A Pirate's Love

by Johanna Lindsey

  Mother of God! Did she have no care for her own life? Did she think that she could kill him and that his crew would do nothing about it? Perhaps she didn't care what happened to her. If that was so, this woman was more dangerous than he thought. If she could put her hatred for him above her own life, then—but wasn't that the way he felt about Bastida? He would have to take precautions with this little flaxen-haired beauty.

  "What did you hope to gain?" he asked her quietly.

  "I wanted to see you dead—by my hand!" she screamed, her eyes like flashing emeralds.

  "You don't care about your own life?"

  "I care only about the end of yours!" she fumed, struggling to pull her wrist free from his iron grip. "I will find a way, Tristan. I will kill you yet! You tricked me! You—you merciless pirate!" She struck out at him with her free hand, but he grabbed it in time. "You will pay for lying to me!"

  "I lied to you—I admit it. But it was only to save a lot of trouble and pain. Would you have preferred me to rape you forcibly? It would have been quite easy, I assure you. You may be tall for a female, Bettina, and stronger than most, but as you can see now, you are no match for my strength. You are merely angry because I didn't allow you to fight for your vir­ginity when you wanted to."

  "And I would have fought you. You—"

  "Yes, of that I am sure. So where is the harm? I saved you from hurt, for who knows what I might have done in the heat of passion to still your struggling. I have never been faced with the situation before, so I can't say for sure, but I might have beaten you or— killed you," he added, just to test her reaction.

  "But you would not have been unharmed yourself, monsieur," she spat at him.

  "Really, Bettina?" He laughed deeply now. Never having been faced with a woman's anger, he began to find it amusing. "How would you have done that, when you can't even escape my grip now?"

  She stamped down hard on his foot in its soft boot, and his amused expression turned to one of pain. He released her immediately. She dashed to the opposite side of the table while he clasped his throbbing foot.

  "Ha! You would not need all your strength, eh, Capitaine? You underestimate me! I will hurt you again, with great pleasure, if you so much as come near me!" Bettina raged.

  She felt safe with the long table between them, for this Tristan was nothing but a big, clumsy ox. With her lithe form, which for once she was glad of, she would have no trouble at all staying out of his reach.

  "You little she-devil!" he growled. "I will do more than come near you, vixen. I will take you again— now! And this time you can fight all you want, but don't be surprised if I give you the same."

  She had expected him to circle the table, but when he started to climb over it, Bettina became alarmed. She picked up the first object within her reach, one of the heavy instruments lying on the table. He backed off when he saw her intent, but Bettina was not merely threatening him, she was out to do damage. She threw the object at him, then quickly reached for another and another, but he knocked the objects aside with his huge arms.

  When the supply of weapons dwindled, Bettina picked up the last two that would be of any use, the two heavy tankards that they had drunk from earlier. She hurled them in quick succession, and, luckily, the second one struck Tristan's head. He fell forward and lay completely still on the floor of the cabin.

  Bettina stared disbelievingly at his motionless body, but when she noticed the blood mingling with his dark-gold hair, panic began to rise in her. She carefully skirted his long, muscular body, and when she was out of his reach, she ran for the door. Swinging it wide open, she ran out onto the deck of the ship.

  She knew only that she had to escape the cabin, escape from the sight of the murder she'd done. Per­haps she could hide, somehow find a weapon and force the crew to put her ashore. But before Bettina had run ten feet from the captain's cabin, a crewman caught her and pinned her against his foul-smelling body.

  "What's this?" he laughed, enjoying the feel of her next to him. "The cap'n's wench out for a little walk?"

  "Yes, and you will pay dearly if you do not let me go!" Bettina said angrily. Perhaps she could use the captain's power to gain what she needed, as long as the crew didn't discover that he was dead.

  "Oh, will I now?" the man asked, but he released her just the same. "Do the cap'n know ye be on deck?"

  "Yes. He's—he's sleeping." She realized her mis­take too late.

  "Sleepin'! The cap'n don't sleep in the middle o' the day. What lies be ye tellin' me, girl?" the man asked gruffly; then he looked up and called out. "Mr. Band'lar'. This wench says the cap'n be sleepin'."

  "Go and see if she speaks the truth, Davey."

  Bettina looked up and saw the big bulk of the first officer, who was standing on the gallery above her, as another seaman ran toward the captain's cabin.

  "The capitaine said he did not wish to be disturbed!" Bettina said quickly, hearing the fear in her own voice.

  "Do as I say, Davey!" Jules Bandelaire barked.

  What could she do now? The man who had grabbed her was also moving swiftly toward the open door of the captain's cabin. Bettina looked about frantically, but she was suddenly surrounded by members of the crew, who had come to gaze at her and see what they were missing.

  The man called Davey had entered the cabin, but now he appeared in the doorway, his face pale and disbelieving. "She's killed 'im! She's killed Cap'n Tris­tan!"

  "Mother of God!" Jules bellowed and slammed his fist down on the railing, causing it to crack sickeningly.

  Bettina dashed through the men who stood around her, but they were too shocked to notice—shocked that a mere wisp of a girl could kill their captain. But es­cape was hopeless. Jules jumped down from the gallery and grabbed Bettina's long braid, jerking her to a pain­ful stop. Slowly, he pulled her back until his huge hand held her braid at the nape of her neck.

  "I want you to know, bitch, that you have killed the only man I could call my friend. And for this you will die the worst of deaths, by my hands and mine alone!" He shoved her forward, and Bettina fell into the arms of two crewmen. "Tie her to the mainmast and stand by with water. This bitch will feel the full weight of the cat—until she is dead!" Jules stormed. His dark-brown eyes showed no mercy.

  "Mon Dieu!" Bettina gasped. Her face turned ashen. Aboard the Windsong, the man had mercifully passed out soon after the whipping had begun, and had not regained consciousness. But she would be revived with water again and again. The captain's friend would make sure she felt every bite of the lash until she died. "Please, monsieur! Shoot me instead, I beg you!"

  "You have killed the captain of this ship, who was also my friend. Shooting is too good for the likes of you," Jules said, his voice filled with hate.

  Bettina struggled to break loose from the men who held her, but there was no escape. She was dragged to the mainmast and tied securely, embracing it. A moment later, someone ripped her beautiful velvet dress down the back. Then he ripped her shift and pulled it wide apart to reveal her entire soft-fleshed, white back to the gaping sailors.

  Jules Bandelaire cracked the whip once in the air. Bettina jerked with fear, and before he could crack it a second time, she fainted. But without noticing this, Jules lifted the whip high above the tender flesh of her back to begin her slow and painful death.

  What Tristan witnessed when he staggered from his cabin brought instant clarity to his jumbled thoughts, and his familiar bellow could be heard in every corner of the ship.

  "Hold!"

  Jules was stopped barely in time, and he turned to see Tristan coming toward him, holding one hand to his aching head.

  "Mother of God! Have you gone mad, Jules," Tris­tan asked when he reached them, an angry scowl on his face at the sight of Bettina's bared back.

  "God's truth, Tristan, I have never been more pleased to see you! Davey, that fool of fools, said you were dead—that the wench killed you!"

  Tristan grinned now, but only slightly, for his head was thro
bbing painfully. "Didn't it occur to you, old friend, to check for yourself? If you had done so, you would have found that the vixen merely rendered me unconscious. Thank God I came to in time! There would have been hell to pay had you marred that lovely back, for I'm not finished with this hellcat yet!" He turned to Davey. "Untie her! And the next time you pronounce a man dead, make sure that he is. Had the lady come to harm, Davey, you would have received the same punishment that my good friend here was going to give her."

  "Aye, Cap'n," Davey replied weakly.

  When Bettina was released, Tristan lifted her limp body in his arms and looked down at her serene face. She would not be so still if she were awake, he mused thoughtfully.

  "Tristan, you can't mean to keep her in your cabin after what she has done. You vowed to be careful, and yet she got the better of you. I warned you that women don't fight as men do. Next time, she may succeed in killing you," Jules said worriedly.

  "Aye, she has vowed to do just that. I underesti­mated this one. I compared her to the meek, timid ladies I have known in the past. But I won't make that mistake again."

  "What will you do, tie her up at night, or let her cut your throat while you sleep?" Jules asked.

  "I dont think she will try to kill me again, at least not while she's on my ship. She had the chance to end my life when I was unconscious and at her mercy —but she didn't."

  "No, because she thought you were dead already!"

  "How do you know that?"

  "When I told her I would take her life for taking yours, she only begged me to shoot her instead of using the whip on her."

  "Very well, so she thought she had accomplished what she set out to do. But she has learned now what the consequences would be. Thanks to you, old friend, I know that she has a deathly fear of the whip. Didn't she faint before you laid one stroke?"

  "Aye."

  "Well, that's just the kind of information I need to put her where I want her."

  "You underestimated her once, Tristan. Don't do it again. I love you as a son—as a brother. Don't make a mistake with this wench."

  "She intrigues me, Jules. It would give me great pleasure to tame this particular lady."

  "Lady! That vixen is no lady!"

  "Aye, she is a lady, gently reared. Where the hell­cat part comes from is a mystery I would like to solve. She has a devil of a temper. Now find something for my head, for it's pounding like native drums. And get those men back to work."

  Tristan made his way back to his cabin with Bettina still sleeping in his arms. He laid her gently on his bed, then stood looking down at her for a few moments.

  Would she awaken still frightened, or with renewed fury at finding him alive? He hoped for the fury. He wouldn't care to see this beauty cower before any man, not even himself. He would enjoy trying to break her in what little time he would have her, but somehow he knew that Bettina Verlaine could not be broken, not as long as there was life in her. She could be made to submit to him, but no one could break her will.

  Jules came into the room and surveyed the damaged instruments on the floor with a shake of his head. He picked up the two tankards, brought them to the table, and filled them with wine, wishing for something stronger.

  Madeleine appeared in the doorway and looked anx­iously from the captain to her charge lying in his bed, then back to the captain again. Jules cleared his throat and beckoned her to enter.

  "She said she is learned in ways of healing. I didn't think you would mind having her tend to your wound. Her hands are delicate compared to my clumsy ones," Jules said to Tristan, who had sat down by the table.

  "Very well, as long as this one doesn't wish to cut my throat, too."

  "That I would like to do, monsieur, but I will not," Madeleine replied.

  Tristan chuckled softly. "At least you are honest, old woman. What is your name?"

  "Madeleine Daudet."

  "Well, Madeleine, did you witness what almost hap­pened to your lady?" Tristan asked quietly.

  "Yes, monsieur. I came on deck just before—before she fainted."

  "It is fortunate for her that you didn't cry out," Tristan remarked, noting the woman's swollen lip that she had bitten to still her screams. "Had you done so, Jules wouldn't have heard me stop the whipping, and Bettina would have received at least two lashes before could have reached her."

  "Thank God you awoke when you did, monsieur," Madeleine said. She bent over him and began to clean the wound.

  "Then you know why my friend here was going to p Bettina—in fact, to whip her to death?"

  "Yes, because the crew thought she had killed you. I tried to dissuade Bettina from trying to do you harm, but she would not listen to me. Bettina has always been headstrong and determined, but never so much as to­day."

  Tristan laughed, and glanced at the senseless girl in his bed. Then he turned back to Madeleine, his brows knitted in thought.

  "Tell me about her. Where does this furious temper of hers come from? I would expect as much from a street whore or a barmaid, but not a lady."

  "She is a lady, monsieur," Madeleine replied indig­nantly. "But as a child she was denied what she most wanted—her papa's love. This led to bursts of temper and defiance, and her papa sent her to a convent. She spent most of her life there."

  "Was she to be a nun?"

  "No, it was a school for girls."

  "And what did she learn at this convent—how to pray?" he asked, with humor in his voice.

  "Of course she learned of God and His ways, but she was also taught to read and write, to tend the sick and wounded, to be gentle and loving, to control her—" She stopped, realizing how ridiculous it would be to finish.

  Tristan laughed softly. "You were going to say tem­per, were you not? So Bettina wasn't a very good stu­dent, eh?"

  "She was an excellent pupil," Madeleine said in de­fense of Bettina. "It is just that when she feels intensely about something, she is blind to everything else. But I have not seen that happen since she was a child. It was only her papa who could make her temper rise, but when she came home from school, she was able to control her emotions. In fact, monsieur, I have never seen her so angry as she was today. Bettina is kind and gentle by nature, just like her mama. When she finally gave up trying to win the love of her papa, she was quite happy with life. Just her smile can make others feel as she does."

  "I have yet to see this smile or this kind and gentle nature," Tristan remarked.

  "You alone would know why, Capitaine. You have— have—"

  "Dishonored her? Yes, so I've been told."

  "You should not have touched her!" Madeleine snapped angrily. "You had no right. But since you were determined to have her, it would have been bet­ter if you had not tricked her. She accepted her fate until she learned you had deceived her."

  "I only wanted to avoid hurting her, madame. But fell me, does she want to marry this comte? Is she in love with him?" Tristan asked.

  "Her papa arranged the marriage. Bettina had no say in the matter, but she must do what is expected of her. She knows this. As for love, you cannot love a man you have never seen."

  "So she doesn't even know what her betrothed looks like. Would I be safe in saying that I might be deliver­ing her to some fat old goat whom she would prefer not to marry?"

  "No, Capitaine," Madeleine smiled. "The Comte de Lambert is young and handsome. I have seen him."

  For some reason, this bothered Tristan. "Enough of this now," he said. "I need some quiet to rid me of this headache. See to the ship, Jules. If you need me, I'll be here—ah, resting."

  "Resting! If you want rest, you had better hope the wench doesn't wake."

  Jules chuckled at his own words, then escorted Mad­eleine to the galley, where she should have gone to begin with. If she had done as Jules had instructed her, none of this would have happened, Tristan mused, and Bettina would still believe his lie. But there was no point in thinking about that now.

  Tristan poured more of the wine into his tanka
rd, leaned back in the chair, and fixed his gaze on Bet­tina. It would not take very long to reach Saint Martin, probably less than a week if the winds were favorable. That wouldn't give him very much time to enjoy this beauty. In all his twenty-six years, he had never met a woman as beautiful as Bettina Verlaine, nor one with such a maddening temper.

  BETTINA'S eyes fluttered open slowly, then wid­ened to enormous dimensions when she remem­bered everything that had happened. She sat up quickly and arched her back, but she could feel no pain, just a slight draft on her bare flesh. What had happened? Why was she still alive?

  She trembled violently for a moment, remembering the awful sound of the whip cracking in the air. My God! How had she possibly escaped that horrible death? She must have fainted. Were they just waiting for her to awaken before continuing? She had never anticipated that they would whip her to death for kill­ing the captain. She could endure anything—yes, any­thing—except that excruciating torture.

  Why did I have to kill him? she thought miserably, covering her face with her hands. I would only have had to endure a short time with the capitaine; then I would have been free—free to enjoy a long life. It would not have taken too long to forget about this experience, to be happy once again. Why did I jeopar­dize my whole life just for revenge? After all, the man was a pirate. I should have expected no more than deceit and lies from him. Bettina moaned softly in her misery. What was going to happen now? Was the first officer preparing an even more terrifying death for her? She must escape this cabin, she decided. She would jump ship and end her life in the sea. She could swim, but being so far from land, exhaustion or sharks would soon claim her. Not exactly the way she would choose to die, but a kinder death by far than the lash.

  Without a second thought, Bettina pulled her legs over the side of the narrow bed and stood up. Then she froze, and a small gasp escaped her soft lips. He must be a ghost, was her first thought. But as she stared fearfully at him, she saw that his eyes were gleaming with merriment, with devilry. His eyes were clear, clear as the bright sky—hardly the eyes of a dead man.