The Bride

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

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?