Bride By Mistake

by Anne Gracie

  Luke followed, and in a few minutes they were alone on the narrow, winding road, heading down the mountain, leaving the convent and the village far behind.

  After a while the track broadened and Isabella slowed to a walk. Luke brought his mount alongside her mare so that the horses were walking side by side.

  “Not finding it too tiring?”

  She gave him a surprised look. “Not at all.”

  They walked on in silence for a while. To Luke’s surprise she didn’t seem to feel the need to fill the silence with aimless chatter. Of course, it could be shyness, in which case it was incumbent on him to converse. Only he couldn’t think of anything to chat about.

  He pulled out a flask of cold spring water and passed it to her. She unstoppered it, drank, and handed it back to him with murmured thanks.

  He was about to drink, when a question occurred to him. “What did you tell Miguel about the donkey?”

  She gave a little huff of amusement. “Just that it is an English tradition for a bridegroom to give a male donkey as a gift…” She added with a glimmer of mischief, “To ensure a son, you understand, donkeys being… well endowed.”

  Luke, in the act of drinking from his flask, choked. She gave a gurgle of laughter and rode ahead. His demure convent bride.

  More and more he was looking forward to the night.

  They rode all morning, stopping occasionally to rest and water the horses and for Isabella to stretch her legs. Not that she really needed it. Her mare had a beautifully smooth gait, and the saddle fit her horse well and was comfortable.

  The joy of being on a horse again, breathing in fresh, pine-crisp mountain air, did much to soothe her bruised spirit, and the narrow track forced them to travel in single file most of the time, which made conversation difficult. Far from being disappointed or bored, it gave her the luxury of being alone with her thoughts, without anyone saying, “Isabella Ripton, are you daydreaming again?”

  Not that she was letting herself daydream anymore. She’d given that up. Or was trying to.

  But she would have to broach the matter soon with him. She was not going to tamely accompany him to England. She had to go to Valle Verde first. But it was not a discussion to be had while on horseback.

  And then there was the small matter of a wedding night. It occupied her thoughts a great deal.

  “We’ll stop here for luncheon,” Lord Ripton said, turning off the track into a small clearing. It was a peaceful-looking place, with a stream burbling between the rocks and patches of green grass dappled by sunlight that filtered through oaks and beech trees.

  Lord Ripton dismounted and went to assist her, but she slipped to the ground before he reached her. “I’ve brought food from the convent,” she said, reaching into her bag.

  “And I have food from Miguel’s mother.”

  They made a picnic on the grass, with bread, cheese, olives, and some slices of rich, pungent sausage. Tiny birds hopped in the grass, twittering hopefully from a distance. Finches? Sparrows? She wasn’t sure.

  “This place reminds me of the first time we met,” she said, nibbling on the crusty bread.

  “I passed that place on the way here.” He glanced at her and added, “We will not revisit it.”

  She crumbled some of the bread and scattered it for the birds. He produced an apple and sliced it neatly into eight pieces, removing the core. He cut a sliver of cheese, placed a piece of apple on it, and passed it to her, balanced on the blade of his knife. “Eat.”

  She took it and nibbled. It was very good, the richness and saltiness of the cheese contrasting with the sharp crispness of the apple. “Lord Ripton, I wonder, did you notice if—” she began.

  “I told you to call me Luke.”

  He waited.

  “Luke,” she repeated obediently. “I was wondering about the grave. Did you see it?”

  “There’s no sign of it,” he told her. “I stopped there briefly on the way to the convent. There is no sign of anything—only grass.” He passed her another slice of cheese and apple.

  “I often think of that day.”

  “Then stop it,” he told her firmly. “It’s in the past and should remain there. There is nothing to be gained from looking backward. Look to your future, think about children.” He passed her another piece of cheese and apple.

  He meant heirs, Isabella thought darkly, taking the proffered food. He was probably feeding her cheese and apples to fatten her up for the purpose. Like a prize mare.

  She wanted children, of course she did, but first she had to settle her affairs in Valle Verde.

  And he was wrong about the past. It was important. You couldn’t just bury it like a body and hope grass would grow over it and make it disappear.

  The past shaped who you were. It wasn’t healthy to dwell in it, but you had to learn to live with it.

  Sister Mary Stella, the Irish nun who’d taken young Bella under her wing when she first arrived at the convent, had taught her that. “Bad things happen,” she would say, “but it does no good to pretend they never happened. If you do, they will fester and grow, and the more you try to hide them away, the more they’ll rule you in secret.”

  Young Bella knew that was true. The nightmares came every night.

  “So pull out the bad things after a bit and give them a good seeing to. Expose them to sunshine. Imagine if they happened to someone else. I promise it will look different. Then, mebbe you can let it go, and forgive yourself—yes, I know you did nothing wrong, but you can’t tell me you don’t blame yourself for letting it happen.”

  She was right. Bella did blame herself.

  “We all blame ourselves, lovie; don’t worry. But put the past in proper perspective and you leave the guilt behind, too. And look to the future without fear or regret.” And Sister Mary Stella would squeeze Bella’s hand and say, “And I just know you’re going to have a lovely future, Bella me love. I can feel it in me waters!”

  Lord Ripton gave Isabella the last piece of apple and carefully wiped the blade of his knife clean. “Now, if you’ve finished…” He stood and held his hand out to assist her to rise.

  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” she said and leaned back on her hands.

  “Still hungry?”

  “No, but we need to talk.”

  “Talk? Can’t we do that on the road?”

  “No.” She waited, and eventually, humoring her, he sat down again.

  “Before we go to England I need to go to Valle Verde.”

  “Not this again. I thought I made it clear—”

  “You did, but apparently I did not make it clear enough to you. I have to go to Valle Verde because—”

  “You feel a responsibility to your father’s people, I know, but trust me, there is no point in your going. If you don’t own the estate any longer, you cannot rectify their situation, and even if you did—”

  “I could send an agent to do that job?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You think I want to go and play Lady Bountiful to my father’s peasants? I do not. Nor have I any intention of interfering with Ramón’s running of the estate. Knowing Ramón, it would only make him angry and, being Ramón, he would take it out on someone else.”

  “So, is it something you left behind?”

  “In a way.”

  “Then we can send someone to fetch it.”

  “No, we cannot.” She swallowed. “It is not a thing.” She met his gaze squarely. “It’s a sister.”

  “A what?”

  “My half sister.” There, she’d said it.

  “I thought you were an only child.”

  “I am. The only legitimate child. Perlita, my half sister, is the daughter of my father’s mistress.”

  He frowned. “Your father did not make provision for the child and her mother?”

  “He did.” She swallowed. It was harder to admit than she�
�d thought. Up to now, only Father Alvarez knew her sorry tale, and that was under the seal of the confessional.

  “Then what—”

  It all came tumbling out then, the dreadful thing she had done. “When Papa was dying he sent the message for me to go at once to my aunt’s convent. He told me to take Perlita and her mother with me, but I didn’t. His message was clear, but I pretended I didn’t understand it. And so I left them behind. And that was why I was attacked on the road.”

  “What?” He stared at her. “What possible relation could there be between leaving your father’s mistress and child behind, and you being attacked?”

  “I disobeyed Papa and abandoned my half sister to her fate, and that’s why it happened.”

  “What nonsense.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not nonsense. The men who attacked me knew about Papa’s message. I told you they were after jewels.”

  There was a short silence as he considered her story. “What did your father’s message say?”

  “That I was to go at once to my aunt at the Convent of the Broken Angel—it is not the correct name of the convent, you understand, but what those who know it call it—and to take his jewels with me.”

  “His jewels?”

  “It is what he called Esmerelda—his mistress—and Perlita. An emerald and a pearl—his jewels.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t mean actual jewels, your mother’s jewels, for instance?”

  She shook her head. “No, for then he would have written ‘your jewels,’ because Mama’s jewels belonged to me. In any case, we sold Mama’s jewels to raise money to equip Papa’s army.”

  “You sold your mother’s jewels?”

  “Of course.” She saw his look and shrugged. “We needed guns to fight the French, and our king was a weak traitor who’d handed the country over to the enemy.” She noticed his expression and added, “It wasn’t so hard. I had no sentimental attachment to most of her jewelry—only the pearls. I never saw Mama wear anything except her pearls. They were a wedding present from her parents.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Hidden in Papa’s secret safe place at Valle Verde.”

  “So you want to fetch them.”

  “No, my mother’s pearls are not sufficient cause. To be honest, I don’t look forward to going back there. I have no desire to meet my cousin Ramón again, and my home is no longer my home, not without Papa. But I promised Papa obedience, and I broke my promise when I fled Valle Verde and abandoned Perlita and her mother to their fate.”

  “You were a child of thirteen,” he reminded her.

  “I was responsible. And Perlita was—is—younger than me by two years.”

  “Her mother wasn’t younger than you, however. She was an adult and perfectly capable of taking care of her own child.”

  Isabella shook her head. “She was not raised to be the son of the family,” she said, hearing the edge of bitterness in her voice. “Perlita’s mother is beautiful and brainless. She was entirely dependent on Papa for everything. And he passed on that responsibility to me when he left. And then, as he lay dying, he charged me with their care…” Her voice cracked, and he completed her tale.

  “But in your fear of being forced to marry your cousin Ramón, you panicked and forgot them.”

  Isabella glanced away and said nothing. Fear and panic were acceptable excuses for a thirteen-year-old. Let him believe it. It was better than the truth.

  “Did you make inquiries after you reached the convent?”

  “Yes, my aunt sent letters to Valle Verde several times.”

  “And received no response?”

  “No, but in wartime, letters go astray. And if Ramón received the letters…” She made a gesture of disgust. “Ramón would pass on nothing from my aunt. He suspected she was hiding me, but there was nothing he could do.”

  Lord Ripton seemed to be pondering the situation.

  “Papa gave Esmerelda and Perlita a house on the estate. They must be there. Where else would they go?”

  “Were you close?”

  “What does that matter?” she said, a telltale defensive note in her voice. She scanned his face, trying to read his expression. “My sister’s fate weighs heavily on my conscience. I must go.” Could he not see that? He had to, surely.

  “No, it’s eight years since you left your half sister behind. There’s no point in traipsing across Spain on a wild-goose chase. Whatever her situation when you left Valle Verde, it is long since changed, and I don’t wish to delay our arrival in England any further.”

  “Because of this important engagement of yours?”

  He looked at her. “Yes.”

  “What is so important that it comes before my sister’s welfare?” Isabella waited. She’d bared her soul to him—almost—and he’d waved it aside as if it meant nothing. And to him, perhaps it didn’t. But not to her. It was a matter of honor. And blood.

  “It’s not important.”

  “It clearly is important if you override my concern for my sister for its sake.”

  “I meant it’s not your concern. All you need to know is that I made a promise and I intend to keep it.”

  An indirect cut at her broken promise to her father? Deliberate or not, it flicked Isabella on the raw. “Then I’ll go to Valle Verde by myself and join you later in England.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. I won’t have my wife gadding about a foreign country on her own.”

  “It’s not a foreign country. England is the foreign country to me. You can hire guards and a duenna if you don’t trust me.”

  “It’s not a matter of trust. The discussion is ended, and you will obey me. If you’re still worried about your half sister when we get back to England, I’ll send someone to make inquiries. Now, let us continue on our way. I intend to reach the town of Berdún before nightfall.” He rose to his feet and held out an imperious hand to assist her.

  She knew it was childish, but she refused to take his hand.

  They packed up the remains of their luncheon and washed their hands and faces in the mountain-cold stream. Again, Isabella recalled bathing in that other stream that dreadful day, and how Lieutenant Ripton had come and lifted her out of the freezing water and wrapped her in his shirt and comforted her.

  It was hard to believe he was the same man.

  The second half of the day passed more slowly. They still rode in silence, but it was the result of constraint.

  Bella brooded over his brusque dismissal of her need to go to Valle Verde. She wasn’t happy about it at all, but the more she thought about it, the more she had to accept that for him, a bastard half sister was of little significance.

  And that his engagement in England was obviously very important.

  If she didn’t share his priorities, that was her affair.

  In the late afternoon, a light drizzle set in. Isabella made no complaint; she just pulled out the blue hat and a gray woolen cloak from her bag, put them on, and kept riding. Luke was not so sanguine. The hat offered little protection. The misty rain caught in the tiny curls that framed her face. Droplets clustered on her lashes. The cloak was old and threadbare and was soon sodden.

  What the hell was her aunt thinking, letting her embark on a long and difficult journey with such inadequate clothing? It was taking poverty and simplicity too far.

  “Stop,” Luke told her, and with a puzzled look, she reined in her mare. He reached over, yanked Isabella’s cloak off her, and tossed it into the bushes.

  “What are you doing? That’s my cloak. You can’t—”

  He pulled off his many-caped greatcoat and held it out to her. “Put this on.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue. It’s warmer and drier than that blasted threadbare thing you were wearing.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I’m used to being out in all weather.” He rolled the sleeves up for her. “Now button it, all the way up.” He watched as she buttoned it tight to
her throat, then nodded and led the way onward.

  They rounded a bend, and a small cluster of buildings came into sight. “The village of Biniés,” Luke told her. “We’ll spend the night here.”

  “I thought you wanted to get to Berdún tonight.”

  “You’ve ridden all day and you’re cold and wet and tired.”

  She glanced at him. “You’re wetter than me.”

  “I’m used to it,” he said brusquely. “Even in so small a village, there’s bound to be an inn of sorts, though it might be a little spartan. We’ll find a room and wait out the rain.” And he had plans for the night that would warm them both, most thoroughly.

  She hesitated, and then said, “Two rooms, please.” Her skin was moon-pale and wet with rain.

  He reined in his horse and stared at her. “Two rooms?”

  She moistened cold, berry-dark lips. “You said this would be a marriage of convenience.” She looked nervous, but her chin was braced and resolute. “Well, it is not convenient for me to share a bed with you… yet.”

  She was punishing him, Luke thought, for his refusal to let her go on a wild-goose chase after her half sister by her father’s mistress.

  But he was damned if he’d venture into the wild hills that had harbored the worst experience of his life. Bad enough he’d had to come to Spain to fetch her. That had stirred up all kinds of unwelcome memories. But to return to the hills where Michael had died so horribly… And all Luke’s fault. No.

  Besides, her tale was nonsense as far as he could tell. What man would expect his thirteen-year-old daughter to take care of his adult mistress and her illegitimate child? Provide for them in his absence, perhaps. But escort them across a war-ravaged country? Preposterous.

  The man should never have let her know about them in the first place.

  Luke was damned if he’d let it drive a wedge between them. This marriage had already started on a rocky and unorthodox footing, but he was determined to make it work. And bedding her well and often figured large in his plan.