A Pirate's Love

  She remembered thinking at the time that he had purposely told her about the fiesta to make her feel more depressed, for he said that it was too bad she would have to stay in the house by herself. But the silent, cold treatment she received from the maid made her feel as if she were by herself each day, anyway.

  Today would be no different from any other day, she told herself as she ate a few bites of food, then pushed the tray aside and got up to dress. But as soon as she stood up, she clutched her middle, afraid to move. The cramps she had felt while lying in bed now seemed twice as strong.

  As soon as she was able to move, Bettina left her room, praying silently to herself that she would find the servants still in the house. She went directly to the kitch­en, hoping to find the cook there, but it was empty. Bettina refused to become alarmed, but searched quick­ly through the rest of the house. But with each room she went in and out of, she was finding it more and more difficult to remain calm. And when she opened the

  door to the last room, Don Miguel's bedroom, she felt a panic within her such as she had never experienced before.

  Bettina knew without a doubt that her time had come as the pressure came again, and the water burst from her, running down her legs to form a puddle at her feet. Bettina lifted her shift with trembling hands, but it was already soaked. The panic she felt was not the fear of giving birth, but the fact that she would have to do it alone. Why today of all days did she have to be com­pletely alone in this house?

  She moved to the nearest chair in the entryway and sat down in a daze. All she could think about was Maloma screaming in agony as she gave birth to her son. But then another contraction brought her back to her own situation, and, as soon as it passed, she got up in a panic and began to check all the windows and the outside doors to see if any had carelessly been left un­locked. She wanted to get out of this house; she wanted help! But rationality soon returned, and she realized she was wasting precious time.

  The time went quickly because she didn't know how much of it she would have. In the hours that passed, Bettina managed to boil water that she would need and carry this to her room. Between the steadily increasing contractions, she found clean sheets and changed those on her bed, and also brought clean linen to wrap her baby in. She found and cleaned the knife that she would need to sever the cord from the baby's navel. Then, still able to move about, she changed her shift and wiped up the water that had poured from her earlier.

  All of her efforts were slow ones because she had to stop and wait for each contraction to pass. But it was late in the afternoon now, and the spasms of pain had grown so frequent and so unbearable that she could no longer contain her agony, and her screams echoed through the empty house.

  When Bettina heard the front door open and then slam shut, relief flooded over her. Now she would not have to give birth alone. No matter how distant the ser­vants had been toward her, they were women them­selves, and they couldn't refuse to help her. But she realized that the fiesta in town would not be over yet, and one of the women had probably just come for some­thing she had forgotten. Bettina would have to summon the woman before she left again. She struggled to get off the bed where she had been lying, but as soon as she stood up, another contraction gripped her. She started to scream.

  Suddenly, the door to her room burst open and Don Miguel stormed into the room, his face a mask of anger. He strode up to her, and before she could speak, he slapped her viciously across the face. She fell back on the bed, and the sudden movement caused her even worse agony, but her pride refused to let her cry out.

  "You lying bitch!" Don Miguel yelled, his fists clenched at his sides. "He is here—Tristan is here!"

  "That—that cannot be!" she stammered. "He is—"

  "Enough of your lies!" He turned on his heel and left the room, but Bettina could hear him storming in the other room. "To think I had begun to believe your lies, to believe he would never come! I grew lax in my vigilance, and now it is too late for the trap I had planned!" He came back into the room holding a thin rope in one hand, and looked wildly about the room as if searching for something.

  "But how can you be sure it is Tristan?" Bettina asked frantically. "You—you must be mistaken!"

  Don Miguel looked at her with a mixture of fear and rage in his eyes. "I saw him myself as he moved among the crowds in the streets! He fit the description I had of him, and when I moved closer, the big man he was with called him by name. They are asking the peasants where I live. And he is a clever one, that Tristan. He did not sail into the harbor as I expected, but has hidden his ship up the coast so he could sneak into the town un­observed. I had no time to summon my men—I must face Tristan alone now!"

  Bettina stared blankly at Don Miguel. Tristan was actually on the island. How could it be? He should be on the other side of the world. And dear God, why did he have to come now? Why not yesterday, or tomorrow, anytime but now, when she was about to give birth and could not help him in any way?

  "You do not have to face him," Bettina said quickly. "You could flee before he comes."

  "I will end it once and for all. I have the advantage of being an excellent swordsman. I have never been beaten, and I will not be beaten today."

  He grabbed her wrist, yanked her off the bed, and pulled her over to the large, heavy bookshelf. She stared at him stupidly as he began to tie the thin rope about her left wrist.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "I am making sure you will not stab me in the back while I am taking care of Tristan."

  She had momentarily forgotten about her baby, but now she could feel the beginning of another contraction. The terror showed plainly in her eyes as Don Miguel secured one wrist and wrapped the rope around a shelf well above Bettina's head, then began to tie her other wrist.

  "You cannot do this!" Bettina screamed. "I am in labor—I have been since morning. My baby—"

  She could say no more as her body strained in agony, and she cried out in a shrill voice. She tried desperately to pull her hands down to hold her middle, but Don Miguel had secured them tightly above her head. The bookshelf tilted forward dangerously.

  "This is excellent—more than I had hoped for." Don Miguel laughed malevolently. "Your screams will dis­tract Tristan and make him careless."

  When the pain subsided, Bettina looked up with tear-filled eyes, deep pools of shimmering green. "For the love of God, let me lie on the bed!"

  "This was the only rope I could find, and it is too short to tie you to the bedposts."

  "I can do you no harm in my condition. My baby is about to come!" Bettina cried.

  "You obviously love this Tristan, or you would not have lied as you did to prevent our meeting," Don Miguel said impatiently. "And women can do mirac­ulous things for the sake of love. I cannot take the chance."

  "Then lock me in this room if you do not trust me, but please—I must lie down!" Bettina pleaded.

  "Unfortunately, the key is not where it is usually kept, and I do not have time to search for it. And alas, my dear, I am not chivalrous enough to put your comfort above my own life. Besides, with the door open, your screams will sound much louder and will help to bring Tristan to a quicker death."

  "But—but my baby will die this way! I must have my hands free! I swear to God I will do you no harm, only please, please, release me!" Bettina begged him, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

  "No! It is just as well the baby will die. I do not want another Tristan hunting me down in my old age," Don Miguel replied harshly. He walked out of the room, leaving Bettina staring after him with wide, horror-filled eyes.

  Bettina could only pray now that Tristan would come quickly, that he would overcome Don Miguel and come to her aid before her baby fell to his death. But she knew she was praying for the impossible. Her pains were so unbearable now that she knew she must be nearing the end.

  Bettina tried twisting her wrists in an effort to free her hands, but there was no slackening in the rope. She considered toppling
the heavy bookshelf over, but when she looked up, she saw that there were three shelves towering above her head. The bookshelf would fall on her, and though she didn't fear for her own life, her baby could be killed.

  The agony gripped her again, and screams were forced from her. When Tristan came, if he came in time, she knew she must somehow stifle her screams. She had to endure—she had to! She couldn't let him know that she was about to give birth, for he must be alert and think only of Don Miguel and the battle at hand. Dear God, give Tristan skill, give him strength, let him be the victor!

  When Bettina relaxed, she could feel the perspiration trickling down her temples, down her sides, and be­tween her breasts. She twisted her head to wipe her brow on her upraised arm, then glanced miserably at the bowls of water on the table by the bed. She had pre­pared everything that she remembered Madeleine had ordered for Maloma, but her efforts had all been for nothing. She looked at the knife she would have used to cut the umbilical cord and give her baby life apart from her. Her baby would have had a better chance to live, she thought, if she had plunged that knife into Don Miguel's heart.

  Chapter

  After questioning countless Spanish-speaking Santo Domingans, Tristan finally came across an old man who had been to France in his youth and knew a little of the language. The old man gave him directions to Bastida's house, and after wasting time arguing with Jules, who wanted to come along, Tristan left alone for the outskirts of town.

  The hired horse was as slow as a blasted mule, and just as ornery, and this only added to Tristan's frustra­tions. He realized that he would probably be walking into a trap, but he dared not endanger Bettina's life, or the life of his child, who would surely be born by now. Jules had passed Bastida's warning on to him, and he was left with no choice but to go alone.

  It was nearing dusk when Tristan reached Bastida's house. He approached the front door slowly, but he began to think the old man had given him false directions when he noticed the shuttered windows. The house looked deserted from the outside, but when he tried the door, it opened easily into a well-lit entryway. He glanced about quickly for signs of ambush, but the room was empty and eerily silent.

  Leaving the door open behind him, Tristan walked a few paces into the room, his footsteps like those of a cat on the polished floor.

  "Bastida, show yourself!" Tristan called out angrily. A moment later, he came face-to-face with the man who had haunted his dreams for so many years.

  It had been almost fifteen years since Tristan had set eyes on this man, but he had changed little since then. He was thinner, perhaps, and his features were more blunt and lined with age, but he was otherwise the same.

  "So we meet at last, Tristan," Don Miguel said in a light tone as he came into the room, his sword on one hip, a dagger on the other.

  "You recognize me?" Tristan asked, his hand going immediately to the hilt of his sword. But Bastida dis­appointed him with his answer.

  "No, but I saw you earlier in town and heard you called by name. Perhaps if I knew your full name, I might—"

  "You never knew my name, Bastida!" Tristan said sharply. "It did not matter to you then, so it is of no consequence now." He glanced quickly at the doors that led off the entryway; then he looked back to Bastida, his eyes like ice. "Where is Bettina?"

  "In there," Don Miguel answered, pointing to an open door.

  "And my child?"

  Bastida laughed fiendishly. "She is giving birth to the bastard now."

  Tristan paled and started for Bettina's room, but Don Miguel stepped in front of him. Tristan drew his sword and stood back, and Bastida did likewise, a malicious smile playing on his lips.

  "Bettina! Bettina, are you all right?" Tristan called out.

  "Yes, yes. Don't worry about me."

  Relief flooded his features when he recognized her voice. He had heard no screams, so he assumed she was in the early stages of labor and there was no hurry to help her.

  Don Miguel smiled appreciatively. "That girl has more stamina than I gave her credit for," he said with a shake of his head. "It is too bad that you will not live to see her again."

  "We shall see who will live to see the end of this day," Tristan replied. He was poised in the traditional fencer's stance, prepared to thrust forward.

  But Don Miguel smiled. He stood relaxed, his arms crossed over his chest and the rapier in his hand point­ing to the ceiling as it rested on his shoulder.

  "Surely before we begin, you will refresh my memory. I may not even be the man you have searched for all these years. Someone else may have used my name and—"

  "That is possible," Tristan cut him off, lowering his sword to the floor. "But it is not the case. Though I learned your name that accursed night you came into my life, it was your face that was burned into my mind. You have changed little, Bastida. You are the one I have sought."

  "But I have no memory of you," Don Miguel said calmly.

  Tristan took a step closer and touched his cheek. "You do not remember this scar you inflicted on a boy of twelve?"

  Don Miguel shook his head slowly as he eyed the thin line on Tristan's cheek. "I have left my mark on many."

  "Then perhaps you will remember the words you spoke at the time, after you laid my cheek open with the point of your sword. 'This will teach you never to raise arms against a mightier opponant. Your father was a fisherman as you will also be, and a fisherman is not a worthy match for a don.' I never forgot those words, Bastida, and as you can see, you predicted my future falsely. I am an equal match for you."

  "I said such things often in my youth," Don Miguel replied. "Surely you have not hunted me all these years because of that scar?"

  "You still have no memory of me?" Tristan asked. His rage began to surface.

  "No. Your name and face have no meaning to me, nor what you have told me this far."

  "Then I will tell you what took place that night, for it is still in my mind as if it happened only yesterday. It was a night in summer, some fifteen years ago, when you and your noble friends came to my village on the coast of France. Most of the village men were out in the fishing boats. In ten minutes you had killed every single man who had tried to protect his home. Then you had your sport with the women.

  "My father had stayed at home that night, and he was one of the last who died by your blade, Bastida. I watched you kill him from the window of my parent's house.

  "My mother forced me to hide under my bed as you came toward our house, Bastida. I watched you and your noble friends throw her on the ground and rape her, many times.

  "You killed my mother and spit on her lifeless body. I crawled from my hiding place and ran after you. I attacked you with my bare fists, and you opened my cheek with the point of your sword and kicked me to the ground, only a few feet from where my father lay, telling me I was no match for you.

  "Now you know why I have sworn to kill you, Bastida! When you murdered both my parents, it was a mistake to leave me alive," Tristan said, the fires of the past lighting his eyes. "Now my parents will be avenged!"

  "Or you will join them," Don Miguel replied easily.

  "Do you remember me now?"

  "What you described happened in many raids. I have no memory of you, but I vaguely recall having to kill a fair-haired woman who came at me with a knife. I con­fess I have led a sinful life, but am I any different from you?" Don Miguel asked, his mouth turning up at one corner. "Did you not rape Bettina Verlaine?"

  "I may have raped her, but I did not kill her husband in order to have her, nor did I share her with my crew or kill her afterward. I kept her, and she will bear my child and become my wife."

  "Most commendable," Don Miguel laughed derisive ly. "But if you insist on matching skills with me, she will never be your wife. I may have led a ruthless life, but I do not plan to see it ended today."

  Bastida came forward now, his sword arm extended, and their blades clashed together. Bastida had not boasted falsely of his ability, and with quick thrusts and m
ovements he immediately put Tristan on the defensive. But Tristan was not without skill himself, and he suc­cessfully parried Bastida's flickering blade until the older man, with a cunning twist of his wrist, drew first blood.

  Bastida retreated a step, a taunting smile on his lips at seeing the blood trickling down Tristan's chest. The two men circled each other warily; then the clashing of swords resounded in the air again. Tristan took the offensive, forcing Bastida across the room with a furi­ous attack. Bastida tired quickly, and Tristan's blade reached his target again and again.

  Tristan was like a wild bull charging the matador's cape, which was Bastida's shirt, dyed crimson from his own blood. Tristan had the strength of youth and the quickness of a darting cobra, and with a sudden upward thrust, Bastida's sword was ripped from his hand.

  The point of Tristan's blade rested against the older man's chest, and for a moment there was a madness in his eyes that turned Don Miguel's blood cold. But be­fore he could lean forward to put an end to the man who had haunted him, Tristan was distracted by an anguished low moaning coming from the next room.

  The color drained from Tristan's face, and his hands began to tremble. Forgetting all about Bastida, who stood wide-eyed before him, Tristan turned and ran for the room where Bettina was. Behind him, seeing his chance for victory, Bastida drew his dagger and raised his arm to hurl it at Tristan's broad back.

  A sudden blast of gunfire exploded in the room. Tris­tan swung around to see Bastida falling slowly to the floor, the dagger still in his hand. Then his eyes turned to the front door he had left open, and he saw the mas­sive frame of Jules Bandelaire standing there, his great pistol smoking.