A Pirate's Love

by Johanna Lindsey

  "Why do you do this to yourself, Bettina? Why do you deny yourself the pleasure I can give you?"

  She opened her eyes to see him staring down at her, and she realized that the danger was not yet over.

  "I deny myself nothing. I merely spoke the truth," she returned, her tone full of contempt.

  "You're a witch."

  "And you, monsieur, are the Devil incarnate."

  The room filled with his laughter. "If I am, then we make a good pair, you and I."

  He left the bed and put on his breeches, then poured wine into his tankard. Before he drank, he bent down, picked up her dress, and laid it over the chair.

  "You will have to take better care of your clothes, little one. You would not look so appealing wearing mine."

  "I have other dresses," she replied tartly.

  "Do you? And where might they be?"

  "In my trunks, of course."

  "No trunks were brought aboard my ship, Bettina. Only you, your servant, and your dowry."

  Her eyes opened wide. "You are lying to me again!"

  "Why should I lie about this?"

  "But my trousseau was in one of those trunks!" she yelled at him.

  "I'm sure your future husband will purchase you another trousseau."

  "But I don't want another one!" She felt the tears coming, but she couldn't stop them. "I worked for a month on my wedding dress. It was a beautiful gown and you—you—" She burst into tears, hiding her face in the pillow.

  "Mother of God! You don't cry over your loss of virginity, but you cry over a lost dress. Blast all women and their tears!" Tristan grabbed his shirt and stalked from the cabin, slamming the door as he left.

  I

  Chapter

  Bettina lay on the narrow bed, silently counting the minutes as they passed. At least three hours had gone by since she stopped crying. Crying was such a foolish thing to do. Only weak women spilled tears, or those who would play on another's sympathy. But she was not weak, and she vowed she would never let a man see her cry again.

  Her tears had ruined her plans and made Tristan storm from the cabin. He had not yet returned, and she had no way of knowing if he would or not. He could have gone ashore, he could be sleeping elsewhere, but she couldn't leave until she knew exactly where he was. He must return to the cabin!

  Another hour passed, and then two more, but she was still alone. It was well after midnight now, and Bettina was finding it increasingly hard to keep her eyes open, but couldn't get up and pace to ward off the drowsiness. She had to appear to be sleeping when and if Tristan did return.

  When the door to the cabin finally opened, Bettina closed her eyes and lay perfectly still. The room was in darkness, with only a tiny sliver of moonlight spilling in through the window. She couldn't see Tristan, but she could hear him as he stumbled toward the bed, mumbling a curse when he bumped into the table. A moment later, he dropped down on the bed beside her, his arm feeling like a heavy board as it fell across her chest, making her gasp. But he didn't seem to hear her.

  The fumes of liquor hit Bettina in the face, and she smiled to herself. This was better than she had hoped for. He was already asleep, would sleep like a log for what remained of the night, and would probably still be sleeping when she brought the authorities back to arrest him.

  Bettina carefully lifted his arm off her, then quickly scooted to the end of the bed, rather than risk crawling over him. She went straight to Tristan's chest of clothes and took out the two articles she had laid on top of the others.

  She had decided earlier that she would have to wear-his clothes, for her velvet dress would be too heavy and cumbersome to swim in. She had picked out the darkest colors he had, so it would be less easy to see her.

  She braided and tucked her pale hair underneath the bulky blue shirt. And to hide the top of her head, she was forced to take the one hat Tristan had. It was wide-brimmed, with a sweeping plume, a hat that was definitely in fashion but that she could hardly picture Tristan wearing. This sort of hat was worn by gentle­men with long, fashionable curls, and short-haired Tris­tan was no gentleman.

  She secured the baggy black breeches about her waist with a strip of material she had torn from her shift, and she was ready to go.

  She knew she must look utterly ridiculous, but there was nothing else she could do. She opened the door, carefully closed it behind her, and nearly despaired when she saw how light it was outside. The moon lit everything as plainly as if it were only late afternoon.

  She hated to leave the shadow of the wall behind her, but she had to find a way to climb down the ship's side and escape quietly. It would be easier to run for the railing and jump, but someone would surely hear her hit the water, and that wouldn't do.

  Scanning the deck, Bettina could see no one. All was silent. Someone was probably standing watch, but she could only pray they wouldn't see her. She moved away from the wall very slowly, but then a sudden panic gripped her and she darted to the railing. She looked about frantically, and saw a rope ladder strung over the side of the ship, which must have been left there by the shore parties. A few moments later, she slid easily into the warm black water.

  It took her over thirty minutes to swim to the piers, what with circling around the other ships in the harbor .and continually having to retrieve Tristan's hat. By the time she found a wooden ladder that climbed to the dock, she was exhausted. Her arms felt like dead weights, and she knew she would be aching all over in a few hours. But it was all worth it just to see Tristan hang, and she wouldn't budge from this island until the governing authorities sent him on his way to hell.

  Bettina wanted to laugh aloud at that thought, but in­stead she stared out into the harbor at Tristan's ship. She could see the deck clearly, even from this distance, but no shadow moved, all was still, and she was still safe. She turned and faced the town, then shivered slightly. It was just as still, and she stood alone on the dock. But floating through the air came the faint sound of music to mix with the quiet lapping of the waves behind her. She walked toward the music, hoping to find people who could direct her to the authorities.

  As the music became louder, Bettina could hear the sounds of drunken revelry accompanying it, and she stopped short when she saw the lighted tavern. A pud­dle of water from her sodden clothing formed around her bare feet while she weighed her problem. It was possible that some of Tristan's crew would be in that tavern. If she walked in, they might not recognize her, dressed as she was, but she couldn't take that risk. Then again, she had to find help, and there was no one on the street except herself. If she went into the tavern and was recognized, she could always run.

  Bettina walked up and down the street, trying to come to a definite decision. She kept hoping someone would come out of the tavern, or that she would run into someone on the street, anyone she could seek help from. But no one appeared. She could find herself an alley to hide in and wait until morning, when the streets would be crowded with people, but by then Tristan might have his whole crew out looking for her. And besides, she wanted to take the law back to the ship before Madeleine awoke and started to worry about her.

  Slowly, Bettina edged over to the open door of the tavern. She stood to one side and scanned the room nervously to see if she recognized any of Tristan's crew. But it was impossible to tell. There were so many men with their backs to her, and others were sleeping with their heads on the tables. There were women in the room also, barmaids serving drinks, whom the men apparently regarded as fair game for fondling and pinching.

  Bettina was repelled by the foul odor that was heavy in the air, even outside the door, but she knew she had to walk into the tavern if she were going to find help. She walked quickly to the nearest table, where three men were avidly playing some sort of game with small sticks.

  "Monsieur," she ventured, but not one of the men looked up at her. "Monsieur, I seek a gendarme."

  "Speak English, will ye?" one of them said. He glanced at her, and then his eyes opened wide. "Blim
y! Will ye look at that!"

  The other two men looked at her with greedy eyes, and Bettina looked down at herself. She gasped when she saw that the thin, wet shirt clung tightly to her breasts and was nearly transparent. She quickly pulled the material away from her skin, but it was too late, for at least half a dozen men had already seen the clear outline of her perfectly formed breasts.

  "What's yer price, wench? I'll pay it, no matter what," one man said. He rose from his chair.

  "Sit down, mate," another said. "I saw 'er first."

  "Get the hell out of here!" a huge man behind the bar yelled at her. "Ye're gonna start a bloody fight, blast ye!"

  But the fight had already started between the two men who had spoken first. Others joined in, just for the love of a good fight, and in seconds the room was full of drunken, brawling men. Bettina started backing away to escape, but then a huge hand clamped down on her shoulder.

  "Ye're gonna pay fer this!" the barkeeper shouted in her ear. "Ye're gonna pay fer the damages!"

  Bettina quickly jerked free and ran for the door, but the fat barkeeper followed close behind her. She ran frantically down the street, ducked into the first alley she came to and stumbled over piles of garbage as she made her way to the other end. She came out into a lighted square, saw a uniformed guard on the other side, and ran toward him. She could hear the fat man shouting behind her.

  "Monsieur, are you a gendarme?" she asked, when she reached the man.

  "What?"

  She didn't know why she had assumed this town would be a French settlement. "Are you an official of the law?" she asked in English.

  But the man in uniform was distracted as the fat man came running across the square toward them. "What have you done, girl?" he asked.

  "I have done nothing," she replied. "I was seeking the law when—"

  "Arrest her!" the barkeeper shouted as he panted up to them.

  "What has she done?"

  "She—she came into my place like that," he an­swered, motioning to her. "And she caused a bloody fight. There's damages!"

  "Is this true, girl?" the officer asked sternly.

  "I was only seeking help. I could find no one on the street to ask," Bettina replied.

  "Help for what?" the officer asked.

  "There are pirates in the harbor. They were keeping me prisoner. I escaped to find the authorities, and—"

  She stopped when both men laughed at her answer. What was so amusing about her story?

  "Telling lies won't help you out of this," the officer said. "Now, can you pay for the damages you caused, or do I arrest you?"

  "But I'm speaking the truth!" Bettina exclaimed.

  "Can you pay for the damages?" he asked again, im­patience creeping into his voice.

  "No."

  "Then come along." He took her arm and started to escort her down the street.

  "What about the damages?" the barkeeper called out.

  "You'll be paid, citizen, as soon as the girl's sold into service."

  "You must listen to me," Bettina pleaded.

  "You can save it for the magistrate," the officer said gruffly as he took her into a very old building at the end of the square.

  "When can I see him?"

  "In a week or so. There are others before you."

  "But the pirates will be gone by then!"

  He pulled her around to face him, his eyes without compassion. "We have no pirate ships in our harbor, wench. And if you tell the magistrate such a ridiculous story, he'll probably sell you into service for at least seven years. If you tell the truth, he may go easy on you."

  "Easy?"

  "Let you serve in his house for a few years. The old magistrate likes a pretty wench to warm his bed."

  He led Bettina into a large courtyard, lined on three sides with barred cells. She gagged at the stench of the place and fought down nausea. He opened an empty cell and shoved her in, then slammed the iron bars shut.

  "Please, you must believe me!" she pleaded, but he walked away, leaving her alone in the dark, stinking cell.

  He returned a moment later and tossed a coarse blanket through the bars at her.

  "You had best get out of those wet clothes. You won't be worth anything dead."

  She was alone again. She couldn't see into the dark cells across from her, but she could hear moaning and crying all around. She fought back tears of self-pity, but the salty drops spilled down her cheeks, anyway. Why hadn't they believed her?

  Bettina threw Tristan's hat on the floor and stamped on it. This was all his fault! By escaping him, she'd just gotten into worse trouble. She could tell the truth and spend seven years in servitude, or she could make up a believable lie and end up being an old man's bedmate. And in the meantime she must spend a week in this filthy cell, without even a cot to sleep on.

  With an overpowering sense of hopelessness, Bettina slipped out of her wet clothes and wrapped the rough blanket around her shivering body. She then curled up in the corner of the cell and let sleep wipe away her misery.

  The night was clear, and a full moon shone above the peaceful little village by the sea. A young boy of twelve was asleep in his parents' one-room house.

  His father had not gone out in the fishing boats with the other men of the village that night because of a fevered cold, so both the boy's parents slept in their big bed in the corner of the cottage.

  Three hours after the fishing boats had left the little village, the Spaniards came. They came not for riches, for the village was a poor one. They came for sport, to destroy, and rape, and kill.

  The young blond boy was the first to wake when the screams started in the streets. He watched as his father jumped from his bed and grabbed a kitchen knife, the only weapon he could find, then started to run outside, with the boy's mother begging him not to go. But the tall man with golden hair did go, and he was one of the last to die by the dark Spaniard's blade. The boy watched from the window, with his mother beside him, as the Spaniard wiped his sword on his father's blood-soaked body.

  The boy's mother screamed, and this brought her to the attention of the Spaniard, who started for their house. The woman forced her son to hide under his bed in the single room, and ordered him to remain quiet no matter what he heard or saw. Then she grabbed one of the kitchen knives, spilling the rest on the floor, and waited for her husband's murderer to enter the house.

  All the boy could see in the next minutes from where he lay under the bed was the Spaniard coming through the door and then shuffling of feet as his mother struggled with the man. The woman was tall, and her strength was increased by blind rage. It was a long time before the knife she held fell to the floor, but still the man could not bring her down. Then one of the Spaniard's friends came to the door and spoke to him in Spanish, calling him by name—Don Miguel de Bas-tida.

  By himself, Bastida had been unable to overcome the boy's mother, but with the help of his noble friends, she was brought quickly to the floor. Bastida was the first to rape her, while four men held her down and others stood by watching and laughing. When Don Miguel de Bastida finished with her, he sat at the table and watched as one man after another climbed on top of the woman, laughing all the while. Unfortunately, the boy's mother was the most beautiful of the village women, and even those men who had already raped other wom­en wanted their turn with her.

  The boy watched all of this as he cowered beneath tbe bed, not really understanding why his mother was screaming. But he remembered his mother's warning and remained silent, never having disobeyed her. The screams stopped after the fourth man, and she lay moaning while five more had their way with her, some of them finding pleasure in beating her.

  Bastida stayed until the end, laughing and encour­aging even the last man. When it was over, when only Bastida was left in the room, the woman slowly strug­gled to her knees, half-demented now, blood oozing from cuts on her face. With a parting comment, Bastida turned to leave also, but the woman found strength to grab one of the knives on the flo
or and lunge at the Spaniard.

  Then the boy heard his mother's last cry, and she fell in a heap to the floor. Bastida spit on her lifeless body and continued out the door, and it was only then that the young boy crawled from his hiding place. He ran after the Spaniard, nearly blinded by his silent tears. He attacked the Spaniard with his bare fists, but Bastida only laughed and laid open the boy's cheek with the point of his sword. Then he kicked him to the ground only a few feet from where his father lay, and told him he was no match for—no match for. . . .

  Tristan bolted upright in bed, covered with a cold, clammy sweat. It had been so real, exactly the way it happened fourteen years ago. Mother of God, why must the past still haunt his dreams? He would never forget that night the Spaniards came to his village, but why did he have to see his parents murdered over and over again in these nightmares? Would he never find peace?

  Tristan got up and splashed cold water on his face, and only then did he see he was alone. He dashed from his cabin, his face as dark as a stormy sea, and in less than five minutes, he was certain Bettina was not on his ship.

  "Is this the one, Captain?"

  Bettina opened her eyes and saw the man who had brought her here last night. She blinked twice before she could believe that the tall man with him was Tristan. They were standing inside her cell, casually observing her.

  "Yes, this is the girl. I should leave her in your care. It would serve her right for all the trouble she's caused me," Tristan said in a steely voice.

  "That could be arranged, Captain. She can still be brought up on charges of disturbing the peace. The magistrate would like to get his hands on this one."

  "Well, I promised the girl's father I would bring her to him. Otherwise, I would wash my hands of her."

  Bettina was confused. She stood up, careful to keep the blanket wrapped tightly about her, and pointed an accusing finger at Tristan.

  "He lies! He is the one I told you about—the pirate. You cannot let him take me!"