Bold Breathless Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  She would elude the watch, find van Ryker at whatever tavern or inn he was staying. She would go with him wherever he would take her—if only he would spare Verhulst. She would leave no note. She would go out of the patroon’s life as she had come into it, leaving behind her jewels and her furs. Let Verhulst think badly of her, it was what she deserved. But at least he would not die, this heedless boy, in defense of her honor. She could give him the gift of life, she who had so nearly brought him death.

  Tomorrow, she thought, as she slipped silently along New Amsterdam’s dark streets, tomorrow she would sail aboard the Sea Rover—for she had no doubt that van Ryker would promptly quit the town before the guns of the fort could be brought to bear on him and he be forced into battle with his erstwhile friends, the Dutch burghers.

  Tomorrow—she took a deep breath of the cool sea air—tomorrow she would become that creature she had scorned to become—a buccaneer’s woman.

  PART TWO

  The Prisoner of Wey Gat

  A toast of the woman brought low

  By loving unwisely too well,

  Who ends up with nowhere to go

  But her own deep private hell.

  The North River,

  New Netherlands 1657

  CHAPTER 15

  Leaning on the rail of the Danskammer's high quarterdeck, Imogene van Rappard stared up at the mighty Palisades moving languorously by on her right. They had left the sea gate—that point where the North River met the East River—behind them. And now, with a cool breeze whipping her fair hair, Imogene stood awed into silence by the grandeur of the high-flung basalt escarpment that lined the river’s eastern bank. They had been sailing by it for miles. Across the glittering water on the western bank was a forest brilliant with all the colors of fall, but Imogene had eyes only for the towering stone battlements that guarded the eastern bank, rising like a curtain wall before her fascinated gaze. Henry Hudson discovered this, she thought. He sailed for the Dutch, but he was English. She felt a sudden glow of pride for the valiant man who sailed out of England for far places, men like. . . Stephen Linnington. Men like—Captain van Ryker, whose English, she thought wryly, was far too perfect for a Dutchman.

  Captain van Ryker.... Imogene’s features tightened perceptibly. Three days had gone by since the night of the fire and the Governor’s Ball. Two moons had risen and set since Imogene had wended her stealthy way to the dark wharf to strike a bargain with the buccaneer captain—a bargain that, she knew, would save her husband but sweep her out of his life forever.

  For a husband would never take back a wife who had gone willingly into the arms of a buccaneer, sailed publicly away with him on his ship. She would not expect him to. Nor, in this case, a little wisp of a thought plagued at her, would she want him to.... And again as she hurried toward the wharf she heard the musical call of the islands and felt warm breezes washed with sun sweep over her.

  But she had come to an amazed halt at the wharf. Dawn was breaking by then and in its pale light the billowing white sails of the Sea Rover—pinkened now by the rising sun—stood far out to sea and a southward sweeping wind was carrying her buccaneer fast away from her.

  Imogene’s senses had wheeled full circle and settled back with a thud.

  He had sailed without her. He had not even said good-bye.

  Her throat felt dry and some wild thing that had sung in her heart was stilled—perhaps forever.

  The lean buccaneer was gone.

  Almost at her feet a bundle of ragged clothes that turned out to be an old man who must have slept the night on the dock, rose up and stretched. He smiled at Imogene blearily through a matted gray beard.

  “Were you here when she left?” Imogene indicated the pink sails far away.

  “The Sea Rover, jufvrouw?” He called her “young lady” in his rough Dutch even though he had answered her in English. Along the wharf many languages were spoken.

  She nodded.

  “Aye. Sailed with the tide, she did. Her captain—I know him well; many’s the coin he’s tossed me—came back from the fire looking grim and told his men to upanchor and away. Buccaneers is like that—sudden fellows.” He gave her a sympathetic look. “Was there someone on board her you wanted to see before he left, jufvrouw?”

  “No—no one,” she said quickly and turned away.

  Torn between relief and regret, Imogene went home through a town already stirring with the dawn, to find Vrouw Berghem up, wearing a starched apron, vigorously sweeping the front stoop. She looked up in surprise at the sight of Imogene.

  “I found the front door unlatched,” her hostess explained, “and I thought Verhulst must have gone out seeking the captain.”

  “ ’Twas I who sought the captain,” sighed Imogene. “I hoped to persuade him against this duel but I found him already gone. The Sea Rover was far out to sea when I reached the wharf.”

  Vrouw Berghem gave a great sigh that shook the starched folds of her white apron. “Thank heaven for that!”

  “Verhulst would not have approved of my going. You’ll say nothing of it?”

  “Of course not. ’Twas exactly what I would have done in your place. Come in, we’ll have a bowl of Indian porridge together.”

  Imogene was eating the Indian porridge and meditating on the sudden fellow who had told her last night he’d make her a widow and today was a fast-disappearing dot on the horizon when Verhulst came down the stairs, stretching and yawning.

  He was wearing another dark velvet suit, very like the one he had ruined last night, and he looked at Imogene, still attired in the traveling dress she had donned last night, in some surprise. “You’re up early!”

  “I didn’t go to bed last night,” she admitted. “I was worried about you.”

  Her husband’s chest expanded. “No need. Van Ryker’s seconds haven’t been about, have they?”

  Imogene shook her head.

  “The Sea Rover has sailed,” put in Vrouw Berghem importantly, setting a place for Verhulst. “And good riddance to it!” She was about to add, A man who’d duel with a boy! but thought better of it.

  “ ‘Sailed’?” Verhulst looked astonished. “Did you say she’d sailed?"

  “Late last night,” said Imogene. “With the tide.”

  “Well!” Verhulst’s velvet doublet expanded still further. “So he was afraid of me, the damned pirate!” He chuckled, his opinion of his skill as a swordsman going up several notches.

  Imogene looked quickly down at her plate. She was silent as Verhulst consumed his Indian porridge. Whatever van Ryker’s reason for leaving so abruptly, she knew it was not fear. . ..

  She could not know that after the tall captain and his buccaneers had helped the men of New Amsterdam subdue the rapidly spreading fire, he had looked at himself and his motives in the afterglow of the blaze—and been chagrined at what he saw.

  He now faced squarely the unpleasant truth: He was trying to drag with him to the Caribbean an unwilling woman—a woman who had flirted with him lightly on the high seas, it was true, but there he was a man to be reckoned with, which gave him, he supposed, a certain romantic allure that might attract a lovely woman. Here on dry land this same woman clearly preferred another man, a man both wealthy and titled who could give her a safe, secure life—her husband. Had she not blithely announced to all the world that she would soon be bearing Verhulst’s child? Had she not told him to his face that she loved her husband? The words had cut van Ryker to the heart.

  Van Ryker stamped out the sparks from a still-smoldering ember and cursed himself for a fool. He had forgotten what he was—a buccaneer, a man with a price on his head, a man with a short life expectancy. Who could blame a woman for not choosing such a man? And he had gone chasing after her like some enamored schoolboy.... How she must be laughing at him!

  The leathern buckets were being collected now, the livestock—happily unscorched—herded away from the vicinity of the ruined stable. Tired men were stumbling back to home and vrouwen. Van Rappard was n
owhere in sight—he of course had good reason to hurry back: Imogene was waiting for him.

  The captain glared about him. In his exasperation, he had an urge to throttle someone.

  “Do we go back for the lady?” Barnaby’s voice at his elbow.

  “No, we do not,” was the curt answer.

  “But I thought ye said—”

  The captain swung around, presenting a smoke-blackened visage. So wicked was his countenance, so burning his eyes, that his ship’s master fell back in alarm.

  “We’re leaving!” roared van Ryker. “Pass the word that anyone not aboard within the hour will be left behind!”

  Barnaby sprang to carry out that command but he gave his captain’s broad departing back a puzzled glance. For himself he was glad enough to leave New Amsterdam, for the Widow Poltzer was too hot on his heels for comfort and he’d no wish to marry her daughter—or anyone else for that matter. But the captain ... he’d never seen him so taken by a woman. Barnaby sighed. It was as well they were leaving. If the captain had carried out his stated plan to seize the patroon’s wife and make off with her, the port of New Amsterdam would be closed to him—and to a buccaneer that was important, for the Dutch burghers paid a high price for goods.

  Van Ryker strode away from the partly burned stable, now drenched and smoking. Scowling, he headed for his big seaworthy ship in the harbor. Let the Dutch patroon make what capital he could over the fact that van Ryker had evaded a duel with him. Doubtless, he told himself sardonically, Verhulst would tell Imogene her buccaneer was a coward. Somehow he doubted that she would believe him. She might even believe the truth—that he had made her a parting gift of her husband’s life. And if any other man dared to suggest he had run away from an encounter—here van Ryker’s bold countenance became an implacable mask of menace—he would carve the truth on his impudent body with his sword!

  Now brisk and businesslike, van Ryker gave curt orders to round up any stragglers among his men, to drag from the taverns any who were drunk. Thank God they’d finished their provisioning this day, for with the mood that was on him he’d no mind to miss the tide.

  And with that tide the Sea Rover left New Amsterdam behind her and took to the sea lanes, prowling far southward to harry the Spanish Main. Word drifted back north of his exploits, but the Dutch Coast of New Netherland saw him not.

  But when he sailed van Ryker carried with him a token to remind him of Imogene—the sheer white whisk she had “accidentally” lost on the way to his ship that first night. It had been fished from the water and carried to him and carefully washed and dried, and now it lay among his shirts, a sweet reminder of what might have been.

  He would find other ports to sell his illicit goods, he told himself—Tortuga had a vast waterfront market where everything from salt to slaves were sold. And if he prowled north again to New Amsterdam, he would finish his business with the Dutch burghers quickly and sail away again—he would hold himself back, he would resist the urge to sail upriver to Wey Gat and gaze again upon the winsome wench who had stolen his heart.

  None of this Imogene knew, but her pensive thoughts were on van Ryker as the Palisades towered by.

  She started and tried to erase any sadness from her face as behind her Verhulst spoke. He had come up behind her so silently that she had not heard him. Now at his voice her body swung around toward him with a pliant gesture of submission, telling him mutely how grateful, how very grateful she was for his understanding and support.

  But Verhulst was not looking at her. His gaze was concentrated on the river’s eastern bank with its vivid splashes of red and gold and crimson. “Fall is late this year, Imogene. We should have lost the leaves long before this.”

  “I am glad summer has hung on,” she told him gravely. “The colors are lovely—much more brilliant than they are in England.”

  Verhulst gave her a look of proud approval. He wanted his English bride to love this land—as he did. “Are you warm enough?” he asked solicitously, reaching out a black velvet arm to touch the azure satin ribands at her elbow. “That broadcloth dress is thin for a breeze as stiff as this.”

  “I wore it because you admired it,” she smiled, touched by his obvious concern for her.

  “And so I do—it matches your eyes.”

  “Then I shall keep on wearing it all the way to Wey Gat,” Imogene laughed, “and so keep your favor!”

  “My favor you have already,” he said, suddenly grave. His voice grew husky, humble. “I was proud of you at the Governor’s Ball, Imogene.”

  She thought he might have said more, but big Schroon, the Danskammer's schipper, called out suddenly and pointed to something on the western bank. From Schroon's first hearty “Welkom aan boord” she had liked the big, smiling Dutchman. Now as Verhulst hurried over to big Schroon’s side, Imogene’s gaze followed those spatulate pointing fingers. On the west bank, just moving into the cover of the trees, was a party of buckskinned Indians, moving silently, single file. Perhaps they were on one of their hunts, in which whole tribes participated—Verhulst had told her about these autumn hunts—before the winter cold closed in.

  But Imogene’s attention soon left the spot where the Indians had melted into the forest. She went back to studying her husband’s back thoughtfully. He presented a slim, richly clad figure as he talked earnestly to the huge schipper, whose great bulk looked sloppy in his wide homespun trousers and coarse loose shirt. Behind those dark eyes, who could know what Verhulst was thinking? And yet, he had been so considerate of her, so anxious after her welfare and comfort ever since that reckless moment when she had boldly announced her pregnancy to strike the malicious smile from Rychie ten Haer’s sneering face.

  He is pleased about it, she told herself firmly. Else why mention how proud of her he had been at the Governor’s Ball? And yet, a little voice tugged at her, he has not spoken of the baby directly, nor asked me how I came by it. Does he not wonder who my lover was? Is it conceivable that he just accepts it and does not care.... I had expected him to speak of it when we came home after the fire—but he said nothing, just went to bed. Of course, then he was expecting to duel with van Ryker in the morning . Still, in all the time that we visited Breukelen and toured the fort and all the other sights New Amsterdam had to offer, he has not spoken of it. I kept thinking he would bring the subject up, that he was waiting for a propitious time, but he has not....

  Imogene told herself she must count herself lucky, but she could not help being puzzled by Verhulst’s bland protective behavior. She toyed with the idea of bringing the subject up herself but some deep female instinct for self-preservation bade her to accept his indulgence and let the subject alone until he himself saw fit to bring it up. She had come to see in Verhulst’s personality a certain instability. Sometimes he laughed too loudly, or became too excited, or too depressed. She thought he was too intense.

  It was enough, she told herself, that he accepted the baby’s coming—more than she had hoped, that he should welcome it. Elise was still frightened, but Elise would come to realize that in marrying Verhulst she had chosen a remarkable man, a man of rare understanding and patience. Strange... Imogene had always felt herself to be a good judge of men, and she had not perceived in Verhulst this kind of rare understanding.

  Then if her husband was such a gem of understanding, she asked herself bluntly, why could she not forget the lean buccaneer who had warned her he would abduct her and then sailed blithely away? Memories of van Ryker tormented her. She saw his smile sparkling upon the water, his sardonic face looked out at her through the trees, his voice was borne to her upon the wind.. . . Perhaps if Verhulst found her more physically desirable, she told herself angrily—for what else could it be, this neglect of his young wife when he was in such apparent radiant health? She had expected a husband, not a guardian. And not in all this time had he taken her in his arms. ...

  Of course, Verhulst’s look of health could be deceptive. Did not the eyes of a consumptive sparkle brilliantly, the cheeks
of a consumptive glow with color? She paused and surveyed her husband carefully, now standing beside Schroon at the tiller. His cheeks were not too flushed, but then he had a sallow complexion. Nor were his dark eyes unduly bright.

  Why—she had been a fool not to think of it before now! The reason for Verhulst’s neglect of his marriage bed had been a simple and kindly intentioned one: He had noticed her pregnancy before she had; aboard ship, while his “pains” still plagued him and kept him away from her bed, he had learned of her morning sickness, heard her retching in the next room. If that were true, then he must be mad about children, though he had certainly never shown any interest in them either in Holland or America.

  But as she studied her husband across the Danskammer's swaying deck, she could see that all was right in his world. The rightness was in his face when he looked at her, in the approval in his voice when he spoke to her.

  Imogene frowned and began walking restlessly along the deck. She could get her exercise that way, for the Danskammer was a large sloop, broad of beam, heavy of planking, and some seventy-five feet long. The sloop could hold some hundred tons and although she moved upriver with her hold bulging, there was still plenty of room to walk around the bales and boxes lashed down upon the deck. The Danskammer's mast was placed well forward and her large mainsail and small jib flapped overhead. There were two cabins on the quarterdeck: one occupied by Verhulst and big Schroon, the other by herself and Elise. The three-man crew, all cheerful and speaking voluble Dutch, slept on deck beneath the stars—or beneath spread canvas when the weather was foul.

  They were making slow headway because the wind slanted down upon them off the Palisades, even though the flood tide was carrying them inexorably north.