Praise for Carolyn Davidson

“Carolyn Davidson creates such vivid images, you’d think she was using paints instead of words.”—Bestselling author Pamela Morsi

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges.”

—Publishers Weekly

Redemption

“[An] unflinching inquiry into the serious issues of the day.”

—Booklist

Oklahoma Sweetheart

“Like Dorothy Garlock, Davidson does not stint on the gritty side of romance, but keeps the tender, heart-tugging aspects of her story in the forefront. This novel is filled with compassion and understanding for characters facing hardship and hatred and still finding joy in love and life.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Marriage by Chance

“This deftly written novel about loss and recovery is a skilful handling of the traditional Western, with the added elements of family conflict and a moving love story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The task of winning her heart would not be without difficulty, but he would use kindness as a tool, tender touches…and then he would claim her, know her in the most intimate sense, and she would be his.

Rafael bent closer to her and his whisper was soft, coaxing in her ear.

“You will be mine, Isabella. My bride. My wife.”

The words resounded within her and the movement of her head was a rebuttal of his words. 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.”

“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.”

Reading, writing and research—Carolyn Davidson’s life in three simple words. At least that area of her life having to do with her career as a historical romance author. The rest of her time is divided among husband, family and travel—her husband, of course, holding top priority in her busy schedule. Then there is their church and the church choir in which they participate. Their sons and daughters, along with assorted spouses, are spread across the eastern half of America, together with numerous grandchildren. Carolyn welcomes mail at her post office box, PO Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA.

The Bride
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

About The Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Copyright

This book is dedicated to those who married in earlier times, back when life was perilous and every day was an adventure. It is, more important, dedicated to the memory of my parents’ marriage.

They were born very near the time this story takes place. Theirs was a wedding between two strong, independent individuals who sought the joys of wedded bliss and found not only that, but the trials and tribulations of two very different, stubborn people in the midst of a changing world. The life they lived gave to the children they raised a legacy.

It was one that inspired their offspring to seek and find marriages containing love and fidelity, enough to last for a lifetime.

So to Mother and Daddy, whose memories will be alive in the thoughts of those who loved them, this book is dedicated.

And, as always, my words are given with love to Mr Ed, who loves me.

Prologue

The Territory of New Mexico

1890

ISABELLA MONTGOMERY trembled as she stood before her father. Feeling compelled to state her case she forced words from her throat, well aware that she risked, almost invited, her father’s anger. “I am fourteen years old, Father. I know that there are girls of my age already married, but I fear I’m not ready to become a wife.” Her voice broke as she considered the man her father intended for her and revulsion filled her mind. “Juan Garcia is as old as you are. How can you think of giving me to him as a bride?”

And even as she spoke, she knew her plea would be in vain, for her words would not be heeded by her father.

Charles Montgomery was a man of mixed heritage, who saw before him the means of his own upward climb into society, and his eyes were dark, dull orbs as he considered the female before him. Given his mother’s Spanish aristocratic background, he would have been of exalted heritage, had not that woman been seduced by an Irish immigrant and given birth to a child who looked like a throwback to the Spanish grandees, yet bore the name of an Irish potato farmer.

Now he aimed higher, aware that wealth might also be his, even though it was at the price of his daughter’s future. A small thing to be sacrificed, for of what use was a daughter, anyway? But, for some reason, his child was worth more than he’d imagined, and this was an opportunity he would not allow to slip through his fingers.

“You will marry the man chosen for you, Isabella.” His eyes were hard, seeming to be made of onyx, so harshly did they glitter in the lamplight. “I have educated you with the finest of tutors, readying you for your position in life. Be happy that I am willing to give you time to become a woman first. You are small, not fit yet for a wife’s duties, and your body has not shown signs of maturity. You may find that the convent will suit you. The sisters will guide you, teach you womanly ways, and in two years or so, you will be a fit wife for Juan Garcia.”

“He is an old man.” Her words were harsh, scornful and without respect for the man who had set her destiny.

With a blow she had expected, she was dashed against the thick wall of her father’s parlor, her cheek bleeding from the signet ring he wore. And yet, she could not have accepted his will for her life without protest.

If nothing else, Isabella was destined to be a woman of great pride. That she would also be possessed of great beauty her father had long since decided was a given, for she wore the face of her mother, a woman lauded for her beauty and figure. A woman whose death had followed the birth of Charles Montgomery’s only child. That the child was a girl was a tragedy, but one he bore up under. For even a girl child could be made into an asset.

At fourteen, she carried the promise of great beauty, and, catching the eye of a man who collected objects of distinction, an offer was made for her. It was more than Isabella’s greedy father could resist. Perhaps a period of time might bring about an even larger amount of cash from the man whose greedy eyes claimed the girl, whose avid lust seemed to know no bounds. For Isabella, as he might have predicted, was not agreeable to an early marriage.

Juan Garcia had been persuaded to wait for her body to ripen, and the Sisters of Charity would see to it that Isabella did just that in a climate guaranteed to protect her from outside influences. Two years in the convent would make her fit for marriage, the sisters teaching her the duties of a woman. This marriage would bring honor to her father, the joining a link between two wealthy families, providing Charles Montgomery with grandchildren to inherit his holdings.

With bitter tears and a sorrow too heavy to be borne by a child, Isabella was sent away from the only home she’d ever known, to live in almost silent seclusion with the Sisters of Charity. Their kindness was given to the poor of the community in which they lived, leaving the confused child whose presence provided their convent with funds for her keep a modicum of attention. For though they were not unkind, nothing could replace the mother’s love she so desperately needed.

Her father died when she was sixteen and the lawyer provided funds for her to remain at the convent for two more years. At the time of her father’s death, she’d been told of his passing, of the sudden illness that had claimed his life. She’d mourned not for the man he’d been, but for what might have been had he honored her as his daughter, had he offered her the love of a father. And then, with barely a pause in her daily schedule of work and prayer and faithfulness to the nuns, who gave her what attention they could, she faced her future, a future that seemed insecure, living one day at a time, never looking beyond the sunset, but thankful for each morning’s dawning. Thankful for the day-to-day schedule that took her time and attention. For each day had seemed to solidify her position here at the convent.

SHE’D RECENTLY LEARNED that Juan Garcia was growing angry with the wait for the claiming of his bride. He’d told her father’s lawyer that he would be coming to claim her. So for now, she existed in a vacuum, for she could not face her future.

Stepping carefully, Isabella sought a path of least resistance, whispering prayers, attending chapel services, bowing her head in submission to the rules of the convent and, in all ways, seeking to be invisible. All to no avail.

Chapter One

Convent of the Sisters of Charity

The Territory of New Mexico—1894

THE GIRL WOULD NEVER BE A NUN. Whether she was here by her own volition or that of another, the outcome was obvious. And if she was the one he sought, freeing her from the convent was of immediate necessity. Even if she did not answer to the name of Isabella Montgomery, she had answered the call of his sensual nature.

For one glimpse of that face, that portrait of innocence personified, would be enough to bring the most stalwart saint to his knees.

And Rafael McKenzie was no saint. Therefore, his perception of the female he watched was, of necessity, tainted by his carnal nature. He was a man who had, early on in his life, set himself up as a judge of womankind, his decisions based on an early brush with the evil inherent in many women of great beauty.

Not that beauty itself was evil, but that the quality of perfection might be used for a woman’s own gain. Thus, the temptation to profit by pleasing features and a body that matched the same description might be overwhelming to a woman of less than stalwart principles.

He’d heard of her, this woman who lived in a convent, adhering 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 not as a nun, not as a Sister of Charity, which was what she appeared to be on the verge of becoming, here in this dingy bit of solitude. Instead, he could envision her walking down a long aisle, her garb that of a bride, her hair long and lustrous beneath a veil, for surely they had not yet cut that glorious mass from her head. Her body adorned in a white gown of silk, sewn to fit the perfection of her form, completed the vision he wove, wishing that even now he could see through the gray garb she wore.

He almost laughed aloud as the thoughts flitted through his mind. She might very well be far from perfect, for her form was not to be seen beneath the all-enveloping folds of her garment. Yet, he knew. Knew with a sense he could not explain, that the woman he watched was perfection personified.

Woman? Perhaps. Or a girl just hovering on the brink of womanhood, a virginal beauty who waited only for the proper man to toss her over the brink into the settled, safe world of marriage. Or failing that, perhaps the swirling waters of sin.

And at that idea, he cleared his throat and consciously drew his features into a solemn visage of a man contemplating his final resting place. Surely the sermon just delivered in the chapel behind him was meant to put even the most jaded man on the straight and narrow.

Not that Rafael was jaded. Only weary of the effort to find a virtuous woman, one who would fit the formula set forth by his family for the future mistress of the Diamond Ranch. Virtuous women were not difficult to find, for he’d seen them in every town he’d passed, usually left on the shelf when the plum choices had been scooped up by more discerning men.

Virtue was not what he sought. He would accept it as a bonus, but his thoughts were more on a woman—a girl, perhaps—who had a face he would welcome in his bed. Not in the dark of night, but in the light of morning, when only the clear, honest eyes belonging to a woman he could live with for an eternity would look up from the pillow beside his and meet his gaze.

Unless he took a hand in things, such an outcome was not likely. He was sought after by the mothers who wanted their daughters to make a fine marriage, who knew he was a man of wealth, of good family, a trophy to be proud of should their female progeny be adept at snagging his attention.

Even his own mother, before her death, had pushed him in the direction of several such young ladies, creatures he had shunned with barely any effort, knowing they would not measure up to what he wanted in a woman. And so he had followed the tale of a sequestered woman, a story told by men who had caught sight of her as a girl, here in her present setting. Kept from public view, she had become a legend of sorts, a woman who lived in a convent, yet was not a nun. Perhaps intending to form such a vocation, but as yet, simply a resident.

Now that he’d seen her for himself, he felt a sense of exultation. For the woman he’d dreamed of had become a reality. What he wanted was even now walking before him, heading for the building where he suspected she also lodged.

He would see to it that she was not left here to become another one of the creatures who walked solemnly to and fro, hands folded and eyes lowered in a pose of sanctity and prayer. She would not be wasted thusly. He had decided it would not be, and those who knew Rafael would not have expected any less from him, than that he rescue her from her fate.

No matter that it might be her own choice that had brought her here.

He walked slowly toward his destination, intent on gathering his clothing, his pack of belongings and seeking out Isabella’s whereabouts. The cell where he’d slept was small and unadorned, a stark example of the usual accommodations here, he was certain, for every room he passed seemed to be formed of the same components as his own private cubicle. And such was no doubt the type of place where the object of his search slept. He envisioned her in a white gown, engulfed in yards of cotton fabric, lying on a virginal bed, probably not any softer than the one he had arisen from just an hour since. She slept alone, of that he was certain. For the look on her face was that of a woman unawakened.

The long hall leading off to his right was the dining room, he recalled, and thinking of the breakfast that would fill the empty place in his middle, he went through the doorway and found a seat at the end of the table. The front of the room seemed to be reserved for those who lived in this place, the robed figures looking much alike to his undiscerning eye.

Except for the girl who sat across the table from him, perhaps twenty-five feet distant, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast, as if she prayed for the food she hoped to find before her.

His own bowl of porridge arrived within minutes, and he looked around for guidance as to whether or not he should commence eating or perhaps wait until some robed figure would pronounce his food fit for consumption. Saying grace over his food was not unknown to him, for his parents had duly blessed each and every repast that graced their dining room table in his youth, and he was not averse to such a thing taking place now. Except for the fact that the porridge bowl already felt barely lukewarm, and as such, did not merit a prayer spoken over its contents. Aware that his thoughts were not suitable here, he sought to tame their wayward direction and concentrate instead on the goodwill of those who had allowed his presence here last night. For though they had demanded, and received, a suitable recompense for his stay, he had not been turned away, but treated as any other traveler seeking lodging for the night.

Rafael was not any other traveler, but a man who had sought out this convent with purpose in his mind. A man who owned the loyalty of three men who even now watched from a wooded area close by, awaiting a signal from him.

A signal that would prompt those men forth to assist in his mission of taking Isabella Montgomery from this place. She was a rare combination of Irish and Spanish descent, the last of a long line of Spanish aristocracy, the female who held within her the possibility of a child who would take up the reins of his family’s holdings and become a man of wealth and the founder of a dynasty. A woman who might be persuaded to take her place at the Diamond Ranch, where bloodlines were strong and children were born to inherit.

But to bear such a child, the woman in question would first need to be mated to a man of strength and honor. A man who stood to come into a great inheritance, one which would provide him and his children with wealth and honor. Rafael was such a man.

Chapter Two

AN ASSORTMENT OF TRAVELERS sought out their various modes of transport in the morning light. In the courtyard, men mounted horses, climbed into carriages and left the gates of the convent. Leaving behind their coins, most of which would find their way into the pockets of the priest, with only enough gold provided to ensure that the women who labored there were decently fed and clothed.

Theirs was not a life of luxury, but of service, and as such, they did not complain, but lived in anticipation of a future reward.

Isabella was not among those who had such high-flown ambitions. Her future stretched out before her, a blank page on which she hoped to write a vision that included a home and family. But Father Joseph had told her just recently that she was destined to be a nun, and she had nodded readily, lest she be confined to her cell, from which she might never find escape. And perhaps becoming one of the sisters here would be her chosen fate, for anything would be preferable to marriage to the wrong man.

From the narrow window through which she observed the courtyard, her eyes sought out the man who had spent the night in a room in the corridor of guests. A tall man upon a dark horse with silver on bridle and saddle alike, who had scorned the lukewarm bowl of porridge served for his breakfast. A man of dark hair and eyes, a man of masculine beauty, his features sharply honed. Garbed in black, his trousers and shirt of some fine fabric, his hat molded by strong hands before he placed it on his head, he was by far the most interesting part of her week. Perhaps her year, she thought with a smile. Would that Juan Garcia’s looks might match this man.

His gaze touched upon the building from which she watched and his eyes flashed as they narrowed on the empty windows of the long series of cells, then settled on the space behind which she stood. With a start of recognition, she caught his change of expression, the almost imperceptible tightening of his lips, the hardening of his jaw.

He looked upon the men who readied their horses for travel, who led pack animals from the barns into the area where their leaving would take place. Then, with a swift glance that touched upon the narrow slit of her cell window, he looked through the open gates, toward the woods just beyond the convent proper, and nodded his head.

A message to someone waiting there? A warning, perhaps? With a casual movement he looked back to where she stood within her cell and his eyes lit with a message she had no chance to decipher.

She was still, silent, almost forgetting to breathe as she watched his approach, saw the tightening of his grip on the reins that lay across his horse’s neck. It was a moment of anticipation so great she could scarcely stand quietly where she was, knowing he saw her, aware of his questing gaze upon the place where she stood.

Another man approached him, riding through the gate, then angling his mount to approach and converse with the tall stranger. With a nod, as if accepting a mission, the second man rode to the door of the convent. Dismounting, he strode to the portal and rang the bell. It resounded through the halls, announcing a visitor, an event not unheard of in this place where travelers often found their rest.

But not in the middle of the morning.

The door was swung open, and Sister Agnes Mary stood framed in the archway, her mouth dropping open in shock at whatever words she heard spoken by the man before her. Stepping back, she was followed by the messenger, even as the man who had given him his instructions watched, sitting tall and silent atop his horse.

And then he moved, his horse following some unseen signal, walking directly across the courtyard to where the window of her cell exposed her to his sight. She stepped back, but he only smiled, an arrogant arrangement of his lips that held a measure of amusement. Unnoticed by the men milling in the courtyard, he directed his mount to stand beneath her window and his voice was low, but commanding, as he spoke a few words.

“I am Rafael McKenzie. Be ready.”

Her lips moved, but her words were silent. Ready for what?

That his charge was directed at her was without question, for his gaze touched her, seared her with heat and beckoned her to listen.

“The door of your room will open,” he said, his lips unmoving as the sound of his words reached her. “Go with Manuel. He will bring you to me.”

She stood transfixed by fear, or perhaps hope. If this man, this stranger, could free her from this place and from fear of Juan Garcia’s arrival, she would go with him. Whatever the destination he planned for her, she would ride with him through the gates of the convent, then down the road and past the town of San Felipe to the open country beyond.

The door to her cell opened silently, only a slight draft from the corridor giving notice that someone stood behind her. Turning, she looked into the eyes of Sister Agnes Mary, those kind, calm windows into the soul of a nun dedicated to her calling.

And then the man in the shadows spoke. “I am Manuel. You will come with me.”

Without hesitation, Isabella reached for her shawl, a luxury she used at night when the air was chilly, one she felt might be a necessity today. Sister Agnes Mary lifted her brows in silent query as she stepped into the small room, but the man behind her did not make any explanations for his act, only pushed her with a gentle hand toward the narrow cot.

“Sit, Sister,” he said, his voice soft, almost kindly, as if he respected the woman’s position here. Without repeating his command to Isabella, he held out his hand to her, fingers long, straight and clean, and she gripped it with her own smaller hand, feeling her bones engulfed in his greater strength.

Leaving the room, closing the door with an almost silent click of the latch, he led her from the building, his steps long and swift, hers—of necessity—quicker, lest he drag her across the floor. The soft slippers she wore kicked up clouds of dust behind her as she walked, and Manuel looked down at them, as if judging them not sturdy enough for the events of this day.

The outer door stood open and they crossed the threshold, where the tall stranger awaited them. With little finesse, she was lifted by the man who led her, her waist seized in his grip as he stepped closer to the black horse, giving her over to the hands of the man whose words she had obeyed.

Go with Manuel. He will bring you to me.

And so he had. Brought her to this man who gave her no promise of safety, but with whom she felt secure, whose firm touch she trusted, whose dark eyes she met calmly, her whole being filled with trembling anticipation. She knew her shivers were obvious to the man beside her, who lifted her so easily, and was even more aware that her quaking flesh was readily felt by the man who received her into his hold atop the dark horse.

He settled her across his thighs, holding her firmly, carefully, as if he would not insult her by careless handling, and she felt herself leaning against him without hesitation.

“Good girl.” The words were soft, spoken in the same dark voice, again carrying no farther than her hearing, as if they existed in a place where no other could interfere.

“Where—” The word was whispered, then silenced by his hand against her waist, offering a compelling tightening of her diaphragm that forbade speech.

“Silence.” Again he spoke, the single word touching her ear as a whisper, and she was mute, not out of fear, but with acknowledgment that he was to be respected and obeyed. His arms around her were long, his hand lifted the reins easily from where they had been left over the saddle horn. His fingers twined in the leather in an automatic gesture, and the horse moved toward the gate at some unheard signal.

The wooden sign that designated this place as the Convent of the Sisters of Charity swung in the breeze over her head as she found herself passing beneath it. With a sidelong glance, she watched as two other men emerged from the wooded area to join the horse she rode upon, and noted the dull gleam of rifle barrels that were slung over their saddles. Her own mount, the horse she shared with the stranger, carried a leather scabbard that bore its own weapon.

Leather holsters were tied to the men’s thighs, their contents looking dangerous and worthy of her respect. Two men rode abreast, then behind them her captor, his mount elegant in black leather tack, silver gleaming from saddle and bridle.

Manuel fell in place as the rear guard, a position he apparently took pride in, for his own weapon was a mark of his role, lying across his thighs, ready for use. His hat was pulled low over his forehead as he searched the horizon and then turned his horse to check from whence they had come. His appearance was that of a trusted man, one who could be relied on to do his master’s bidding without hesitation. One who would stand at his master’s back, defending the man he served.

She watched the men who surrounded her, for the first time in years in close contact with the other half of the world. Men, the species almost unknown to her…For at fourteen, she had been but a child, almost unaware of the staff who worked and lived at her father’s hacienda, all but the cook, who treated her as a child of her own.

Now the horse beneath her moved briskly, silently, only the sound of leather creaking and the low whinny of one of the packhorses filling her ears. The woods surrounded them—ahead lay the road to the village, behind them the convent, and here, riding a black monster of a horse, she was at the mercy of a man whose instructions she had followed as a child might obey a parent.

At that thought, she almost laughed, swallowing the unexpected mirth that begged to be spilled from her lips, recognizing her position as being far from that of a child. She was a woman, perhaps not in experience, but certainly in years, for at her age many young women had wed and produced a family.

The changing of her body had been gradual over the past years, but definite. No longer a child of scrawny proportions, she bore the attributes of a female approaching adulthood. Breasts that seemed too large for her slender body, a smattering of body hair in various places that made her wonder at its appearance and the monthly cycle that the nuns told her was the proof of her fertility.

She had been taught well by the nuns, told of the use of her various body parts, and the reason for the changes she wondered at. And had sometimes thought of her father’s plan for her future. With his death she’d initially felt a sense of relief that she no longer would face marriage to a man thirty years her senior, a man who had looked at her with eyes that burned and searched out her secrets.

But now, she feared Juan Garcia’s arrival. So long as he did not know where she had gone, she was safe from him.

“Did Garcia send you?” she asked, as that unwelcome thought entered her mind.

The man behind her laughed, a harsh sound, and his firm, negative word of reply somehow reassured her.

But, she realized, she lived now with a danger that might prove even greater than that of Juan Garcia. The man who held her against his body was the present. The future was yet to come. And with a sudden burst of insight, she recognized that her future might not be set in stone…yet. Though her captor might consider her his property, she was a free woman, until such time as he delivered her to the destination he had in mind. If she could find a way to escape him, she might yet choose her own way, might even find a life that would be pleasing to her.

A life of her own. One not dictated by the strong arm that held her against her captor. Her captor? Or perhaps the man who had rescued her from the certainty of marriage to Juan Garcia, unknowingly giving her the opportunity to seek another fate.

The rider ahead of her, on her left, a man Rafael had called Jose, turned his horse to the side as they reached the center of the small village, and the other two horsemen continued on without him. She was silent, not wanting to be hushed by her captor’s stern voice, should she be so bold as to ask their destination.

As if he sensed her need, the man who called himself Rafael bent his head and whispered words against her ear. “We will stop just ahead, to eat. Jose will bring food from the general store in the village.”

She nodded. They had traveled only an hour, perhaps two, for the village was more than five miles from the convent, and she felt the need for sustenance. The breakfast porridge had been bland, almost tasteless, and the milk warm, not fit for consumption. Sister Ruth Marie had told her only a week or so ago that she must eat more, for her clothing was loose and in danger of falling from her without the aid of a braided rope about her middle. Apparently the goal of the sisters was to make her as round and rosy as they all appeared to be fashioned beneath their robes.

But no longer. Now she would eat as she pleased, as much or little as suited her, and the sound of that silent vow of independence pleased her, as she straightened in the grip of her captor.

Another mile or so found them within a grove of trees, and she looked about her at the shaded clearing where the sun did not shine. Overhead, the trees lifted heavy branches to the sky and only an occasional bit of glittering sun peeked through the leafy roof.

She lifted her chin, daring a look at the man who held her. “Who are you? How did you know where to find me?” Surely that was not her voice, that low, sultry sound that pierced the silence.

He bent his head to her and his eyes traveled over her face, past the pale skin of her forehead and cheeks to the barely exposed flesh of her throat. She felt the piercing of his dark gaze, knew a moment of fear as his mouth tightened and his jaw clenched.

“More importantly, who are you?” he returned, his tone one she could not deny. “I came to the convent seeking you out, for you are a woman I’d heard of, and I would know if you are the one whose name is Isabella Montgomery.”

“Yes, I’m Isabella,” she said, wondering as she did so how he had heard of her. And somehow, she found the courage to ask him the question that begged an answer.

He listened to her halting query and smiled, an expression that softened his features and brought a strange beauty to his face. “I’ve heard, over the past year, stories of a young girl whose beauty rivals that of the loveliest of women, a virgin who was being readied as a bride. There were travelers who had slept in cells at the convent during their journey, men who spoke of a young woman they had seen. I listened to several such men, heard their tales of a fragile girl who would be given to an old man, whose father had sold her betrothal to gain a fortune. And I could not bear that such a thing would come to pass, Isabella. I knew I must see for myself the creature described to me as a young woman of good family, a girl with beauty and grace, one fit for the task of becoming mistress of Diamond Ranch.”

Her chin tilted upward, a defiant signal that gave him pleasure. “And you felt it was your right to claim me? Even though I was not free to be your wife? Knowing that I was betrothed to another, you took me from the convent and now you will force me to be your wife?”

She thought he looked relieved, pleased perhaps, as he spoke again. “You have courage, Isabella, to speak to me with such a lack of fear. And yet, even knowing that you would will it otherwise, I have to admit the truth of what you say.

“I was told you were a beauty, a woman untouched, meant for marriage to a man who will no longer be able to claim you.”

“Who told you all these things?” She felt her breath catch, stunned that her name had been bandied about in the hearing of strangers. Wondering that Juan Garcia’s claim on her was of such general knowledge.

“That’s not important for now,” he said, lifting one hand to touch her cheek, as if testing the skin, then brushing against her temple, leaving a heated memory behind as he dropped his palm to rest against her thigh.

“You haven’t the right to touch me,” she said, looking down at the tanned hand that lay against her habit. Never had a man been so familiar with her and she felt a strange, heated curiosity at his presumption, acting as though he had the authority to lay his hand against her if he so willed. She turned her head to look up into his face, aware of the harsh lines of his jaw, the firm set of his mouth and the heated intensity of his eyes as they met hers.

“I think you have little to say about what I do, Isabella Montgomery. I’m the man in charge here, and if I desire to touch you, I will.” He allowed his hand to squeeze gently against her leg, fingers pressing into the tender flesh, and she winced. He laughed, a soft sound that mocked her reaction.

“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.

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 food she had eaten rise up in her throat to choke her. Without warning, she knew her stomach would empty itself and rather than be shamed by such a thing, she rose 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 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.

She yearned now for the familiar place where she’d been born, where her childhood years had been spent in the company of Clara, the cook, the woman who had loved her and tended her after her mother’s death over ten years ago. She recalled those days of her childhood, remembering the faint images of her mother that still lived in her mind. The times she had spent with the woman who had borne her and loved her.

For hours on end her mother had told her of her future, the man she would come to love, the family she would have, the children her husband would give her. It had been a much-loved story, one she had dreamed of as a child, living on the ranch, growing up there.

Amazing that even as a child, such a life was all she had ever yearned for. That the thought of marriage had so appealed to her, with an unknown man, sharing his home with her, his love for her already taken for granted.

It had not come about as her mother promised, for now she was still a girl, not yet twenty, and the man who held her against himself was a stranger, certainly not a man her mother would have chosen. And for a moment, Isabella was glad that her mother was gone, for her plight now would bring only heartbreak to any mother whose child was in danger.

The horses slowed their speed, their canter changing to a trot, which left Isabella in discomfort, for she could not adjust herself to the harsh gait without anything to steady her in the saddle, only the man’s right hand on his reins, his left arm snug around her middle.

“We’ll stop before long,” Rafael said, his voice low against her ear as they turned from one road to another, this one more of a trail, with only two tracks forming the way. There were tracks where buggies or wagons had traveled through the mud of the rainy season, making deep wedges in the dirt.

His horse walked now, on the grass at the side of the double track, his men following his example, one of them calling out suddenly as he pointed to the west.

“Over there, Rafael. There’s a barn for shelter. Perhaps not in good shape, but fit for a night’s stay.”

“Yes.” With but a single word, Rafael agreed to his man’s signal and turned his stallion toward the building that sat on the horizon, alone in a place where there should have been a house, perhaps, or outbuildings of some sort. As they traveled closer, Isabella saw the reason for the barn’s singular desolation, for the burned ribs of a house stood beyond the dilapidated building, and several smaller sheds stood empty between the barn and the former house that had long since burned.

“There’s no one about. No one to ask permission of, so we’ll just camp here,” he said to his men, slowing his stallion as they rode ahead and dismounted before the barn. One opened the big door, a task almost too much for one man, for the door seemed to have been in its tracks for a long time.

Yet, once it was opened, a cat strolled out from the dim depths of the building, as if she’d been disturbed from a nap and had come to greet the newcomers.

“At least it should be relatively mouse-free,” Rafael said with a smothered laugh. He rode past the gray-and-white creature who had paused to wash her paws in the middle of the doorway, and grudgingly moved a bit as the big hooves of the stallion stirred up the dust beside her.

“You don’t frighten her,” Manuel told the horse, rubbing the long nose with a gentle hand. “She’s a spunky one.”

“Very like the one on my lap,” Rafael told him quickly. His arm tightened as Isabella jolted angrily at his gibe.

“Let me down,” she said cuttingly. “I need to find some privacy.”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said coolly. “Privacy is in short supply. You can look for a corner to use, but in my sight.”

She shivered at his words. “You don’t mean that.”

“Ah, but I do,” he answered, loosening his arm from her middle as he slid from his saddle with an ease of movement she envied. Her legs were stiff, her back sore from forcing herself to sit upright for hours on end, and she wasn’t sure she had any feeling in her feet, so numb were they from hanging loose on either side of his stallion.

He reached for her and lifted her down, standing her upright before himself, not releasing his hold on her until she jerked from his touch.

“I don’t want you to fall,” he said quietly. “Don’t push me away.”

“Just turn me loose,” she said, her words a plea, as she looked about the interior of the barn, seeking a spot where she might find privacy. A back door hung ajar, opening onto a flat area, perhaps a corral, she thought, so she began making her way in that direction. His hand held her arm and he walked beside her, closely, as though ready to catch her if she should falter.

Not willing to show a sign of weakness, she tossed him an arrogant glance and pulled her arm from his fingers. “I want to go outdoors by myself, please.”

As if her final word, the small courtesy she’d offered touched him, he paused, looking beyond her to where the twilight had fallen, where the open space beckoned her. “I’ll stay by the door,” he said, moderating his stance a bit. “Don’t go out of sight.”

She walked with him to the opening, pushing the door aside, its one connecting hinge squeaking with a noise that startled the cat, who had trailed after Isabella. The small creature jumped atop a musty stack of hay and darted behind it, hiding herself from the watching men who seemed amused at her antics.

Isabella stood alone in the opening, Rafael behind her, his warmth tempting her as the wind caught in the high rafters of the loft above and whistled past them through the opening in the low ceiling. She peered out into the dusk and spotted a small building just beyond the corral fencing.

“I’ll walk over there,” she said, pointing to where the ramshackle structure stood at a lopsided angle.

“I’ll be sure it’s safe,” he said, walking ahead of her and looking within the door that hung ajar. “It’s empty,” he said, pushing the door open farther so that she could enter more readily.

With a look of clear warning in his direction, she entered the dark, dingy shed and found a modicum of privacy there. The knowledge that he stood just outside the door should have bothered her, she supposed, but somehow his presence gave her a sense of security and she ignored her natural inclination toward independence. If the man wanted to watch over her, so be it. She’d choose a more important fight, somewhere down the road.

And she realized as she left the crude shelter that she’d already accustomed herself to the presence of Rafael McKenzie in her life.

Chapter Four

THE LOFT IN THE BARN held a sparse amount of hay, left from another year’s harvest, but with a few industrious swipes of a broken rake, the men managed to scrape up several piles around the edges of the floor. It was to one of these that Isabella was led, just as dark enveloped the earth and the barn was thrust into a midnight hue.

She stood before the sparse bed he’d offered and looked up at Rafael. “Surely you could locate a feather tick?” she asked tauntingly. “Or at least a blanket to cover the hay?”

“Your wish is my command, fair lady,” he said, sketching a salute in her direction and tossing down the blanket she had used during her nap earlier in the day. He stood watching her, hands on hips, his mouth grim, his eyes searching her as if he sought some form of acquiescence in her stance. She would not give him that for which he seemed to be looking, and she bent to straighten the blanket, then lay in the center of it and pulled both sides over her for warmth.

“You send a very definite message, Isabella,” he said harshly. “I assume I’m not welcome to share your bed.”

“You assume right,” she said, a haughty tone painting the words. “I am a lady, even though the circumstances don’t seem to give me that place in the general scheme of things. I’m being treated like a woman of ill repute, handled without care and given no more respect than a woman of the tavern might be shown. I reserve the right to sleep alone, Señor McKenzie.” And with those well-chosen words, she turned on her side and curled her arm beneath her head, in lieu of a pillow.

He laughed. To her chagrin, he chuckled aloud, mocking her with his amusement, not allowing her even the semblance of privacy as he lay on the hay next to her blanket. His body was warm, curled up beside her, his heat radiating through the blanket she held tautly over her shoulder. Behind her, he settled himself for the night. Then, with a swift motion, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to his share of the bedding he’d provided.

She was stiff, her body held rigidly against his touch, her heart beating rapidly as if she feared his next move. But he merely held her, breathing deeply and relaxing, well on his way to slumber. Around them the other men sought out various piles of hay, two of them covering with a bedroll, the other—Manuel, she thought—standing near the window that looked out over the yard behind the house.

“He is on watch,” Rafael told her quietly as if he’d noted her looking at the man who did not take to his bed. “In four hours, another will take his place. You can rest easy.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” she said sharply, rolling even tighter in the blanket she clutched to herself. Behind her, she heard a muffled chuckle and then he took the edge of the blanket that almost covered her head into his hand and tugged it downward, exposing her face as he lifted himself on one elbow. In the rays of moonlight slanting through the big door across the loft, she knew her features were exposed to him, that the faint light illuminated her, and she lay silently before his scrutiny.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he muttered, softly so that his voice did not travel beyond her hearing. “I wanted you the moment I saw you in the chapel. Even with your hair covered and that gray rag you wear surrounding you with the sanctity of the church, you touched me.”

She inhaled sharply. Surely he did not mean to seduce her? Not here, in this place where his men kept watch, where the moon showed their movements if anyone should want to watch them. She turned her head, seeking his eyes, trying to gauge his mood. For if he merely teased her, she could close her eyes and ignore him. If, on the other hand, he tried to bend her to his will, attempted to touch her more familiarly with those elegant hands, she would fight him, no matter that it would be a losing battle.

“I’d like to sleep.” It was a statement of intent, and as such, she felt he must either ignore it or make a move to involve her in his plans.

She heard another soft laugh, a mocking sound that chilled her, and then he tilted her chin up with one long finger beneath it, turning her face to meet his gaze. “I’d have a kiss from you, my dear,” he said quietly. “I think such a thing is proper between two people who are on their way to their wedding.”

“I’ll not marry you.” It was as plain as she could make it, and she was proud that her voice did not waver on the words.

“Ah, but you will. And if I must make you mine before the fact, I will. One way or another, you’ll be my bride.”

Her quick mind caught the message he gave. Either she stood before his priest and said the words of the marriage ceremony willingly, or she would approach the chapel as a ruined woman, with only her pride to hold her erect. He was determined to have her, and she felt the violation of his words strike deeply within her soul.

“You would take my body without marriage?” she asked quietly, muffling her words so that they could not be heard by the man who watched the yard below.

“Not unless there is no other way to force this thing. I’m not in the habit of hurting women, especially not ladies like yourself. But I am a determined man, Isabella, and I will have my way in this.”

She turned her head away in silent protest, but to no avail, for he touched her cheek once more and turned her toward him, her body obeying his greater strength. He lifted over her and his head lowered, his eyes dark as they looked deeply into hers. “I’m going to kiss you now, Isabella. Don’t make a fuss, for I’ll not hurt you, only give you a kiss of commitment, a promise of what is to be.”

His lips touched hers, dry and warm against her skin, and his mouth opened a bit over hers, the damp touch of his tongue against her soft flesh a shock. She fought to escape, and her hands came up to press on his shoulders, then slid to gain space against his chest, trying to force him from her. The struggle was silent, for she would not be shamed by his actions, and should the men be watching they would know of her defeat at his hands.

He levered her farther into the hay, his body upon her, his lips invading the soft tissues of her mouth, and a sound of fury caught in her throat, one he heard, for he shushed her with a soft whisper.

“I’ll only kiss you, for now,” he said, his mouth open over hers, his tongue forcing its way past her lips and teeth, exploring the wet places she tried to keep from him.

“No.” The single word was more of a plea than an order, and he heard it with ears that knew of her fear. Inspiring fright was not his intention, but the girl seemed not able to accept his hands and mouth upon her flesh, and he knew then that she was indeed untouched by any man. For she shivered beneath him, her body chilled by her fear, and the trembling of her hands against his chest told him she was filled with terror.

He would not have it. Would not tolerate her hatred, for that was what he sensed in her twisting, flailing body. She fought to release herself from his touch, as if the very terrors of hell were threatening her, and he knew a moment of regret that he had so caused her the shame she knew at his hands.

He lowered his weight upon her, holding her against the hay, almost burying her in the mass beneath her, and his mouth rested against her ear. The words he spoke were soft, endearing, meant to offer her an apology, but she shuddered, twisting her head to dislodge him from his place atop her.

“Isabella. Listen to me. Don’t fight me, for it won’t do you any good. I don’t want to hurt you, girl. Lie still now and I’ll leave you be. If you’ll just settle down, I’ll lie behind you and keep watch for the night.”

As he spoke, whispering the same words over and over again, producing a litany of comfort he had not intended for this night, she quieted, her breathing became slower, less agitated, and her movements ceased…until she was still beneath him, until he could feel each curve against his body, until her breasts were pressed against his chest, and she had regained some bit of sanity.

“Please.” She spoke only one word, but it was enough. He touched her lips with his, a soft caress that asked for nothing, but gave a silent assurance of his presence. “Please.” She repeated the word, and he felt her hands pressing against his chest as he lay upon her.

“All right.” His whisper was soft, barely discernible in the silence of the night. “Don’t fight me, Isabella. Just lie quietly now.”

She took several deep breaths as if she could not find enough air to fill her lungs, and then she subsided beneath him, her breath coming in soft sobs, as if she could not halt the tearing ache that rent her body, that made her tremble and shiver in his arms.

He rolled her against himself, and cocooned as she was in the blanket, she might have been a child, so carefully did he adjust her against himself, with no trace of masculine satisfaction as he held her trembling body next to his.

Surely she could sense his need for her, certainly she knew that he had clamped an iron hand on his desire, that he would not harm her, nor cause her shame before his men. And to that end, he whispered soft words again, assuring her of his care of her, promising her safety and the shelter of his arms against all harm.

Isabella was held for the first time in her life by a man whose aim seemed to be the conquering of her body, yet he gave her vocal assurance that he would not harm her, but keep her safe. And she believed him for this moment in time; she heard his words and trusted that he would do as he said.

If he’d threatened to take her body as a man takes a woman, she would believe that also, for he was a man who spoke his thoughts aloud, and she knew that sometime in her future, he would claim her as his woman. But not tonight. Not here in the silence of the hayloft, where other men slept and watched for intruders. Where he had set up a form of protection for her until the morning.

It was with a shattered sense of security that she slept. And in her dreams, she knew a man was nearby, knew the warmth of arms about her, sensed the long length of his form beside her and his breathing touching her face in the night hours. She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer that she might be safe until morning, that the night would not bring a terror to engulf her, that her captor would not turn against her and use her for his own pleasure.

THE SUN SHONE IN THROUGH the open window, scattering its warmth on the men who lay on piles of hay, on the woman who was wrapped securely in a blanket nearby, the man beside her awake and waiting till she should stir.

She slept deeply and he was pleased, for had she not felt secure with him, her sleep would have been broken, her eyes wild with fear, and he would have fought for the whole night to keep her quiet and secure in his arms.

Now a lone rooster crowed, his voice seeming rusty, as if he were not accustomed to serving as an alarm to nearby sleepers. Rafael rolled from his place, rose and stalked to the open window, looking down on the yard below. Three hens and a red rooster pecked in the dirt, seeking out a breakfast that promised to be scant, given the sad state of affairs on this abandoned farm. Again the rooster crowed, tossing his head back and issuing his call to the morning.

Behind him, Rafael heard the rustle of the hay, the murmur of a woman’s voice as she left the darkness of sleep and fought to face the new day. He turned, his eyes caught by the dark hair that was revealed by the blanket that fell to her waist, hair that had been bound yesterday, but now had escaped its bondage and spilled over her shoulders and down to the hay behind her, forming a frame for the delicacy of her face and throat. She was fine-featured, her eyes were large and dark, with violet shadows beneath. And yet she seemed rested. He knew she had slept well, for he’d held her throughout the night, had heard her soft murmurs as she dreamed, knew when she’d been tortured by a nightmare. He’d inhaled deeply, intrigued by the fresh scent she bore, that of clean skin and hair, and more importantly, the aura of femininity that surrounded her.

Now he went to her, squatting beside her as she attempted to awaken, rubbing her eyes with long, slender fingers, then, threading those same fingers through her hair, bringing it to some semblance of order. “I have no brush and my clothing is soiled,” she said softly. “Is there any way I can find something clean to wear?”

He wished for a moment he could wave his hand and create all she needed, bring to view the clothing she might wear, the hot water she might use for a bath. But there was no point in being foolish, he decided, for this morning was reality and what he considered was but a luxury he had no way of providing.

“We’ll stop in the next village and find you something to wear,” he said, compromising a bit. “There should be a general store, somewhere we can find food, perhaps a hotel or restaurant of some sort.” He bent to her and pulled the blanket from her, revealing the gray dress she wore, rucked up now about her thighs, exposing her legs to his view. She flushed, her hands moving quickly to pull the fabric down, unwilling to allow his eyes to dwell on her limbs.

“I’ll help you up,” he offered, clasping her hands in his and pulling her to her feet, rising before her as he did so. She swayed for a moment, and he held her firmly, lest she fall. “We’ll go downstairs into the barn, and I’ll send Manuel to see if the pump works at the watering trough.”

She only nodded, as if speech were beyond her this morning, and turned to climb down the ladder to the floor below. He followed her, watched as Manuel grasped her arm, helping her down the last rung of the ladder. Noting his quick look of reproof, Manuel shot him an apologetic glance and backed away, bowing a bit.

“I’ll see to the pump.” Scooping up a canteen from his saddle, Manuel went outdoors to where the pitcher pump was bolted onto the end of the trough. He allowed a cupful or so of water to trickle into the opening at the top and then took the handle in his other hand and put his strength behind his actions, pumping vigorously for a moment. In less time than she’d expected, Isabella saw a stream of water run out into the trough, and heard Manuel’s shout of success.

She went across the yard, bent low to scoop the water that flowed into her hands, then brought it to her mouth, drinking deeply of the clear liquid. Again she waited as a double handful filled her cupped palms, and again she drank. A third time, she bent low and splashed water over her face, running her hands through her hair, dampening the waves and curls to discourage their tendency to fly free of restraint.

With quick movements of her fingers, she braided the length of hair, twisting a bit of twine around the end of the braid. Her clothing was splattered with water, but she cared little for appearances, noting that clean water would certainly not harm the dirt she’d accumulated over the past twenty-four hours. Her habit was soiled, wrinkled and not fit to wear, but it was all she possessed for the moment, and until Rafael McKenzie could find something else for her use, it would have to do.

From the barn behind her, the men led their horses, saddled them quickly and waited for Rafael to mount his own stallion before they took their places. He swept himself up into the saddle easily, then looked to where Isabella watched him, her eyes wary of the horse who pranced and tossed his head.

“Come.” He held out his hand to her and waited. Lest she make him angry, she walked closer to the horse, leaving room for a quick escape should the animal offer her any harm. “Give me your hand,” Rafael said, the words an order he obviously meant for her to obey, for his own gloved hand reached for her.

He’d buried his head in the watering trough, and the result allowed her to see clearly the shape of his skull, the dark hair fitting closely to each curve of his head, his face gleaming in the sunshine from the water he’d splashed on every available surface he could reach. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms still damp from the bath he’d given himself, and she thought he was a man to be feared, his face sharp and graven, his jaw firm, his eyes deeply set and flaring with messages she did not comprehend. He wore a rough beard, showing no signs of a razor this morning, and she remembered the feel of his face against hers during the night, when he’d bent low and brushed her cheek with his own, his whiskers scratching against her skin.

A blush covered her cheeks, and she felt its heat sear her flesh, knew his amusement was directed at her as he snapped his fingers and held out his palm in her direction. “Come to me, Isabella. I grow impatient.”

Lest he be angered, she lifted her hand to his and felt his grip on her wrist. He lifted her, his other hand reaching to hold her waist, and with an easy shifting of his body in the saddle, he lifted her to sit before him, in the same position she had endured the day before. She moved a bit, trying for a softer place for her bottom, but there was no pillow of softness between her and the tough muscular legs he offered as a lap.

With a sigh of resignation, she leaned back against his chest and rested there as he would have her. A sound that might have signified satisfaction breathed in her ear and he picked up the reins, his horse moving to walk down the lane to where the tracks led to the next village.

He seemed to know where he was going and she decided there was no point in making a fuss today, or she might not find herself the possessor of clean clothing or food for her breakfast. If he’d left her at the convent, she’d have fresh clothing on today and have already partaken of the lukewarm porridge at the table with her peers. Now, it seemed she was a whole lifetime away from the convent, and the thought of what lay ahead of her today caused a chill to travel the length of her spine.

Chapter Five

“YOU’RE QUIET, ISABELLA. Have you decided to be a good girl today?” She thought his words were deliberately snide and glanced back at his face, hoping to catch a look of superiority on it. No such luck, she thought glumly, for he only smiled at her and squeezed her with his left arm around her waist.

“I’m hungry, and my clothing is dirty, and being a good girl is beyond my capabilities right now,” she said, as if it were his place to supply her needs and cater to her moods. And indeed it was, so far as she was concerned.

Ahead of them lay a quiet village, smoke rising from chimneys, the small houses lining both sides of the road as they neared the area where dogs and horses, accompanied by the men who owned them, lined the boardwalks before the stores. Hitching rails were handy and the reins of several horses were twined around the simple accommodations.

“We’ll go into the general store,” Rafael said quietly. “I expect you to mind your manners and be silent,” he told Isabella, lifting her down from his saddle and following her as she smoothed her skirts and tried without success to brush away some of the wrinkles. “Can I depend on you to not make a fuss? Or shall I leave you out here with Manuel?”

“You take a chance either way,” she answered, glaring at him. The man was treating her like a child and she was becoming more angry by the minute. “If you don’t take me into the store with you, I’ll make a fuss out here that will bring the law down on you, and you’d better believe me. I’m at the end of my rope and I don’t care what happens at this point.”

He bent his head and spoke softly, so that only she could hear his words. “You’ll behave yourself, or I’ll treat you as I would a child, and you’ll find yourself turned over my knee and your bare bottom will feel the flat of my hand.” He held her shoulders in his harsh grip and she lifted her gaze to meet his, finding no sign there of the man who had been so tender during the night.

“Do we understand each other?” he asked, and she could only nod.

Her eyes filled with angry tears and she shed her fear of him in that small movement. “I doubt that anyone has ever felt such hatred for you as I do now,” she whispered. Her shoulders straightened and she held her head high, almost as if daring his reprisal. It was not to be.

“I’ll take you with me, Isabella,” he said quietly, one hand on her forearm, holding her before him. “We’ll find clothing for you and food to last until tomorrow. Don’t make me regret trusting you this far.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over her face, noting the tears that still left runnels down her cheeks. One hand lifted to touch the salty drops and he wiped them with his index finger. “I think you cry from anger. Am I right?’

She pressed her lips together, fighting the recurrence of the tears that plagued her. Her head nodded once, a brief acknowledgment of his words.

He smiled, a compassionate expression that warmed her, and then he turned her to the double doors that opened into the general store. She stepped up onto the sidewalk and walked beside him, her arm in a grip that promised retribution should she not cooperate.

Rafael opened the door and she walked over the sill, his big body pressing against her back, then taking his place at her side once they had gained the open floor leading to the counter. A man stood there, his eyes half-lowered, his mouth pursed as if he did not like the looks of his customers, but was too smart and anxious for their coin to make a fuss.

“What can I help you with?” he asked, his voice gruff, his eyes intent on Isabella, no doubt wondering at the soiled and wrinkled clothing she wore. “Something for the lady?”

“My wife needs some clothing. We left her case behind and she has need of a skirt and blouse, or perhaps a dress.” Rafael, not at a loss for words, lied fluently, his smile obliging as he held Isabella close to his side.

“Any particular color, ma’am?” the storekeeper asked, his gaze still intent on Isabella and her dull gray garb.

She shook her head. “Anything will do. Just something comfortable for me to change into.”

He reached behind him for a glass bin, one containing dresses of various colors. One, a medium blue with white lace and a heavy flounce around the hem, was on top of the stack and he picked it up and shook it out before him.

“Looks about your size, ma’am,” he said nicely. “Would you like to try it on?”

Isabella shook her head, and held out her hand for the dress. Without argument, the storekeeper gave it to her and she held it up before herself, holding the waist against her middle and looking down to gauge the size.

“This one will do,” she said quietly. “It may be a bit large, but that’s all right.”

“Let’s see another in the same size,” Rafael said sharply. “She’ll need more than one dress.”

Without pause, the storekeeper brought out another dress, this one made of medium green fabric, with flowers scattered across the skirt and bodice alike. It had short sleeves and a full skirt, and Isabella nodded to Rafael, agreeing to its purchase.

He motioned toward Manuel. “Wait over there, please, Isabella,” he instructed her, nudging her in the direction he’d chosen.

Without pause, he drew a leather purse from his pocket and paid what the shopkeeper asked, speaking quietly as he watched the man fold the two dresses neatly and wrap them in a length of brown paper. Without pause, the storekeeper reached for another glass bin and slipped a garment from it, stowing it between the dresses before he tied the bundle with a bit of string.

“Now, food for our travel, if you please,” Rafael said, pointing at a large round of cheese on the counter. “Give us three pounds of the cheese and some of the smoked sausage in that glass jar. A couple of pounds will do.” He looked around at the food displayed on the countertop and motioned toward loaves of bread. “Three loaves of bread and that box of cookies next to the bread.”

“Mrs. Hancock bakes the cookies for us twice a week. Mighty good cook, that Mrs. Hancock,” the storekeeper said cheerfully. “Anything else, sir?” He finished wrapping the bread and tied the bundle off neatly. The cheese was wrapped in a bit of cheesecloth and then in a towel, and the sausage was put into a metal tin.

“Coffee,” Rafael said briefly. “A pound or so.”

He watched as the man measured out the ground coffee into a white cotton bag and tied the neck with a string.

“That’ll do,” Rafael said, paying again from his leather pouch.

From across the room where she waited with Manuel, Isabella shifted and tugged to free her arm from the other man’s grip. He looked down at her with a glance of warning, and as if Rafael saw and deciphered the small altercation he called out to her. “Did you want something else, sweet?”

She ceased her struggle and shook her head. “Just something to drink. I’m thirsty.”

“I’ve got sarsaparilla in bottles,” the storekeeper said helpfully. “Maybe the lady would like that.”

Rafael looked across at Isabella and she nodded. In moments, he’d offered it to her and she held the brown bottle in her hand, her brow furrowed with puzzlement. Smiling with understanding, Rafael took it from her and lifted the cap with a twist, then handed it back. She drank from the bottle—obviously something to which she was unaccustomed—and her tongue licked the final drops from her lower lip.

“Should have put it into a glass for you,” Rafael whispered in her ear, bending over to take the bottle from her and lifting it to his mouth for a swallow. “We’ll share,” he said softly, and his eyes sparkled with mischief as he drank from the place where her lips had so recently touched.

Isabella reached for the package with her dresses inside and Manuel was there before her, lifting it gently from her hands with a murmured suggestion. “May I carry it for you, señorita?” Without awaiting a reply, he held it and turned to the doors of the general store, picking up a second package before he left the counter. A second man took the rest of the purchases and together they left the store.

“Anything else you’d like?” Rafael asked her quietly, his hand still firm on her arm. He stepped away from the counter for privacy’s sake and turned her to face him. “Don’t make any mistakes at this point, Isabella. We’ll leave quietly if you don’t need anything else. Don’t make me draw my gun against the shopkeeper.”

She slanted him a look of scorn. “I don’t doubt you’ll do it,” she said bitterly. And then she looked down at the floor. “I need nothing else.”

“We’ll take our leave, sir,” Rafael said, turning Isabella to the door and pacing her steps as she walked beside him.

Behind him, the man uttered a casual word of farewell, and they left the store, heading quickly toward their horses. Beside the tall horse Rafael rode, Isabella came to a halt. “Can I ride behind you?” she asked quietly.

“You don’t want me to hold you in my arms?” Rafael asked, his voice teasing, his eyes gleaming as he surveyed her form.

She felt limp, weary from the riding, yet the thought of his strong arms holding her fast before him made her hesitate. “Does it matter what I want?” she asked bitterly. “I didn’t think I had any choice in this whole thing.”

He nodded, considering her bowed head. If the woman thought he was going to let her ride behind him when holding her on his lap had provided the only distraction on this whole ride, she was mistaken. “I’ll keep you where I can see you, Isabella,” he said, not releasing her arm until Manuel came to their side.

As Rafael mounted, Manuel took Isabella’s waist between his hands, and in a moment had lifted her up, placing her carefully, gently, on the solid width of Rafael’s thighs.

As she settled into a comfortable position, Rafael’s relief was great. For had she begun shifting and twisting on his lap again, he might have suffered as he had earlier, his manhood pressing against the restriction of his trousers, her every move against him an agony in frustration.

He wrapped one long arm around her waist as they backed from the hitching rail and she held herself stiffly in his embrace. “Let go, Isabella,” he whispered against her ear. “I won’t hurt you, I’m just holding you close, lest you fall from the horse.”

Her shoulders eased their stiffness and she leaned back a bit, her head next to his shoulder. He caught a waft of her scent, a clean, fresh aroma that told him she was a woman who valued herself, who kept her body clean and her hair washed frequently. Not for Isabella the slovenly habits of so many women, those who were careless with their bodies. She might be wearing clothing that showed the results of hard travel, but beneath the rough, homespun dress she wore was a body that had not gone more than a day without a thorough cleansing.

A woman fit to rule the home waiting to welcome her, where the servants would greet her with smiles and respect, for he would allow no other option. As his bride, Isabella would be the mistress of Diamond Ranch, and due the honor owed her as Rafael’s wife.

THEY HALTED FOR FOOD shortly after the sun hit the sky directly overhead, and Isabella staggered as she was lowered from the horse. Rafael dismounted quickly, reaching for her. “Are you all right?” he asked, his frown showing a concern she hadn’t expected. He held her loosely, but seemed to fear her balance if he should turn her free of his touch.

“I need to find a private place, please,” she whispered, fearful of the other men hearing her request. She felt the heat of embarrassment creep up her cheeks as Rafael looked down at her and she dropped her head.

“I’ll take you into the trees,” he said quietly, handing his reins to Manuel and turning her toward the grove of trees where they had halted. The other men spread a blanket on the ground and made haste to open the food they’d purchased, ignoring Isabella and Rafael as they went a short way past the tree line.

A tall willow tree stood near a small stream and Rafael took her in that direction, ducking his head to step beneath the drooping branches. “This will offer privacy enough, I think,” he said. “I’ll be over there, Isabella, but I’ll turn away.”

She looked around at the verdant area, where willow branches trailed to the ground all around the big tree. “Thank you.” Then, waiting until he passed again through the sheltering branches that surrounded her, she watched until he paced to a nearby patch of bushes and turned aside.

In moments she had relieved her distress and rearranged her clothing, just as he spoke her name. She looked up, sighting him through the branches, and headed to where he waited. “I’m finished,” she said quietly. “Is there any water I can use to wash my face and hands?”

“The stream looks to be clean, or else you can use water from the canteen.” She motioned quickly at the flowing stream before them and he released her hand, allowing her to kneel at its banks. She splashed water over her hands and arms, washed her face and dampened her hair before she rose again.

He led her back to the place where the men had settled down to partake of the food. They’d left a good portion of the blanket empty for her use and she nodded at them as she sat down, arranging her skirt around herself. From his horse, Rafael brought a canteen of water, offering it to her. She drank deeply, the water relatively cool and fresh from this morning’s pumping.

She looked up to find Rafael’s gaze on her, his eyes half-shuttered, his nostrils flaring. Water dripped from her lower lip to her bodice and she lifted a hand to wipe at it, unable to take her eyes from his.

“Let me have it,” he said, taking the canteen from her and lifting it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face, as if he would imprint upon her the pleasure he found in her taste on the metal container. He stood, hanging it on a branch, then settled beside her, lifting a piece of cheese cut from the wedge they’d purchased. The bread had been sliced by one of the men, the slices ragged and thick, but welcome.

Rafael lifted the towel holding the bread and Isabella took a piece, inhaling the fragrance as she took a bite. “She must have baked this today, probably this morning,” she said. The piece of cheese Rafael had chosen was placed in her hand and he added a length of the sausage before he settled beside her.

“Eat well, Isabella. We’ll not stop again until nightfall.” His eyes scanned her face and he smiled gently. “I hope the food will not overtax your stomach. I want you to hold it down this time.”

With his warning ringing in her ears, she ate the cheese, then wrapped the bread around the sausage and took a bite. From his saddlebag, Rafael had brought forth another bottle of sarsaparilla, and offered it to her, removing the cap first. She drank deeply, then handed it back to him. The other men had already raided their own saddlebags and were enjoying the cool drink, their attention on their food, their eyes carefully focused on all else but the woman who shared their blanket.

Rafael wrapped four cookies from his stash in a bit of the cheesecloth and handed them to Isabella. “You’re in charge of these. We’ll eat them as we ride, a bit later on.”

She tucked them into the front of her dress where they would not be crushed or dropped from the horse, and nodded her agreement.

“Do you want to change into one of your new dresses?” Rafael asked as he pushed himself to his feet. “We can wait until you change, if you like.”

“No. I’d rather wait until I can wash up well. There’s no sense in wearing clean clothing on a dirty body.” It was something that had been drummed into her in the convent, where she had bathed daily, then donned clean clothing every morning. The nuns were clean, their habits healthy, and she had enjoyed what sparse pleasure she gained in the bath she took every evening.

“Your body is far from dirty,” Rafael said, bending to speak in her ear, lest any of the men should hear him.

He was rewarded by a smile from her soft lips and he felt a shaft of pure desire touch him from the top of his head to his toes. The knowledge that he would soon own her as his wife, that her body would be his, gave him a pleasure beyond description and he bent a look of possession upon her.

Her eyes widened and she spoke but a single word, yet it was readily understood. “What?”

That she had caught his look and deciphered it accurately was no surprise to him. Isabella was a woman of intelligence, and it wouldn’t take an inordinate amount of that quality to figure out that he was claiming her as his own, and his eyes were merely registering the fact.

She stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt, and waited for him to mount the black horse he rode. The men folded the blanket and gathered the remains of the food, wrapping it and settling it into a saddlebag, where it would be handy when they stopped again.

Manuel stood beside her, a silent figure of a man, as if he knew his assignment was to watch over her and keep her where she belonged while Rafael made ready for riding. Once her captor had settled himself in the saddle, she was again lifted and placed across his lap, his hands pulling her dress to cover her legs. But the breeze thwarted his intentions, blowing the fabric aside, revealing her calves and ankles. The soft slippers she’d donned upon leaving the convent were wearing fast, their fabric better suited to the hallways and chapel of the convent than the rough country they traveled through.

“We’ll get you some decent shoes as soon as we get to Diamond Ranch,” Rafael said, looking down at the thin covering she wore on her feet. “You’ll have bruises on your feet from walking on stones and harsh ground.”

“I’ve been bruised before,” she said tautly, only too aware of his gaze resting on her feet and legs. His hand reached to smooth the fabric of her dress over her legs and she flinched from his touch.

“Do you fear me?” he asked quietly, as if the gathering of herself as his fingers measured her legs beneath the homespun fabric had bothered him. “Don’t draw away from me, Isabella. I have no intention of hurting you. All you must do is cooperate and do as I say. We’ll live through this long ride, and you’ll have a soft bed to rest in tomorrow night. I don’t want you to suffer because of me.”

“I don’t fear you, Mr. McKenzie. Only what you will do to me when we reach your home.”

He looked puzzled at that, she thought, for his forehead puckered a bit and he looked down at her with a question in his eyes. “What do you think I’ll do to you? Beat you or treat you badly?”

She bit at her lip, not wanting to answer his query, yet unwilling to back down from this encounter. “I fear you taking me to your bed.”

The words lay between them, the color leaving her cheeks as she spoke, his own eyes seeming to become warm and searching as he sought out her face, one hand tilting her chin upward, the easier for him to look into her eyes. “I’ll not hurt you, Isabella. I’ll marry you before I touch you, before I make you my wife. Has no one ever spoken to you of this?”

She laughed bitterly and opened her eyes fully, the better to see his puzzled look as she spoke taunting words. “And who would speak to me? Perhaps Sister Agnes Mary? Or the Mother Superior? Should they have told me what they have experienced of marriage and the taking of a woman’s innocence at the hands of a man?”

“You know nothing of being a wife, do you?” He seemed to be bothered by this, she thought, as if he wished for some woman of great wisdom to properly tutor his bride-to-be.

“Nothing.” The single word was spoken in a hushed manner, and Rafael looked down at the girl he held. Old enough already to be wed and perhaps more than old enough to have already borne children, she seemed today to be but a child herself. A creature of innocence, of purity, not meant for the marriage bed. And yet, she was far from what he’d expected a nun to look like. At his first glimpse of her, Isabella had given him pleasure, her face and what parts of her form he had seen. She was beautiful, serene and quiet, a woman fit for the position he would offer her.

Still, his heart stuttered when he thought of the days to come, the wedding to be organized, the great bedroom where she would sleep for the rest of her life, in the bed where he’d been born. For now, the man who had fathered him lived in a room closer to the kitchen, where his needs were easily attended to by the staff who cared for him. Where his nurse’s call could be heard should he need help. The man owned a heart that refused to supply blood to all the parts of his huge body. A stubborn man who would only be limited in his activity by the frailty of his body, no matter what the doctor told him. A man who would soon find his place in the family graveyard, out beyond the orchards.

And to that end, he had demanded that Rafael, his only son, find a bride, a woman fit to carry on the McKenzie name, bearing sons to inherit the land and the enormous ranch that supported a dozen families.

Wanting to please his father, partly because of the love he bore the man who had sired him, Rafael had set forth to do just that. And had found the woman of his heart, a woman who would grace his table, reign over his kingdom and in his bed would give him the fidelity and honor he expected of a bride. She would want for nothing, would live as a princess in his home and only be expected to give her husband the gift of her body and the promise of sons and daughters.

Now he’d managed to find and claim the woman he wanted. Whether by fair means or foul he’d captured the prize, and was almost home with her in his arms. Not happily, perhaps, but he had enough confidence in his own skills as a man to convince her of the wisdom of his choice. Enough knowledge of the female form to woo and win her to himself, given the opportunity to do just that.

But first, he must make certain that she knew what her limits were, what boundaries he would set for her, here in the place where he took her. A home close to a hundred miles from her own father’s ranch, and half that distance from the convent where she had spent the years of her girlhood.

She must be made to understand that as the bride of Diamond Ranch, she had a definite place to fill, not only on the ranch but in the community of ranchers that surrounded his homestead. He ran a thousand head of cattle, a large herd of horses and grew field after field of oats and wheat. Diamond Ranch was prosperous, and without pride, he knew that he was responsible for a good share of the profits it had gathered over the past five years.

His father’s health had deteriorated rapidly with the onset of heart disease, and Rafael had assumed the reins once it became apparent that the elder man would be an invalid. Another attack had weakened him considerably, and by that time the men recognized Rafael as their source of authority and power. He’d worked hard for the past years, and now the time had come to reap the rewards, to become the head of the family, to occupy the master’s bedroom with his bride.

On his lap, Isabella stirred, her bottom wiggling over his thighs, her back stretching a bit, then settling once more against him. “Are you weary?” he asked, his mouth against her ear.

“My body is. I feel that I’ve been sitting forever, and my legs are going to sleep, my back is aching and the sun has made my head hurt.” She looked up at him, a sidelong glance that pleased him, for he saw the strength she exhibited, the aching muscles ignored as she shifted again to settle herself more comfortably.

“We’ll stop soon,” he said, nodding at Manuel, who had cast him an inquiring look. “We need to make a pot of coffee and heat the rest of the sausage over a fire. You’ll feel better with some food in you and the ground under your feet.”

She sighed. “I don’t mean to complain, even though it serves you right. Any man who would steal away with a woman deserves all the complaining she can come up with.”

“You’ve been surprisingly short on complaints,” he said. “I expected you to be moaning and groaning all day long. Most women would have given me hell for putting them through what you’ve had to endure.”

“I learned early on in life that complaining doesn’t solve the problem. Usually, I manage to handle any situation without calling for help.”

He turned her a bit in his arms, revealing her face to him fully. “What kind of problems did you have as a child that caused you to develop so adult an attitude?”

She only shrugged and grimaced. “Just the usual childhood upsets. I didn’t have a mother to go to, so our cook heard a lot of my woes, until I found that I was more adept at solving the problems than she. I was standing on my own by the time I was ten or twelve.”

“And why were you sent to the convent? Did you so badly disrupt your father’s household that he wanted to get rid of you?” His voice was gently teasing as he spoke, but Isabella heard a note of concern through the query.

“I went to the convent because I wanted to,” she said firmly. “Father tried to talk me out of it. He wanted me to be married to Juan Garcia just after my fourteenth birthday, and when I refused, he lost his temper with me.”

“How did you win that battle?” The thought of a mere child of fourteen being married off to a man like Juan Garcia was enough to make his blood run cold, and Rafael felt anger rise in him at the thought.

“He agreed to let me stay at the convent and learn the skills of a wife until I was sixteen, and when he died that year, there was enough money left to keep me there for another few years. I’d about decided to become a nun by then, for I knew that anything was better than marriage to Señor Garcia.” She shivered against him as she spoke, and a flood of respect for the young girl who had fought and won her freedom washed over him.

“Señor, there is a spot ahead where the water is fresh and the area is defensible.” Manuel rode beside him and spoke welcome words, for the man seemed to be aware that Isabella was weary and more than ready for sleep.

“Tell the men to stop where you say and set up camp,” Rafael said easily. “Isabella and I shall be with you momentarily.”

Manuel nodded and rode to speak with the other men, leading the way to the chosen spot, an area not more than five hundred yards ahead. Slowing his stallion to a walk, Rafael spoke softly to Isabella, words aimed at soothing her and assuring her of her safety.

“We’ll stay in my small tent tonight,” he said easily. “I’ll find enough supple branches to make a bed for you, and there is enough food to fill your stomach until morning.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, sounding a bit pouty to her own ears. “I don’t mean to be any additional trouble to you, señor, but I’m only tired and ready for sleep. I don’t care if I have food or not.”

“You will eat, Isabella. I won’t have you sick before I take you to my home. We’ll have a hard day’s ride tomorrow, and I want you to feel well.”

“Then leave me be, and give me a blanket to cover myself with. I don’t need your tent or a bed to rest on.”

Rafael laughed, helpless to conceal his amusement at her. “You have no choice, my love. You will sleep in my tent on my blanket and you will eat first. I can be stubborn when it pleases me.”

“I’ve noticed,” she snapped, sitting upright and leaning heavily on a part of his anatomy that protested her weight.

He shifted her to one thigh and held her there, unwilling to tell her what she had done to cause him such discomfort, but she stiffened in his grip and twisted from his hold.

“You are a burdensome woman,” Rafael said, bringing his stallion to a halt and lowering her to the ground. One of the men drew near to keep an eye on her as Rafael dismounted easily, and at a nod from Rafael as he claimed Isabella with one hand on her waist, his trusted man turned and walked back to the camp they were busy forming.

A fire was already laid, the wood piled neatly with kindling beneath it, a pot of water already hanging over it on a hook. Even as they watched, Matthew opened the sack of ground coffee and measured an amount into the waiting water.

“I know you had coffee before when you were not well, but do you normally drink it?” Rafael asked Isabella, settling her beside the fire that awaited a match. She perched on a cushion one of the men had placed there for her, and she looked at the others who worked silently around her, wondering which of them had thought of her comfort in such a way.

“I can tolerate it, though tea is preferable, but it was only available on occasion. The Mother Superior said coffee was not a healthy drink and she forbade it to be purchased for the convent kitchen, except in small amounts.”

“You may have whatever you desire at our home when we arrive there,” Rafael told her. “You may have anything it is in my power to provide for you.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “Why are you so generous with me? You just told me I was…what was it you said? Oh, yes, you told me I was burdensome. Not a flattering description, to my way of thinking.”

“I thought of something entirely different when I told you that,” he said with a laugh, a sound that was echoed by Manuel, who had apparently noticed his employer’s discomfort while riding during the last hour or so.

“I haven’t tried to be a burden to you. But then I haven’t put forth any effort to make your life easy, either. I suspect you’ll just have to put up with me the way I am.”

“I’m looking forward to just that,” Rafael said, bowing his head as if in tribute.

“My father used to tell me I was a troublemaker when I was a child. But our cook defended me. She said I was too smart for my own good, and my father did not understand me.”

“I’ll be sure towork at that, Isabella. Understanding you will be my priority for the next fifty years or so.”

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