The Bride. Carolyn Davidson

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