Wild Willful Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  And yet in her arms... in her arms he was the lover she had dreamed of those nights in the Scilly Isles when she had looked up at the tall standing stones they called Adam and Eve and asked them to send her a lover....

  A great tenderness filled her eyes when she looked at him stripping off his clothes in their airy bedroom in the late afternoon, and her heart was full. She got up and toyed with the invisible hooks down the middle of the back of her bodice. Fumbling hands would add spice to her gown’s removal.

  “They are too difficult,” she complained, watching him through shadowed lashes. “I fear I needs must have help or the dress will never come off!”

  “It will come off,” he promised her, stripping off his shirt and divesting himself of his trousers and standing before her with naked chest, clothed only in his thin white cambric breeches. As ever, the magnificence of his physique astonished her. On Tortuga one grew used to half-naked men toiling at the careening of ships, running like monkeys up the rigging—but none looked like van Ryker, whose mighty wingspread of shoulder and fencer-slim waist and hips gave him the look of an arrowhead poised to pierce the earth.

  She had felt his magnetism that first day in Amsterdam, when he had appeared out of nowhere, sauntered up and demanded an introduction—she felt it now. Her heart was racing.

  He stepped forward and put his arms around her. Skillfully, without looking, he began unhooking—by feel—the recalcitrant hooks down the back of her bodice. She pressed against him, moving her breasts gently against his lightly furred chest and felt his muscles recoil suddenly, felt tension build within him. She gave a low exultant laugh that she should have this power to move him.

  “Van Ryker,” she murmured, “you have never brought me flowers before. Esthonie says Gauthier never brings her flowers except when he has been naughty. Have you been naughty?”

  She was lightening a moment that was building explosively for both of them. Their bodies were so finely attuned to each other that they seemed to pulse as one. For them it had always been like this—since that first time when he had taken her in the great cabin of the Sea Rover—against her will, but from the purest of motives. She had been so despondent over the loss of her child that he had feared she was slipping away from him, slipping toward death. He had determined to give her a reason for living—hatred of him. And it had saved her life and her sanity, but it had almost destroyed that which was now so real and moving between them.

  She knew he had maneuvered her shamelessly, yet she had forgiven him all, for his love for her was deep and wide and all-encompassing. Such a man deserved forgiveness. He had sometimes murmured against her golden hair that she was his passport to heaven and the only angel he would ever desire.

  His answer to her was unintelligible, but it made no difference. He was unfastening the last hook now. In a moment the dress would come off, and then the chemise—and her naked body would be locked with his in loving embrace. The tropical sounds of the day would become muted and blur into ecstasy as he swept her heavenward in a wild burst of feeling that would leave them both shattered and exhausted—and fulfilled.

  “The flowers are lovely,” she murmured breathlessly, unwilling to let him think she really suspected him, for she had been but teasing and she must be sure he knew it, for nothing must mar the perfection of this moment and those about to come.

  He was sliding the dress gently over her shoulders now, easing it down around her hips. His gray eyes that could be so hard and unrelenting smiled down into hers as openly as a boy’s.

  “I remembered they were favorites of yours,” he said simply, unfastening the tie of her petticoat.

  “The Cups of Gold blooms are enormous,” she said. “The biggest blossoms I’ve seen were no more than three inches across.”

  “When I saw them, I remembered how much you liked them.” The aqua green petticoat slithered down to join the dress in a mounded circle around her feet. Only a sheer white cambric chemise and his thin cotton breeches separated their naked bodies. She could feel his manliness pressed against her.

  Sirenlike, she would make him wait a moment more. “Wherever did you find them? And so many?” she asked airily, as if she was not already half suffocated with desire.

  His answer nearly knocked her flat.

  “In the pimento grove behind the church,” he said carelessly, humoring this lady who wished to converse when there were other more desirable pursuits at hand. His hands roved over her body exploringly. “There’s a great mass of Cups of Gold growing in there. Just walking through, you’re apt to end up with yellow petals in your hair.”

  All of Imogene’s thoughts came to a crashing halt. She stiffened in his arms. Veronique had come riding out of that pimento grove—and blushed at sight of her. Van Ryker must have come out somewhat later, for she could not imagine him wandering about the town or showing a ship for sale with a big bunch of flowers in his arms—no, he must have picked them shortly before he came in, which meant he had thoughtfully given Veronique time to clear the area and then sauntered out himself, having plucked an armload of flowers for his wife in the interim.

  The answer to who Veronique had been trysting with screamed at her. Esthonie was right—it was van Ryker!

  She twisted out of his light grasp suddenly, knocking away the hand that was about to tweak open the golden riband that held her chemise.

  He gave her a swift questioning look as she turned away from him.

  “I—have a headache,” she said. She snatched up her aqua green petticoat and fastened it around her waist with trembling fingers. “Besides, dinner is ready.”

  “Faith, it seems to me this headache has come upon you suddenly,” he murmured.

  “Yes.” Her voice was wooden. “Sometimes it is that way with headaches.” She was slipping her dress back on as she spoke.

  “And would this ‘headache’ be caused by something I’ve said? Or done?” His face was bland but the gray eyes were wary.

  “Perhaps.” She cast about for something, found it. “I have decided I must go with you. Aboard the Sea Rover. I will not be tucked away on the Goodspeed with a single trunk and a fare-you-well.”

  His answer was formal but the steel in his voice was unmistakable. “That will not be possible.”

  Her hands twisted together. “Van Ryker.” She controlled her voice with an effort for her mind had taken fright at the thought of Veronique—Veronique the seductive, Veronique the fashionably flat, Veronique of the challenging amber eyes and the swift tense nervous gestures, Veronique whom men’s eyes followed wherever she went. Perhaps it was true, what Esthonie had always insisted—that men craved variety and wives had to fight for their husbands! “Van Ryker.” Her voice grew low and painful. “I entreat you—take me with you.”

  “No.”

  She gasped. It was unthinkable that he should refuse her. Her blood seemed to rush to her head. “You will not?"

  “My concern is for your safety, Imogene.” His warm compelling hands were on her shoulders now, the intensity of his voice forced her gaze to his. “Have you given thought to what the Spanish would do to the wife of a buccaneer? Especially to the wife of one who had seized the treasure fleet?”

  “Oh, damn the treasure fleet!” she cried, trying to turn away from him.

  But he held her fast. “There is another danger lurking: disgruntled individuals—like Flogg. If they band together, if they become a cohesive force—”

  He left the words hanging meaningfully in the air, but Imogene seized upon them. Perversely she wanted to defy him.

  “Go on,” she said. “Don’t stop there. Add that they may be ringed about Cayona harbor right now, just out of sight over the horizon. Waiting for you to come out!”

  His answer caught her breath for he nodded soberly. “There have been reports. Hopefully they are untrue.”

  “I will refuse to leave the island without you!” she cried, stamping her foot. “Do you hear?”

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders
. “You realize, of course, that I am stronger than you?” he drawled. “And that I could simply pick you up—as now!” Suddenly he swept her up against his chest. “And carry you aboard?”

  “Van Ryker, put me down!” She was in no mood to play and the strong throbbing of his heart against her left breast was disturbing. His touch had always affected her this way. In a moment little shudders of feeling would begin, and after a while the whole world would be blotted out—dominated by the pressure of this man’s will—nothing else would matter.

  But not today! Not with the shadow of Veronique between them! She began to struggle anew.

  Van Ryker’s eyes, with the softness of her in his arms pressed against his broad chest, had grown tender. She was very dear to him, this slip of a girl, more precious than all the gold in the world. He would not risk her but—he would not humiliate her, either, by carrying her bound and gagged, or kicking and screaming, aboard the Goodspeed, thereby notifying all Tortuga on what ship his lovely lady sailed. Imogene must sail in secret—for her own protection. How he would accomplish that must wait for later. For now, his cordlike arms tightened about her and he drew a deep involuntary sigh.

  “Imogene, you’ll be the death of me.”

  “Bah! How do I know you do not have a dozen women?” She gave a furious jerk that almost tore her from his arms.

  Van Ryker blinked. “I give you my word,” he murmured. “There is only one.”

  “Swear!” she cried perversely.

  He laughed. “I swear on Spanish gold! May my sword arm wither if I have lied—I have but one woman in my life!” He looked at her keenly. “You have been listening to gossip. Rumor would have me bedding half Tortuga! It is a recreation here—inventing lies. And, anyway,” his gaze on her was incredibly soft, entirely honest, “your heart will tell you that there is only one.”

  She heard that welcome note of awareness in his voice, that softening, that timbred depth—and told herself she had been wrong about Veronique. It was all a ghastly mistake, van Ryker had had some other reason for going into the grove.

  She relaxed, letting her slender body slump against him, and turned to let her round breasts move seductively against his chest. She could feel the sudden bunching of his muscles in response and her body glowed with triumph that she could so affect him.

  His thick, shoulder-length dark hair fell over her expectant face as he leaned down to kiss her—a long, exploring kiss that left her breathless.

  “Van Ryker..she murmured luxuriously. “Forget about dinner, I don’t want to quarrel with you.”

  Smiling, he carried her to the big bed.

  “Aren’t you going to throw back the coverlet?” she asked lazily.

  Plainly, he was not. There was an urgency in him today, a violence that she could explain only by her having challenged his will by refusing to leave without him. But it was there—a felt force. Van Ryker could feel it rushing through him, this passion, this violence born of alarm for her safety, and frustration that she would not see that he meant only to protect her.

  And Imogene, lying luxuriously beneath him, her hastily donned clothing tumbled, her bodice tugged down, her skirts sliding upward over her smooth hips to her waist beneath the urging of his impatient hands, succumbed to the warmth of his body, the fever of his lovemaking. She was drawn into his passion as a light skiff might be drawn into a maelstrom, borne irrevocably along, half swooning in his strong embrace.

  And all the time a litany sang through her heart that he had not been unfaithful, that it was mere coincidence, that Veronique had gone to the grove to meet some other man, and van Ryker had merely passed by and remembered the Cups of Gold and paused to gather her some. This was the truth—what his body was saying to her now. Every sure measured touch, every gesture however tentative or delicate, sent aching bursts of pleasure shuddering through her slight frame and gave the lie to her foolish jealousy of so short a time before.

  It was magical how van Ryker could draw her into splendor and send her hurtling over the brink of ecstasy. Not even Stephen, wild lover that he had been, could so seize control of her heart and mind and body so that they became one as surely as the heart and mind are one, locked in love forever....

  She drifted out of the magic slowly, as in a lovely lingering dream. Van Ryker was gently, playfully, stroking her breasts in the tender afterglow of passion.

  She seized him with a sudden burst of affection and almost smothered him with her kisses.

  “What’s this?” he laughed. “Did I do something right?”

  She was trying to tell him, wordlessly, that she had been a fool, and that all was right with her world.

  The next day she plunged into supervising the cleaning and packing of the silver. It was an enormous job, for the house was laden with plate of all kinds—massive candlesticks captured from Spanish galleons, chargers heavy enough to support a forty-pound roast turkey or an enormous baked sea bass, giant salts and ornate bowls and salvers—all of them polished to a high sheen and packed away in hogsheads and barrels and whatever else could be found to carry them. '

  At the end of the day she was very proud of herself. She was glowing as she ran downstairs to greet the returning van Ryker. Despite a smudge on one cheek and several smudges on the bodice of her simple cream dimity gown edged in narrow bands of deep gold satin, she looked adorable.

  Van Ryker stood at gaze, admiring the picture she made in her forward rush.

  “The silver is all packed!” she cried merrily—and suddenly her smile froze on her face.

  There were a couple of yellow Cup of Gold petals caught in the top of his scarlet baldric where it crossed over his shoulder and one long pointy spirally twisted yellow bud was tangled in his windblown dark hair.

  The Cups of Gold had turned out to be cups of rue.

  PART TWO

  The Governor’s Daughter

  The governor’s wife is sure she is right

  To dress her youngest daughter in white

  Like proper Parisian girls.

  But the governor's daughter yearns for gold,

  Indeed, indeed she would sell her soul

  To wear black satin and pearls!

  The Island of Tortuga,

  1661

  CHAPTER 8

  Leaning silently on her windowsill in the tropical night, with the trade winds blowing through the heavy iron grillwork and open casements to ruffle her thick black hair, Georgette, youngest daughter of Tortuga’s French governor, watched with interest the antics of the young buccaneer with whom her older sister, Virginie, had flirted day before yesterday on the quay.

  For all she was but thirteen and her figure still flat and coltish, Georgette’s dark eyes were cynical. This was a pantomime she had watched before—some young buck climbing up to Virginie’s window in the moonlight, to be helped over the sill with a giggle while the householld slept like the dead below. Jaded Georgette felt she had seen it all: the eager ascent—and the quick retreat, for Virginie had told her wickedly how she always at just the right moment cried in a stage whisper, “I hear Papa coming!” and her swains scrambled out the window and away. “Except once or twice, of course,” she had not been able to resist adding. “You must never be easy,” she had counseled Georgette loftily. “Not so much as a kiss the first time they call.”

  Georgette’s eager mind had skipped over the first call and rushed on to what happened after that. “You mean you actually lost your virginity?” she had gasped in delighted horror. And when Virginie had smiled mysteriously and giggled, she had demanded to know what it had been like. Virginie had made up a horribly exaggerated tale and Georgette had believed every word. Ever since, Virginie had been lording it over Georgette with her “ruin.” Georgette’s envy knew no bounds.

  Georgette peered upward and breathed a deep blissful sigh. As soon as Virginie was married off—which would be soon, she had heard Mamma say—she could have that second-floor room they had added to the house last year.

  Reachi
ng that room from the courtyard had been easy when Virginie had had the balcony. But Dr. Argyll had quipped that balconies favored elopement and Esthonie had frowned and— over Virginie’s tearful protests—had the balcony removed. Which was no real deterrent, because Esthonie had overlooked that big limb of the pepper tree that scraped the house and gave easy access to Virginie’s room to any suitor agile enough to climb a tree.

  Only this particular suitor had no convenient branch to aid him. This particular admirer, whose name was Thaddeus McCall, had managed to reach the roof tiles of the lower floor, and then clambered up to the roof above Virginie’s room. He was now attempting a spectacular descent down through her open window and Virginie, still dressed as she had been at supper in pink and white striped cambric, was leaning anxiously out the window and directing his descent in sharp hisses.

  Georgette’s dark brows lifted in scorn as she saw the young buccaneer’s hand slip, heard his soft muttered curse as he almost went plummeting down to the courtyard below. She would have more adroit lovers. Hers would never land awkwardly on marble benches and break their legs. They would never miss a step, or slur a name, or forget a face. Most especially they would never forget her face or anything else about her. They would carry her memory with them to their graves.

  That, of course, was for the future, for Georgette was most closely guarded and chaperoned by her mother, who was well aware of her younger daughter’s precocity. And, besides, there were the iron bars on the first-floor windows and the outer doors were always tightly locked before the servants went to bed. Even the door to Virginie’s room was locked at night—lest she decide to wander. Georgette’s was not but she could not get outside because the key ring reposed on her mother’s night table and it would be a dangerous expedition to go in and get it. The keys might clink and wake her mother, who would then, to Georgette’s vivid imagination, lock her in for ‘years and years'.