The Bride. Carolyn Davidson

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