Bride of the Isle Read online

  “Looks like the weather will stay clear, my lord,” Raynauld said, dismounting and leading his horse away. “An easy night for sleeping out-of-doors.”

  Adam nodded and stepped over to the campfire, where he’d left his mail hauberk. He assumed, hoped, Elwin had assisted Cristiane from the mule.

  But Elwin led his horse past him, asking, “Your ride was uneventful, my lord?”

  “Aye, not a…” He turned and caught sight of Cristiane. She was attempting to dismount alone, but the distance to the ground was too great. Raynauld was out of sight and Elwin was heading in the opposite direction.

  Adam muttered a reply and rubbed the lower half of his face with one hand. The last thing he wanted was to touch her again. He’d made his decision regarding Lady Cristiane, and it was a sound one. She would never do as a proper English wife, but he knew his body would betray him again if he did not avoid touching her.

  She could dismount without assistance, he told himself. She was robust and hearty, and he was certain she had no need of his help.

  Yet, in spite of all this, he stepped over to her. “Allow me,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

  She took it without hesitation and slid down the mule’s side. Adam caught her waist to steady her as she slipped down the length of his body. He gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge the sparks set off by the contact, and she seemed to do the same. But her legs were unsteady and she faltered as she tried to step away.

  Adam took hold of her again and led her to a likely seat—the trunk of an uprooted tree. As he held her, he was almost painfully aware of how flimsy were the layers of her clothes, and his hand learned the supple curves of her waist and hip the way his eyes had already been tutored.

  “Thank you, Lord Bitterlee,” she said as she sat. “I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment.”

  He knew she could not have been accustomed to riding, with no horses in St. Oln. He should have anticipated how difficult it would be for her to ride that mule all day.

  Would she be able to ride again on the morrow? They had only a half day’s journey ahead of them, and he wanted to make it back to Bitterlee. These days, he did not like being away from home too long, not with Margaret so frail and Gerard so ready to take control of the isle.

  Adam wished Penyngton had known how unsuitable Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would be. He’d have saved himself the trip.

  He limped back over to the fire and picked up his water skin. Returning to Cristiane, he handed it to her. “The food will be ready shortly,” he said, watching her lips close around the opening of the skin. A thin trail of water splashed down her chin and onto the cloth of her kirtle, pasting it to her skin.

  He swallowed thickly and looked away. “’Tis nearly dark. If you need, er, if you care to wash, there’s a secluded place downstream, ’round that curve.”

  He’d never had occasion to speak to Rosamund about such private matters, and he did not care to dwell on them now, with Cristiane. “Do you think you can walk?”

  “Oh, aye,” she said, handing his water skin back to him. She wiped the droplets from her chin, then pushed her hair back. For the first time, he noticed how delicate her hands and wrists were. She was not as tiny as Rosamund had been, but Lady Cristiane was still distinctly feminine.

  She walked away, following the edge of the brook, and he could not help but notice her unsteady gait. Stepping toward her to give assistance, he stopped himself. Determined to stay clear of her, he decided that if she stumbled, one of his men could bloody well help her.

  Cristiane managed. Her legs were not exactly sore, but wobbly. It made no difference; the end result was the same. She was unsteady as she walked around the curve of the burn.

  Puzzled by Adam’s attitude toward her, she washed in the stream and tried to understand why he should seem annoyed with her, even as he showed her kindness. It made no sense.

  Pushing aside her confusion, she thought about the island she was about to visit. She’d never been beyond the boundaries of St. Oln, but she’d heard of islands in the North Sea, and knew they were occupied by a multitude of birds and other wildlife. She wondered if Bitterlee would be the same.

  ’Twas merely a half day’s ride to Adam’s isle. Cristiane was doubtful about making it alone on the back of the mule for that length of time, and wished Adam would take her up with him on his mount.

  Besides, she wanted to feel his arms around her once more. She’d never before known the kind of heart-pounding reaction he caused in her, and wanted to experience it again. She craved his touch in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. She wanted to see his naked form again, even though she supposed ’twas sinful to have such a blatant desire of the flesh.

  A bit stunned by her strange feelings, she wiped her face on the skirt of her kirtle and turned back to join the men in camp. Their low voices carried and she could hear them talking comfortably together. She found Elwin turning the hares that were cooking over the fire, and Raynauld was looking over some colorful bits of cloth with Adam.

  “These will look well in Margaret’s hair,” Adam said.

  “Oh aye, my lord,” Raynauld said, holding up several lengths of ribbon. “No doubt she will love them.”

  Margaret.

  The name was repeated a thousand times in Cristiane’s mind as she tried to sleep, and another thousand times as she rode the damnable mule the rest of the way to Bitterlee. Adam rode far ahead, out of sight.

  She should have realized he had a wife. ’Twas the reason he’d kept his distance. Sure enough, there’d been heat between them, but Adam—Lord Bitterlee, she amended—had done the honorable thing and stayed away from her.

  She could not help but feel disappointment. He’d been her hero, her savior, on the stair of the inn. He’d taken gentle care of her and seen that she was protected through the night. Was it so strange that she would feel some attachment to him? Was it odd that she should want to believe there was more than basic chivalry in his concern for her?

  Cristiane sighed. She was just an inexperienced lass from a small village too far north of anywhere that mattered. However, she was intelligent enough to realize that she would have to guard her heart as she traveled, and not succumb to every attraction she felt. Just because a man paid her a kindness did not mean he intended to commit his life to her.

  Yet it hurt to know that she was naught more than a responsibility to Adam. ’Twas likely he owed a debt to her father, or mayhap to her uncle, and that was why he’d been compelled to escort her from St. Oln.

  She was merely the means for payment of that debt.

  ’Twas fortunate for Cristiane’s peace of mind that the scenery changed. It intrigued her. As they rode closer to the sea, on high embankments and across wide beaches, she drank in and savored all the sights.

  Her beloved guillemots and fulmars, puffins and razorbills, all nested and fed here in huge numbers. She watched as they circled over the water, screeching, then diving, and resurfacing with their catch.

  “Are there many birds on the island?” she asked.

  “Aye,” replied Elwin. “All along the cliffs south of the castle.”

  “And does…does Lady Margaret walk along the cliffs?”

  “Oh, ye know of Lady Margaret, then?” Elwin asked.

  Cristiane nodded.

  “Well, nay, she does not,” he answered. “The lord would be afeared of her slipping and falling.”

  Though Cristiane had skipped among the rocky cliffs above St. Oln all her life and knew there was little danger for the surefooted, she wished that some likely lad might have had a care for her safety. ’Twas clear that Lord Bitterlee held his lady in high regard.

  Cristiane put those thoughts from her mind. She had many miles to cover before she met her uncle in York, and it would not do at all for her to pine over what could not be.

  “Look!” Raynauld said. He extended one arm to the left and pointed. “Bitterlee!”

  In the afternoon sun, Cristiane could see a dark mass ris
ing out of the glittering sea in the distance. It was impossible to make out any detail from so far away, but it was comforting—nay, exciting—to have her destination finally within sight.

  The Bitterlee lords kept a tiny village on the mainland, where a perfect harbor was well situated for launching boats to the island. Adam tied his horse to the post in front of the wineshop that also served as an inn, and went inside to wait for his men to arrive with Lady Cristiane.

  The weather was fair enough now, so the crossing should pose no problems. The only difficulty would be once they reached the isle. He had not yet figured out how to avoid Lady Cristiane.

  The castle was large, but only a small part was inhabited by the family. There was only one appropriate place to lodge Cristiane, being a guest, and that was near his own chambers, not far from Margaret’s. As usual, meals would be served in the great hall, and he could see no possible way to stay away from them. Or her.

  He could turn her over to his uncle, but Gerard was a decidedly unfriendly, inhospitable fellow. He was a mere decade older than Adam, and for many years he’d resented Adam’s inheritance of the Bitterlee title and demesne. His actions of late indicated that he still resented him for it.

  Gerard Sutton had spent the greater part of his youth as a knight in King Edward’s employ, only returning to Bitterlee upon the death of Adam’s father. Mayhap at that time, Gerard had hoped he would somehow inherit Bitterlee. Adam knew ’twas entirely possible his uncle had petitioned the king in this matter, too.

  But King Edward was not fool enough to make exception to the laws of inheritance. ’Twould start a precedent that would cause chaos in the kingdom.

  Nay, Adam was lord of Bitterlee, and he would be until the title passed to his own son.

  If ever he had one.

  “Rain in the air, m’lord,” the innkeeper said, drawing ale from a barrel.

  “Aye,” Adam replied. “I smell it, too. But not for a few hours.”

  “Right you are,” the man said as he set Adam’s ale before him.

  “Lookin’ fer some refreshment, m’lord?” the innkeeper’s wife asked. “A meal or—?”

  “Only if you’ve something prepared,” Adam said, noticing the woman for the first time. She was redheaded, like Cristiane, but her hair color was dull, uninteresting. Her features were unremarkable, too, without the vividness of Cristiane’s bright blue eyes, or the delicacy of her nose and jaw. This woman did not have full, soft lips like Cristiane’s, lips that could…

  In frustration at his wayward thoughts, he turned and prowled back to the open door. He’d managed to avoid thinking of her all day, and now this. The image of her face came to mind, as well as all the attributes below her neck.

  “When my men arrive,” he said, turning, “we won’t tarry. I want to cross before the rain comes.” He would get Cristiane situated somewhere in the castle and forget about her. Soon he’d meet with Penyngton and have him draft a letter to all the lords of the realm. One of them had to have a daughter of marriageable age. Adam would have a marriage contract drawn up, and wed a proper Englishwoman.

  Then he’d be able to get on with his life.

  “Aye, m’lord,” the innkeeper said. “Wise. There’s some cold chicken, and mayhap a bit of mutton left.”

  “Whatever you have will do, Edwin,” Adam said.

  The innkeepers left him to his own devices as they went to the kitchen to prepare the meal. Adam walked back to a table, sat down and lifted his drink.

  He knew what his problem was, and it had naught to do with Cristiane Mac Dhiubh. Any woman that pleased the eye could solve it. Mayhap he should send Elwin and Raynauld ahead with Cristiane to Bitterlee. Then he could ride inland to Watersby, a good-size village at a crossroads, where the tavern women were pretty. And willing to take care of a man’s needs.

  If he rode hard, he would make it there before dark. He could spend a couple of days slaking a need that had not troubled him for eons, then return to Bitterlee, refreshed and immune to Lady Cristiane’s allure.

  He had almost convinced himself that it would be best to head out for Watersby when he reminded himself it had been a week since he’d seen his daughter. Little Margaret was frail and sickly, and he could not stay away for as low a reason as he’d just considered. Nay, he was not so depraved as that.

  He would return to the isle and see to his daughter, just as he should.

  A gust of wind caught one of the shutters and slammed it against the wall of the inn, forcing Adam’s attention back to the elements. Mayhap the storm would come sooner than he expected. He went outside and glanced down at the harbor, then looked at the sky.

  The clouds were still far in the distance, but he hoped Elwin and Raynauld would ride into the village soon. They would have time for a quick meal, then make the crossing before the rain came. Judging by the cold bite of the wind, this storm was going to be more than a gentle shower.

  Impatiently, he paced outside near the door, anxious for his men to arrive with Cristiane. When he finally spotted them on the road, still a fair distance away, he felt both relieved and on edge.

  Some of the villagers began to approach him cordially, glad to pass the time of day with the lord. Many followed him back inside the wineshop, where Adam gulped another cup of ale, listening to their news. He learned who’d died in recent weeks, and who had birthed new babes.

  Still holding a great deal of animosity toward the Scots for their losses at Falkirk, the people complained of the shortage of men to tend sheep and till the fields. Adam promised to send his knights to help, as they had done the previous spring. He knew there was too much work for the men who remained here. It would be years before the population returned to what it had been before so many had gone with him to answer King Edward’s call.

  Raynauld finally entered the wineshop, with Elwin and Cristiane following. By degrees, the people became quiet as the strange woman proceeded deeper into their midst. They recognized Lord Bitterlee’s knights, but the young woman with the flaming red hair was strange to them.

  Cristiane kept her eyes down and remained behind Raynauld as he pushed through to Adam’s table. Adam stood and pulled out one of the rough chairs for her, and watched as she sat.

  The villagers knew better than to question the lord, but he could see they were full of unfriendly curiosity regarding the stranger he’d brought into their midst. He resisted the preposterous urge to gather her into his arms and protect her from what he was sure would be a hostile reaction to a Scottish woman audacious enough to step upon English soil. Adam wished to spare Cristiane that. She’d had enough difficulty in past weeks—from her own people.

  The innkeeper’s wife brought a platter of food to the table, and as Adam and his party began to eat, the people slowly dispersed, leaving Adam uncomfortably close to Cristiane.

  “’Twill be good to get home,” Elwin said, cutting a leg from the cold roast fowl that had been put before them.

  “Aye,” Raynauld agreed, “before the storm hits.”

  “Looks like a good ’un about to start.”

  “We’ll make it,” Adam interjected.

  “How do we cross to the isle?” Cristiane asked quietly.

  “A galley will carry us over,” Adam replied. “The crossing takes a quarter hour, mayhap a bit more.”

  Cristiane nodded.

  “Have you ever been on the sea, my lady?” Raynauld asked.

  Adam watched as Cristiane bit her lower lip, and he knew her answer before she spoke. “Nay,” she finally replied. “I havena.”

  Her burr was thick suddenly, and Adam remembered how that had happened before, when she was nervous. “’Tis a very easy crossing, Lady Cristiane,” he said.

  “Aye, ’tis true, milady,” Elwin added. “Naught to worry about.”

  “Ach,” she said, with a shrug that caused her shoulder to brush Adam’s arm. Her body was warm, welcoming. He clamped down on his inappropriate reaction to her touch. “I’m na worrit.”

&nb
sp; Elwin laughed. “Tell me that when your color comes back.”

  She lowered her eyes and blushed, feeling the heat. She had to know that the color was back in her cheeks, if only from embarrassment, but she did not say more.

  “Did you send a boy to the ship with the horses?” Adam asked his men.

  “Aye, m’lord,” Sir Elwin replied. “All will be ready when we arrive on the wharf.”

  “And oarsmen?”

  “Aye,” said Raynauld. “They’ll be there.”

  Cristiane ate little, but Adam did not remark on it. He would not urge her to eat, then board the galley. It could very well become a difficult crossing if the winds continued, and then they’d all be glad her stomach was empty.

  He remembered that Rosamund had never had an easy time with the crossing. She did not usually become acutely ill, but her complexion would grow sallow, and she’d lose all color in her lips. After she reached dry land again, ’twould take an hour or more before she returned to normal.

  ’Twas a quick, but windy walk to the wharf, and Cristiane held on to her skirts with one hand to try to keep them from blowing up to her knees. With the other hand, she captured her loose hair and held it tight.

  Adam forced his eyes away from her lissome form.

  The horses and Cristiane’s mule had been sent ahead on another ship to the island, so Adam and his party boarded a lightly burdened galley. Hopefully, ’twould make their passage all the faster.

  The wind took on a bitter bite as they found their seats in the open ship. The galley was manned by eight oarsmen, and Raynauld and Elwin added their strength to the rowing, too. They would use no sail, for the wind was too sharp, but Adam had faith that they would make good speed to the isle.

  For the first time in days, Adam felt a lightening of his spirit. Soon he would be home, where he belonged. His promise to Cristiane’s mother had been partially fulfilled, and he was now free to undertake the responsibilities he’d neglected far too long at Bitterlee.

  The men rowed the ship out of the harbor on rough seas. The bow reared up and crashed over the waves as they made their way toward the land mass that rose up ahead of them. Adam stood at the bow with the ship’s master, exhilarated by the ferocity of the elements, and kept watch as they rowed farther out.