The Bride

Praise for Carolyn Davidson

“Carolyn Davidson creates such vivid images, you’d think she was using paints instead of words.”—Bestselling author Pamela Morsi

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges.”

—Publishers Weekly

Redemption

“[An] unflinching inquiry into the serious issues of the day.”

—Booklist

Oklahoma Sweetheart

“Like Dorothy Garlock, Davidson does not stint on the gritty side of romance, but keeps the tender, heart-tugging aspects of her story in the forefront. This novel is filled with compassion and understanding for characters facing hardship and hatred and still finding joy in love and life.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

A Marriage by Chance

“This deftly written novel about loss and recovery is a skilful handling of the traditional Western, with the added elements of family conflict and a moving love story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

The task of winning her heart would not be without difficulty, but he would use kindness as a tool, tender touches…and then he would claim her, know her in the most intimate sense, and she would be his.

Rafael bent closer to her and his whisper was soft, coaxing in her ear.

“You will be mine, Isabella. My bride. My wife.”

The words resounded within her and the movement of her head was a rebuttal of his words. He laughed aloud.

“You have no choice, sweetheart. Once you’re mine, once I’ve taken you to my bed, the fine señor will no longer be interested in you. He bargained for a young girl, a virgin. And you will no longer be able to claim that title.”

“I’ve known no man,” she said quietly. “My virtue is to be given only to the man I marry, the man I choose.”

“You chose me when you walked out of the convent.”

“Would you take a woman to your bed who is not willing?” she asked, daring a look into mysterious eyes that seemed to search her secrets out.

He smiled darkly, and yet she caught a glimpse of warmth glittering in those black eyes that met hers.

“You will be willing. I guarantee it.”

Reading, writing and research—Carolyn Davidson’s life in three simple words. At least that area of her life having to do with her career as a historical romance author. The rest of her time is divided among husband, family and travel—her husband, of course, holding top priority in her busy schedule. Then there is their church and the church choir in which they participate. Their sons and daughters, along with assorted spouses, are spread across the eastern half of America, together with numerous grandchildren. Carolyn welcomes mail at her post office box, PO Box 2757, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA.

The Bride
Carolyn Davidson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

About The Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Copyright

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?

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.