hair. She could feel her naked breasts being softly crushed against the cambric folds of his shirt, could feel his belt buckle cutting into the yielding flesh of her stomach, could feel his familiar manly hardness press against her tingling thighs. “I did love Stephen.” she admitted tremulously. “But it was a—a lesser love. Not the love I have always felt for you.”
And that was
true. She had felt challenged, threatened by him and—when at far Wey Gat she was sure he had deserted her—afraid to care. She had walled him out. But his love had been strong enough to batter down the walls she had so carefully built, strong enough to break through to the fiery recesses of her secret heart. Now she could admit that the love she felt for this lean adventurer was wide and strong and deep. It could run rivers of tears or rise to shattering peaks of ecstasy and desire. Like the North Star, it could guide her. It could claim her very soul.
Impatiently van Ryker reached down and picked up her silken “wedding gown.” He tossed it over her naked body like a shawl and strode with her in his arms through the torch-lit patio and up the stone stairs to her bedroom. From where he sat, smoking his clay pipe in the darkness, concealed behind a clump of graceful bougainvillaea, Arne watched. He saw the reckless smile that lit his captain’s face as he took the stairs three at a time. He saw dangling from his captain’s arms a swatch of gold silk and a gleaming white leg, dangling luxuriously. And nestled against his captain’s shoulder and swirling down to his knees, a riot of golden hair.
And after this morning’s aborted wedding! Arne shook his head in perplexity and wished his captain luck with the dazzling lady who had taken Tortuga by storm.
Upstairs his captain was having that luck. Van Ryker had charged into the bedroom, kicked the door shut with his boot and deposited his languorous lady on the big square bed. Moments later his clothes were tossed onto a chair, his boots discarded and flung across the room, and he had joined her—an impatient naked giant, lured into haste by her beckoning smile.
In that first moment of contact as he lowered his body onto hers, they tensed. Perhaps they were both remembering all the wild gales, the fury and clash of wills that had gone on between them. Then Imogene gave a small sob and flung herself upward against him. Van Ryker’s hold on her tightened and his strong competent hands moved gently, lovingly, down her slender white arms that shivered to awareness at his touch. Now he was lightly fondling her breasts, exciting a nipple here, tingling along her spine there, caressing a twisting, turning hip that burned at his touch.
Bold Breathless Love Page 46
