The Abducted Bride

by Anne Herries

  Deborah blushed, giving him her hand but making no reply to his teasing words, though she knew well enough what he meant. She went with him to join his friends, who were now also hers, and after a while she found that she had begun to feel happy again. The shadows had lifted and there was no more need for shame or anxiety. She was acknowledged as the marquis’s intended bride and was content. Even Marie’s brooding hatred could not destroy her pleasure as she danced and played foolish games, and knew that Nicholas smiled at her.

  The marriage contract was signed that evening with three of their guests as witnesses. When she left Nicholas to retire later that evening, Deborah knew that she was now legally bound to him, though the marriage ceremony would not take place until his return from his meeting with Don Miguel.

  She dreamed that night, a dream so vivid and so terrible that she woke trembling to find her body bathed in a fine sweat. She had seen Nicholas lying dead at her feet—and herself wed to a Spaniard with the face of an angel and the soul of a devil.

  It was a long time before sleep claimed her again, but at last she drifted away.

  Deborah woke only when Louise came to rouse her. The frightening dream had faded by then and she put it from her mind determinedly as she dressed to go riding with the marquis.

  Later that afternoon she wrote a long and loving letter to her father, asking for his forgiveness and explaining that she had come to admire the Marquis de Vere. She would have his blessing if she could and hoped that he would come to visit her often once she was the marquise. Sealing her paper with wax from the writing desk Nicholas had provided, she gave it into his care that evening.

  ‘It shall be sent immediately,’ he told her. ‘We must hope that once Sir Edward’s just anger has cooled he will give us his blessing on our union.’

  ‘Yes.’ Deborah smiled bravely. It would hurt her deeply if she were to be forever estranged from her beloved father.

  She knew it would take some days for the letter to reach him. Even when Nicholas’s messenger reached the shores of England he would have a long journey before him, and it would be several more days until a reply could come to her. She must pray that the marquis’s messenger found her father at home. Surely he would have returned there to await news of her?

  And yet she knew he would have been anxious for her safety. It was possible that he might have decided to search for his lost daughter. Would he come here? Would he know where to begin his search? And how would he feel if he believed her lost?

  ‘Why do you look so sad?’ Nicholas asked. ‘You are not unhappy with our bargain? You do not fear your future here?’

  ‘No…’ She gazed up at him. ‘I am neither afraid nor unhappy, my lord. Only a little uneasy because you must leave tomorrow.’

  Nicholas laughed softly. ‘Fear not, my lady. Within a week my business will be done and I shall return to claim you. Our wedding day shall be no more than two days later.’

  A little thrill of excitement mixed with apprehension went through her. Those dark eyes held a wicked promise, and one that brought a faint blush to her cheeks as she recalled how close she had come to surrendering that night in the stable yard.

  ‘I shall pray for your safe return, my lord.’

  ‘Never doubt it, Deborah. I am impatient for my wedding night.’

  She was breathless of a sudden and could not answer him, though she knew that she too was eager for their marriage to be a true one.

  Nicholas escorted her to the door of her chamber that night. He gazed down into her eyes for several moments.

  ‘Do not forget me, Deborah. Nor that you are mine—for I shall never let you go.’ And then he kissed her softly on the lips. ‘Sleep well. God keep you safe until I return.’

  ‘And you, my lord,’ she whispered as he turned and walked away. ‘I pray God brings you back to me swiftly.’

  She turned cold suddenly and crossed herself. Nicholas was so confident of vanquishing his enemy—but supposing he was killed or badly wounded? She wished then that she had confessed her love, but Nicholas had gone and her pride would not let her go after him.

  ‘My daughter—have you heard anything more of her?’ Sir Edward demanded of the Spaniard. ‘Tell me at once, I beg you, señor.’

  He was standing on the deck of Don Manola’s ship, the Santa Maria, and the Don himself had that moment come on board, as it lay anchored off the shores of Cadiz.

  ‘Quiet your fears, my friend,’ replied the Don. ‘Mistress Stirling is in a fair way to being recovered. As soon as we received the ransom demand our plans were made…’

  ‘That rogue has demanded gold from you?’ Sir Edward’s face turned red with fury. He had lived in constant fear during the voyage to this Spanish port and his impatience tumbled out in an angry spate. ‘By God! He shall hang for this.’

  ‘I hope to have that pleasure myself,’ the Don replied. ‘Our ships sail to the appointed meeting in the morning.’

  ‘You will accede to his demands?’

  ‘He has demanded that my son hand over the gold in person. De Vere hopes to settle a quarrel between them and take Miguel’s life.’

  ‘A quarrel?’ Sir Edward’s eyes narrowed. ‘Between your son and the marquis? I have heard naught of this—why do they quarrel?’

  Don Manola’s eyes did not meet those of his old friend as he replied, ‘It was nothing—a mere spat between two hot-blooded young men, but de Vere has turned it into a vendetta.’

  ‘So my daughter was snatched because of a quarrel between your son and de Vere?’ Sir Edward’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was more here than he had yet realized. He had left England with Señor Sanchez only hours after hearing of his daughter’s abduction, giving Sarah into the care of her betrothed, his one thought to find his daughter and see her safe.

  ‘You shall have your revenge for any disrespect shown her, my friend. Within a few days Le Diable will be dead and your daughter restored to you. Then we shall have a wedding.’

  ‘If that rogue has harmed her…’

  ‘He would not dishonour her,’ Don Manola replied. He did not add that if he had doubted it the girl would have been left to her fate, worth neither the ransom demanded nor the trouble of rescuing her. ‘Rest easy in your mind, Sir Edward. De Vere may be ruthless and I have good cause to wish him dead—but he would not dishonour a maiden. He thinks too highly of his honour.’

  ‘I must pray that you are right, señor.’ Sir Edward’s eyes were bleak. ‘I shall have no peace until I have her back—and as for the wedding, Deborah’s consent must be won. She may be too distressed to think of marrying just yet.’

  ‘We shall give her time, of course,’ the Don assured him smoothly.

  The lie trickled silkily from his tongue even though the giving of it shamed the man he had once been. There had been a time when his honour had been as spotless as de Vere’s, but no longer. There was a stain on it that would not be washed away by a thousand Hail Marys or a lifetime of penance.

  He knew that what he did would burn him like the fires of Hell, and that he would not escape eternal damnation, for his sins were heavy and he was about to compound them. God forgive him! He was in torment now and had been since he had discovered the truth about his son.

  Yet he had no alternative. His plans were set and must be followed to their end. He had the father in his power and soon he would have the girl. She would be wed to the son he despised and loathed because there was no choice.

  He had done much that had sat ill with his conscience for one purpose. A purpose that rode him like the devil, never giving him a moment’s peace.

  Miguel must provide an heir and the mother must be well-born, worthy of his name and lineage. After that… Don Manola’s thoughts shut off abruptly. Once he had his heir, he would do what must be done.

  Chapter Ten

  Nicholas had been gone two days and to Deborah it seemed much longer. Although Henri remained at the château, all the other guests had departed that morning. Deborah felt beref
t, lonelier than she had been in all her life with only Marie and the servants for company.

  ‘I feel as if I am deserting you,’ Jeanne Dubois had said as she kissed her goodbye that morning. ‘It will not be for long, I promise you. We shall return for your wedding, if not sooner, but my husband has business that will no longer be ignored.’

  They had become friends, and Deborah had been sorry to part from her and the others, but in her heart she knew it was Nicholas she was truly missing. It was his voice she longed to hear, his touch she hungered for with every fibre of her being.

  Marie’s open hostility had driven her from the house soon after the guests had left. She wandered about the garden disconsolately, unable to forget that very soon now Nicholas’s ships would reach the appointed meeting with those of Don Manola. What would be the outcome? She feared a bloody battle with much loss of life on both sides.

  Supposing Nicholas was amongst the wounded? It was no use! She needed something to drive these foolish thoughts from her mind. A good hard ride would help. She entered the house and ran upstairs, asking for her mare saddled while she changed into a suitable gown. As she did so, her betrothal ring came off and, not wishing to lose it, she laid it aside.

  When she came down again, she found Henri waiting for her. ‘You wished to ride, Mistress Stirling?’ he said. ‘With your permission I shall accompany you.’

  ‘There is no need if you have other duties,’ Deborah replied. ‘I know you are busy and I meant only to go as far as the park.’

  ‘Nico would not forgive me if you went unprotected.’

  ‘You must think me a troublesome wench,’ she said and laughed. ‘It is overwarm for riding, I know, and it is foolish of me to be so anxious—but I cannot rest.’

  Henri smiled in return. ‘You must know that it pleases me to please you, lady. I understand your unease. This is the first time Nico has sailed without me, and I cannot rid myself of the feeling that he is in trouble—though I know such thoughts are foolish. He has no need of my protection.’

  ‘Oh, poor Henri,’ Deborah said. ‘You must be fretting as much as I—it was unfair to leave you behind.’

  ‘I am honoured by the trust Nico has placed in me,’ Henri assured her. ‘Someone must remain to protect you. We have men who would fight to the death for you, but someone must command.’

  Deborah nodded, understanding that he was torn between his desire to protect both her and Nicholas. The two men were as close as brothers and Henri could not be easy in his mind until his comrade returned.

  He helped Deborah to mount her mare, then swung into the saddle of his own horse. Deborah flicked her reins, and the two horses trotted out of the courtyard side by side. Soon they were cantering in the park; it was very warm even there and after a while Deborah suggested they ride as far as the beach.

  ‘It will be cooler there,’ she said. ‘We can easily be there and back before darkness falls.’

  Henri seemed to hesitate for a moment before agreeing. He had his sword as always, but why should he have need of it? Deborah saw no need of caution. Nicholas was on his way to an appointment with his enemy. There was surely no fear of an attack while the Don and his son were waiting elsewhere?

  ‘If it is your wish,’ Henri said. ‘I confess I am too restless to do nothing. A hard ride will help to ease this feeling I have inside.’

  Deborah did not need to ask what he was feeling. She had a growing sense of foreboding. Supposing Nicholas had sailed into a trap—supposing the Don’s ships fired without warning? They were meant to meet under a flag of truce, but she could not help the tormenting thoughts that came to her mind.

  Riding helped a little. Deborah knew her way to the beach now and she urged her mare to a gallop as they neared the rise, which then sloped gently to the beach beyond. As she crested the rise, she halted at the sight that met her eyes. A ship had anchored off shore and two boats had beached. The beach itself seemed crowded with armed men. Had Nicholas returned sooner than expected?

  As Deborah hesitated, uncertain of what was happening, one of the men on the beach saw and pointed at her, shouting to the others. In that moment she realized that they were not Nicholas’s men but Spanish. Don Manola, seizing the chance to attack while Nicholas was away and his home vulnerable, must have sent them here.

  Henri had seen them too. He was shouting at her, gesturing for her to ride away. There were so many men—perhaps thirty or more. What would happen if Deborah rode back to the château? She could reach safety for the men on the beach had no horses as yet—but what of Chalfont’s people? She knew instinctively that these men had come for her and would if need be storm their way into the château to take their prize.

  Because of his own strict code of honour, Nicholas had believed they would meet him to bargain for her return under a flag of truce, but he had been tricked into leaving his home vulnerable to attack from the sea.

  ‘Come, mistress,’ Henri was urging her. ‘They cannot follow if we ride fast. It was fortunate we came this way. They meant to attack us while we slept—but now we shall be ready for them.’

  ‘But our people may die…’

  ‘They will die bravely for Nico and for you.’

  She stared at him in an agony of uncertainty. If she saved herself she would be the cause of so much bloodshed. She hesitated a moment longer and then all at once it was too late. Several shots rang out and Henri’s horse went down beneath him. Deborah screamed as he fell and was rolled on by the agonized beast in its dying throes. She threw herself down beside him, kneeling on the coarse grass.

  ‘Henri,’ she cried. ‘Henri—speak to me. Forgive me.’

  He lay white and still, eyes closed. She knew the fall had killed him and gave a wild cry of distress, as the Spaniards were suddenly all around her, grasping at her, hauling her to her feet.

  ‘He is dead,’ she accused them bitterly. ‘You have killed him, murdered him. My friend. He is dead…dead!’

  They had laid hands on her, were dragging her away from Henri and her mare, which had skittishly kicked up its heels and was eyeing them nervously from a safe distance.

  Deborah looked back desperately, her heart aching with pity for the man who had given his life so needlessly for her stupidity. Had she obeyed Henri at once he would still be alive; she would never forgive herself for the hesitation that had cost his life.

  The Spaniards were excited. They called out to one another in a language she could not understand, gesturing at her in triumph as if they could not believe how fortunate they had been. She was being dragged towards one of the boats amid shouts and laughter—and then all at once her captors fell silent, glancing at one another uncertainly.

  A man came towards her. He was more richly dressed than the others, his armour black with a gold eagle emblazoned on the breastplate. As they met, he removed his pointed helmet and she saw the colour of his hair—it glinted like spun silver in the sunlight.

  Deborah knew him at once. She raised her head, her manner proud and dignified as she looked straight at him.

  ‘Pray tell your men to take their hands from me, señor. I am a lady and not to be treated so roughly by common soldiers.’

  Don Miguel’s eyes narrowed as he saw her. He had seen her likeness but she was more beautiful in the living flesh, her hair blown by the wind into a tangle of red-brown curls, and her eyes gleaming like precious emeralds in the sunlight. Her pride was obvious, her bearing regal. She was clearly the wellborn lady his father had demanded he marry as the price of his silence. She must be treated with respect by the dogs that served him. He spoke sharply in Spanish and the clutching hands fell away instantly.

  ‘You know me, Donna?’ he asked, a glint of ice in the blue eyes. ‘You are the daughter of Sir Edward Stirling?’

  ‘Yes, I am she,’ Deborah replied. She saw the way his mouth had formed a thin cruel smile and knew instinctively that everything she had been told about this man was true. He would delight in tearing the wings from a butterfly or w
atching a wounded bird flutter as it died. There was something in him that provoked an instant revulsion in her, making her shudder inwardly. She must be careful. One man was already dead because of her. She would have no more deaths on her conscience. ‘You are Don Miguel Cortes?’ she asked and then as he inclined his head, ‘I thank you for coming to my rescue, señor.’ She was a queen demanding homage from her subject, showing no fear even though it consumed her inwardly.

  The Spaniard inclined his head once more, but his smile did not reach his eyes—those curiously empty, repelling eyes. The artist had not painted his eyes faithfully, Deborah thought, but perhaps it had been beyond him—or simply that he dared not.

  ‘How came it that you happened to be riding here with that man?’

  Deborah felt the sickness in her throat as she gazed into the Spaniard’s face. He was evil. She could sense it, feel it, almost touch it and her fear all but choked her, but still she would not allow it to show.

  ‘He was my servant,’ she lied, outwardly calm, inwardly in turmoil. ‘He had helped me to escape from my guards at the château and had arranged for a boat to meet us here. The fishermen must have been frightened away by your galleon, señor.’

  She saw his hesitation. He was suspicious, unsure whether or not to believe her. Deborah took a step towards him, her hand stretching out as if in supplication. She sighed and then pressed trembling fingers to her eyes as if faint, swaying towards him. He caught her. He was wearing a heavy perfume, which masked another peculiar odour that made her feel nauseated, and now, in truth, she was close to fainting.

  ‘You are unwell, Madonna?’ The term of endearment on his lips chilled her but Deborah did not flinch.

  ‘It is merely shock—and the relief of seeing you, señor. I thought I should never be released from the marquis’s stronghold.’

  ‘There are many guards?’ He looked at her intently. ‘This fortress has stout walls and is well defended?’