A Pirate's Love

  With her mind set on her only solution, Bettina got up and slowly walked to the open window. There was no balcony outside, not even a ledge that might lead to another window.

  Below her to the right was a small awning over a back door, but directly below the window was a pile of firewood. The pile was large, with cut branches sticking up in all directions like pointed spears. There was certain death waiting for her in that pile of branches, a quick death.

  Bettina lifted her legs out of the window and sat there for a moment, savoring her last minutes of life. She smiled ironically, thinking that she had run away from the handsomest man she had ever met. She had left him for this.

  "Oh, Bettina, you have been such a fool," she said aloud with a heartfelt sigh.

  She released her hold on the sides of the window and took a deep breath. All she had to do was lean forward and that would be the end. But a part of her still clung to life, even though that life meant prolonged torture, and she climbed back into the room.

  You have to jump, Bettina. I can't. You could scream for help. No, that would bring Antoine Gautier, and I would still have to jump. Then jump away from that pile of branches.

  She looked out the window again, but the pile was just too large to avoid.

  "The awning!"

  Bettina threw her bundle of clothes out the window; then she climbed out herself until she hung precarious­ly by her hands from the windowsill. She tried to reach the awning with her foot but struck only air. She saw her mistake now. She should have stooped on the win­dowsill and jumped toward the awning. But it was too late, for she was too weak to pull herself back up.

  One hand slipped, and her body twisted away from the building. She groped frantically with her free arm, and she caught the sill just as her other hand slipped. Her body twisted the other way, giving her a clear view of the awning. It looked impossible to reach from her position, for it was at least six feet below her and two feet away. But she had to reach it. It was her only chance to live.

  It was more difficult this time to turn her body back so she could reach the sill, but she finally made it. She knew she had only a few more seconds before both of her hands gave way, but she remained calm. Using her feet to hold herself away from the rough wall of the building, she swung herself back and forth.

  She was still reluctant to let go, but consoled her­self with the thought that she would have died, anyway. She swung away once more, then back toward her target. She let go. She landed on her knees in the middle of the old canvas awning and quickly grabbed the sides, but her weight toppled the rotted supports and she slammed full force into the closed door, then slid the few feet to the ground.

  Bettina gasped for air, then didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She wondered now why she had been so reluctant to attempt escape. Then she glanced up at the window so very high above her and trembled at her own daring. But, thank God, she was free and alive. Now she prayed she could find the Comte de Lambert without running into any more evil men.

  Bettina pushed herself up, picked up her bundle, then ran to the end of the alley. She cautiously looked around the side of the building. Antoine Gautier was weaving drunkenly down the street toward her. Bettina ducked her head back and pressed against the building. She held her breath as she waited for Gautier to pass the alley. He staggered past and then tripped and fell only a few feet from her. Bettina thought she would faint while she waited in suspense for him to get up.

  He rose slowly to his feet and continued toward the entrance of his building without even glancing in her direction. Bettina gave him a few minutes to enter the old inn, which also gave her heart time to slow its beat. Then she dashed out of the alley and ran down the street in the direction from which Gautier had come. She stopped the first person she came to, a young boy, and asked directions to the Lambert plantation. He told her it was on the outskirts of town, but he in­formed her proudly that he had seen the comte on the docks that very morning.

  Bettina continued toward the docks, wishing she were leaving town instead. When she reached the dock, she went up to an old man leaning against an empty crate, whittling on a short stick.

  "Excuse me," Bettina ventured. "Do you know where I can find the Comte de Lambert?"

  "What do you want with him, boy?"

  "It is a matter of importance," Bettina replied. She vowed she would never wear a man's clothing again.

  "Over there." He pointed to a large ship. "De Lam­bert is the one giving orders."

  Bettina hurried on, relieved to find the comte so quickly. She saw that the ship the man pointed to was not unloading crates as the others were, but human cargo, black men with their hands and feet shackled with irons. When she came closer, a fetid odor assailed her nostrils, almost making her sick.

  She saw the man giving orders, a man of medium height, with wavy black hair, but he was standing with his back to her. Bettina called his name. He glanced at her with obvious irritation, and she noticed the golden-brown eyes and strong, handsome face, but then he turned back to what he was doing.

  Well, what did she expect, dressed as she was? Everyone mistook her for a boy. She walked slowly up to him.

  "Are you Comte Pierre de Lambert?" she asked, forcing him to turn around again.

  "Away with you, boy! I have no coins to spare."

  "Are you—"

  "Away with you, I said!" He cut her off sharply.

  "I am Bettina Verlaine!" she shouted back at him, losing her temper.

  He laughed at her and turned away again. She yanked the scarf from her head, then pulled her hair out from beneath her shirt and let it tumble down her back.

  "Monsieur," she called sweetly. When he turned once again, Bettina threw the scarf in his face and stalked away from him.

  "Bettina!" he called, running after her, but she didn't stop. When he caught up with her, he swung her around to face him, amazement on his face. "You must forgive me, Bettina. I thought you were dead. Marivaux re­turned with my ship and told me what happened. I thought you were a young boy just now, come to taunt me. The whole town knows that I was waiting for you to come, and they know what happened."

  Her anger left as fast as it had come, and she smiled warmly at the young man who stood before her.

  "I am sorry I threw the scarf at you."

  "But I was a cad to bark at you the way I did. We will say no more about it. Come," he said, leading her to a carriage a few feet away. "I will take you home now. We will talk later, and then I have a sur­prise for you."

  "A surprise?"

  "Yes, I think you will be most pleased," he replied with a lazy smile. "But tell me one thing now—how did you manage to come here?"

  "On a merchant ship."

  "But it was not a merchant ship that attacked the Windsong."

  "No, it was not," Bettina said. "There is much that I have to tell you, but as you said, we can talk later. Right now I need a bath and a change of clothes."

  "Of course, ma cherie. It will not take long to reach the house."

  "Ah, Madame Verlaine. I am glad to see that you are feeling better today," Pierre de Lambert said as Jossel Verlaine walked into his study unannounced. "It was a shock to you not to find your daughter here on your arrival yesterday."

  "I am not feeling better, monsieur. But I refuse to believe that my daughter is dead. You must search for her!"

  "Please sit down, madame," Pierre said, motioning to a chair beside his desk. "I have found your daughter —or, rather, she found me. Bettina has been shown to the room next to yours. She is presently bathing."

  "But why didn't you tell me this immediately!" Jossel exclaimed and started to rush from the room.

  "Madame Verlaine!" Pierre called sharply, halting her before she reached the door. "I must insist that you wait before seeing Bettina."

  "But why? Is something the matter with her?"

  "No—she seems to be fine. But I have yet to find out what happened to her after she was taken from the Windsong. I must ask that you le
t me speak to her first."

  "But I am her mother!"

  "And I am her betrothed. There are certain things that I must know before—"

  "What are you implying, monsieur?" Jossel inter­rupted him. "It is enough that Bettina is here and alive."

  "If Bettina is to become my wife—"

  "///" Jossel nearly shouted. "Let me inform you, Comte de Lambert, that I was against this betrothal from the very beginning. I always wanted Bettina to choose her own husband. I still do. Now that Andree" is dead, Bettina does not have to honor the agreement you made with my husband. I came here to tell her this."

  "Please, Madame Verlaine, you misunderstood me," Pierre said, flustered.

  "I believe I understood you perfectly, monsieur. If Bettina is no longer innocent, it is no fault of hers. And if you do not wish to marry her, I will take Bettina and we will leave your house immediately!"

  Pierre was annoyed but managed to hide it. He should not have told the woman that her daughter was here, for then he could have sent her away and kept Bettina as his mistress without her mother's knowledge. The whole town knew what had happened to Bettina Ver­laine, so he could not possibly marry her now. But he could not let her go, either—she was much too beautiful to lose.

  "Madame Verlaine, I am sorry if I have misled you. I have every intention of marrying Bettina. But since I will be her husband, I thought she might like to tell me her story first. After all, she did come to me. After­ward, she can rejoice in seeing you, and forget about her terrible ordeal."

  Jossel calmed down and considered what he had said. "Very well, monsieur. I will wait in my room."

  "You will not go in to see Bettina?"

  "I will wait until you have spoken with her. But I wish to be called immediately when you are finished."

  "I will inform you myself."

  Pierre watched her leave the room and gritted his teeth, an angry scowl on his face. He would like to shoot Captain Marivaux for letting pirates capture Bettina. Even if she was still a virgin, no one would be­lieve it. Now he must stall for time and think of some way to get rid of the mother. He felt sure he could handle Bettina if she were left in his care.

  |ETTINA, you are even more beautiful than I remembered," Pierre said when he came into the drawing room and closed the doors.

  "You are very kind, monsieur," she replied de­murely. She felt a bit self-conscious.

  "You must call me Pierre, little one, since we—"

  "Don't call me that!" Bettina interrupted harshly. "Tristan called me his little one, and I never want to hear it again."

  "I am sorry, Bettina."

  "Forgive me," Bettina said quickly, feeling like a fool. "I did not mean to snap at you. It is just that the memory of that man is still vivid in my mind."

  "Who is this man you speak of?"

  "Tristan is capitaine of the Spirited Lady, the ship that did battle with the Windsong."

  "He is a pirate, of course?" Pierre asked, his yellow-brown eyes studying Bettina's face.

  "He claims to be a privateer under the protection of England."

  "Pirate or privateer—it is the same thing more or less. Did he—ah—"

  "Rape me? Yes—many times," Bettina said without blushing. "He lied to me and tricked me as well. He told me he was bringing me here for ransom. But in­stead he took me and my servant to an island he claims as his own. He would have kept me there for months if I had not escaped."

  "This island, does it have a name?"

  "I don't know. From a ship it looks deserted. There are natives who live inland, and there is a large house away from the shore that the Spaniards built long ago."

  "And how did you manage to escape this Tristan?" Pierre inquired.

  "I left the house while he slept, and was able to hail a passing ship at dawn. But we must go back to rescue my old nurse!"

  "Your servant is still on this island?"

  "Yes."

  "But she is probably dead by now, Bettina."

  "She is not! I only left her there because I thought you would rescue her. And I want revenge against Tris­tan. He must die."

  Pierre looked at her with startled eyes. "Bettina, this is absurd. The pirates that plunder these waters are ruthless. They would as soon cut a man's throat as look at him. You do not know what you are asking."

  "I am asking for revenge and to have my servant rescued. If you cannot do this for me, I will find some­one who will," Bettina said, trying to control her anger.

  "Very well," Pierre said, shaking his head. "But I have no ships here at the moment. It will take some time."

  "Wasn't that your ship you were unloading today?" Bettina asked.

  "No. It belongs to a friend of mine. You will meet him tonight at dinner. I was merely seeing to the cargo of slaves that I purchased, but that does not con­cern you." He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. "Will you be able to find this island again?"

  "I have a map." Bettina handed him the folded piece of cloth that Captain Rawlinsen had given her.

  "Well, at least with this you will not have to go along," said Pierre, putting the map in his pocket.

  "But I wish to go with you," Bettina said heatedly. "I must see for myself that Tristan dies."

  "We shall see. But now, if you will wait here, you may have the surprise I mentioned earlier." He left the room, hoping that her mother could dissuade Bet­tina. To even think of attacking a pirate stronghold was ridiculous.

  "Mama!"

  Bettina could not believe her eyes when she saw her mother appear in the doorway. She ran to Jossel and clung to her, fearing that she was just an illusion.

  "It is all right now, my love. I am here." Jossel spoke softly, stroking Bettina's hair.

  Hearing her mother's tender words, Bettina's com­posure dissolved and she burst into tears. She felt like a small child asking her mother for love and protection. The tears turned into heartrending sobs that Bettina couldn't stop if she tried. Her mother was here, and everything would be all right now. Bettina was no longer alone.

  It was a long time before the tears dwindled and Bettina's breathing returned to normal. They sat on the sofa, but Jossel still held Bettina wrapped in her arms.

  "You do not have to speak of it if it is too painful, Bettina."

  "No, I want to tell you, Mama. I must know if I am wrong in the way I feel. I am filled with such hatred that sometimes I think that I have changed into another person."

  Bettina told her mother everything that had hap­pened, from the moment when the Windsong first sighted the Spirited Lady, to her escape from the island and her talk with Pierre. She omitted nothing of her time with Tristan, even admitting that her body had betrayed her many times into enjoying his love-making.

  "Maddy could not understand why I hated Tristan so much. And Pierre thinks it is foolish that I want revenge. He is my betrothed—he should also want re­venge. But I could tell that Pierre would rather forget about the whole thing." Bettina paused, looking at her mother with pleading eyes. "Am I wrong to hate Tristan so? Is it wicked of me to want to see him dead?"

  "This man raped you continually, and you have every right to hate him. But you are alive, Bettina. He could have raped you once and then killed you, but he did not. It is wrong to wish someone dead. With the life he leads, this Tristan will die soon enough. Do not let his death be of your doing. To seek revenge is to destroy yourself."

  "But to see him dead is all I have thought about."

  "This is not good, my love. You must forget this man. You must put your hatred and your memory of him aside. What has been done cannot be changed. It is a fate that befalls many women, but they survive and so will you," Jossel said, pushing the hair back from Bettina's face. "You are lucky, ma cherie, for you can choose what to do with your life. You can marry the comte if you wish, or, once dear Maddy is rescued, we can all go back to France."

  "But I thought it was all arranged—that I had to marry the Comte de Lambert."

  "Not anymore, Bettina. And
ree" made that agreement, but—but Andree is dead."

  "Dead!"

  "Yes, he died the day we returned from Saint-Malo. It was an unfortunate accident. He fell from his horse and hit his head."

  Bettina shivered, remembering her own fall from the white stallion. Although he was not her real father, he was the only one she had ever known, and she felt sorrow.

  "I am sorry to give you this news after what you have been through," Jossel said.

  "It is all right, Mama. It must have been hard on you, being all alone."

  "I must be honest with you, Bettina. I told you before that I never loved Andree. Living with him all these years has not been pleasant. And any fondness I had for Andree" was destroyed many years ago when he began to pressure me for a son. I was shocked by his death, but I did not mourn him. I felt only a sense of free­dom."

  "It must have been awful, living all those years with a man you did not love."

  "I had you to live for. You gave me happiness," Jossel returned.

  "But you are still young, Mama. You can still find love."

  "I doubt that, ma cherie." Jossel smiled. "But I am a wealthy widow now, extremely wealthy. I never dreamed that Andree was so rich. I can afford to give you anything you want now, to make up for all those years you were kept from me. But this means that you do not have to marry the Comte de Lambert if you do not wish to. We can stay here for a while, and if you find that you love him, then you have my bless­ing. If not, then we will leave."

  "I have grown so accustomed to thinking of Pierre de Lambert as my future husband, it is hard to think otherwise," Bettina said with a half-smile.

  "Well, at least Andree chose a young man for you. And he is handsome."

  "Just being young and handsome does not make him a good man," Bettina said, remembering Tristan's startling good looks. "But as you said, we can stay here for a while. I will need time to know Pierre better."

  They continued talking until the Comte de Lambert came in to escort them to dinner. The dining room was rather cramped with a huge polished mahogany table, which was presently set for four. A tall man who appeared to be in his late forties, with curly black hair and dark-gray eyes, was seated at one end of the table. He rose courteously when they entered the room.