"You will cut away that beard—until your face is smooth. I was not jesting when I said that your beard annoys me. So remove it!" Bettina demanded, looking at him now with eyes like emeralds.
"I will do no such thing, woman!"
Any delay was worth gaining, even if it was pointless, thought Bettina. His beard did not really bother her, but it was worth the argument just to see if she could win.
"I insist that you shave it off, Tristan. I will not move from this chair until you do so."
"You are hi no position to insist upon anything," he grunted.
"Would you have me resist you over such a trifling matter?" Bettina asked, mockery in her soft voice. "Why won't you do this small thing for me?"
"I like my face the way it is!"
"Well, I do not!" she snapped. "Are you afraid to get rid of your beard because then your scar would be more pronounced? Again the coward, eh, Capitaine?"
His body became rigid at the mention of his scar, and his eyes were cold as he glared at her.
"You go too far, Bettina!"
She could see that she had. He was obviously very sensitive about the scar on his face. She reminded herself that she didn't really know this man, that she wasn't qualified to judge his reactions. But she wouldn't back down now.
"Why do you hide the scar? Many men have marks on them. It is nothing to be ashamed of."
"I do not hide it! Would you have me smooth-faced when my crew is not?"
"Yes. I told you your beard annoys me. Remove it and prove to me you are not a coward."
"No!"
"Then go to bed, Tristan, but you go alone. I will not yield on this matter."
"Blast you, woman!" he stormed, but Bettina remained calm and returned to her sewing.
She intended to stand firm on this, he could see that. She just might call his bluff, and he didn't want to lose the hold his threats had on her for such nonsense. Women and their idiosyncrasies!
"I will be back shortly, and when I am, I want you in that bed with your clothes removed! Do you understand? Undressed and waiting!"
Tristan turned on his heel and stalked from the room. It was not far to the cabin that Jules was presently sharing with Joco Martel, and, seeing the light under the door, Tristan knocked loudly. After a moment, the door opened and Jules stood there, a bemused expression on his face.
"I was of the impression you had retired for the night," Jules remarked.
"I did, but I need your help."
"Can't it wait until morning, Tristan?"
"No!" Tristan shouted. "I need you to remove my beard—now!"
"What kind of joke is this? Why the devil would you want your face shaved, and why now?"
"Blast it, Jules! Don't ask so many questions—just do it! If I had a looking glass, I would do it myself."
Jules started to laugh boisterously. He turned his head and looked at Joco, who was sitting at the table.
"It seems the hot-tempered mademoiselle has won a bout with my friend here," Jules remarked to Joco, then turned back to Tristan. "This is her idea, isn't it? Since when do you do what the wench asks? What's happened to your logic?"
"It wouldn't work on this matter, so get it done with," Tristan growled.
Later, when he returned to his cabin, Tristan felt like an utter fool. He could still hear Jules's laughter and his biting words: "Now you look like the young lad that you are." And indeed he did look younger than his years now. Blast it! No other woman had ever complained about his beard, and most men wore one. Bettina had complained just to annoy him—he was sure of that now. Well, it would not take long for the beard to grow back. And with that thought, Tristan opened the door to his cabin and walked inside.
Bettina had been pacing the floor, dreading the moment when Tristan would return and the battle would begin. But now she was taken aback by the sight of him.
Tristan's full golden beard had hidden much, and without it she could see how very handsome and young he was. She could not take her eyes away from his face, and stood motionless in the middle of the room.
A fleeting thought came to her mind, that she could fall in love with this man if she did not hate him so. But the thought was absurd.
"When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed!" Tristan said harshly.
But Bettina paid no attention to his tone of voice. Without the beard, he no longer looked like a dangerous pirate and she couldn't fear him. He was still a giant compared to her, but with such a handsome face, she could not take his harshness seriously.
"I no longer obey your orders," she stated finally.
His jaw tightened.
"What the devil does that mean?"
"I mean, Tristan, that you do not own me and you are not my husband. Therefore, I will not obey you."
Tristan crossed the short distance between them and stood towering before her. Gently he lifted her face up to his, but she avoided his eyes.
"Have you forgotten that you are on my ship—that you are in my power?" Tristan reminded her, the harshness gone from his voice.
"I may be on your ship, but it was not by my choice. And in your power? Perhaps. But as I said, Tristan, you do not own me. I am not your slave."
"You are my prisoner."
"Oh, yes, of course," she said dryly. "And prisoners who do not obey orders are whipped. Is that not right, Capitaine?"
"Is that what you want?"
Bettina took a step backward and looked at him oddly, as if she were thinking of an answer to his question. And then, unexpectedly, she swung her arm sideways and cracked her closed fist against his cheek, knocking him off balance.
Tristan's first impulse was to strike back, and he raised his hand, but stopped when he met her cold defiance. She stood there without flinching, rubbing her throbbing fist with her other hand and waiting for him to strike her. When he didn't, she laughed bitterly.
"Where is your whip, Tristan? Produce it and carry out your threats. I believe it was ten lashes for every strike, was it not? Or perhaps you would rather wait until the count increases? I am sure it will before the night is through."
Tristan sighed heavily and moved away from her. He sank into the chair facing Bettina and Spread his legs out before him.
"So it has come to this," he said in a level voice. "Is that why your disposition changed, because you think I will not carry out my threats?"
"You deal only in trickery! You are a liar, and I will no longer believe a word you speak!" she returned heatedly.
"What makes you so sure I was bluffing?"
"By your own words, that you hate the Spanish for beating their slaves. You would not do the same," she said triumphantly.
"Those were not my exact words, Bettina. It is not for beating their slaves that I hate the Spanish, but for another reason that runs much deeper."
Bettina faltered. The sudden anger in his eyes at the mention of the Spanish made her shiver slightly.
"If you whipped me, you could not—could not—"
"Make love to you?" Tristan finished for her. "Why? It would indeed be painful for you, but how would that stop me?"
Her anger flared. "You wouldn't!" she stormed.
"Why not? It would cause me no discomfort. Your reasoning is only from your point of view, not mine."
"You could not turn me over to my betrothed if my body were marred."
"You amaze me, Bettina. According to your logic, you would have me turn you over without stitch on. I can assure you that you will be clothed. There will be no evidence to view." "I have a voice, Tristan!"
"You will be gagged," he said matter-of-factly. "The exchange will take place on the Spirited Lady, with the Comte de Lambert brought here by my men. I will be far at sea before the comte can give chase."
Bettina felt sick inside. She had called his bluff and lost. She had been fooled into thinking that he was not a cold-blooded pirate, fooled by his handsome face. But what was he waiting for? Why hadn't he struck her in return?
&
nbsp; "What—what do you intend to do?" she asked, her eyes dark with fear. "Nothing." "But I—"
"You were right, that is all," he said. She stared at him, aghast. "Then why did you deny my reasoning?"
"Because your reasoning is not mine." "But I do not understand," Bettina returned. Tristan leaned forward in the chair and rested his hands on his knees. His expression was void of anger, nor did it show compassion.
"Have no doubt, I will use the whip if I have to, Bettina. So do not underestimate me in the future. But I would not whip you simply because you choose to fight rather than submit to me. That is your rightful choice." Bettina's eyes flamed. "Why did you trick me if you feel this way? Why didn't you let me fight for my honor in the first place?"
"Understand this, Bettina. You mean nothing to me, except as a pleasure in my bed. I admit that you are the loveliest woman I have ever come across, but there is no room in my life for you or any other woman. I chose to enjoy you and to avoid conflict if possible—it didn't matter by what means. But since you are determined to
fight me, Bettina, so be it. This is your right, and I will not whip you for it."
"Oh!" Bettina swung around so she wouldn't have to look at his arrogant face. More than anything, she wanted to kill him! But she couldn't. She had sworn to wait until she and Madeleine were safe. But then—yes, then...
"You still need not fight me, Bettina," Tristan said, breaking into her murderous thoughts. "The damage has been done, and you could gain nothing but frustration."
"I would gain satisfaction!" Bettina faced him again, prepared for battle.
"Then it is to be rape?"
"It has always been rape!" she snapped.
"You won't like it, Bettina."
"Nor will you!"
"Again the test of strength, eh? Well, at least I will prove once and for all that your strength is no match for mine."
He stood up, and Bettina ran for the door. But before she could open it, Tristan had picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder. She kicked her feet, but they struck only air. She pounded on his back with her fists, but it was like beating on solid rock. When Tristan reached his bed, he tossed her down, stunning her for a moment. Bettina fought to untangle herself from the web of her unbound hair, and Tristan quickly removed his breeches and tunic. When she finally looked up at him, he was standing naked and ready, a devilish grin on his firm lips.
"This will be easier than I expected," he laughed.
"No!" she screamed, and started to scramble from the bed, but he was on her in a second.
"Will you be sensible, or will you repair your dress for a third time come morning?" he asked.
"You go to the devil!" she cried furiously.
She began to struggle, only to find Tristan's hands locked on her wrists. He pulled them above her head, leaving her defenseless except for her legs, and these were hampered by her skirt. His weight pressed down on her, and Bettina suddenly felt suffocated. She continued her panting efforts to free herself, but she could hear Tristan laughing. Laughing!
Bettina screamed then, a deafening scream of rage, but Tristan covered her mouth with his. When she thrashed her head from side to side to avoid his lips, he released her hands and held her face still, bruising her soft lips with his brutal kiss. He stopped, however, and cried out in pain when she raked her nails down his back.
"Damn you, she-cat!" he growled. He secured her wrists with one hand and ripped her dress down to her waist with the other. He looked at her coldly and continued to watch her terror-filled expression as he finished tearing her dress apart. Then he tore the soft material of her shift away until her young flesh was open to his view. Tristan hoisted her legs over his shoulders and held them there with his massive arms. He entered her cruelly and raped her body with his anger.
When he had finished with her, his anger subsided. He released her and rolled to her side, not caring whether she resumed her attacks. But she just lay there, staring at the ceiling. She didn't even move when he pulled the cover over her.
"Bettina, why do you insist on pain? You experienced the ultimate in pleasure this morning, and I would gladly take you to those heights again," he said quietly.
"You have no right to give me this pleasure!" she snapped, coming to life again and surprising him with her quick reply. "Only my husband will have that right. And you are not my husband!"
"And you will give yourself freely to this comte when you marry?"
"Of course."
"But he is a man you have never seen. What if you hate him, even as you hate me? What then, Bettina?"
"That is of no concern to you."
Bettina suddenly remembered the talk she had had with her mother about her forthcoming marriage, and her mother's wish that she find happiness at all cost. What if the Comte de Lambert was a cruel man—a man like Tristan?
No! She must not hate her future husband. She would need him to fulfill her revenge against Tristan.
"Since I will take you again, anyway, why not enjoy it, Bettina?" Tristan asked quietly. "No one need know that you abandoned yourself to me."
"I would know!" she cried indignantly. "Now leave me be!"
She turned her back on him and let the silent tears caress her cheeks. It was a long while before Bettina could sleep. But Tristan's thoughts were equally troubled, and late in the night he quietly left the cabin.
Chapter
T
HE morning was well under way, and Tristan tried to control the urge to knock a few heads together. The surprised looks and hushed snickering from his crew, as if they could hardly recognize him without his beard, were wearing down his nerves. He had a mind to shave the whole lot of them; then he would see who would laugh!
It was in this angry mood that Tristan pounded on Jules's door. Madeleine Daudet opened it, then shrank back from him, fear in her eyes. With a scowl on his face, Tristan stepped into the cabin to find Jules sitting at the table over a cup of steaming black coffee.
"What the hell is keeping you, Jules?"
"I've been trying to reassure this one that you didn't beat her lady last night. Can't you keep that blasted wench from screaming her head off?"
"Would you have me gag her? That would just increase her low opinion of me, although why thatshould bother me, I don't know," Tristan said. He turned to Madeleine with a look of annoyance. "Go to your lady. You will find her no worse off than she was yesterday. In fact, she should be quite pleased with herself."
Tristan watched the old woman leave the cabin; then he closed the door and faced his friend. Jules laughed boisterously.
"Blast it, Jules!" Tristan stormed. "Your amusement at my expense has gone far enough. Perhaps if I shaved off your beard, you would not find it so humorous!"
"It is not your smooth face that I find amusing, 'tis your black eye," Jules chuckled.
Tristan felt the tender area below his eye and winced. So, he had a black eye to go with the raw scratches on his back. He had forgotten about the blow Bettina had dealt to his cheek.
"Why do you let the wench get the better of you?" Jules asked soberly. "A good beating would put her in her place. I had to lock the old servant up last night when the girl started screaming. She was going to race to her lady's rescue."
"I'll handle the girl the way I see fit. I'll tame her yet, and I've decided to keep her for a while," Tristan said, grinning.
"What the devil are you talking about?"
"Just that I've a mind to enjoy Bettina Verlaine's company for a bit longer than planned. I changed course for our home island last night," Tristan replied.
"But what of the ransom?"
"I will still collect the ransom—but not yet. The comte can wait to enjoy his bride. And can you honestly tell me you're not impatient to return to your little Maloma?"
"No, that I can't. But Bettina and Madeleine think they are going to Saint Martin. What's going to happen when they find their destination has been changed?" Jules asked.
"
They needn't know until we reach home. Bettina will be the only one who will raise hell, but there won't be anything she can do about it." Tristan paused thoughtfully. "Why don't you sound out the crew today and see what they have to say. These last two years at sea have yielded much booty. They shouldn't mind losing their shares of the ransom for the moment."
"No, I'm sure they will gladly go along with your decision," said Jules. "They are anxious to get back to their women."
"One more thing. Whatever you do, don't let the old woman know of this. Warn the crew not to speak of it in front of her."
"Bettina, are you all right?" Madeleine asked. She closed the door and sat down across from her ward.
"Yes, why do you ask?"
"I heard your screams last night. I thought that he—"
"It was nothing," Bettina said quickly. "Just screams of frustration, no more."
Madeleine was perplexed. Bettina's lips were tight, her knuckles taut as she took careless stitches in her violet dress. She was wearing only her white shift, and Madeleine noticed the uneven seam in the front where it had been repaired. It was not like Bettina to sew unskillfully.
"I saw the capitaine," Madeleine ventured. "He said that you would be pleased with yourself, but you do not seem so."
Bettina looked up, her eyes like glittering emeralds. "So the capitaine thinks he can predict my feelings now. He is indeed a fool!"
She, too, had thought she would be pleased at being able to fight Tristan. But losing to Mm had meant utter humiliation. She couldnt stop thinking about the degrading way he had raped her—raising her legs over his shoulders.
She had awakened quite early, relieved to find herself alone. She had sponged herself with cold water from the washstand, then began to repair her shift. But with each stitch she took, scenes from the night before flashed before her eyes. Her lips were still tender and slightly swollen from Tristan's hard, angry kisses. And there were tiny blue marks on her wrists, testimony to his superior strength.