Until the Day Breaks (California Rising Book 1)

by Paula Scott

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  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. S
teven 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.

  Gathering a pair of lovely undergarments and the simplest dress in the pile, a brown woolen one, along with the towel and soap, she rushed from the room and down the stairs as quietly as possible, praying she didn’t encounter him on the way. The last thing she wanted was his company at the creek. After their last episode, she didn’t trust him one bit.

  The stream was cold but crystal clear and deep enough in the middle to submerge herself completely. She was a good swimmer, so she didn’t worry about slipping on a rock or being swept away by the current. What made her nervous was how fast darkness fell upon the land. She tried not to think about wolves or other large animals like bears. Scrubbing her body vigorously, she realized she’d not had a bath in a fresh stream in far too long. She even washed her hair, though now there would be no way to hide her visit to the water. In New England, when weather permitted, she and her grandmother bathed in a nearby stream. As a child, she loved those bath outings and savored the chilly water, even though gooseflesh covered her body and she shivered as she left the water.

  Upon returning to the rocky bank, she dried herself as best she could, wrapping her hair in the towel before donning the silky undergarments and then the gown, which was soft and warm and clung to her frame in an appealing way.

  Pulling on her boy’s boots, she scooped up the stable boy’s clothes as darkness closed in fast. The night air carried a distinct chill. Maybe winter was not finished with California yet. The screech of an owl startled her so badly she let out a small scream. Roman appeared from behind a tree and joined her. She was so taken aback she couldn’t speak for a moment. The lengthening shadows made it impossible to read the expression on his face.

  “Were you spying on me?” she finally managed.

  “I was protecting you.”

  “You invaded my privacy.”

  “Your privacy means nothing to me. It’s your life I care about.”

  Angry and embarrassed, she yanked the towel from her damp, tangled hair. “My modesty matters much to me, as you well know.”

  “Modesty can kill in California.”

  “Do not your aunt and sisters bathe by themselves down here?”

  “They don’t bathe at night, nor do they bathe alone.” He snatched the towel from her hands.

  She shoved the soap at him too. “You should have made your presence known, as any gentleman would have.”

  “You should not have left the hacienda by yourself, as any lady wouldn’t have.”

  “How did you know when I left the hacienda?”

  “I followed you.”

  Heat flooded her. He’d watched her bathe. She was horrified. Dropping the stable boy’s clothes, she slapped his face. The sound of her hand connecting with his cheek rent the still of the night.

  He didn’t react to the blow at all. She may as well have hit a stone wall, his cheek felt that unyielding.

  “You watched the whole time!” It was not a question, but a furious accusation. Her voice shook with indignation.

  “What has happened to my gentle little dove? Is not anger a sin, pequeña?”

  She scooped up the boy’s clothes, and rushed ahead of him, running to the hacienda to escape him. Tears streaked her cheeks, though she was mad as a wet hen. She felt like a wet hen. Her damp hair drenched the back of her dress. A chill filled her that she couldn’t shake. Chickens squawked in the oak branches when she raced into the yard. Startled by their flurry, she swallowed another frightened cry and hurried into his house, shivering uncontrollably.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  At first, he was furious when he saw her rushing away from the hacienda, endangering herself out there alone, but then he was so captivated by what unfolded at the creek, he couldn’t bring himself to announce his presence. Now he regretted what he’d seen. He couldn’t get the image of Rachel naked and all too beautiful out of his head, and it fueled his desire to have her and be done with it. What was wrong with her? Did she have no regard for her life? He’d never met a woman so fearless of the wilderness. Maybe it was her East Coast upbringing. Maybe wild animals and untamed men weren’t a problem in New England. But he doubted that. Most men could become untamed given the right circumstances.

  He walked several loops around the house to cool off, checking the windows and plank doors for security. A black cat raced out of the Roses of Castile. The cat ran across the path right in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. He resisted superstition, but the vision of the devil in the painting rose in his mind. A fresh wave of anger hit him that she insisted on running off alone into the woods. He would put a stop to that here. If she insisted on baths in the creek, she could wash herself with him there. Better yet, they could bathe together. He made several more jaunts around the house to get a grip on his emotions. Never had a woman inflamed him this way. She was like a fever in his blood. A sickness he couldn’t shake.

  The aroma of roasted meat wafted to him as he walked through the hacienda door. Heading for the dining room, he found the table set for two, the food already there, looking delicious. Several servants waited for him. The Indian women smiled with pleasure upon his arrival. He was popular with the servants, especially the women.

  “Don Roman, you are ready to eat now?” the older servant inquired.

  “Si,” he said. “I will return shortly with the señorita.”

  He went in search of Rachel. She wasn’t in his room. His mother’s trunk was closed. Except for being pulled away from the wall, it appeared never to have been disturbed. The room appeared untouched, with everything in order. The other upstairs bedrooms were empty and in order as well.

  In the sala, he found her sitting in a chair, reading her Bible by candlelight. The servants always lit the candle lanterns throughout the hacienda just after sundown. A damp golden braid draped over her shoulder. He missed her hair tumbling in waves down her back as it had all day. Or wet and slicked back, clinging to he
r shoulders like a golden veil after she’d submerged herself in the stream.

  “You must be hungry,” he said from the entryway, reining in his thoughts as he looked her over. She was lovely in his mother’s dress. Something inside him softened.

  She didn’t glance up from her reading.

  “The servants have prepared our meal. Come and eat with me.”

  She ignored him, continuing to read. He watched her, his regret rising. She brought out the best and the worst in him. He sighed, wishing for the ease between them that had been there earlier today.

  “We must get something straight between us.” She rose from the chair, snapping her Bible closed and clutching the book to her chest. “We are not married. The liberties you take with me are sinful.” Color stained her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell, constrained by the bodice of his mother’s dress, highlighting her slender figure and the gentle swell of her bosom. The gown was too short for her, and she still wore the stable boy’s boots.

  Again, he deeply regretted surrendering to Sarita’s seduction at Rancho El Rio Lobo. The deep scratches on his back causing blood to seep through his shirt were also from Sarita’s nails, not entirely his uncle’s beating. When Rachel mentioned the blood on his shirt today on their ride home, he felt shame. And shame again now as she accused him of sinfulness with her. She had no idea what sinfulness really was between a man and a woman.

  After giving in to Sarita, he’d felt sickened. He’d ordered her to return to her gringo husband, and then he lay there on the bunk in El Rio Lobo’s outbuilding thinking only of Rachel. It was then he decided he’d take her to his home. By law, she was his now. He didn’t trust Sarita or her evil-eyed dueña. Nor did he trust Rachel’s father. He wasn’t about to abandon her to the likes of the lot of them. Nor was he used to feeling ashamed of his actions. Nothing had bothered his conscience in a long time. And nothing had so stirred his heart as this woman holding a Bible before him now. With everything inside him, he longed to protect her, but perhaps the real protection she needed was from him.