The Abducted Bride

by Anne Herries

  ‘You should pray,’ he said. ‘Put your faith in God, lady. For no solace can come but from him.’

  Deborah inclined her head in assent. Yes, she would pray, had done so constantly since finding herself in Don Miguel’s power—but she would put her faith in Nicholas. Only if he came for her could she hope to leave this place alive.

  She had a sudden fearful thought. ‘What if Don Manola was killed in the battle?’

  The steward was silent for a moment, considering. ‘I believe he was taken hostage, but if he has since perished… Then I should have no choice—Don Miguel can never be master here. He is hated and feared by all who know and serve his father. I should have to shut him away in a secure prison, where he would be cared for and treated according to his rank but never allowed freedom. You would be returned to your father. I am a good Catholic, and you have done me no harm. I would not have the sin of murder on my soul.’

  ‘Then I shall eat with you and rest easy in my mind, señor, for I believe you are an honest man—and I hope your master lives since you wish for it so sincerely.’

  He smiled at her, then went to the door and shouted for the servant to bring food. Deborah moved about the room, glancing at precious items that stood here and there displaying the wealth of the castle’s owner.

  Servants were carrying dishes and platters into the room. After a few moments she was aware of something that made her feel uncomfortable and she had a prickling sensation at the nape of her neck…as though she were being watched. When she turned around to look, she saw that only Anna and the steward were present and neither of them was looking at her.

  A shiver ran through her. Montana had spoken of walls having ears. Was it possible that someone had been watching and listening to their conversation all the time?

  No, of course not. How could it be possible? The walls were built of solid stone and covered by thick layers of solid hardwood. No one could possibly spy on them. She was letting her imagination run away with her.

  She turned as the steward spoke her name and smiled at him. There was nothing to concern her. Don Miguel was ill, and by the time he recovered she might already be on her way home to France.

  Lying in the narrow aperture above the ceiling of his father’s apartments, Miguel Cortes fought the swirling mist in his head. It was threatening to cast him into that dark place from which he feared there would one day be no return. Especially if that traitorous dog Montana had his way!

  Oh, he would delight in that one’s death! He had waited, biding his time, knowing that the moment would come. Now at last he saw a way to be free. His father was a prisoner. If no ransom was paid de Vere would no doubt hang him, and Miguel would be free at last of all restraints. For, if his father were dead, the steward would follow soon enough and no one would have the power to defy him. He would take his rightful place as master here—a place that had been too long denied him.

  Miguel remembered his father’s threats to have him locked away if he ever harmed another woman as he had that stupid wench. That had been a stupid mistake. Village wenches were beneath his father’s notice—but she had been of good family. He could not remember why he had wanted her…his head ached too much to think now…but it was something to do with his enemy. He would kill de Vere too when the chance came! Oh, how he hated that French devil!

  He was slipping away. No, it must not happen! He tried to hold on. He wanted to punish that proud witch who had treated him as if he were as the dirt beneath her feet. Pretending she was eager for the wedding and planning all the while to escape. Oh, she despised him, thought him mad—but he was the only one who understood. They were all fools, for they did not know he had them at his mercy, that he knew everything that was said and done against him—this was not his only spyhole. He had learned years ago that it was safer to know more than others.

  That proud bitch had thought to cheat him with her lies. She had been de Vere’s whore! Oh, but she would suffer for it. Before he was finished with her she would wish she had never been born. He giggled as he recalled how the other one had begged on her knees and called out to God to help her.

  How could God help her? There was no God. Miguel had heard the voices and he knew that only the Devil had the power of life and death—and he was the true flesh of the Devil. Had his father not told him so that day?

  Now they would all pay for daring to despise him. First Montana, and then the woman. He wanted to laugh as he thought of what he meant to do but he was losing control, slipping into the darkness where the demons waited. She would suffer. After Montana was dead…when he was himself again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The two ships lay side by side in the bay off the coast of southern Spain. Henri had gone ashore more than an hour ago, his purpose to buy horses for their journey. Pierre had volunteered to take the ransom demand to Don Manola’s fortress.

  ‘I would go myself, for I know you risk your life in dealing with Miguel Cortes,’ Nicholas had told him when they discussed who should go on this dangerous mission. ‘Yet it is a risk I am forbidden to take by common sense. Miguel would rather see me dead than have his father back.’

  ‘I shall go,’ Pierre insisted. ‘You say I must speak with this Montana, the Don’s steward—and no one else?’

  Nicholas nodded. ‘Don Manola broke his silence when I told him we would ransom him for Deborah. He stressed that we have no chance of reasoning with his son, and I believe him.’

  ‘You would trust the Spaniard—when he meant to sink you under a flag of truce if he could?’

  Nicholas gave a wry smile. ‘They say all is fair in love or war. When I saw that Miguel’s own ship was not with the Don’s fleet, I had no intention of sticking to the truce I had offered. It was evident they meant to fight for their cannons were being loaded even as we struck. We defeated them in battle, yet Don Manola knows I am not his enemy. I have told him that with Deborah’s return the feud between us ends. He has my word that I shall no longer prey on his ships, and he has given his promise that she shall be returned to me.’

  ‘I would have a care of him, Nico. He may turn on you and stab you in the back.’

  ‘Don Manola needs an heir,’ Nicholas said and frowned. ‘Now that I have promised to forgo my revenge, he may be able to find another bride for his son. It is a little odd…but I cannot doubt his sincerity or his desire for an heir.’

  Nicholas recalled the look in the Don’s eyes as he had spoken of his need for an heir.

  ‘I cannot entrust my name and fortune to Miguel,’ he had said stiffly. ‘But his wife may bear a legitimate son…who may be more fitting.’

  ‘Why do you not marry again yourself, señor? You are not too old to have the hope of another, more worthy son.’

  Something had flickered in the Spaniard’s eyes, some secret sorrow he kept hidden from the world.

  ‘That is between my God and me, sir.’

  Nicholas had respected his silence, yet he sensed that the Don had only hatred and disgust for his son who had brought shame on his name. Why had he not punished Miguel for his wickedness and taken another wife so that she could give him the heir he craved?

  It was a mystery, but it did not exercise Nicholas for long. His anger had cooled and now he had but one thought—to recover Deborah.

  Supposing she had been subjected to the kind of brutality that Isabella had endured before her death? No, he would not let his thoughts dwell on such horror or he would run mad indeed. Don Manola had assured him that Miguel would not touch her until his wedding night. Nicholas could only pray he was right.

  Somehow he must get her back before she became that monster’s wife.

  Would Miguel wait for Don Manola’s return as he had been bidden? Or would he seize the chance to disobey his father?

  Deborah sighed over the needlework she had been given by Anna. It was a tapestry begun by someone else and looked dusty, as if it had been lying untouched for years. The colours had faded here and there, and she had begun to unpick t
he stitching, but she had no heart for the task. Indeed, she felt a kind of depression hanging over her, as if this place and its secrets had already begun to crush her spirit.

  She would rather die than live here!

  It was the morning of the third day since she had been brought to this gloomy castle and it seemed a lifetime. She was restless, tired of being forced to spend so many hours alone. Even when she walked in the small walled garden, which was pleasant enough and had a pretty lily pond with fish swimming beneath its clear water and a little fountain, she felt as if she were suffocating.

  Where was Nicholas? Why had he not come for her? Was she too impatient? But it seemed so long since she had seen him…so long!

  Hearing the sound of Anna’s footsteps, she looked round and saw the old woman beckoning to her.

  ‘You want me to come with you?’ Deborah stood as the old woman smiled and nodded, beckoning urgently. ‘Where are we going?’

  Anna said something in Spanish, but she spoke so fast that Deborah had no hope of understanding, though she thought the word garden was mentioned. Anna’s manner was that of a conspirator and she looked pleased, nodding and smiling encouragingly, which somehow caused hope to spring anew in Deborah because she knew Anna liked her.

  As she had thought, she was taken directly to the garden where she saw Carlos Montana waiting for her. He was clearly dressed for riding with a short cloak strung over his shoulder, and as he came towards her she sensed that he had news. He was smiling, anxious for her to reach him.

  ‘I have heard from my master,’ he told her. ‘He bids me bring you to the church in the village. We are to go alone, and the exchange will be made in secret. The Don fears his son may try to stop us so we must hurry.’

  ‘I am ready to leave,’ Deborah said. ‘Where is Don Miguel? I have not seen him since the day he brought me here.’

  ‘He sometimes disappears for days on end,’ replied the steward with a frown. ‘No one knows where he goes or what he does.’ He shivered and crossed himself. ‘Perhaps not even Miguel himself.’

  ‘Then let us go before he returns.’

  Deborah also made the sign of the cross over her heart. These past days and nights she had feared Don Miguel might come to her chamber at any moment, had prayed that he would not. It seemed that God had answered her prayers.

  The steward looked anxiously over his shoulder. ‘Yes, even though the appointed hour is not quite yet, better that we leave the castle before Miguel learns what we intend.’

  Montana led her to a small gate in the wall, which he unlocked with a key from inside his doublet. Outside, a man waited with two horses. Deborah hesitated only a moment before discarding her heavy overdress. She would find it difficult to ride in such a gown and the underdress was perfectly adequate, even though it was now mid-September and the wind could be cool at times despite the heat of the sun.

  The groom came forward to help Deborah mount her horse and then stood back. Montana had sprung quickly into the saddle, looking anxiously over his shoulder as if to reassure himself that no one was watching. And then they were riding down the narrow hill road that led to the village and the church.

  A sense of relief flooded through Deborah as she felt the wind in her face and saw the open spaces about her. She had never thought to leave that terrible place alive when she entered it with Don Miguel. Now she was on her way to meet Nicholas. Soon she would be with him again and everything would be as it had been before the Spaniards took her prisoner.

  Perhaps her father would be with the Don? She had heard nothing of him from Carlos Montana, and she did not know whether he had been with Don Manola on his flagship when it was sunk. Don Miguel said that her father would be waiting for her in Spain, but the steward seemed to know nothing of him. She could only pray he was safely in England.

  Montana paused as they approached the village, which seemed completely deserted: no women gossiping in the street, nor even a stray cur sniffing at the roadside. The steward waited for Deborah to bring her horse to a stand beside his. He appeared to be waiting for something and she sensed his unease before he spoke.

  ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, looking at him anxiously. ‘Why are you worried?’

  ‘I am not sure. It is so quiet. No one is in the street. It is usually this way when…’

  Before he could finish there was a shout and the sound of running feet and then several men came pouring out of the houses to surround them. Deborah knew at once that these were not Nicholas’s men.

  ‘Get away!’ the steward cried. ‘It is a trap.’

  His warning came too late. Neither of them could break away. The soldiers—Miguel’s men—had heavy guns pointed at them. And a man was leaving the church, another soldier dragging a black-robed priest behind him.

  ‘So you have come to my wedding, Montana. I am honoured.’ Don Miguel’s eyes glittered. ‘You promised you would see me shut away before I wed her, but I am always one step ahead of you. You are a fool and a traitor—and traitors deserve to die like the dogs they are.’ He raised his arm and, without further warning, pointed the pistol he was carrying and shot his father’s trusted steward in the heart.

  Montana’s body jerked, then he slumped forward and fell to the ground, his blood seeping into the dust.

  ‘Murderer!’ Deborah cried as her horse reared in fright and she struggled desperately to hold her seat. ‘Devil! Devil!’

  The soldiers nearest caught at the reins, wrestling with and subduing the terrified beast, and then they were pulling her none too gently from its back. She struggled and railed at them furiously, but they were too many and too strong. Her head went up defiantly as they dragged her to stand in front of Miguel.

  ‘You are insane,’ she told him coldly, knowing that the time for pretense was over. ‘You have killed a good man. You may as well shoot me too, for I shall never marry you.’

  ‘Oh, but you will,’ he said softly, a cruel smile on his lips. ‘You have no idea what pain is, Madonna—but you shall learn. I promise you shall learn very soon now.’

  ‘Do as you will, you shall never have me—merely my broken body. And I shall not wed you. You cannot force me to be your wife. I despise you, Miguel Cortes. You are nothing to me.’

  ‘Stupid witch,’ he muttered, furious at her defiance even now. She should have been begging for mercy, as all the other women had. There must be a way to break her. His gaze fell on the priest and he smiled. ‘Bring the priest.’ The soldiers hastened to obey and the poor man was dragged in front of Deborah. ‘You see this craven creature? He fears to die. Even though he preaches of heaven to those foolish enough to believe him, he longs to live. Defy me and he dies next.’

  ‘You could not then marry me,’ Deborah cried and regretted her words the moment they left her lips. Miguel struck the priest, who screamed and fell to his knees to beg for mercy.

  ‘He will suffer more—and I’ll kill everyone in the village. Every minute you defy me, a man, woman or child shall die for it.’ He gestured towards the houses and two soldiers started forward, clearly intending to begin murdering the villagers.

  ‘No!’ Deborah cried. ‘Enough. I beg you. Do not hurt anyone else. I shall be your wife since you desire it.’

  Miguel’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. ‘Bring her and the priest!’ he muttered. ‘We shall have a wedding just as my father wished. As de Vere hangs him, he shall die happy in the knowledge that my sons shall inherit his name and wealth.’ He threw back his head and laughed, clearly much amused by his own cleverness.

  Deborah was appalled by his behaviour. Surely he had not been this mad before? He had appeared to be in command of his mind during the voyage here, but, hearing his wild laughter, she was shocked beyond measure. What had happened to him in the days when he had disappeared? Was the sickness still upon him? Or had he crossed forever that divide between madness and sanity?

  She shuddered, her courage almost deserting her for a moment, but then her head went up and she faced him proud
ly. She allowed the soldiers to take her inside the church.

  From the outside it had looked unremarkable, just a simple village place of worship, but inside there was evidence of great wealth. The altar was decorated with gold leaf and the hangings were of cloth of gold, richly embroidered with semi-precious stones. Don Manola had evidently been a good patron—but what would happen to this place if he did not return?

  Deborah feared for the people who lived and worshipped here. With no restraints to hold him back, this madman would do exactly as he pleased—for men would serve him for his gold no matter what he chose to do. His soldiers were thrusting the priest to stand before the altar.

  ‘Marry us!’ Miguel commanded. ‘Do as I tell you or you die, dog!’

  The priest was trembling, obviously unwilling to go through with this unlawful ceremony, yet afraid to disobey. His face was a pasty white as he looked from Miguel to Deborah.

  ‘Do you consent?’ he asked her in a croaking whisper. ‘Forgive me, lady. You must or he will do as he has threatened. You do not know what he is capable of…’ He gave a cry of fear as one of the soldiers hit him in the face and cringed away like some frightened animal.

  Deborah hesitated. What choice had she? She must go through with this charade or many would die. Besides, there was no hope of escape now. Nicholas had not come for her. The letter must have been a trick—for how else would Miguel know of their plans? His cruel mind had devised this plot to show her that she was completely at his mercy—and he had succeeded in making her betray herself.

  She heard the priest intoning a garbled version of what she supposed must be the wedding ceremony, her eyes fixed on a stained glass window portraying the crucifixion of Christ. When the priest was silent at last, she raised her head, knowing that she must speak now or be the cause of innocent lives lost.