The Abducted Bride

Not harmed! Deborah tried to scream as she felt herself being lifted and hoisted on to a man’s shoulder. Her indignation was equally as great as her fear. She was being carried as if she were a sack of straw!

‘How dare you?’ she muttered, her cries of anger lost in the wool of the blanket. ‘Let me down at once. I demand that you put me down!’

She knew the covering over her head must muffle her protests. She could hear the sound of men’s voices, laughter and jesting—and then a sharper tone, the voice of command. After that there was silence.

‘What is happening?’ she asked and attempted to struggle as she felt herself transferred to another captor, one who held her more comfortably. ‘What are you doing to me?’

She was blinded and caught by the blanket, but somehow her senses seemed heightened. She was aware of being carried down steps and then felt a rocking motion beneath her. She was being taken into a boat! She screamed and struggled as violently as she was able, hampered by the confining weight of the blanket.

‘Let me go! Let me go!’

‘You are safe. There is no need to fear, mademoiselle.’ That soft French voice again, though indistinct through the blanket. ‘Do not struggle and hurt yourself. It is only for a little time. Soon you will be more comfortable.’

Now Deborah could feel a different sensation beneath her. The boat was moving. She was being rowed down the river. She had been kidnapped! She was being taken away from her father and friends. But who had abducted her—and why?

She felt her sense of balance returning. She was no longer in a man’s arms, but sitting on a bench, his arm loosely about her, supporting her—she was no longer a prisoner. She knew that she must escape now, before she had been taken too far. She sprang up, trying to throw off the heavy blanket so that she could see, but somehow her foot caught against a rope or something similar and she fell forward, striking her head on a hard object. For a brief moment she felt pain and then she was falling into the darkness of a black hole.

Her head ached so! Deborah could hear voices and sense movement about her—or was the movement beneath her? She knew that she would have to open her eyes soon, but felt too ill to make the attempt. A moan escaped her lips; her dark lashes fluttered against pale cheeks, and then she was aware of something cool on her forehead. Gentle hands soothing her, stroking her hair and easing the pain.

‘Forgive me,’ a soft voice murmured. ‘It was my fault you fell and hurt yourself, mademoiselle. I should have taken better care of you.’

Where had she heard that voice before? Deborah’s eyelids flickered and then opened. She lay staring up at the man bending over her, feeling bewildered. Where was she? What had happened to her? The man had been applying a cool cloth to her forehead; now he removed it and smiled at her.

‘Are you feeling better, mademoiselle?’

‘Have I been ill?’ she asked. Something was bothering her, but she could not seem to remember for the moment. ‘Are you a doctor, sir?’

‘No, mademoiselle, just the first lieutenant of the Siren’s Song.’

‘We are on a ship?’ She realized that the odd motion she could feel must be the sea beneath them. She tried to sit up, then fell back as the dizziness hit her. ‘Oh, my head hurts so much!’

‘You hit it when you fell. Forgive me. It was not intended that you should be harmed. The Captain was angry and very concerned that you might die. But I do not think that you will have more than a nasty bruise and a headache.’

Gradually, Deborah’s eyes began to focus on the man’s face. He was not handsome, but his smile was gentle, his eyes kind. His black hair was long and hung untidily about his rather thin face, and his nose was slightly crooked.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered, her throat hoarse. ‘And why am I here?’ She was struggling to remember…she had been walking in the mist and then something had happened to her.

‘You are here because…’ the man began, then broke off as someone moved forward into her line of vision.

‘You were brought here because I ordered it,’ a strong voice said—a voice that sent a thrill of recognition winging through her. ‘Henri is not to blame, Mistress Stirling. It was I who had you abducted—though I much regret that you were hurt. That was never our intention, and I believe you brought it on yourself by your wilfulness.’

Deborah gasped as she looked into the dark eyes of the Marquis de Vere. She forced herself up against the pillows piled behind her, her eyes meeting his defiantly. She was angry despite the pain at her temple and the dizziness that once again swept over her.

‘You!’ she cried. ‘How dare you make me your prisoner? How dare you treat me so ill?’

‘You mistake the matter,’ Nicholas said, smiling a little as he realized her ordeal had not damaged her spirit. When she had been knocked unconscious he had feared the worst, but it seemed that Henri was right. She had suffered no more than an unpleasant bump on her forehead. ‘I would have you consider yourself my honoured guest rather than my prisoner.’

‘Your guest?’ Deborah’s eyes glinted with temper. ‘I was half-suffocated beneath a filthy blanket, terrified near to death, knocked unconscious and brought here against my will. How can you say I am your guest?’

‘You have been treated extremely ill,’ Nicholas admitted, his expression contrite but with a hint of humour about it. ‘I do most humbly beg your pardon, Mistress Stirling—but it was necessary, believe me. Please do not imagine you stand in danger of any further…indignity. Henri will care you for until we reach the château, then my cousin will tend you. You shall have every attention, every comfort.’

‘How can I be comfortable when I am your prisoner?’ she cried furiously.

‘My guest, lady.’

‘I demand that you return me to my father at once!’

‘Forgive me. For the moment that is impossible.’ Nicholas frowned as he saw the distress in her eyes. ‘Do not be concerned for your father. He has been informed that you are safe.’

‘Safe! You dare to kidnap me, then assert I am safe? I find such behaviour unpardonable.’ Her eyes snapped with temper. ‘You shall pay for this, sir. I promise you shall be punished for your wickedness.’

‘You have my word that you are as safe as if you were still in your father’s care.’

‘The word of a pirate!’

‘A privateer, mistress.’

‘As if there was a difference!’

‘I assure you there is a vast difference between my ships and those of the Corsairs that roam certain parts of the Mediterranean,’ he replied, a small smile about his mouth—a mouth she remembered too well from kissing it. ‘But you should be resting, not quarreling with your host. I shall leave you for now. If the wind is fair we shall be in France within a few hours. I beg you to forgive any discomfort you have suffered and be assured I shall do all in my power to make you comfortable from now on.’

‘Discomfort!’ Deborah stared in disbelief as he bowed and left her. Her head felt as if it had a thousand hammers inside it—and he spoke of discomfort. ‘You wretch! I wish you had my headache.’

‘Is your head very bad?’ Henri asked, coming forward again. He had withdrawn into the background while she was arguing with the marquis. ‘Shall I prepare a tisane to ease your pain?’

She blinked. In her fury at discovering the culprit for all her ills, she had forgotten the Frenchman.

‘I hate him,’ she muttered fiercely as forbidden tears stung her eyes. ‘How dare he do this to me? How could he?’ She gazed at Henri. ‘Why has he done this terrible thing?’

‘Nico has his reasons.’

‘You call him Nico?’ She was curious, forgetting her anger for a moment.

‘His name is Nicholas. It is a childhood thing.’

‘You knew him then?’ Deborah frowned as he nodded. ‘You are his friend, are you not?’

‘We are as brothers.’

‘Yet you are a gentle man. I do not believe that there is any evil in you.’

‘Nor is there evil in Nico, mademoiselle. There is a certain darkness, an anger that cannot be slaked but by blood, but he is not an evil man.’ Henri hesitated, seeming unsure of whether to go on, then, ‘You were taken hostage to prevent your marriage to Don Miguel Cortes. It was done in part for your own sake.’

‘For my sake…’ Deborah’s words of furious denial died on her lips as she saw the expression in his eyes. ‘Why do you look so? Please tell me—is Don Manola’s son truly a monster?’

‘He raped and then strangled a young woman of good family. The act was unprovoked and brutal beyond belief. No decent man could behave in such a manner, mademoiselle.’

Deborah’s face turned pale and her heart jerked with fear. ‘Then it is true…all the marquis told me. I did not believe it. Miguel Cortes…his likeness looked so pleasant…’