Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1) (7 page)

There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend.
The thought strengthened her as she approached the
sala
. She wasn’t dying, but marrying someone other than Steven felt like a death.

Her father and another man waited near the
sala
door both extravagantly dressed in short embroidered jackets and fine knee-length, velvet britches favored by California dons. Elaborately stitched deerskin boots adorned the men’s feet. Their conversation ceased as Rachel stepped into the long room designed for entertaining guests. In the corner of the
sala,
a man slouched in one of her father’s carved mahogany chairs. Dressed like a vaquero, he was in the middle of downing a glass of wine. Recognizing his ebony hair, his startling light eyes in his deeply tanned face, that big, strong body with weapons tucked into his belt, she stopped cold.

The red-haired girl beside him drank wine as well. Up close, she looked younger. And petulant. Again, Rachel was struck by her beauty and boldness, but not nearly as struck as she was by the man sitting beside her.

Roman Vasquez
.

His long legs were stretched out before him, his dusty, spur-strapped boots propped on one of her father’s expensive rugs. Rugs were a rarity due to the fleas in California. Her father often had his rugs hauled out of the hacienda and beaten in the yard by the servants to keep them pest free. Beside them sat the older woman Sarita had waved to from the balcony. Short and round like her husband, the older woman smiled when Rachel arrived. She held the hand of the little girl, who smiled too, a bit shyly but with a vivacious sparkle in her eyes. The girl was quite pretty with blue-black hair, dusky skin, and a delicate build, but it was her eyes, a startling crystalline blue, that surprised Rachel. Clearly, the child was of mixed heritage.

“Rachel,” said her father, his voice laced with reproach. “It is well you have finally graced us with your presence.”

The plump Californio gentleman stepped forward to take her hand. “Señorita Tyler, you are well worth the wait. I am Don Pedro, and your beauty has vastly exceeded my expectations. Your hair is the color of Rancho de los Robles’s horses and your eyes as blue as Monterey Bay.” The don’s ample cheeks puffed with his heavy breathing as he kissed the back of her hand.

In the corner, Roman Vasquez slowly clapped his hands, applauding the older man’s introduction. His rudeness startled the sweating don leaning over Rachel’s hand. The redhead laughed, muffling the giggle when the older woman rebuked her with her gaze. The older woman then tapped Roman on the head with the fan she held in her hand. She said something in Spanish that Rachel didn’t understand.

Roman slowly got to his feet, swaying as he rose from his chair. He shoved his empty glass at the redhead and then made his way across the parlor, walking a crooked line that led to Rachel.

“Señor Vasquez,” she said cautiously, confused by his behavior.

“
Chiquita Yanquia
 . . . like my uncle says . . . you are as beautiful as my horse.” He made a sweeping bow, staggering as he did so.

Both girls giggled; the redhead no longer bothering to stifle her mirth when the older woman glared at her. The blue-eyed girl laughed behind hands cupped over her rosy mouth.

“Roman Miguel Vicente Ramon Vasquez,” Don Pedro said sharply. “You will address your betrothed as Señorita Tyler. And you will cease with this atrocious behavior at once!”

Roman captured Rachel’s hand. His eyes, a startling green in his deeply tanned face, shone unnaturally bright and bloodshot. Instead of kissing the back of her hand as the plump man had, he turned her hand over and kissed the open palm, the very center of it, his lips searing all the way to her soul.

Horrified, she attempted to jerk her hand away.

“Enough, Roman.” Don Pedro tried to step between them, but Roman moved with surprising swiftness, sweeping her against his body while stepping beyond the older gentleman’s reach. She lost her breath as he tucked her roughly against his hard frame. He’d gained muscle since she’d last seen him, and his strength astonished her.

“My
novia
and I are well acquainted. I have seen her naked knees.” Roman ran his hand along Rachel’s cinched waist, then down over her hip with shocking intimacy.

Appalled, she attempted to move away from him, which only caused him to tighten his grip on her. “Drunkenness is a sin,” she hissed in his ear, struggling to free herself of his viselike hold.

“One of my many sins, my protesting little dove.” He gave her waist a rakish squeeze as he grinned at her.

“Let’s get on with signing the betrothal papers so we can all enjoy the celebration as much as my future son-in-law already has.” Her father walked to the table where the engagement papers were laid out on the polished mahogany wood.

Don Pedro motioned for Roman to do the same. For a moment, Rachel thought he would resist, but instead, he released her and approached the table. Don Pedro offered his arm to her like a gentleman. His brown eyes extended a wordless apology.

Gratefully, she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed him to escort her the short distance across the
sala
to the table. She did not trust her shaking limbs to carry her there alone.

Roman signed first, dipping his quill in the ink and scrawling his name in a bold flourish. Rachel concentrated hard to put her signature beside his, her hands trembling as badly as her legs.

Then her father poured everyone more wine and toasted the engagement. “To a grand alliance and grandsons,” he said with a smile.

The Vasquezes emptied their glasses, all except Roman. He refused to participate in the toast. Rachel’s glass also remained untouched.

Her father set his glass on the table beside the sealed betrothal agreement. “I have arranged a private fiesta for tonight. My daughter has agreed to sing for us. She has the most beautiful voice. But first we will take a siesta, as the ladies need time to refresh themselves after their travel.

“Rachel, escort Señora Josefa, Señorita Maria, and Señorita Isabella to their rooms,” her father commanded.

“Certainly.” Rachel did not like the way her father’s gaze lingered on the red-haired Maria.

“My study is open for you,” her father told Don Pedro. “I will send a servant to you shortly with the article you requested.”

“Thank you.” Don Pedro looked grimly determined. “Roman, you will apologize to your betrothed for your shameful behavior before she departs.”

A muscle jerked in Roman’s cheek. His green eyes shone bright as jade as he addressed her. “
Lo siento mucho, Yanquia pequeña
.”

There was no regret in his eyes. What she saw there chilled her. Drunkenness allowed the devil an open door to a person’s spirit, her grandfather always said. “Please don’t drink any more,” she whispered, hoping only he could hear her.

“I will need whiskey when my uncle’s through with me,” he said just as softly. Then raising his voice for everyone to hear, “Won’t I need whiskey, Tio?”

Don Pedro’s lips tightened, but he said nothing.

“Escort the ladies to their rooms, Rachel.” Her father motioned for Don Pedro and Roman to follow him. The men waited for the women to exit the
sala
and then trailed the ladies out the door.

The men headed for her father’s study as she led the ladies down the tiled hallway to the first wing of bedrooms. “Do you know what the men will do in the study?” Rachel hesitantly asked Señora Josefa.

Before the older woman could respond, the little girl, Isabella interrupted. “They will beat my brother soundly!”

“Isabella, shush,” Señora Josefa whispered.

“She’s only telling the truth,” Maria interrupted.

“You shush too,” Señora Josefa retorted.

“Roman never drinks wine. Why was he drinking today?” Isabella asked.

“He doesn’t want to marry Señorita Tyler,” Maria answered. “Our brother is drunk because he’s miserable at the thought of marrying an Americana.”

“
Niñas,
enough!” Señora Josefa fanned herself.

“It’s the truth,” Maria said. “Don’t you think Señorita Tyler should hear the truth, Tia?”

“I’m sure Señorita Tyler noticed your brother’s misgivings,” Señora Josefa acknowledged.

“Why wouldn’t Roman want to marry you?” Isabella was practically bouncing up and down. “You’re so beautiful with your fair skin and golden hair. Even the freckles on your nose are pretty.” The little girl wrinkled her own nose, as if freckles were a curse.

“Thank you.” Rachel felt sick to her stomach. “How will they beat him?” she ventured.

“With a rod.” Isabella’s blue eyes widened. “A heavy wooden rod that will leave lumps like squirrels on his back. He’ll probably even bleed.”

“But he’s a grown man.” Rachel stopped walking. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“In California, a child is never too old for discipline,” Señora Josefa explained. “Roman is like a son to us. I have raised him as my own since I married Don Pedro.” She lowered her voice. “His poor, protesting mother was buried by then.”

“My mother embraced Protestantism before she died.” Maria appeared scandalized, though Rachel sensed the redhead only pretended to be shocked. “An American ship captain and his wife converted my mother. My father threatened to kill the captain before he sailed away. Are you a protester to our religion, Señorita Tyler?” Maria cocked one of those finely arched red brows at her.

“You may call me Rachel, and I will call you Maria.” She ignored Maria’s question about her faith. Before the priest who married her father returned to Monterey, her father had insisted on a Catholic baptism for her. She signed some church documents, the sign of the cross was made on her forehead with oil by the priest, and then water was poured over the crown of her head. Afterward, she went to her room to sit with her Bible. Being Protestant or Catholic didn’t make a person serve Jesus any more or any less, she’d decided after praying about it. Sin must be forsaken and a life consecrated to the Lord. That’s what mattered to God, not one’s religion. Rachel opened the door to the first bedroom, the one with a large bed intended for a couple.

“Rachel can’t be Protestant,” said Isabella. “Roman would not marry her if she was a protestor!”

Señora Josefa looked at Rachel, waiting for her answer. Rachel felt embattled since she still considered herself very much a Protestant, even after her Catholic baptism.

“You are not a . . . Protestant . . . are you?” Señora Josefa whispered the word while furiously fanning her flushed face.

“I was baptized Catholic upon coming to California.” Rachel did not want to cause Señora Josefa further distress.

“Oh, thank the Blessed Mother!” Señora Josefa snapped her fan shut. She smiled and patted Rachel’s cheek. “You will make a fine wife for Roman. He has grown so hard. The Texas war was not good for him. By the grace of God, you will soften him with little ones. He so longs for
ninos.
”

Señora Josefa stared lovingly at the little girl now glued to Rachel’s side. “Isabella is our miracle. For years, we had no children. Then one afternoon, Father Renalgo rode up on his donkey to deliver this blue-eyed baby to us. Roman fell in love with her at first sight. Maria was very jealous of her new sister, but Roman dearly loves both of you, doesn’t he,
chicas
?”

Isabella nodded in agreement. Maria appeared bored and annoyed, as if she’d heard this adoption story a hundred times and still didn’t fancy it. Rachel was grateful for this insight about her future husband. If he loved children and his sisters, then there must be kindness in him. But why would God yoke her to an unbeliever? A man who touched her so shamefully in his drunkenness, setting her senses afire?

All her life, she’d dreamed of the man she would one day marry. For years, she thought Steven would be that man. Gentle Steven would never touch her as Roman Vasquez had. Even now, she could feel the heat of his hand running up and down her side, stroking her in places she’d never been stroked, stirring feelings in her that had never been stirred. And that warm, lingering kiss on the inside of her palm. Reprehensible!

“I hope Roman comes to love you the way he loves me. He loves me more than anyone,” Isabella said with the greatest confidence.

Rachel swallowed the tightness in her throat. “I hope so too. You may call me Rachel. May I call you Isabella?”

“Yes, please. Or Izzy, if you wish.”

Rachel felt the heat of the redhead’s gaze. “Are you afraid of my brother’s bed?” Not an ounce of shame colored her beautiful face. Maria’s features were classic and refined, though her lips curved fuller than most, adding a lushness to her face that was earthy and enchanting. Her eyes were nearly identical to her brother’s. Green, heavily lashed, and striking.

“Maria!” Señora Josefa snapped the fan against her palm. Rachel thought she might smack the girl on top of the head as she had Roman in the parlor.

A pout formed on Maria’s mouth. “Do you have a mother?” Maria asked Rachel. Without waiting for her response, she turned to her aunt. “If she doesn’t have a mother, Tia, then you must warn her about the marriage bed. Look at her. Obviously, she knows nothing of men.”

“The Lord will prepare me for my marriage bed,” Rachel announced with a bravado she didn’t feel.

“Isn’t that funny? She thinks Dios can prepare her for the marriage bed.” Maria laughed.

Isabella patted Rachel’s skirt, whispering loudly, “Roman won’t hurt you. He is not like the men who wear out their horses.”

Though she felt like crying, Rachel smiled down at Isabella. The little minx had quickly become her champion.

Señora Josefa plopped down on the bed with an exaggerated sigh. “Maria, pull off my boots before my feet swell up. If that happens, they’ll have to bury me in these awful hides.”

Maria did as she was told, though it was obvious she found the chore utterly distasteful.

“No more talk of the marriage bed.” Señora Josefa fluffed the pillows behind her head. “
En boca cerrada no entran moscas
.”

“Flies do not enter a closed mouth,” Isabella translated for Rachel.