The Bride

Chapter Three

ISABELLA WAS SETTLED on a small bit of blanket before the fire, leaning to the warmth automatically as the air became chilled with overhanging clouds. Food was doled out to the men who sat nearby, speaking among themselves, laughing at small jokes and dutifully ignoring her presence, as if their leader had deemed it to be thus.

A napkin lay in her lap, its contents representing her share of the food. The bread was torn from a loaf, apparently a knife not being judged necessary for the task. Beside it, a large chunk of yellow cheese tempted her. Cheese was a luxury in her diet, for the milk from the convent was turned into butter to be sold in the village. Now, to be offered cheese and fresh, soft bread was a treat indeed. Someone had taken this loaf from their oven only hours ago, she decided, for the bread still retained a suggestion of warmth as she picked it up and held it to her mouth.

Automatically, her eyes closed as she offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for the food—a sincere prayer, for she anticipated the treat with relish. She bit off a piece of the cheese, then bit off some bread, and chewed them together, the flavor tempting her into another tasting of the food she’d been offered.

“I’m sorry we can’t give you a better meal,” the man said, settling beside her on the ground. “We’ll be home in two days’ time and the table will be laden with good things.”

“Home?” She looked up at him, noting the harsh sound of his voice, even though his words were merely conversational, not threatening in any way. “I thought the bread and cheese were wonderful. Can your home offer better fare?”

“It doesn’t take much to please you, does it, sweetheart?”

She winced at the endearment, one she’d heard in days long ago, from her mother. “Don’t call me that, please,” she said softly. “My name is Isabella.”

“I know your name,” he said with a smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him seem more approachable. But he was a man, and therefore not to be spoken to as an equal. Men, the padre had said, were to be looked up to and honored. Women were merely put on earth for the birthing of children and the work of slaves. Then there were those who were chosen to do the work of the church. Such women were servants of the Almighty and were to be honored.

She’d seen examples of the work women were expected to perform. Indeed, she had done much of the work herself, scrubbing and cooking and pulling weeds in the gardens. The younger women, those not yet a part of the community of nuns, were given the most taxing of the chores and she wore blisters on her knees from the flagstone kitchen floor, where she had learned the meaning of scrubbing her fingers to the bone. Not literally, perhaps, but close enough to bring open sores to her fingertips.

The lye soap did not lend itself to soft skin, and her hands showed the results of frequent exposure to the strong stuff. She looked down at the dry, chapped skin that covered her hands, noting the split corners of her fingers, where occasionally blood had run from the tender flesh.

Her fists clenched, lest others might see the shameful results of hard labor, the marks that scarred her hands. She would never boast of the work she had done, but consider it her due as a woman that she be but a servant to others. A woman must at all times be silent and, as much as possible, melt into the walls, so as not to be noticed.

She’d heard the words over and over, had listened well to the women who taught her the daily lessons. A woman’s worth was gauged by the number of children she could produce for the church and give as a token of her appreciation to her husband. Her honor lay in the cleanliness of her house and her ability to be silent and do as she was told.

Now, this man who had taken her prisoner taunted her by calling her his sweetheart, a term she could never hope to attain as her own. She felt mocked by his words, and she felt resentment rise within her at his treatment.

“Isabella.” He spoke her name slowly, as if the syllables rolled over his tongue, and were relished as being of good flavor. “Bella, I think I shall call you.”

“Who are you?” she whispered, her pride seeking to know the name of her captor. “Why do you take me with you from the convent?”

“I’m Rafael McKenzie,” he said, pride touching the name as he spoke the words. “I have need of a wife, and I think you will be able to fill the place in my home that is empty.”

“A wife? What foolishness. I’ve been spoken for already. From my early years, I’ve known that my father gave me to another man and he may even now be seeking me out.”

Rafael McKenzie laughed as if her words were not of any value. “I know about Juan Garcia, my dear. But he will not have you. By the time he finds you, I’ll have established you in my home, as my wife, and he will have no chance to take you from me.”

“And if I don’t want to be your wife? What then?” Even as she spoke the words, she felt his anger touch her across the narrow space between them.

“I’m not offering you a choice. You made the decision yourself when you left with me. By that action, you gave yourself into my care, and I have chosen to make you my wife. I’ll take you to Diamond Ranch and marry you there in front of my people.”

She felt the food she had eaten rise up in her throat to choke her. Without warning, she knew her stomach would empty itself and rather than be shamed by such a thing, she rose and ran from him, seeking shelter in the trees that formed a canopy over them.

He followed fast on her heels and his hand touched her shoulder as she reached the privacy of the low bushes she sought. She jerked from him, falling to her knees as her stomach emptied itself on the ground before her.

His hands were gentle now against her shoulders. Then one slid to her stomach and she bore the indignity of his support as she bent over, her face only inches from the ground. He lifted her as the spasms ceased and held her against himself, her back warmed by the heat his body radiated. Her head fell back and touched the support of his shoulder, and she closed her eyes, feeling only the shame of her body’s betrayal.

His hand touched her mouth, a piece of fabric held against her lips and she took it from him, wiping the residue of her disgrace from her skin. Again her stomach revolted and another spasm tore through her, but he would not let her go, simply holding her securely in his embrace as she bent and spat upon the ground.

“Take a drink of water,” he said, holding a cup to her lips, and she opened her eyes to Manuel standing beside her, apparently having offered the cup for her benefit.

“Thank you.” She whispered the words beneath her breath and her fingers clenched around the rough metal of the cup. A sip of water bathed the inside of her mouth and she leaned forward to spit it upon the ground, then drank again from the vessel, this time swallowing the cool liquid. A shudder gripped her body and she felt herself slipping to the ground, but a strong arm wrapped about her waist held her upright and she dangled there in his grip.

“I’ve got you, Isabella. You’re all right now.” His whisper was one of reassurance and she could only nod as she heard his words. Her eyes were closed, the cool air seeming to revive her, for she had felt the darkness of a faint hovering over her. It seemed he would not allow her to escape him in that way, for he turned her to face him, lifting her chin a bit and then waiting for some response from her.

She resisted in the only way she could, her eyes refusing to open, her body stiff and unyielding.

“Look at me,” he said, and his voice was harsh now, as though he had lost patience with her. He drew her closer against himself, and lifted her until her feet were inches above the ground, his arm firm about her waist as she felt herself pressed against his body.

“Please, put me down,” she said, the demand sounding to her own ears more in the nature of a plea. One he heeded, for she felt the earth beneath her shoes and opened her eyes so that she could balance herself and regain some semblance of strength.

“I won’t let you go,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to fall. Just be still and take a deep breath, sweetheart.”

She found herself obeying his dictates and felt a gradual return of her usual stability, holding herself a bit apart from him. He would not loosen his firm hold, but gave her the space to move, as if he would let her find her feet and regain her pride.

“I’m all right now,” she whispered, bowing her head again as she knew a moment of uncertainty. This man had seen her weak and ailing, had held her despite her body’s rejection of the food he’d offered, and now he simply gave her the support she needed.

“I know you are. You’re a strong woman, Isabella. You’ve had a long ride this morning, and what with being taken from the only home you’ve known for a matter of years, you’re weary and confused. And then I’ve forced you to ride before me, forced you to allow my touch on your body. Something I feel you have not experienced before.” He bent to her, tracing the lines of her forehead with his lips.

“I’ve given you a bad time, haven’t I?”

“I’m glad you admit at least that much,” she said with a trace of haughtiness she hadn’t known she possessed. Gone was the weak-willed girl who had disgraced herself just moments ago. She felt now the strength of a woman pouring through her veins, and she stood erect, as though she had been offered a chance at freedom.

“I came with you willingly, but only because you seemed to offer the best chance I had at leaving the convent, lest the arrival of Juan Garcia should occur, for I knew he would be coming for me. The convent is my home and I would have become one of the Sisters of Charity were things different.” She looked up at him, meeting his hard gaze with certainty. “I am not ready to be a bride. I won’t marry anyone. Not you, not Señor Garcia. I couldn’t face the thought of speaking marriage vows with him almost five years ago when I entered the convent, and I still can’t.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my love,” he said mockingly. “You will say your vows in the chapel at Diamond Ranch. Whether you feel ready for it or not, you’ll marry me. And before Señor Garcia can claim you, you will be my bride, my wife.”

And I will cherish you, body and soul. He pondered the words that begged to be spoken to her, wondering for a moment where such poetry had come from.

For Rafael McKenzie was not given to spouting words that described soft emotions. Yet, this girl, this woman he had claimed as his own, had already forged a place for herself within his life.

Rafael inhaled her fragrance and knew it for what it was—a combination of soap and fresh, clean skin. And beneath it the underlying aroma of woman; that sweet, sometimes pungent scent that lent tenderness to his touch, desire to his thoughts. He was not a stranger to desire or passion, but felt now a softer strain of the emotions he associated with the females he had known.

For Isabella aroused in him the knowledge that she was what he had yearned for, that her flesh would be like nectar to his senses, her skin softer than any he had touched. Her mouth would give him pleasure, her arms a refuge against the harshness of life and her body would offer itself as a vessel for his sons.

No matter that he married at the behest of his father, that the ceremony was a necessity before he could inherit his destiny, he would have chosen Isabella Montgomery from all the women in the world, once he had seen her, once his hands had held her finely boned form in his grasp. She appealed to the depths of his soul, the part of him that sought out beauty and purity. For she was clean, fresh and all that was lovely.

The task of winning her heart would not be without difficulty, but the arrogant soul of Rafael McKenzie soared as he thought of the path he would take to accomplish that end. He would use kindness as a tool, tender touches as a means to an end and his natural urges to conquer would be held in abeyance, his desire would be curtailed until she was his bride, his wife.

And then…and then, he would claim her, know her in the most intimate sense, and she would be his.

He bent closer to her and his whisper was soft, coaxing in her ear. “You will be mine, Isabella. My bride. My wife.”

My bride. My wife. The words resounded within her and Isabella found them unacceptable. The movement of her head was a rebuttal of his words, one that seemed to amuse him, for he laughed aloud. “You have no choice, sweetheart. Once you’re mine, once I’ve taken you to my bed, the fine señor will no longer be interested in you. He bargained for a young girl, a virgin. And you will no longer be able to claim that title.”

“I’ve known no man,” she said quietly. “My virtue is to be given only to the man I marry, the man I choose.”

“You chose me when you walked out of the convent,” he told her, and the words rang with conviction. “You will be my wife.”

“Would you take a woman to your bed who is not willing?” she asked, daring a look into mysterious eyes that seemed to search her secrets out.

He smiled darkly, and yet she caught a glimpse of warmth glittering in those black eyes that met hers. “You will be willing. I guarantee it.” He pulled her against himself, her head cupped in his big hand, pressed tightly to his chest. “Rest easy a moment, and then I will give you something to drink that will settle your stomach.”

She breathed deeply, fighting the incipient dizziness that gripped her. “I must sit down,” she whispered. “I feel faint.”

Her lifted her instead, carrying her to a rude shelter formed by tree branches that bent to afford a private place. He leaned forward to deposit her slight form on a blanket, a folded bit of fabric, perhaps a shirt, placed beneath her head, and then hovered over her, this man who had so changed her life in the past hours. He brushed back stray wisps of hair from her forehead, his fingers tangling in the covering that hid the dark locks of hair from his sight. With a gentle movement, he pulled it from her, tossing it aside, leaving her hair open to his view. Even tangled and matted against her head, it captured the light and glowed with a deep beauty he admired.

His fingers raked through its length, and he gentled his touch, fearful of pulling it and causing pain, but she lay quietly beneath his hands, her eyes half-open, yet her gaze never leaving him, watching him closely, as if she would shield herself from his presence. Beside him, Manuel appeared, holding forth a cup, tendering it to Rafael with a look in her direction, as if he would beg her to accept his offering.

Rafael took it from him and his query was silent as he looked into her eyes. She read it clearly in the questioning look he gave her and nodded, a slight movement of her head. With a smile, Rafael bent closer.

“Thank you, Manuel. This isn’t too hot for her, is it?” he asked, lifting the cup to his own lips before offering it to Isabella. He tasted it as Manuel shook his head, and then handed it to her. “It won’t burn you, sweetheart. It’s coffee. Drink a bit.”

She wrinkled her nose at the scent of the strong brew. “I’m not fond of the stuff,” she said. “Do you have tea?” And then she almost laughed as she thought of the foolishness of her request. “No, of course you don’t,” she whispered, reaching to touch the cup he’d offered.

A small sip passed her lips and she swallowed it obediently as he urged her compliance. It lay strong and warm in her stomach and she felt a bit of the heat travel through her, as if she’d been chilled and now was being warmed from the inside out. Another swallow followed the first and she leaned her head back, away from the cup as he would have urged her to drink more.

“Enough for now,” she murmured, inhaling deeply and finding herself leaning against him, his arm beneath her shoulders, his body hovering over hers.

“We’ll stay here for a bit, give you a chance to rest,” he told her, and she only nodded, unable to speak the words that would have rushed from her lips.

Where was he taking her? Why did he want her…why her and not any other woman? She heard the words in her head, but found them impossible to speak aloud, and only shivered as she delivered herself into his hands.

Rafael watched her slip into unconsciousness, not a faint as he’d feared, but a sleep that seemed to claim her suddenly, as though she could not face the next moment of her future without her body’s natural sleep to give her strength. She breathed deeply, her muscles limp against his support, her head falling to one side, her neck appearing as a slender stalk. He touched her cheek with his index finger, brushing a bit of dust from the fragile skin, and then he bent to brush his lips over the same place, tasting the fine-pored texture with a whisk of his tongue.

She was sweet, untouched, a woman of virtue, and he felt exultation sweep over him as he considered what her presence would mean in his home. She would bear children to fill the empty rooms, she would be at his side, night and day, and she would be a proud, beautiful addition to the Diamond Ranch.

His venture had been successful beyond his wildest dreams, for she was his now, his possession, the woman he had sought for so long.

THEY SET OFF AGAIN late in the afternoon, a time when they should have been seeking shelter for the night. They would ride until dark, then find a shelter, she’d heard Rafael tell his men. Silently, she sat before him on the big horse, riding easily, her weight against his thighs, her waist encircled by his arm.

His stallion had an easy gait, one she found no difficulty adjusting to, for she had ridden during her early years, her own horse a mare, much smaller than the mount she traveled on today. She thought of the small bay mare now, wishing for a foolish moment that she might be even now in her own saddle, heading for the hacienda where she’d spent her childhood.

But no longer would she live there in the shadow of the mountains, where cattle spread across the acres of her father’s land. The land that was perhaps under the guidance of another. With her disappearance from the convent, her father’s lawyer would be in the midst of a dilemma, for he had no idea where she was. Perhaps this man, this Rafael, would contact the lawyer and she would be able to claim the land left to her. All it had gained her thus far was the knowledge that some small part of her father’s legacy had been spent on her care at the convent.

She yearned now for the familiar place where she’d been born, where her childhood years had been spent in the company of Clara, the cook, the woman who had loved her and tended her after her mother’s death over ten years ago. She recalled those days of her childhood, remembering the faint images of her mother that still lived in her mind. The times she had spent with the woman who had borne her and loved her.

For hours on end her mother had told her of her future, the man she would come to love, the family she would have, the children her husband would give her. It had been a much-loved story, one she had dreamed of as a child, living on the ranch, growing up there.

Amazing that even as a child, such a life was all she had ever yearned for. That the thought of marriage had so appealed to her, with an unknown man, sharing his home with her, his love for her already taken for granted.

It had not come about as her mother promised, for now she was still a girl, not yet twenty, and the man who held her against himself was a stranger, certainly not a man her mother would have chosen. And for a moment, Isabella was glad that her mother was gone, for her plight now would bring only heartbreak to any mother whose child was in danger.

The horses slowed their speed, their canter changing to a trot, which left Isabella in discomfort, for she could not adjust herself to the harsh gait without anything to steady her in the saddle, only the man’s right hand on his reins, his left arm snug around her middle.

“We’ll stop before long,” Rafael said, his voice low against her ear as they turned from one road to another, this one more of a trail, with only two tracks forming the way. There were tracks where buggies or wagons had traveled through the mud of the rainy season, making deep wedges in the dirt.

His horse walked now, on the grass at the side of the double track, his men following his example, one of them calling out suddenly as he pointed to the west.

“Over there, Rafael. There’s a barn for shelter. Perhaps not in good shape, but fit for a night’s stay.”

“Yes.” With but a single word, Rafael agreed to his man’s signal and turned his stallion toward the building that sat on the horizon, alone in a place where there should have been a house, perhaps, or outbuildings of some sort. As they traveled closer, Isabella saw the reason for the barn’s singular desolation, for the burned ribs of a house stood beyond the dilapidated building, and several smaller sheds stood empty between the barn and the former house that had long since burned.

“There’s no one about. No one to ask permission of, so we’ll just camp here,” he said to his men, slowing his stallion as they rode ahead and dismounted before the barn. One opened the big door, a task almost too much for one man, for the door seemed to have been in its tracks for a long time.

Yet, once it was opened, a cat strolled out from the dim depths of the building, as if she’d been disturbed from a nap and had come to greet the newcomers.

“At least it should be relatively mouse-free,” Rafael said with a smothered laugh. He rode past the gray-and-white creature who had paused to wash her paws in the middle of the doorway, and grudgingly moved a bit as the big hooves of the stallion stirred up the dust beside her.

“You don’t frighten her,” Manuel told the horse, rubbing the long nose with a gentle hand. “She’s a spunky one.”

“Very like the one on my lap,” Rafael told him quickly. His arm tightened as Isabella jolted angrily at his gibe.

“Let me down,” she said cuttingly. “I need to find some privacy.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said coolly. “Privacy is in short supply. You can look for a corner to use, but in my sight.”

She shivered at his words. “You don’t mean that.”

“Ah, but I do,” he answered, loosening his arm from her middle as he slid from his saddle with an ease of movement she envied. Her legs were stiff, her back sore from forcing herself to sit upright for hours on end, and she wasn’t sure she had any feeling in her feet, so numb were they from hanging loose on either side of his stallion.

He reached for her and lifted her down, standing her upright before himself, not releasing his hold on her until she jerked from his touch.

“I don’t want you to fall,” he said quietly. “Don’t push me away.”

“Just turn me loose,” she said, her words a plea, as she looked about the interior of the barn, seeking a spot where she might find privacy. A back door hung ajar, opening onto a flat area, perhaps a corral, she thought, so she began making her way in that direction. His hand held her arm and he walked beside her, closely, as though ready to catch her if she should falter.