The Bride. Carolyn Davidson
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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.
Chapter Three
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.
The lye soap did not lend itself to soft skin, and her hands showed the results of frequent exposure to the strong stuff. She looked down at the dry, chapped skin that covered her hands, noting the split corners of her fingers, where occasionally blood had run from the tender flesh.
Her fists clenched, lest others might see the shameful results of hard labor, the marks that scarred her hands. She would never boast of the work she had done, but consider it her due as a woman that she be but a servant to others. A woman must at all times be silent and, as much as possible, melt into the walls, so as not to be noticed.
She’d heard the words over and over, had listened well to the women who taught her the daily lessons. A woman’s worth was gauged by the number of children she could produce for the church and give as a token of her appreciation to her husband. Her honor lay in the cleanliness of her house and her ability to be silent and do as she was told.
Now, this man who had taken her prisoner taunted her by calling her his sweetheart, a term she could never hope to attain as her own. She felt mocked by his words, and she felt resentment rise within her at his treatment.
“Isabella.” He spoke her name slowly, as if the syllables rolled over his tongue, and were relished as being of good flavor. “Bella, I think I shall call you.”
“Who are you?” she whispered, her pride seeking to know the name of her captor. “Why do you take me with you from the convent?”
“I’m Rafael McKenzie,” he said, pride touching the name as he spoke the words. “I have need of a wife, and I think you will be able to fill the place in my home that is empty.”
“A wife? What foolishness. I’ve been spoken for already. From my early years, I’ve known that my father gave me to another man and he may even now be seeking me out.”
Rafael McKenzie laughed as if her words were not of any value. “I know about Juan Garcia, my dear. But he will not have you. By the time he finds you, I’ll have established you in my home, as my wife, and he will have no chance to take you from me.”
“And if I don’t want to be your wife? What then?” Even as she spoke the words, she felt his anger touch her across the narrow space between them.
“I’m not offering you a choice. You made the decision yourself when you left with me. By that action, you gave yourself into my care, and I have chosen to make you my wife. I’ll take you to Diamond Ranch and marry you there in front of my people.”
She felt the