Rash Reckless Love, page 28
Imogene clutched his arm. “Darnwell,” she muttered fiercely. “When Anthony and Charles come back up that hill, they’re going to go looking for Esme—and when they don’t find her, they’re going to realize that I’m not the woman in the wicker trunk! Do you want that to happen while we stand here talking?”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “ ‘Tis time we took our leave.” With a flourish he pushed aside a large palm frond that barred their passage. “This way, Imogene—I’ve had an entire day to find all the best hiding places this plantation affords. This is one of them!”
She was grateful for his help through the thick underbrush.
“How do you propose that we get away?” she demanded.
“I’ve secreted a boat a little ways downriver,” he murmured, and led her circuitously down what was scarcely a path until at last, half hidden by a growth of palmetto, she saw its prow sticking up. It was small, she saw, but adequate.
As they were about to push off, he said, “Sh-h-h,” and gripped her arm, pulling her back behind a clump of huge cabbage palms.
Imogene, chilled by the pressure of his grip, peered out. In the darkness—for the moon had gone overcast—she could see a boat going silently by. It had a number of men in it—she did not try to count them—and vaguely she could see the shape of what looked to be a large box toward the stern.
The wicker trunk! These were the cutthroats who were taking Esme downriver! And she could well have been the woman in that trunk! She felt faint for a moment and swayed against Darnwell, who clamped a quieting hand over her mouth.
When the boat had receded into the darkness, he let her go.
“I think we’ll just let them get well ahead of us,” he said comfortably.
“Darnwell,” she cried, quivering. “Don’t you feel anything at all? The woman in that wicker trunk was Esme—a woman you’ve held in your arms! A woman you’ve made love to—”
“I doubt me any sultan of Araby can stand against her,” said Darnwell coolly. “If Esme ends up in a harem. I’ll wager you guilders to oranges she ends up ruling it!”
Imogene shuddered away from him. It had suddenly come over her what it would be like to wake up on a pirate ship with no hope at all—for whatever their arrangements had been before, she was sure that would make no difference to Captain Vartel—what it would be like to be sold in the marketplace like cattle, and then... after all that... She turned her head away.
“ ’Tis the fate she had arranged for you,” Darnwell said silkily. “I am surprised you could mope over a woman who duped your cherished van Ryker to his ruin.”
That was true! In that moment of horror she had forgotten that! She turned back to face Darnwell. ‘‘You are right,” she said in a steadier voice. ‘‘I had forgotten how she ruined van Ryker.”
The man beside her smiled grimly into the verdant darkness. Just at that moment he would have given the fortune he did not possess to be that “ruined” van Ryker and have this lovely woman yearn for him.
“They misjudged van Ryker’s temper,” she said as they got into the boat and cast off. “He would not simply let me disappear—he would tear the Caribbean apart to find me.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Darnwell murmured, picking up the oars. “I know I would—if you were mine.”
Something yearning in his voice caused her to lift her head.
“I had given you up,” she said sternly.
His back was moving rhythmically as he rowed. “But I told you I would be back,” he chided.
“Yes, but when you did not come. ...” She shuddered.
“Actually,” he told her in a conversational voice. “I never left. I went but a-ways upriver and came immediately back.”
She stared at him in the darkness. They were passing beneath the overarching branches of some great trees and it was too dark to see his face.
“But why did you not tell me?” she cried. “Why did you leave me alone there? I thought I was deserted!”
“I’m of the opinion you did very well for yourself. I stayed in the background, waiting to lend a hand when you came a cropper—but you didn’t. Indeed, I doubt me I could have forced such a confession from Esme!”
“She only ‘confessed’ because she believed Anthony would soon have both the paper and me and she could snatch and burn it!”
“Yes,” he said gravely, “but had I been there, she would not have done it. She is a brave woman and she would have stood her ground and dared us to do our worst.”
“Yes,” said Imogene reflectively, “I suppose she might have.”
“You wanted to get your confession—I let you get it.”
“And with it, I can win van Ryker a pardon? Can I not, Darnwell?” .
“I should think it would be possible,” he said. “For it is concrete evidence, signed and”—his white teeth flashed in a grin as he and Imogene came out from under the trees.—“of course, witnessed by me when I get around to affixing my signature, that Anthony Ryder and not his brother Branch killed Dunworth.”
“You’d do that?” she breathed.
“Of course. Did I not hear her confess it and watch her write and sign it as well?”
It was with a lighter heart that Imogene sat back in the boat and let the current and Darnwell’s oarsmanship carry them downriver to Port Royal.
“Where will we go?” she wondered, as they approached. “To some inn? For I must get me quickly on the first ship bound for Tortuga.”
“I made arrangements before leaving Port Royal,” he told her coolly.
“I cannot believe it! Darnwell, you have thought of everything.”
“I have tried,” he said modestly. “There may be some small details that I have overlooked, but as to the main elements, I believe them to be well under control.”
Imogene fought back a desire to laugh—and managed it. Darnwell was entertaining, he was droll—and he was competent. She had been reluctantly forced to admit it.
To her surprise, he took her not to an inn but to the same solidly built two-story house she had occupied during her bout with fever. He brushed by a fellow who seemed to be lounging near the entrance and pushed open the door.
Imogene was about to comment on its being unlocked, but at Darnwell’s slight silencing shake of the head, she held her peace and let him lead her in and close and latch the door behind him.
It was dark where they stood in the entrance hall and Darnwell’s booted feet echoed on the stone flooring as he guided her toward another door beneath which a line of light showed.
“There is something in here that will interest you,” he said, flinging the door open and suddenly sweeping her with him into the room, closing the door with his boot.
A moment later Imogene had whirled and was trying to surge back through that door, but Darnwell grasped her by the arm and held her fast.
Her stricken gaze went from the single candle guttering in a brass holder on the table to the wicker trunk in the center of the room, and seated on the floor, flanking it with their hands and feet tied and gags stuck in their mouths, the figures of Anthony and Charles Ryder.
“And here in this room we have,” said Darnwell in a voice gone suddenly ruthless, “a murderer and his two accomplices and”—his voice softened, became caressing—“a most delightful buccaneer’s woman—sure bait to bring van Ryker storming to Jamaica, where he’ll be shot to pieces by the Jamaica Squadron.”
As those cold words trickled over her, Imogene steadied herself. Flight was no longer possible. She had reached the end of her rope. Her stricken gaze flew to the grim face of the suddenly formidable man who towered over her.
“Who are you?” she whispered, for this was not the casual whim of a rakehell, but a well-thought-out scheme, expertly crafted and carried out.
“Who am I?” he drawled. “Why, I thought by now you’d have guessed. I’m Darnwell Keating, as I told you. I’m also Lord Marr—the new governor of Jamaica.”
“I don’t believe you!” cried Imogene. “You’re not the governor of Jamaica—Lord Marr is an old man. You said so, Anthony said so, all the world says so!”
Darnwell kept his grip on her. “I said Lord Marr was an old man—and so he was. He was also my uncle. He died just before I set sail, died commending me to my new post, which was supposed to reform me and for which he’d paid a pretty penny to the king. I would to God he had given the coin to me instead of to Charles, for I’d much have preferred the gaming hells of London to exile in the Caribbean. But then I’d never have met you, would I? So there’s a bright side after all!”
“You—a governor?” She still could not believe it.
He gave a short laugh. “It’s all too true, Imogene. My uncle said before he died he was going to give me a chance to mend my wild ways, for he’d be dead soon and I’d inherit his title. He used to think a good woman could do it, but he flung several my way and I promptly misled them all. He came to believe that a firm seat of power would hold me on the paths of righteousness. What do you think about it?”
He was laughing at her—laughing as she stood here amid the ruin of all her hopes, laughing as he planned van Ryker’s death! Imogene’s fists clenched.
“Come,” he said, urging her toward the door. “I’ve something to say to you in private.”
“But—” she looked back at the three of them. “You can’t leave them here in this condition. Esme could smother in that trunk if she moves about and gets her sleeves over her face—those full sleeves could easily smother a person! And those huge gags—Anthony and Charles could choke to death, Darnwell!”
Darnwell, now come into his own as Lord Marr, heaved a heavy sigh.
“Your soft heart will be your ruin, Imogene.” But he went over and threw open the lid of the wicker trunk, which revealed Esme’s limp form, sleeping peacefully. He lifted the straw hat and Imogene saw again that beautiful petulant face.
“We’ll leave the hat,” said Imogene quietly. She wanted Esme to wake up feeling straw scratching her cheeks, to look down and see herself clad in the domino, to find herself in the trunk—even if she wasn’t sailing to Tangier!
“As you wish.” Darnwell reached out and yanked the gags from the mouths of the two brothers. “Keep silent,” he warned them. “For if ye make any disturbance at all, the men behind that door”—he jerked his head toward the only way out—“have orders to slit your throats without benefit of trial; we’ll try you posthumously and hang your corpses!”
Charles gave a great shudder and his eyes rolled heavenward as if seeking aid. But Anthony leaned forward with all the fury of a striking cobra. “Having your men say ye’d have us sold as slaves in Barbary! And now talking of hangings! Ye’ll pay for this!” he snarled.
“Doubtless.” Darnwell placed a boot casually against Anthony’s thigh and sent him sliding to the other side of the room, where he ended up with a thump against the wall. “But you’ll not live to see it!” He turned at the door and gave them all a nasty smile. “Rest well, gentlemen. I leave ye to contemplate your sins, which doubtless will occupy ye until your trials.”
He took Imogene by the hand and firmly escorted her upstairs, back to that room where she had spent long weeks burning up with fever. She felt at a disadvantage in that room, for it reminded her that she was beholden to this man.
“You were financing Esme,” she murmured. “ ’Twas you made her give me that gray silk gown on shipboard. You were the reason she did not try to kill me on board the Bristol. She knew you were the new governor. She sold van Ryker to you—and me as well!”
He did not bother to deny it.
“All the time you were scheming.” Dark and accusing, her level blue eyes looked into his. “I cannot believe it—that you could have been so false to me.”
His muscles quivered as if she had struck him a hard blow. “I have not been false to you, Imogene,” he said hoarsely. “I told you I came here on a mission. That mission was to clean out this nest of buccaneers that infest this part of the Caribbean.”
“And give the colonies back to Spain?” she said scornfully.
He shook his head. “The English fleet will patrol these seas. The Jamaica Squadron is being enlarged, refitted. We will no longer need the buccaneers.”
“These colonies could not have survived without them!”
He gave her an angry look. “Can we not forget politics?”
“Politics?” She looked about to explode. “We are speaking of my husband’s life, Darnwell!”
“Yes, but it is a worthless life,” he sighed. “You deserve better—and I will give you better, Imogene. Once he is dead, I will marry you. You will be wife to the governor of Jamaica, a woman respected, looked up to, protected. Nor will we have to languish long in this accursed outpost. Once my mission is accomplished, I will petition the king for some better post—something in the West Country perhaps. We may have to make our way back to London by circuitous routes—but make it back we will!”
Imogene was staring at him as if he were a monster. She had not heard his last words. Her mind had come to a dead stop with Once he is dead, I will marry you.
“If you harm van Ryker,” she told him in a level voice, “I will find a way to kill you—so help me God!”
He saw he had taken the wrong tack with her. She was an emotional woman, given to storms. He looked past her at the big bed where she had lain tossing with fever.
“Then you can buy him his life,” he said slowly. “And he can sail to hell, for all of me.”
Fear crackled inside of her. “ ‘Buy his life’? How?”
“You can become my woman.”
The room held a sudden stillness, a tense waiting. It was as if they had always known it would come to this, these two. They stared at each other raptly. They might have been alone in the world.
“Van Ryker would hear of it,” objected Imogene in an altered voice. “He would tear Port Royal apart stone by stone to find me—yes, and Spanish Town too!”
That russet head was nodding in agreement. “But if he does not hear of it?”
“How could he not hear of it?” she demanded bitterly. “I would be seen at the marketplace, riding about in a carriage, attending balls!”
He made himself harden his heart, although the hurt look around her mouth tore at him. What Imogene had not chosen to give, he would now take—for he could not bear to lose her.
“He would not hear of it if you kept yourself to this house, if you lived here as cloistered as a sultan’s favorite in some harem in Barbary.”
She flinched. “I could not do it!”
“Not even for van Ryker?” he taunted.
A storm seemed to shake her, blowing her this way and that. Pain throbbed through her as she thought of van Ryker. Never to see him again? A dry sob racked her body. Van Ryker’s tall commanding figure floated up before her. He seemed to be staring down at her, fierce and hawklike, demanding that she reject this insolent offer and let him take his chances.... And then another vision intervened. She saw him suddenly in her mind’s eye, mounting a tall gallows erected between the high tide and the low. She saw him giving a last look out to sea....
“You mean—live here always?” she whispered.
Darnwell’s eyes gleamed. He had her now! Her love for van Ryker had been her undoing. She would be his at last!
“Always,” he said calmly. “As long as I am here in Jamaica. When I leave you will go with me. Meantime you will live here. With me. And as long as you accept me, Imogene, I promise not to harm a hair of van Ryker’s head. You have the word of a gentleman.”
“I have the word of a dissolute rake from the gambling hells of London,” she said bitterly, her face very white. “I don’t doubt your uncle urged this governorship for you on King Charles ‘to make a man of you’—it is not likely to happen. You will never change.”
He nodded urbanely, his eyes veiled. “What you say has more than a grain of truth,” he admitted. “But it is beside the point, whether I reform or no. Do we have a bargain?”
She swallowed. It was hard for her to speak.
“Do we have a bargain?” Fear that he would weaken and let her go hardened his voice.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Darnwell Keating, late of London, drew a long ragged breath. He had won. He had forced from her a promise. And he knew in his heart that she would keep it. Why then did he not feel better about his victory?
“I will leave you alone now,” he said. “For I have matters to attend to. There is no escape from this room, so I pray you, do not try it. If you try, I may change my mind about not harming van Ryker—I may decide to loose the Jamaica Squadron on him after all.”
And van Ryker, suspecting nothing, would sail into a trap. Imogene’s hands clenched.
“I will be ready,” she said steadily, “when you come for me.”
“Good.” He bent and pulled her dress down from her shoulder—a shoulder he now felt belonged to him. Fire rushed through him as he brushed that smooth, enticing skin gently with his lips. “They call you the Jewel of Tortuga, did you know that, Imogene?” he asked hoarsely. “And sometimes its queen.”
“Ridiculous,” she scoffed, although her shoulder quivered under the pressure of his lips, for against her will she found this man desirable. “Tortuga has no queen. It has a governor sent by France.” She decided to try once more. “Van Ryker would pour over you a shower of Spanish gold,” she said wistfully, “if only you would let me return to him.”
His hands slid down her shoulders, freed her breasts from her tight bodice, his fingers eased beneath her chemise. He cupped her silky breasts in his hands, toyed with them gently. Imogene stood her ground, for to cross him was to watch van Ryker die.
“My rewards will be even more golden,” he told her, looking deep into her eyes. “And more joyous.”
She caught her breath. For him, she saw, there was no turning back. Nor for her.
She was trapped.
“All I ask is that van Ryker be kept safe from harm,” she said in a breathless voice.
“Then I suggest you undress. I would prefer to find you in bed when I get back.”
