Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1) (11 page)

A crow squawked in a tree above their heads. The big black bird startled Roman. He stopped kissing her and looked up at the incensed bird.

“Please,” she pleaded. “Let me go.” Tears filled her eyes.

He rose to his feet in a rush, hauling her up with him. He didn’t say anything, just held her protectively in his arms, smoothing down her tangled hair with trembling hands. She could tell he was shaken. She was shaken too.

The crow squawked again before flying away.

The sound of rushing water was the only sound in the grove now. “I’m sorry,
pequeña
. I don’t know what came over me. The spirit of the wolf, perhaps.” He reached out to retrieve a leaf caught in her hair.

She shied away from his touch. When he released her, she hurried out of his arms.

In a flash, he grabbed hold of the waistband of her pants, yanking her back into his embrace, a wounded look on his face. He took the leaf from her hair at leisure and then leaned his forehead against hers in regret. “I said I was sorry. I won’t hurt you, Rachel.”

“You have already hurt me.”

Cursing in Spanish, he released her. He strode over to the stream. There at the water, he yanked off his shirt and began bathing his face and upper body as if he was a man on fire. His torso was much lighter than his tanned arms and neck, all of him corded in hard muscle. Great bruises and broken skin marred his back. For heaven’s sake, he was so appealing yet so injured. She’d had no idea. He’d not once winced or acted in any pain today. She stared at the wounds on his back with wide, shocked eyes. He’d been terribly beaten. The sight of his injuries appalled her. Had his uncle done that to him on account of her?

Trembling all over, she tucked the bottom of her shirt back into her pants as she turned away from the only half-naked man she’d ever seen and walked out of the undergrowth growing in abundance along the creek.

Their horses were tied together with a long rope in the open field. The buckskin mare Rachel rode would have bolted away when she approached, but Roman’s palomino stallion refused to run, holding the other horse in check.

A whistle from the trees caused the palomino to trot away from her, dragging her horse to where Roman walked into the clearing. His shirt was back on, his jet-black hair wet and slicked away from his unsmiling face. He untied the horses, rolled up the rope, and bridled both of them. After swinging up on Oro, he rode over to her, leading her mount. His shirt clung to his wet skin outlining muscles Rachel now intimately knew the strength of, even injured, he was unbelievably strong, both physically and in will and constitution. She couldn’t believe how unaffected he was by all those bruises on his body.

“Do not try to return to your father without an escort. The way would be too dangerous for you,” he told her flatly.

She could see he’d misunderstood her approaching the horses while he was at the creek. “I only wanted my Bible.”

He got off Oro and took her by the elbow. “I will return your Bible tonight when we reach my hacienda.” He led her to the buckskin and lifted her without fanfare into the saddle. His eyes revealed not an ounce of emotion, good or bad.

When he turned away to mount his own horse, Rachel saw blood seeping through his wet shirt.

“Your back is bleeding.” She gathered the reins in both hands, keeping a firm bit on the mustang and her feelings.

He settled into his saddle. “It is nothing.”

“I didn’t know you were hurt so badly.”

“Would you have surrendered to me on account of my wounds?” His gaze bore into hers.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” He nudged his horse ahead, leaving her to follow.

Her horse naturally fell in behind his. For the following hours, they rode in silence as she watched the blood dry on his shirt. During that time, she prayed for him. He was like two different men. One protective, caring, and tender, the other driven by demons.

A flock of chickens scratching in the dirt near the porch greeted Roman and Rachel when they arrived at the hacienda late that afternoon. Antonio came and took their horses away after Roman removed their possessions from the saddlebags. The two-story adobe with its red tile roof stood amid a grove of towering oak trees. Blooming magnolia trees thrived around the house. An olive grove flanked the home on one side, and a vineyard spread out along the opposite end of the sweeping residence. Roses of Castile and jasmine climbed the whitewashed walls. The creek they’d been following for hours flowed behind the estate, farther down the hill from the impressive dwelling.

“Most of the house servants are with my family at your father’s rancho. When they return, you will see this place is not so quiet.” Roman released Rachel’s elbow inside the front door and allowed her to look around.

The furniture, though sparse, had been shipped around Cape Horn from Spain. Religious paintings adorned every room. Rachel walked up to each painting reverently, taking her time regarding the biblical images beautifully painted by some talented artist.

“My mother brought the paintings with her from Spain. She cherished them.” Roman stepped to Rachel’s side, where she studied a scene of the Madonna and baby Jesus on a donkey being led by Joseph. The painting bore a title, but the words were in Spanish.

“What does this say?

“Out of Egypt,” he translated. Many Californios could not read or write, nor did they speak English. The tutor Roman’s mother had hired when he was six years old lived at the rancho for twelve years. He was young, a highly educated Spaniard who happened to fall in love with one of Rancho de los Robles’s Indian maids. So he stayed. The two never married, probably never consummated their strange love affair, but after the maid died from a fever, the tutor finally returned to Spain. By then, Roman and Maria spoke several languages, along with having gained the ability to read and write with great fluency.

“May I see all of the paintings?” Rachel asked eagerly. She appeared to have recovered from their conflict at the creek, which pleased him.

“The hacienda is yours. Go wherever you like.” He couldn’t help but smile. It made him happy to have her in his home. When she wandered off down the hall looking at the paintings, he followed her, admiring her beauty. He doubted his family would stay at Rancho El Rio Lobo for very long. Tia Josefa would be embarrassed and want to leave as soon as possible without causing greater offense when she found out he’d taken Rachel and ridden home. Fortunately, the journey was a hard day of travel, especially for the entourage accompanying his family. The smile grew on his lips. He had Rachel all to himself under his own roof tonight. The thought delighted him.

He followed her from room to room, allowing her to find her own way in the sprawling hacienda while he quietly walked behind her. When she finally came to his room, he found himself eager for her response to his painting—one he hardly noticed anymore, though when he was a boy, it had frightened him.

Just as she had done in every other room, she went straight to the painting and stood there before it silently for a time. Roman waited to translate the title on the bottom of the frame when she was ready. He didn’t need to read it. Every title in this house he knew by heart. After he’d translate, she’d briefly tell him the biblical story behind the painted scene. He’d come to enjoy this little game with her very much as they went from room to room. Nobody had really appreciated the paintings since his mother had passed. His appreciation for Rachel grew as she studied each art piece with a thoughtful gaze.

For a long time, she stood before his painting without saying anything. When she finally turned to face him, she did not ask him for the translation as she had in every other room. Instead, she walked around the spacious chamber, studying its furnishings, even looking out the window for a while without speaking to him.

Because it was an upper-story bedroom, the window was large, offering a wonderful view of the vineyard and creek. The only thing she ignored was the magnificently carved four-poster bed from Spain he’d been born in. He could so easily imagine laying her down there, softly caressing her, slowly awakening her passions. He knew great passion was in her, he’d felt it when he kissed her in the hall. This surprised him about her. His little religious dove was made for love.

“This is your room,” she said when he could hardly stand her silence any longer.

“How did you know?” He walked to the window, turning his back to her as he waited for her answer. For some reason, he suddenly felt vulnerable. A thousand times before, he’d looked out this window, but this evening, with the sun dying on the horizon in a burst of golden fire, the vineyard swept with rosy twilight, all he could think about was this woman here with him.
His betrothed
. Already, he felt fiercely possessive of her—and constantly had to turn his mind away from wanting her.

When she didn’t answer him, he moved away from the window and went to his painting, standing before it, studying the artwork in a way he had never done before. It was the only painting in the house that portrayed the devil.

“The mighty guardian angel Michael is wrestling Satan out of heaven in your painting.” Her soft voice washed over him like silk against his skin.

He did not turn to look at her, sensing she stood right behind him now. The way she spoke of heaven and hell and angels and demons made him uneasy. Made him more determined than ever not to reach for her now, not to introduce her to his bed, as he ached to do this very moment.

“When I was a boy, I hated this painting,” he admitted, staring at the face of Satan.

“I can see why a child would be frightened of it.” She stepped up beside him and ran her hand along the inscription.

“The Great Battle,” he translated. “After both my parents died, I moved into this room. I was born in this room. Tio complained about me having the master’s quarters, but Tia said, ‘Let the boy alone. I do not want the devil’s room anyway.’ My aunt did not know I heard her say this after my father was killed.”

Rachel placed a hand on his forearm, offering comfort he didn’t expect and wasn’t sure he wanted. His muscles tensed under her gentle fingers.

“I am sorry your father was killed,” she said with feeling. If only she knew he held her father responsible for that night. Tyler was behind the Indian attacks that cleared out their neighbors. He ended up with all their land and holdings.

It wasn’t her fault her father was a thief and probably a murderer. And he’d never tell her of his suspicions involving his father’s death. He pulled his arm away from her and walked back to the window and then restlessly strolled over to a feminine blue trunk shoved in one corner. A row of whimsical birds had been painted across its front. He hadn’t really looked at the trunk in a long time. It was his mother’s.

Heaving the heavy trunk away from the wall, he opened the lid. After staring at the contents for a thoughtful moment, he turned to Rachel, standing there in her boy’s attire. He loved the way she looked, even in the masculine garb. She was like a well-bred filly, long-legged and fine-boned, the same as another woman he’d dearly loved, if he remembered correctly.

He could see her growing uneasy under his perusal. “These were my mother’s clothes,” he said to ease her mind. “They are yours to use until your own trunks arrive. I will see if there are any servants to prepare our supper. I enjoyed our time with the paintings. Thank you.” He quietly shut the bedroom door on his way out.

After he left, Rachel explored the items in the trunk. He’d been like an expectant boy, hungry for her approval as they went from painting to painting talking about the Bible. She felt that tug on her heart to minister God’s love to him, though he unnerved her. His emotions boiled just below the surface, his passions barely restrained, his temperament two-sided. On one hand, he was strong and protective and kind; on the other, he was dangerous and swift to anger. Steven was nothing like this. She’d never seen Steven angry in her life. Steven never allowed his passions to reign except on the pulpit, when he poured out God’s word to the people. What disturbed her most was how she felt with Roman. In his arms, she completely lost her mind. Absolutely, positively lost herself in his embrace. Was this what happened between a man and a woman in the marriage bed?

She glanced over at the four-poster bed in his room, covered in expensive bedding, draped in velvet curtains, and heat filled her face, spreading to the core of her being and out into her limbs, weakening her knees and making her head spin. She averted her eyes from the bed, a grand island unto itself, and concentrated on the trunk filled with a wealthy woman’s wardrobe.

His mother’s gowns were still beautiful, many appearing never to have been worn. She held one up in front of her. The fit looked perfect, though the length was too short. These gowns would have to do unless she stayed in the boy’s garments, which wasn’t even an option. The only reason she’d put them on was because they afforded more coverage and durability than her nightdress, especially riding the horse.

But it was the delicate undergarments packed beneath the gowns that delighted her. They were exquisite and silky soft. Several jewelry cases nestled amongst the underclothes. These she didn’t touch. Carefully, she selected several of the most serviceable dresses and a handful of the lovely undergarments and laid them out on the bed. She looked for a sturdy shawl but couldn’t find any not intricately woven and delicate beyond measure. She pulled a pair of slippers from the trunk, but they were too small. Disappointed, she placed them back with the other tiny shoes at the bottom of the trunk.

After riding all day, she felt too dusty to wear any of these luxurious items. Walking again to the window, she noted the creek wasn’t far off, and the sun had only just now disappeared behind the horizon. If she hurried, perhaps she could bathe and return before it grew dark without him knowing.

At a washstand in the room, she found what she’d hoped for: a towel and bar of soap. The soap was more refined than any she’d seen in California thus far. It had a pleasant smell and was not rough like her father’s soaps.