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…’
‘Miguel Cortes has the face of an angel and the soul of the blackest demon this side of Hell,’ Henri said. ‘Isabella was not the only woman to have suffered at his hands—though perhaps the most vulnerable since she was innocent, little more than a child.’
‘Isabella…’ Deborah looked at him, an unconscious appeal in her eyes. ‘Who was she? Please tell me about her?’
‘Isabella Rodrigues was a young woman of good family but no fortune. She was betrothed to Nico for three months. Her parents were both dead, her grandfather too old to take proper care of her—or to exact revenge for what was done to her…’
Henri paused as if he found the tale too horrific to relate. ‘Miguel Cortes saw her visiting the church a month before her wedding. She had refused his courtship some months earlier and the resentment must have festered inside him. He followed her as she walked home through her grandfather’s orange groves and then…’ His mouth twisted with disgust. ‘Nico has sworn to take the life of the monster that subjected her to such a terrible ordeal that day.’
Deborah felt the sickness rise in her throat. The horror of the tale just unfolded to her was swirling inside her, and she seemed to see the young girl’s struggle to fight off her attacker and hear her pitiful cries. She pressed a shaking hand to her lips, as she fought off the terrible images. Henri’s story had been so harrowing that she could almost wish it untold.