The Abducted Bride Page 8

  ‘Henri will take care of you,’ Nicholas replied gravely. ‘You will be safe in my home, Mistress Stirling. When I go to meet Don Miguel I shall sail without Henri, who will remain here to guard you—and believe me, he will do so with his life. You have nothing to fear while you remain in my care. I would trust Henri as myself—he is an honourable man.’

  ‘Yes, that I do believe,’ Deborah said. ‘He has sworn to be my friend and I have given him my trust.’

  ‘Then shall there be a truce between us?’

  ‘Why not?’ She gazed up at him, her eyes searching his face. ‘I shall take your word that no harm will come to me while I am in your care, sir.’

  ‘I thank you, mistress.’ Nicholas smiled; then, placing his hands about her waist, he lifted her into the saddle. ‘Let us have no more of these foolish attempts to escape. Had I not caught you in time you might have fallen and hurt yourself.’

  Deborah’s manner was more flirtatious than she knew as she met his steady look. ‘And would that have distressed you?’

  ‘I believe you know the answer to that as well as I, mistress.’

  Deborah saw something in his eyes that made her blush. She turned her face aside, telling herself she was foolish to feel this way about a man who sought to use her for his own purpose. It was Isabella he had loved, Isabella he could not forget. Yet she believed him when he said he would kill her rather than let Miguel Cortes lay a finger on her.

  If it was foolish to feel warmed by his words, then she was foolish. She had begun by despising this man, but somewhere along the line her feelings had undergone a startling change. He was not a man to be treated lightly in any respect. She had learned to trust him despite herself and—and to like him. She had no explanation for the way in which his kisses turned her limbs to melting bliss. At least none that a maiden might admit even in the privacy of her own thoughts.

  The marquis had her horse by the rein and was leading it, firmly in command of the situation. When they passed the steep incline he had spoken of, she realized that a fall there might have left her badly injured or even dead and a shiver ran through her.

  No mention of the danger was made by either of them, but once they were safely past it the marquis released the reins and allowed her to ride freely. She saw that the woods through which they had been riding had almost ended now and before her lay Chalfont, gleaming and golden in the sunshine—a house so beautiful and stirring to the soul that her eyes filled with tears.

  It was not huge but larger than her father’s house, the walls sturdily built of a thick buttery stone that looked warm and welcoming in the dying rays of the evening sun. The grey glass of small-paned windows had turned to rose in the sunset and gave the house an open, inviting appearance. She had seldom seen so many windows, for glass was fabulously expensive and very precious. It must have cost a king’s ransom to build such a house as this.

  ‘Oh…’ she breathed as she reined in to stare in wonder. It seemed that everywhere was bright with colour: pink, white and purple flowers tumbling out of stone pots and over balconies. ‘I do not think I have ever seen anything as lovely as your home, sir.’

  ‘It was built for a beautiful woman who loved light and sunshine by a man who adored her,’ Nicholas said, a faint smile of remembrance on his lips. ‘I am glad you approve of my home, Mistress Stirling.’

  ‘I had no idea it would be like this.’

  ‘You imagined yourself on your way to a fortress, no doubt?’ Mockery glinted in the dark eyes. ‘It is but the residence of a country gentleman. My father loved his vineyards almost as much as he loved his wife. He was a man of peace, of solitude. I never heard him raise his voice in anger. When my mother died he could not bear to live without her.’

  She was hearing from his own lips the tale Henri had told her, and once again it touched her heart. ‘He must have loved her very much.’

  Nicholas bent his head in assent but made no further comment until he came to help her dismount. ‘Come, my lady,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Let me show you my home. I believe you will find your apartments to your liking.’

  Deborah was certain of it. Something about this place was already calling out to her, appealing to her senses on every level.

  She allowed him to take her hand and lead her the last few paces to a short flight of stone steps to the veranda. The perfume of flowers wafted towards her and then she saw a woman standing at the open door—a tall, graceful, lovely woman with hair the colour of spun gold and hard blue eyes. She curtsied as they approached, bending her head submissively to the marquis.

  ‘I am glad to see you safely returned, Nicholas,’ she said in a soft, husky voice. ‘I bid you welcome…and Mistress Stirling.’

  As she spoke Deborah’s name, her head came up and her eyes seemed to stab the younger woman with hatred. Yes, there was no other word that would accurately describe the expression in those icy eyes, thought Deborah. This woman was angry because the marquis had brought her here.

  ‘Thank you, Marie,’ Nicholas replied seeming unaware of her hostility towards his guest, and indeed the look was swiftly veiled so that he would see no trace of it. ‘I am sorry to have given you so little notice of our arrival.’

  ‘It matters not,’ Marie replied, sweetly acquiescent. ‘Your own rooms are always waiting for your return, of course—but it will be some minutes before the chambers you requested can be prepared. Perhaps some refreshment in the mean time?’

  ‘Yes, that would be most welcome. Bring sweet wine and some of your almond comfits, Marie. I am sure Mistress Stirling would enjoy the biscuits as a temptation to her palate before we sup.’

  ‘They await you in the small salon, cousin. Everything shall be as you requested.’ Marie smiled and waved her hand in a gesture of invitation. ‘You will forgive me, Mistress Stirling. I have much to do. Perhaps we shall have an opportunity to talk later?’

  ‘Yes, most certainly,’ Deborah replied. Had she imagined that hostile look earlier? There was no sign of it now. ‘I thank you for your welcome. Forgive me, I do not know how to address you.’

  ‘Mistress Trevern,’ Nicholas said answering for his cousin. ‘Marie is the daughter of my mother’s brother. She came to visit me some eighteen months ago with her companion and liked the house so well that she decided to stay on.’

  ‘The house lacked a woman’s touch,’ Marie said, giving him a teasing smile, which made her look startlingly beautiful. ‘You neglected it and yourself, cousin. I have promised to leave you in peace when you take a wife. The remedy is in your own hands.’

  ‘Nay, I would not have you leave,’ he replied with a tolerant, amused smile. ‘You know you are welcome in my home for as long as you wish to remain.’

  Marie shook her head at him, excused herself and left the hall—but not before Deborah had read her secret in her eyes. She was in love with the marquis. She had stayed on at the château not because she liked the house, but because she loved its master.

  It was little wonder that she resented the unexpected arrival of a woman she had neither met nor heard of until that very day.

  ‘Come,’ Nicholas said, leading the way from the wide entrance hall into a moderate-sized square chamber with flooring made from a reddish pink, green and white material. The white was marble, of course, an expensive and beautiful substance used only in the halls of the great, but what was this wondrous stone set in pretty mosaic patterns here and there to delight the eye? Deborah was too awed to ask, but seeing her astonishment Nicholas smiled. ‘Marble imported from Italy and agate dug from the heart of rocks beneath some swirling stream in far-off lands. My father spared no expense for his bride, and these were her favourite colours, especially pink.’

  ‘As it is mine. I have never seen anything as lovely as this room,’ Deborah confessed. Coming from a house that was considered extremely comfortable, its walls panelled with dark oak and hung with rich tapestry, she had believed herself privileged—but this was beyond her imagining. The airiness an
d lightness all about her gave her a feeling of freedom and space without seeming cold or dismal like parts of the English King’s palace. The furniture was more elegantly wrought than she had previously seen, sometimes gilded and painted so that it added richness and colour to the whole, and at a window gauzy drapes moved in a soft breeze. ‘This room is finer than the Queen’s own withdrawing chamber at Whitehall.’

  ‘Please do not tell His Majesty that,’ Nicholas begged with wry humour. ‘He would require yet more tributes from my coffers.’

  Deborah’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is that why he pays no heed to Don Manola’s demands that you should hang? Because you give him gold and silver you have stolen from others?’ Her tone was accusing, pricking at him despite their agreement to a truce.

  ‘For that—and other reasons,’ Nicholas replied, frowning as he saw the scorn she could not hide. ‘Come, Mistress Stirling, we shall not quarrel. Take a cup of wine to slake your thirst.’

  He poured wine from a silver flacon into goblets of gold chased with engravings and set with a band of tiny semi-precious stones about the foot, handing one to Deborah with a little smile before he tasted his own.

  ‘Shall you be comfortable here? Or do you still fear my oubliette?’

  She blushed, meeting his challenge with a toss of her head. ‘That was foolish of me, sir. I confess I allowed my tongue to run away with me.’

  ‘A noble apology,’ he murmured. ‘We shall forget ’twas ever said.’

  His mockery stung her, though she had brought it on herself.

  ‘Sir, you are the most…’ Deborah’s retort was lost as Marie Trevern returned, her sharp eyes noting their bantering mood and the rapport between them.

  ‘Your chamber is ready now, Mistress Stirling.’

  Deborah drained her cup and returned it to her host. As their fingers touched, she felt a shiver of pleasure run through her. Her eyes met the marquis’s and her lips curved in a wicked smile that challenged while promising much.

  ‘Your home is delightful, sir, as you know well. I am sure I shall enjoy my visit—of whatever duration it may prove.’

  She turned then and went from the room with Marie Trevern, her back straight and her head angled high. The sound of Nicholas’s laughter seemed to follow as she went into the hall and up a curving staircase, its wooden balustrades carved thickly with richly painted figures in classical dress, which spiralled to the gallery above.

  ‘My cousin has given you the rooms formerly belonging to the Marquise de Vere,’ said Marie. ‘They have been kept aired since her death, but have not been used.’

  ‘Then I am honoured to be allowed to use them,’ Deborah replied, aware once more of the other woman’s hostility.

  ‘My cousin informed me that your maid and all your baggage was lost in a storm,’ Marie went on, an angry glint in her eyes. She was clearly suspicious and resentful. ‘He has requested that I lend you a gown until others can be provided—and any other articles you may require.’

  Deborah was surprised and did not immediately reply. Why had the marquis lied to his cousin? Was it merely to save Deborah’s blushes—or because he did not quite trust Marie?

  ‘You are very kind. I dropped my overskirt on the beach so that I could climb more easily. Perhaps it could be rescued?’

  ‘I believe you will find the garment in your chamber.’ Marie’s cold eyes swept over her with contempt. ‘These are your temporary apartments, Mistress Stirling. A maidservant awaits you.’ Had she meant to imply that Deborah’s stay as an honoured guest would be of short duration? ‘I have many tasks I must see to before we sup.’

  She lifted a latch to open the door, then stood back, indicating that Deborah should go in alone. Clearly she considered her duty done.

  ‘We dine shortly. Your maid will show you the way.’

  ‘Thank you, Mistress Trevern.’

  As the older woman turned aside, Deborah pushed the door open and went in, gasping in astonished delight as she saw what awaited her. The walls were panelled in wood that had been gilded and painted with pastoral scenes, then draped with pale cream silk, and the floors were once again of marble and that wondrous stone that had caught Deborah’s eye before. Scattered on the floor—luxury upon luxury!—lay tiny, jewel-bright silk rugs. No one except perhaps royalty ever used carpets on the floors, they were far too precious, more fitted as hangings or table coverings! Yet here there was a profusion of them, giving warmth and more colour to the chamber. The bed itself was monstrous large and fashioned of four gilded posts with a canopy of swathed silk and draped about with hangings of rose damask.

  Placed by an arched window was a large, flat-topped oaken coffer; it was banded and studded with iron, and a huge silver bowl filled with roses stood upon it. Close by was a gleaming, heavily waxed board supported by legs shaped like an inward-curving X. On its surface were strewn precious articles: scent bottles of Venetian glass banded with gilded silver, so rare and costly that Deborah had seen but one example in her life—a gift made to her mother on her wedding day. There was also a silver ewer and bowl and a hand mirror so fine that she hardly dared to touch it, besides combs of ivory and silver clips to fasten a lady’s hair. An embroidery frame, a padded stool, and an oaken settle made this the most comfortable bedchamber Deborah had ever seen.

  ‘Your pardon, mademoiselle,’ a young woman said, coming in from an adjoining room. ‘You would wish to bathe?’

  Deborah stared at her in surprise. ‘You have prepared a bath for me?’

  ‘Oui, mademoiselle—pardon me. Mistress Trevern say I must speak always the English, but it is not good. You understand?’

  Deborah laughed and nodded, feeling a wonderful sense of relief. A bath! What indulgence! She always took a bath once a month when at home, though it was not the custom to bathe so frequently. Often, she had to be content with washing herself all over. Too much washing was not thought to be healthy and was frowned on by many, but Deborah had noticed that it was good to feel clean and she went her own way in such things.

  She followed the maid into the adjoining chamber. Here there was a private closet and several presses and armoires where clothes would be stored on shelves. In the centre of the floor stood a hipbath fashioned of painted wood lined with gleaming metal. The perfume emanating from the steaming water was enticing.

  ‘You will disrobe, mademoiselle?’

  Deborah assented to her over-bodice being unfastened at the back, and then she untied the strings of her heavy silk petticoat and stepped out of it. Another of a finer silk followed and then another of plain linen. She discarded her under-bodice and lifted her foot to dip a toe in the water.

  ‘It is not too hot?’ the maid asked.

  ‘No, it is just right,’ Deborah replied, settling into the bath with a sigh of content.

  Her skin looked pink and pearly beneath the clear water, her legs smooth and well shaped. It was more usual for ladies to bathe wearing a loose gown to cover them, but none had been provided and Deborah let the soft water lap over her without feeling shame for her immodesty. What did it matter when there was none to see her? The maid was smiling, clearly uncritical of her new mistress as she handed her a jar of a soft and sweet-smelling soap.

  Deborah began to rub the soap into her skin. She knew that many of those who did not bathe regularly needed an instrument to scrape the crust of dirt from their bodies, but Deborah’s skin was soft and moist from the lotions she made herself and applied often.

  ‘Mademoiselle has lovely skin,’ the maid said. ‘You like me to wash your back, yes?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Deborah said and glanced at her. ‘What is your name? I do not believe you told me.’

  ‘It is Louise, mademoiselle—if it pleases you. Mistress Trevern calls me girl or wench, depending on her mood.’

  ‘I shall call you by your given name, it is a pretty one,’ Deborah said. She sighed with pleasure as the girl soaped her back. ‘That feels so good. Thank you, Louise. I should like to stay here forever, but
I was warned that my hosts dine soon. I must not keep them waiting. Will you hand me the bathing sheet, please?’

  Louise wrapped her about with the large thick cloth that had been specially prepared and to Deborah’s delight felt warm to her skin.

  ‘You must tell me when you wish to bathe again,’ Louise said. ‘It is my pleasure to serve you, mademoiselle. I was a child when the marquise died but I remember how good she was, how generous to those about her. I have hoped a new mistress would come to bring the warmth and love back to this house—and to my master.’

  Deborah looked at her curiously. ‘Do you not like Mistress Trevern?’

  The girl wrinkled her nose. ‘It is not the same. She is not mistress of the marquis’s ’eart. You understand?’

  ‘Perhaps she would like to be.’

  ‘For myself, I ’ope not,’ Louise replied with a wicked grin. ‘She is not a ’appy person to ’ave as mistress.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ Deborah nodded. She smiled at the girl, feeling she had found a friend. ‘Now I must dress quickly for I would not wish to keep the marquis waiting.’

  ‘Sometimes it is good if a man wait,’ Louise said. ‘But we shall dress rapidement, oui?’

  Deborah looked at the gown Louise had laid ready on the bed. The petticoat was of pink silk heavily encrusted with pearls; the overdress was a dark crimson, the hanging sleeves slashed through with silver.

  ‘Is this the gown Mistress Trevern provided?’ Deborah asked, amazed by the other woman’s generosity in lending her such a lovely thing.

  ‘Pah!’ scoffed Louise. ‘She bring that old brown thing I throw over there on the settle. This gown she belong to the marquise. It is much more becoming and it will fit you—no?’

  ‘It looks as though it might almost have been made for me,’ Deborah said, stroking the material with reverent fingers. ‘But will the marquis not be angry if I wear his mother’s gowns?’

  ‘He will not know,’ Louise replied with a little shrug. ‘All ’er things are just left ’ere to waste. It does not matter. The marquise would ’ave given it with pleasure.’