The Bride

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.”