Rocky Mountain Ride (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 7) (18 page)

“That is not how Bishop Bernardo preaches it.”

“Has he ever married?

Again, her shoulders shook with humor. “You know he hasn’t.”

“One of those celibate types, eh?”

“Yes. Besides, what woman would want him?”

He conceded her point. She settled back and he could almost feel her hackles going down. The bishop wasn’t a restful subject for her.

“The church teaches that women belong to the men. My mother taught me otherwise, but even she had to live out her freedom in secret.”

Sebastian thought of Francesca’s grove and apothecary, the spaces she escaped to. He wondered if her mother’s marriage had been much like Francesca’s own. “Can any man truly possess a woman? I look at you and I am in thrall.”

“And yet you have me call you master.”

He scoffed. “That is a game we play. It excites you because you know it is wrong.” His fingers sifted through her raven dark hair. “The truth is, outside of this bedroom and our silly games, I am your slave.”

“Ha,” she said, but he could tell she loved this. She cuddled closer, making him think that it was worth it, to leave his selfish pride and everything from his old life behind.

*

The hardest thing for Sebastian to adjust to was waking before dawn. After a night of amorous pursuits, he found it especially sweet to sleep into the morning. In his bachelorhood he even made it a game to see how long he could wile away in bed.

No one at the ranch understood his well-cultivated laziness. Especially not Francesca. The woman practically buzzed with energy. Before dawn she was working in the garden, then riding about the fields or to market. She spent the hot midday hours in the apothecary, and he suspected that she snuck out to the grove during this time. He wasn’t keen on her traipsing about the woods alone, but overlooked it. As long as she brought a guard with her when she went about in town, or at night. She hadn’t been called out onto a healing visit yet, but he was almost looking forward to accompanying her. He loved watching her work, and besides, he was eager to spend more time with her. With his own chores, some days he was lucky to see her before dinner.

Which is why he was delighted one morning when he woke up early. For the first time in his life, he welcomed the restful pre-dawn darkness. If he acted fast, he could see his wife. Maybe even spend some of her endless energy. His cock was excited by the idea.

He reached for her, and frowned when he found her place was empty. A search of the house and grounds proved her absence. Sebastian found the guard sleeping and, cursing, shook him awake. “Have you seen my wife?”

“The señora? No.”

She’d snuck out at night. He’d almost have been excited at the prospect of disciplining her for it, if he wasn’t so worried. Something told him the lazy summer days spent with no sight or sound of the Royal Mountain Gang were only the calm before the storm.

After searching the grounds and doing a quick ride around the fields, he turned his horse to town. He was truly angry now, ready to whip her and then tie her to the bed until she promised to behave. Just because it looked like her persecution was over didn’t mean it was safe for her to go about alone. Not until he was sure how to keep her safe.

*

Francesca met the butcher at his shop and handed him the packet of herbs she’d gathered in the forest before dawn. Sebastian slept late; if she hurried, she could be back before he knew it. She scolded herself, telling herself that his fears were nonsense. She’d been going about alone all her life; there was no reason for her to stop now.

Still, a part of her felt guilty. And another hoped she’d get caught.

“Give this to your wife. She will know what to do.”

The butcher frowned but took the package. “She barely leaves the house these days,” he complained.

“That is because she is full of your child. Any baby of yours will be born big and strong.”

“All I ask is for her to help with the shop, and have dinner ready when I come home. She sleeps so much…I wonder if anything is wrong.”

“Soon… I know the baby will come soon.” She bit her tongue from saying anything else. Personally, she thought the town would be better off if his butcher’s knife slipped and chopped off the thing between his legs. Not that his children weren’t sweet, but he seemed such a selfish soul to be blessed with such a wonderful wife and now a second child.

Come to think of it, there were a few men Francesca wanted to take a meat cleaver to.

“Bishop Bernardo says that if the babe lays too long in her womb, it might be a sign of illness. Perhaps my wife has sinned and it is weighing on the child.”

Forcing her thoughts away from meat cleavers, Francesca took a deep breath. “The Bishop is right in one way. We will not let the babe lie in the womb too long. The herbs I give you will help excite the womb to release the child. And your wife’s fatigue is normal. Perhaps you could barter some meat with a neighbor for a portion of a stew? That way she can rest and you can eat.”

The butcher’s beady eyes squinted, as if calculating the cost of helping his wife.

“I will come by every day to check on her,” Francesca promised. “Send your son to fetch me. Morning or night. I will come straight away.” With a nod, she strode away before she said more on the subject. She felt her cheeks burning with anger at the bishop’s words. Sowing seeds of doubt in a father’s mind on the eve of his wife’s delivery?

“Señora De La Vega,” a pompous voice called across the marketplace.

Speak of the devil.

As she turned to greet the priest, Francesca felt her face settle into the haughty expression she always wore around the Bishop. She remembered her mother wearing the same expression whenever she had run-ins with a distasteful authority in the church.

There were several priests who respected Francesca’s work as healer and midwife. The large man now standing before her wasn’t one of them. Francesca had an equally disdainful opinion of him. Bishop Bernardo got fat off the labors of others, the gifts and tithes to the church, and doled out the tenets of love and mercy frugally.

Madonna help me.
Francesca prayed silently as she faced the holy man.

“Bishop Bernardo,” she said. “I need a word with you.”

“With you, my child? I am glad to give it. Though I am surprised. It has been a long time since you came to confess.” The man raised his voice loud enough to attract the attention of people surrounding him.

Stalking forward, she drew herself up to her full height and put her hands on her hips. “I do not wish to confess. I must ask you to stop telling my families that a woman’s natural cycles, when and where she goes into labor, are a sign of sin.”

The man gave her a condescending smile. She hated the feverish light in his eyes, the excitement at the power he wielded.

“Labor is a sign of women’s sin. It is the curse that fell first on Eve. Women are to labor in pain and suffering.”

“Yes, there is pain in labor. But it is over quickly.”
It’s not as painful as hearing people go on and on about it.

“Of course there is. That is the curse,” the Bishop addressed some of the people listening. They nodded like sheep. “So you see, señora, it is my duty to pass on this teaching to my parishioners.”

“I do not see how scaring them is helping anything.”

“Better to scare them now than risk them losing their immortal souls.”

“You torment these people with fear, when you could make their lives easier. Life is hard enough. Perhaps you can talk of grace when you also speak of sin.”

“You should’ve been a priest, my child.” The Bishop inclined his head. “Perhaps you would’ve been, if you were a man. Since you are so quick to take on my profession, I’ll question yours…how is it that a woman who’s never born a child counsels other women on this?” A smug look crossed the man’s face as Francesca’s brow wrinkled. She hadn’t expected this attack. People around them were smiling to themselves and agreeing with the bishop.

“My mother taught me all I knew…”

Bernardo leaned forward, and said with in a pitying tone, “It is strange, that your union was not blessed with children.”

Fire poured into her cheeks at the man’s insinuations. “Cyro and I prayed but it was not to be.”

“There is an illness that rests on a woman’s womb when she has sinned. It is easily absolved.”

The crowd had mostly dispersed, content that their priest was extending the Church’s loving hand to a wayward woman.

Francesca kept on. “Forgive me, Bishop. But you are not experienced with a woman’s womb.”

The Bishop kept his tone pleasant. He knew he’d won in front of the crowd. “Ah, my child, you do not fool me. There was something wrong with your marriage. If your husband had any sense, he would’ve turned you over to me for a month of penance.” He moved uncomfortably close. “If you will humble yourself, I will intercede on your behalf, lead you through the stations of the cross.”

“You think a beating will be enough to save me?” Francesca whispered.

“It would.” The man’s eyes shone with a sick light. “Once you confess your sins, and I tell you the horrors that await you, you would beg me to flay your back, to sacrifice your skin for your immortal soul.”

Francesca’s lips curved. If only he knew the current state of her bottom. “My soul is quite well, thank you. And I suspect any man who wants to whip my bare skin holds lust in his heart, priest or no.”

“You dare.” The Bishop’s lips whitened and his nostrils flared. “You accuse me of sin when you are headed straight for hell.”

“I prefer hellfire to heaven, if my mother is there.”

The man lost it. “Oh, be assured, she is in hell with the whores and Jezebels. I did not speak out too loudly when your father or husband was alive, but she was a devil worshiper. She did depraved and evil things for her healing powers. I came across her naked in a grove, performing profane rituals with her naked body.”

“I bet she wasn’t happy when she found you hiding in the woods, ogling her.” Francesca shot back. “I bet she gave you a piece of her mind. You’re lucky she didn’t tell my father. For all his wisdom, he had a temper—I know, I inherited it. He would’ve done more than flay your back for sneaking around trying to catch glimpses of his wife.”

The Bishop’s face flushed red, indicating that she’d hit upon the truth.

*

Sebastian found his wife in the middle of the marketplace, facing off with a tall, robed man three and a half times her weight, and hastened to her side. Francesca’s bright flushed cheeks, and knitted dark brows and glare, told him the conversation was about to turn violent.

“You will stay away from my mothers, or you will answer to me.”

“Oh, do you threaten me with a curse? What further proof of your wicked art.”

“Darling,” Sebastian broke in. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Her gaze shot to him, and her expression changed from anger to a little relief? Regret?

He came to her side and put his arm around her, facing the other man. A priest type from the look of him. “Hello, I’m Lord Chivington.”

“Lord Chivington. I’ve heard of you.” The man didn’t offer his name, but Sebastian hazarded a guess that this was the Bishop Bernardo.

“All bad things, I’m sure,” Sebastian said cheerfully. He grinned like a madman at the bishop while he sized the man up. The bishop was corpulent and wore robes along with a calculating look. The way he’d been eyeing Francesca made Sebastian want to gouge his eyes out. All the more reason for her to take an escort everywhere. “But nothing that can’t be redeemed by my lady’s love.”

The bishop’s mouth twisted. “Yes, I had heard of your marriage.”

“And you’re not going to congratulate us?”

“You did not marry in the church,” the Bishop addressed Francesca, who, tucked under Sebastian’s arm with a troubled look on her face, seemed to be barely listening.

“Couldn’t find a proper one,” Sebastian said. “No offense, old boy, but I can’t have anything to do with all that papal tradition. Church of England’s the way, or my mother will be rolling in her grave. Now excuse us.” With an arm around Francesca’s shoulders, Sebastian left the bishop to fume.

“Doesn’t look like either of us will be attending mass on the morrow,” Sebastian said lightly.

“I have nothing against the church or priests. There are good men,” Francesca huffed. “It is only that
gusano
I despise.” She inserted the Spanish word for ‘worm.’ “He is fat, gorged on his own power. I should not provoke him.”

“He did strike me as a man not to be trifled with.”

“I do not trust him,” Francesca told her husband as they grew closer to the hacienda. “He coveted my mother, and hated her.”

“How do you know?”

“A woman can tell these things.”

He frowned. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? He is like a snake in the grass. He may strike, or just slither away.”

They entered the garden gates, Sebastian nodding at the guards. In the garden, he tugged on her hand until she faced him, and tipped her chin.