Bound to Be a Bride (8 page)

She stared at him, loved him anew. “How was it you came to be in that forest”—she caught herself before she said “my father’s forest”—“on that particular day?”

“I was traveling from the east, to get here in time to board this ship.” He had learned to speak the approximate truth after several years of spending time with the rebel troops. Moving in and out of aristocratic and peasant circles from one day to the next had taught him to stick close to the facts whenever possible. No point in lying when some version of the truth would serve.

“I’m glad you were,” Isabella said. “It’s as though we were meant to meet that night.”

“If you like.” He caressed her cheek with one finger. “I am not a believer in the hand of fate, but if it delights you to feel a guiding hand, then I will delight in your delight.”

“Fair enough. I shan’t be one of those tedious women always trying to find meaningful connections where, perhaps, none exist. You need not share my belief in the long reach of Providence. It either is or it is not, and neither your skepticism nor my faith will change it.”

He kissed her again, briefly, then guided her back out to the street and into the sweetshop. They bought four sweets to enjoy when they were at sea; anything more would have been too much of an extravagance. Javier carried the small brown paper parcel in his left hand and offered his right arm to Isabella.

“Where next?” Javier asked. “The crone who sells old clothes is just there, and the jeweler is across the street, just there.” He gestured with his chin.

“First, I’d very much like to see what I could find to replace this hideous dress. I have my money from the sale of my mare—”

“There need be no talk of
your
money, Isabella. What’s mine—what little nothingness is mine, I should add—is yours. As soon as we are at sea, the captain can marry us and all will be official in the eyes of man.” He paused, seeing her shock. “And in the eyes of God, of course.”

“Of course,” she replied tartly.

She found a dress that was a little long, but the bodice tied up the front so she would be able to dress without assistance. It was made of a beautiful, very practical navy worsted bombazine of sturdy wool and silk. The proprietor of the shop, a wizened old woman who confessed she got her best items from the undertaker, handed Javier a few coins in change along with the brown wrapped parcel that contained the old rag of a dress.

When Isabella emerged from behind the rough cloth that served as a makeshift dressing room, she felt suddenly shy in the womanly dress. She hoped Javier would think her pretty.

Javier gave her the best courtly bow that the tight space would allow. “My lady…” He extended his arm in invitation.

They crossed the street to the jewelers, but before they could enter, Isabella hesitated. “Perhaps I should go in by myself.”

“Don’t be daft, Isabella. I have one or two things I’d like to have valued and I wouldn’t dream of letting you negotiate with one of these swindlers by yourself. You’d be fleeced in a matter of moments.”

“Javier.”

“I know.” He put up one hand. “You think I am belittling you. I am certainly not. Have you ever purchased anything in your life?”

“Of course!” She pictured the ribbon shop in the tiny village outside of Burgos where the convent allowed them to stroll one morning each month.

“With actual coins?”

“Well. What difference does that make? I had an account.”

“Of course you did,” Javier answered, as if she had made his point for him.

“I know the meaning of thrift and value. I know it takes work to…”

“Go on.” Javier was challenging her with those piercing amber-brown eyes of his again. “Did your father work?”

“Yes! I mean, he was responsible for many, many people. That is work… to manage… like that…”

Javier continued to stare at her. He could not blame her for accepting as right an entire social structure that had been in place for centuries. “Let us not argue here in the street. You may read my Spinoza on the ship. I merely want to get you the best price for your jewelry, Isabella. There is a vast and important difference between me trying to impose my will and me trying to assist you. I assure you this is the latter.”

“I want to believe you.”

“Then why don’t you?”

She sighed and looked into the jewelry shop. The windows were small and did not offer a very clear view to the interior. Perhaps having Javier with her to assist in the negotiations was not such a bad idea. “Oh, all right. I suppose you are right.”

“
Qué?!
” He yelled in a way that attracted the attention of several British seamen who happened to be walking nearby. They looked from the handsome gentleman to the pretty lady in blue, confirmed that a fight was not about to erupt, and moved on.

“I
said
…” Isabella smiled and hesitated for effect. “You. Are. Right.”

“It just sounded so… novel! And lovely, and the way it curls your lips. Perfect!”

She gave him another coy smile and a swift slap across his upper arm. “
Basta!
Let’s go in and see how much I am worth.”

He furrowed his brow at her odd choice of words, but followed her into the shop without pursuing the subject.

The bell above the door alerted the tall, thin German jeweler that he needed to look up from the handsome gold timepiece he was repairing.

“
Olá
,” he said cautiously as he stretched to his full height.

“Hello, how are you?” Javier replied in High German. The man smiled and invited them to come toward the back of the shop, gesturing toward two small stools across from his workbench.

“Sit. Please. It is not so often I hear the language of my countrymen here. Where did you learn?”

Isabella watched, fascinated, as her almost-husband spoke with easy grace in a language she had never heard spoken aloud. The nuns had a variety of books in their library in other languages, but nothing could have prepared Isabella for the way it rolled through her when Javier spoke German. The hard consonants, the rounded vowels. He sounded like another person altogether. Someone important. Even so, he sat on the stool with his usual casual ease. She knew by now that he kept a knife hidden in his left boot as well as the rather heavy looking saber that hung from the leather belt at his waist.

Javier was looking at her expectantly. “Please let us show the gentleman what you have to sell, my dear.”

“Oh. Yes.” She stumbled over the words. “It’s in rather an awkward spot. Do you have a separate chamber where I might… remove it?”

Javier smiled at his little rebel. “Sewed it into your dress, did you?”

“Drawers, if you must know.” She answered haughtily, as if she said the word
drawers
in front of two men in a disreputable jeweler’s shop in an unsavory part of a foreign seaside town at every possible opportunity.

“Allow me to assist you, my lady.” Javier rose to join her.

“That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m sure I can manage. You are not the only one with a small knife hidden on your person.”

The German man repressed a chortle and Javier crossed his arms over his chest and sat back down on the stool with a huff.

“The first door on the left is a small storage closet, my lady,” the German man directed. “It should do.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Isabella was gone for a few minutes and returned with a victorious grin spread across her face. “Very well. Here it is.” She handed the rough cross to the German, but just before he could take it into his eager hands, Javier leapt from his seat and clamped his hand around Isabella’s wrist.

“Ow!” she yelped. “You’re hurting me, Javi! Stop that!”

He pried the cross out her hand with his strong fingers. His face was dark with fury. “Give it to me now!” His voice was cruel and foreign to her ears.

The German stood up again. “Now, sir, if the lady—”

“Silence!” Javier barked in German, but his meaning was clear enough in any language.

“Where did you get this, you lying thief?!” Javier growled the words at Isabella.

Isabella looked over her right shoulder, as if he must have been speaking in such a vicious, accusatory way to someone else.

“Who are you looking for? Your accomplice? Tell me!” His voice became crueler and quieter the angrier he became. His grip on her wrist was so tight, she suspected the bones were about to crack.

Isabella felt her blood turning to ice. “It is mine. I swear it.” Tears were rolling down her ashen face. She turned to the German. “Do you have a Bible? I will swear on the Bible. I will swear on my soul.”

Javier continued to stare at her, speechless at last. His hand loosened a tiny bit on her wrist, but not enough to free her. The German got up from his seat, going to retrieve the requested book.

“There’s no need for a Bible,” Javier said, never taking his eyes off Isabella. The German sat back down.

“What is your full name, Isabella?” Javier demanded.

“Why? It’s not a name I will ever use. I hate my name.” It was the first time he had ever seen her speak with real venom.

“I will never ask you to repeat it, but this once, you must. I have to know how you came to possess this cross.” He held the heavy gold cross in his free hand and shook it twice in her face, too close, threatening her.

She stood tall and firm, her chin slightly raised as her father had taught her, despising every familiar syllable. “I am Doña Isabella de Suárez de Figueroa y Córdoba, daughter of the Duke of Feria and granddaughter of the Duke of Medinaceli.”

The jeweler’s monocle slipped from his eye and clattered to the surface of his workbench, punctuating the silence that surrounded them.

Javier released her wrist too quickly, making her feel filthy or diseased, as if he could not even bear to touch her wretched aristocratic skin.

“You find me despicable,” she whispered. “I knew it. I knew you would hate me if you knew. You think I am weak and pampered.” She collapsed onto the stool. She felt small and defeated. Then the anger she had repressed for the past seven years in the convent rose through her. Conviction—that she deserved to have at least a fighting chance at her own happiness—bubbled up then boiled over.

She stood too fast, knocking the stool over and nearly tripping on her too-long dress. “Give it to me!” she demanded, extending her hand to him with the palm flat and open to receive it. “It belongs to me. I have worked for it—you could not possibly begin to understand how hard I have worked. To obey. To abide. To accept. To comply! You bastard!” She snapped her fingers in his face, right in front of his eyes. “Now!” She was crying, but they were tears of rage. Glorious, righteous indignation. For herself. For Anna. For her mother. For every woman who had ever had to see that look of scrutiny in a man’s eyes when he beheld her.

Javier reached into his coat and she thought he was reaching for his sword. She took a quick step back and realized she had nowhere to maneuver. She went flush up against the grimy wall behind her. “Javier—”

“This cross has been in my father’s family for seven generations.” He spoke like a teacher, but one explaining something that he himself was only beginning to grasp. “Only the Condesa de la Mina has ever worn it. Or ever will.”

“
Mina
—?!” Isabella felt the blood drain from her face. “No—” She took two rough swipes at her face to swat away the tears. “No—it’s not—it cannot be—”

When Javier removed his hand from inside his jacket, he was holding a red satin pouch. He offered it to her. “I believe this belongs to you.”

She stared at his hand, afraid to believe the truth. Her father’s crest was woven into the red satin. In impatience bordering on disgust, Isabella had watched Sol make those stitches several weeks ago, the older woman boasting all the while about what an honor it would be to serve out her life in the company of the Conde and Condesa de la Mina.

“But I hate you,” Isabella whispered.

“And I you.”

“You were supposed to be mean and have fleshy, perfumed hands and think you were above everyone…”

“And you were supposed to be rigid and weak and cold…” He was moving toward her, closing the distance between them with each slow word. Then his smile bloomed across his splendid face and Isabella felt the world shift around her. “But I think, perhaps, we may have been misinformed.”

He grabbed her by the back of her neck. The cross was still in his hand and it dug into her flesh as he kissed her—
for
the
third
time
, she thought happily—with brutal abandon. She felt like he might rip her dress off and have his way with her right there in front of the German jeweler, and that she would not mind very much if he did.

“Javi… is that even your name?” she asked quietly when he pulled away. “Of course it is,” she continued. “Francisco Javier de la Mina y de la Lerrea… how could I have forgotten?” She pressed her forehead against his. “I love you, whoever you are.”

“And I love you, Isabella.”

The German cleared his throat as he sat back down at his workbench.

Javier turned to him and smiled, then said something conciliatory in the other man’s language.

The jeweler shrugged, put his monocle carefully into the folds of skin around his eye, and went back to repairing the pocket watch he had been working on when they had entered his shop a lifetime ago.

Javier turned his attention back to Isabella. “I am going to make you mine tonight,” he whispered into her ear. He pulled her into a quick embrace, then led her out of the shop.

“Let’s go quickly to catch up with the others,” Javier said as they were moving at a rapid pace toward the docks.

“We are still going?!” Isabella asked through a giddy laugh.

He pulled them both up short. “What do you mean by that?”

“I just thought—” She looked around them. “I don’t know, I thought you’d want to stay in Spain, since I wasn’t so despicable after all.”

“Do you want to stay in Spain, Isabella?”

She looked to the heavens. Did she? Now that she would actually be this glorious man’s wife, it no longer seemed such a dire alternative. Maybe she could make good on her promise to rescue Anna. Maybe she could begin to rectify some of her father’s injustices, to which Javier had alluded. She tipped her head slowly back down, facing him squarely. “I believe I shall be happy anywhere on this earth, as long as I am with you. But…”