The Bride. Carolyn Davidson
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to a lifestyle that was almost guaranteed to oblige a woman to live within moral boundaries. The absence of menin her vicinity made it probable that she was a virgin, a woman untouched, more than fit for his wife. He had no illusions about marriage, for he’d seen a great variety in his life, and none of them had inspired him to that fate. Only the need for a bride offered the incentive now to seek out a candidate.
That she was pledged to another man was wellknown in the community where she had been born and raised. Until she’d been sent, on the brink of her womanhood, to the convent of the Sisters of Charity, where she would be taught the ways of a wife. And now, four years later, she certainly must be more than prepared for such a life. And so he had sought her out.
The Diamond Ranch needed a woman to sleep in the massive bedchamber belonging to the master of the domain, the man who was due to inherit the thousands of acres making up the most successful ranch in the territory. A woman to grace the table in the enormous dining room, to sit before the parlor fireplace in the winter months and blossom, eventually, with a child beneath her skirt.
A wife for the man who was about to step into the position of master of all he surveyed.
And Rafael McKenzie was that man, inheritor of Diamond Ranch, a man whose father would soon leave him his inheritance with but one stipulation. He must find a bride, must bring her to this house where no woman had been in residence for a number of years. Oh, there were maids and cooks, those who did the everyday chores that ran the house in a smooth manner. But there was no regal beauty to carry on the fine bloodlines of the McKenzie name.
And so, if he was to inherit the ranch, if the wealth of his father was to become his, he must find a woman fit to take on the task of mistress of the Diamond Ranch, in a timely manner. For the will stipulated that he could not wait to be married for more than a year after his father’s death. Once the days of mourning were past, he must marry. And to that end Rafael McKenzie lent his intelligence, for losing the inheritance was not to be considered.
Marriages were occasionally made in heaven, he had heard; but he was only too aware that, more often than not, a match between two people required a more earthly approach in order to achieve any degree of success.
He’d observed that the most beautiful women rarely made the best wives. Sad, but true, he thought. Yet, looking once more at the vision who sat in a pew at the front of the small chapel, he decided that he would be willing to bend his ideal to suit the female he’d sought and found. For there were compensations to be found if the woman in his marriage bed were to be the one he saw before him now. He could tolerate much for the joys inherent in bedding the woman known as Isabella Montgomery.
She’d been described as a beautiful child, and the words still fit her. For she had grown to be a magnificent woman. From this angle, it was hard to judge entirely the degree of beauty she possessed. Hair hidden beneath a starched arrangement of white fabric, a scarf of sorts, and body almost entirely enclosed by a gray serviceable dress, there was very little of the girl exposed for a man to look upon.
But her face alone, he decided, was worth his best effort. To that end, he took careful note of the pure line of her forehead, the wide-set eyes, the high cheekbones that told of some long-ago ancestor whose bloodlines were not of common descent. Skin so translucent it might have been spun from silk, fragile and delicate features, cheeks that begged a man’s touch, eyes that looked out upon the world with a sadness equal only to a bereaved mother whose child has been stricken. She was a woman unequaled, if just her beauty were to be considered, but as a female in this setting, her beauty was not the first consideration. For her position here was of prime import.
As a nun, a teacher or nurse, perhaps, she would be a resounding failure, if he were any judge of such a thing. For what schoolboy could look upon that face without losing his heart? What man, nearing death, could look into those eyes without regaining his strength and vowing to live and exist simply for the opportunity to woo and win her?
And what man of the cloth, the most stalwart leader in the church, could see the expression of pure innocence on those pristine features and not be stricken by the beauty she owned? Would not toss his vows to the four winds in order to claim her as his own?
Rafael was not even faintly related to any of those vulnerable male creatures who had raced through his mind. His thoughts were neither youthful nor pure, his intentions probably better not spoken aloud and his mind not closed to temptation of any sort.
Particularly not the enticement now set before him.
The black-garbed priest at the front of the small chapel droned on and, never a man to listen overmuch to a listing of his sins, Rafael managed to put the sermon from his mind and concentrate instead on the best way of removing the girl from her circumstances. That she would take his hand and walk willingly from this house of worship was a scenario he could not hope for, one he was not about to risk.
Perhaps he could announce to those in charge that he had come to claim a missing heiress and proclaim to one and all that she was indeed that treasure—if, indeed, she proved to be the fabled Isabella Montgomery. Identifying her might be simple enough, but claiming her would pose a problem.
For he was not the man who had been chosen for her to wed.
A fact that garnered many thanks from his arrogant soul, for the person of Juan Garcia was not to be envied. A man who was without honor, thinking only of himself and his cravings. A man who had numerous bastards strewn about the countryside, results of his tendencies to plunder the poor families of their women. He was known as a man without the personal habits of a gentleman.
In plain language, he was not a man well liked by anyone who knew him. His only claim to fame was the betrothal agreement that would allow him to claim Isabella Montgomery as his bride on her eighteenth birthday, a day but a week away. Though he had come from a good family, the lines had become flawed as they applied to the man. He’d attained a degree of wealth, but land was more to be desired than mere money, and in that vein, Garcia was lacking.
An agreement such as that written between Garcia and Charles Montgomery for the hand of his daughter would not hold water if the girl were claimed, married and bedded by another. A man might be obliged to offer recompense, but the bride herself would be considered damaged goods.
She would be ruined in the eyes of Juan Garcia, unfit for marriage. And if Rafael McKenzie had any luck at all in this venture, Juan Garcia would never get his hands on the maiden.
The idea of claiming a missing heiress was certainly enticing, but then, who would believe Rafael McKenzie had any right to such a woman? Certainly not the flock of black-garbed nuns and the whitehaired priest who seemed to be the guardian of said flock, for he would warrant they possessed more than their share of intelligence. And so it seemed he must take matters into his own hands and solve the dilemma himself.
The mass appeared to be at an end, for, arms outstretched toward his small congregation, the priest uttered words of blessing. At least, that was the general consensus of the worshipers surrounding him, for they stood and shuffled slowly and ceremoniously from the chapel.
Not willing to be conspicuous by his deviation from the expected, Rafael followed the three men who had shared a pew with him, and managed to keep a watchful eye on the woman he believed to be Isabella. She was alone, not by choice apparently, but by purpose, for even as she made her way down the aisle, she walked alone, segregated from the others who had attended early mass.
Once outside the door of the chapel, Rafael stood to one side, watching as the girl walked sedately down the two steps and onto the path that led to the larger building to his right.
Last evening, upon his arrival here, he’d found a beautiful oasis in the midst of the surrounding arid countryside, and inside a dormitory of sorts he’d been given a small room in which to sleep. Hidden in a veritable Garden of Eden, the buildings, the bare dormitory and the stark, almost unadorned chapel, were simple, in a setting worthy of more ornate structures.
Perhaps a cathedral, he thought, his mind wandering as his gaze focused on the figure that walked away from him. She would be more suited to a cathedral, a setting that would enhance her beauty.
But