by Anne Herries
‘You are harsh, cousin. I have not often heard you speak so unkindly of anyone. What has the marquis done to upset you?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
Oh, but he had. He had! He had kissed her and made her lose all sense of right and wrong—and he had told her terrible, unspeakable things about Don Miguel Cortes. She wished he had not! She did not believe his lies, of course, and yet she had become aware of a deep unease within her mind. Just suppose the marquis had been telling her the truth?
Nicholas faced his friend across the inn table, his expression one of such bleak despair that Henri Moreau was shocked. Around them, the noise of raucous laughter seemed to fade into a dulled echo, the stench of the river on a warm night forgotten and unnoticed.
‘What ails you, Nico?’ he asked. ‘I have not seen you in this mood since…for many a day. Is it that you fear for this wench?’
‘She knows not what she plans,’ Nicholas replied, his dark eyes beginning to glitter with anger as he remembered the way Deborah had rejected his warning so proudly. ‘She is little more than a child and yet…’ She had felt warm and willing in his arms, a passionate woman awakened to desire. Something had stirred within him, arousing feelings he had believed dead.
‘As Isabella was when that monster destroyed her innocence and then killed her.’ Henri watched his friend intently. ‘For that he is cursed, Nico. He will be punished, his death is certain. We have both sworn it.’
‘Would that I had been there that day to protect Isabella!’ Nicholas struck the table with his clenched fist so hard that ale spilt from his tankard. ‘I shall never rest until I have avenged her death with his, Henri.’
‘We shall trap him,’ Henri replied soothingly. ‘Never fear, mon ami. One of these days he will grow weary of skulking in his lair—and then we shall have him.’
Nicholas took a drink of the warm ale; it tasted sour in his mouth, giving him no pleasure. His expression was harsh, angry, as if terrible thoughts gathered in his head, tormenting him.
He could not let Deborah marry that devil! It must be stopped at all costs. He turned the alternatives over in his mind, considering first one and then another. Would Sir Edward listen to him if he went to him, told him what he knew? It was doubtful that he would even grant an interview to the man who was the enemy of his friend. He must trust Cortes or he would not be contemplating this marriage—to give his precious daughter to such a man! It was more than flesh could stand!
Would Deborah listen to him? She was wilful, proud, impatient—and he had already tried to tell her that Miguel Cortes was an evil beast. She had laughed in his face, and her defiance had made him want to ravish her there and then—but he had contented himself with a kiss. A kiss that lingered still, and would torment his dreams if he believed her at the mercy of that Spanish dog!
There was a way… It was wrong and might cause grief to her father and fear to her, yet he knew her to be brave. She would not be afraid for long. It was a desperate act—but one that must be carried out for her own sake…and perhaps for his.
No, he would not let himself think of her in that way! If he carried out this bold, dangerous mission, let it be for her sake alone.
‘Perhaps there is a way to tempt the beast from his den, Henri. Something so irresistible to him—to his pride—that he will forget what a cowardly cur he is and seek an honourable end to the affair.’
‘You mean the wench?’ Henri stared at him, frowning as he nodded assent. ‘No, Nico! That is not the way. Mon Dieu. You cannot use an innocent girl so wickedly. It would make you almost as bad as that dog of a Spaniard.’
‘I mean her no harm,’ Nicholas said, his eyes burning with a dark flame that chilled his friend. ‘But think—even Miguel Cortes must come for his own bride. If she is snatched from beneath his very nose, his pride must suffer. He must respond to a demand for a ransom or lose all honour. Especially if it were a condition of the ransom that he comes himself to fetch her.’
‘He would know it was a trap,’ Henri argued. ‘And if he were willing to pay, would you be satisfied—would you hand that child over to him, knowing how she would suffer at his hands?’
‘No, of course not.’ Nicholas raised his eyes to meet the disbelieving gaze of his companion. ‘No, he shall not have her. I do not want his gold any more than I want my share of what we take from his ships. I shall kill him and return her to her father unharmed.’
Henri nodded. He knew that Nicholas used the Don’s gold and silver for the good of others, having no need or use for it himself.
‘I suppose your ruse might work if Cortes became angry enough to lose all caution,’ Henri said doubtfully. ‘But I cannot like your plan, Nico. Supposing something goes wrong? Besides, how are we to tempt Mistress Stirling to come with us? You said that she is determined to wed him, that she would not heed your warnings.’
‘We must kidnap her.’
‘Mon Dieu! Have you lost your senses?’ Henri was shocked. He stared at Nicholas in dismay. ‘You cannot steal a young woman of good family from her father. It is a hanging matter, Nico. Even your friendship with King James could not then save you from a terrible fate. No, you must forget this plan. We shall think of another way to tempt Miguel Cortes to sea.’
‘If you want none of this you are free to walk away. I shall not blame you—now or ever.’
‘You know I would never desert you. We are brothers in blood, to the death if need be.’ Henri frowned as Nicholas continued to stare moodily into his tankard. Clearly his friend was determined to save the wench from herself. ‘Supposing you manage to abduct the girl—where will you take her?’
‘To my château in France. She will be safe with Marie to care for her. I mean her no ill, Henri.’ Nicholas’s eyes blazed suddenly. ‘And if I do nothing—if I let her go unimpeded to her groom—what kind of a life will she find in that monster’s bed? He is cruel in ways that a girl like that could never imagine. I would rather see her dead than wed to him.’
‘It would indeed be a living death for a girl such as you describe,’ Henri said thoughtfully. ‘His touch would defile her, his cruelty break her spirit—but surely her father would listen to you? If he knew what Cortes was capable of he would in all decency refuse the match?’
‘No, I think not,’ Nicholas said. ‘Apparently he knew Don Manola years ago. They were friends and he would not believe that the refined, honest gentleman he knew then could father such a son—or condone his evil ways.’
‘Then we must find a way to save the wench from herself,’ Henri said. ‘We must be gentle and kind. She will be frightened at first. To be captured and taken away from her friends and family will be a terrible ordeal for her.’
‘She will not be broken by it,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Mistress Stirling has spirit, Henri. She will fight us, especially when she realizes it is I who have stolen her—but she will not be afraid for long.’ An odd smile played about his mouth, as if some pleasant memory had come to his mind. ‘I warn you, my friend. She will not be an easy captive.’
Henri watched the changing emotions in his friend’s eyes. This talk of abduction was unlike the character of the man he knew so well, this harshness foreign to his true nature. Once, before Isabella’s murder, Nico had laughed more than he scowled, but now he was haunted by guilt—he believed that a trifling quarrel between himself and Miguel Cortes had led to Isabella’s cruel death. Even so, this plan was wild and dangerous, and seemed at odds with the clever strategies Nico normally employed against his enemies. He was like a man driven by a force he could not control.
‘Are you sure this is what you want to do?’
‘I can see no other course but to take her with us, whether or no she wishes it…’
‘But when shall you take her?’
‘Her cousin is to be betrothed in the morning. The following day they leave for the north. I believe it would be better to strike now while they are still in London. Our ship awaits us in Greenwich. We could be away on the tide
before anyone is aware of what has happened.’
‘How is this to be accomplished?’ Henri asked. ‘You can hardly steal her from her bedroom?’
‘We shall keep a watch on the house and take our chances,’ Nicholas said. ‘I shall send a note asking her to meet me early in the morning. I shall say that I have something important to tell her—something she must hear.’
‘Surely she will not come?’ Henri was disbelieving.
‘Oh, she will come,’ Nicholas replied. ‘If she does not, I must find another way. Yet, I believe she will not be able to resist…’
Chapter Four
It was no good! Try as she might, Deborah could not sleep. She had lain awake half the night, her thoughts going round and round in dizzy circles so that she became ever more confused. She could not believe that the young man whose portrait she had so admired could possibly be the monster the Marquis de Vere had described—and yet something deep inside her sensed that the marquis had been trying to warn her for her own good.
She had answered him proudly, dismissing his warnings—but that was because he had disturbed her, his kisses had enslaved her. She had needed to reassert her own will, to break his hold on her—but she had almost believed him.
She dressed in a simple gown, more suited to the country than the clothes she had worn of late, but which she was able to manage alone, then slipped on a dark cloak. She did not wish to call her maid. This restlessness must be subdued before she was prepared for the busy day ahead.
Going softly down the stairs, Deborah saw that no one was stirring as yet. The servants had retired late and were sluggards abed this morning. She pulled back the heavy bolts that secured the street door, glancing round as they screeched loudly. Surely someone would hear?
She peered into the street outside. It was still very early. A light mist was swirling across the river and into that part of the town that hugged its banks. No one was about, most of the houses still fast shuttered against the evils of the night air.
Pulling the hood of her cloak well up over her head, Deborah left the house where she and her family were lodged. She needed to clear her mind of the thoughts that so sorely troubled her, and she had missed the freedom she was used to at home in the country. There, she had been in the habit of walking often and alone.
Slipping from the house without having roused even the servants, Deborah forgot all the warnings she had been given about walking alone in London. It was very early. No one would trouble her, especially on such a morning. Anyone with any sense would not want to be abroad until the mist lifted. Even the beggars would not venture far until the sun broke through.
Her mind returned to the problem that haunted her as she walked, like a dog trapped on a spit wheel, endlessly turning its circle over the heat of the fire. Could it be true that Miguel Cortes was a cruel murderer? Surely not! The marquis must have lied to her. And yet there had been the ring of sincerity in his voice. He had seemed to care that Deborah might suffer some harm at the Spaniard’s hands…
She shook her head as the memory of the marquis’s dark eyes burning into hers forced its way into her conscious thoughts. He had looked so—so intense! So passionate! She could not help the little thrill of pleasure that invaded her when she remembered the way he had kissed her. But no, this must stop! It would be foolish to read too much into his kiss—or his words. She must not allow herself to think of a man who could never be anything to her.
Yet perhaps she ought to speak to her father of the marquis’s warnings? Perhaps it might be better to ask if her prospective bridegroom would agree to a period of courtship before the betrothal? She must be certain she could both like and respect the man she married.
What was that? Something behind her, close by? Deborah was suddenly alert to the sounds of footsteps in the mist, echoing eerily in the half-light. She glanced over her shoulder, realizing that she must have wandered some way from her lodgings. Engrossed in her thoughts, she had not noticed where she was going.
A shiver of apprehension ran through her as she tried to take her bearings and failed. Everything was so unfamiliar in the mist. Where was she? Which way had she turned? It had all become strange and slightly sinister.
As she stood hesitating, three burly figures loomed out of the mist towards her. Some instinct warned her that she was in danger. She gasped in fright and turned to flee but there was someone in the way—a large, tall man. She was trapped between him and the others! She gave a cry of alarm as a blanket was suddenly thrown over her from behind, covering her in a shroud of darkness.
‘No! Help! Help me…’
‘Fear not, Mistress Stirling,’ a man’s voice said close to her ear. It was a French voice, and not one she had heard before. ‘You will not be harmed. The Captain has ordered you be treated like a princess.’
Not harmed! Deborah tried to scream as she felt herself being lifted and hoisted on to a man’s shoulder. Her indignation was equally as great as her fear. She was being carried as if she were a sack of straw!
‘How dare you?’ she muttered, her cries of anger lost in the wool of the blanket. ‘Let me down at once. I demand that you put me down!’
She knew the covering over her head must muffle her protests. She could hear the sound of men’s voices, laughter and jesting—and then a sharper tone, the voice of command. After that there was silence.
‘What is happening?’ she asked and attempted to struggle as she felt herself transferred to another captor, one who held her more comfortably. ‘What are you doing to me?’
She was blinded and caught by the blanket, but somehow her senses seemed heightened. She was aware of being carried down steps and then felt a rocking motion beneath her. She was being taken into a boat! She screamed and struggled as violently as she was able, hampered by the confining weight of the blanket.
‘Let me go! Let me go!’
‘You are safe. There is no need to fear, mademoiselle.’ That soft French voice again, though indistinct through the blanket. ‘Do not struggle and hurt yourself. It is only for a little time. Soon you will be more comfortable.’
Now Deborah could feel a different sensation beneath her. The boat was moving. She was being rowed down the river. She had been kidnapped! She was being taken away from her father and friends. But who had abducted her—and why?
She felt her sense of balance returning. She was no longer in a man’s arms, but sitting on a bench, his arm loosely about her, supporting her—she was no longer a prisoner. She knew that she must escape now, before she had been taken too far. She sprang up, trying to throw off the heavy blanket so that she could see, but somehow her foot caught against a rope or something similar and she fell forward, striking her head on a hard object. For a brief moment she felt pain and then she was falling into the darkness of a black hole.
Her head ached so! Deborah could hear voices and sense movement about her—or was the movement beneath her? She knew that she would have to open her eyes soon, but felt too ill to make the attempt. A moan escaped her lips; her dark lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, and then she was aware of something cool on her forehead. Gentle hands soothing her, stroking her hair and easing the pain.
‘Forgive me,’ a soft voice murmured. ‘It was my fault you fell and hurt yourself, mademoiselle. I should have taken better care of you.’
Where had she heard that voice before? Deborah’s eyelids flickered and then opened. She lay staring up at the man bending over her, feeling bewildered. Where was she? What had happened to her? The man had been applying a cool cloth to her forehead; now he removed it and smiled at her.
‘Are you feeling better, mademoiselle?’
‘Have I been ill?’ she asked. Something was bothering her, but she could not seem to remember for the moment. ‘Are you a doctor, sir?’
‘No, mademoiselle, just the first lieutenant of the Siren’s Song.’
‘We are on a ship?’ She realized that the odd motion she could feel must be the sea beneath them. She tried to si
t up, then fell back as the dizziness hit her. ‘Oh, my head hurts so much!’
‘You hit it when you fell. Forgive me. It was not intended that you should be harmed. The Captain was angry and very concerned that you might die. But I do not think that you will have more than a nasty bruise and a headache.’
Gradually, Deborah’s eyes began to focus on the man’s face. He was not handsome, but his smile was gentle, his eyes kind. His black hair was long and hung untidily about his rather thin face, and his nose was slightly crooked.
‘Who are you?’ she whispered, her throat hoarse. ‘And why am I here?’ She was struggling to remember…she had been walking in the mist and then something had happened to her.
‘You are here because…’ the man began, then broke off as someone moved forward into her line of vision.
‘You were brought here because I ordered it,’ a strong voice said—a voice that sent a thrill of recognition winging through her. ‘Henri is not to blame, Mistress Stirling. It was I who had you abducted—though I much regret that you were hurt. That was never our intention, and I believe you brought it on yourself by your wilfulness.’
Deborah gasped as she looked into the dark eyes of the Marquis de Vere. She forced herself up against the pillows piled behind her, her eyes meeting his defiantly. She was angry despite the pain at her temple and the dizziness that once again swept over her.
‘You!’ she cried. ‘How dare you make me your prisoner? How dare you treat me so ill?’
‘You mistake the matter,’ Nicholas said, smiling a little as he realized her ordeal had not damaged her spirit. When she had been knocked unconscious he had feared the worst, but it seemed that Henri was right. She had suffered no more than an unpleasant bump on her forehead. ‘I would have you consider yourself my honoured guest rather than my prisoner.’
‘Your guest?’ Deborah’s eyes glinted with temper. ‘I was half-suffocated beneath a filthy blanket, terrified near to death, knocked unconscious and brought here against my will. How can you say I am your guest?’
