Carolyn Davidson - The Bride

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.