Carolyn Davidson - The Bride

Surely she could sense his need for her, certainly she knew that he had clamped an iron hand on his desire, that he would not harm her, nor cause her shame before his men. And to that end, he whispered soft words again, assuring her of his care of her, promising her safety and the shelter of his arms against all harm.

Isabella was held for the first time in her life by a man whose aim seemed to be the conquering of her body, yet he gave her vocal assurance that he would not harm her, but keep her safe. And she believed him for this moment in time; she heard his words and trusted that he would do as he said.

If he’d threatened to take her body as a man takes a woman, she would believe that also, for he was a man who spoke his thoughts aloud, and she knew that sometime in her future, he would claim her as his woman. But not tonight. Not here in the silence of the hayloft, where other men slept and watched for intruders. Where he had set up a form of protection for her until the morning.

It was with a shattered sense of security that she slept. And in her dreams, she knew a man was nearby, knew the warmth of arms about her, sensed the long length of his form beside her and his breathing touching her face in the night hours. She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer that she might be safe until morning, that the night would not bring a terror to engulf her, that her captor would not turn against her and use her for his own pleasure.

THE SUN SHONE IN THROUGH the open window, scattering its warmth on the men who lay on piles of hay, on the woman who was wrapped securely in a blanket nearby, the man beside her awake and waiting till she should stir.

She slept deeply and he was pleased, for had she not felt secure with him, her sleep would have been broken, her eyes wild with fear, and he would have fought for the whole night to keep her quiet and secure in his arms.

Now a lone rooster crowed, his voice seeming rusty, as if he were not accustomed to serving as an alarm to nearby sleepers. Rafael rolled from his place, rose and stalked to the open window, looking down on the yard below. Three hens and a red rooster pecked in the dirt, seeking out a breakfast that promised to be scant, given the sad state of affairs on this abandoned farm. Again the rooster crowed, tossing his head back and issuing his call to the morning.

Behind him, Rafael heard the rustle of the hay, the murmur of a woman’s voice as she left the darkness of sleep and fought to face the new day. He turned, his eyes caught by the dark hair that was revealed by the blanket that fell to her waist, hair that had been bound yesterday, but now had escaped its bondage and spilled over her shoulders and down to the hay behind her, forming a frame for the delicacy of her face and throat. She was fine-featured, her eyes were large and dark, with violet shadows beneath. And yet she seemed rested. He knew she had slept well, for he’d held her throughout the night, had heard her soft murmurs as she dreamed, knew when she’d been tortured by a nightmare. He’d inhaled deeply, intrigued by the fresh scent she bore, that of clean skin and hair, and more importantly, the aura of femininity that surrounded her.

Now he went to her, squatting beside her as she attempted to awaken, rubbing her eyes with long, slender fingers, then, threading those same fingers through her hair, bringing it to some semblance of order. “I have no brush and my clothing is soiled,” she said softly. “Is there any way I can find something clean to wear?”

He wished for a moment he could wave his hand and create all she needed, bring to view the clothing she might wear, the hot water she might use for a bath. But there was no point in being foolish, he decided, for this morning was reality and what he considered was but a luxury he had no way of providing.

“We’ll stop in the next village and find you something to wear,” he said, compromising a bit. “There should be a general store, somewhere we can find food, perhaps a hotel or restaurant of some sort.” He bent to her and pulled the blanket from her, revealing the gray dress she wore, rucked up now about her thighs, exposing her legs to his view. She flushed, her hands moving quickly to pull the fabric down, unwilling to allow his eyes to dwell on her limbs.

“I’ll help you up,” he offered, clasping her hands in his and pulling her to her feet, rising before her as he did so. She swayed for a moment, and he held her firmly, lest she fall. “We’ll go downstairs into the barn, and I’ll send Manuel to see if the pump works at the watering trough.”

She only nodded, as if speech were beyond her this morning, and turned to climb down the ladder to the floor below. He followed her, watched as Manuel grasped her arm, helping her down the last rung of the ladder. Noting his quick look of reproof, Manuel shot him an apologetic glance and backed away, bowing a bit.

“I’ll see to the pump.” Scooping up a canteen from his saddle, Manuel went outdoors to where the pitcher pump was bolted onto the end of the trough. He allowed a cupful or so of water to trickle into the opening at the top and then took the handle in his other hand and put his strength behind his actions, pumping vigorously for a moment. In less time than she’d expected, Isabella saw a stream of water run out into the trough, and heard Manuel’s shout of success.

She went across the yard, bent low to scoop the water that flowed into her hands, then brought it to her mouth, drinking deeply of the clear liquid. Again she waited as a double handful filled her cupped palms, and again she drank. A third time, she bent low and splashed water over her face, running her hands through her hair, dampening the waves and curls to discourage their tendency to fly free of restraint.

With quick movements of her fingers, she braided the length of hair, twisting a bit of twine around the end of the braid. Her clothing was splattered with water, but she cared little for appearances, noting that clean water would certainly not harm the dirt she’d accumulated over the past twenty-four hours. Her habit was soiled, wrinkled and not fit to wear, but it was all she possessed for the moment, and until Rafael McKenzie could find something else for her use, it would have to do.

From the barn behind her, the men led their horses, saddled them quickly and waited for Rafael to mount his own stallion before they took their places. He swept himself up into the saddle easily, then looked to where Isabella watched him, her eyes wary of the horse who pranced and tossed his head.

“Come.” He held out his hand to her and waited. Lest she make him angry, she walked closer to the horse, leaving room for a quick escape should the animal offer her any harm. “Give me your hand,” Rafael said, the words an order he obviously meant for her to obey, for his own gloved hand reached for her.

He’d buried his head in the watering trough, and the result allowed her to see clearly the shape of his skull, the dark hair fitting closely to each curve of his head, his face gleaming in the sunshine from the water he’d splashed on every available surface he could reach. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms still damp from the bath he’d given himself, and she thought he was a man to be feared, his face sharp and graven, his jaw firm, his eyes deeply set and flaring with messages she did not comprehend. He wore a rough beard, showing no signs of a razor this morning, and she remembered the feel of his face against hers during the night, when he’d bent low and brushed her cheek with his own, his whiskers scratching against her skin.

A blush covered her cheeks, and she felt its heat sear her flesh, knew his amusement was directed at her as he snapped his fingers and held out his palm in her direction. “Come to me, Isabella. I grow impatient.”