Книга - The Abducted Bride

The Abducted Bride
Anne Herries


THE VENGEFUL GROOMBetrothed to the son of her father's Spanish friend, Mistress Deborah Stirling is taken captive by a roguish privateer. Nicholas, Marquis de Vere, has vowed vengeance on her future husband, and plans to use Deborah to lure the murderous Spaniard from his hiding place. Revenge was never so sweet–or so tempting….At first furious, Deborah soon finds herself unable to resist her handsome captor's charms. Swept away by their passion, she can't help but fall in love. But what if it's a lie? Could it be part of Nicholas's revenge to seduce her, then be rid of her?









“How dare you take advantage of me, sir?”


Nicholas stepped back. She thought she saw a glimmer of laughter in his eyes, then it was gone, and his expression became harsh, withdrawn.

“I am sworn to one purpose, Mistress Stirling—to avenge the dishonor and murder of a gentle lady. Until then I can promise nothing.”

“I want no promise from you, sir,” Deborah replied. “I am already promised to Miguel Cortes.”

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.”




The Abducted Bride

Anne Herries







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ANNE HERRIES


lives in Cambridge but spends part of the winter in Spain, where she and her husband stay in a pretty resort nestled amid the hills that run from Málaga to Gibraltar. Gazing over a sparkling blue ocean, watching the sunbeams dance like silver confetti on the restless waves, Anne loves to dream up her stories of laughter, tears and romantic lovers. She is the author of over thirty published novels.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen




Chapter One


‘P ray look over there! Now, is he not a fine figure of a man?’ Mistress Sarah Palmer whispered to her cousin and giggled. She clutched at the other girl’s arm in her excitement. ‘Were he to offer for either of us, we should make haste to accept. Would you not agree?’

Deborah Ann, daughter of Sir Edward Stirling, glanced across the crowded gallery of the palace at Whitehall and frowned. The gentleman at whom her cousin had been gazing was indeed handsome, but to her mind he looked proud and arrogant, his dark brown eyes holding a haughty stare as they swept over the assembled courtiers.

‘Oh, Sarah,’ she said, a hint of laughter in her voice. ‘How can you speak so? I vow I should not be comfortable married to such a man. His countenance is so harsh. He looks as if he might be…’ Words failed her. ‘Why, marry, he might be anything. I do not know.’

‘I think he is a sea captain,’ Sarah replied, giving the object of her admiration a roguish smile. ‘He has a brownish look about his skin, as if he were often exposed to wind and weather.’

Deborah glanced again in the direction of the gentleman who had so captured her cousin’s interest. He was looking directly at Deborah and his dark eyes held a distinct gleam of mockery. She turned her head away at once. The wretched man! He need not imagine she was interested in him, for she was not—not one whit!

She cooled her cheeks with the large fan she carried, which was made out of chicken skin and painted with pastoral scenes. Her embroidered satin shoes were new and pinched her toes a little, and the elaborate dress she was wearing had begun to feel heavy and over-warm, for all she had thought it so fine when she chose it. Indeed, her pleasure in being at the Court of King James I was fast waning.

Deborah turned away from the mocking gaze of the stranger, glancing about her with feigned interest. Here, in the older wing of the palace, the gallery walls were thick stone, which kept out both the cold and the heat of the summer day. At night torches flared from iron sconces set at intervals about the large room, but for now the only light was from narrow windows in the thick walls. Here and there a silk tapestry covered the rough surface of the walls, lending colour and warmth to the sparsely furnished chamber, but the floor was flagged with thick stone tiles of black and white, its icy coldness sending a chill through her body.

How she wished they were back in her father’s pleasant manor house, with its wooden floors and the fresh scent of herbs replaced daily to keep the air sweet. Deborah would not have wasted such a lovely day inside, for her herb garden would have tempted her out into the sunshine.

She spied her father in conversation with a tall, thin gentleman; the other man had pale, pinched features and wore clothes of black and silver, his body hunched as if he felt the chill of the palace in his very bones. Seeing Sir Edward nod his head at her, Deborah began to make her way towards them, here and there exchanging a pleasant word with various acquaintances as she passed.

She was fond of her father, and proud of his air of distinction, which marked him out as a man to be reckoned with. He, too, was thin but upright in his stance: a handsome man, though past his prime, his hair streaked with silver at the temples and his eyes a faded blue that held memories of his private sorrow.

Sir Edward had brought his daughter and her cousin to Court this very week, and this was their second attendance at His Majesty’s promenade. Deborah had been a little disappointed at how swiftly the King had passed through the assembled ladies and gentlemen, noticing only a few and passing on without speaking to more than one or two favoured courtiers.

She had heard much talk of the King before she came to Court, and a great deal of it was not good; people spoke disparagingly of his temper, his obsession with witchcraft, his lifestyle and his love of hunting, but Deborah had thought him merely sad and a little ugly.

Sir Edward’s purpose in bringing the two young women to Court was to find husbands for them both if possible, but Sarah Palmer in particular. Sarah had some three years earlier lost both parents to the plague. Fortunately, she had been from home at the time and thus escaped taking the terrible illness. When he had been informed of the terrible tragedy of his sister and brother-in-law’s deaths, Sir Edward had gone immediately to fetch Sarah to his home, where she had since resided as friend and companion to his daughter.

Deborah Ann and Sarah were much of an age, being close to seventeen years and therefore well ready to be married. Sarah’s parents had died before the arrangements could be made for her marriage, and Deborah’s betrothed husband had been taken by a dread fever when but seventeen years himself.

Since the death of a young man of whom both he and Deborah had been fond, Sir Edward had been in no hurry to see his only child wed. Nor did he wish to have her marry out of her faith, for he and his dear lost wife had been devout Catholics. However, during the reign of the present king it had proved wise not to flaunt this fact to the world.

When Queen Bess was on the throne Sir Edward had been a frequent visitor to Court, for Gloriana tolerated those she liked no matter what their faith, and after her death he had retired to his home in the north of England.

James I was a man with whom it was possible to find favour if one was prepared to court it—and most were more than willing for the wealth such favours could bring.

Sir Edward did not court the King’s favour, neither did he speak against him, preferring to mind his own business, living quietly on his estate and tending his land. He would not have come now to London had not the matter of his ward’s marriage begun to weigh on his conscience. It was time both girls were wed, and if he found his house too empty after they had gone, he must look about him for a pleasant widow to warm his bed and tend his comforts. Yet he could not imagine his life without Deborah. He smiled as she approached.

‘Father,’ Deborah said, reaching his side at last. ‘I grow weary. May we not go to our lodgings?’

‘Ah, daughter.’ Sir Edward looked at her with affection mingled with approval. She was without doubt a beauty, though perhaps a little too slender. Her cousin was more comely, but her fair English rose looks were not as striking as Deborah’s dark chestnut curls and green eyes. ‘This is well met, my dear. I wished to introduce you to this gentleman. He asked if he might speak with you himself.’

‘Mistress Stirling—your servant.’ The gentleman spoke English with a heavy foreign accent as he bowed gracefully to her. ‘I am the ambassador of Don Manola Cortes, a gentleman of high rank and the owner of fine vineyards in Spain.’

‘I have done business with Señor Juan Sanchez for many years,’ Sir Edward said to his daughter. ‘Some twenty years ago I had the honour to call Don Manola my friend, and Señor Sanchez has brought me much good wine from his vineyards.’

‘My master is a wealthy man,’ Señor Sanchez went on with a smile for Deborah. ‘He has a son, Mistress Stirling. A fine young man of just five and twenty. It has long been the Don’s hope to see his son wed to a worthy young woman. I believe I may at last have found the lady he seeks—a lady of both birth and beauty.’

‘Not so fast, señor,’ Sir Edward interrupted with a smile of caution. ‘My daughter and myself will listen to your flattering proposal. You shall be given a fair hearing, but I must know more of Don Manola’s son. You will furnish us with a likeness of the gentleman if you please, and if my daughter favours the young man—and he her, of course—we may then discuss the details of a marriage contract.’

‘You indulge Mistress Stirling,’ Señor Sanchez replied. He seemed surprised and not altogether pleased. ‘Our ways are more direct, I think. In Spain a father’s wishes are paramount.’

‘Many an Englishman would agree with you,’ Sir Edward said, his eyes meeting the Spaniard’s steadily. ‘It is, of course, accepted that a daughter should marry where her father pleases, but Deborah Ann is precious to me. I shall not lightly give her to any man—no matter how wealthy or virtuous. Her happiness is also mine.’

‘My father does truly indulge me,’ Deborah said, her mouth soft with love as she looked at him. ‘Yet my respect for his wishes is all the greater because of it, sir. I am confident that he wishes only my good, therefore my pleasure is to obey him in all things.’

‘Not quite all,’ Sir Edward murmured. ‘You manage to have your way in many things, daughter.’

Deborah laughed, tossing her head and gazing mischievously up at him. ‘But that is because you are so very kind to me, sir.’

Father and daughter smiled in perfect understanding. Both knew that the girl was capable of twisting the man around her little finger, but both also knew that their love and respect was mutual: neither would willingly distress or hurt the other.

‘Your willingness to oblige your father is most pleasing, Mistress Stirling,’ said Señor Sanchez. ‘I return to Spain on the evening tide tomorrow and will carry news of your beauty and good character to my master.’ He bowed low before Deborah and her father. ‘If you wish it, I shall carry a letter from you to my master, sir. With fair winds I shall return in three weeks. I shall then be able to bring greetings from my master’s son.’

‘The letter will be ready in the morning. We wish you a safe voyage, señor. Do not neglect to bring Don Miguel’s likeness,’ warned Sir Edward with a smile for his daughter. ‘All the ladies like a well-favoured man. Is that not so, Deborah?’

Señor Sanchez bowed once more and walked away.

‘He has always been honest with me in business,’ Sir Edward said to his daughter when the Spaniard had disappeared amongst the press of courtiers. ‘I have settled nothing, Deborah. If you should meet a suitable admirer you truly like and respect before Sanchez returns, I shall not force you to this marriage—nor yet if you should form a dislike for the idea. I would have you content in this as in all things, Deborah.’

‘You are always so good to me, dearest father,’ Deborah said, her hand on his arm. ‘I shall be guided by you. I know you wish only that I might be as happy with my husband as you and my mother were together.’

Sir Edward’s faded blue eyes clouded with sorrow. ‘Would that my dear Beth were here with us now. How proud she would be of her daughter.’ He sighed and touched Deborah’s cheek. ‘It cannot be. Now—did you say you wished to return to our lodgings?’

‘Yes, Father. May we, please? We have seen His Majesty’s procession. There is no reason to linger—and my shoes pinch.’ She did not add that she thought the King so ill favoured with his large eyes, thin beard and ungainly stature that she had found the sight of him progressing through his fawning courtiers less than inspiring.

Sir Edward laughed. ‘Uncomfortable shoes! A better reason could not be found. Where is your cousin?’

‘I left her in conversation with Mistress Goodleigh, but…oh, there she is. She seems to be talking to a gentleman.’

‘No gentleman, if rumour be truth,’ Sir Edward replied with a frown of disapproval. ‘That is the Marquis de Vere, a Frenchman by birth though his mother was an English gentlewoman—and he himself a privateer by all accounts. He preys on Spanish ships. Sanchez has complained of his actions to the King, but apparently his words fell upon deaf ears. His Majesty promised only that he would consider the matter.’

‘Surely His Majesty must listen to the Don’s complaints,’ Deborah Ann said. ‘We are not at war with Spain. Are not the prince and my lord Buckingham in Spain to treat for a marriage between the Spanish King’s daughter and Prince Charles?’

‘Indeed, it is so,’ Sir Edward agreed. It was the news that the negotiations for the Catholic marriage had seemed to go well that had encouraged him to venture to Court once more. ‘One would think His Majesty would rather hang de Vere than welcome him to Court—but it seems the rogue finds favour in the royal eyes.’

‘Why would that be, Father? The marquis is little better than the Algerian pirates who prey on our ships.’

‘Queen Elizabeth was wont to smile on such men,’ Sir Edward said with a little frown. ‘One could not blame her so much, for the might of Spain could have snatched the crown from her had our brave sailors not beaten off the great Armada the Spanish sent against her—but our present king should have no need to fear Spain.’

‘Then one must suppose His Majesty to have other reasons for his leniency.’

‘With a king it is always best to suppose nothing and be ever on one’s guard,’ Sir Edward replied. ‘Your cousin is alone now. Go to her and tell her we are almost ready to leave. There is someone else I must speak to for a moment and then we shall go.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Deborah began to walk towards the spot where she had last seen her cousin. Where was Sarah? Oh, there she was! She had moved to the other side of the gallery. Changing her direction to catch up with her, Deborah was startled when a man stepped directly into her path.

‘Whither so fast?’ a deep, husky voice asked. Deborah caught the faint accent, which she realized must come from his having spent much of his life in France. ‘Why are you in such a hurry, mistress? You were like to knock me down in your haste.’

That was most unlikely! Deborah stared up into the wicked dark eyes of the Marquis de Vere and drew in her breath sharply. Close to, he was even larger than he had seemed from a distance. A powerful man with broad shoulders and strong thighs, his nearness was intimidating. His court dress was fashioned of black velvet slashed through with dusky gold braid, his doublet heavily sewn with jet bugles.

Unusually in these times he wore no beard, though a slight shadow could be discerned on his chin as if it were some hours since he had shaved. His hair was dark brown and waved thickly back from his brow, and he wore only a small ruff about his neck. Even in court clothes, which taken to excess could appear ridiculous on some, this man had the look of an adventurer.

‘It was you who impeded my progress, sir,’ Deborah replied, her head high, two spots of colour in her cheeks. ‘I pray you, allow me to pass. I wish to speak with my cousin.’

‘Ah, yes, the pretty Mistress Palmer,’ Nicholas Trevern, Marquis de Vere, murmured throatily. ‘A bold wench that one, and no better than she ought to be, I’ll vow.’

‘How dare you impugn the honour of my family?’ Deborah’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘If I were a man I would demand satisfaction, sir!’

‘I could afford you a deeper satisfaction as a wench, Mistress Stirling.’

The expression in his eyes coupled with the mockery in his voice shocked her. She knew that men were freer in their speech in town than she was accustomed to hearing in her father’s house, where she was always accorded the deepest respect, but this was outrageous. How dare he make such a ribald suggestion to her!

‘You are unwise to insult me, sir. My father has powerful friends.’

‘Indeed?’ Laughter danced in Nicholas’s eyes. ‘Would you have me hanged drawn and quartered for daring to tease you, mistress?’

‘I have no wish to listen to your teasing, sir.’

‘Have you not? Your cousin seemed amused.’

‘My cousin is young and perhaps something foolish.’

‘Of your own age, methinks?’ He made her an elegant leg. ‘Forgive me, mistress. I bow to your superior wisdom.’

‘You are pleased to mock me, sir.’

It was all Deborah could do not to stamp her foot. Oh, if she were but the son her father had hoped for and never had! She would teach this devil a lesson he would not soon forget.

‘One must mock at life,’ Nicholas went on before she could make up her mind how to deliver her set-down. ‘Too oft life plays its cruel jests on both the godly and ungodly alike. ’Tis as well to laugh in the face of fate as lie down beneath it. Yet I meant not to offend you, mistress. Go on your way in peace.’

He stood aside. Deborah swept past, the wide skirts of her sumptuous gown swaying with indignation. It was as well for her peace of mind that she did not turn her head to look back, for the sheer delight and mischief in Nicholas’s eyes would have added to her sense of frustration. How many times had she longed to be free of all the restrictions placed on a woman? How often she had wished herself a man, and never more so than now. Oh, that dreadful man should suffer if she but had a sword to run him through!

Deborah was no stranger to swordplay, or to a man’s costume. Her father had indulged her in whims others might find strange. He had been amused to see her strut and playact in her role as a youth, and had delighted in her skill with the rapier.

‘I vow I could wish for no finer son,’ he had told her once when they had practised the art of fencing together and he found himself disarmed. ‘But this must be our secret, Deborah, for the old tabbies would speak you ill if it were known you had behaved so immodestly.’

‘I care naught for the spite of tabbies,’ Deborah had replied confidently. ‘But as you ask it, Father, I shall be discreet. What we enjoy in private shall remain so.’

‘You are always my good daughter,’ her father had teased, a smile curving his mouth. ‘I must be on my guard for ’tis certain you will want something—a new gown, perhaps?’

‘How should I want a new gown when I already have so many?’ Deborah asked, then a little smile flickered in her green eyes—eyes that had caused many a young village lad to dream of her in vain. ‘But there is one thing you might do for me—if you wish?’

‘Of course, daughter. What is it now? Would you have me give more of my gold to master parson—or open my kitchens to every beggar in the whole of Northumbria?’

‘It is just Mistress Donovan. She is a widow now, Father, with three small children. All I ask is that she may remain in her cottage until she can find a man to take her husband’s place.’

‘Of course, child. She is a comely good woman. I dare say a man can be found to wed her before I am entirely ruined by lack of rent or labour.’

‘Oh, Father!’

Deborah had laughed at his gentle mockery of her good works. Yet she was not moved to laughter by the wicked teasing of the Marquis de Vere, though in her heart she could not find him guilty of malice. When he smiled he did not look so very harsh, but there was mettle in him. She thought that he might make a fearsome enemy, and a little chill ran down her spine. For a moment it was as if a dark cloud had passed over her and she was afraid of something, but of what she could not be sure. It was just a sense that her life of sweet content was about to change forever.

She shook her head as if to clear it of such thoughts. Sarah had turned her way and she lifted her hand to beckon her to her side.

‘It is time we were leaving,’ she said as her cousin came up to her. ‘I have had enough of the Court for one day.’

‘Oh, must we go?’ Sarah dimpled as a young man smiled at her from across the crowded gallery. ‘I have found our visit vastly amusing, have you not, cousin?’

‘It is interesting to see so many gathered here in the hope of a smile or some notice from His Majesty,’ Deborah replied. ‘Though his appearance was so brief that most must have been disappointed.’

‘Oh, the King…’ Sarah pulled a laughing face. She was well aware that she had aroused the interest of more than one gentleman that day. ‘It is not His Majesty’s attentions that I care for, cousin.’

Deborah noticed the young man who was staring so hard in their direction and smiled inwardly as she saw the flush in Sarah’s cheeks.

‘Come, Sarah,’ she urged. ‘Master Henderson will find his way to our lodgings if he wishes to further his acquaintance with our family.’ So saying, she took her cousin’s arm and began firmly to steer her towards Sir Edward, who was now waiting for them.

The bold-eyed marquis seemed to have disappeared and Deborah was relieved that there would be no more encounters with such a wicked rogue. She wondered that he even dared to appear at Court, for if there were any justice His Majesty would surely hang the fellow.



‘What would ye have of me now, rogue?’ James I of England and VI of Scotland eyed the younger man with amusement. Disfigured by childhood weaknesses and birth defects, he liked to see charming, handsome faces about him and his partiality led to many complaints about his favourites.

‘Why, nothing, sir,’ replied Nicholas. The son of an English gentlewoman and a French nobleman, only a genuine liking for this man some called fool kept him at court. He had estates in France that needed his attention, but James had asked for him and he had come in answer to the summons. ‘I believe you had some need of me?’

‘Mayhap.’ The King frowned. He had to look up to this giant, who towered above most men at Court, and he disliked the crick in his neck it gave him. ‘Sit on that stool by me, laddie. I give ye the royal permission. Aye, I might have need of your services. This foolish venture of my son has cost me dearly, and I do not know what will become of it all in the end.’

‘You mean Prince Charles’s marriage to the Infanta of Spain? I thought it was Your Majesty’s own wish?’

‘Aye, I have thought it for the best. You know I do not want war. These miserly Englishmen will vote me no money for peace, let alone war. The marriage might have brought a lasting peace between our two countries, one that would go on when I am dead—yet I confess I am uneasy. Buckingham and my son went incognito to Spain, thereby placing themselves too securely in the hands of the Spaniards. ’Twas foolishness and against my orders—though you will keep that to yourself, Nicholas. I will not have Baby criticised by others. You hear me?’

‘Yes, sire. Nothing you confide in me goes beyond this chamber.’

‘Aye, I know it. I trust ye. The negotiations for the marriage go apace and all seems well—but I fear that I do not hear all that goes on in the council chambers of Spain. I have been forced to make concessions, though I do not like them—nor do they please these stiff-necked Englishmen. There are rumblings, laddie…rumblings. I cannot grant too much favour to Catholics or my crown may fall, but Spain would suck the last drop of blood from my poor old body.’

Nicholas nodded. He had heard rumours of the way Buckingham had conducted himself at the Spanish court, preening his feathers and generally giving himself airs. The Duke believed he was secure as James’s favourite, but there had been murmurs against him and it was plain the King was anxious about what was happening behind the scenes.

‘Buckingham has perhaps been a little unwise,’ Nicholas said carefully. ‘Yet the good that may come of this marriage is perhaps worth the expenditure of your jewels, Majesty…which reminds me. I have a gift for you somewhere, sire—silver and gold from the New World.’

‘Treasure you stole from Don Manola, I’ll warrant.’ Humour sparkled in James’s eyes, a humour seldom seen by any outside the few he favoured with his confidence.

‘His ship was over-heavy in the water and like to sink,’ Nicholas replied, an answering gleam in his own eyes. ‘I did but relieve the captain of his burden and send him safe on his way. Besides, he had stolen the treasure from its rightful owners. I see no crime in robbing thieves, sire.’

‘The Don’s emissary would have me hang you,’ said James. ‘But though some would have it otherwise, I am not a fool.’

‘The wisest fool in Christendom,’ Nicholas murmured beneath his breath.

‘Your grandfather, Sir Nicholas Trevern, was a good friend to me at a time when it seemed my life might lie in the balance. During those dark days I was forced to suffer indignity and oppression, but a puppet in the hands of those who would rule in my stead—and though a young child, your mother was like a sister in her kindness to me,’ James went on. ‘For their sakes I would spare you did I not love you for your own.’

‘You are generous, sire.’

‘Whist, no such thing! At times I love too well and some take advantage of me, but never you. I want your loyalty, Nicholas. Few have your knowledge of the Spanish and their ships. I pray for peace, but this business troubles me and I sleep little. I suspect Spain of demanding too much and I fear some misunderstanding that will lead to war between us. They have long coveted our crown.’

‘I think you are wise to be cautious, sire. Queen Bess gave Spain a bloody nose and it has not been forgot.’

‘I know it,’ James sighed. ‘I would have Baby back home safely, Nicholas. I must take care and seem to acquiesce in all things until he returns—with or without his bride.’

James was a man who loved good company, feasting and hunting. Nicholas thought he might have lived content had he been born a country gentleman. The flattery of others had exploited a weakness in the King, but the man was sound.

‘You know you have my loyalty. I choose to live in France, but the land of my mother’s birth is dear to me—and I would serve you if I can.’

‘Bring me word,’ James said, ‘if you hear anything of importance. I would be warned of any ill news before it is too late.’

‘My ship is being provisioned and made ready,’ Nicholas replied. ‘I sail for Spanish waters within three days and will return ere long. Be assured that I shall glean what news I can—but is it certain that things go ill with the contracts?’

‘I have no firm confirmation yet, merely whispers and innuendo,’ James replied. ‘But I feel something dark and heavy in my heart. Now, away with you, laddie. The night is young. Have you no wench waiting for you?’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Why should I have but one when there are so many beautiful young women in London?’

‘They say you have only to glance at a wench to have her itching to warm your bed,’ said James, chuckling. ‘I vow it would be a shame to disappoint the lasses. Away now and do your duty.’

Nicholas bowed and walked respectfully from the King’s apartments. His smile faded as he left the palace and began to make his way towards the river, where he intended to summon a boatman. He was lodging at an inn down river and had promised to meet with Henri Moreau, his friend and able lieutenant. They had much to discuss before they put to sea once more.

Attacking Don Manola’s ships afforded Nicholas little satisfaction these days. After the death of Isabella Rodrigues, to whom Nicholas had been betrothed, his first thought had been to take revenge on her murderer. Now, almost two years on, he still had not managed to take Miguel Cortes prisoner. He had been told that the Don’s son cowered at home, afraid to put to sea lest Le Diable should take his ship and his miserable life be forfeit.

Nicholas had cursed the man who had raped and killed the beautiful young woman because she had refused him in favour of another. What woman would willingly become the bride of that monster?

Miguel Cortes might have the face of an angel, but his soul was twisted and evil, as black as hell. Nicholas knew that the Don’s men called him Le Diable, because he outran and out-fought their ships with ease, but he had never taken life wantonly, never tortured men or animals for pleasure, sparing his enemies whenever possible: there was only one man he wished to kill!

Nicholas had never taken an unwilling woman, though there had been wenches enough to warm his bed. Of late, though, Nicholas had found little satisfaction in pleasuring tavern wenches. His feelings for the lovely Isabella had been those of a gentleman for a woman he admired and respected. He had liked and cared for her, believing that such a virtuous woman would teach him the gentle ways of love.

It was Isabella’s very vulnerability that hurt Nicholas so much—that such a sweet child should have suffered so terribly at the hands of a monster! He had been told that she had screamed and begged for mercy on her knees before she died, but none had been granted.

Miguel Cortes deserved to die. Justice demanded that he pay the penalty for his dread crime! And die he should. Nicholas had sworn it and he would find a way—even if he had to pry the sniveling coward from his hiding place. Isabella’s pleas should not go unanswered.

Unbidden, on the scent of summer flowers, the memory of a young woman’s face came to Nicholas’s mind. He smiled as he recalled the spirited way she had parried his teasing. It had been obvious that she was unused to Court manners, which could be coarse and bawdy, for most women attending that day would have responded very differently to his flirting.

The King had spoken truly when he said Nicholas had only to look at the ladies of the Court to have them panting for his loving.

He was not sure why he had found Mistress Deborah Stirling so intriguing. She was beautiful, but so was her cousin Sarah Palmer. It was the obliging Mistress Palmer who had furnished him with the details of her cousin’s name and person.

Mistress Stirling was in the market for a husband. Her father was a gentleman of whom little was known at Court, though it was said he owned a goodly estate in the north—and that he was Catholic. Not something he flaunted at Court, being more discreet than many of his kind who screeched of betrayal and broken promises and made their position all the worse.

Nicholas too had been raised a Catholic, yet he had denied his faith these many months. What kind of a god would let scum like Miguel Cortes flourish when poor Isabella lay in her grave unavenged?

Not for much longer! Somehow Nicholas would find a way to tempt that monster from his lair—and then he would kill him with his own hands.

Dismissing his wayward thoughts of a girl with fire in her eyes, Nicholas put his mind to the task ahead. Henri had news for him. Perhaps at last the means to take his revenge had come within his grasp.

Perhaps Miguel Cortes had at last been driven back to sea by his frustration at having been cooped up for so long. If that were not the case, then some plan must be found to make him leave the shores of Spain.




Chapter Two


T he girl was lost in a mist…running from something that terrified her. She glanced over her shoulder, but could not see anything. Yet she knew if she stopped running it would catch her and then…

Deborah woke from her dream, shivering with fright. What could she have been thinking of to make her have such a nightmare? She usually slept peacefully and woke refreshed, but that morning the unease the dream had created seemed to stay with her as she dressed and went downstairs.

Was it that strange meeting with the Marquis de Vere the previous evening, that had prompted such dreams? No, how could it be? She laughed at herself. She had met the man but once and he could mean nothing to her. She would think of him no more.

They had come to London to enjoy themselves, and she meant to make the most of her visit. It was very unlikely that they would come again. Nor did she particularly wish for it. Oh, it was amusing at Court, and she liked to see the courtiers parading in their fine gowns, but there was too much backbiting and spite amongst them to please her.

She thought that, if she were to marry, she would like to live in the country with her friends about her. She tried to picture the man she might wed, but the only face that came to her mind was the Marquis de Vere’s. How very vexing! She was sure she did not wish to meet the rogue again.

‘Ah, there you are, daughter,’ Sir Edward said, coming out of the parlour as she reached the hall of the house where they were lodging. It was a fine house, sturdily built of brick and wood in the Tudor style, and situated near the river. Like most other houses in the street it had wooden shutters, which were firmly closed at night, and the windows were so tiny and so dark that they let little light inside. ‘I have been composing a letter to Don Manola. Señor Sanchez is to call for it this morning. Would you care to see what I have written?’

‘Thank you, Father.’ She took the letter and glanced through the elegantly phrased words. ‘I think it will do very well, sir.’

‘I shall send the small portrait I had done of you on your last birthday as a gift for Don Miguel,’ her father said, smiling at her with affection. ‘I have others and it is my intention to ask the artist to make another portrait of you when we return home. I shall want some keepsake when you leave me for your husband’s home, Deborah.’

‘Oh, Father,’ she said, her heart aching for the look of sadness in his eyes. ‘You know you will always be welcome in my home. I could not bear to part from you forever.’

‘Ah, my sweet child,’ Sir Edward replied. ‘I must not seek to hold you. You must be allowed to find happiness in a home of your own—but I admit that I shall miss you sorely.’

‘I am not married yet,’ she reminded him. She linked her arm in his, smiling up at him. ‘Now, dearest Father—pray tell me what you have planned for today?’

‘I thought we might take a little trip on the river,’ Sir Edward replied. ‘And then, after we have supped—a visit to the theatre?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Deborah smiled at him in delight, the remnants of her headache disappearing as she thought of the pleasures to come. ‘Yes, my dear Father. I think I should enjoy that above all things.’

She would forget the marquis and his impudence and she would forget her foolish dream. The next few weeks would fly by and then they would go home—whether or not they had found husbands.



‘Prithee tarry a little longer,’ Sarah begged as she poured over the fabulous wares of the silk merchant in Cheapside. ‘I cannot decide between the rose damask and the green brocade—which do you prefer, Debs?’

‘They would both suit you very well,’ Deborah replied with an indulgent smile at her cousin. ‘Why do you not order a length of each?’

‘But they are so expensive.’ Sarah stroked the soft materials under the indulgent eye of the silk merchant. ‘And I have already overspent my allowance. I do not like to ask my uncle for more.’

‘I have sufficient monies left to lend you some. Besides, my father would not think of denying you. Order both and let us away to the glovemaker. The hour grows late and I have bespoke a pair of gauntlets for Father.’

Sarah dimpled with pleasure, for in her heart she had wanted both silks. She gave her order to the merchant, who promised to deliver it within the hour to their lodgings, and, tucking her arm into Deborah’s, she willingly accompanied her cousin from the shop. The two girls walked farther down the street, then turned into another where the sign of the glovemaker swung to and fro in the breeze.

‘Mistress Palmer—Mistress Stirling. Stay a moment, I beg you.’

Deborah glanced at her cousin and, seeing the blush in her cheeks as Master Will Henderson hurried up to them, understood why her cousin had lingered so long over the purchase of the materials. This meeting had not happened by chance.

‘Oh, how pleasant to see you, sir.’ Sarah dimpled up at her young and handsome suitor. ‘We are on our way to the glovemaker.’

‘Why do you not wait here a moment or two?’ Deborah suggested as she caught the longing in the young man’s eyes. ‘The shop I need is but a step away and I have our footman to watch over me. Bide here while I see to my business, Sarah. I shall not be long and you will be safe enough with Master Henderson.’

‘That she will,’ he declared, ‘for I would defend her with my life—and you, of course, Mistress Stirling.’

‘I do not doubt it, sir.’ Deborah smiled and left them together. Sarah had other admirers, but only one made her blush so prettily. She was certain that her cousin would soon be wed. As for her…Deborah sighed. They had been in London for more than three weeks now and she had met no one she could think of as a husband.

She had not lacked for suitors, but none appealed to her. Some were too old, some too foolish—but most were greedy. They wanted her for her father’s fortune, not her person. She saw no reason to exchange her happy companionship with her father for something that could afford her no pleasure or benefit.

As yet no news had come from Spain. Deborah was not certain how she felt about the prospect of marrying a man she had never met, but the negotiations were only just beginning. Until the contracts were signed, it would be a simple matter for either side to draw back. Besides, Don Miguel might not be pleased with her likeness.

When she thought about it, she was not at all sure she wished to wed anyone. Perhaps she would do better to remain at home and care for her beloved father?

For a moment the memory of a pair of mocking eyes came to haunt her, but she dismissed it instantly. The Marquis de Vere had been no more to Court—at least, he had not on the days when she and Sarah had attended. Why should she care whether he came or not? Besides, she did not like him. He was arrogant, insulting and rude!

There was to be a masked ball at Court on the morrow. It would be their last visit for the time being, for Sir Edward was minded to go home. He did not care to neglect his estates too long, and Deborah was tired of the long, tedious appearances at Whitehall, which for her were neither pleasurable nor useful.

‘Your cousin is in a fair way to be settled,’ Sir Edward had told his daughter a day or so earlier. ‘As for you, Deborah, I have seen no sign of any preference on your part?’

‘I have none, Father. I would as soon go home unpromised.’

‘I expect word from Señor Sanchez any day now. We shall hear what my old friend Don Manola has to say—and then we shall go home and discuss the matter. I am duty bound to find Sarah a husband, but there is no haste to arrange your own marriage, my dear.’

Deborah knew that her father was secretly glad of a reprieve. In his heart he dreaded the moment of their parting yet felt he would be failing in his duty if he did not see her safely wed. Deborah would be an heiress of some substance. Sir Edward had no male heir or any relatives to speak of, and his estate was not entailed. There was a distant cousin on her mother’s side—Mistress Berkshire—but she and her husband were old and lived quietly in the country, and would not be deemed fit guardians.

If anything should happen to Sir Edward before her marriage—God forbid!—Deborah’s estate would be overseen by the King’s council and she become his ward. A marriage deemed suitable by His Majesty would be arranged, unless James coveted her estate. She might then be left to live a solitary life or sent to a nunnery, never to fulfill the bright promise of her youth.

Sir Edward knew he must see her safe one day, but he was still only in his middle years and a strong, healthy man. A few more months, even a year or so, could not harm her and would afford him joy.

Deborah completed the purchase of the gauntlets for her father. They were fashioned of soft grey leather and studded with pearls at the cuffs. She thought he would be very pleased with the gift and was smiling as she left the merchant’s shop. A startled cry left her lips as she walked into a man who was about to enter, stepping heavily on his foot and dropping her package.

‘Forgive me, sir! I was not aware of…’ The words died on her lips as she found herself staring into the mocking eyes that had haunted her dreams these past three weeks. Her heart began to beat wildly. ‘Oh, it is you…’

‘You seem determined to injure me, mistress,’ said Nicholas and bent to recover her package.

‘Indeed, I do not!’ Deborah gave him a speaking look, but despite her annoyance a smile quivered at the corners of her mouth, which had she but known it was quite delectable and extremely tempting. Face to face, she had to acknowledge that her cousin had been right from the start—he was a fine figure of a man! She had seen none to rival him at Court.

‘Your purchase, mistress.’

‘Thank you. I apologise if I injured your foot.’

Nicholas grinned. God’s body! She was a beauty—and such spirit! It was no wonder the memory of their brief encounter had lingered in his mind despite all attempts to dismiss it. Perhaps it was in part why he had returned to London sooner than he had intended, though he also brought news for King James.

‘You have no doubt made a cripple of me, mistress—but I shall struggle to bear the pain with dignity.’

His taunt was so outrageous that Deborah laughed. ‘You are a wicked tease, sir. I cannot think what I have done that you should mock me so.’

‘Nor I, come to think on it,’ he replied, his bold eyes challenging her. ‘Unless it is that your eyes are more lovely than the brightest star in the heavens—your lips as sweet as a rose dew kissed.’

‘You would rival Master Shakespeare,’ Deborah replied with a toss of her head. She had been to the theatre several times now, and found the performance entrancing, though the audience was noisy and often shouted at the actors whenever they disagreed with something that was happening on stage. ‘I shall listen to no more of this nonsense, sir. My cousin awaits me in the street and I must go to her.’

‘I believe she is pleasantly engaged,’ Nicholas said, a faint smile on his mouth. ‘You will allow me to delay you a little, mistress. May I be of service to you? Perhaps I could call chairs for you and Mistress Palmer?’

‘Thank you, sir, but I believe Master Henderson will escort us should we wish it—and my footman is close by.’ Deborah avoided looking at him. He was too sure of himself and her heart would not behave itself when she saw the way his eyes danced with laughter.

‘If Master Henderson puts his claim above mine I have no love for the rogue. I believe I shall call him out!’

‘Pray be serious, my lord.’ Deborah was beginning to remember this man’s reputation. She had been warned that he was not to be trusted. She ought to walk away at once, but her feet would not obey her. ‘Your levity does not become you.’

‘I fear you would like me even less if I were to show you my other side, lady.’

‘Yes, I do think you have a darkness in you,’ Deborah said with a considering look. There were two sides to this man, one charming and pleasant, the other dark and threatening. ‘I sensed it when we first met.’

‘Is that why you disliked me?’ Nicholas frowned. ‘You have no need to fear me, Mistress Stirling. I have never harmed a wench. It is true that I have a devil inside me, but it is for others to fear—not you.’

‘Do you speak of a Spanish gentleman, perchance?’

‘What have you heard of that accursed rogue?’ Nicholas’s eyes glittered with sudden anger, startling her. ‘I swear you will hear nothing to his good from me.’

‘They say you attack Don Manola’s ships—that you are little more than a pirate.’ Deborah tipped her head to gaze up at him defiantly. She did not know why she was pressing him like this, unless it was a perverse need in her to see his reaction. She would be a fool to let his charm sway her judgement of him. He was both a scoundrel and a thief.

‘Some would call me a privateer,’ Nicholas muttered, his mouth hard, features set into the harsh lines she had noticed before. ‘Know this of me, Mistress Stirling—I may be Le Diable to the Spaniard I attack, but I have never killed for pleasure.’ He touched his hat to her. ‘I bid you adieu, mistress.’

For a moment Deborah was quite unable to speak. She wanted to cry out, to beg him to wait and explain his meaning, yet could not force the words from her lips.

What could he have meant? Who killed for pleasure—Don Manola? It was what he had implied, yet it could not be. He was her father’s friend and Deborah would trust Sir Edward’s judgement above any other. He was considering a marriage between her and Don Miguel Cortes. Never would he think of entrusting her to the son of a man he did not admire or trust.

Was it merely spite on the marquis’s part, then? She would not have thought it of the man. Surely a powerful man like that would have no need of petty lies and innuendo? His weapons would be sharper and more deadly.

There was clearly some quarrel between Don Manola and the marquis. She imagined that the marquis truly believed his cause was just. Was it not always thus when men quarrelled? For herself she abhorred violence of any kind. It was surely wrong to attack another man’s ships? Men must be wounded or killed during the action. Yet seemingly the marquis believed he was behaving fairly. Why should that be?

‘Know this of me…I have never killed for pleasure.’

Once again Deborah shivered as she felt the chill go through her. She sensed a dark shadow hanging over her, as she had after their first meeting at Whitehall. Yet what had she to fear from him? Her destiny was not to run with his. Sir Edward would never contemplate such a match—nor did she wish it!

Deborah denied the prompting of an imp within her—a wicked voice that whispered she had never felt so challenged, so alive as when in the presence of the marquis. It was but a wayward thought that told her life had been almost too safe, too comfortable, that her true fulfilment as a woman would only come if she were brave enough to snatch at the burning brand this man offered.

For there had been fire in her when she gazed into his eyes. She had known a restless longing for something—but she knew not what. It was surely not to be in the arms of that wicked rogue!

Deborah shook her head. She was foolish to let him into her head. The Marquis de Vere was nothing to her, nor ever could be.

Sarah turned to her as she approached, her eyes glowing with excitement. ‘Dearest Deborah,’ she cried. ‘You will never guess what has happened since you were gone.’

‘What is it, cousin?’

Deborah was already certain that she knew. Master Henderson had spoken of his intentions. She smiled but held her peace. Let Sarah enjoy her moment of triumph to the full.

‘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.

‘I hope you do not suspect me of seeking an assignation?’

‘The marquis is very handsome,’ Sarah replied, her eyes twinkling. ‘I should not blame you if you had taken the chance to dally a little with him.’

‘Well, you may disabuse your mind of such thoughts. It was no such thing,’ Deborah lied, not quite meeting her cousin’s candid gaze. ‘I do not particularly like the marquis. Nor would I wish to be alone with him.’

Sarah glanced at her oddly. ‘I think he likes you, Debs.’

‘What makes you say that?’ She was curious despite herself.

Sarah smiled confidently. ‘Oh, it was just the way he looked at you—when we first saw him at Court. He asked me who you were and seemed most interested in all I had to tell him concerning you.’

‘It would have been better had you told him nothing,’ Deborah replied, her tone perhaps sharper than she intended because she was upset. ‘Such a man can hold no interest for me or I for him. I dare say it was my father’s estate that appealed to him.’

‘You are harsh, cousin. I have not often heard you speak so unkindly of anyone. What has the marquis done to upset you?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

Oh, but he had. He had! He had kissed her and made her lose all sense of right and wrong—and he had told her terrible, unspeakable things about Don Miguel Cortes. She wished he had not! She did not believe his lies, of course, and yet she had become aware of a deep unease within her mind. Just suppose the marquis had been telling her the truth?



Nicholas faced his friend across the inn table, his expression one of such bleak despair that Henri Moreau was shocked. Around them, the noise of raucous laughter seemed to fade into a dulled echo, the stench of the river on a warm night forgotten and unnoticed.

‘What ails you, Nico?’ he asked. ‘I have not seen you in this mood since…for many a day. Is it that you fear for this wench?’

‘She knows not what she plans,’ Nicholas replied, his dark eyes beginning to glitter with anger as he remembered the way Deborah had rejected his warning so proudly. ‘She is little more than a child and yet…’ She had felt warm and willing in his arms, a passionate woman awakened to desire. Something had stirred within him, arousing feelings he had believed dead.

‘As Isabella was when that monster destroyed her innocence and then killed her.’ Henri watched his friend intently. ‘For that he is cursed, Nico. He will be punished, his death is certain. We have both sworn it.’

‘Would that I had been there that day to protect Isabella!’ Nicholas struck the table with his clenched fist so hard that ale spilt from his tankard. ‘I shall never rest until I have avenged her death with his, Henri.’

‘We shall trap him,’ Henri replied soothingly. ‘Never fear, mon ami. One of these days he will grow weary of skulking in his lair—and then we shall have him.’

Nicholas took a drink of the warm ale; it tasted sour in his mouth, giving him no pleasure. His expression was harsh, angry, as if terrible thoughts gathered in his head, tormenting him.

He could not let Deborah marry that devil! It must be stopped at all costs. He turned the alternatives over in his mind, considering first one and then another. Would Sir Edward listen to him if he went to him, told him what he knew? It was doubtful that he would even grant an interview to the man who was the enemy of his friend. He must trust Cortes or he would not be contemplating this marriage—to give his precious daughter to such a man! It was more than flesh could stand!

Would Deborah listen to him? She was wilful, proud, impatient—and he had already tried to tell her that Miguel Cortes was an evil beast. She had laughed in his face, and her defiance had made him want to ravish her there and then—but he had contented himself with a kiss. A kiss that lingered still, and would torment his dreams if he believed her at the mercy of that Spanish dog!

There was a way… It was wrong and might cause grief to her father and fear to her, yet he knew her to be brave. She would not be afraid for long. It was a desperate act—but one that must be carried out for her own sake…and perhaps for his.

No, he would not let himself think of her in that way! If he carried out this bold, dangerous mission, let it be for her sake alone.

‘Perhaps there is a way to tempt the beast from his den, Henri. Something so irresistible to him—to his pride—that he will forget what a cowardly cur he is and seek an honourable end to the affair.’

‘You mean the wench?’ Henri stared at him, frowning as he nodded assent. ‘No, Nico! That is not the way. Mon Dieu. You cannot use an innocent girl so wickedly. It would make you almost as bad as that dog of a Spaniard.’

‘I mean her no harm,’ Nicholas said, his eyes burning with a dark flame that chilled his friend. ‘But think—even Miguel Cortes must come for his own bride. If she is snatched from beneath his very nose, his pride must suffer. He must respond to a demand for a ransom or lose all honour. Especially if it were a condition of the ransom that he comes himself to fetch her.’

‘He would know it was a trap,’ Henri argued. ‘And if he were willing to pay, would you be satisfied—would you hand that child over to him, knowing how she would suffer at his hands?’

‘No, of course not.’ Nicholas raised his eyes to meet the disbelieving gaze of his companion. ‘No, he shall not have her. I do not want his gold any more than I want my share of what we take from his ships. I shall kill him and return her to her father unharmed.’

Henri nodded. He knew that Nicholas used the Don’s gold and silver for the good of others, having no need or use for it himself.

‘I suppose your ruse might work if Cortes became angry enough to lose all caution,’ Henri said doubtfully. ‘But I cannot like your plan, Nico. Supposing something goes wrong? Besides, how are we to tempt Mistress Stirling to come with us? You said that she is determined to wed him, that she would not heed your warnings.’

‘We must kidnap her.’

‘Mon Dieu! Have you lost your senses?’ Henri was shocked. He stared at Nicholas in dismay. ‘You cannot steal a young woman of good family from her father. It is a hanging matter, Nico. Even your friendship with King James could not then save you from a terrible fate. No, you must forget this plan. We shall think of another way to tempt Miguel Cortes to sea.’

‘If you want none of this you are free to walk away. I shall not blame you—now or ever.’

‘You know I would never desert you. We are brothers in blood, to the death if need be.’ Henri frowned as Nicholas continued to stare moodily into his tankard. Clearly his friend was determined to save the wench from herself. ‘Supposing you manage to abduct the girl—where will you take her?’

‘To my château in France. She will be safe with Marie to care for her. I mean her no ill, Henri.’ Nicholas’s eyes blazed suddenly. ‘And if I do nothing—if I let her go unimpeded to her groom—what kind of a life will she find in that monster’s bed? He is cruel in ways that a girl like that could never imagine. I would rather see her dead than wed to him.’

‘It would indeed be a living death for a girl such as you describe,’ Henri said thoughtfully. ‘His touch would defile her, his cruelty break her spirit—but surely her father would listen to you? If he knew what Cortes was capable of he would in all decency refuse the match?’

‘No, I think not,’ Nicholas said. ‘Apparently he knew Don Manola years ago. They were friends and he would not believe that the refined, honest gentleman he knew then could father such a son—or condone his evil ways.’

‘Then we must find a way to save the wench from herself,’ Henri said. ‘We must be gentle and kind. She will be frightened at first. To be captured and taken away from her friends and family will be a terrible ordeal for her.’

‘She will not be broken by it,’ Nicholas replied. ‘Mistress Stirling has spirit, Henri. She will fight us, especially when she realizes it is I who have stolen her—but she will not be afraid for long.’ An odd smile played about his mouth, as if some pleasant memory had come to his mind. ‘I warn you, my friend. She will not be an easy captive.’

Henri watched the changing emotions in his friend’s eyes. This talk of abduction was unlike the character of the man he knew so well, this harshness foreign to his true nature. Once, before Isabella’s murder, Nico had laughed more than he scowled, but now he was haunted by guilt—he believed that a trifling quarrel between himself and Miguel Cortes had led to Isabella’s cruel death. Even so, this plan was wild and dangerous, and seemed at odds with the clever strategies Nico normally employed against his enemies. He was like a man driven by a force he could not control.

‘Are you sure this is what you want to do?’

‘I can see no other course but to take her with us, whether or no she wishes it…’

‘But when shall you take her?’

‘Her cousin is to be betrothed in the morning. The following day they leave for the north. I believe it would be better to strike now while they are still in London. Our ship awaits us in Greenwich. We could be away on the tide before anyone is aware of what has happened.’

‘How is this to be accomplished?’ Henri asked. ‘You can hardly steal her from her bedroom?’

‘We shall keep a watch on the house and take our chances,’ Nicholas said. ‘I shall send a note asking her to meet me early in the morning. I shall say that I have something important to tell her—something she must hear.’

‘Surely she will not come?’ Henri was disbelieving.

‘Oh, she will come,’ Nicholas replied. ‘If she does not, I must find another way. Yet, I believe she will not be able to resist…’




Chapter Four


I t was no good! Try as she might, Deborah could not sleep. She had lain awake half the night, her thoughts going round and round in dizzy circles so that she became ever more confused. She could not believe that the young man whose portrait she had so admired could possibly be the monster the Marquis de Vere had described—and yet something deep inside her sensed that the marquis had been trying to warn her for her own good.

She had answered him proudly, dismissing his warnings—but that was because he had disturbed her, his kisses had enslaved her. She had needed to reassert her own will, to break his hold on her—but she had almost believed him.

She dressed in a simple gown, more suited to the country than the clothes she had worn of late, but which she was able to manage alone, then slipped on a dark cloak. She did not wish to call her maid. This restlessness must be subdued before she was prepared for the busy day ahead.

Going softly down the stairs, Deborah saw that no one was stirring as yet. The servants had retired late and were sluggards abed this morning. She pulled back the heavy bolts that secured the street door, glancing round as they screeched loudly. Surely someone would hear?

She peered into the street outside. It was still very early. A light mist was swirling across the river and into that part of the town that hugged its banks. No one was about, most of the houses still fast shuttered against the evils of the night air.

Pulling the hood of her cloak well up over her head, Deborah left the house where she and her family were lodged. She needed to clear her mind of the thoughts that so sorely troubled her, and she had missed the freedom she was used to at home in the country. There, she had been in the habit of walking often and alone.

Slipping from the house without having roused even the servants, Deborah forgot all the warnings she had been given about walking alone in London. It was very early. No one would trouble her, especially on such a morning. Anyone with any sense would not want to be abroad until the mist lifted. Even the beggars would not venture far until the sun broke through.

Her mind returned to the problem that haunted her as she walked, like a dog trapped on a spit wheel, endlessly turning its circle over the heat of the fire. Could it be true that Miguel Cortes was a cruel murderer? Surely not! The marquis must have lied to her. And yet there had been the ring of sincerity in his voice. He had seemed to care that Deborah might suffer some harm at the Spaniard’s hands…

She shook her head as the memory of the marquis’s dark eyes burning into hers forced its way into her conscious thoughts. He had looked so—so intense! So passionate! She could not help the little thrill of pleasure that invaded her when she remembered the way he had kissed her. But no, this must stop! It would be foolish to read too much into his kiss—or his words. She must not allow herself to think of a man who could never be anything to her.

Yet perhaps she ought to speak to her father of the marquis’s warnings? Perhaps it might be better to ask if her prospective bridegroom would agree to a period of courtship before the betrothal? She must be certain she could both like and respect the man she married.

What was that? Something behind her, close by? Deborah was suddenly alert to the sounds of footsteps in the mist, echoing eerily in the half-light. She glanced over her shoulder, realizing that she must have wandered some way from her lodgings. Engrossed in her thoughts, she had not noticed where she was going.

A shiver of apprehension ran through her as she tried to take her bearings and failed. Everything was so unfamiliar in the mist. Where was she? Which way had she turned? It had all become strange and slightly sinister.

As she stood hesitating, three burly figures loomed out of the mist towards her. Some instinct warned her that she was in danger. She gasped in fright and turned to flee but there was someone in the way—a large, tall man. She was trapped between him and the others! She gave a cry of alarm as a blanket was suddenly thrown over her from behind, covering her in a shroud of darkness.

‘No! Help! Help me…’

‘Fear not, Mistress Stirling,’ a man’s voice said close to her ear. It was a French voice, and not one she had heard before. ‘You will not be harmed. The Captain has ordered you be treated like a princess.’

Not harmed! Deborah tried to scream as she felt herself being lifted and hoisted on to a man’s shoulder. Her indignation was equally as great as her fear. She was being carried as if she were a sack of straw!

‘How dare you?’ she muttered, her cries of anger lost in the wool of the blanket. ‘Let me down at once. I demand that you put me down!’

She knew the covering over her head must muffle her protests. She could hear the sound of men’s voices, laughter and jesting—and then a sharper tone, the voice of command. After that there was silence.

‘What is happening?’ she asked and attempted to struggle as she felt herself transferred to another captor, one who held her more comfortably. ‘What are you doing to me?’

She was blinded and caught by the blanket, but somehow her senses seemed heightened. She was aware of being carried down steps and then felt a rocking motion beneath her. She was being taken into a boat! She screamed and struggled as violently as she was able, hampered by the confining weight of the blanket.

‘Let me go! Let me go!’

‘You are safe. There is no need to fear, mademoiselle.’ That soft French voice again, though indistinct through the blanket. ‘Do not struggle and hurt yourself. It is only for a little time. Soon you will be more comfortable.’

Now Deborah could feel a different sensation beneath her. The boat was moving. She was being rowed down the river. She had been kidnapped! She was being taken away from her father and friends. But who had abducted her—and why?

She felt her sense of balance returning. She was no longer in a man’s arms, but sitting on a bench, his arm loosely about her, supporting her—she was no longer a prisoner. She knew that she must escape now, before she had been taken too far. She sprang up, trying to throw off the heavy blanket so that she could see, but somehow her foot caught against a rope or something similar and she fell forward, striking her head on a hard object. For a brief moment she felt pain and then she was falling into the darkness of a black hole.



Her head ached so! Deborah could hear voices and sense movement about her—or was the movement beneath her? She knew that she would have to open her eyes soon, but felt too ill to make the attempt. A moan escaped her lips; her dark lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, and then she was aware of something cool on her forehead. Gentle hands soothing her, stroking her hair and easing the pain.

‘Forgive me,’ a soft voice murmured. ‘It was my fault you fell and hurt yourself, mademoiselle. I should have taken better care of you.’

Where had she heard that voice before? Deborah’s eyelids flickered and then opened. She lay staring up at the man bending over her, feeling bewildered. Where was she? What had happened to her? The man had been applying a cool cloth to her forehead; now he removed it and smiled at her.

‘Are you feeling better, mademoiselle?’

‘Have I been ill?’ she asked. Something was bothering her, but she could not seem to remember for the moment. ‘Are you a doctor, sir?’

‘No, mademoiselle, just the first lieutenant of the Siren’s Song.’

‘We are on a ship?’ She realized that the odd motion she could feel must be the sea beneath them. She tried to sit up, then fell back as the dizziness hit her. ‘Oh, my head hurts so much!’

‘You hit it when you fell. Forgive me. It was not intended that you should be harmed. The Captain was angry and very concerned that you might die. But I do not think that you will have more than a nasty bruise and a headache.’

Gradually, Deborah’s eyes began to focus on the man’s face. He was not handsome, but his smile was gentle, his eyes kind. His black hair was long and hung untidily about his rather thin face, and his nose was slightly crooked.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered, her throat hoarse. ‘And why am I here?’ She was struggling to remember…she had been walking in the mist and then something had happened to her.

‘You are here because…’ the man began, then broke off as someone moved forward into her line of vision.

‘You were brought here because I ordered it,’ a strong voice said—a voice that sent a thrill of recognition winging through her. ‘Henri is not to blame, Mistress Stirling. It was I who had you abducted—though I much regret that you were hurt. That was never our intention, and I believe you brought it on yourself by your wilfulness.’

Deborah gasped as she looked into the dark eyes of the Marquis de Vere. She forced herself up against the pillows piled behind her, her eyes meeting his defiantly. She was angry despite the pain at her temple and the dizziness that once again swept over her.

‘You!’ she cried. ‘How dare you make me your prisoner? How dare you treat me so ill?’

‘You mistake the matter,’ Nicholas said, smiling a little as he realized her ordeal had not damaged her spirit. When she had been knocked unconscious he had feared the worst, but it seemed that Henri was right. She had suffered no more than an unpleasant bump on her forehead. ‘I would have you consider yourself my honoured guest rather than my prisoner.’

‘Your guest?’ Deborah’s eyes glinted with temper. ‘I was half-suffocated beneath a filthy blanket, terrified near to death, knocked unconscious and brought here against my will. How can you say I am your guest?’

‘You have been treated extremely ill,’ Nicholas admitted, his expression contrite but with a hint of humour about it. ‘I do most humbly beg your pardon, Mistress Stirling—but it was necessary, believe me. Please do not imagine you stand in danger of any further…indignity. Henri will care you for until we reach the château, then my cousin will tend you. You shall have every attention, every comfort.’

‘How can I be comfortable when I am your prisoner?’ she cried furiously.

‘My guest, lady.’

‘I demand that you return me to my father at once!’

‘Forgive me. For the moment that is impossible.’ Nicholas frowned as he saw the distress in her eyes. ‘Do not be concerned for your father. He has been informed that you are safe.’

‘Safe! You dare to kidnap me, then assert I am safe? I find such behaviour unpardonable.’ Her eyes snapped with temper. ‘You shall pay for this, sir. I promise you shall be punished for your wickedness.’

‘You have my word that you are as safe as if you were still in your father’s care.’

‘The word of a pirate!’

‘A privateer, mistress.’

‘As if there was a difference!’

‘I assure you there is a vast difference between my ships and those of the Corsairs that roam certain parts of the Mediterranean,’ he replied, a small smile about his mouth—a mouth she remembered too well from kissing it. ‘But you should be resting, not quarreling with your host. I shall leave you for now. If the wind is fair we shall be in France within a few hours. I beg you to forgive any discomfort you have suffered and be assured I shall do all in my power to make you comfortable from now on.’

‘Discomfort!’ Deborah stared in disbelief as he bowed and left her. Her head felt as if it had a thousand hammers inside it—and he spoke of discomfort. ‘You wretch! I wish you had my headache.’

‘Is your head very bad?’ Henri asked, coming forward again. He had withdrawn into the background while she was arguing with the marquis. ‘Shall I prepare a tisane to ease your pain?’

She blinked. In her fury at discovering the culprit for all her ills, she had forgotten the Frenchman.

‘I hate him,’ she muttered fiercely as forbidden tears stung her eyes. ‘How dare he do this to me? How could he?’ She gazed at Henri. ‘Why has he done this terrible thing?’

‘Nico has his reasons.’

‘You call him Nico?’ She was curious, forgetting her anger for a moment.

‘His name is Nicholas. It is a childhood thing.’

‘You knew him then?’ Deborah frowned as he nodded. ‘You are his friend, are you not?’

‘We are as brothers.’

‘Yet you are a gentle man. I do not believe that there is any evil in you.’

‘Nor is there evil in Nico, mademoiselle. There is a certain darkness, an anger that cannot be slaked but by blood, but he is not an evil man.’ Henri hesitated, seeming unsure of whether to go on, then, ‘You were taken hostage to prevent your marriage to Don Miguel Cortes. It was done in part for your own sake.’

‘For my sake…’ Deborah’s words of furious denial died on her lips as she saw the expression in his eyes. ‘Why do you look so? Please tell me—is Don Manola’s son truly a monster?’

‘He raped and then strangled a young woman of good family. The act was unprovoked and brutal beyond belief. No decent man could behave in such a manner, mademoiselle.’

Deborah’s face turned pale and her heart jerked with fear. ‘Then it is true…all the marquis told me. I did not believe it. Miguel Cortes…his likeness looked so pleasant…’

‘Miguel Cortes has the face of an angel and the soul of the blackest demon this side of Hell,’ Henri said. ‘Isabella was not the only woman to have suffered at his hands—though perhaps the most vulnerable since she was innocent, little more than a child.’

‘Isabella…’ Deborah looked at him, an unconscious appeal in her eyes. ‘Who was she? Please tell me about her?’

‘Isabella Rodrigues was a young woman of good family but no fortune. She was betrothed to Nico for three months. Her parents were both dead, her grandfather too old to take proper care of her—or to exact revenge for what was done to her…’

Henri paused as if he found the tale too horrific to relate. ‘Miguel Cortes saw her visiting the church a month before her wedding. She had refused his courtship some months earlier and the resentment must have festered inside him. He followed her as she walked home through her grandfather’s orange groves and then…’ His mouth twisted with disgust. ‘Nico has sworn to take the life of the monster that subjected her to such a terrible ordeal that day.’

Deborah felt the sickness rise in her throat. The horror of the tale just unfolded to her was swirling inside her, and she seemed to see the young girl’s struggle to fight off her attacker and hear her pitiful cries. She pressed a shaking hand to her lips, as she fought off the terrible images. Henri’s story had been so harrowing that she could almost wish it untold.

‘Is that why the marquis had me abducted?’ she asked when at last she could speak again. ‘Am I a part of his revenge on Miguel Cortes?’

Henri looked uncomfortable. ‘Since the murder, Don Manola has forbidden his son to sail with his ships. He fears Nico’s vengeance.’

‘So I am the bait to lure Miguel Cortes from his home?’ Her clear eyes accused him. ‘I can see the truth in your face, sir. That is what the marquis intends, is it not?’

Henri nodded but could not answer.

‘I see…thank you for telling me the truth. I was taken to serve the marquis’s purpose because he believes Don Miguel must come to claim his own bride.’

‘And for your own sake. Believe me—’ Henri was silenced by her look of scorn.

‘Not for my own sake, sir. Spare me such excuses, I pray you! I needed no help to make my own decision. Had I been given the time to consider, I might have decided against the marriage myself. I should in any case not have consented to the betrothal until I had had the opportunity to know Don Miguel—and if he is the monster you describe, I would have asked my father to take me home again.’

‘Nico was certain you meant to wed him, that you would not listen to his warnings but go your own way.’

‘The choice was mine. He had no right to interfere in my life.’

Henri inclined his head. She spoke only the truth, they had none of them the right to take her from her father and hold her hostage. What could he say in the face of her anger?

‘Forgive me, mademoiselle. I shall fetch the tisane.’

Deborah lay back and closed her eyes as he left the cabin. Her head did ache so very badly. It was so very foolish of her to give way like this! She felt weak and wanted nothing so much as a good cry—but crying would not help her. She must be strong and conserve her composure. She had to think of a way to escape her captors.

Yet there was no possibility of escape while she was on board this ship. She could not swim back to England! She was helpless and it was her own fault. She should never have gone walking alone in the mist.

They must have been waiting for her to leave the house. She supposed that if the marquis was determined to capture her he would have found a way—but she need not have made it so easy for him!

Anger at her own carelessness banished her tears. She was not afraid of the marquis. Somehow she knew that he would not willingly harm her. The wound to her head had been caused by her violent attempt to escape.

Her real concern was for her father and how distressed he would be by her disappearance. Even if he had received word that she was safe for the moment, he would not be able to rest. She could imagine his agony of mind—and what of poor Sarah? Would her betrothal be postponed or would they decide that it must go ahead?

Would Deborah be returned to her father in time for her cousin’s wedding? Her mind was in such turmoil! If the marquis intended to use her as bait to trap Miguel Cortes…and what was she to believe about the man she had thought to marry? Could he really be guilty of the crimes Henri Moreau had described?

Deborah shuddered at the pictures in her mind. What that poor girl must have suffered! It was too horrible to imagine. She was sickened by such cruelty and dare not think of what might have happened to her if she had been wed to such a man. It would indeed have been a living death.

The marquis had tried to warn her, but she had refused to listen. Perhaps if she had not so brusquely repudiated his arguments he would not have thought it necessary to kidnap her.

Moaning as she felt the throbbing begin at her temple once more, Deborah closed her eyes. It was all too difficult. She could not think any more. She needed to sleep.



‘You are sure she said nothing to you?’ Sir Edward looked sternly at his ward. ‘If she has slipped away on some foolish errand—a surprise for one of us—then tell me. I shall not be angry, but I must know what has happened to my daughter.’

‘She said nothing to me,’ Sarah replied, frightened by the bleak expression in her uncle’s eyes. He had always been so kind to her, so indulgent. She had never seen him like this before. ‘I know you are anxious, sir…but I know nothing. Except…’ She stopped, her cheeks flushing crimson. ‘No, she assured me it was not a romantic tryst…’

Sir Edward’s hand snaked out, grabbing at her wrist. ‘What is this? Speak out at once!’

Sarah dropped her head. Deborah had been missing for hours. In another thirty minutes it would be the appointed time for her betrothal, but it could not go ahead without her cousin. Sir Edward was so angry, but if Deborah returned from a shopping errand she would be annoyed with Sarah for giving away her secrets.

‘Tell me, girl! Or I vow I will cancel your betrothal.’

‘No! That is not fair,’ Sarah cried. Her head went up, eyes sparkling with indignation. ‘Last night at the palace—she slipped away for several minutes alone with a man.’

‘What man?’ Sir Edward’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you are concealing something from me you shall be punished, girl.’

‘That is unfair, sir,’ Sarah protested. She did not know this suddenly old man who seemed almost driven mad by his fear for Deborah. ‘She told me she had felt faint, that she needed air and—she left the hall with the Marquis de Vere.’

‘That scoundrel!’ Sir Edward turned pale. He staggered back as if from a blow and his hand dropped from Sarah’s wrist. ‘Why—why did she do such a thing? I did not press her to this marriage. If she has run away with this rogue rather than…’





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