If he didn’t break his neck on this blasted contraption first.
Eight
Cold morning mist stung Isabella’s cheeks, clinging to her lashes and settling like a veil of gleaming silver beads on her horse’s rough coat. They were on the cold side of the mountain where the sun had not yet touched. Fog hung thick in the valleys, motionless.
They trotted along the narrow stony track that skirted the hills. Bare winter trees etched stark, then softly blurred by the mist. The silence was almost eerie, broken only by the occasional soft scuttle of a startled creature diving for cover, or a sudden beating of wings.
She was alone, on top of the world.
Freedom. She breathed in deep lungfuls. The pure, chill air bit into her. She shivered, drew Lord Ripton’s greatcoat closer around her, and urged her horse a little faster. It would be better when she was in the sun again.
She felt a small twinge of guilt at taking his greatcoat as well as his horse, but he’d thrown her cloak away and given her this to wear, so what else was she to do? His coat was warm and soft and smelled faintly of horse, and of him, some clean, masculine fragrance. Disturbingly pleasant.
The morning sun gilded the tips of the hills across the valley. At the convent they’d be finishing up morning prayers and filing silently in to break their fast. Eight years, the same breakfast: convent-baked bread and fresh cold water from the spring. Only the freshness of the bread varied. And in the darkest days—thankfully well behind them now—the quantity.
If the bread was stale, Dolores would again recall her halcyon days at the convent in Aragon where the nuns made delicious cakes and custards with the yolks of eggs given to them by the local winemakers, who’d used the whites for clarifying wine.
Dolores would start describing the cakes, and then Luisa would tell her to be quiet, she was only making them miserable. Then Alejandra would start on about chocolate and how uncivilized it was to start a day without it. And then one of the sisters would tell them to be quiet, that morning was a time for contemplation of the day, not chattering about worldly things.
Isabella smiled, thinking about them all, and how each day was the same, variations on the same daily theme. She’d probably never see any of them again. How strange that thought was. The convent had been her home for eight years; the same people day in, day out, the same routine, the same food, the same conversations until there were days she was ready to scream.
She’d been so desperate to leave, she’d never thought of the convent as home. Only now she’d left there forever did she begin to realize it.
Now she had no home at all.
Valle Verde? No, that wasn’t home. It didn’t belong to her anymore, and she didn’t belong there.
She belonged nowhere.
Legally she belonged with Lord Ripton. Her home was with him.
Whither thou goest…Another pang of guilt. Surely the Bible had something to say about saving sisters. But she could think of nothing.This is what comes of not paying attention in class, a nun said in her mind.A bad pupil and a bad wife.
She wasn’t really his wife. Not yet. Not until the marriage was consummated. And she wasn’t running away from him, just seeing to her sister first.
If he hadn’t been so unreasonable…
What kind of priorities did the man have? The welfare of an admittedly unknown and illegitimate sister-in—all right,halfsister-in-law—or a dance!
Adance! It beggared belief.
She thought about his sister. The dance might be a frivolous reason to Isabella, but it wasn’t to Molly. Her first ball, her first dance, her come-out party. It was special.
It wasn’t the dance that was important; it was the promise he’d made to his sister, his beloved younger sister.
A man who didn’t take promises lightly.
Isabella had made her own promise, even if her sister wasn’t beloved.
Love, honor, and obey.
She would honor those promises, too, she made a silent vow. Shewouldbe a good wife. Just not yet.
She rounded a bend, and a small group of birds gathered around the remains of some creature erupted into the air with a violent flapping of wings. Startled, her horse plunged backward. One of his rear hoofs slipped, and he scrabbled desperately for purchase on the loose, stony ground of the narrow track.
Bella gripped on with her thighs and flung herself onto his neck, forcing him forward and down. For two long, breathless seconds she feared they would plunge down the steep slope into the ravine, but then he found his feet and moved on, emitting a few loud, indignant-sounding snorts.
Bella heaved a sigh of relief and straightened, her heart still pounding. She couldn’t have done that sidesaddle. Not so easily.
