by Anne Herries
He stared at her. She saw that whatever had ailed him had passed. His mind was his own once more.
‘You will lock the door after me,’ he said. ‘I pray for your sake that you have not lied to me, Madonna. You will suffer for it if I find you not a maiden on our wedding night.’
Deborah inclined her head, giving him a haughty stare. It seemed to satisfy and then please him, as if his thoughts were amusing. He smiled in a cold, calculating way, bowed his head and laid a key on the table, then he turned and walked to the door.
‘It will be a pleasure to teach you how to be a wife, Madonna.’
Deborah could not move as the door closed behind him. She felt ill and was trembling from head to toe. He was evil! She could never have imagined how evil. His mind was warped and distorted by some sickness that had made him the monster he undoubtedly was.
Poor, poor Isabella! How she must have suffered before she died.
Gathering her courage, Deborah picked up the key and went to lock the cabin door. At least she could sleep without fear of being disturbed. If she could keep Don Miguel from ravishing her while she was on board his ship, she might yet find a way of escape.
Whatever happened, she would die before she went to his bed as his wife—and if he raped her before that, she would not long survive the ordeal.
Returning to the bed, Deborah lay down fully clothed.
‘Nicholas,’ she whispered to the pillow. ‘Nicholas, my love. Where are you? God keep you safe. Please come for me. I beg you—do not desert me if you live. And if you are dead, let me know it so that I may die also.’
‘What of our patient?’ Nicholas asked Pierre as he came to him on the poop of the Siren’s Song. ‘Has he recovered his senses?’
‘No—not yet. He has a fever. The blow to his head was severe. Men die of such wounds.’
‘We must pray for my lady’s sake that he recovers,’ Nicholas said and frowned. ‘Had your sharp eyes not picked him out amongst the debris he would have undoubtedly drowned.’
‘I saw at once that he was not a Spaniard. He wore no armour and I was curious how he came to be aboard the Santa Maria.’
‘No doubt he sailed from England with Sanchez in search of his daughter—and joined forces with Don Manola to destroy me.’ Nicholas’s frown deepened. ‘Speaking of our prisoner—has he asked for me?’
‘He refuses to answer when questioned about the whereabouts of his son. Not one word has passed his lips since you forced the surrender of his ships.’
‘Don Manola is a proud man,’ Nicholas acknowledged. ‘You have told him that he will be returned to Spain unharmed when I have what I want?’
‘He has been told your terms.’
‘We have the captains and officers of his ships secured below, and one of his ships is forfeit as our prize, but the others have been allowed to go their way with what remains of their crews on board. The Don knows all this—and yet he refuses to speak?’
‘He has been told that his officers will be released when Don Miguel meets you face to face.’
‘He has lost his flagship and two others—what more will he sacrifice for that unworthy dog of a son?’ Nicholas asked. ‘I do not wish to threaten him with death. My quarrel is with Miguel Cortes, not his father.’
‘Even though he was prepared to fire on you under a flag of truce?’
‘I never expected the truce to be respected—nor in my heart did I believe Don Miguel would be here at the appointed time.’ Nicholas smiled oddly. ‘Why do you imagine I left behind more than a third of my fighting men and your own ship, Pierre?’
‘I thought you asked me to sail with you because Henri stayed behind.’
‘To guard my lady and the château, of course. The men under his command were warned to stay out of sight. I did not want Deborah or the other women to be afraid for their lives. I knew there was a chance of treachery but if Cortes has attempted a surprise attack, he will meet with more resistance than he imagined. The cliffs are watched constantly as is our most vulnerable spot. It will be at the beach that an enemy lands.
‘A simple mistake that any might make. Easy enough to beach their boats, but too far to the château to have any possibility of surprise. My men will be warned and ready for them before they could hope to reach the house. They will be surrounded and over-powered long before they are within sight of the château.’
‘I should have known you would not be fool enough to sail into a trap,’ Pierre said and laughed. ‘Henri never spoke a word of this to me.’
‘I warned him to be silent,’ Nicholas said grimly. ‘I knew there were men watching over the safety of our women. I left him in command, though I knew he would rather be with us.’
‘He will be like a hen without its chick,’ Pierre jested. ‘And so—now we sail for home?’
‘We shall be eagerly awaited—and we have a wedding to celebrate,’ Nicholas replied. He was smiling, but then, as he recalled that Deborah’s father lay at death’s door in his cabin, the smile faded. ‘I pray God that Sir Edward lives. My lady may never forgive me if I have killed him.’
‘You were not to know he was on board that ship.’
‘No—but my lady will not exonerate me so easily. She loves her father dearly. And, in truth, I am to blame. Had I not snatched her that day he would likely be at home even now preparing for Mistress Palmer’s wedding.’
Nicholas’s eyes brooded as he stared into the distance. With Don Manola his prisoner he was in a position of strength, but the victory gave him little pleasure. He could think only of the woman he had left behind and what she would feel when she learned his news.
It might be that his wedding must be delayed until Sir Edward’s health improved. And what if he died? Would Deborah hate him for the part he had played?
He remembered the sweetness of her surrender to him in the stable yard. Yet later she had denied that her heart was his. She was a fiery wench and her tongue was sharp when she chose. He had thought that she lied because she was angry and he had wounded her pride somehow, but perhaps he had allowed himself to be deceived. There were women for whom passion was not always a matter of the heart. He had not believed Deborah one of them.
She had acted oddly on the morning of their celebration. He had asked her more than once if she had regretted her promise and she had denied it. She had told him her sadness came from the breach with her father…
Once again he felt the cold hand of fear about his heart. Why could he not be at ease in his mind where Deborah was concerned? He knew the château was well protected. He would not have left it or his people vulnerable to attack. This strange feeling must be because he was uncertain of ever being able to win her love.
He hoped and almost believed that she would learn to love him when they were wed—but supposing her father’s death lay between them? An insurmountable barrier that he could never breach.
No, it must not happen! He must be able to return to her with a clear conscience.
‘Take command,’ he said to Pierre. ‘I am going below. Deborah’s father must live. He shall live—if I have to drag him back from the devil’s clutches myself!’
A grim smile hovered about his mouth as he made his way to the cabin where Sir Edward hovered between this life and the next. He knew that this might be his hardest battle yet, but somehow he would win—for Deborah’s sake and for the love he bore her.
Deborah stood on the deck of the Spanish galleon and watched the activity ashore. It was a busy port and there were many ships either anchored some way out or moored at the quayside for unloading. Most of the vessels were clearly merchant ships. Spain was a wealthy and powerful country and traded with far flung lands as well as those of the Mediterranean basin, bringing back spices and rare goods bought with silver from the New World.
‘Are you ready, Madonna?’
Don Miguel’s voice spoke softly from behind her. She was not startled. She had known he was there, though he had come upon her quietly, hoping to shock her. She
turned to face him, cold and proud, every inch the great lady. Her manner had served her well thus far. She had seen a reluctant respect grow in both him and his men because of it.
‘Thank you, señor. I am quite ready.’
The ship had been brought in close to the harbour. She was able to walk down a solid plank to reach dry land. The sun was very hot, for it was midday and the sky free of cloud. She could smell the tang of rotting filth from the water swirling about the ships in harbour, where rubbish had been swept out of their holds and into the sea.
‘Horses have been provided,’ Don Miguel said. ‘It is no more than an hour’s ride to my father’s casa. Once we are there you will be able to rest and change your gown, Madonna.’
His caressing tone made her shiver inwardly; he was like a cat toying with the bird it meant to kill, savouring the pleasure to come. She hated the way he looked at her, measuring her, stripping her naked in his mind: his unclean, strange, evil mind. Who could tell what such a man might think or do?
‘That will be most welcome.’ She inclined her head. ‘I thank you for your consideration, señor.’
Don Miguel nodded. He glanced about him, seeming preoccupied, clearly expecting to see something—or someone.
‘My father said he would be here to meet us. I see none of his ships…’ A flicker of uncertainty showed in the ice-blue eyes.
Deborah made no reply. She sensed the Spaniard’s unease, but ignored it. Whatever was keeping Don Manola from returning to port was good news as far as she was concerned. The wedding could not take place until he returned—and in the meantime she might discover some means of escape.
Six horses were brought. One of the soldiers helped Deborah to mount hers, then swung into the saddle of his own horse. Don Miguel continued to look about him, seeming almost to have forgotten she was there. He spoke sharply to his men as he mounted himself, jabbing at his horse’s mouth cruelly with the bit as he pulled hard on the reins. It was obvious that his father’s tardiness had unsettled him.
With an escort of five heavily armed men, any escape attempt was doomed to failure. Deborah did not even think of it—but she did take note of the road they travelled as far as she was able.
After the busy port and city were left behind, they seemed to be heading for the hills that lay beyond the rocky coastline, following roads that were often no more than sheep trails. The hills themselves were browned by the fierce sun, in places bare rock burned dry of any but the hardiest vegetation. At other times they came upon woods of cypress and clusters of mimosa with a few blossoms from a late flowering. Here, tiny birds fluttered amongst the trees, twittering in the otherwise silent landscape. Occasionally, crude hovels could be seen clinging to the sides of the hills, and there were signs that peasant farmers eked out a precarious living on these slopes.
It was almost an hour before they came to the village—just an inn and a few poor houses clustered about a church. Some of the inhabitants sat outside the inn, drinking wine in the sunshine. Two old women dressed in black gossiped in the street, but disappeared hastily inside their houses as the small cavalcade approached. A man leading a donkey turned his head aside and spat in the dust as they passed.
Deborah sensed fear and hatred all about her. These people must look to the Cortes family for their living, but they did not do so willingly. She remembered Henri telling her that Isabella was not the only woman to have suffered at Don Miguel’s hands. How many of these men’s wives and daughters had been raped or abused?
She felt a sense of hope. Perhaps she might find help amongst these people? If they hated Don Miguel…and yet they must also fear him and his power. Would any of them be brave enough to defy him for her sake? And why should they?
Her hope faded as they began the ascent to the fortress at the summit of a hill. It looked a forbidding sight, built of grey stone and enclosed by thick walls and an iron portcullis. An army would be needed to break down these defenses. If she had hoped that Nicholas would come for her the hope died stillborn.
The heavy iron gate was raised as they approached and lowered as soon as they were inside the courtyard. Deborah looked at the house itself and her heart sank as she saw the bars over what windows there were. Most of the air and light came from narrow arrow slits, at least on this side of the castle. She felt that this was indeed a prison.
Her only escape from here would be to die by her own hand.
‘Welcome to your home, Madonna.’
Deborah saw the gleam of triumph in Don Miguel’s eyes. He had her now. She should have tried to escape during their ride or jumped into the sea!
Her head went up proudly. She would never show fear. Somehow she would hold him off until the wedding, and if no help came before then… She was not afraid to die. She would find some means of taking her own life within the fortress: perhaps a knife or a sword. She prayed only that she would have the courage when the time came.
Entering the dark, gloomy house, Deborah held her head proudly, her back straight as servants came running. One was a man dressed plainly in black. He bowed to her. From his manner of dress she judged him a steward or secretary. He smiled gravely and gestured to an old woman to come forward.
‘This is Señora Anna Martinez,’ he said in perfect English. ‘She will serve you, Mistress Stirling. And if you need anything more I am at your service.’
‘And your name, señor?’
‘Carlos Montana. I am Don Manola’s steward. In his absence and by his authority I welcome you to this house.’
‘Enough!’ Don Miguel said sharply. He barked something at the old woman, who looked at him sullenly. ‘The woman will take you to your apartments, Madonna. And you come with me!’ He glared at the steward as if enraged that he had dared to speak to Deborah in such a manner.
Anna was pulling at Deborah’s arm, gesturing urgently that they should leave. It was clear she spoke no English and equally clear that she did not like her master’s son. Her expression seemed to warn Deborah, and, as they left the small dark hall behind and began to mount a twisting stair, she placed a finger to her lips and shook her head.
Deborah glanced back once at Señor Montana. He and Don Miguel seemed to be arguing. She had noticed that the steward did not appear to be afraid of his master’s son and that intrigued her. Why was he not afraid when Don Miguel’s own men went in fear of him?
Montana had appeared very confident, very much in control. Was that because he had the authority of his master? Deborah had gained the impression that Don Miguel was a little afraid of his father. Could that be why the steward was so confident?
She suspected that the only reason Don Miguel had not subjected her to rape during the voyage was because his father would not approve—had, perhaps, forbidden it. Obviously, Don Manola had a strong hold over his son. Was it only the father’s influence that had protected him from hanging for the murder of Isabella Rodriguez—or was there more to it?
Deborah could not know the truth, but the steward’s presence in the house gave her hope once more. He might protect her if she needed it—and perhaps, when her father and Don Manola returned she might persuade them to allow her to return home.
It was, she knew, a forlorn hope, but at least her father would be here. Surely he would not stand by and see her forced to marry a man such as Don Miguel?
‘You are certain?’ Don Miguel’s eyes narrowed to thin slits, veiling his feelings from the steward. ‘My father’s flagship was sunk—and he is Le Diable’s hostage? You are sure he was not killed?’
Carlos Montana saw the gleam of triumph the younger man had tried to hide, and the sickness turned in his stomach. His master should have had this monster shut away long ago when the strange moods began to come on him—but at first he had not believed it was happening, even though the evidence that Miguel had inherited his mother’s madness had been strong.
‘De Vere would not be foolish enough to kill such a valuable hostage,’ he said. ‘He will bargain for your father’s life. We hav
e only to wait and the demand will arrive. Perhaps he will accept gold for Don Manola’s release.’
‘He wants me dead,’ Miguel replied and his lips curved in a sneer. ‘He wants revenge for that wench—though why he should bother is beyond me. She was a snivelling child and not worth the effort. I never thought she would cause me so much trouble.’
Montana’s disgust showed in his eyes. Only his respect for the father kept him from showing it openly as he stared in silence at the son. Miguel was a monster and should have been strangled at birth, but Don Manola could not bring himself to do it.
Montana knew that his master had desperately loved his wife, even when he realized she was not as other women, and he had given her a child. The steward knew that his master had suffered agonies for what he had done, punishing himself by doing penance for years, but he had gone on loving his lovely young wife until the day that she died of a fever. And he had tried to love the son she had given him, but from the early years it had been apparent to most that Miguel’s mind was flawed.
As a child he had contented himself with torturing any creature that came within his grasp, and it was only as he grew to manhood that the true depth of his depravity had begun to show through.
‘Why should I pay gold for my father’s return?’ Miguel asked, but Montana knew that he was speaking to himself and did not realize he had said the words aloud. ‘If he does not come back, I am master here.’
‘You know that I have command in Don Manola’s absence,’ the steward said. ‘The deed is lodged with the notary and the Don’s men will obey me. I shall pay whatever is demanded for my master’s return.’
Don Miguel looked at him calculatingly. It was true that such a deed existed. His father had told him that during an interview he would prefer to forget. He shuddered as he remembered the place he had been taken to that day, his father’s warning still as terrifying to him now as it had been then. Once as a child he had been shut in a dark place that smelt of death and decaying flesh; he was afraid of the dark. Demons shrieked at him in the dark and their claws tore at his flesh.
