A Pirate's Love

  "Tristan did all of this for you without being asked?"

  "Yes. I did not expect to be treated so kindly. But I think Tristan did it because of you, because I am your mother."

  "More likely so he would not have to deal with my wrath," Bettina returned bitterly.

  "No, Bettina. I think he really cares for you. He did not like keeping you locked up."

  "That is absurd. He enjoys making me suffer!" Bet­tina snapped, her eyes turning green at the mention of her three-weeks confinement.

  "Many times he started up the stairs with determi­nation, then stopped in indecision, as if he were righting with himself. He would go a few more steps, then turn around abruptly and storm out of the house. He did not know I saw him, but I believe that he started up the stairs to release you."

  "You are interpreting his actions the way you want to believe," Bettina replied. "You would like to believe Tristan is an honorable man and that he cares for me. Well, he is not honorable, and he does not care for me. He wants me only to satisfy his lust, no more."

  "Does Tristan speak French?" Jossel asked, sud­denly changing the subject.

  "No. He is an English seadog who speaks only his native tongue," Bettina replied contemptuously.

  "You did not tell me he was such a handsome man."

  "What does it matter how handsome he is, when his soul is black with sin?"

  "You do not find him even a little bit irresistible?" Jossel ventured.

  "Certainly not! Tristan may be a devil, but his pow­ers will not soften my heart."

  "I only want you to be happy, Bettina."

  "I will be happy when I leave this island, not until then," Bettina answered.

  "You sound like an angel when you speak your lan­guage, little one," Tristan said softly.

  Bettina started and turned her head to see Tristan standing behind her. "Must you walk so quietly?" she demanded. "How long have you been standing there?"

  "For a few minutes. I didn't want to interrupt your conversation with your mother. I'm sure you have much to tell her," Tristan said. He sat down in the chair next to her.

  Bettina turned back to her mother with wide, angry eyes. "Why did you not tell me he was there?"

  "He motioned for me to say nothing. That is why I asked if he spoke French. I did not know if you would want him to learn how you feel about him. But his face did not change when you spoke of him—he did not understand."

  "He knows how I feel, Mama—he knows I hate him."

  "You've had enough time to discuss your complaints with your mother," Tristan said sourly. "You will speak English now."

  "I was merely telling my mother how much I hate you," Bettina replied hi a saucy voice.

  "How much you think you hate me."

  "What are you implying? Do you think I do not know my own mind?" Bettina asked heatedly.

  "I think you deceive yourself. Is it hatred you feel when you cling to me in bed?" he asked with a taunting smile.

  "You will not speak of that in front of my mother!" Bettina gasped.

  "Why not? Would you have her believe that you hate me all of the time?"

  "You are a devil, Tristan!" Bettina stormed. "I am not responsible for the magic you work in bed, but it does not affect what I feel in my heart. If I did not hate you, would I have asked Pierre to kill you? And I hate you even more since you have brought me back!"

  Bettina stood up and walked to the front door, but Tristan ran after her and stopped her. They stood by the open door in a shaft of warm sunlight, well out of JossePs hearing.

  "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, a dark scowl on his face.

  "Away from you!" she snapped and turned to walk out the door, but he held her arm and jerked her back against him.

  "Shall I prove to your mother the truth of my words —that you will yield to my embrace?" he asked, his voice cold and unrelenting.

  Bettina couldn't stop the tears that welled up in her eyes. "Stop it—please. You have already humiliated me in front of her. Must you continue to do so?"

  "Stop your blasted crying! You deserve this for your outburst. Where is your damnable temper now?"

  Bettina continued crying while she pushed against him. She felt like a fool.

  "Let go of me." She tried to sound demanding, but failed pathetically. "I told my mother everything. I told her what happens to me when you rape me—how my body betrays me. You do not have to prove it to her."

  "No, but perhaps I should prove it to you," he replied huskily.

  Bettina angrily decided to prove something to him. She glanced at the table and saw that her mother had tactfully left the room. She wrapped her arms around Tristan's neck, pulled his lips down to hers, and kissed him passionately. She put all the feeling she could muster into the kiss, caressing him with her hands, mold­ing her body to his. Her own senses soared, but when she felt his desire begin to rise, she pushed herself away from him.

  She wanted to laugh at his startled expression, but she gritted her teeth and remembered why she had kissed him. "Now you know, Tristan, what I could give you if I didn't hate you. You may exact passion from my body when you rape me, but there is still a part of me that is not affected by your touch. This part of me you will never reach, because it is only mine to give. You will never have my love."

  Bettina turned and ran up the stairs to her room, ignoring the food Madeleine had left on the table for her.

  Bettina had tossed and turned fretfully most of the night, causing Tristan considerable annoy­ance. Now she was still tired, but she knew it must be noon or later and she had to get up—she couldn't put it off any longer.

  She mechanically donned a new pink shift and a rose-colored dress. A month and three weeks had gone by since Tristan had brought her back to the island. She should have had her monthly time the week after Tris­tan had released her from his room, but she hadn't. However, she wouldn't believe the obvious. She refused to even think about it. But now she was a week late again, and she could no longer deny the truth. She was two months' pregnant.

  What was she going to do? How could she bear to raise the child of a man she despised? Would she hate the child, too? No, she couldn't hate her own baby, she was sure of that. But Tristan probably had bastards scattered all over the Caribbean. Her child would make no difference to him.

  Bettina started to comb the tangles from her hair, but then she stopped and threw the comb down on the floor. She ran out of the room and halfway down the stairs.

  Tristan was at the table, bending over some papers. As Bettina stared at him, the rage surfaced and ex­ploded inside her head. She clasped her hands to try to stop their trembling; then she ran down the rest of the stairs and came up behind Tristan. He straightened and turned, hearing her approach, and when he did, Bettina swung her closed fist full force across his cheek.

  "What the hell was that for?" Tristan growled, rub­bing his face.

  "Damn you, Tristan!" Bettina screamed. "I am preg­nant!"

  "Sweet Jesus, is that any reason to attack me?" he grumbled. "I don't mind a slap from a woman if she thinks it is deserved, but you always have to use your blasted fists!"

  "I should have waited until I could find a dagger so I could lay open your black heart!"

  "I don't know what you're so mad about." He grinned. "You should have known it would happen sooner or later. Besides, if it is only one month, how can you be sure?"

  "Because it is over two months—two!" she yelled. She ran back up the stairs before he could say more.

  Tristan heard the door to his room slam, and he chuckled. But then his face darkened like a storm cloud when he realized that a little over two months ago, Bet­tina had been in Saint Martin.

  He ran up the stairs and burst into his room, crash­ing the door against the wall. Bettina shrank back when she saw the violence on Tristan's face. He grabbed her cruelly by the shoulders and shook her.

  "Whose child is it?" he raged.

  "What?"

  "Blast you, w
oman! Whose child do you carry?"

  She stared at him with an incredulous look on her face. "Have you gone mad? The child is—"

  Bettina stopped short. She remembered the doubt she had planted in his mind, and started to laugh.

  He shook her again, violently, until she stopped laughing. "Answer me!"

  "The child is yours—of course," she replied in a mocking voice. "Who else could be the father?"

  "You know damn well who!"

  "Come now, Tristan. I told you I lied about Pierre. Didn't you believe me?" she teased.

  "I will have your word that the child is mine!"

  "No, you will not! I will not give you that satisfac­tion," Bettina replied, becoming angry again. "It does not matter if the child is yours or not. Once I leave here, you will never see it again. And if it upsets you so much that I am pregnant, let me leave now!"

  "You were so upset that you came downstairs and attacked me."

  "You have ruined my life! I could have been married to Pierre by now if it were not for you. You force me to stay here against my will and give birth to a bastard. I have reason to be upset, but you do not!"

  "I have a right to know whose child you carry!"

  "What right do you have? You are not my husband; you are not my lover. You are merely the man who rapes me. What right do you have?"

  Tristan pulled her to him and kissed her savagely, hurting her in his embrace; then he shoved her away from him angrily. "Blast you, Bettina! You are a witch!"

  "Then let me go. Please, Tristan. My shape will grow soon, and you will have to go elsewhere to satisfy your lust, anyway. Release me now," Bettina pleaded.

  "No. But I must leave. You have bewitched me and kept me from my purpose."

  "And what purpose is that? Delivering your stolen gold to England?" she asked sarcastically, moving away from him.

  "The gold has already been disposed of."

  "So you go to steal more gold. You are a pirate, Tristan, though you hide behind the English for pro­tection."

  "And you see things only the way you wish to see them. But this voyage is not for profit—it is for per­sonal reasons."

  "But you spoke of a purpose. What purpose?"

  "It is nothing you need to know about," Tristan said, and turned to leave the room.

  "Do you go to find Don Miguel?" Bettina asked.

  Tristan swung around and looked at Bettina suspic­iously. "How do you—"

  "If you will remember, I was there when you spoke of Don Miguel to Capitaine O'Casey," Bettina inter­rupted him. "Don Miguel does—"

  "Stop saying his name with such familiarity!" Tris­tan said brusquely, his clear blue eyes suddenly alight with a fire that came from his very soul. "He is Bas-tida—the murderer!"

  "Why do you search for him?" Bettina ventured.

  "Because of something that happened a long time ago. It is no concern of yours."

  "But even Don Miguel doesn't know why you look for him. He has never met you."

  "What in hell are you talking about? What makes you think he doesn't know?"

  "I had dinner with him at Pierre's house. He said—"

  "Bastida was there?" Tristan asked incredulously.

  "Yes."

  "Mother of God! He was so close—so very close. Blast it, Bettina! You see what you've done to me?"

  "I have done nothing to you!" she cried indignantly.

  "If I had not been so intent on rinding you, I would have asked the townspeople of Saint Martin the same questions I ask in every port. I would have found Bas-tida at last!" Tristan said vehemently. "Is he still there?"

  "You blame me because you did not find Don Miguel, when it was not my fault. I will not answer your questions about him."

  Tristan crossed to her in two quick strides and grabbed her arm tightly. "You will answer me on this, Bettina, or by God, I will beat it out of you!"

  She turned pale, for there was no doubt in her mind that he meant what he said.

  "I—I don't think he will still be there. He was wait­ing for the return of his ship, and it arrived the day after I did. I gathered he would be there only a few more days."

  "Do you know where he was going or where he lives?"

  "No."

  "What about his ship? Do you know the name?"

  "No. I only know it brought a cargo of slaves that Pierre purchased."

  "So far, you have told me nothing useful. I gather you spoke to him of me. What did he have to say?" Tristan asked in a calmer voice.

  "He said only that he has heard that you search for him, but he doesn't know why. He thinks you must have him mistaken for someone else because he has never met you," Bettina replied. Don Miguel might find Tris­tan first and end her misery. She would not warn Tris­tan that Bastida was now searching for him.

  "So Bastida thinks he doesn't know me," Tristan reflected, letting go of Bettina's arm. "Well, he knows me; he just doesn't remember. But before I kill him,

  I will make sure he knows why I'm sending him to hell."

  "Why do you want to kill him? What has he ever done to you?"

  "I told you it is no concern of yours."

  "Have you considered that he might kill you instead? He may be much older than you, but he is still a power­ful man. You could be the one to die."

  "That would certainly make you happy, wouldn't it?" Tristan asked coldly.

  "Yes, it would! You have caused me nothing but misery. You know I hate you, and now I know you hate me, too. You would have beat me, though I am with child, just to obtain information about Don Miguel!"

  "I wouldn't beat you, Bettina," Tristan said with a heavy sigh. "I will never raise a hand against you— you should know that by now. It was a hollow threat, and I was angry enough to make you believe it. But I had to know what you could tell me. I must find Bas-tida. I have sworn to kill him, and I will never rest until I do." He turned and walked out of the room.

  Bettina was left in confusion. She still didn't under­stand why Tristan wanted to find and kill Don Miguel de Bastida.

  The tavern was small, and the many tables crowded closely together about the room were em­pty this late at night. The best food in town could be had here, but the brothel upstairs received more clientele. Tristan was seated at one of the tables with an amused expression on his face, watching sailors and merchants climbing up and down the stairs at the back of the room.

  "Tristan, it is madness to linger here," Jules said, casting furtive glances about the room. "I'm beginning to think you've lost your judgment. We can eat on the ship. Let us go."

  "Relax, Jules. There is no danger here," Tristan said, leaning back in his chair.

  "No danger! That man de Lambert probably has a reward out for your head. After what Bettina told him about you, he would know it was you who took her again. Are you tired of living?"

  "You're beginning to sound like an old woman. No one knows us here."

  "I didn't want to come to Saint Martin to begin with, but you were so sure you would learn something of Bastida here. Well, all you have learned is that he left in a hurry. No one knows anything else."

  "The Comte de Lambert would know. He would know in what direction Bastida sailed, perhaps even his destination."

  "Mother of God! You have lost your sanity. You can't mean to go to his plantation and ask him!"

  "Why not? If he can tell me where Bastida is now, it is worth the risk."

  "Then I will go with you," Jules returned.

  "No," Tristan said adamantly.

  "You are a young fool. It's not because of Bastida that you want to see de Lambert. It is because that blond vixen intends to marry him. Admit it."

  "Perhaps you're right."

  "Did it occur to you that he may not want her when she returns to him with your child?"

  "How did you know of the child?" Tristan asked angrily, coming forward in his chair. , "I couldn't help but hear Bettina when she gave you the news. I didn't mention it before because you've been in such a foul mood sin
ce we left the island."

  "Well, Bettina may be pregnant, but I have doubts that the child is mine. She may bring de Lambert his own child when she returns to him!" Tristan said bit­terly.

  "But that is impossible," Jules laughed. "She was here only two days."

  "That does not make it impossible!" Tristan bit off, tiny blue flames in his eyes.

  "You sound jealous. Don't tell me you've fallen in love with the wench."

  "You know I have never fallen for a woman. There is only one thing in my heart—and that is hatred. But to see Bettina grow big with a child that might be de Lambert's—the doubt is like a dagger twisting in my stomach."

  "Then give her up."

  "That's the trouble. I'm not tired of her yet. She—"

  Tristan stopped short and looked toward the door

  with amazement. Jules turned his head and saw a man

  dressed regally in gray silk. His cloak and scabbard

  were black velvet, and his bearing spoke of nobility.

  The man crossed the room and approached the plump

  woman behind the bar who made the arrangements for

  the girls upstairs. r

  When the madam saw the gentleman, her face lit up with a welcoming smile. "Ah, Comte de Lambert, you are back so soon."

  "I would like to see Colette again," he said.

  "So my new girl, she has lit a fire in you, eh? Poor Jeanie, she will be disappointed that you have found a new favorite."

  Jules was afraid to look at Tristan, but when he turned, he saw that outwardly Tristan appeared calm, but his knuckles gleamed white. Tristan rose slowly, like a hungry lion stalking unsuspecting prey.

  "For the love of God, Tristan," Jules whispered angrily. "He will know you."

  "Just stay where you are and stop looking as if you were facing the gallows," Tristan said coldly. He turned and approached de Lambert. "Monsieur, might I have a word with you?"