She desisted, panting.
“I’ve never seen you look so angry,” he observed. “It bodes well for a pleasant bout before supping, don’t you think?” He had entered her again with a single satiny thrust! And now he was laughing at her struggles, enjoying it, chuckling deep in his throat, a merry sound that resounded through her own indignant body. Little waves of sensation began to steal over her as his clever expert hands found secret places to touch and stir and set atremble, as his body moved to a silken rhythm that increased in tempo even as it stirred her.
“You cannot always keep me tied up!” she choked, trying to tear herself from his grasp, trying to steady her own tumultuous feelings. “I will escape you—I will! Yes, and I will put an end to myself, you cannot stop me!”
“If you do not repent you of these death wishes, you will spend the rest of your life tied to my bunk,” he told her calmly. “Enjoying yourself.”
“Oh!” Tears of rage sprang to her eyes. “That you could use me so!”
“ ’Tis a delightful use I make of you,” he said, sliding his body along hers in a way that left her breathless and throbbing. “Your body tells me so.”
For four days he kept her tied to the bunk in his cabin—and during all of those days Imogene refused to eat.
But like some beautiful Christian slave at the mercy of her Roman master, Imogene could not escape him. Even when he slept—which was seldom and in catnaps—he pinioned her body with his own so that she could not struggle up and seize a bottle and try to dash out his brains or cut her own throat with a piece of broken glass and so escape him forever. And at last, after these tormentingly beautiful bouts of lovemaking, worn out by sorrow and despair and grief and revulsion at her own vivid response to his fierce yet tender assaults upon her senses, Imogene would sleep. She slept the worn-out sleep of a child. And then the man beside her would sigh and tie her wrists gently but firmly with silken scarves to the bunk—for he must sleep, too. At his touch she would stir but not wake and he would smile down at her limp lovely body, so temptingly outflung, so soft and infinitely desirable. He had never known a woman with so raging a desire to live—and now so raging a desire to die. And he must turn the tide.
On the fourth day he looked down at her lovely exhausted face, studied her tenderly as she slept. He who had held so many women in his arms, had given his heart away at last, given it to this rebellious slip of a girl.
At first as he studied her, his face had looked boyish, but now it took on a worried look. This refusal to eat was dragging her down physically and she had no reserves to call upon. He loved her but she was slipping away from him. Into her shattered dreams of all that she had lost.
Into the sea where the sharks would eat her.
His square jaw hardened. While he lived, that would not happen.
And now he saw too clearly the path that he must tread: To save her, he must forever alienate her.
And he knew with a bitter flash of insight that if she left him, his life would be ashes. He knew as he watched that lovely sleeping face that whenever the Sea Rover's great sails billowed and he looked out into a wide cerulean sky, he would be seeing the blue, blue shimmer of her eyes. He would never walk through a lemon grove or plunge a knife into the golden fruit without remembering the heady sweetness of her golden hair.
He would never again clasp a woman in his arms without a rush of memories of skin like silk and lingering kisses and a torrid blur of passion and tenderness that transcended anything he had ever felt for a woman.
And now to save her life, he must make her hate him. He turned from the bed and walked to the window, stood gazing out at the blue Caribbean that stretched away from him. It was strange what a man would do in the name of love. He came back to the bed, untied her, woke her with caresses.
“I hate you!” she sobbed, beating her fists impotently against the mattress, “I hate you!”
“Good,” he said tonelessly. “It will give you something to think about. I had the Spanish. You have me.”
“I will make you pay for this!” she panted. “As God is my witness, I will make you pay for it!”
He shrugged and left her, locking the cabin door behind him. He hated leaving her at all but he had a ship to see to, so it was a chance he had to take. If she got free, there were so many ways she could end her life, if she chose to do it. The cabin was full of sharp objects—the small arms were locked up but she could always break a bottle or a goblet and slash her wrists—so many ways. He could only hope that her very fury would keep her from despair.
Now he locked the cabin door and leaned against it. Hate me, Imogene, he thought with a violence that rent his whole being. Hate me and live. His jaws clamped together and his whole hawklike face hardened with resolve. He would do it—in spite of the fact that he loved this winsome wench, he would do it. He would engender hatred in her until the spark of desire to live was rekindled and the flame burned steady and bright. His men thought their captain looked exceedingly fierce and grim as he strode about the deck. ’Twas their opinion that he should have looked more relaxed and sleepy for one who had just spent four whole days locked in a cabin with so lustrous a lady!
CHAPTER 30
Imogene and her buccaneer were like two gladiators locked in mortal combat. As he battled the woman he loved for the life she would throw away, theirs became an almost superhuman clash of wills. Having chosen death, Imogene would not let him reverse her decision. And next to death, she preferred the sweet oblivion of sleep—a sleep from which van Ryker rudely roused her to take her into his arms. But when she was awake and not fighting off his relentless assaults upon her body, his ruthless efforts to subordinate her will to his, she fell into wild paroxyms of grief. They were exhausting her.
There was more than one way to die.... Imogene was still refusing to eat. All the color had left her cheeks and the newfound strength van Ryker had so carefully nurtured was deserting her. It terrified van Ryker to see her grow physically weaker even while her indomitable spirit pressed on—toward death. And these wild nights in his arms were sapping her strength as well. He debated leaving off, but having gone this far he felt he must go further—he had to establish for all time this hatred that would give Imogene a will to live.
He taunted her, mocked her weakness, wore on her senses with passion, drove her to fury and ecstasy and guilty delight—for which she suffered a heavier burden, for she felt she must atone.
They were nearing Tortuga now and Imogene was barely able to leave her bed but her bright spirit still flashed in resentment at sight of him.
Now as he came into the cabin, she lifted her head in disdain.
He measured his bound captive with a sardonic glance. “There is no reason for you to die,’’ he said mockingly as he unloosed the knotted scarves that held her. “You have already had your funeral, Imogene—while still alive.”
She frowned, hating him for baiting her like this. “What do you mean?” she asked sulkily.
“That the patroon—your late husband—held a great funeral for you. And buried an empty coffin. All the river mourned you, Imogene—indeed, they could not help it. There were lavish gifts to the mourners—suits of clothes, scarves, gloves, mourning rings. It was such a funeral as has never been held on the North River and probably never will be held again. Rest assured you will not be forgotten there. I tell you clearly, you cannot hope to rise to such heights again. A funeral at sea is of small consequence compared to the one you have already had at Wey Gat!”
“Be silent!” she cried, driven too far by his taunts. Poor Verhulst—whatever else, he had loved her. . .. “What would you know of love, of anything?” Her shoulders trembled with rage as she fought not to cry for the man who had driven her to such extremities.
“That’s right,” van Ryker agreed cheerfully. He reached out a long arm and stroked her shoulder. She pulled away. “What would I know of love?” He smiled into her eyes. “But I can teach you the ways of lust, Imogene, and they are many
.”
She jerked away from him as if hot irons had seared her. “I hate you, van Ryker! I hate your touch—I hope the Spanish drop you with their first shot the next time you try to seize one of their ships!”
“A fitting end,” he said carelessly. And then with cold flippancy he added, “Have you ever wondered what would happen to you in the event such a misfortune occurred?”
The question was asked politely but there were spikes in it.
Imogene swallowed. “You mean—your crew?” she whispered.
“They would share you, share and share alike,” he said flippantly, knowing it was not the truth, for buccaneer crews behaved with gallantry toward women. Even their female Spanish captives were allowed to reach Cuba or some other Spanish port, and an English woman could certainly walk safe among them. He hoped his crew never heard his calm assessment of what they would do if he were killed—there’d be general indignation! But he felt it necessary to terrorize Imogene, he had to bring her to some semblance of reality, he had to make her a woman again instead of a self-willed sacrifice to grief—else he would surely lose her. “I see you are thinking on it,” he added on a cheerful note.
“I would kill myself,” she breathed.
“Ah, yes, that is the answer to everything.” He stretched out his long legs and tried to look bored. “Imogene will waste away, Imogene will refuse to eat, Imogene will throw herself into the sea that sharks may dine on her! My lady—” he leaned forward and grasped one of her wrists in a paralyzing grip—“you were made to live, to love, to sing into the wind. That is your destiny—not to sink to the sea bottom and be eaten by the hungry prowlers of the deep.”
“What would you know of my destiny?” she gasped, wincing.
“Because I will shape it,” he said calmly, loosing his grip and letting her reel back from him. “Just as I shape you to my arms, so I will shape your future, Imogene.”
She struck at him weakly and he fended her off with ease, laughing. She did not see the sudden flash of concern in his eyes that her blow was so weak. She leaned panting against the wall and closed her eyes, hating him. Her knuckles clenched white and her fingernails bit into her palms. He dared to make sport of her in her grief—oh, the beast!
“How did you know—about my funeral?” she asked him haltingly.
Her voice was sulky, reluctant, but van Ryker felt a glimmer of hope. She was showing an interest in something at last! “I had it from the captain of that Dutch ship who hailed us. He’d been pursued by a Spanish galleass and wanted to tell me her last position. He was late of New Amsterdam, which was still agog with the news of your funeral.”
She digested that. “You told him of course that I am still alive?” she challenged. Perhaps, she thought forlornly, the schout would arrest him when next he stepped onto the dock in New Amsterdam!
“Of course I did not tell him.” He watched her through narrowed eyes, following the progress of her thoughts. “For that part of your life is over, Imogene. You shall live out your days here on the Sea Rover—and ashore in my house on Tortuga. Wherever I will, at my pleasure—but you will always be with me.”
“You deceive yourself! When I am strong again—”
“But you will never be strong again,” he cut in smoothly. “For you refuse to eat, you take no proper exercise, you will not even stroll around the deck and take the air. No, Imogene, you will always be with me. I doubt me you will ever leave this cabin.”
She sat up, enraged by his suggestion, and flung a leg over the bunk. But she was very weak and staggered as she rose.
Van Ryker fought back a desire to steady her, and let her waver across the room on her own, grasping at chairbacks and table corners to keep from falling. Compassion for this gallant girl rushed over him and he had to turn his face away from her lest she see the leaping love in his eyes. “It will do you good to walk about the cabin,” he flung carelessly over his shoulder. “And I mind it not, for you have not the stamina to escape me.”
“Have I not?” she gasped, and he could hear her white teeth grinding. “Have I not?"
Van Ryker hid a smile—this was the old Imogene, flinging back a challenge. He pretended to yawn.
“As you will,” he said indifferently, rose and turned at the door to give her a mocking smile. “If you have in mind to drag yourself on deck and once again consign yourself to the deep, let me tell you that I have posted a guard at this door who will escort you and stay by your side and keep you safe—on pain of a thrust with this.” He patted his basket-hilted sword contentedly and strode away from her, his ears alert for her gasping sob of chagrin as he left her.
“I would I had a sword of my own!” she called after him. “I would ran you through!”
He paused regally, a sultan reproving an impudent but valuable slave. “You are not strong enough to lift it,” he said contemptuously, and was gone.
Imogene leaned dizzily against the cabin wall and realized the truth of what he had spoken. Weak as she was, she would not be able to lift his sword, even were he to hand it to her hilt first. Indeed, she could barely stand. She tottered back to the bunk, collapsed upon it.
Van Ryker came back for something and she turned on him with tears spilling from her lashes. “Oh, damn you!” she cried hoarsely. “Do you think I want to forget? I want to remember my baby—and Elise and Stephen—all exactly as they were! And even Verhulst—I want to forget the bad and remember the good! Why can you not leave me to my grief, van Ryker? Why must you—?” She covered her face with her hands and he watched her with compassion.
She was weeping in deep gulping sobs when he left and when he reached the deck he leaned against the rail and felt sick. For he knew he was forever damning himself in the eyes of this woman who meant everything to him—everything.
When one of the buccaneers swaggered by and winked broadly at him and mouthed a bawdy jest, van Ryker ripped out an oath and seized the fellow by the throat with a murderous grip.
As swiftly as it had come over him, the madness left him and he flung the terrified fellow away from him and ran a shaking hand through his hair. To him the woman in the great cabin was no joke. If she died a part of him would die, too—the best part, he told himself grimly.
But in the cabin now Imogene was reacting to her grief more normally. Feeling abused and with half her thoughts on van Ryker and her vindictive desire to punish him, she wept for the child she had lost, for the woman who had been like a mother, for her first lover....
Van Ryker knew that forever in her heart she would carry Georgiana—and all those she had loved. Save one: He was determined to replace Stephen Linnington in her affections! And yet he was certain now of what must be done. His broad shoulders sagged with the realization that by what he must do now he would forever destroy his chances with Imogene. He must destroy them forever that Imogene might live—live to love again.
He came back to the cabin to set in motion his harsh decision. Having already given her hate, now he must give her hope. Imogene was too frail, too near the verge of irreversible decline to tamper with further.
“What, still refusing to eat?” He looked significantly at the platter of food placed temptingly near the bunk and still untouched.
Imogene dashed the tears from her eyes and turned to face him with a look of enormous contempt. Her eyes were great blue lamps of accusation.
The buccaneer stood steady before that look, feeling her hatred strike him as palpably as a blow. He reached out wistfully to touch her hair and she flinched away from him.
“Well, on one count at least, you need not concern yourself,” he drawled, watching her face. “I lied to you—Stephen Linnington is alive.”
Indignation and astonishment and delight and horror fought for mastery in the beautiful countenance before him. “How could you do it?” she demanded. “How could you take me like that, knowing he was alive?”
“Easily.” His voice had a lazy harshness, like the edge of a blade. “You are mine, not Linnington’s.
”
“You are wrong, van Ryker. I am his—and I will go back to him.” She gave him a suspicious look through her lashes. “You are not just saying this to torment me?”
“On the contrary. Linnington was badly wounded, yes—but hardly dead. Raoul examined him and said he would recover. Would you prefer to hear it from him?”
Imogene studied his face. He kept it expressionless. She must continue to think him cold and terrible, he told himself, using her only for the gratification of his lust.
“Now perhaps you will eat? Or would you prefer to play games?” He moved a hand intimately down her pulsing throat and caressed her breasts.
“If you will leave off these hateful intimacies, I will eat,” said Imogene hastily, drawing back and reaching out unsteady hands for the soup.
“All of it. The bread too.”
“Yes!” Violently.
Van Ryker smiled and leaned back and watched her teeth snap into the bread. There was more fire and life in her today.
She was moving away from death, although she did not know it.
For the first time he was not afraid to leave her alone and untied in the great cabin. But to taunt her he shoved a heavy chest before the door and slipped through the opening. “It will be beyond your strength to move this,” he told her pleasantly.
“And if the ship sinks?” she asked in a flat tone.
“Then I will be back to rescue you. If not, you will have found the death you have so earnestly sought!” With a laugh, he pulled the chest across the door by a leathern thong, making it effectively bar the entrance. Noisily, he locked the door that she might hear and be nettled.
After he had gone, Imogene, refreshed a little by her unaccustomed meal, dragged herself from the bunk and leaned, half fainting, against the cabin’s paneled wall. With her eyes tightly closed, she swore a great oath: She would grow strong enough to escape van Ryker; she would exercise when he was not looking, she would eat all her food and demand more. She would live and grow strong for Stephen—they would be together again. She would escape this damnable pirate who held her captive here! She would!
Bold Breathless Love Page 43