‘You perhaps?’ Deborah’s eyes flashed with scorn as she looked up at him.
‘No, not I, mistress,’ Nicholas replied. ‘I shall take no woman for wife while Isabella lies unavenged in her grave. I have sworn it and I do not lightly break my vow.’
‘Well, I am glad that was not your reason for trying to poison my mind with falsehoods,’ Deborah replied coldly, ‘for I should never have consented to such a match. I have listened to your words, sir, and I find them less than convincing.’ She was feeling better and more in control as she rose to her feet. Her eyes gazed up at him steadily. ‘I thank you for escorting me here, sir. I was in need of some respite after that dance. Now I ask that you leave me. I shall make my own way back when I am ready.’
‘You hate me for my plain speaking? You are perverse in refusing to accept my warning, lady. I fear you will come to regret it ere long.’
‘You have no power to arouse an emotion of any kind in me, sir,’ she replied haughtily and tossed her head. He took too much on himself! How dare he dictate to her? ‘Your warning has been made. I give you leave to go.’
To her surprise and chagrin, her regal manner did not provoke the response she imagined.
‘I see that you are feeling better.’ Nicholas grinned at her, clearly much amused. ‘Then I shall leave you as you request, my lady.’ He made her an elegant leg. ‘I regret that I was the cause of distress to you—yet I am minded to prove that you lied when you said I had no power to arouse any emotion in you.’
Before Deborah could guess what was in his mind, he reached out and caught her to him, his eyes seeming to burn into her, setting a flame leaping within her body. Then his head bent towards hers and his mouth sought hers, caressing her with a softness that took her unawares. Had his kiss been demanding or greedy she would have fought him, but its very sweetness drew an instinctive response from her. The flame his gaze had ignited became a fire roaring up from the centre of her femininity. Without realizing what she did, Deborah slid her arms up his chest to clutch at the fine fabric of his doublet, clinging to him as if she feared he might leave her.
She felt as if she were swooning, drowning in the sensations of pleasure that washed over her, and her body seemed to meld with his as if she were being absorbed into his very flesh. Never had she imagined a man’s kiss could arouse such wild longing within her, or that she would yearn for it to go on and on endlessly. She was like a leaf in a stream, wrapped about by swirling waters, carried on regardless of her will to submerge in the tide of passion he had aroused in her.
It was Nicholas who drew away at last, not Deborah. He stood staring at her for some seconds after he had let her go and the expression in his eyes was so strange—so bleak—that her heart jerked. Why did he look so—as if he were in Hell? As if some tormenting demon tore at his soul with sharp claws, making him suffer terrible pain?
For a moment she wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him, to beg him not to leave her. Then she remembered his kiss had been meant as a jest, to prove that she was a weak and foolish female he could dominate at will. He had meant to punish her, not thrill her. Her cheeks flamed and she was humiliated. How could she have been so foolish?
‘How dare you take advantage of me, sir?’
Nicholas stepped back. She thought she saw a glimmer of laughter in his eyes, then it had gone and his expression became harsh, withdrawn.
‘I should not have kissed you thus, Mistress Stirling. It was wrong and I do humbly ask your pardon.’
‘You are not forgiven, sir.’ Her eyes flashed with pride mixed with anger. ‘Please go away. I do not wish to see you or speak to you ever again.’
Nicholas knew he should go, yet still he hesitated.
‘I might persuade you to change your mind,’ he murmured, the harsh look fading as swiftly as it had come. ‘But I have not the right. I am sworn to one purpose, Mistress Stirling—to avenge the dishonour and murder of a gentle lady. Until then I can promise nothing. No matter what my mind or heart might dictate, my honour demands no less than I have sworn.’
‘I want no promises from you, sir,’ Deborah replied spiritedly. ‘I am already promised to Miguel Cortes, in honour if not yet in law. My father has given his consent to a betrothal when we reach Spain. Nothing you can say will change that. We shall leave as soon as my cousin’s wedding has taken place.’
Nicholas stared at her. ‘You are a stubborn wench, mistress. I pray you will change your mind, lest I make you a widow before ever you are a wife.’
‘You are a wicked rogue, sir!’
‘I warn you, lady. If you set sail for Spain with this intent you will never reach its shores. I take anything I can that rightly belongs to the Cortes family—and Miguel’s bride is no exception.’
With that he turned and strode away, leaving Deborah to tremble at the harshness of his last words. She stared into the shadows around her, her mind in turmoil. She felt as if she were being torn apart by conflicting emotions—anger, outrage and something more. A feeling she did not understand but which gave her much pain.
Surely the marquis had lied concerning Miguel Cortes? The man whose portrait she wore about her neck could not be the monster he had described—an evil man who tortured and killed for sheer pleasure?
No! She would not believe it. She touched the jewel at her throat with shaking fingers. Never had she seen such an angelic countenance on a man. The artist had painted a true likeness, and it was said a man’s soul could not be hid from the artist’s inner eye.
The Marquis de Vere had lied for his own personal advantage. It must be so! Perhaps, despite his denials, he wanted her for himself—for her father’s wealth. Was that not what so many at Court had seen in her, a chance for personal gain? No doubt the marquis had covetous eyes for Sir Edward’s gold. Yes, that must be it.
If it were not so, why had he forced himself on her in the dance? Why had he brought her here and kissed her in such a way that she…? A fierce heat flooded through her as she remembered her instinctive response. She had acted like a wanton, a tavern wench, willing and eager to be bedded. Shame washed over her. How could she so far have forgotten who and what she was? To let a stranger bring her to the point of surrender…
‘Deborah—are you there?’
She turned at the sound of her cousin’s voice. ‘Sarah?’
The other girl came towards her, her manner anxious as if she had been concerned. ‘So here you are…alone. Master Henderson saw you leave with…he thought you might be with the Marquis de Vere?’
‘As you see, I am alone. I was a little faint from the heat in the hall. The marquis was considerate. He brought me here and then left me to recover in peace so that I might compose myself.’ What a liar she was! Yet she could not have confessed her shame to anyone.
‘Are you ill, cousin?’
‘No, not at all.’ Deborah had recovered a measure of calmness at last. ‘It was merely the heat. I should never have danced with the marquis.’
‘Your father is almost ready to leave,’ Sarah said, her eyes curious. ‘He asked me to tell you.’
‘Yes, of course. I shall come at once. I should not have left the hall.’
‘Oh, the King left an age ago,’ Sarah replied carelessly. ‘There was no discourtesy on your part, Debs. Several ladies were near to swooning. You were not the only to take the opportunity for cooler air—though I would dare swear some had another purpose quite in mind.’ She gave Deborah a wicked look.
‘I hope you do not suspect me of seeking an assignation?’
‘The marquis is very handsome,’ Sarah replied, her eyes twinkling. ‘I should not blame you if you had taken the chance to dally a little with him.’
‘Well, you may disabuse your mind of such thoughts. It