Anne Herries - The Abducted Bride

‘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?