Anne Herries - The Abducted Bride

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.’