The Bride. Carolyn Davidson

      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