Midnight Rider (22 page)

Good Lord, was there nothing she could do?

Vincent was speaking expansively, begging her uncle's forgiveness, asking for her hand, and insuring him he would make a good husband. They could be married, he said, before his return to the city.

Carly felt sick at the thought. She glanced again at Ramon, who stood so stoically silent, and the means of her salvation struck her like the answer to a prayer.

It was so simple, so obvious she felt giddy, lightheaded with relief. Her mind churned, fleshing the notion out, looking for pitfalls. It wasn't perfect, she admitted, but she had no other choice. And the lesson it would teach her uncle would be worth it. She could hardly wait to see his face.

Carly bit her lip against a wild impulse to giggle. Ramon would be furious, but once they were alone, she could explain things, make him understand.

She took a step toward the crowd and conjured her sweetest smile. “This has gone far enough, Vincent. You've been more than kind, in fact you've been incredibly chivalrous, but I just can't let you do it.”

“What? What are you talking about?” He looked at her as if she had lost her mind. In truth she had just regained her wits in the nick of time.

“I'm thanking you, Vincent, for trying to be noble. I know you want to help me and I appreciate it more than I can say, but I see no reason for you to accept the blame for something that you didn't do.”

The crowd made an audible gasp. Carly turned and stared directly at Ramon. “And since that is the case, and Senor de la Guerra is an equally honorable man, I'm certain he is also equally willing to do the right thing.” Her smile held determination, a look that said he owed her this, and a silent reminder that she held his life in her hands. “Isn't that so, Don Ramon?”

For a moment he said nothing, just stared at her as if he couldn't believe what she had just done. But Carly felt certain he would speak up soon enough. The man was El Dragón. Caralee McConnell knew it. The Spaniard had no choice.

He stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the torches. His features looked harsh and grim, the skin stretched taut over his high cheekbones. “I apologize to the senorita for the liberties I have taken.” A cold, unrepentant smile curved his lips. “And of course to you, Senor Austin. It is my fondest wish to make your niece my wife.”

“W-why that's absurd!” Her uncle surged forward like an angry bear. “There is no way I could possibly allow my niece to marry—”

“I'm sorry we've displeased you, Uncle,” Carly interrupted, “but as you said, these things happen among young people our age.” He had succeeded in forcing her to marry—there was no way around it. But Ramon was by far the better choice. At least he would be, once he understood her intentions.

The don worked a muscle in his lean hard cheek. “There is, of course, the problem of our different religions.” A last possible means of escape. His eyes were dark with warning.
End this foolishness now,
they said.
Before it is too late.

This time it was Carly whose smile was triumphant. “My father was Irish. I was raised in the Catholic faith.” True, she hadn't been to church since she'd arrived in California, but that didn't alter the fact that her religion was the same as Ramon's. “The priest will not object to the marriage.”

“Say something, Vincent. Speak up, my boy.”

“What—what are you trying to do, Caralee? How can you possibly marry this—”

“The marriage will take place on Sunday,” Ramon put in coldly, his tall, hard body radiating with barely leashed fury. “Under the circumstances, I am sure Padre Xavier will waive the bans.” By now the Montoyas had arrived. They were wealthy and powerful, one of the last few Californio families in a strong position of influence. Her uncle sagged at the sight of them, knowing he couldn't refuse Ramon's proposal without also insulting them.

Carly knew she had won.

“I will speak to the priest tomorrow,” the don said curtly, his dark eyes still glinting with fire and a promise of retribution that sent shivers down Carly's spine. She hadn't seen that look since the morning after the raid when she'd awakened to the sight of his tall, black boots. She brushed the unsettling notion away. Once she explained, Ramon would understand.

“Caralee?” Vincent turned pleading hazel eyes in her direction, their depths still clouded with disbelief. “Are you really going to marry this—”

“I'm afraid so, Vincent.” She smiled at him even more sweetly. “After all, it's the only decent thing to do.”

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Had it only been three days? It seemed like a lifetime—and it seemed only minutes. Uncle Fletcher had ranted and raved and forbidden her to leave the house, but Carly hadn't relented. Vincent and his father had returned to San Francisco, the younger Bannister even more furious than Ramon had been.

Everyone was mad at her, but Carly didn't care.

Once again she was fighting for her life.

She glanced out her bedroom window. Flat, gray clouds threatened rain, and a stiff wind whipped through the heavy branches of the towering oak trees surrounding the house. Absently she wondered when the storm would arrive and whether it would slow their morning's journey.

They were leaving within the hour, traveling into town, meeting Ramon this afternoon at the mission. Today she would be married.

Well, sort of married.

Standing in front of the cheval glass mirror, Carly surveyed her image. She had chosen a gown of pearl gray silk, high-necked and long-sleeved with tiny tucks down the front, and a row of small pearl buttons. There were bands of magenta around the skirt, and the waist-length matching cape was lined with magenta silk.

She loved this dress. It was simple yet beautiful. She felt good when she wore it and she needed to feel good today. She needed all the confidence she could get.

Carly shivered, but she wasn't cold.

She had hoped to speak to Ramon before the day of the wedding. She was sure he would help her, once he understood it would only be a marriage of convenience. And only for a few short months.

Unfortunately, her uncle had forbidden her to see him. Now she would have to face those furious dark eyes, try not to wither at the hard set of his jaw. He wanted a wife of pure Spanish blood, not some poor half-Irish mongrel from a Pennsylvania mine patch. Ramon would believe she had trapped him into an unwanted marriage and on the surface it was true.

“You are ready, Senorita McConnell?” Candelaria stood by the door.

“Almost. I just have to put on my bonnet.” She scooped it off of the bed, but the younger girl caught her arm.

“Perhaps instead you will wear this.” She held up a beautiful white lace
mantilla.
“It was my mother's. I would like you to have it. And I believe it would please Don Ramon.”

Carly's fingers closed over the fine Spanish lace and a hard lump swelled in her throat. At least she had made one friend. “It's beautiful, Candelaria. I'd love to wear it.” Her uncle wouldn't like it, but perhaps Ramon would approve.

Or perhaps it would only remind him of the true Spanish woman he wished to wed.

A painful knot tightened inside her, a foolish sort of ache she shouldn't have felt. It settled in her stomach, brought an ache to her chest. Carly forced herself to ignore it. She had done what she had to. In time Ramon would be free to marry whatever woman he might wish.

She forced herself to smile and raised the
mantilla
above her head.

“Here … you will also need this.” The younger girl held out a tall, carved tortoiseshell comb. “You can return it to me later.” Staking the comb into Carly's hair, she draped the beautiful lace over Carly's head and shoulders, then stepped back to survey her work and flashed a satisfied smile.

“Now you look like a Californio bride.”

“Thank you, Candelaria. It's a beautiful wedding present.” Swallowing past the ache in her throat, Carly left the bedroom and walked down the hall to the huge high-ceilinged room where her uncle stood waiting.

He took in her appearance and clamped hard on his jaw. “I see you're already learning the part.”

Carly ignored his sarcastic jibe. “I know I've displeased you, Uncle. But perhaps in time you'll understand why I had to do what I did.” Already she had forgiven him. He was trying to do what he thought best. In time, maybe he would come to understand why she couldn't marry Vincent. Maybe when this was over, he would even welcome her home. Carly hoped so. Her uncle was her only family now.

Still, if he didn't want her, she would find some way to survive on her own.

The drive into town was tensely silent. It was late in the afternoon, a yellow sun hovering above the red tile roofs, when they arrived in San Juan Bautista, a bustling little village nestled at the base of the Gabilan Mountains. Rolling golden hills beneath massive spreading oaks peered down on the city, which began as a mission site then grew with the discovery of gold. The initial boom was past, but along with its Californio inhabitants, a small influx of settlers continued to roll into the town. Still, it retained its Spanish appearance, mostly adobe-walled structures, some so old they continued to sport hide-covered windows.

The streets were crowded: a freight wagon hauling ore from the recently discovered New Idria quicksilver mine, a Wells, Fargo & Co. stage just boarding in front of the fancy new Plaza Hotel, a broken-down
carreta
drawn by a sleepy-eyed oxen, the dark-skinned driver burning the animal's ears with Spanish curses.

The mission sat on an open grassy plaza surrounded by graceful olive trees and colorful blooming flowers. It formed the hub of the city and was the center of most of its activities. The church was built in 1797, the largest of the California missions, Carly learned as Padre Xavier showed them around. The main building stood two stories high with a long arched wing built off to the side. It was fashioned of whitewashed adobe, the impressive interior lined with wooden pews and arching columns, and painted throughout in amazingly brilliant colors: blues, reds, purples, yellows, and greens. Huge wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their dozens of candles illuminating the room with a golden glow.

Carly smiled at the stout little priest who gave them the tour of the church. He was balding but his work-hardened hands looked as strong as his muscled forearms, and his stomach appeared flat beneath his dark brown robes.

“Ramon tells me you are Catholic,” the priest said. “How is it we have not seen you here in church?”

Carly nervously chewed her lip. “I'm sorry, Father, but I haven't been in California all that long, and as you know, my uncle is not of the faith.” She tried to concentrate on what the priest was saying, but her eyes kept straying toward the door in search of Ramon. It was past the time set for the wedding. Perhaps he would not come.

Carly's stomach tightened. She would be disgraced, her uncle horribly embarrassed—not that he didn't deserve it. Still, she had believed Ramon would come, if for no other reason than to insure she would not betray his secret.

Then again, if he didn't appear she couldn't really blame him. And the truth was she would never turn him in just because he wouldn't help her.

Time ticked past. The priest shuffled nervously, and her uncle cleared his throat. The men were worried, too.

Another ten minutes passed. Her palms grew damp and her heart thudded uncomfortably against her ribs. He had guessed her threat wasn't real. Ramon was not going to come.

Carly stared at the door, fighting an urge to cry. She should be angry her plan had failed, but the heaviness in her heart felt more like disappointment.

“Well, Caralee, are you satisfied?” Her uncle's hard gaze burned right through her. “It's obvious de la Guerra isn't going to show. You've ruined your reputation, ruined your chances with Vincent, and now you'll be the laughingstock of the county.”

Carly swallowed past the lump in her throat. She didn't bother to remind him that
he
was the one who had ruined her reputation. She merely had gambled to win a life of her own—unfortunately, she had lost. She'd foolishly believed she could save her reputation and not have to marry Vincent. But the plan had failed. Ramon had seen to that.

She tried to smile, but her bottom lip trembled. “Perhaps it's time we went back home,” she said softly.

Her uncle merely nodded. His face was as red as the alcoves of the saints behind the altar at the end of the church.

“I am sorry,” the padre said. “Perhaps something unforeseen has happened. It is not like Don Ramon to break his word.”

Carly clung to the excuse, then let it slip away. He hadn't actually broken his word; he had never really promised he would come. They started up the aisle toward the huge carved wooden doors at the entrance, but just as they arrived, the heavy doors began to creak open.

When Ramon walked in, Carly's heartbeat seemed to stop. She noticed his snug black
calzonevas,
but there were no festive decorations down the side. A simple full-sleeved white shirt and a pair of high black boots—the occasion, his garments said, wasn't one of celebration.

A painful jolt ran through her, but she simply lifted her chin. His eyes were hard as he waited for his mother and aunt, who walked in seconds later with Pedro Sanchez. Ramon's gaze scanned her briefly, taking in her elegant pearl gray gown and the white lace mantilla that covered her head. Something flickered in the cool brown depths then it was gone.

“I am sorry I am late …
mi amor.
” A thin smile curved his lips. “I hope you were not inconvenienced.” But there was nothing of regret in his dark features. He had been late on purpose. He meant to punish her for forcing the marriage. How could she have forgotten that this too was a side of Ramon?