Bound to Be a Bride by Megan Mulry Page A

glorious, free as she had never been in her life. She looked as though she no longer touched the earth.
    Within the hour, the horses had been sold to the stable master at the bustling Rossio Inn, near the harbor. Three large sailing vessels along with innumerable barcos moliceiros , the distinctive gondola-like fishing boats of Aveiro, dotted the bay.
    Marco pulled his spyglass away from his face and slid it back into his satchel. “Our friends are here.” He smiled at Javier. “Everything is in order.” The smile faded when he turned to include Isabella in his look. “Well, almost everything.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean? I am quite fine. I will find a jeweler and trade in my piece and, along with the money from the sale of my horse, I shall easily secure passage to London. I have heard that women are able to live freely there, unencumbered by the constraints of the Church.”
    All three men began laughing, not just short bursts, but actual howls of laughter.
    Isabella pursed her lips. “When you are quite finished.”
    They renewed their peals of laughter. Javier was especially amused at the absurdity, wiping at the tears that accompanied his enjoyment.
    “Freely?” he finally gasped. “Women live freely in London?” He paused to collect himself, then had to rest his hands on his thighs to relieve the pain in his middle from laughing so hard. “Oh, my dear Isabella. You are simply adorable.”
    Her eyes darkened and her lips set into a defiant line. “I am no such thing.”
    Sebastián patted her shoulder. “My dear lady. Please. There is no place on this earth where women live freely. Where have you ever heard such nonsense?”
    “Santa Joana Princesa,” she said with conviction.
    “Pardon me?” Javier asked, his laughter gone.
    “Princess Saint Joan of Portugal. Her tomb is right here in Aveiro.” She pointed at the cobbled street beneath her feet. “She was real. She wasn’t a pawn. She was free. She refused offers of marriage from kings of France and England.”
    Javier stared at this angry, desperate young woman in front of him. He was reminded of himself, how much he had hated the idea that he would have to fit into a predetermined, prescribed version of his life that his father (and grandfather and great-grandfather) had set into motion all those generations ago. Obligation.
    Isabella’s eyes were shining with passion, either unshed tears of frustration or the gleam of real power. She wanted to live her life on fire. Badly. He knew he loved her in that moment. Sol. Isabella. Whoever she was.
    It crossed his mind then: what if that other Isabella, his intended, had possessed the same fire as the woman before him? Perhaps, in that case, he could have obeyed his father after all. As it was, he doubted he would ever look at another woman again. This Isabella, his Isabella, would never allow herself to be handed over to anyone.
    Marco and Sebastián stared in openmouthed silence as they watched their friend contemplate how to respond, to her and to the realization of his own obvious feelings.
    “There might be a place,” Javier began slowly.
    “No!” Sebastián protested immediately.
    Marco chimed in. “Absolutely not! We are about to get on a miserable, rat-infested brig-ship. She is not—”
    Isabella continued to stare at Javier. “Where? Where are you going?”
    Sebastián and Marco turned away in disgust, swearing and grabbing the hilts of their ever-present swords.
    Then Sebastián turned back and snarled at his friend. “I am going to get an ale and a wench before I get on that godforsaken ship tonight. If she comes, you will not be taking only your life into peril, but ours. Think of that, friend.” He spit the last word and stormed away.
    Marco was torn between his allegiance to Javier and the rational truth of Sebastián’s words. And he liked Isabella. He looked from her face to Javier’s then back again. “I am sorry to disappoint you, my lady, but Sebastián is