The Abducted Bride

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?