A Pirate's Love

  Pierre de Lambert stopped at the foot of the stairs with one hand on the rail, annoyed at the delay. But when he saw the huge stranger walking toward him, all thoughts of Colette and pleasure vanished. The man was unusually tall, with golden hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He was dressed like a common sailor, in tight breeches and a white, open-necked shirt with billowing sleeves caught at his wrists. He wore a black baldric over one shoulder to support a wicked-looking sword, and his hand rested lightly on the hilt.

  Pierre felt a slight tingling of recognition, but he knew that if he had ever seen this man before, he would have remembered. He eyed him warily and waited for the man to speak.

  "I overheard the madam address you as the Comte de Lambert. If you are indeed the comte, you might be able to help me," Tristan said amiably. His eyes were like blue ice, and his smile fixed.

  "How can I help you, monsieur?"

  "I am looking for a friend of mine," Tristan said. "I have been told he was a guest of yours recently."

  "Whom do you speak of?" Pierre asked. "I have many guests at my plantation."

  "Don Miguel de Bastida. He—"

  "What is your name, monsieur?" Pierre interrupted, edging his hand slowly to his sword.

  "Forgive me. My name is Matisse. Perhaps Don Miguel spoke of me. He saved my life a few years ago in battle."

  "Don Miguel spoke of no battles while he stayed with me, nor did he mention your name."

  "Well, I suppose he is not one to boast of his marks­manship," Tristan laughed, feeling sick. He would have preferred to draw his sword, but he couldn't kill the man just because Bettina might be carrying his child. "Can you tell me where I could find Don Miguel? It is important to me."

  "Why?" Pierre asked skeptically, though he was sure this Matisse couldn't be who he had thought he was.

  No, the pirate who had stolen Bettina wouldn't dare to approach him.

  "As I said, Don Miguel saved my life. I would like to repay him—perhaps be his personal guard so that I might save his life one day."

  "Well, I am sorry, but I cannot help you. Don Miguel left rather abruptly over three months ago, and I was too upset over a personal matter to be concerned with his destination."

  "Then you have no idea where he could be?"

  "I imagine Don Miguel is still somewhere in the Caribbean. He had some old business that he wanted to take care of before he returned to Spain."

  "Did he say what kind of business?" Tristan asked hopefully. "It might lead me to him."

  "I doubt that, Monsieur Matisse. Don Miguel's busi­ness will not keep him long in any port," Pierre said. "Now I must bid you good night—I have someone waiting for me."

  "Of course," Tristan said, and turned to walk back to his table. The smile on his lips vanished as quickly as a snuffed candle, but the fire still burned in his eyes.

  "I am surprised you didn't come right out and ask him if he had bedded Bettina. You wanted to, didn't you?" Jules asked heatedly when Tristan sat down.

  "Yes, but I couldn't expect the truth from him on that subject. So you heard my little performance?"

  "I couldn't help but hear! You were a fool to speak to the comte. I saw his face when you told him yo > were looking for Don Miguel. For a moment he guessed who you really are. I'm surprised he believed that tale you spun about Bastida."

  "Well, he did," Tristan replied dryly. "I told you there was nothing to worry about."

  "Yes, but you took the risk for nothing. We still don't know where Bastida is. We could search these waters forever and not find him."

  "I suppose you want to give up?"

  "Well, it wouldn't hurt to return to the island for a short visit," Jules said.

  "We've only been gone a month and only put into four ports thus far. If you miss your wife that much, you should have stayed with the women as I asked you."

  "I'm not worried about their safety. Joco and the men we left behind will protect them. But I am not the only one who is thinking of home. The rest of the crew is, too—and you also, my friend. You didn't come to Saint Martin just to learn of Bastida. You came to see what Bettina's betrothed is like. Are you disappointed that the comte is not old and pockmarked?"

  "Why should that bother me?" Tristan asked calmly. Then he suddenly exploded, "What the hell is he doing in a blasted whorehouse? If I were him, I would be out searching every island from here to the Colonies. But where does he do his searching? In a whore's bed! I'll wager he doesn't have one ship out looking for Bettina."

  "Is that what you want him to do? Do you want him to find her?"

  "No."

  "Well, then?"

  "I just don't understand why he isn't trying," Tristan said more quietly.

  "You don't know that he isn't, but let's not wait around to ask him when he comes down. The food is cold, anyway. I'm for returning to the ship—now."

  Tristan laughed. "What's happened to you, old friend? Taking small risks never bothered you before."

  "Yes, but I have only just come to know my new daughter. And Maloma is pregnant again. With only girls so far, I would like to see a son before I die."

  Tristan frowned as they left the tavern, reminded of the tormented and sleepless nights he had spent this last month, thinking of Bettina and the baby growing within her.

  T

  HE house was pleasantly cool throughout the morning, and only the persistent beating of the afternoon sun warmed the thick white stone walls. Bettina walked slowly down the stairs one afternoon, a month and a half after Tristan left, wearing a comfor­table, sleeveless dress of yellow cotton and carrying a large towel over one arm.

  In France, Bettina had worn only the most fashion­able clothes, though she detested doing so. She thought clothes should be becoming but also be comfortable to wear, but Andree had never allowed her to dress in such simple garments. But on this tropical island, Bet­tina gave up the two petticoats and the extra bodice and skirt that were always revealed under the outer dress. She simply connected the skirt and bodice of her dresses, instead of leaving them slashed in front. One shift sufficed for modesty, and she could do without the large lace collars and the slashed and purled sleeves.

  She had even decided in the beginning not to bunch up her skirts for the extra width it added to her hips. Let Tristan stare at her slim hips long enough, and he might turn to a more rounded shape. That had been her hope, but Tristan didn't seem to mind that she wasn't well rounded.

  Bettina surveyed the large dining hall with a smile. The brightly colored tapestry that Joco had produced from the cellar now hung over the fireplace, and she had made white curtains for the few windows. The windows were too small and too high to allow much light into the room, and she decided that they needed enlarging, but she would have to wait and discuss that with Tristan. Five thickly stuffed chairs in light colors had been added about the room, and Joco was presently out back building a sofa.

  Luckily, Tristan had never disposed of the booty from the last captured Spanish ship, and Joco had been able to find furniture and materials to improve every room in the house.

  The booty was kept in the cellar, and none of the women were allowed to go down, but had to summon one of the men if they needed something. Bettina only noticed after Tristan left that the room was kept locked at all times. Joco assured her that nothing mysterious was in the cellar; just captured goods, odds and ends, and a supply of food. But Bettina thought it strange that Tristan had been able to produce a pair of shoes for her that just happened to be her size, and a pair for her mother.

  Bettina had spent the morning in her room with Maloma. They had become friends, and since Maloma was also pregnant, they had much in common. They were making little quilts for the infants, but although Bettina enjoyed the entire morning spent sewing and idly chatting, she still couldn't keep Tristan completely from her thoughts.

  A month ago, Maloma began to swell with the child she carried. She would give birth only two weeks before Bettina, but Bettina's figure remai
ned as slim as ever.

  Bettina didn't doubt that she was pregnant, but she had hoped she would lose her trim shape quickly. She wanted to be enormously big before Tristan returned to the island, so that he would have to look elsewhere to satisfy his lust.

  Tristan had left angrily, taking only half the men with him. He hadn't even told Bettina good-bye, but had left the same day they argued so fiercely. But she didn't miss him, she told herself continually. She didn't know when he would return, but she hoped it wouldn't be for a long, long time—in fact, never.

  Bettina went by the kitchen area and lingered there a moment, smelling the aroma of fresh bread baking. Then she left through the back door and stepped her way around the lumber in the yard. She stopped by a stocky young man with curly blond hair who was ham­mering away at the frame of the new sofa. She smiled approvingly at Joco when he looked up at her.

  "You have a talent for carpentry, Joco," Bettina said, surveying his work. "Has this ever been your trade?"

  "I'm ship's carpenter, mam'selle. I like to work with wood."

  "How long have you been with Capitaine Tristan?"

  "Ever since he bought the Spirited Lady. Never saw no reason to want to sail on any other ship. The cap'n treats his crew squarely. But now that I've got a wife and two children, I've been thinkin' of givin' up the sea."

  "So you intend to settle down?" Bettina asked. So there were honorable men among Tristan's crew, she thought.

  "I'll be givin' up the sea, all right, now that my two sons are old enough to need a father. I was gonna ask Cap'n Tristan if I could settle here. I've got a little hut on the north shore that I can improve, and this island is just right for raisin' a family."

  "I suppose it is," Bettina said, glancing about at all the tropical beauty surrounding her. "Well, good day, Joco."

  Bettina left him and walked across the back lawn to the forest. She was going to a secret place she had found one day when she went exploring by herself. She went there often, for in that secluded area, Bettina could make believe that this island was her home, that the past months were only a dream, and that she had never met a man called Tristan. But no matter how hard she tried to concentrate on pleasant things, Tris­tan always found his way into her thoughts.

  It was spring, and the island was twice as beautiful as when Bettina had first come. The sky was clear, leaving the blazing sun no place to hide, and the tower­ing mountain stood alone, without the swirling mist that usually clung to it.

  Bettina saw Thomas Wesley weeding a bed of flam­ing poinsettias that he had planted around the tree he called shower of gold. The tree had bloomed recently in a burst of bright yellow buds and petals. Bettina had wondered at the immaculate lawns and. flower beds, but she met Thomas Wesley after Tristan gave her the freedom of the island, and she learned that he was re­sponsible for the beautiful gardens.

  Bettina waved to Thomas before she entered the forest and started down the path. For most of his life, Thomas Wesley had been head gardener on some great estate in England, but he had always wanted to be a sailor and visit other lands. He had come to the New World on a merchant vessel, but then he had met Tris­tan and signed on the Spirited Lady. When they found this island with its lush jungle five years before, he had just had to stay. Tristan had agreed, and in five years, Thomas had turned the grounds surrounding the house into gardens worthy of a palace. He was happy here— you could see it in his face—and Bettina enjoyed talk­ing to him.

  Soon Bettina left the path and had to work her way around vine-covered trees and heavy undergrowth. It wasn't as difficult as the first time, for her visits were creating an obvious trail.

  She continued toward the mountain and the center of the island. The mountain had been her destination the day she had first decided to explore. She had planned to climb the foothills until she could stand in the midst of the swirling gray clouds. She wanted to lose herself in that primitive splendor, wanted a single sunray to break through the clouds and touch her as it had the heart of the mountain her first day on the island. But she never fulfilled that desire, for she had found an­other island wonder that day.

  Bettina passed palm trees of all heights and varieties, standing side by side with tall pines, their scent filling the air. Coconuts lay on the ground, and magnificent flowers were everywhere—blue, lilac, yellow, and pink.

  Soon Bettina could hear the trickling of running water—a stream running down from the mountain. A few steps more and she finally reached her little para­dise—a hidden pool formed by the stream. There were new hihiscus blooms on the opposite bank, large flowers the size of her outstretched hand. They were brilliant reds and yellows, and a lone white one that she knew she would be tempted to pick before she returned to the house.

  Bettina walked into the blazing sunlight that half-covered the grassy left bank of the stream. She dropped the towel that she had brought, and began to undress. To her left, silvery carpeted steps seemed to climb up to the mountain itself, and a miniature waterfall fell down them to fill a shallow, rounded pool with crystal-clear water. The pool was surrounded by tall trees, thick ferns, and flowers, and heavy branches fell over the stream on both ends, nearly touching the water. Bettina was hidden as if in a small room.

  As she stepped into the cool water, Bettina won­dered fleetingly if she would be able to keep her para­dise a secret from Tristan when he returned. Then she chided herself. Why couldn't she stop thinking about that man, even for a little while?

  Are you here with me, Tristan, or is your mind back on the island again?" Jules asked.

  "Did you say something?" Tristan looked up, his blue eyes dreamy. Then they darkened with disgust as he glanced about the crowded, smoke-filled room. The stink of unwashed bodies assailed his nostrils. "Tortuga is the Devil's own breeding ground," he said distaste­fully. "Why the hell couldn't Bastida be here with the rest of the cutthroats and murderers?"

  "You used to like to come here and raise a little hell yourself, as I remember," Jules reminded him. "At least here you know what you're up against."

  "Got your courage back, eh?"

  "I prefer this hellhole any day, to walking into the hands of your enemies."

  "I'm sorry I put you through that scare back on Saint Martin," Tristan said soberly.

  "You would have swung for it, not me. Three ports since Saint Martin, and we still haven't learned any­thing about Bastida's whereabouts. When will you give up the search, Tristan?"

  "When I find him," Tristan replied, finishing off his second tankard of rum.

  "You know, the men spoke to me before we entered the harbor. They're anxious to return home."

  "Why? Haven't I given them leave in every port? They've had plenty of women."

  "They want to return home with a priest."

  "A what?" Tristan asked disbelievingly.

  Jules laughed. "It seems quite a few of our ship­mates want to have a proper wedding."

  "Bunch of fools! The old chiefs blessing was good enough before. I suppose you are in accord with this?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. Madeleine has been after me for some time now," Jules answered, humor in his ^ voice. "She swears I'm living in sin with Maloma."

  "So this is her idea—I should have known. Where are you going to find a priest, anyway? And if you do find one, why would he want to come with us?" Tris­tan asked.

  "Who is to say he wouldn't? Once he hears how many men and women are presently living in sin on our island, the good fellow might even elect to stay."

  "Well, if you and the men are lucky enough to find a willing priest, I won't deny your wishes. But I still think it is ridiculous."

  Jules looked thoughtful for a moment. "Will you be paying a visit to the widow while we're here?"

  "I hadn't considered it," Tristan answered. The lovely widow Hagen hadn't even entered his mind, though she lived only a few blocks from this very tavern, and he always visited her when he came to Tortuga.

  "What excuse have you for not finding a cong
enial bedmate for a night or two?" Jules asked with an in­nocent expression.

  "Do I need an excuse?" Tristan raised a brow.

  "It's not like you to pass up bedding a wench."

  "I have had other things on my mind. Must I remind you that this is not a voyage for profit or pleasure?" Tristan asked irritably.

  "No, but without the widow's help, you wouldn't have bought a ship to search for Bastida. And she has prob­ably been informed that the Spirited Lady is hi the har­bor. She will be disappointed if you don't visit her."

  "If you are trying to make me feel guilty, old friend, it won't work. I've paid my debt to the widow."

  "You were grateful enough when she sold you the Spirited Lady for such a paltry sum."

  "That was six years ago, and you forget that Mar­garet Hagen is a very wealthy woman," said Tristan. "Her husband left her half a dozen ships when he died. She was more than willing to let the Spirited Lady go for the small sum I had."

  "It was you she wanted."

  "You flatter me, Jules. The lady has had countless lovers since I first met her. She just likes men. Besides, the widow would demand too much time. We won't be here that long."

  "You could make the time," Jules replied lightly.

  "I could, but I don't intend to."

  "What is the matter with you, Tristan?" Jules said. "You know the widow knows every ship that comes into the harbor. She also knows you search for Bastida. One visit to her would be worth hours of combing the docks for information."

  "Why are you so intent on my seeing the widow?" Tristan asked in exasperation.

  "We have been searching for Bastida for over two months, and yet it is Bettina Verlaine who occupies

  your thoughts. I had hoped the widow could make you forget her for a while," Jules answered.

  Jules was right. Bettina and her child had plagued Tristan day and night these past months. He doubted the widow could make him forget about Bettina, but she might tell him something of Bastida.