Carolyn Davidson - The Bride

“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.

For at first glance, he’d known that she was what he had yearned for, what his hungry heart had craved through all the weeks of searching in small villages and larger cities in his quest for the perfect bride.

That this particular female was possibly designated to be a bride of the church was a minor thing, a challenge he was more than prepared to take on. Let the women who stood no chance of marriage tend to the church’s business. Teaching and nursing and tending to the poor.

Isabella Montgomery was not such a female. Such a woman had a higher calling, for to his way of thinking, there was no greater value of a woman than that of being a wife and mother. And he would see to it that she had the opportunity to fulfill the promise he saw in her, a woman fit for the master’s bedroom at the Diamond Ranch.

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.