The Bride

No matter that it might be her own choice that had brought her here.

He walked slowly toward his destination, intent on gathering his clothing, his pack of belongings and seeking out Isabella’s whereabouts. The cell where he’d slept was small and unadorned, a stark example of the usual accommodations here, he was certain, for every room he passed seemed to be formed of the same components as his own private cubicle. And such was no doubt the type of place where the object of his search slept. He envisioned her in a white gown, engulfed in yards of cotton fabric, lying on a virginal bed, probably not any softer than the one he had arisen from just an hour since. She slept alone, of that he was certain. For the look on her face was that of a woman unawakened.

The long hall leading off to his right was the dining room, he recalled, and thinking of the breakfast that would fill the empty place in his middle, he went through the doorway and found a seat at the end of the table. The front of the room seemed to be reserved for those who lived in this place, the robed figures looking much alike to his undiscerning eye.

Except for the girl who sat across the table from him, perhaps twenty-five feet distant, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast, as if she prayed for the food she hoped to find before her.

His own bowl of porridge arrived within minutes, and he looked around for guidance as to whether or not he should commence eating or perhaps wait until some robed figure would pronounce his food fit for consumption. Saying grace over his food was not unknown to him, for his parents had duly blessed each and every repast that graced their dining room table in his youth, and he was not averse to such a thing taking place now. Except for the fact that the porridge bowl already felt barely lukewarm, and as such, did not merit a prayer spoken over its contents. Aware that his thoughts were not suitable here, he sought to tame their wayward direction and concentrate instead on the goodwill of those who had allowed his presence here last night. For though they had demanded, and received, a suitable recompense for his stay, he had not been turned away, but treated as any other traveler seeking lodging for the night.

Rafael was not any other traveler, but a man who had sought out this convent with purpose in his mind. A man who owned the loyalty of three men who even now watched from a wooded area close by, awaiting a signal from him.

A signal that would prompt those men forth to assist in his mission of taking Isabella Montgomery from this place. She was a rare combination of Irish and Spanish descent, the last of a long line of Spanish aristocracy, the female who held within her the possibility of a child who would take up the reins of his family’s holdings and become a man of wealth and the founder of a dynasty. A woman who might be persuaded to take her place at the Diamond Ranch, where bloodlines were strong and children were born to inherit.

But to bear such a child, the woman in question would first need to be mated to a man of strength and honor. A man who stood to come into a great inheritance, one which would provide him and his children with wealth and honor. Rafael was such a man.

Chapter Two

AN ASSORTMENT OF TRAVELERS sought out their various modes of transport in the morning light. In the courtyard, men mounted horses, climbed into carriages and left the gates of the convent. Leaving behind their coins, most of which would find their way into the pockets of the priest, with only enough gold provided to ensure that the women who labored there were decently fed and clothed.

Theirs was not a life of luxury, but of service, and as such, they did not complain, but lived in anticipation of a future reward.

Isabella was not among those who had such high-flown ambitions. Her future stretched out before her, a blank page on which she hoped to write a vision that included a home and family. But Father Joseph had told her just recently that she was destined to be a nun, and she had nodded readily, lest she be confined to her cell, from which she might never find escape. And perhaps becoming one of the sisters here would be her chosen fate, for anything would be preferable to marriage to the wrong man.

From the narrow window through which she observed the courtyard, her eyes sought out the man who had spent the night in a room in the corridor of guests. A tall man upon a dark horse with silver on bridle and saddle alike, who had scorned the lukewarm bowl of porridge served for his breakfast. A man of dark hair and eyes, a man of masculine beauty, his features sharply honed. Garbed in black, his trousers and shirt of some fine fabric, his hat molded by strong hands before he placed it on his head, he was by far the most interesting part of her week. Perhaps her year, she thought with a smile. Would that Juan Garcia’s looks might match this man.

His gaze touched upon the building from which she watched and his eyes flashed as they narrowed on the empty windows of the long series of cells, then settled on the space behind which she stood. With a start of recognition, she caught his change of expression, the almost imperceptible tightening of his lips, the hardening of his jaw.

He looked upon the men who readied their horses for travel, who led pack animals from the barns into the area where their leaving would take place. Then, with a swift glance that touched upon the narrow slit of her cell window, he looked through the open gates, toward the woods just beyond the convent proper, and nodded his head.

A message to someone waiting there? A warning, perhaps? With a casual movement he looked back to where she stood within her cell and his eyes lit with a message she had no chance to decipher.

She was still, silent, almost forgetting to breathe as she watched his approach, saw the tightening of his grip on the reins that lay across his horse’s neck. It was a moment of anticipation so great she could scarcely stand quietly where she was, knowing he saw her, aware of his questing gaze upon the place where she stood.

Another man approached him, riding through the gate, then angling his mount to approach and converse with the tall stranger. With a nod, as if accepting a mission, the second man rode to the door of the convent. Dismounting, he strode to the portal and rang the bell. It resounded through the halls, announcing a visitor, an event not unheard of in this place where travelers often found their rest.

But not in the middle of the morning.

The door was swung open, and Sister Agnes Mary stood framed in the archway, her mouth dropping open in shock at whatever words she heard spoken by the man before her. Stepping back, she was followed by the messenger, even as the man who had given him his instructions watched, sitting tall and silent atop his horse.

And then he moved, his horse following some unseen signal, walking directly across the courtyard to where the window of her cell exposed her to his sight. She stepped back, but he only smiled, an arrogant arrangement of his lips that held a measure of amusement. Unnoticed by the men milling in the courtyard, he directed his mount to stand beneath her window and his voice was low, but commanding, as he spoke a few words.

“I am Rafael McKenzie. Be ready.”

Her lips moved, but her words were silent. Ready for what?

That his charge was directed at her was without question, for his gaze touched her, seared her with heat and beckoned her to listen.

“The door of your room will open,” he said, his lips unmoving as the sound of his words reached her. “Go with Manuel. He will bring you to me.”

She stood transfixed by fear, or perhaps hope. If this man, this stranger, could free her from this place and from fear of Juan Garcia’s arrival, she would go with him. Whatever the destination he planned for her, she would ride with him through the gates of the convent, then down the road and past the town of San Felipe to the open country beyond.

The door to her cell opened silently, only a slight draft from the corridor giving notice that someone stood behind her. Turning, she looked into the eyes of Sister Agnes Mary, those kind, calm windows into the soul of a nun dedicated to her calling.

And then the man in the shadows spoke. “I am Manuel. You will come with me.”

Without hesitation, Isabella reached for her shawl, a luxury she used at night when the air was chilly, one she felt might be a necessity today. Sister Agnes Mary lifted her brows in silent query as she stepped into the small room, but the man behind her did not make any explanations for his act, only pushed her with a gentle hand toward the narrow cot.

“Sit, Sister,” he said, his voice soft, almost kindly, as if he respected the woman’s position here. Without repeating his command to Isabella, he held out his hand to her, fingers long, straight and clean, and she gripped it with her own smaller hand, feeling her bones engulfed in his greater strength.

Leaving the room, closing the door with an almost silent click of the latch, he led her from the building, his steps long and swift, hers—of necessity—quicker, lest he drag her across the floor. The soft slippers she wore kicked up clouds of dust behind her as she walked, and Manuel looked down at them, as if judging them not sturdy enough for the events of this day.

The outer door stood open and they crossed the threshold, where the tall stranger awaited them. With little finesse, she was lifted by the man who led her, her waist seized in his grip as he stepped closer to the black horse, giving her over to the hands of the man whose words she had obeyed.

Go with Manuel. He will bring you to me.

And so he had. Brought her to this man who gave her no promise of safety, but with whom she felt secure, whose firm touch she trusted, whose dark eyes she met calmly, her whole being filled with trembling anticipation. She knew her shivers were obvious to the man beside her, who lifted her so easily, and was even more aware that her quaking flesh was readily felt by the man who received her into his hold atop the dark horse.

He settled her across his thighs, holding her firmly, carefully, as if he would not insult her by careless handling, and she felt herself leaning against him without hesitation.

“Good girl.” The words were soft, spoken in the same dark voice, again carrying no farther than her hearing, as if they existed in a place where no other could interfere.

“Where—” The word was whispered, then silenced by his hand against her waist, offering a compelling tightening of her diaphragm that forbade speech.

“Silence.” Again he spoke, the single word touching her ear as a whisper, and she was mute, not out of fear, but with acknowledgment that he was to be respected and obeyed. His arms around her were long, his hand lifted the reins easily from where they had been left over the saddle horn. His fingers twined in the leather in an automatic gesture, and the horse moved toward the gate at some unheard signal.

The wooden sign that designated this place as the Convent of the Sisters of Charity swung in the breeze over her head as she found herself passing beneath it. With a sidelong glance, she watched as two other men emerged from the wooded area to join the horse she rode upon, and noted the dull gleam of rifle barrels that were slung over their saddles. Her own mount, the horse she shared with the stranger, carried a leather scabbard that bore its own weapon.

Leather holsters were tied to the men’s thighs, their contents looking dangerous and worthy of her respect. Two men rode abreast, then behind them her captor, his mount elegant in black leather tack, silver gleaming from saddle and bridle.

Manuel fell in place as the rear guard, a position he apparently took pride in, for his own weapon was a mark of his role, lying across his thighs, ready for use. His hat was pulled low over his forehead as he searched the horizon and then turned his horse to check from whence they had come. His appearance was that of a trusted man, one who could be relied on to do his master’s bidding without hesitation. One who would stand at his master’s back, defending the man he served.

She watched the men who surrounded her, for the first time in years in close contact with the other half of the world. Men, the species almost unknown to her…For at fourteen, she had been but a child, almost unaware of the staff who worked and lived at her father’s hacienda, all but the cook, who treated her as a child of her own.

Now the horse beneath her moved briskly, silently, only the sound of leather creaking and the low whinny of one of the packhorses filling her ears. The woods surrounded them—ahead lay the road to the village, behind them the convent, and here, riding a black monster of a horse, she was at the mercy of a man whose instructions she had followed as a child might obey a parent.

At that thought, she almost laughed, swallowing the unexpected mirth that begged to be spilled from her lips, recognizing her position as being far from that of a child. She was a woman, perhaps not in experience, but certainly in years, for at her age many young women had wed and produced a family.

The changing of her body had been gradual over the past years, but definite. No longer a child of scrawny proportions, she bore the attributes of a female approaching adulthood. Breasts that seemed too large for her slender body, a smattering of body hair in various places that made her wonder at its appearance and the monthly cycle that the nuns told her was the proof of her fertility.

She had been taught well by the nuns, told of the use of her various body parts, and the reason for the changes she wondered at. And had sometimes thought of her father’s plan for her future. With his death she’d initially felt a sense of relief that she no longer would face marriage to a man thirty years her senior, a man who had looked at her with eyes that burned and searched out her secrets.

But now, she feared Juan Garcia’s arrival. So long as he did not know where she had gone, she was safe from him.

“Did Garcia send you?” she asked, as that unwelcome thought entered her mind.

The man behind her laughed, a harsh sound, and his firm, negative word of reply somehow reassured her.

But, she realized, she lived now with a danger that might prove even greater than that of Juan Garcia. The man who held her against his body was the present. The future was yet to come. And with a sudden burst of insight, she recognized that her future might not be set in stone…yet. Though her captor might consider her his property, she was a free woman, until such time as he delivered her to the destination he had in mind. If she could find a way to escape him, she might yet choose her own way, might even find a life that would be pleasing to her.

A life of her own. One not dictated by the strong arm that held her against her captor. Her captor? Or perhaps the man who had rescued her from the certainty of marriage to Juan Garcia, unknowingly giving her the opportunity to seek another fate.

The rider ahead of her, on her left, a man Rafael had called Jose, turned his horse to the side as they reached the center of the small village, and the other two horsemen continued on without him. She was silent, not wanting to be hushed by her captor’s stern voice, should she be so bold as to ask their destination.

As if he sensed her need, the man who called himself Rafael bent his head and whispered words against her ear. “We will stop just ahead, to eat. Jose will bring food from the general store in the village.”

She nodded. They had traveled only an hour, perhaps two, for the village was more than five miles from the convent, and she felt the need for sustenance. The breakfast porridge had been bland, almost tasteless, and the milk warm, not fit for consumption. Sister Ruth Marie had told her only a week or so ago that she must eat more, for her clothing was loose and in danger of falling from her without the aid of a braided rope about her middle. Apparently the goal of the sisters was to make her as round and rosy as they all appeared to be fashioned beneath their robes.

But no longer. Now she would eat as she pleased, as much or little as suited her, and the sound of that silent vow of independence pleased her, as she straightened in the grip of her captor.

Another mile or so found them within a grove of trees, and she looked about her at the shaded clearing where the sun did not shine. Overhead, the trees lifted heavy branches to the sky and only an occasional bit of glittering sun peeked through the leafy roof.

She lifted her chin, daring a look at the man who held her. “Who are you? How did you know where to find me?” Surely that was not her voice, that low, sultry sound that pierced the silence.

He bent his head to her and his eyes traveled over her face, past the pale skin of her forehead and cheeks to the barely exposed flesh of her throat. She felt the piercing of his dark gaze, knew a moment of fear as his mouth tightened and his jaw clenched.

“More importantly, who are you?” he returned, his tone one she could not deny. “I came to the convent seeking you out, for you are a woman I’d heard of, and I would know if you are the one whose name is Isabella Montgomery.”

“Yes, I’m Isabella,” she said, wondering as she did so how he had heard of her. And somehow, she found the courage to ask him the question that begged an answer.

He listened to her halting query and smiled, an expression that softened his features and brought a strange beauty to his face. “I’ve heard, over the past year, stories of a young girl whose beauty rivals that of the loveliest of women, a virgin who was being readied as a bride. There were travelers who had slept in cells at the convent during their journey, men who spoke of a young woman they had seen. I listened to several such men, heard their tales of a fragile girl who would be given to an old man, whose father had sold her betrothal to gain a fortune. And I could not bear that such a thing would come to pass, Isabella. I knew I must see for myself the creature described to me as a young woman of good family, a girl with beauty and grace, one fit for the task of becoming mistress of Diamond Ranch.”

Her chin tilted upward, a defiant signal that gave him pleasure. “And you felt it was your right to claim me? Even though I was not free to be your wife? Knowing that I was betrothed to another, you took me from the convent and now you will force me to be your wife?”

She thought he looked relieved, pleased perhaps, as he spoke again. “You have courage, Isabella, to speak to me with such a lack of fear. And yet, even knowing that you would will it otherwise, I have to admit the truth of what you say.

“I was told you were a beauty, a woman untouched, meant for marriage to a man who will no longer be able to claim you.”

“Who told you all these things?” She felt her breath catch, stunned that her name had been bandied about in the hearing of strangers. Wondering that Juan Garcia’s claim on her was of such general knowledge.

“That’s not important for now,” he said, lifting one hand to touch her cheek, as if testing the skin, then brushing against her temple, leaving a heated memory behind as he dropped his palm to rest against her thigh.

“You haven’t the right to touch me,” she said, looking down at the tanned hand that lay against her habit. Never had a man been so familiar with her and she felt a strange, heated curiosity at his presumption, acting as though he had the authority to lay his hand against her if he so willed. She turned her head to look up into his face, aware of the harsh lines of his jaw, the firm set of his mouth and the heated intensity of his eyes as they met hers.

“I think you have little to say about what I do, Isabella Montgomery. I’m the man in charge here, and if I desire to touch you, I will.” He allowed his hand to squeeze gently against her leg, fingers pressing into the tender flesh, and she winced. He laughed, a soft sound that mocked her reaction.

“I didn’t hurt you. Don’t pretend that I did. I only made you aware that I answer to no one. You are mine and I will control what happens to you.”

“I’ll have bruises to show for your hands upon me,” she said, and for the first time felt a harsh pang of fear strike at her depths. He might give her more than a few simple bruises, he might rob her of her most cherished possession, with not a thought of the consequences to her future. For the nuns had told her that her chastity made her of great value to her future husband.

Ahead of them lay a clearing, where a bend in the road swerved to miss a stand of trees. Just beyond the oak grove, he turned his horse toward a grassy expanse. The sun shone down on the sylvan glen with a brilliance she suddenly craved to feel against her skin. Perhaps only the skin of her hands and face would be exposed, but she would revel in the warmth.

The other men joined him, one of them turning to take her weight in his able grip. He was a big man, not a Mexican, as were the other two, but red-haired, with freckled skin. He was unsmiling, but nodded as she was lifted from the perch she’d held over the past hours and lowered into his hands.

“I’m Matthew,” he murmured quietly. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t drop you.” His voice was low, his words reassuring, as he set her on her feet and held her immobile for a moment, until she could catch her balance.

From above her, the man still in the saddle cleared his throat. “Turn her loose, Matthew. She can lean against the horse if she feels wobbly.”

She thought Matthew’s hands left her reluctantly, and as he stepped away, she detected a look of apology on his face. And then her thoughts were taken up with the weakness she felt in her legs, the ache in her back from the unnatural position she had held for the past hours. She looked up quickly as the man above her moved.

“I’ve got you.” Rafael McKenzie touched the ground with his left foot, dismounting from his horse, and reached to steady Isabella. His hand gripped her shoulder and she tensed against his fingertips. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her firmly. “All you have to do is behave yourself and you’ll be fine.”

She turned her head, her eyes dark brown, looking to him like a fine piece of velvet. “I resent you telling me to behave. You’ve taken me against my wishes, and now I’m supposed to be agreeable to it.”

“You didn’t fight me off when I sent Manuel to get you. You were agreeable enough then.” His smile was amused as he looked down into her puzzled expression. “Why all the fuss now?”

Her eyes glittered with anger and he admired her spirit, even as he recognized that she stood no chance of fighting against him, especially not with three other men along to help him keep the peace.

“You’ve never heard a fuss raised, mister. I’m trying to be polite, trying not to get you angry enough so you’ll beat me or—”

Her voice broke off, as though the words she’d thought to toss in his face were unspeakable, threats of such a vile nature, she could not stand their flavor on her tongue.

“If you want me to raise a fuss, I can do that,” she said after a moment of silence, during which he watched her complexion redden with fury and then, as if she recognized her helplessness against four men, her voice failed, her mouth thinned and a waxen pallor touched her features.

If he knew anything about women, she was about two breaths from a dead faint, and he found himself almost wishing unconsciousness might claim her, at least until he could determine his strategy.

For, truth to tell, his trek to the convent had been one of impulse, his aim that of a man in search of a bride. That she was not being readied to be his bride was a small matter, one he would tend to when the time came.

And the time had come. His father had smiled at his words of intent, perhaps remembering his own marriage, one he’d forced upon a woman who later formed half of a perfect union. At any rate, he’d been pleased at Rafael’s plan to claim his bride in such a fashion. And Rafael was certain that his choice was right for him.