by Anne Herries
‘No, not immediately,’ Deborah replied. ‘He stayed to discuss some business with His Majesty. I believe he will not be long in coming.’
Marie nodded. ‘Then I must be patient.’
‘May I help you in any way?’ Deborah made a determined effort to make friends with Nicholas’s cousin since they were to be family and might meet in the future. ‘I do not wish to quarrel with you, Mistress Trevern.’
‘I shall order a light repast in my chamber,’ Marie replied. ‘I mean to make only a short stay in London before I return to France.’
Deborah lifted her head proudly. ‘You will stay for our wedding, I hope? We go to a masque at Court this evening—would you care to come with us?’
‘When is your wedding?’
‘Tomorrow. The King gives a banquet for us.’
‘Then perhaps I shall—and I may as well join you this evening.’ She gave Deborah a grudging smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘Thank you for your invitation.’
‘You will be very welcome,’ Deborah said. She smiled at Marie. ‘Now, if I cannot do anything for you, I shall leave you to rest.’
‘Nicholas is fickle,’ his cousin said suddenly. ‘He is only marrying you because he feels it his duty. I would not care to be wed for such a cause. Jean is in love with me. I have come here to ask Nicholas to give me his consent and blessing.’
‘You are to be married?’ Deborah was surprised and pleased. ‘I am so glad, Mistress Trevern. Truly I am. I do most sincerely wish you happy.’
‘I do not want your good wishes,’ Marie said. ‘I have consented because I do not care to live under Nicholas’s roof once he has a wife. This marriage was the best I could hope for.’
‘You do not love Jean?’
‘I love Nicholas,’ Marie said. Her eyes blazed suddenly. ‘And I hate you, Mistress Stirling. I wish that the Spaniard had killed you when he had you.’
Deborah felt the force of her hatred. The look in Marie’s eyes sent shivers down her spine. For a moment she could not speak, then she inclined her head.
‘I am sorry you do not love Jean,’ she said and turned away.
It was sad that Marie was so unhappy. At least Deborah loved the man she was to marry—even if he was the most impossible, infuriating man she had ever met!
All that afternoon Deborah stayed in her room and waited for Nicholas to send word that he wished to see her. She did not go down, because she wished to avoid another confrontation with Marie. She longed to see Nicholas, because she needed to speak with him about their marriage privately, but she waited in vain. He had still not arrived by the time it was necessary to leave for the Court masque. Henri and Sir Edward had promised to escort the ladies, and they would take two stout footmen with them for there were footpads and beggars, and it could be dangerous to walk through the streets after dark.
Marie had used the afternoon to good effect it seemed, being so charming to Sir Edward that he was completely taken with her and told Deborah he was delighted she would have a female companion for a few days.
‘I know you must miss Sarah,’ he said. ‘It is good that you have Mistress Trevern to talk to about the things ladies like to discuss in private—the kind of things no man could ever hope to understand.’ He smiled at her indulgently.
‘Yes, Father.’ She returned his smile. ‘I do miss Sarah, of course.’
She had told him nothing of Marie’s bitter words; there was no point in distressing him and it would only make things more uncomfortable while Marie was staying in the house.
‘But I am quite happy with just you for company—and Nicholas.’
Sir Edward nodded. ‘Have you calmed down after your little show of temper, child? I knew you would after some quiet reflection. You could not find a better husband, you know. I like de Vere—and I respect him.’
‘You were used to call him a rogue, Father.’
‘I have come to know him better,’ her father replied. ‘When I called him a pirate I did not understand why he attacked those ships. I think had I suffered as he did, I might have sought revenge for the wrong done me. Don Manola deceived me. He was not the man I once knew. It was a sorry business, Deborah, and we may be thankful that de Vere was there to prevent worse.’
‘Yes, I know. I know I have much to thank Nicholas for, but…’ She sighed. ‘Where do you think he is, Father? What kept him from coming back to us this afternoon as he promised?’
‘I cannot tell you,’ Sir Edward replied, giving her a rather strange look. ‘But I dare say it was business. You cannot expect to tie such a man to your apron strings, Deborah. You have always had your own way with me—but I may have indulged you too much for your own good. Your husband will expect you to comply with his wishes.’
‘Yes, Father.’ Deborah’s spirit rebelled though she did not answer her father back. Why should it be that way? Why must a woman always obey? Why could a man and a woman not love equally?
She knew that her thoughts were shocking and would meet with no sympathy. She would on the morrow be forced to wed the marquis whether she wished it or not, and that could not please her. She wanted to be loved! To be the most important thing in the whole world to her husband—but perhaps that was wishing for the moon. Oh, but she did want to marry Nicholas. Why must everything be spoiled by the whim of a capricious king?
Deborah had danced several times with Henri, and once with her father, refusing all other offers. She did not like the way some of the courtiers eyed her so lasciviously—as though speculating whether or not she was ripe for seduction! So she stood watching the dancing for much of the evening, wondering where Nicholas was and why he had not attended the masque.
‘Mistress Stirling?’ She turned as the footman approached and made her a respectful bow. He held a small packet out to her. ‘I was asked to deliver this note to you.’
‘A letter—from whom?’ she asked, immediately suspicious.
‘I do not know the sender,’ the man replied. ‘I am merely the bearer, mistress.’
‘Thank you,’ Deborah said. ‘I have no money with me, but my father is by the window and will reward you.’
‘I have been paid, mistress. Excuse me.’
Deborah watched as he walked away, then took her letter closer to a branch of beeswax tapers so that she might read it more carefully. She did not recognize the hand and wondered who would choose to send her a letter at such a time. She broke the seal and began to read carefully.
If you care for the Marquis de Vere, come at once to the courtyard by the river. If you fail you will never see him again. Tell no one of this letter or he will disappear forever.
The note was unsigned. Deborah gave a gasp of fear and glanced round for the man who had delivered the message. Where had he gone? She must know who had paid him to carry the letter!
She saw him leaving the banqueting hall and decided to follow. There was no time to speak to her father—besides, he was dancing with Marie Trevern. Deborah threw a despairing glance his way, then hurried after the footman. However, by the time she had managed to thread her way through the throng of merrymakers, some of whom sought to delay her, there was no sight of her quarry.
She paused for a moment. What ought she to do? The letter might be some kind of trick. Supposing she was being lured into a trap? Marie hated her. She might have paid someone to attack or kidnap Deborah.
Surely she was letting her imagination run away with her? Her instincts warned her that she should return to the masque and speak to her father or Henri—but supposing the message was genuine? She could not risk the threat that, if she told anyone, Nicholas would disappear forever.
What was her life if Nicholas was dead?
She was sure she knew which courtyard the note mentioned, for they had used it earlier that day. It led down to a stretch of grass by the riverbank and was a favourite spot for the courtiers to stroll on a summer’s afternoon. She would go there. Whatever the sacrifice demanded of her, she would pay it. Yes, even if Don Manola had
taken Nicholas hostage and the price she must pay was heavy. There was nothing left for her without the man she loved.
She ran through the dark, draughty outer passages of the palace, away from the lights and the music of the reception rooms, through a walled garden, down a flight of steps and into the courtyard. Here there was no light except for a sprinkling of stars in the sky, but she was not afraid. Only Nicholas mattered!
She could see nothing—no sign of anyone.
‘Where are you?’ she called. ‘I am here. Where is the marquis? What have you done to—?’
She heard a sound behind her, but before she could turn round something was thrown over her head. Not a suffocating blanket this time, but a cloak of velvet that smelled of a familiar scent—not a woman’s perfume, but the scent of a man.
It was Nicholas’s cloak, she knew that instinctively.
‘Who are you?’ she said, making no attempt to resist as she was swung off the ground into a man’s strong arms. ‘Where are you taking me? Where is Nicholas?’
A soft laugh was the only answer she received, but it was enough. Every instinct told her that it was Nicholas himself who had captured her. Her heart was beating wildly as her mind raced. It must have been Nicholas who had sent her that letter—but why?
She knew when he carried her down some steps into the boat and deposited her gently on the wooden bench. He had still not spoken a word to her, neither had he removed the velvet cloak that loosely covered her head and shoulders, but the arm that held her was not imprisoning and she could have removed it herself had she wished. She made no move to do so, nor did she try to escape. There was no need to be afraid, for she knew where he was taking her.
As the boat began to pull away from the bank, the cloak was removed and placed about her shoulders. Still she did not move or speak one word of protest.
‘Do you not wish to know where you are going, Deborah?’ Nicholas asked. ‘I expected a scolding. It is not like you to be so accepting.’
‘I know where we are going,’ she said with a demure smile. ‘You are taking me on board the Siren’s Song and from there we shall sail for France.’
‘How did you know it was me?’
‘You used your cloak,’ Deborah replied. ‘It carries the scent of you. I did think the letter might be a trick at first—but the cloak gave you away.’
‘You complained of the filthy blanket the last time,’ he reminded her.
‘And should do so again!’ she replied with a flash of spirit. ‘Indeed, I must ask you to explain yourself, sir. Why have you chosen to carry me off without a by-your-leave?’
‘Ah, that is better. I had begun to wonder if I had kidnapped the wrong woman.’
‘You are pleased to mock me, sir. I hope you have a good reason for almost frightening me to death with that terrible letter. I thought your life in danger.’
‘Were you frightened for me, Deborah?’
‘Foolishly, yes. I ask again, why have you abducted me?’
‘Since you made no attempt to escape, would you not rather call it an elopement?’ His voice was soft, seductive, touching a chord within her. ‘The answer is simple—I thought it would please you, my lady.’
‘Please me?’ Deborah turned her head, straining to see his face in the darkness. She was pretending to be angry, but it was false, for she knew what lay behind this mad plan of his. ‘You take too much for granted, sir. I have not yet said I shall marry you.’
‘I have not yet asked you,’ he replied. ‘As I recall, I told you we would be wed the first time—and now King James has done the same. It occurred to me that you might find that a little irksome?’
‘It made me very angry,’ she replied truthfully, and she was smiling inside though she would not let him see it yet. He had known that she was vexed by the King’s commands, and that she did not care to be told who she must marry—even if it was what she wanted with all her heart. Truth be told, she did not mind that he had abducted her one little bit. ‘Why is it that women are always expected to obey? Do you not think men and women should be on equal terms—at least in love?’
‘I have observed that in many cases it is the woman who commands,’ Nicholas murmured, a hint of laughter in his voice. ‘If she is clever, she can bend the man who desires her to her will.’
A little smile touched Deborah’s lips. ‘But the man would have to desire her very much—would he not?’
‘Very much.’
‘Would he also love her?’
‘With his heart, his mind, his body—his very soul.’
‘A woman loved in that way would not need to command,’ Deborah said softly and her heart was beginning to sing for joy. ‘She would know herself blessed and would want to give back as much love as she received.’
‘Then her lover would be a fortunate man.’
‘Her lover—not her husband?’
‘Oh, certainly her lover,’ Nicholas said wickedly. ‘Men marry for fortune or position—is that not so?’
‘Yes, it is often the case,’ Deborah agreed. She was enjoying this verbal fencing! He played a strange game with her, but his nearness was making her heart behave foolishly. ‘I had several such offers from gentlemen when I first attended the Court—but I believe not one of them loved me. It was my father’s fortune they coveted.’
‘Surely not all were so base?’
‘There was one offer that did not concern my father’s wealth—but I do not think it was of marriage,’ she murmured, a hint of laughter in her voice.
Nicholas laughed out loud, clearly much amused. ‘I recall something—but we were speaking of lovers. Shall I make you my mistress, Deborah?’
‘You have me in your power, sir. I am your prisoner. You may do with me as you will.’
‘Oh, I think not,’ he murmured. ‘But if you will not consent to be my wife, what am I to do with you? I cannot send you back to your father again. I believe King James would hang me then.’
‘I might consent to wed you…if I decided it would suit me to be your wife.’
‘And what would help you decide? I wonder…’ He pretended to consider. ‘A necklace of emeralds, perhaps?’
‘Oh, you wretch!’ Deborah turned on him and beat against his chest with her fists. ‘How dare you tease me so wickedly! You discuss our marriage with my father. You agree to His Majesty’s command that we marry…’
‘But disobeyed him, at some considerable risk—since he will not be pleased with me. Why should I do that? Unless it was to please a wilful lady. You did not truly wish to be married by royal command—did you, Deborah?’
‘You know I did not,’ she retorted. ‘Will you never ask me, you devil? How can you be so—so infuriating and yet so charming?’
She knew he was laughing, even though he sought to hold it inside.
‘Will you marry me, Deborah?’
‘I might,’ she replied, still holding out. ‘It depends upon why you want to marry me, sir.’
‘Because I covet your father’s estate? Is that reason enough?’
‘I hate you!’
‘Because the King will hang me if I don’t?’
‘You are detestable!’
‘Because I love you more than life itself and would rather die than let you go?’ he said softly, his lips close to her ear. ‘Because I cannot sleep for thinking of you. Because I remember how it felt to hold you in my arms and know I never have and never shall feel such true happiness again unless I have you always near me.’
She touched her fingers to his lips in wonder. ‘Do you truly love me so much, Nicholas? More than you love Isabella?’
‘I never loved Isabella. She was a good, gentle woman. I respected and liked her. I hoped love might come when we were wed. And after she died I felt guilty, because I had helped bring about her death. Miguel killed her because of his hatred for me.’
‘You were blameless. He was insane.’
‘I know it now. I did not then.’ He smiled at her, touching her cheek with his
fingertips. ‘But I knew from the first moment I kissed you that you were my soulmate.’
‘Oh, Nicholas.’ She sighed and leaned her head against him. ‘Why did you never tell me this before?’
‘At first I could not admit it even to myself—and then, oh, so many things prevented me,’ he murmured, his mouth against her hair. ‘Anger, guilt, fear—and jealousy. I saw you kiss Henri on the night of your cousin’s wedding. I wondered then if I had lost you.’
‘Henri kissed me, not I him.’
‘But you did not repulse him.’
‘He is my friend—and it was a friend’s kiss, given on impulse on a night of celebration.’
‘Henri loves you.’
‘Yes—but he knows that I love you,’ Deborah said. ‘He offered to wed me if you did not come for me…’ She gazed up at him, wishing she could see his eyes and read his expression. ‘Why did you stay away? Why did you leave me while I was ill?’
‘It was not my wish,’ Nicholas said. ‘Your father demanded that you be allowed time to recover from your ordeal in Spain. What could I do? I had no right to refuse him. Had I not put you into danger… I have had nightmares thinking of what might have happened on that ship. Had I come only a day later…’
‘You saved me,’ she whispered softly, touching her lips to his to hush him. ‘I was stubborn and refused to listen to your warnings.’ A shudder went through her and his arms tightened about her. ‘Had my father and I gone to Spain as agreed, I might have been married to Miguel… You know what Don Manola planned for me? He meant to get a child with me himself, because he could not marry.’
‘Yes, I know. He was obsessed by his need for an heir to replace the son he knew was insane. I think he will be punished for his sins by a higher authority, Deborah. He is at heart a good Catholic and he is haunted by what he has done. Perhaps we should pity him.’
‘Yes, perhaps we should,’ she agreed. She smiled as he drew her against him, content to lay her head against his shoulder. She felt safe, protected. ‘You will not leave me again? You will not sail as a privateer again?’