A Pirate's Love (20 page)

B
ettina 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, woman! 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 Bastida—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 finding you, I would have asked the townspeople of Saint Martin the same questions I ask in every port. I would have found Bastida 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 Bastida. 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.

T
he tavern was small, and the many tables crowded closely together about the room were empty this late at night. The best food in the 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 since 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.

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?”

Pierre de Lambert stopped at the foot of the 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 you 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.