by Anne Herries
‘Oh, yes,’ Deborah lied. ‘It would take many more men than you have with you to breach its walls.’ She clutched at his sleeve in real distress as she thought of that sunlit house so open to destruction without the protection of its master. ‘Oh, do not risk your lives in useless fighting, I beg you. Pray take me away from here before it is realized that I have escaped.’
Again the Spaniard’s eyes narrowed as though he would doubt her word. He studied her thoughtfully, and then one of his men spoke to him urgently. Deborah glanced behind her. She saw someone standing at the crest of the grass bank—a peasant from the village. He became aware that he had been seen and, seizing Deborah’s mare that, left unchecked, had wandered away, swung himself into the saddle and raced off in the direction she knew would take him to the village.
‘He will rouse the alarm…’
‘We shall go,’ Don Miguel said, reaching his decision. ‘Come, Madonna. I shall help you into the boat.’ His grip on her arm was painful to Deborah, but she allowed it to go unremarked. For now all she wanted was that these men should leave the beach and return to their ship. She dared not think beyond that. His next words were addressed to one of the soldiers, ‘We have what we came for. There is no point in wasting time. We have more important work ahead.’
Deborah was half thrust into the boat. She could scarcely breathe for the frantic pounding of her heart. How could she bear what was happening to her? Yet she must. She would rather die herself than see the marquis’s people slaughtered for her sake.
Glancing back towards the place where Henri lay, she stifled a sob of despair. She had been reckless to come here while Nicholas was away. Henri could never have protected her against so many. Had she stayed within the confines of the château she might have been safe—and yet that would have brought pain and death to so many.
Perhaps it was better that fate had brought her here to this place at this moment, even if it had caused Henri’s death, for the sake of the innocent men, women and children who might have been killed, if not for her own.
Her heart was breaking. She was being taken from people she liked and doubted that she would ever return. Nicholas would not be able to snatch her from the Don as easily as he had taken her from her father. She would truly be a prisoner from now on.
‘Nicholas…oh, Nicholas.’ Her heart wept while she stared resolutely ahead of her as she was rowed out to the ship. She would never see him again, never feel his lips on hers—never be able to tell him of her true feelings. ‘I love you so. I love you so.’
Deborah felt numb as she was forced to climb the rope ladder that was taking her on board Don Miguel’s ship. She stood on the deck waiting, seeing nothing but the face of the man she loved, her mind closed to what was happening to her.
‘Now, Madonna. You will go to the cabin and wait until I have time for you.’ She hardly heard Don Miguel’s words, conscious only that she must not let this man see her weakness. Some inner intuition told her that only pride would keep her safe from him. If she once faltered…it did not bear thinking of!
Deborah’s arm was taken by one of the soldiers who had helped capture her on the beach. His grip was less cruel than Don Miguel’s had been, but Deborah was oblivious to physical pain. There was nothing left for her—her heart was dead and she wished that she too could die from the mental agony that was beginning to torture her.
Where was Nicholas? If there were no need for a truce between them, the Spaniards would not respect the flag of their enemy. They would fire on Nicholas’s ships first in the hope of killing him and destroying his fleet.
Oh, God, let him not die! Let him live. Only let him live and her own life would be forfeit. Henri was dead because of her and she truly mourned him, but she could not bear that Nicholas should be killed, too.
It was a moment or two before her mind cleared sufficiently to realize that she had been left alone in a cabin. It was richly appointed, clearly the property of a wealthy man—Don Miguel’s own, of course. She recalled that he had ordered her to wait for him. And what would happen then? Supposing he treated her as he had Isabella Rodriguez?
She felt the sickness in her throat and the fear was almost overwhelming. She could never give herself to such a man. It would be better if she were to die—better to plunge into the sea now than let him take her to his bed. Her feeling of apathy fell away and she went to the cabin door, only to find it securely locked from the other side.
Of course! What else had she expected? Don Miguel had no reason to trust her. Finding her riding freely on the beach had aroused his suspicions. He might wonder if she had gone willingly with Nicholas. If he believed that—believed she had been Nicholas’s mistress…as she so nearly had…there was no telling what he might do to her.
Returning to the bed, Deborah sank down on the edge. She had no means of escape. From the moment she had dismounted to kneel by Henri this had been inevitable. There was no way out for her—unless she could somehow send word to her father. Perhaps he could influence his old friend, and yet she did not believe it possible. Sir Edward had been deliberately lied to, deceived into consenting to her marriage to the Spaniard. It was unlikely, then, that he could save her now.
There was only one man who might help her—and he was about to sail into a trap that would surely mean his death.
Deborah lifted her head as pride came to her rescue. She would not live as Don Miguel’s bride. She would sooner take her own life, even though it was a terrible sin and meant that she would be eternally damned.
‘You plan to fire on de Vere’s ship under a flag of truce?’ Sir Edward stared at the Spaniard in disbelief. ‘But to do so would break every code of honour. I cannot stand by and see this happen. I protest, señor. De Vere must have his chance to explain why he has acted so badly towards my daughter.’ Sir Edward looked at the man he had thought of as a friend and did not care for what he saw. There was a ruthlessness in this man, something he had not seen or suspected when they had known each other years before. ‘Besides—you do not know whether Deborah is on board his flagship. If you sink it, she could be killed.’
‘Do not concern yourself, my friend,’ the Don said. ‘I know the way de Vere’s mind works. He did not come for gold. He hath no need of it. This is his way of getting to my son. It was a condition of the ransom that Miguel handed over the gold in person. He hopes to force him to a fight—a duel of honour between them, which would end in Miguel’s death.’
‘If de Vere is such a man, why does he quarrel with your son?’ Sir Edward’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He had begun to think there was more to this as he watched the Don’s ships prepare for a fierce battle. ‘What has Miguel done that another man—a man of honour by your own account—should hate him this much?’
‘It was nonsense.’ Don Manola dismissed the rape and murder of a young woman with a wave of his hand, though it would not so easily be dismissed from his dreams. ‘We shall kill de Vere and put an end to this for good.’
‘And my daughter?’
‘My son will soon have rescued her. He has taken a band of fighting men to attack de Vere’s château while he is away. Never fear, señor, they will bring her back to you safely.’
‘At what cost?’ Sir Edward demanded.
He wanted Deborah restored to him, and he would see de Vere arrested and tried for his crime if he could, but this treachery disgusted him. A gentleman’s honour was all that separated him from the flotsam of debased humanity that flourished in the gutters, and was beyond price.
‘I cannot allow you to do this,’ he said again. ‘What has been done at de Vere’s château cannot be helped, though I would not have agreed to this plan had I known of it—but a flag of truce must be honoured. I demand that you allow de Vere to board this ship without firing at his. He must be given a hearing. He should in all decency be brought to stand his trial before God and his peers in an English court of justice.’
Don Manola stared at him in silence for a moment. ‘Then I am afraid I
must ask you to go below, señor. I cannot have my orders countermanded.’ He nodded to one of his officers and the next moment two soldiers were taking hold of Sir Edward’s arms.
‘What is this?’ Sir Edward struggled to throw them off but found himself a prisoner. ‘More treachery?’
‘I regret that it is necessary,’ the Don replied. ‘I would not have shown you disrespect, señor, but I repeat that I cannot allow you to interfere with my plans.’
What a fool he had been to put himself in this position! He had no servants at his command, no power to defend himself. It was useless to argue. As he allowed the Don’s men to take him to his cabin, Sir Edward cursed himself for not taking more thought before he embarked on his desperate journey. He had trusted Don Manola, believed the Don’s son a worthy bridegroom for his daughter.
He would not consent to a hasty marriage! Yet he was effectively a prisoner, caught in a trap of his own making, his daughter a pawn in this evil game between ruthless enemies.
‘My poor Deborah…my poor child.’ His fears were all for his daughter. She might even now be in the clutches of the Don’s son and, for some reason he did not understand, that made him very much afraid.
For some while he was sunk in thought, and it was the sudden booming of guns that roused him. What was happening above? Had he imagined it—or had it been another ship that fired first? He had believed it was the marquis who would be taken by surprise, but if his guns had spoken first…
His thoughts went reeling in confusion as he felt the Santa Maria shudder violently. They had been struck and by more than a single blast. The other ship must have sailed in with all guns blazing and there was a furious battle going on above his head.
Sir Edward was suddenly spurred into action. If the ship went down while he was locked in this cabin, he would be caught like a rat in a trap. He must get out! At least then he would have a chance of survival. He owed it to Deborah to escape from this tomb.
He looked about him for a weapon with which to break the lock on the cabin door, choosing first a heavy candlestick and battering at the stout wood furiously but without much success. Such a damned fool, to let himself be brought here without a struggle! But he would not stay to be condemned to a watery grave. He glanced round for something more substantial and then wrenched an iron spike from the wall, driving it deep into the stubborn lock and jabbing at it until he heard the wood splinter and part company with the door.
The ship was shuddering from stern to prow, taking water fast, and listing to one side as if it had been badly holed. As everything went sliding across the floor, he increased his attempts and saw that the lock was hanging out. He wrenched the door open, staggering as the ship heaved drunkenly to one side and then back again as it struggled in its death throes, blasted by yet another deadly round of cannon fire. Whoever was in charge of the other ship knew what he was about!
He was out of the cabin now, scrambling towards the hatch above. It was closed but not battened down and he thrust at it with all his strength, pushing it back and hauling himself out on deck. As he crawled on his belly, unable to stand because of the list, he gagged on the stench of burning wood and flesh; the air was acrid with gunpowder and blood. Confusion was all around him. Masts had been brought crashing down, bodies lay everywhere and the screaming of the wounded was horrific.
He looked for the Don but could not see him. Men were abandoning the ship, which was clearly lost. Sir Edward caught a rope, clinging to it, pulling himself hand over hand towards the rails, knowing his only hope was the sea. There at least he might have a chance of being picked up by another ship, for they were all around him, seemingly engaged in what looked to be a fight to the death.
Reaching the rail at last, soft hands torn and bleeding from the rope, Sir Edward stood and prepared to jump into the sea, pausing momentarily to seek a clear patch, away from the swirling mass of debris churning in the waves below. It was in that moment of hesitation that a shattered mast broke free from its last rope and came crashing down on him, rendering him unconscious and sending him headlong into the mass of debris below.
Chapter Eleven
She had been here a long time alone. Dusk had fallen hours ago and she had lit a lanthorn, which hung from an iron hook embedded into the cabin wall. Deborah was calmer now, her determination hardened. To show fear would make her vulnerable—and somehow she knew that the Spaniard would enjoy seeing her humbled. It would avail her nothing to beg and so she would not—no matter what was done to her.
Although desperately tired, she refused to sleep. She would be ready when Don Miguel came to her. She sat in the heavily carved chair that was set before a table strewn with maps and charts of the seas. They were beautifully drawn with pictures of strange fishes and creatures of the sea. Did such beasts truly exist? she wondered as she amused herself by trying to discover the meaning of various notes written in the margins.
‘What are you doing?’
Don Miguel’s voice startled her. She had not heard him enter. He must have moved softly, perhaps hoping to find her sleeping. She would have been vulnerable then, and helpless if he had decided to force his attentions on her.
‘I did not hear you knock,’ Deborah said, surprised at her own calmness as she faced him. The fear she had felt earlier had faded for the moment. ‘I am not accustomed to gentlemen entering my chamber without first asking my permission.’
The Spaniard’s eyes narrowed. ‘I vow you hath a sharp tongue, lady. You are not in your own bedchamber. This is my cabin and you are…’
‘Your intended bride, sir.’ Deborah looked him in the eyes. Something deep within her was prompting her, telling her how to behave. ‘And as such I demand to be treated with respect. You will in future request entry. No gentleman would do less.’
‘And the Marquis de Vere?’ Don Miguel’s voice was soft but somehow menacing. ‘You were accorded this respect while his prisoner?’
‘Indeed, yes,’ Deborah replied. ‘How could it be otherwise? The marquis was demanding a ransom for my return. It would hardly be paid had I been dishonoured. Besides, the marquis was seldom in my presence.’
Deborah’s heart contracted with fear as she lied. It was so important that he believed her. If he suspected that she had promised to wed Nicholas…that he had kissed and made passionate love to her…she would have no hold on this man and her fate would be sealed. She silently thanked God that her betrothal ring was lying on the table in her bedchamber at the château. Had she been wearing it when she was taken, the Don would have had good reason to doubt her.
‘De Vere is a fool,’ Miguel said suddenly, his mouth twisting in an ugly sneer. ‘He had his chance for revenge within his grasp and let it slip. Only a fool would leave himself at risk. He should have known I would not accept his demands and kept you fast.’
He was gloating because he had outwitted Nicholas! Deborah itched to wipe that hateful sneer from his mouth but knew she dared not. She must not let him guess how she felt—about Nicholas or the fact that she was now his prisoner. Here on this ship she was completely at this man’s mercy. He could do whatever he wished with her. She knew that he possessed a cruel and vicious nature. Only her own courage would protect her from him.
‘When are we to be married?’ she asked with an imperious toss of her head. ‘My father—you must send word to my father as soon as we reach Spain.’
‘Sir Edward will be awaiting your arrival, Madonna.’ Don Miguel blinked as though he had been in some kind of a trance and her demand had brought him back to himself. ‘He sailed immediately for Spain with Sanchez. My father will arrange the wedding when our work is done.’
‘What work is that, señor?’
‘De Vere has been a thorn in my father’s side too long. He will be dealt with and forgotten.’ An unpleasant smile touched the Spaniard’s lips. ‘We shall be wed soon enough, Madonna. I promise you.’
Some quality in his voice made the sickness rise in Deborah’s throat as she saw his gloating loo
k. If she were once his wife and bound to him by the laws of God and man, with no redress, he would delight in hurting her. She wondered why he did not begin now. She had seen the temptation in his eyes and there was no reason for him to restrain himself. Had he been determined to rape or punish her she could not have stopped him.
‘My father will like you,’ Don Miguel said, seeming to speak to himself rather than her. His hand reached out, touching her hair. She fought the revulsion that whipped through her, praying it was not reflected in her face. ‘He would not be pleased if you had been damaged. His son’s wife must be beyond reproach. She must be chaste on her wedding night…untouched until then. The mother of his heir must be worthy…’
A chill of horror went through Deborah as she realized that he was hardly aware of her. He was repeating the words as a kind of litany—or a charm to ward off evil! A glazed look had come into his eyes and it chilled her.
He was not quite sane! Not mad like the poor lunatics who must be chained for their own good and the safety of others—but strange and unpredictable, his mood changing in an instant.
‘Why are you staring at me? I hate women who stare!’
It was the unpredictable nature of his mind that was dangerous. He was clever, cruel and ruthless—but there was an unbalanced side of him that she suspected, once let loose, even he might not be able to control.
‘I have no wish to stare,’ Deborah replied proudly. Her only defence was to remind him always of who and what she was. ‘I wish to retire, señor—and I shall have the key to my door, if you please. It is not fitting that any man should be able to enter at will.’
‘They would not dare. They know me too well.’ His eyes glittered.
Deborah’s instincts were all she had to guide her now. The words came to her mind as if they had been sent from a guardian angel.
‘Should one of them dare and my maidenhead be lost, Don Manola would not be pleased. He has entrusted me to your care, señor. You must be sure that when I bear a child it is of your own blood.’
