Читать книгу The Abducted Bride - Anne Herries - Страница 9

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 Her expression became proud and withdrawn, her eyes cold.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…’