The Bride. Carolyn Davidson
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and ran from him, seeking shelter in the trees that formed a canopy over them.
He followed fast on her heels and his hand touched her shoulder as she reached the privacy of the low bushes she sought. She jerked from him, falling to her knees as her stomach emptied itself on the ground before her.
His hands were gentle now against her shoulders. Then one slid to her stomach and she bore the indignity of his support as she bent over, her face only inches from the ground. He lifted her as the spasms ceased and held her against himself, her back warmed by the heat his body radiated. Her head fell back and touched the support of his shoulder, and she closed her eyes, feeling only the shame of her body’s betrayal.
His hand touched her mouth, a piece of fabric held against her lips and she took it from him, wiping the residue of her disgrace from her skin. Again her stomach revolted and another spasm tore through her, but he would not let her go, simply holding her securely in his embrace as she bent and spat upon the ground.
“Take a drink of water,” he said, holding a cup to her lips, and she opened her eyes to Manuel standing beside her, apparently having offered the cup for her benefit.
“Thank you.” She whispered the words beneath her breath and her fingers clenched around the rough metal of the cup. A sip of water bathed the inside of her mouth and she leaned forward to spit it upon the ground, then drank again from the vessel, this time swallowing the cool liquid. A shudder gripped her body and she felt herself slipping to the ground, but a strong arm wrapped about her waist held her upright and she dangled there in his grip.
“I’ve got you, Isabella. You’re all right now.” His whisper was one of reassurance and she could only nod as she heard his words. Her eyes were closed, the cool air seeming to revive her, for she had felt the darkness of a faint hovering over her. It seemed he would not allow her to escape him in that way, for he turned her to face him, lifting her chin a bit and then waiting for some response from her.
She resisted in the only way she could, her eyes refusing to open, her body stiff and unyielding.
“Look at me,” he said, and his voice was harsh now, as though he had lost patience with her. He drew her closer against himself, and lifted her until her feet were inches above the ground, his arm firm about her waist as she felt herself pressed against his body.
“Please, put me down,” she said, the demand sounding to her own ears more in the nature of a plea. One he heeded, for she felt the earth beneath her shoes and opened her eyes so that she could balance herself and regain some semblance of strength.
“I won’t let you go,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to fall. Just be still and take a deep breath, sweetheart.”
She found herself obeying his dictates and felt a gradual return of her usual stability, holding herself a bit apart from him. He would not loosen his firm hold, but gave her the space to move, as if he would let her find her feet and regain her pride.
“I’m all right now,” she whispered, bowing her head again as she knew a moment of uncertainty. This man had seen her weak and ailing, had held her despite her body’s rejection of the food he’d offered, and now he simply gave her the support she needed.
“I know you are. You’re a strong woman, Isabella. You’ve had a long ride this morning, and what with being taken from the only home you’ve known for a matter of years, you’re weary and confused. And then I’ve forced you to ride before me, forced you to allow my touch on your body. Something I feel you have not experienced before.” He bent to her, tracing the lines of her forehead with his lips.
“I’ve given you a bad time, haven’t I?”
“I’m glad you admit at least that much,” she said with a trace of haughtiness she hadn’t known she possessed. Gone was the weak-willed girl who had disgraced herself just moments ago. She felt now the strength of a woman pouring through her veins, and she stood erect, as though she had been offered a chance at freedom.
“I came with you willingly, but only because you seemed to offer the best chance I had at leaving the convent, lest the arrival of Juan Garcia should occur, for I knew he would be coming for me. The convent is my home and I would have become one of the Sisters of Charity were things different.” She looked up at him, meeting his hard gaze with certainty. “I am not ready to be a bride. I won’t marry anyone. Not you, not Señor Garcia. I couldn’t face the thought of speaking marriage vows with him almost five years ago when I entered the convent, and I still can’t.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my love,” he said mockingly. “You will say your vows in the chapel at Diamond Ranch. Whether you feel ready for it or not, you’ll marry me. And before Señor Garcia can claim you, you will be my bride, my wife.”
And I will cherish you, body and soul. He pondered the words that begged to be spoken to her, wondering for a moment where such poetry had come from.
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