Wild Willful Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  “You never told me that,” she said with a soft catch in her voice. “And you kept them all this time? You carried them with you even when you thought I was lost to you?”

  “In truth I forgot I had them,” he said ruefully. “They were packed away, stored under my bunk. I kept your whisk, Imogene, the one that was fished from the sea. Kept it among my shirts.”

  “Did you really?” She was enchanted. “I had not guessed you to be so sentimental.”

  His lazy gaze took in the lovely woman before him, daisy-fresh in yellow sprigged calico. “I was sentimental about these small reminders because I had not the woman in the flesh before me. Now you may do with the plates as you will.”

  “I will keep them,” she decided. Indeed they would become her most treasured possession—but she would not tell her tall buccaneer that. There was much of Eve in Imogene and Eve’s voice whispered to her that part of the feminine mystery lay in carrying your heart not on your sleeve for all to see, but hidden away, a treasure that must be eternally sought for and won. Her blue gaze glowed at him.

  “You seem to approve me today.” Van Ryker finished his meal and leaned back and grinned at her. “Was it something I said this morning—or did last night?”

  Her wicked gaze sparkled back at him, for last night had been a night of stars and sighs—the stuff that memories are made of.

  “We’ve time for a bit of dalliance before I start my day,” he suggested, his gray eyes kindling.

  “Van Ryker!” Imogene jumped up laughing and flung down her napkin. “You are incorrigible! If we are not to leave half our things here, I must be about it—I had not dreamt we had so many possessions!”

  “You are my most cherished possession.” He got up and moved toward her.

  Warily, Imogene retreated around the table. She knew him in this mood! A few moments more and he’d be scooping her up and galloping upstairs with her in his arms and they would dally and lie abed till noon!

  But it was not to be. Big Arne stuck his head in the door.

  ‘‘That Irishman is here about buyin’ the Heron” he said glumly.

  “Tell him to wait, I’ll be right out.”

  Imogene gave Arne a sympathetic look. Faithful as he was to van Ryker, he was not going with them. “I’m part o’ the landscape here in Cayona,” he’d told van Ryker bluntly. “I’d miss the town and the town’d miss me!” Imogene was sure that was true. She would hate parting with the blunt old buccaneer, who lately had been so lucky at cards that he had pounded enough coins into his wooden leg that it no longer looked silver studded—it seemed made of solid silver!

  “I’ll be taking the Irishman out to the Heron ” van Ryker told her with a lingering look. “He’ll want to inspect before he buys.”

  She nodded, her gaze following him fondly as he left.

  Nina, one of the soft-footed half-Indian girls who helped cook in the kitchen, came in to clear the dishes and gave her a shy look. Imogene smiled at the girl, thinking that she would miss them all.

  A sentimental feeling that was almost akin to homesickness drew her to the big kitchen. The servants were gathered there, drinking beer and eating at a long board that was almost as lavishly laden with food as that which the van Rykers had just departed. They were all absorbed in the fat mustachioed cook’s boisterous retelling in broken English of his upbringing in a French brewery. One of the chambermaids, a red-haired slattern, countered with tales of her early life in the “whey houses” of London. And another, determined to top that, began amid a shower of giggles to brag of her “start” in a Liverpool brothel. Unnoticed, Imogene lingered by the kitchen door for a moment, then moved silently back into the open flagstone inner courtyard where the stone fountain tinkled.

  Well, she must get started! And once she had fallen to sorting out the vast sea of linens she had stored in chests and boxes and stuffed into cupboards, she became absorbed by the sheer pleasure of it, for most of them were so beautiful and delicate that it was a delight to see and touch them. Esthonie would have wheedled them from her, had she thought about it, Imogene knew, telling her how they would mildew aboard ship or otherwise succumb to the voyage. Most of the linens were in excellent condition and Imogene shook them out and refolded them carefully into chests to be carried out by sweating buccaneers and stowed aboard the Sea Rover.

  Sorting and packing the linens was a task that took up much of the day, and when she had finished she decided to pay a courtesy call on Dr. Argyll. The little doctor had been so kind to her that she did not wish to leave Cayona without calling on him again—even though he was not to know that it was the last call she would pay him.

  She changed to a gown more suitable for calling. It was a wide-skirted creation of shimmering peachbloom silk that swayed over a pale aqua silk petticoat, added a sweeping hat that matched the petticoat and supported a wealth of waving peach plumes caught by a gigantic aquamarine that flashed in the afternoon sun. She pulled on pale aqua silk gloves, picked up a ruffled peach parasol, and with Arne beside her she started out into the shimmering heat of Tortuga.

  “Ye could take the carriage,” he suggested, “for ’tis hot enough out here to melt nails.”

  “We’ve sold the carriage, Arne,” she reminded him. “It was picked up yesterday.”

  “Aye, I’d forgotten,” Arne sighed.

  “Anyway, ’tis not far to walk.” Imogene started out briskly with an airy wave of her parasol.

  Arne nodded. She noted that he was heavily armed with a cutlass and a brace of pistols and—she had no doubt—a dagger concealed somewhere in that silver-studded wooden leg. He kept looking about him alertly as if expecting to whisk her away from an attack, but the streets were lazy and empty, and as Imogene had no intention of going down into the livelier part of town, Arne soon relaxed and stumped along beside her with the rolling gait that came of long years as a blue water sailor.

  She gave a little screech as a land crab scuttled away from her feet and Arne kicked at it disinterestedly with his boot, without hitting it. The white coral rock and shell crunched under her slippers and reflected the sun blindingly. In the big branching live oaks birds were singing, and hanging vines and flowers were everywhere. There was a tang of salt in the air.

  And somewhere off Tortuga buccaneer ships were sailing, searching for some passing galleon to plunder....

  It was in a mellow mood that lmogene reached Dr. Argyll’s green-shuttered white house nestled among trees and vines.

  She found him informally dressed in loose white cotton trousers and shirt, but he was delighted to receive her and ushered her into his pleasant courtyard at the back with great ceremony, urging on her wine or at least limeade.

  “I’d prefer limeade,” she told him with a smile. “It’s so hot. I’m parched. And will you see that Arne has some, at the door? For he’s weighed down with pistols and must be fairly steaming!”

  “Of course I’ll see to him. Indeed, we'll all have limeade,” declared the little doctor gallantly. “Zazu,” he called to the young black girl who kept house for him, “we’ll take our limeade out here.” He turned as two striplings appeared, coming out of the house. They were dressed somewhat less casually than the doctor but their shirts hung open in the heat. “You know my young houseguests, the Layton lads, I believe?”

  “Of course,” smiled lmogene. “Have you heard from your father yet, Cooper?”

  “Not yet, Madame van Ryker,” smiled the taller of the two. “But he won’t forget where he left us!”

  “I’m sure he will not. Are you enjoying your stay on Tortuga?”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Andy, the younger brother. “I’ve never seen any place like it!”

  Dr. Argyll and lmogene exchanged glances. “Well, there really isn’t any place like it, I suppose,” said lmogene thoughtfully. “You’ll be able to keep your friends in Philadelphia enthralled for months with your stories about it.”

  “Indeed we will,” agreed Cooper with a grin. “Like that green lizard
that’s just about to drop on your shoulder—we don’t have those in Philadelphia.”

  lmogene gave a start, then relaxed as she saw that it was only a tiny green chameleon that was looking down at her. It opened its pink mouth as if it were laughing at her. “I’m sure you don’t, Cooper,” she said dryly. “You have other unusual things—like snow.”

  Before they could launch into tales of snow forts and snowball fights, of which he was growing rather tired during their continued stay with him, Dr. Argyll interrupted with a hearty “And what else will you tell them about Cayona, lads?”

  “About the girls!” cried Andy irrepressibly.

  Zazu in her brilliant blue and magenta flowered turban was just then serving the limeade and she rolled her eyes at him so that the whites showed.

  Dr. Argyll frowned. That was not quite the answer he had hoped to elicit.

  “But aren’t there lots of girls in Philadelphia?” wondered lmogene.

  “Not like Virginie and Georgette,” crowed Andy—and winced as his big brother suddenly managed to dig a repressive elbow into his young ribs.

  lmogene looked at Dr. Argyll in amusement. “I see you have your hands full,” she said.

  He sighed and gave her a rueful look from his honest blue eyes, and when she left he walked her to the door where Arne was waiting, smoking a long clay pipe. “I promised the boys father I’d look after them,” he told her in a worried voice. “But it’s hard to keep up with them. Cooper was chasing after Virginie for a while, but now that’s cooled off and little Andy is pursuing Georgette. I wouldn’t want anything”—he coughed and grew a little red in the face “—anything untoward to happen. I wonder, do you think I should mention to Madame Touraille—?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t say anything to Esthonie, Dr. Argyll,” counseled Imogene. “She is sure to blow it out of all proportion and become quite hysterical, wondering whether Andy and Georgette should not be married at once, despite their age!”

  Dr. Argyll shivered. “I certainly wouldn’t want that."

  “No, of course you wouldn’t.”

  “They’re a worldly pair for girls so young.”

  “It’s living with Esthonie has made them that way,” laughed Imogene.

  So glumly did the little doctor shake his head that she felt sorry for him.

  “If you’re worried about Andy seducing Georgette,” she told him energetically, “it’s more likely to be the other way around! But for your peace of mind, you’ll be glad to know that Georgette considers Andy a mere child, unworthy of her steel!”

  “I am much relieved to hear it,” said Dr. Argyll sincerely.

  “And, anyway, their house is locked at night and all the windows have bars on them!” laughed Imogene.

  “Oh, I don’t think Andy would be so rash as to break in," he assured her in such an earnest voice that she laughed again.

  “Better you should worry lest he be invited in!”

  “Oh, you surely don’t think—”

  “No, but only because she doesn’t fancy him. If the older brother looks her way, beware!”

  “I shall be grateful to get these two young bucks off my hands,” vowed Dr. Argyll. “And I hope their father comes soon to pick them up.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Imogene bade Dr. Argyll good-bye, but hardly had she cleared the corner of the building, airily twirling her peach parasol, before young Andy Layton darted out of the shrubbery. He looked flushed and excited.

  “It’s all right, Arne,” said Imogene sharply, seizing Arne’s arm.

  Arne had had his big pistol half pulled out of his belt before he recognized Andy. He gave a disdainful grunt and stuffed it back in. “Oughten’t to come up on a man sudden like that, lad,” he counseled gruffly. “Get your head shot off someday, you will!”

  But Andy was young and rash and spoiled. He ignored the old buccaneer’s warning. “Madame van Ryker,” he said in a low intense voice, “could you take a message to Georgette for me? Could you ask her to meet me down at the quay?”

  “Of course I’ll do no such thing,” said Imogene. “Georgette’s mother would be furious if she thought her daughter was running about unchaperoned! I’m surprised at you for suggesting it.”

  “But this isn’t Philadelphia,” protested Andy in disappointment. “Her father’s only a buccaneers’ governor and you’re one of them and could—” He stopped, his eyes; widening, for big Arne had taken a menacing step forward.

  “Andy,” advised Imogene quietly, “whatever you may think of me or of this island or of the buccaneers with whom your father does such a flourishing trade, you will find it no laughing matter if you seduce the daughter of a French governor. Esthonie will have you marry her—and the marriage will stick. So unless you choose to be dragged by your collar to the altar—young though you may be—I suggest you abandon the venture.”

  She swept away, leaving a hostile young Andy staring after her in chagrin.

  But his attitude had ruffled her, his calm acceptance that because she was wife to a buccaneer she would also countenance—indeed assist in—behavior that would be frowned on in Philadelphia. It made her realize how far divorced she was from that other world she had lost—and that she must now reclaim again.

  “Don’t pay him no mind.” Seeing how upset she was, Arne spat. “He ain’t dry behind the ears yet.”

  “I know he isn’t.” She was silent for a while. Then, “Arne, have you seen Andy hanging around the governor’s house?”

  “Once or twice.”

  Imogene frowned. Perhaps she should warn Esthonie to have a care for her daughter.

  She gave Arne a restless look.

  “Let’s take the long way home,” she suggested. “The weather’s so fine I feel like walking.”

  “Anywhere but the quay,” said Arne. He touched his cutlass and pistols significantly. “I should have a couple more fellows to back me up if we’re going to the quay.”

  “But I went there only yesterday with Esthonie!”

  “That was then,” said Arne with heavy emphasis. “There’s been more talk come my way last night. Could be they’ll try to seize you on the quay and bleed the Cap’n of his gold to get you back. He gave orders I wasn’t to take you down into the town without two or three others to back me up.”

  She shivered. Up to now their stroll had seemed so peaceful. The sun was beating down, the palms were at their eternal rustling, overhead gulls and seabirds screamed at the land birds who sang back at them.

  As they passed the church, she heard the soft thud of hooves and waited to see the rider.

  Just as she had expected, it was Veronique. A disheveled Veronique with her hair quite tangled and her bodice not hooked properly. She gave Imogene a look of wild surprise and color rose up her elegant neck to tint the olive-toned skin of her face. With a curt nod, she struck her horse lightly with her hand and dashed by them, the horse’s hooves setting shells and limestone flying from the makeshift road.

  Imogene was thoughtful on the way home. Esthonie, she was now convinced, was right. Veronique was meeting someone in the grove. Van Ryker? Ridiculous! It had to be someone Esthonie and the rest of them must not see her with. Could it be that Veronique had developed a tendre for Esthonie’s husband? That would certainly explain all this slipping around and Veronique’s flushed embarrassed face.

  Back home, she consulted with cook, tasted the green turtle soup and agreed it was delicious. In the courtyard she stood for a moment to admire the tinkling fountain. She was going to miss this fortress of a house on this buccaneers’ island, she thought ruefully.

  At the sound of the iron grillwork doors opening, Imogene looked up to see van Ryker come swinging through the doorway. In one arm he carried a huge bunch of bell-shaped yellow flowers, each blossom about five inches across.

  “You’re early!” she cried. “And you’ve brought me those lovely Cups of Gold!” She used the familiar West Indian name for the blossoms.

  “I had some unfinishe
d business at home,” he said with a grin.

  Her breath caught as it always did when he looked at her that way. “Oh?” she said carelessly, finding a blue earthenware vase to put the flowers in. “And what business was that?”

  “You know what business.” He reached out and took hold of her wrist, drew her inexorably toward the stairs.

  “We should dine first, shouldn’t we?” she murmured.

  “We should dine in Paradise—and then on earthly food,” he said, dragging her with him as she playfully resisted.

  “Who knows, the Spanish may attack tonight, there may be an earthquake, a hurricane may strike, fire may raze the town—it may be the last time we will ever hold each other in our arms!”

  She was laughing as he whirled her into the big airy bedchamber that had known so much love and laughter. “You always make love as if it’s the last time,” she smiled as he kicked the door shut with an impatient boot.

  “And should I not?” He drew her close to him, so close she could feel the strong beating of his heart through his white cambric shirt, so close she could hear her own heart beating like a muffled drum. “If death should claim me tonight, would I not die the happier for having held you in my arms once again?”

  “Van Ryker, be serious!” she gasped. “Cook will wonder—”

  “Where you are concerned, I am always serious—and let cook wonder all she likes!” Even as he spoke, he was carrying her to the big bed. He laid her down upon it, kept his gaze upon her as he unbuckled his sword and flung the big pistols he always carried, now that he had achieved such success and amassed so much treasure, upon a nearby table. She could still feel the pressure of that gaze as he bent down to tug off his boots, the ruffled cuffs of his wide flowing sleeves spilling over his lean bronzed hands as he did so.

  She gazed fondly at those strong competent hands. Dangerous in battle, yet always gentle and caressing as they moved over her soft body. He was a myriad of paradoxes, this dangerous complex man she had married. He was a man’s man, accounted the best blade in the Caribbean. He had carried on a quarrel with the might of Spain—and won. In Tortuga he was a national hero.