the Don’s men called him Le Diable, because he outran and out-fought their ships with ease, but he had never taken life wantonly, never tortured men or animals for pleasure, sparing his enemies whenever possible: there was only one man he wished to kill!
Nicholas had never taken an unwilling woman, though there had been wenches enough to warm his bed. Of late, though, Nicholas had found little satisfaction in pleasuring tavern wenches. His feelings for the lovely Isabella had been those of a gentleman for a woman he admired and respected. He had liked and cared for her, believing that such a virtuous woman would teach him the gentle ways of love.
It was Isabella’s very vulnerability that hurt Nicholas so much—that such a sweet child should have suffered so terribly at the hands of a monster! He had been told that she had screamed and begged for mercy on her knees before she died, but none had been granted.
Miguel Cortes deserved to die. Justice demanded that he pay the penalty for his dread crime! And die he should. Nicholas had sworn it and he would find a way—even if he had to pry the sniveling coward from his hiding place. Isabella’s pleas should not go unanswered.
Unbidden, on the scent of summer flowers, the memory of a young woman’s face came to Nicholas’s mind. He smiled as he recalled the spirited way she had parried his teasing. It had been obvious that she was unused to Court manners, which could be coarse and bawdy, for most women attending that day would have responded very differently to his flirting.
The King had spoken truly when he said Nicholas had only to look at the ladies of the Court to have them panting for his loving.
He was not sure why he had found Mistress Deborah Stirling so intriguing. She was beautiful, but so was her cousin Sarah Palmer. It was the obliging Mistress Palmer who had furnished him with the details of her cousin’s name and person.
Mistress Stirling was in the market for a husband. Her father was a gentleman of whom little was known at Court, though it was said he owned a goodly estate in the north—and that he was Catholic. Not something he flaunted at Court, being more discreet than many of his kind who screeched of betrayal and broken promises and made their position all the worse.
Nicholas too had been raised a Catholic, yet he had denied his faith these many months. What kind of a god would let scum like Miguel Cortes flourish when poor Isabella lay in her grave unavenged?
Not for much longer! Somehow Nicholas would find a way to tempt that monster from his lair—and then he would kill him with his own hands.
Dismissing his wayward thoughts of a girl with fire in her eyes, Nicholas put his mind to the task ahead. Henri had news for him. Perhaps at last the means to take his revenge had come within his grasp.
Perhaps Miguel Cortes had at last been driven back to sea by his frustration at having been cooped up for so long. If that were not the case, then some plan must be found to make him leave the shores of Spain.
Chapter Two
T he girl was lost in a mist…running from something that terrified her. She glanced over her shoulder, but could not see anything. Yet she knew if she stopped running it would catch her and then…
Deborah woke from her dream, shivering with fright. What could she have been thinking of to make her have such a nightmare? She usually slept peacefully and woke refreshed, but that morning the unease the dream had created seemed to stay with her as she dressed and went downstairs.
Was it that strange meeting with the Marquis de Vere the previous evening, that had prompted such dreams? No, how could it be? She laughed at herself. She had met the man but once and he could mean nothing to her. She would think of him no more.
They had come to London to enjoy themselves, and she meant to make the most of her visit. It was very unlikely that they would come again. Nor did she particularly wish for it. Oh, it was amusing at Court, and she liked to see the courtiers parading in their fine gowns, but there was too much backbiting and spite amongst them to please her.
She thought that, if she were to marry, she would like to live in the country with her friends about her. She tried to picture the man she might wed, but the only face that came to her mind was the Marquis de Vere’s. How very vexing! She was sure she did not wish to meet the rogue again.
‘Ah, there you are, daughter,’ Sir Edward said, coming out of the parlour as she reached the hall of the house where they were lodging. It was a fine house, sturdily built of brick and wood in the Tudor style, and situated near the river. Like most other houses in the street it had wooden shutters, which were firmly closed at night, and the windows were so tiny and so dark that they let little light inside. ‘I have been composing a letter to Don Manola. Señor Sanchez is to call for it this morning. Would you care to see what I have written?’
‘Thank you, Father.’ She took the letter and glanced through the elegantly phrased words. ‘I think it will do very well, sir.’
‘I shall send the small portrait I had done of you on your last birthday as a gift for Don Miguel,’ her father said, smiling at her with affection. ‘I have others and it is my intention to ask the artist to make another portrait of you when we return home. I shall want some keepsake when you leave me for your husband’s home, Deborah.’
‘Oh, Father,’ she said, her heart aching for the look of sadness in his eyes. ‘You know you will always be welcome in my home. I could not bear to part from you forever.’
‘Ah, my sweet child,’ Sir Edward replied. ‘I must not seek to hold you. You must be allowed to find happiness in a home of your own—but I admit that I shall miss you sorely.’
‘I am not married yet,’ she reminded him. She linked her arm in his, smiling up at him. ‘Now, dearest Father—pray tell me what you have planned for today?’
‘I thought we might take a little trip on the river,’ Sir Edward replied. ‘And then, after we have supped—a visit to the theatre?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Deborah smiled at him in delight, the remnants of her headache disappearing as she thought of the pleasures to come. ‘Yes, my dear Father. I think I should enjoy that above all things.’
She would forget the marquis and his impudence and she would forget her foolish dream. The next few weeks would fly by and then they would go home—whether or not they had found husbands.
‘Prithee tarry a little longer,’ Sarah begged as she poured over the fabulous wares of the silk merchant in Cheapside. ‘I cannot decide between the rose damask and the green brocade—which do you prefer, Debs?’
‘They would both suit you very well,’ Deborah replied with an indulgent smile at her cousin. ‘Why do you not order a length of each?’
‘But they are so expensive.’ Sarah stroked the soft materials under the indulgent eye of the silk merchant. ‘And I have already overspent my allowance. I do not like to ask my uncle for more.’
‘I have sufficient monies left to lend you some. Besides, my father would not think of denying you. Order both and let us away to the glovemaker. The hour grows late and I have bespoke a pair of gauntlets for Father.’
Sarah dimpled with pleasure, for in her heart she had wanted both silks. She gave her order to the merchant, who promised to deliver it within the hour to their lodgings, and, tucking her arm into Deborah’s, she willingly accompanied her cousin from the shop. The two girls walked farther down the street, then
