The Abducted Bride Read online

  ‘There is no secret—or none that could cause me shame,’ Deborah said and swept past her.

  She raised her head, determined to give no sign of her deep unease. The other woman clearly meant to be as unpleasant as she could, but Deborah was not about to let her attitude upset her. She was smiling as she went down the impressive staircase to discover the marquis waiting for her.

  ‘You look delightful, Mistress Stirling,’ Nicholas said. ‘I hope you rested well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. Very well.’ She felt the heat rise in her as she met his smiling gaze.

  ‘Are you ready to go riding?’

  ‘Quite ready, sir.’

  ‘Then let us waste no more time. The air is fresh this morning. Later it will be too warm for riding.’

  Deborah smiled her agreement but said no more, merely following the marquis outside to where the horses were waiting. A pretty chestnut mare had been saddled for her; it tossed its silken mane and danced skittishly as she approached but was soon gentled by the marquis’s touch and soothing voice. He placed his hands about Deborah’s waist, lifting her effortlessly to place her on her horse’s back.

  She took the reins, controlling the mare’s slightly nervous prancing as she waited for the marquis to mount his own fine horse, which was a huge black creature with wicked eyes. Then she followed Nicholas’s lead and trotted behind him out of the courtyard, which had just begun to warm in the early morning sunshine. As they came to a pretty park their pace increased to a gentle canter but not yet a gallop. It was too fine a morning to race, and the leisurely pace allowed Deborah to glance about her.

  The park had wonderful ancient trees, the branches dipping almost to the ground in majestic grace, but there were plenty of open spaces and areas where it might be pleasant to walk. She saw a group of fountains playing into a deep pool where lilies grew in profusion; there was a Grecian-style temple for taking one’s ease away from the fierce heat of the afternoon and occasionally she caught sight of deer grazing in the distance. It was an idyllic place, perhaps as close to Paradise as she was ever like to see.

  After they had been riding for some twenty minutes or more the park gave way to pasture where sheep and cattle grazed, and once they had gained the crest of a small rise she saw vast vineyards spread out beneath her as far as the eye could see.

  ‘Is all this your land?’ Deborah asked as the marquis reined in beside her so that their horses stood side by side at the top of the rise. ‘It seems to go on forever.’

  ‘There is a village beyond,’ Nicholas said, ‘and a stream to the north. We have the cliffs to our backs…so you see we should be warned if an enemy thought to strike at us.’

  ‘Could we visit the cove?’ Deborah asked. ‘Is there another way in other than from the sea or those steep cliffs?’

  ‘Not to the cove where we landed,’ he replied a frown in his eyes. ‘But there is another beach to the south of the vineyards. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Her eyes were aglow as she looked at him. ‘I love to walk by the sea. Our home is but an hour’s ride from a sandy shore and in the summer my father and I often went there…’ The glow faded suddenly and she gave a little choke. ‘My poor father. How anxious he must be for my sake.’

  ‘If you wish to write a letter to Sir Edward I will have it delivered to him.’

  ‘Would you?’ Her eyes lit up once more. ‘It would ease my mind if I thought Father was not worrying too much over me.’

  ‘Then it shall be done.’ Nicholas smiled at her. ‘Come, I shall show you the beach—though I must ask for your promise that you will not go there alone. It is our one vulnerable spot. It would be possible for men to land there from the sea. We should have warning long before they reached the château, of course, but if you were there alone…’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Deborah said. ‘You have my word, sir. Since I believe that your motive in kidnapping me was in part for my own sake, I shall take care. I have no wish to wed with the man who so cruelly treated your betrothed.’

  ‘I thank you for your promise, lady. I shall feel easier in my mind when I am away if I know you are safe.’ Nicholas inclined his head, then turned his horse away for her to follow, but not before she had seen that dark brooding expression in his eyes.

  Deborah understood that her mention of Isabella must have caused him pain. Obviously, he had loved her very much. It was clear that her death haunted him. And when he spoke of going away, it was because of his appointment with Isabella’s murderer—an appointment with destiny. For some reason that made her feel cold inside despite the warmth of the sun.

  For some time they rode in silence. The beach when they came upon it was a surprise. Here there were no rocks or cliffs, but merely a stretch of coarse salty grasses that sloped sharply to the sea. Beyond the grassland the blue water lapped gently against a beach of soft golden sand, curving into a wide bay between two high ridges of rocks that became solid cliffs again a little farther on.

  ‘Oh, this is wonderful!’ Deborah cried. ‘I shall race you to the sea.’

  She spurred her mare forward to a gallop and was soon in headlong flight towards the shallow edge. Nicholas swiftly caught up with her, their horses keeping pace as they pounded the wet sand, salty water flying up in a cooling spray about them.

  Deborah laughed for sheer delight. And when at last they brought their horses to a stand and Nicholas lifted her down, it seemed only right and natural that he should kiss her. It was not a demanding, challenging kiss as the others he had given her had been, but softer, sweeter and somehow tender.

  Deborah’s heart and mind were swept into tumult, and she clung to him breathlessly. Her eyes, did she but know it, were like to rival the night’s stars as she gazed up at him.

  Nicholas reached out to trace the curve of her cheek with his fingertips. ‘So soft,’ he murmured, ‘so lovely. You tempt me sorely, Mistress Stirling. I am minded to keep my prize now I have it.’

  What could he mean? Deborah’s heart raced, her throat catching with emotion as she wondered at the way he looked at her. The burning heat in his eyes thrilled and yet terrified her. He could be so intense at times! She felt as if she were drowning in the flood of sensations he aroused in her, being drawn into him, possessed.

  She moved away, fearing what might happen if she did not. She was his captive, his hostage. He could do as he willed with her and there was no defence for her; even that of her own pride was denied her for she had been acquiescent in his embrace. His hand touched her shoulder as she continued to look away, a gentle touch and yet compelling. She swung round to face him, lips parted, eyes wide and anxious.

  ‘Do not fear me,’ Nicholas said. ‘I would never harm you, Deborah—never dishonour you.’

  He had used her given name. His tone made her weak with the longing to be back in his arms. She knew that she must fight against the desires that had made her his willing conquest.

  ‘Some would say you already have, sir.’ Her eyes met his, steady and a little reproachful. ‘Some would say my reputation was besmirched the moment you snatched me…or even when you kissed me first.’

  Nicholas nodded, his mouth thinning to a grim line. ‘You do well to reproach me, mistress. I was like to forget myself. My honour is also hazarded here. I have given you my word you will not suffer for what was done—and I must keep it. I beg your pardon for my lapse of manners. Come, let me help you mount. We should return to the house.’

  Deborah gave him her hand but said nothing. She avoided his eyes as he swept her up into the saddle once more. She had fought his passion and won but she felt no triumph, only a sense of loss. His charming, flirtatious manner had stolen her heart and she would miss his smile if he became silent and withdrawn.

  He rode a little ahead of her all the way back to the château. Her eyes centered on his back, noting the stiffness of his shoulders. She had angered him by her accusations and he had withdrawn from her. When he helped her down once more he was polite,
courteous, but she was aware of coldness—that darkness she had sensed before.

  Then she had wondered at it, but now she understood that he was remembering his lost love. Her heart ached as he led the horses away, leaving her to go into the house alone.

  Deborah spent the afternoon walking in the rose gardens. The flowers were large and brilliant of hue; they spilled out their powerful scent into the fierce heat of the afternoon. She gathered a few blooms to scent her bedchamber, sighing as she thought of how pleasant it must be to be mistress of such a house.

  There was a profusion of roses in this garden and their petals could be used in so many ways, for perfumes and lotions, cordials and even in sweetmeats. She had also noticed an herb garden where many things she used in her simples grew in neat borders. There were some that were very costly to buy in London, and others that she did not recognize.

  She might ask Louise to tell her their names and what they were used for one day. She had bent to touch a sweet-smelling leaf that felt a little furry and was strange to her when she heard a man’s heavy footsteps and swung round, her heart racing as she saw the marquis.

  ‘I came to tell you the seamstresses are ready to take patterns for your new gowns,’ he said. She saw to her relief that his eyes were not cold, as she had feared, though his manner was more reserved than it had been of late. ‘You will find various bales of silks and damasks in your chamber, Mistress Stirling. You may choose whatever you will.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Deborah replied. ‘But I have been quite happy to wear your mother’s things, sir. There was no need for such expense. After all, I may not be here for long.’ There was a touch of unconscious pride about her as she looked up.

  ‘No matter how long or short your visit, you deserve the best I can offer,’ Nicholas said. ‘No woman should have to wear another’s old clothes.’

  He frowned as he spoke, and Deborah thought that perhaps he did not like to see her using his mother’s things after all. She nodded to indicate that she had accepted his right to order these things as he would, but said no more. She was a guest here—or perhaps a prisoner. He had allayed her fears with kindness and honeyed words, but she was no less his captive for all that.

  ‘I shall go at once, sir.’ She curtsied to him, then turned to leave. He laid a restraining hand on her arm. ‘Nay, stay but a moment, mistress. I would have us friends. I was too free with you this morning, but the thrill of the chase heated my blood and your beauty would tempt any man to madness. I shall not overstep the bounds again while you are my guest.’

  ‘Then there is no need for constraint between us, sir. For my part I would willingly be your friend.’

  His smile was her reward. ‘You are always generous, Deborah, even when pushed beyond what is normal and right. I believe that must be why I enjoy your company so much.’

  His compliment almost took her breath away. She glanced down shyly, her heart racing like a mad March hare.

  ‘And I yours, sir.’

  Deborah moved away and this time he let her go. Her thoughts were in turmoil, her pulses beating as a thousand drums. She walked swiftly into the house, leaving him alone in the herb garden. What had he meant—while you are my guest? Was it a mere pleasantry—or would he consider himself free to kiss her again when all this was over and she was once again under her father’s protection?

  The only way he would be able to kiss her then would be to court her with Sir Edward’s blessing, and she doubted that could ever be won. A little shiver ran through Deborah as she imagined her father’s anger with the man who had stolen her away. He would never accept a proposal of marriage from such a man, even if it were to be made.

  It would be foolish to hope for anything in the future. She was merely a hostage of fortune, a woman at the mercy of men.

  Her spirits lifted a little as she entered her chamber a few minutes later and saw the profusion of materials spread out on the bed. There were glorious silks and damasks, velvets and lace in wonderful hues: cloth of gold, pinks of every shade, deep crimson, yellow, dark and light green, deepest blue and silver.

  ‘Are they not lovely?’ Louise asked as she approached the bed. ‘The marquis had them all stored away in coffers.’

  ‘Beautiful…’ Deborah murmured, and touched the materials with the tips of her fingers. ‘I have never seen such exquisite silks. I believe they must have been very costly.’

  ‘And meant for his bride,’ a sharp voice said from the doorway.

  Both Louise and Deborah swung round in surprise. They saw Marie standing in the doorway, watching with jealous eyes.

  ‘Yes, I suppose they must have been,’ Deborah agreed.

  ‘Now he has given them to you.’ Marie stared at her angrily. ‘The seamstress awaits your orders. Shall I send her up to you?’

  ‘Yes, if you will,’ Deborah replied, then, as the other woman was about to turn away, said, ‘Mistress Trevern. Will you not choose some of this silk for yourself? There is such a profusion here I cannot need it all.’

  ‘Wear what Nicholas intended for his beloved bride?’ Marie’s tone was like a whiplash, sharp and stinging. ‘No, I thank you, Mistress Stirling. You but exchange the clothes of one dead woman for another. I prefer my own.’

  Deborah went white. She felt as if she had been slapped in the face. Seeing that her thrust had gone home, Marie smiled coldly.

  ‘He adored Isabella. You may replace her in his home. He may give you her things as he gave you his mother’s—but you will never have his heart. That was buried in Isabella’s grave.’

  Deborah could find no answer for Marie’s spite. It was obvious that the older woman hated her. She met her angry gaze with a look of pride, and in the end it was Marie who turned away and left without another word.

  ‘She is bitter and jealous,’ Louise said after she had gone. ‘Since she come to this house she try to make the marquis look at ’er with the eyes of a lover, but ’e does not go to ’er bed as she desires. If ’e want a mistress, ’e take one of ’is own choosing.’

  ‘Louise! You should not speak of your master so,’ Deborah said, but she did not look displeased.

  ‘My master—’e likes you very much, mademoiselle.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  Louise shrugged carelessly and smiled. ‘If one is aware, one can see in many ways, mademoiselle. The marquis looks at you with the ’unger—you understand? And there is tenderness, no?’

  Deborah blushed. ‘Louise, you really should not,’ she said, but the girl’s observations eased the sting of Marie’s spite. If it were true that he liked her very much, then perhaps Nicholas might come to love her in time. She had known that he desired her. How could she not when his kisses were so sweet? And yes, as Louise had averred, hungry. But desire was not necessarily love. Only a foolish woman gave herself to a man without love—or a wedding ring. For herself, Deborah wanted both.

  Deborah’s thoughts were distracted by the arrival of a seamstress and her apprentice. They measured her body with a tape they had marked out to certain proportions and the apprentice made strokes on a slate she carried on a little girdle at her waist.

  ‘Mademoiselle desires all the silk made into gowns?’ the seamstress asked. ‘There is much of beauty ’ere, oui?’

  ‘I need only four gowns at most,’ Deborah asserted. ‘Two for evening, one for riding and one for afternoons.’

  ‘Zees is not ’ow the marquis say,’ the woman protested, looking disappointed. ‘For evening zere must be at the minimum six gowns, for riding two, for walking also two and four for afternoons. Also a lined cloak and the night-chemise—no less than seven.’

  ‘I shall not need the half of those,’ Deborah began, but Louise was agreeing with the seamstress.

  ‘Zees is the least you need, mademoiselle,’ Deborah was assured. ‘And it would be a pity to return all this beautiful silk to the marquis’s chests, would it not? In time it will only go to waste and rot.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’


  Deborah gave in. If Nicholas wished her to be dressed as befitted a woman of his own rank, what objection could she make? None that would not sound ridiculous. As for Mistress Trevern’s spiteful words, they might not have been spoken. Deborah had not objected to wearing the marquise’s clothes, and though she had realized that the lovely materials had very likely been purchased as a gift for Nicholas’s intended bride, she did not think that a sufficient reason to refuse them. Poor, unfortunate Isabella had not lived to enjoy the gift.

  The knowledge that Nicholas had adored his betrothed had not come as a shock. Deborah already knew that Isabella’s death and his need to avenge her murder haunted him.

  That did not mean he could never love again—did it? Many men took several wives, for women often died in childbed, but some remained faithful to their memories. Deborah’s own father was one such man. She suspected the marquis might be another. Yet something deep inside her would not let her despair.

  If passion were all that Nicholas had to offer her it might be enough. And that was sufficient to bring a flush to her cheeks. Such unmaidenly thoughts! Had she no shame? It seemed not, for the prospect of lying in her captor’s arms gave her only pleasure.

  When had he become Nicholas in her thoughts? Was it when he had kissed her on the beach—or when he came to her in the herb garden?

  She could not be certain. She knew only that something deep inside her had irrevocably changed. A part of her belonged to the man who had stolen her away and she had, indeed, become his captive whether he had intended it or not.

  Chapter Eight

  That evening was spent much as the first, except that Deborah was asked to sing for the company, which she did shyly but sweetly. The hours passed pleasantly and all too swiftly. Once again the night was warm and enticing, but Deborah resisted the urge to go down after she had officially retired, even though the moonlit garden called to her.

  She did not see much of Nicholas the next day, but rode instead with Henri and Nicholas’s friends. She knew them now as Pierre and Jean. Both were free and easy in their manners, but they treated her with the utmost respect, addressing her always as mademoiselle.