The Abducted Bride
‘Master Henderson has gone to summon chairs for us, Debs—but that is not my news. I told him we were to leave London soon and he was devastated. He returns with us to the house and will beg my uncle for my hand in marriage.’ Sarah looked at her anxiously. ‘Do you think Sir Edward will look favourably on the match?’
‘Is it what you truly desire, Sarah?’
‘Yes, with all my heart.’
‘Then I am sure my father will consent. Master Henderson is of good family and, though not wealthy, will come into an estate on his father’s death. Besides, you have money lodged with the goldsmiths of London. Father placed it in safe keeping when your father’s house was sold. You will not go to your husband with empty coffers.’
‘Both you and my uncle have been so good to me,’ Sarah declared. ‘I shall be sad to leave you, Deborah—though I cannot wait to be Master Henderson’s true wife. He loves me with all his heart and I love him.’
‘Then you are fortunate, cousin.’
‘Yes, indeed I am.’ Sarah smiled as she saw her gallant returning with two sedan chairs and their bearers in tow. ‘Is he not handsome, Debs?’
‘Very handsome,’ Deborah agreed, though privately she thought the young man’s features a little weak. For herself she preferred stronger men like her father…and the marquis. ‘All I wish for is your happiness, cousin.’
‘And I yours,’ Sarah replied, her eyes curious as she looked at Deborah. ‘Have you found no one at Court who stirs your heart, Debs?’
‘No one,’ Deborah answered at once. She did not meet her cousin’s open gaze for she knew that she lied, and Sarah would see it in her face. One man had stirred forbidden feelings in her, but she would not admit it to anyone. ‘I have not been as fortunate as you, sweet Sarah.’
‘Mistress Stirling…’ Arriving breathless and anxious at that moment, the young man looked at her and then his beloved. ‘Mistress Palmer has spoken to you of my hopes?’
‘She has, sir—and I approve. I am certain Sir Edward can have no objection, though of course I may not speak for him.’
‘No, no, of course not. It was just that Sarah said he always does as you wish…’ Master Henderson flushed and looked awkward. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to imply anything…’
‘I have taken no offence, sir. It is well known that my father indulges me. I am in favour of my cousin’s marriage to you—and I ask only that you treat her with kindness.’
‘I shall spend my life serving her,’ he avowed, a flush in his cheeks. ‘I live only for her.’
‘Then I may ask no more.’
Deborah was thoughtful as she was handed into her chair. Master Henderson was truly a gentleman and it was thoughtful of him to escort her and Sarah back to their lodgings, though they were safe enough with her father’s servant to walk a little distance behind. There were parts of London she would not have dared to venture to, even in broad day, but here in this busy street with honest folk going about their business, they had never been in danger.
She smiled as she saw the young man’s hand upon his sword. He was prepared to defend his beloved with his life—yet she wondered how capable he would be should beggars or footpads attack them. If that were to happen she would rather trust her stout footman—or perhaps the Marquis de Vere.
Deborah thought it would be a brave footpad who attacked a lady escorted by the marquis. She imagined that he was skilled with the weapon he had worn at his side that morning. If she were ever in a dangerous situation, she would be glad of his company.
Such foolish thoughts! She was more like to need protecting from the Marquis de Vere. He was charming but a rogue and she had best remember that and put him out of her head once and for all.
Deborah tried valiantly to dismiss the pictures, which would keep popping into her head. Soon she would be returning to her home in the country, and then she would never see the rogue again.
Perhaps she would be married within the year—to the son of the man who was the marquis’s sworn enemy.
‘Well, Deborah, I am glad to see your cousin settled,’ Sir Edward remarked to his daughter when they were alone later that day. ‘We shall remain in London for her betrothal and we can all travel home together when Master Henderson takes Sarah to meet his family.’
‘Yes, Father. It is fortunate that Master Henderson lives no more than fifty leagues from us. His family will not have so very far to travel for the wedding. We must do our best for her, see that she leaves us well endowed with linens and goods.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Sir Edward agreed. ‘All that will be seen to. Now it is of you and your marriage I wish to speak, Deborah. Señor Sanchez has returned. He called on me while you were out this morning, bringing letters for us both and a gift for you.’
He handed her a small object wrapped in blue velvet. When she opened it, Deborah gasped in surprise and pleasure. It was a miniature portrait of a young and handsome man painted on a shell background and framed in gold set with garnets and pearls.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘He is beautiful, Father. I have never seen such a countenance on any man. Do you think it can be a true likeness? Can anyone have hair that colour—like spun silver—and eyes so very blue?’
‘If you look at the back you will find a compartment that opens,’ her father said. ‘Within it there is a lock of hair just that colour.’ Sir Edward smiled as he saw the wonder in her face. ‘So if the hair be true we must suppose the artist has not lied and it is a faithful likeness.’
‘And this is Miguel Cortes?’
‘I am assured of it, Deborah.’ Her father arched his brows at her. ‘Does his gift please you, my child?’
Deborah stared at the portrait in her hand for a while before answering. She seemed to see another, darker image—a man with laughing eyes and a roguish manner—but she resolutely shut it out. The Marquis de Vere was a man of mystery and shadows, of light and dark: Miguel Cortes had the face of an angel, his mouth curved in a smile of great sweetness.
‘It pleases me very well, Father,’ she replied at last. ‘If Miguel Cortes is as pleasant as his likeness would indicate, I think he would make any woman a fine husband.’
‘I believe it could be a good match for you, Deborah.’ Sir Edward was clearly excited about something. ‘Don Manola’s letter was writ in the warmest terms. He says it would give him great pleasure if our families could be joined in marriage—and he has asked that we visit him. If I find the life suits me, I am invited to join with the Don in a new business venture.’
‘Oh, Father!’ Deborah gazed at him in delight. ‘Does that mean that I should see you sometimes?’
‘Often,’ her father assured her with a smile. He seemed to have shed all his inhibitions about her marriage. ‘I must admit that I wondered how I should bring myself to part from you, daughter—but now it may not be necessary. Don Manola offers me the hospitality of his home whenever I care to visit—and to help me build a villa on his own land if I should wish to settle in Spain. He has told me of a place where sweet oranges grow…’
‘Then I have nothing more to ask.’ Deborah flew to embrace him. ‘To have you near me always—it would give me the greatest happiness in life, my dear father.’
‘It is more than I could ever have hoped for had you married here,’ her father confessed. ‘We might have met occasionally, but your home would have been with your husband. This is great consideration from a man I know and trust, Deborah. I must admit it has greatly relieved my mind. Shall I write to the Don and say you agree to the betrothal in principle? Naturally, you will need some time to get to know one another, but if things go well I think this a good match for you. We must see your cousin wed before we leave England, of course, and I have business that must be settled, but after that there is naught to keep us here.’
Deborah glanced once more at the miniature in her hand. She could not but admire the beautiful image. Surely he would be as welcome to her as any man she had met? At least he did not desire her for her fortune, for the Don was wealthier than Sir Edward. And it meant that she would be able to see her father often in the future.
‘Yes, Father,’ she said. ‘Please write at once so that everything may be made ready for a betrothal, and then, when we have had a little time to become accustomed to each other, a wedding.’
‘What a beautiful thing,’ Sarah said, looking at the miniature. ‘Shall you wear it to the masque this evening? It has a loop whereby you might hang it from a ribbon about your neck.’
Deborah held the ornament against her throat. Indeed, it was a vastly pretty piece of jewellery and her cousin’s suggestion found favour, especially as the gown she had selected was of cream silk sewn with garnets and pearls on the falling sleeves.
‘Yes, why not?’ she replied, looking through her collection of fal-lals for a ribbon to match her gown. ‘After all, we must look our best this evening, cousin, for it is our last at Court before we leave for the country.’
‘Yes.’ Sarah smiled dreamily. ‘We have both been fortunate to find handsome husbands. It is not always so, Debs. Mistress Anne Goodleigh has been promised to a man twice her age and as ugly as sin. I vow I would rather die an old maid than submit to such as he!’
‘We are both lucky,’ Deborah agreed. She leaned forward to kiss her cousin’s cheek. ‘You look so pretty this evening, Sarah, that shade of blue becomes you very well.’
‘Thank you,’ Sarah said and dimpled. ‘I think I am pretty—but you are beautiful, Debs. I do not think I have ever seen you look so well as you do this evening.’
‘Beautiful?’ Deborah glanced at herself in her hand mirror of silver and Venetian glass. The glass was dark and showed only a hazy image of her face. ‘I have never thought so, but I dare say I am well enough. Father has commissioned a portrait as a gift for Don Miguel…I hope he will be as pleased with it as I was with his.’
‘He would be addled in his wits if he were not,’ Sarah said and giggled as her excitement overcame her. ‘Are you ready, Debs? I cannot wait for the evening to begin. Master Henderson has said he will give me a ring to seal the promise he made me, and tomorrow we shall be betrothed.’
‘And the day after we go home.’ Deborah took her cousin’s arm. ‘I am quite ready, dearest cousin. Let us go down and see if the chairs have been summoned.’
Chapter Three
T he masked dancers were in merry mood, twirling in reckless abandon to the music. This was no sedate country dance but a wild romp that brought each couple close in what was almost an embrace, and many gentlemen had seized the chance to behave immodestly towards their partners. Their behaviour was quite shocking, and Deborah did not care to join them.
She could see her cousin dancing with her betrothed, her cheeks flushed and excited. She herself had already refused two partners who seemed to be intoxicated from too much wine, preferring to watch rather than participate.
‘Not dancing, fair one?’
The man seemed to have come from nowhere, or perhaps she had been too preoccupied to notice his approach. He was masked, as was everyone present, but his size marked him out. He could only be the Marquis de Vere. Deborah drew a sharp breath as he grasped her hand and pulled her into the throng of carefree dancers. She would have resisted had he asked her permission, but his grip was firm and strong and she felt it would be useless to try to free herself. He was determined to have his way.
‘This is madness,’ she breathed as he placed his hands about her waist to toss her into the air and then catch her to him.
It was as if she weighed no more than a feather. Her heart raced furiously as he held her crushed against him for a brief moment before setting her on her feet to whirl her round and round the room. Again and again, she was caught, tossed and held, the madness of the dance infecting her so that her natural caution was all but lost.
Deborah gazed down into the handsome face of her captor, for that in truth was what he had become. He had daringly made a prisoner of both her body and her mind. She seemed to have no will of her own and was seized by a strange desire as she met the fire in his dark eyes, a longing that was so strange and wanton she was suddenly afraid. Was this man truly a devil? How else could he have made her so far forget herself?
The music was ending at last after what had seemed an eternity. Deborah was finally set upon her feet by the marquis, and his hold on her released so that she was able to breathe freely once more. Slowly, her senses returned to normal and she stood staring at the mocking set of her partner’s mouth. He was laughing at her! She drew herself up to her full height, which came no farther than the top of his shoulder. Her expression became proud and withdrawn, her eyes cold.
‘I shall not thank you for the dance, sir. Had you had the courtesy to ask, I should have refused.’
‘Yet I would swear there was delight in your eyes while we danced, sweet mistress.’
‘More like fear,’ she answered waspishly. ‘I thought myself in the clutches of a madman.’
‘Aye, mayhap we were both a little mad for a moment.’ His eyes had narrowed beneath the slits of his velvet mask, the colour of them so intense and dark that a shiver went through her. His hand reached out to touch the pendant she wore about her slender throat. ‘You wear a fine jewel this night, Mistress Stirling.’
Deborah lifted her head, anger making her speak as she did without truly thinking of what she said. ‘It is the gift of the man to whom I shall soon be betrothed. Don Miguel Cortes…’
‘God’s breath!’ Nicholas ejaculated and tore off his mask. His features were contorted with a terrible anger, making Deborah recoil in genuine fear this time. ‘You lie! I beg you, Mistress Stirling—tell me this is some wrong-headed jest to punish me for my behaviour towards you. You cannot wish to be the wife of such a man. It would be sacrilege.’
Deborah was trembling inside as she saw the strange, almost haunted look in his eyes, but determined not to let him see that she was so affected by his words.
‘His likeness pleases me.’ She faced him with a steady gaze, though she was near ready to faint. ‘I am aware that you and he have some quarrel between you, but…’
‘You think my disgust is because of a petty quarrel?’ Nicholas gripped her wrist, his fingers digging so deeply into her flesh that she almost cried out in pain. ‘That man is a monster—a murderer! Were I to tell you of his hideous crimes you would never again sleep in peace. Do not give yourself to such a man, Mistress Stirling. If you value your self-respect—or your life!—you will step back now, before it is too late.’
Deborah saw hatred and a chilling horror in his eyes. His words terrified her. There was a sickness in her stomach and she felt as though she would swoon.
‘Please let me go,’ she whispered. ‘I must…I need air.’
Nicholas saw the distress in her eyes and cursed himself for a fool.
‘Forgive me, you are unwell.’ He took her arm, feeling her tremble beneath his hand. ‘I am a brute indeed, sweet lady. You are not to blame for that monster’s crimes. Do not fear me. I would kill Cortes if I could but you are safe with me. I swear it by my honour.’
Deborah had no strength to break free of him as he led her from the hall, which was crowded with flushed and sweating dancers, into a quiet chamber nearby. A single torch flared here and the air was cooler, fresher. She sank onto an oak settle near a window and drew in a deep shuddering breath to steady her nerves. It was dark outside with hardly a star in the night sky. An omen, perhaps, of what the future held for her if she were to believe this man—but could she believe him?
‘Are you feeling better?’ Nicholas asked after a few moments. ‘I should not have shocked you so, though I spoke only the truth. It would have been better had I gone to your father. He has been deceived in this matter. I cannot think he would allow the marriage if he understood what kind of a man this Spaniard truly is. No father would give his only child to such a monster.’
‘Don Manola is my father’s friend. He offers us much kindness…’
‘The Don seeks to trap you with honeyed words,’ Nicholas replied harshly. ‘No Spanish woman of gentle birth would wed with his son, for his reputation is known beyond his own province. Why do you imagine he has sought a bride abroad? Listen to me, Mistress Stirling, I entreat you. Draw back now. There are a score of true, honest men present here this evening. Any one of them would make you a fitter husband than Cortes.’
‘You perhaps?’ Deborah’s eyes flashed with scorn as she looked up at him.
‘No, not I, mistress,’ Nicholas replied. ‘I shall take no woman for wife while Isabella lies unavenged in her grave. I have sworn it and I do not lightly break my vow.’
‘Well, I am glad that was not your reason for trying to poison my mind with falsehoods,’ Deborah replied coldly, ‘for I should never have consented to such a match. I have listened to your words, sir, and I find them less than convincing.’ She was feeling better and more in control as she rose to her feet. Her eyes gazed up at him steadily. ‘I thank you for escorting me here, sir. I was in need of some respite after that dance. Now I ask that you leave me. I shall make my own way back when I am ready.’
‘You hate me for my plain speaking? You are perverse in refusing to accept my warning, lady. I fear you will come to regret it ere long.’
‘You have no power to arouse an emotion of any kind in me, sir,’ she replied haughtily and tossed her head. He took too much on himself! How dare he dictate to her? ‘Your warning has been made. I give you leave to go.’
To her surprise and chagrin, her regal manner did not provoke the response she imagined.
‘I see that you are feeling better.’ Nicholas grinned at her, clearly much amused. ‘Then I shall leave you as you request, my lady.’ He made her an elegant leg. ‘I regret that I was the cause of distress to you—yet I am minded to prove that you lied when you said I had no power to arouse any emotion in you.’
Before Deborah could guess what was in his mind, he reached out and caught her to him, his eyes seeming to burn into her, setting a flame leaping within her body. Then his head bent towards hers and his mouth sought hers, caressing her with a softness that took her unawares. Had his kiss been demanding or greedy she would have fought him, but its very sweetness drew an instinctive response from her. The flame his gaze had ignited became a fire roaring up from the centre of her femininity. Without realizing what she did, Deborah slid her arms up his chest to clutch at the fine fabric of his doublet, clinging to him as if she feared he might leave her.
She felt as if she were swooning, drowning in the sensations of pleasure that washed over her, and her body seemed to meld with his as if she were being absorbed into his very flesh. Never had she imagined a man’s kiss could arouse such wild longing within her, or that she would yearn for it to go on and on endlessly. She was like a leaf in a stream, wrapped about by swirling waters, carried on regardless of her will to submerge in the tide of passion he had aroused in her.
It was Nicholas who drew away at last, not Deborah. He stood staring at her for some seconds after he had let her go and the expression in his eyes was so strange—so bleak—that her heart jerked. Why did he look so—as if he were in Hell? As if some tormenting demon tore at his soul with sharp claws, making him suffer terrible pain?
For a moment she wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, to beg him not to leave her. Then she remembered his kiss had been meant as a jest, to prove that she was a weak and foolish female he could dominate at will. He had meant to punish her, not thrill her. Her cheeks flamed and she was humiliated. How could she have been so foolish?
‘How dare you take advantage of me, sir?’
Nicholas stepped back. She thought she saw a glimmer of laughter in his eyes, then it had gone and his expression became harsh, withdrawn.
‘I should not have kissed you thus, Mistress Stirling. It was wrong and I do humbly ask your pardon.’
‘You are not forgiven, sir.’ Her eyes flashed with pride mixed with anger. ‘Please go away. I do not wish to see you or speak to you ever again.’
Nicholas knew he should go, yet still he hesitated.
‘I might persuade you to change your mind,’ he murmured, the harsh look fading as swiftly as it had come. ‘But I have not the right. I am sworn to one purpose, Mistress Stirling—to avenge the dishonour and murder of a gentle lady. Until then I can promise nothing. No matter what my mind or heart might dictate, my honour demands no less than I have sworn.’
‘I want no promises from you, sir,’ Deborah replied spiritedly. ‘I am already promised to Miguel Cortes, in honour if not yet in law. My father has given his consent to a betrothal when we reach Spain. Nothing you can say will change that. We shall leave as soon as my cousin’s wedding has taken place.’
Nicholas stared at her. ‘You are a stubborn wench, mistress. I pray you will change your mind, lest I make you a widow before ever you are a wife.’
‘You are a wicked rogue, sir!’
‘I warn you, lady. If you set sail for Spain with this intent you will never reach its shores. I take anything I can that rightly belongs to the Cortes family—and Miguel’s bride is no exception.’
With that he turned and strode away, leaving Deborah to tremble at the harshness of his last words. She stared into the shadows around her, her mind in turmoil. She felt as if she were being torn apart by conflicting emotions—anger, outrage and something more. A feeling she did not understand but which gave her much pain.
Surely the marquis had lied concerning Miguel Cortes? The man whose portrait she wore about her neck could not be the monster he had described—an evil man who tortured and killed for sheer pleasure?
No! She would not believe it. She touched the jewel at her throat with shaking fingers. Never had she seen such an angelic countenance on a man. The artist had painted a true likeness, and it was said a man’s soul could not be hid from the artist’s inner eye.
The Marquis de Vere had lied for his own personal advantage. It must be so! Perhaps, despite his denials, he wanted her for himself—for her father’s wealth. Was that not what so many at Court had seen in her, a chance for personal gain? No doubt the marquis had covetous eyes for Sir Edward’s gold. Yes, that must be it.
If it were not so, why had he forced himself on her in the dance? Why had he brought her here and kissed her in such a way that she…? A fierce heat flooded through her as she remembered her instinctive response. She had acted like a wanton, a tavern wench, willing and eager to be bedded. Shame washed over her. How could she so far have forgotten who and what she was? To let a stranger bring her to the point of surrender…
‘Deborah—are you there?’
She turned at the sound of her cousin’s voice. ‘Sarah?’
The other girl came towards her, her manner anxious as if she had been concerned. ‘So here you are…alone. Master Henderson saw you leave with…he thought you might be with the Marquis de Vere?’
‘As you see, I am alone. I was a little faint from the heat in the hall. The marquis was considerate. He brought me here and then left me to recover in peace so that I might compose myself.’ What a liar she was! Yet she could not have confessed her shame to anyone.
‘Are you ill, cousin?’
‘No, not at all.’ Deborah had recovered a measure of calmness at last. ‘It was merely the heat. I should never have danced with the marquis.’
‘Your father is almost ready to leave,’ Sarah said, her eyes curious. ‘He asked me to tell you.’
‘Yes, of course. I shall come at once. I should not have left the hall.’
‘Oh, the King left an age ago,’ Sarah replied carelessly. ‘There was no discourtesy on your part, Debs. Several ladies were near to swooning. You were not the only to take the opportunity for cooler air—though I would dare swear some had another purpose quite in mind.’ She gave Deborah a wicked look.