by Anne Gracie
Luke shrugged. He was dark haired, dark eyed, and spoke Spanish like a native. It was why he’d been sent on this mission. “Englishmen can speak Spanish, too.”
She snorted. “Not like that. You sound nothing like an Englishman. That’s an Andalusian accent.”
She had a good ear. “I spent the summers of my childhood on a relative’s property in Andalusia,” he admitted. He and the younger of his two cousins had been sent there by his uncle, the Earl of Ripton, to learn the wine business. He’d loved Spain in those days.
She frowned, unconvinced. “You don’t look English. Englishmen have red faces and blue eyes.”
Luke smiled, amused, despite the situation. “Not all of us, I promise you. I truly am English. Lieutenant Luke Ripton, special dispatch rider under the command of General Sir Arthur Wellesley himself, at your service.” He saluted.
The suspicious look didn’t fade, nor did the pistol waver. “Say something in English, then.”
“You’re an extremely suspicious girl,” he told her in English, “but I can’t say I blame you, not after all you’ve been through.” She didn’t respond, and he felt a bit foolish.
“So, now I’ve told you my name,” he resumed in Spanish. “What’s yours?”
“Isabella,” she said eventually.
“Well, Isabella, we’ll leave this place soon, but first I must bury this fellow.”
She muttered something in a low stream of angry-sounding Spanish.
“I know, but it must be done,” he said firmly.
The next time he glanced up, she’d put the pistol away. She stood watching him, rocking slightly and hugging herself as if she were cold. It wasn’t a cold day.
Finally the hole was big enough. Luke dusted off his hands—he had a few new blisters now—and dragged the body to the grave. He rolled it in.
“Now, a few words.”
She gave him a burning look. “He deserves no words, nothing!”
Luke turned to the grave. “Lord, here lies a cur who, among other things, betrayed his country and brutally attacked a child. May he receive your divine judgment.” He glanced at Isabella and added in English, “And may this courageous young girl receive your blessing and heal in body and spirit. Amen.”
“Do you wish to say anything?” he asked her.
She came to the lip of the grave, peered in, muttered something angry that he didn’t catch, spat into the grave, then crossed herself.
“Good.” He began shoveling dirt into the hole and glanced at her as she stood, watching. “The sooner it is done, the quicker we leave.”
She immediately kicked some dirt into the grave. Clumps of earth fell on the dead man’s face. Her expression hardened. She kicked again and again.
Soon it was nothing but a long mound of dirt. “Now we stamp it down. Hard. Like this.” Luke stamped down with his boot, and after a moment she stepped forward and gave a tentative stamp with a small, bare foot. It left a perfect imprint in the dark mountain earth. She stared at it for a moment, and her face quivered with some fleeting emotion.
She glanced up and saw him watching; then, with an air of defiance, she stamped again. And again. And again.
Like dancing on the grave, only angry, vengeful. It was probably the wrong thing entirely to do with her. Encouraging a very young lady to stamp on a grave in her bare feet was something he was pretty sure would horrify his mother, but his mother had never faced the kind of thing this girl had. Anger was better than self-blame. Anger scalded, then healed.
Finally it was done. In a few months the grass would obliterate all sign of what had happened here. All outward sign.
Luke went to the stream and washed the dirt from himself. He scooped the clear, cool water in his hands and drank.
Behind him he heard a click. A pistol being cocked. He turned and faced his fierce little hatchling chick.
“And now, señor, no more delays. Catch your horse. We must leave.”
“Put that thing away. I don’t respond to threats.” He pulled out his penknife and began to clean his nails, whistling softly under his breath.
After a moment, she made a small frustrated sound, stamped her foot, then put the pistol carefully away. “There!”
He smiled, put his penknife back in his pocket, and, putting his fingers to his mouth, gave a shrill whistle. Brutus lifted his head and trotted toward them. “Can you ride?” Luke asked her.
“Since I could walk.”
“Astride?”
She snorted. “Of course.”
Interesting. Well-bred young ladies did not ride astride. She was a bundle of contradictions. Luke pulled a pair of cotton drawers from his saddlebag and handed them to her. “Put these on.”
She gave him a dubious look.
“They’re clean,” he told her. “And they’ll stop your thighs from chafing.”
She pulled his drawers on, screwing her face up in irritation as she tried to find a way to make them stay up. Luke fished a length of twine from his saddlebag and handed it to her. She scowled as she knotted it around her waist. “I hope those pigs burn in hell for cutting up my clothes.”
Luke frowned. “Those pigs? There was more than one?”
“Sí. Two of them. They knew my escort.”
“Escort?”
She gave him a haughty look; some feat, given the state of her face. “Naturally my father sent an escort. And I would have brought my duenna, only Marta is too fat to ride. Papa sent three of his most trusted men: Esteban, Diego, and Javier. But that swine and his friend, they knew them. They had served with my father, too.” She spat in the dust. Another thing a well-bred young lady would never do. “Deserters, but we did not know that at the time. They said Papa had sent them with a message, and when we stopped, suspecting nothing, they killed Esteban, Diego, and Javier.” She gave him a guilty look. “At first I escaped—at the first shot Javier told me to flee—but my horse went lame and they caught me.”
Luke scrutinized the clearing. There was no sign of any other man, dead or alive. “What happened to the second man?”
“They quarreled, and he ran off with my horse and all my belongings.”
“You mean with the jewels?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not you, too. How often must I say there were no jewels! As if I would ride through bandit country carrying jewels! That’s why my clothes are ruined. The fools thought I had jewels sewn into my clothes.” She muttered something under her breath.
“Where did they get the idea?” Luke asked curiously. Her attacker had spoken very particularly about jewels, not money or other riches.
“Who knows where fools get such notions?” she said, but her gaze slipped sideways. She knew more than she was saying, but Luke just wanted to get the girl to safety and return to headquarters in good time, so he didn’t pursue the question. She was welcome to her secrets.
She added impatiently, indicating her attire, “I have donned these barbarities, so can we leave now? Ramón will not be far behind me, and he rides with no care for his horse. I must get to the convent.”
“Convent?” Luke swung onto his horse and held a hand down to help her mount.
“The Convent of the Broken Angel. Up there.” She jerked her chin toward the mountains, then grasped his outstretched hand, placed a bare foot on his boot, and swung lithely up behind him. Without waiting, she thudded her dusty little heels into Brutus’s flanks and they moved off.
Strangely, the higher into the mountains they went, the more he felt her tension rise. Her grip on him tightened, and her anxious craning around to look back the way they came became more frequent.
“So, the Convent of the Broken Angel, is it?” Luke said. “Interesting name.”
“The proper name is Convent of the Angels, but since lightning struck one of the angels and broke its wings, everyone calls it the Convent of the Broken Angel.”
“Are you intending to become a nun?”
She answered with a snort. “No. I go there on the instructions
of my father. For safety… perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“My aunt is there. A nun.”
“I see. I gather she is not related to this Ramón.”
“No, she is from a different side of the family—from the side of my father’s mother.”
“Then that should be all right,” Luke said in vague reassurance.
There was a short silence, then Isabella added, “But I do not know her well. And nuns are sworn to practice obedience.”
Luke’s mouth twitched. “I gather you don’t approve of obedience.”
She sniffed. “It depends. I obey”—her voice wavered—“obeyed my father in all things. But my aunt, she is not the Mother Superior, and I do not know whose side the Mother Superior will take.”
“In what way?”
“Now that Papa is… is dead, and Felipe, too, who was my father’s heir and my betrothed, Ramón is the head of the family, and if he orders my aunt to give me to him… I do not know what the Mother Superior will do. These are dangerous times in Spain, and I do not know if the Mother Superior is with Papa’s side of politics, or against it. And I am another mouth to feed. If she is not a patriot, or Ramón offers her money…”
There was much in what she said, Luke conceded. Spain was a country at war and split within by politics. But surely, if Ramón truly intended to force the child into marriage, no nun, no matter what her politics, would hand Isabella over to him.
“Nuns are also sworn to chastity,” Luke reminded her. “Perhaps she will take your side.”
“Perhaps,” she echoed doubtfully. It was clear she had no confidence in that.
“If it was your father’s dying wish that you go to the convent, his wish must be honored.”
For a few moments she said nothing, then she said, so softly that he almost didn’t catch it, “Perhaps.”
A few minutes up the road they found the rest of her belongings scattered about. Luke stopped to let her go examine them in case there was something she could retrieve.
But there was nothing. Everything, even the saddle, had been shredded in the search for the elusive jewels. Once an exquisitely made piece, the carved and decorated lady’s sidesaddle was now a wreck. Luke could see where some kind of metal decoration—possibly silver—had been wrenched off and the stitching slashed apart. Nothing of value remained.
One thing was clear: all question of jewels aside, with clothing and a sidesaddle of the highest quality, Isabella must come of good family. It gave weight to the suggestion that she was an heiress.
She picked over her ruined belongings, then picked them up and threw them into the bushes. She turned to him and said, “Take me with you.”
“What?” And then he realized she’d spoken in English. “You speak English?”
“Not well, but my mother was half English, and I understand everything.” She brushed that aside and, gripping his stirrup, said in a rush, “Take me with you, to your army. I will be your servant, dress as a boy—I look like a boy, I know. I will cut off my hair, and nobody will know I am a girl. Please, I beg of you—”
“I can’t do that.” Luke cut her off gently. “It’s impossible.”
“But Ramón will come,” she said in despair. “He will take me from the convent and… and…”
“I can’t take you with me,” Luke told her. “My life is too dangerous.”
“And mine is not? Please, Lieutenant Ripton.” She stared up at him in mute entreaty.
“No.” Luke held out a hand to help her remount. It went very much against the grain not to help her, but it was quite impossible to smuggle her into camp as his servant. All he could do was to deliver her to the convent, to her aunt. Her father must have known what he was doing when he sent her there. Surely.
“Then I will stay here,” she said, not moving.
“Here? In the mountains? Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t survive a week out here.” He gestured to the rugged landscape.
“I can. I know how to live off the land. My father taught me how to be a guerrillera.” She gestured at the surroundings. “Better here in the mountains than in Ramón’s hands. My father taught me to hunt and—”
“No. Now get on this horse,” Luke ordered. “I promise you I will look after you. No one will take you; no one will force you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You promise?”
“On my honor as an English officer and a gentleman.” What the hell was he doing, promising such a thing?
She gave him a long, searching look, then offered a satisfied nod and mounted up behind him. As they moved off, she laid her cheek against his back, and her skinny little arms wrapped trustfully around him.
Luke felt it with a sinking heart. What had he done? And how the hell was he going to keep his rash promise?
The answer came to him as they rode into a small village. The first building they saw was a little stone church. A priest stood by the doorway, his face toward them, as if expecting them.
It was Fate, thought Luke. Fate had looked after him so far in this war. He would trust it again.
“Isabella,” he said. “I think I know of a way to save you from Ramón”
“How?”
“You will need to trust me. I promise you can, but you must do this of your own free will.”
“Do what?” The voice was small but laced with hope. The weight of her expectation made him hesitate.
He dismounted and lifted Isabella down so he could talk to her face-to-face. She turned her bruised and battered little face up to his. “Do what?” The trust in her clear golden eyes was disturbing.
The enormity of what he was about to do flooded his consciousness. He was risking everything, his career, the respect of his peers… but he could not simply leave her to her fate.
He explained. “If I marry you, Ramón cannot.”
Her eyes widened. “Marry you? You want me to marry you?”
He nodded. “Only if you want to.” Luke swallowed, feeling the whole basis of his life slowly slipping away. What would his friends say? What would his mother say? He had no doubt what his commanding officer would say.
“Yes I will marry you, Lieutenant Ripton.” She said it in a rush, as if she feared he would change his mind.
“It’s just a device to stop Ramón,” he warned her.
She nodded. “I understand. And afterward I will come and be your wife in the army.”
“No, I told you, it’s too dangerous.”
“But—”
“Afterward you will go to the Convent of the Angels and live there until it is safe.”
“But—”
“You will not be coming with me. You’re not old enough to be married. This is only to keep you from Ramón, understand.”
She nodded. “I understand.” She glanced at the church. “We will do it here? Now?”
“If you want to.”
“I do.”
The priest took some convincing to marry them. He spoke to Isabella and Luke separately and together. Isabella’s injuries worried him greatly, but she was fervent in her wish to be married, and she swore Luke had not harmed a hair on her head. On the contrary.
And in the end, it was wartime, and better a couple united in sin—even if one was a heathen Englishman—than another young Spanish girl debauched.
They repeated the sacred words, Isabella barefoot and dressed in Luke’s shirt and drawers held up with string. Luke signed a series of documents, the priest witnessed them, and within the hour Luke and his child bride rode north to the Convent of the Angels, where he handed an exhausted young girl and a packet of documents over to her surprised aunt.
Isabella was safe.
Three
The Convent of the Broken Angel, Spain, 1819
“I don’t want to die an old maid,” the plaintive voice began.
Isabella Mercedes Sanchez y Vaillant, known to her schoolmates as Isabella Ripton, bent over her sewing, wishing she could block out the conversation to come. She knew it by he
art. It was a daily ritual, as regular as any other ritual in the convent routine. She was fed up with most of them, but particularly so with this one. It did no good at all; only rubbed their noses in their own misery.
“And I don’t want to become a nun.”
Now Paloma would interject and say something about having faith and about what a lovely bride Dolores would make. Rubbing salt in the wounds, if only she realized it, but she never did. Paloma was as thickheaded as she was kindhearted.
Bella stabbed her needle through the worn white linen. She loathed sewing. She longed to get up and leave, but she was stuck there for at least another hour. She had a pile of worn-out sheets to sew, sides to middle, to give them another lease of life. Penance for something or other. Running. Or impiety, or something like that. For breathing, probably.
“You must have faith, Dolores,” Paloma said gently. “Your father will send for you. I’m certain of it. Why would he not, such a beautiful bride you will make. Any man would be proud.”
Bella gritted her teeth. It was nothing to do with Dolores’s beauty or otherwise. It was about money. And family pride. It was the same reason all the girls were still stuck in the convent, long after their schooling was complete and years after the war was over.
Spain might be free of the French, they might have a Spanish king on the throne again, not Napoleon’s puppet or his brother, but it was not the same country it had been before the war. Many great families were on the brink of ruin, some because they’d sided with the French and the Spanish traitors, others because they’d spent their fortunes funding a private army to fight a guerrilla war, and some because they had had their homes and estates—and therefore their means of earning a living—destroyed; part of the catastrophe of war.
The blue-blooded families of the girls who remained in the convent were too poor to afford a rich dowry for their daughters and too prideful to allow them to marry below their class. Not unless the prospective husband was of enormous wealth, and even then, some families refused to sully their ancient bloodlines with the blood of some jumped-up peasant.
Rather than let their daughters suffer such a fate, they’d left them to rot in a remote mountain convent: unwanted, forgotten, abandoned.