is this to be accomplished?’ Henri asked. ‘You can hardly steal her from her bedroom?’
‘We shall keep a watch on the house and take our chances,’ Nicholas said. ‘I shall send a note asking her to meet me early in the morning. I shall say that I have something important to tell her—something she must hear.’
‘Surely she will not come?’ Henri was disbelieving.
‘Oh, she will come,’ Nicholas replied. ‘If she does not, I must find another way. Yet, I believe she will not be able to resist…’
Chapter Four
I t was no good! Try as she might, Deborah could not sleep. She had lain awake half the night, her thoughts going round and round in dizzy circles so that she became ever more confused. She could not believe that the young man whose portrait she had so admired could possibly be the monster the Marquis de Vere had described—and yet something deep inside her sensed that the marquis had been trying to warn her for her own good.
She had answered him proudly, dismissing his warnings—but that was because he had disturbed her, his kisses had enslaved her. She had needed to reassert her own will, to break his hold on her—but she had almost believed him.
She dressed in a simple gown, more suited to the country than the clothes she had worn of late, but which she was able to manage alone, then slipped on a dark cloak. She did not wish to call her maid. This restlessness must be subdued before she was prepared for the busy day ahead.
Going softly down the stairs, Deborah saw that no one was stirring as yet. The servants had retired late and were sluggards abed this morning. She pulled back the heavy bolts that secured the street door, glancing round as they screeched loudly. Surely someone would hear?
She peered into the street outside. It was still very early. A light mist was swirling across the river and into that part of the town that hugged its banks. No one was about, most of the houses still fast shuttered against the evils of the night air.
Pulling the hood of her cloak well up over her head, Deborah left the house where she and her family were lodged. She needed to clear her mind of the thoughts that so sorely troubled her, and she had missed the freedom she was used to at home in the country. There, she had been in the habit of walking often and alone.
Slipping from the house without having roused even the servants, Deborah forgot all the warnings she had been given about walking alone in London. It was very early. No one would trouble her, especially on such a morning. Anyone with any sense would not want to be abroad until the mist lifted. Even the beggars would not venture far until the sun broke through.
Her mind returned to the problem that haunted her as she walked, like a dog trapped on a spit wheel, endlessly turning its circle over the heat of the fire. Could it be true that Miguel Cortes was a cruel murderer? Surely not! The marquis must have lied to her. And yet there had been the ring of sincerity in his voice. He had seemed to care that Deborah might suffer some harm at the Spaniard’s hands…
She shook her head as the memory of the marquis’s dark eyes burning into hers forced its way into her conscious thoughts. He had looked so—so intense! So passionate! She could not help the little thrill of pleasure that invaded her when she remembered the way he had kissed her. But no, this must stop! It would be foolish to read too much into his kiss—or his words. She must not allow herself to think of a man who could never be anything to her.
Yet perhaps she ought to speak to her father of the marquis’s warnings? Perhaps it might be better to ask if her prospective bridegroom would agree to a period of courtship before the betrothal? She must be certain she could both like and respect the man she married.
What was that? Something behind her, close by? Deborah was suddenly alert to the sounds of footsteps in the mist, echoing eerily in the half-light. She glanced over her shoulder, realizing that she must have wandered some way from her lodgings. Engrossed in her thoughts, she had not noticed where she was going.
A shiver of apprehension ran through her as she tried to take her bearings and failed. Everything was so unfamiliar in the mist. Where was she? Which way had she turned? It had all become strange and slightly sinister.
As she stood hesitating, three burly figures loomed out of the mist towards her. Some instinct warned her that she was in danger. She gasped in fright and turned to flee but there was someone in the way—a large, tall man. She was trapped between him and the others! She gave a cry of alarm as a blanket was suddenly thrown over her from behind, covering her in a shroud of darkness.
‘No! Help! Help me…’
‘Fear not, Mistress Stirling,’ a man’s voice said close to her ear. It was a French voice, and not one she had heard before. ‘You will not be harmed. The Captain has ordered you be treated like a princess.’
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
