by Anne Herries
‘You have been treated extremely ill,’ Nicholas admitted, his expression contrite but with a hint of humour about it. ‘I do most humbly beg your pardon, Mistress Stirling—but it was necessary, believe me. Please do not imagine you stand in danger of any further…indignity. Henri will care you for until we reach the château, then my cousin will tend you. You shall have every attention, every comfort.’
‘How can I be comfortable when I am your prisoner?’ she cried furiously.
‘My guest, lady.’
‘I demand that you return me to my father at once!’
‘Forgive me. For the moment that is impossible.’ Nicholas frowned as he saw the distress in her eyes. ‘Do not be concerned for your father. He has been informed that you are safe.’
‘Safe! You dare to kidnap me, then assert I am safe? I find such behaviour unpardonable.’ Her eyes snapped with temper. ‘You shall pay for this, sir. I promise you shall be punished for your wickedness.’
‘You have my word that you are as safe as if you were still in your father’s care.’
‘The word of a pirate!’
‘A privateer, mistress.’
‘As if there was a difference!’
‘I assure you there is a vast difference between my ships and those of the Corsairs that roam certain parts of the Mediterranean,’ he replied, a small smile about his mouth—a mouth she remembered too well from kissing it. ‘But you should be resting, not quarreling with your host. I shall leave you for now. If the wind is fair we shall be in France within a few hours. I beg you to forgive any discomfort you have suffered and be assured I shall do all in my power to make you comfortable from now on.’
‘Discomfort!’ Deborah stared in disbelief as he bowed and left her. Her head felt as if it had a thousand hammers inside it—and he spoke of discomfort. ‘You wretch! I wish you had my headache.’
‘Is your head very bad?’ Henri asked, coming forward again. He had withdrawn into the background while she was arguing with the marquis. ‘Shall I prepare a tisane to ease your pain?’
She blinked. In her fury at discovering the culprit for all her ills, she had forgotten the Frenchman.
‘I hate him,’ she muttered fiercely as forbidden tears stung her eyes. ‘How dare he do this to me? How could he?’ She gazed at Henri. ‘Why has he done this terrible thing?’
‘Nico has his reasons.’
‘You call him Nico?’ She was curious, forgetting her anger for a moment.
‘His name is Nicholas. It is a childhood thing.’
‘You knew him then?’ Deborah frowned as he nodded. ‘You are his friend, are you not?’
‘We are as brothers.’
‘Yet you are a gentle man. I do not believe that there is any evil in you.’
‘Nor is there evil in Nico, mademoiselle. There is a certain darkness, an anger that cannot be slaked but by blood, but he is not an evil man.’ Henri hesitated, seeming unsure of whether to go on, then, ‘You were taken hostage to prevent your marriage to Don Miguel Cortes. It was done in part for your own sake.’
‘For my sake…’ Deborah’s words of furious denial died on her lips as she saw the expression in his eyes. ‘Why do you look so? Please tell me—is Don Manola’s son truly a monster?’
‘He raped and then strangled a young woman of good family. The act was unprovoked and brutal beyond belief. No decent man could behave in such a manner, mademoiselle.’
Deborah’s face turned pale and her heart jerked with fear. ‘Then it is true…all the marquis told me. I did not believe it. Miguel Cortes…his likeness looked so pleasant…’
‘Miguel Cortes has the face of an angel and the soul of the blackest demon this side of Hell,’ Henri said. ‘Isabella was not the only woman to have suffered at his hands—though perhaps the most vulnerable since she was innocent, little more than a child.’
‘Isabella…’ Deborah looked at him, an unconscious appeal in her eyes. ‘Who was she? Please tell me about her?’
‘Isabella Rodrigues was a young woman of good family but no fortune. She was betrothed to Nico for three months. Her parents were both dead, her grandfather too old to take proper care of her—or to exact revenge for what was done to her…’
Henri paused as if he found the tale too horrific to relate. ‘Miguel Cortes saw her visiting the church a month before her wedding. She had refused his courtship some months earlier and the resentment must have festered inside him. He followed her as she walked home through her grandfather’s orange groves and then…’ His mouth twisted with disgust. ‘Nico has sworn to take the life of the monster that subjected her to such a terrible ordeal that day.’
Deborah felt the sickness rise in her throat. The horror of the tale just unfolded to her was swirling inside her, and she seemed to see the young girl’s struggle to fight off her attacker and hear her pitiful cries. She pressed a shaking hand to her lips, as she fought off the terrible images. Henri’s story had been so harrowing that she could almost wish it untold.
‘Is that why the marquis had me abducted?’ she asked when at last she could speak again. ‘Am I a part of his revenge on Miguel Cortes?’
Henri looked uncomfortable. ‘Since the murder, Don Manola has forbidden his son to sail with his ships. He fears Nico’s vengeance.’
‘So I am the bait to lure Miguel Cortes from his home?’ Her clear eyes accused him. ‘I can see the truth in your face, sir. That is what the marquis intends, is it not?’
Henri nodded but could not answer.
‘I see…thank you for telling me the truth. I was taken to serve the marquis’s purpose because he believes Don Miguel must come to claim his own bride.’
‘And for your own sake. Believe me—’ Henri was silenced by her look of scorn.
‘Not for my own sake, sir. Spare me such excuses, I pray you! I needed no help to make my own decision. Had I been given the time to consider, I might have decided against the marriage myself. I should in any case not have consented to the betrothal until I had had the opportunity to know Don Miguel—and if he is the monster you describe, I would have asked my father to take me home again.’
‘Nico was certain you meant to wed him, that you would not listen to his warnings but go your own way.’
‘The choice was mine. He had no right to interfere in my life.’
Henri inclined his head. She spoke only the truth, they had none of them the right to take her from her father and hold her hostage. What could he say in the face of her anger?
‘Forgive me, mademoiselle. I shall fetch the tisane.’
Deborah lay back and closed her eyes as he left the cabin. Her head did ache so very badly. It was so very foolish of her to give way like this! She felt weak and wanted nothing so much as a good cry—but crying would not help her. She must be strong and conserve her composure. She had to think of a way to escape her captors.
Yet there was no possibility of escape while she was on board this ship. She could not swim back to England! She was helpless and it was her own fault. She should never have gone walking alone in the mist.
They must have been waiting for her to leave the house. She supposed that if the marquis was determined to capture her he would have found a way—but she need not have made it so easy for him!
Anger at her own carelessness banished her tears. She was not afraid of the marquis. Somehow she knew that he would not willingly harm her. The wound to her head had been caused by her violent attempt to escape.
Her real concern was for her father and how distressed he would be by her disappearance. Even if he had received word that she was safe for the moment, he would not be able to rest. She could imagine his agony of mind—and what of poor Sarah? Would her betrothal be postponed or would they decide that it must go ahead?
Would Deborah be returned to her father in time for her cousin’s wedding? Her mind was in such turmoil! If the marquis intended to use her as bait to trap Miguel Cortes…and what was she to believe about the man she had thought to marry
? Could he really be guilty of the crimes Henri Moreau had described?
Deborah shuddered at the pictures in her mind. What that poor girl must have suffered! It was too horrible to imagine. She was sickened by such cruelty and dare not think of what might have happened to her if she had been wed to such a man. It would indeed have been a living death.
The marquis had tried to warn her, but she had refused to listen. Perhaps if she had not so brusquely repudiated his arguments he would not have thought it necessary to kidnap her.
Moaning as she felt the throbbing begin at her temple once more, Deborah closed her eyes. It was all too difficult. She could not think any more. She needed to sleep.
‘You are sure she said nothing to you?’ Sir Edward looked sternly at his ward. ‘If she has slipped away on some foolish errand—a surprise for one of us—then tell me. I shall not be angry, but I must know what has happened to my daughter.’
‘She said nothing to me,’ Sarah replied, frightened by the bleak expression in her uncle’s eyes. He had always been so kind to her, so indulgent. She had never seen him like this before. ‘I know you are anxious, sir…but I know nothing. Except…’ She stopped, her cheeks flushing crimson. ‘No, she assured me it was not a romantic tryst…’
Sir Edward’s hand snaked out, grabbing at her wrist. ‘What is this? Speak out at once!’
Sarah dropped her head. Deborah had been missing for hours. In another thirty minutes it would be the appointed time for her betrothal, but it could not go ahead without her cousin. Sir Edward was so angry, but if Deborah returned from a shopping errand she would be annoyed with Sarah for giving away her secrets.
‘Tell me, girl! Or I vow I will cancel your betrothal.’
‘No! That is not fair,’ Sarah cried. Her head went up, eyes sparkling with indignation. ‘Last night at the palace—she slipped away for several minutes alone with a man.’
‘What man?’ Sir Edward’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you are concealing something from me you shall be punished, girl.’
‘That is unfair, sir,’ Sarah protested. She did not know this suddenly old man who seemed almost driven mad by his fear for Deborah. ‘She told me she had felt faint, that she needed air and—she left the hall with the Marquis de Vere.’
‘That scoundrel!’ Sir Edward turned pale. He staggered back as if from a blow and his hand dropped from Sarah’s wrist. ‘Why—why did she do such a thing? I did not press her to this marriage. If she has run away with this rogue rather than…’
Sir Edward turned as a servant approached hesitantly. ‘Sir, a messenger has brought you this.’
‘A messenger?’ Sir Edward’s heart caught. Had his daughter run away with that privateer? He snatched the small packet from the servant’s hand and broke open the seal, staring at the words written there for some minutes before they penetrated his fevered brain. ‘No! It is even worse than I feared… Oh, my poor child. My poor, innocent daughter. She has been snatched by that scoundrel and is to be held for a ransom.’
‘A ransom?’ Sarah stared at him in dismay. ‘Oh, Uncle, I cannot believe that such a terrible thing could happen. What will you do?’
‘I must speak to Señor Sanchez at once.’ Sir Edward saw the crestfallen look in her face and frowned. Now that he knew the truth he was aware that he had a duty to his ward. Besides, it was best to see her safely betrothed before people began to gossip and speculate. ‘But I am forgetting you, niece. Your betrothal must go ahead. It is even more important that you are protected from the shame and scandal this will bring on our family. Yes, I shall send for Señor Sanchez, but your betrothal must go ahead…’
Chapter Five
Deborah discovered she felt much better when she woke for the second time. She was able to sit up without the room going round and round like a mill wheel, and although her temple still felt sore and tender the pain no longer throbbed as it had.
She saw a tankard had been set on a little chest beside the bed. Henri Moreau had obviously left it there for her and allowed her to sleep on, thinking rest the best medicine as, indeed, it had proved. She reached for the cup and sipped at the dark liquid cautiously. Finding it tasted of cinnamon and honey, she drank several mouthfuls to ease her thirst.
Deborah noticed that the motion of the ship was different, a gentle swaying instead of the violent rolling motion that had contributed to her feeling of distress. Had they anchored? Had they arrived in France?
She rose from the bed and walked a little unsteadily to the small window, looking out curiously. The ship appeared to have anchored off what looked like a small sandy cove and a boat was already pulling for the shore. What was happening? Where was this place?
A knock at the cabin door startled her. ‘Enter,’ she called and turned to see Henri Moreau hesitate in the doorway. ‘Are we in France, sir?’
‘We are anchored in the cove of Chalfont,’ he replied. ‘Nico has gone ashore to make sure that all is ready for your arrival and comfort at the château, mademoiselle. When the boat returns we shall follow.’
Deborah was silent for a moment. She still felt angry about the way she had been brought here without her permission, but of what use was it to protest? She must go with them. Her only alternative was to remain on the ship. Besides, she was well aware that she could be compelled to do whatever the marquis wished. She was his prisoner—his hostage!—whatever he might choose to call her.
‘May I come up on deck?’ she asked. ‘It is airless and hot in this cabin.’
‘Are you still feeling unwell?’ Henri inquired, his tone one of genuine concern. ‘You were sleeping when I brought the tisane. It was good, for the sea can sometimes be an unkind host.’
‘You were considerate,’ Deborah said and smiled. ‘I tasted your tisane, sir. It was pleasant and eased my thirst. I thank you for your kindness.’
Was there a sheen of tears in her eyes? Henri’s conscience smote him. He would follow Nico to the fiery pit itself, but he would never willingly hurt this woman. She was as brave as she was beautiful. And he was already a little in love with her.
‘Please do not fear for the future,’ he said gently. ‘You are bewildered and distressed by what has happened, but I give you my word that in time all will be well.’
Deborah’s eyes sparkled. Her head went up at once, pride banishing any desire to weep. ‘You mistake the matter, sir. I am neither frightened nor distressed, merely angry. If your captain were a gentleman he would return me to my father immediately. He has behaved dishonourably.’
Henri was unable to answer her, for in his heart he had always believed Nicholas wrong to take a young woman from her family, no matter what the circumstances. He stood aside for Deborah to leave the cabin and then followed her on deck.
She stood for a moment to breathe in the salty air. The cry of seabirds echoing above her and the warmth of the sun on her head were comforting after her confinement below. She moved slowly to the side of the ship and looked across at the small, sandy cove.
A steep cliff lay behind it, but it was possible to see a series of deep steps cut into the rocks to make the ascent more accessible. Above the cliffs there seemed to be a plateau with a thickly wooded area, the haze of green giving the scene a softness it would otherwise have lacked. Despite herself, she admired the beauty of sparkling sea, golden sand and dark green trees, feeling a reluctant curiosity about the château and sheltered lands that must lie beyond.
‘The climb is not as difficult as it looks from the sea,’ Henri said, coming to stand beside her. ‘By the time we reach the top, Nico will have returned with horses.’
‘Is the château far?’
‘A ride of some ten or twenty minutes, perhaps,’ Henri answered vaguely. ‘Less if one is familiar with the bridle paths through the woods.’
‘And this cove belongs to the marquis as well as the land beyond?’
‘Nico’s father built the house within easy walking distance of the sea for his English bride. His vineyards lie some way further inland.
The marquise loved the sea and she often came to the cove, for from the cliffs she could almost see her homeland.’
‘Nico’s mother?’ Deborah echoed his use of the marquis’s familiar name without realizing she had done so. ‘She is dead?’
‘Aye, and his father—she in childbed and he of grief. They died when Nico was but sixteen years.’
‘Oh, how sad,’ Deborah said. ‘And then he lost his bride…’
‘Life is sometimes hard, mademoiselle.’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Many women died in childbed, it was a fact of life. Most men married again within months for the sake of their children or their own comfort. The previous marquis must have loved his wife very deeply if he could not bear to live on without her. Such love was rare and, Deborah thought, very precious.
She lifted her head, her expression one of pride mixed with determination. She would not allow her heart to be softened towards the marquis. No matter that fate had delivered him some cruel blows, he still had no right to abduct a woman he scarcely knew and carry her off—even if he had wanted to save her from her own foolishness!
Would he still have kidnapped her if she had promised to reconsider her decision to marry Miguel Cortes? She felt a little surge of temper as she remembered that her captor planned to use her as bait to lure the evil Spaniard from his hiding place.
Now she was beginning to think of Don Miguel as a monster! She tossed her head defiantly. She would not allow the marquis to dictate even her thoughts!
Having heard and believed Henri’s explanation, Deborah was not yet ready to forgive the marquis for his interference—or to admit that he might have been right in his actions.
She noticed that the rowing boat was returning to the ship and felt a tingle at the nape of her neck, a feeling that was part apprehension, part excitement.
‘Are you ready, mademoiselle?’
