Читать книгу The Bride - Carolyn Davidson - Страница 13

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 yourself. But I am a determined man, Isabella, and I will have my way in this.”

She turned her head away in silent protest, but to no avail, for he touched her cheek once more and turned her toward him, her body obeying his greater strength. He lifted over her and his head lowered, his eyes dark as they looked deeply into hers. “I’m going to kiss you now, Isabella. Don’t make a fuss, for I’ll not hurt you, only give you a kiss of commitment, a promise of what is to be.”

His lips touched hers, dry and warm against her skin, and his mouth opened a bit over hers, the damp touch of his tongue against her soft flesh a shock. She fought to escape, and her hands came up to press on his shoulders, then slid to gain space against his chest, trying to force him from her. The struggle was silent, for she would not be shamed by his actions, and should the men be watching they would know of her defeat at his hands.

He levered her farther into the hay, his body upon her, his lips invading the soft tissues of her mouth, and a sound of fury caught in her throat, one he heard, for he shushed her with a soft whisper.

“I’ll only kiss you, for now,” he said, his mouth open over hers, his tongue forcing its way past her lips and teeth, exploring the wet places she 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 habit was soiled, wrinkled and not fit to wear, but it was all she possessed for the moment, and until Rafael McKenzie could find something else for her use, it would have to do.

From the barn behind her, the men led their horses, saddled them quickly and waited for Rafael to mount his own stallion before they took their places. He swept himself up into the saddle easily, then looked to where Isabella watched him, her eyes wary of the horse who pranced and tossed his head.

“Come.” He held out his hand to her and waited. Lest she make him angry, she walked closer to the horse, leaving room for a quick escape should the animal offer her any harm. “Give me your hand,” Rafael said, the words an order he obviously meant for her to obey, for his own gloved hand reached for her.

He’d buried his head in the watering trough, and the result allowed her to see clearly the shape of his skull, the dark hair fitting closely to each curve of his head, his face gleaming in the sunshine from the water he’d splashed on every available surface he could reach. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms still damp from the bath he’d given himself, and she thought he was a man to be feared, his face sharp and graven, his jaw firm, his eyes deeply set and flaring with messages she did not comprehend. He wore a rough beard, showing no signs of a razor this morning, and she remembered the feel of his face against hers during the night, when he’d bent low and brushed her cheek with his own, his whiskers scratching against her skin.

A blush covered her cheeks, and she felt its heat sear her flesh, knew his amusement was directed at her as he snapped his fingers and held out his palm in her direction. “Come to me, Isabella. I grow impatient.”

Lest he be angered, she lifted her hand to his and felt his grip on her wrist. He lifted her, his other hand reaching to hold her waist, and with an easy shifting of his body in the saddle, he lifted her to sit before him, in the same position she had endured the day before. She moved a bit, trying for a softer place for her bottom, but there was no pillow of softness between her and the tough muscular legs he offered as a lap.

With a sigh of resignation, she leaned back against his chest and rested there as he would have her. A sound that might have signified satisfaction breathed in her ear and he picked up the reins, his horse moving to walk down the lane to where the tracks led to the next village.

He seemed to know where he was going and she decided there was no point in making a fuss today, or she might not find herself the possessor of clean clothing or food for her breakfast. If he’d left her at the convent, she’d have fresh clothing on today and have already partaken of the lukewarm porridge at the table with her peers. Now, it seemed she was a whole lifetime away from the convent, and the thought of what lay ahead of her today caused a chill to travel the length of her spine.