Anne Herries - The Abducted Bride

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 She thought she saw a glimmer of laughter in his eyes, then it was gone, and his expression became harsh, withdrawn.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

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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.

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

‘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.