Carolyn Davidson - The Bride

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.