by Anne Herries
‘I do,’ she said in a clear voice.
‘No!’ The words echoed in the stillness of the church. ‘By God, you shall not wed that devil while I live.’
Deborah whirled round, a cry of welcome on her lips. He had come. Nicholas had come to save her. There were armed men with him—and a Spaniard. A tall, grey-haired, distinguished man she instinctively knew was Don Manola.
‘Le Diable…’ Miguel cried. His eyes glittered and, before Deborah knew what he intended, he had grabbed hold of her. He twisted her arm up behind her back, making her gasp with pain, using her as a shield. ‘Stand back, all of you. I shall kill her if anyone comes near.’ He was holding a knife to her throat now, its point pricking her skin. He glanced at the priest. ‘Continue, fool. Marry us or she dies.’
The priest was near to gibbering with terror. He looked from Miguel to the newcomers uncertainly. No one moved as he gabbled incomprehensible words then made a hurried sign of the cross.
He glanced nervously at Miguel. ‘She is your wife, señor.’
‘No!’ Nicholas said. ‘This is not legal. I can show just cause why they may not be wed. She is in law my wife.’
‘Then I shall kill her and you.’ Miguel looked at his soldiers, in particular the one who had dragged the priest to the church. ‘Take him—but alive. I want to arrange some entertainment for my friend before he dies.’
‘No!’ Deborah cried. ‘No…’
‘Let her go. I command it.’ Don Manola stepped forward. ‘Release the woman, Miguel. She does not belong to you. Let her go and we shall find another more fitting wife for you. This marriage no longer pleases me.’
‘No. I want her—and him.’ Miguel glared at the soldiers who had made no attempt to obey him and were moving back as if to dissociate themselves now that Don Manola had spoken. It was clear who was the master here. Despite their fear of his son, the men’s respect was for the Don. ‘We have them both. We shall have revenge for our ships.’ Miguel giggled suddenly, sounding like a nervous youth. ‘You should be pleased with me, Father. It is all as you said it would be. I have my bride as you commanded. I shall give you the heirs you want…’
The Don moved slowly towards Miguel, his eyes locked to Miguel’s in a silent challenge. His face was expressionless, relentless. Miguel blinked and stared at him uncertainly.
‘What is it? What do you want of me? Father…’
‘Let her go. Come here to me, Mistress Stirling.’
Miguel’s hold tightened for a moment as if he would defy his father, the knife seeming to prick her deeper, and then, quite suddenly, he released her. Deborah went quickly to Don Manola, who thrust her behind him without a word, his eyes continuing to hold those of his son.
Miguel was clearly uneasy. He made an odd sound in his throat as if choking and his eyes flicked away, but returned, drawn as if on a string to meet his father’s compelling gaze.
‘I did not hurt her,’ he mumbled, sounding afraid. ‘I did not lay a finger on her—tell him, Madonna. Tell him I did not touch you. She is chaste, Father. Just as you said she must be.’
‘Good—that is good,’ Don Manola said soothingly. His voice held a strange quality, as if he controlled by the power of his will alone. ‘Now you must come with me, Miguel.’
‘Where are we going?’ Miguel’s eyes rolled wildly. ‘No! Not to that place—not to her! I won’t go. I want to stay here and play with my wife. You promised me…’ He backed away, the fear clearly in his face for all to see. ‘You tricked me. You tricked me.’ He held out his hand and the knife gleamed silver in a ray of sunlight flooding in through the high windows. ‘I shall kill you. Yes, you shall die. Then I shall be master…’ He raised his arm but the shot rang out before he could spring, and he crumpled into a heap at his father’s feet, staring up in bewildered surprise from his dead eyes.
‘May God forgive me,’ Don Manola said and dropped the smoking pistol on the floor. ‘I have desecrated His Holy Place. My sins are heavy on my soul.’
He sank to his knees on the tiled floor beside the body of his son, closing the staring eyes. Then he made the sign of the cross on Miguel’s forehead.
‘God forgive this poor creature who knew not what he did. The sin was mine and mine alone.’
‘Come away. Leave him to his penance and his grief.’
Deborah felt the touch of a hand on her arm. She had not dared to move, but now turned gladly to find herself staring at a stranger.
‘Nicholas…’ she whispered as she saw his cold eyes and harsh stare. ‘What is it? Tell me, what is wrong?’
‘Come away, madam.’
Deborah felt the grasp of his fingers on her arm. Why had he called her madam in that way? As if she were a stranger—Miguel’s wife, in truth. Surely he could not believe she had given her promise to marry the Spaniard willingly? And yet there was no other explanation for his coldness to her. Why was he so willing to believe ill of her?
Henri came to her as she emerged into the heat of the afternoon, which struck her forcefully after the chill of the church. Her head was aching and she felt unwell. Was she dreaming? Henri here? She stared at him in disbelief and then dawning delight as she realized that the fall from his horse had not killed him after all.
‘Oh, Henri,’ she cried. ‘You are alive. I am so very glad. So very glad.’
‘My lady,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I am happy to see you.’
‘I thought you dead when they took me away,’ she said, hands outstretched as he came to her. He took them, kissing her cheek. She smiled up at him as relief made her giddy. ‘It is so good to know you are alive. I grieved for you, my friend, truly I did.’
‘I am glad to find you well,’ Henri replied. ‘Had you been harmed I should never have forgiven myself.’
Her eyes moved to the body of Carlos Montana, which was still lying in the street, but with his face decently covered. She also noticed that Miguel’s soldiers had been forced to lay down their arms and were huddled together, looking at their captors uneasily as if they feared their fate.
‘Miguel killed him,’ she said on a sob. ‘He was trying to help me—and he shot him like a mad dog.’ She shuddered, putting a hand to her eyes. Her head was spinning. Henri put an arm about her shoulders as he saw how pale she was. ‘Oh, it was terrible…terrible.’ She was shivering as he held her protectively, hushing her.
‘It is over now, sweet lady. We feared the worst when we discovered Montana lying there, but it seems we were in time.’
‘We came here to ransom Don Manola,’ Deborah said, blinking as she fought back her tears. She felt so ill, but she must not give way now. She had to explain, to make Nicholas understand and forgive her—because somehow he had misunderstood her reasons for leaving France with the Spaniards. He believed that she had run away with them because she wanted to, when she had done so only in order to save his people, because she could not bear to see the home he loved razed to the ground—but he thought her false and faithless! It was because she had tried to run away from him before, of course, because she had broken her word to him the night he caught her at the stables. ‘Somehow Miguel had learned of your plans and he got here first. He killed his father’s steward and threatened to start killing innocent women and children if I did not agree to marry him.’
‘Ah, I understand,’ Henri said, smiling as she released herself from his embrace and accepted his kerchief to wipe her cheeks. He glanced towards Nicholas to see if he had heard her explanation, but he had walked away and was speaking to Don Manola, who had just now emerged from the church. ‘I knew you must have been forced into this—but why did you not come with me that day when I begged you to ride away?’
She stared in surprise. ‘But you know. Surely you know? I was afraid for the others. The château was unprotected while Nicholas was away. I did not wish to be the cause of death and destruction to his people.’
‘No—surely you could not have thought that?’ Henri frowned. ‘You must have known that Nico would no
t leave you or the others vulnerable to an attack. We had more than enough men to beat off the Spaniards that day. They were hidden, waiting for the signal should an attack come.’
‘I did not know that,’ Deborah replied. She was feeling so very unwell. Perhaps it was the heat or the strain of the past few days? ‘I thought you dead after your horse rolled on you, and I could not bear that others should give their lives for my sake. All I wanted was for the Spaniards to leave Nicholas’s people in peace, even if it meant that I must suffer—for I should never have lived as that monster’s bride. I should have taken my own life first.’ She laid her hand on his arm, giving him a look of appeal. ‘Oh, you must believe me. You must! Please do say you believe me, Henri.’
‘But of course,’ he said and smiled at her. ‘I wondered what had happened for I have no memory of those last minutes before I was knocked unconscious. I shall explain to Nicholas…’
Don Manola was coming towards them, clearly intending to speak to her, and Nicholas had gone to join Pierre. They were obviously preparing to gather their men to leave. There was no more to be done here.
‘Mistress Stirling,’ Don Manola said. ‘I have come to beg your pardon for what has been done to you in my name. The fault is mine. I insisted on this marriage. I have too many sins to answer for—and I beg your forgiveness, though I may never be absolved in the eyes of God.’
Deborah’s heart was wrung with pity as she saw the agony in the Don’s eyes and understood his suffering. She had learned something of him from his steward and she knew that he had once been a good and devout Christian. Something had changed him, some secret tragedy—and he had allowed himself to become obsessed with the one thing he had known was forbidden.
‘I am truly sorry for your grief, señor. You must have loved your son a great deal…’
The Don took a deep breath and Deborah sensed that what he was about to say was not easy for him, would cost him pain.
‘No. I hated him from the moment he was born. Had I had the courage I would have strangled him then. I loved his mother, and because of that love she bore a child—that was my sin. Not hers or her son’s. I knew she should never have a child and yet I still went to her. After the birth she became truly insane. I allowed the world to believe she had died of a fever—but she lives even to this day. Shut away and cared for tenderly by nuns. I should have put Miguel away years ago, but I needed an heir. I could not marry, but he could. I meant to have a child with his wife…’ At her gasp of horror, he crossed himself, his face contorting with grief and guilt. ‘He would never have touched you. I would have spared you that at least.’
It was too horrible! She could bear no more. Deborah felt the vomit in her throat and her senses began to swim. Her head was going round and round in circles and the ground zoomed up to meet her. She moaned and put her hand out to grab at Henri’s arm, but the blackness took her mind and she did not know that it was Nicholas who caught her as she fell.
Deborah opened her eyes to find that she was lying in a bed. She glanced around the small room and knew that she was once more in the cabin of the Siren’s Song. How had she come here? She could remember nothing of the journey to the coast. Her head ached and her mouth tasted bitter, as though she had been ill.
Someone was opening the door. She pushed herself up against the pillows, her heart beating wildly. She felt weak and her limbs were heavy. Surely she must have been ill?
Had Nicholas come to see her? Where was he? She wanted him. She wanted him to hold her in his arms and kiss her—to tell her he loved her and would make her forget the horror she had endured.
‘Deborah—my dearest child. Are you feeling better at last? You have had a fever and we were worried about you.’
‘Father?’ She stared at him, tears springing to her eyes. She felt so weak and Nicholas was not here to comfort her. Was he angry with her? Did he think she had run away from him? Her father was here, but not Nicholas. She held her hand out to Sir Edward. ‘Is it really you, Father? How did you come here?’
‘I was on board Don Manola’s flagship when it was sunk,’ he said, moving closer to the bed. ‘Oh, my poor daughter. How pale you are. Can you ever forgive me for what has happened to you?’
Deborah slipped her hand into his and he held it to his lips and kissed it. Tears were trickling down her cheek. She felt like a little girl again and wanted him to comfort her.
‘It was so frightening,’ she confessed. ‘When Miguel Cortes took me on his ship…I thought I was lost. He was insane, evil. He frightened me, though I could not let him see it. I would have died rather than wed him, Father.’ She clung to his hand. ‘You are not angry with me? Please say you are not angry with me.’
‘How could I be? You were not to blame,’ Sir Edward said, looking at her sadly. ‘It was my fault, child. I should have made more inquiries before I considered the marriage.’
‘But I disobeyed you. I went walking alone in the mist. Had I not—I might still have been safe at home with you.’
‘And perhaps I should have given you to that monster without realizing what I did,’ Sir Edward said and crossed himself. ‘God forbid! I was wrong to trust Don Manola, Deborah. He is not the man I knew. When I was on his flagship he had me locked below and I might have died there for all he knew or cared. I fought my way out and was knocked into the sea by a mast that came crashing down. I might have drowned had one of de Vere’s men not seen me and hauled me out of the wreckage. De Vere himself tended me when I was sick. I have reason to thank him for my life—and yours.’
‘Where is he—the marquis?’ she asked, brushing away her tears.
‘On the Antoinette, I believe,’ Sir Edward said. ‘He has business to conclude and bid me tell you he would visit you in a few weeks’ time.’
‘In a few weeks?’ Deborah stared at her father in distress. ‘But…’ Pride made her hold back the words she had been about to say. ‘Where are we going, Father?’
‘I am taking you home,’ Sir Edward said. ‘You have been through a terrible ordeal, Deborah, and de Vere agrees with me that you need time to recover your health and spirits. He stayed with us until he was sure you would mend and then he transferred to his other ship. I think he was angry with you for running away after you had given him your promise to marry him. Your friend Henri Moreau is taking us home and will escort us.’ He smiled and stroked her cheek. ‘You will want to see Sarah wed, I dare say?’
‘Yes…’ Deborah was bleeding inside but she could not let it show. Her wedding was to have been as soon as Nicholas returned from his meeting with the Don—but now she would not see him for weeks. It could only mean that he no longer wanted to marry her. He must believe that she had betrayed him. Surely he could not think that she would willingly have married Miguel Cortes? ‘Yes, I had forgotten poor Sarah’s wedding. She must be on thorns, wondering what is to happen.’
Sir Edward smiled at her. ‘I knew I was right. You feel weak now, my child, but your spirits will return once you are safe in your own home. I am sure it is for the best and everything will seem better when you have had time to reflect. A period of quiet is what you need now.’
‘Yes, Father. I expect you are right.’
She did not want to go home. England was no longer her home—she belonged in that open, sunny house in France where everyone laughed and sang and she had been so happy.
‘Sleep peacefully, my dearest,’ Sir Edward stood up. ‘I shall look after you from now on. Nothing shall be forced on you again. You shall stay with me for as long as you wish. Indeed, I shall be happy if you choose never to marry.’
Deborah closed her eyes as he went out and shut the door softly behind him. He was being so kind and considerate to her—but she did not want to retire from the world and live always with her father. She wanted to be the wife of a man whose kisses made her melt with bliss. She loved Nicholas and would never stop loving him—but he no longer wanted her.
Chapter Fourteen
‘What is this I hear, lad
die?’ King James frowned at Nicholas. ‘Some wild tale of abduction? Have ye gone too far this time? Snatched a wench of good family and made away with her? I shall be obliged to see ye hang if the father demands retribution for your crime.’ He chuckled as if much amused by the tale, which had been circulating the court for weeks.
‘I believe Sir Edward will make no complaint against me,’ Nicholas replied, but gave no answering smile.
‘Aye, weel, ’tis just as well, since I have use for ye, laddie. Baby has begged me to command him home. I suspect ’tis as I feared—these rascally Spanish lawyers have demanded too much and the prince must be brought home. But I must know what is happening. I want the truth of this affair, not some tale concocted to please me. Will ye go?’
‘Of course, Sire.’ Nicholas did not hesitate, even though he had plans of his own. ‘I shall sail at once and place myself at the prince’s disposal.’
‘Spain will not be pleased if the marriage negotiations have broken down.’ James shook his head. ‘That they have played us false I dinna doubt. Bring my son back to me, laddie. I canna rest easy in my mind until he is safe home.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Nicholas frowned as he saw the anxious look in the King’s eyes. ‘Do you fear war over this business, Sire?’
‘I have always tried to make friends with those who would make war on us, but…’ The King sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘My heart is heavy over this, laddie. I’ll not deny it. We must see what comes of this unlucky chance. Once my son is home, we shall know more of the true situation.’
Nicholas bowed, aware that the interview was at an end. ‘I shall take the Antoinette and leave with the tide.’
James smiled wearily. ‘I am thankful I shall not have to hang ye, laddie. The King does not have so many friends that he can spare one to the gallows.’
A faint smile flickered in Nicholas’s eyes as he bowed and left the King’s private apartments. He had no desire to sail once more for Spain, but a favour had been asked and must be granted. Besides, he must give Deborah time to recover from her ordeal. Nicholas had not wanted to leave her while she was still caught in a fever, but Sir Edward had demanded that he be allowed to take his daughter home, and Nicholas had been forced to give way.