Bride of the Isle Page 9

  She pulled off her shoes, hiked up her skirts and stepped into the water.

  “Lady Cristiane,” Elwin called in as much surprise as alarm, “do ye think—”

  “Pay me no mind, Sir Elwin,” Cristiane said. “I’m accustomed to the water, and I’m a good swimmer, besides.”

  Elwin muttered something she could not quite hear, but Cristiane ignored him. Wading in to her knees, she discovered a thick log floating in the water. ’Twas tangled up in a mass of weeds, and the body of the mother duck was caught there.

  ’Twas no wonder the little ones kept circling ’round. Cristiane looked back at them now, and realized just how young they were. Only a few weeks hatched, if she was not mistaken, and they would die without the hen’s attention.

  Cristiane could not let that happen. They were too precious to leave to such a fate.

  She knew she could not be of much help, for she had only a few days at Bitterlee—just long enough to sew a new kirtle or two—before traveling on to York. One look at Sir Elwin told her that the knight would have no interest in nurturing the little ducklings, nor did the gardeners appear to have the leisure to attend to them.

  Yet there had to be some way to save them.

  “If yer done muckin’ about, m’lady,” Elwin said, pushing himself off the tree trunk where he’d been leaning and watching, “I’m fair starved and wouldn’t mind breakin’ my fast sometime soon.”

  Cristiane was hungry, too. She would consider the problem of the ducklings, and come up with some solution.

  The sun was high when they returned to the keep. As she and Elwin walked toward the chapel, she saw Adam standing at the foot of the main stone staircase, surrounded by a group of people. His hair was wet and combed back from his freshly shaved face, and he wore a clean dark tunic and black hose. He looked as if he had just stepped out of his bath.

  She had always thought him a beautiful man, but with this aura of power about him, he was especially appealing. She wished she were not so distasteful to him.

  She could not blame him for his dislike of all things Scottish. He’d lost many Bitterlee men to the war, and had been badly wounded himself. To add to all that, his wife had died while he was away. Though he was too fair a man to blame the Scots for Lady Rosamund’s death, he must resent having been away at war when she died.

  “Who are all those people?” Cristiane asked Elwin.

  “They’re from Bitterlee town,” he replied. “Likely come to tell his lordship what damage the storm did down there.”

  Four men and one woman comprised the group. The woman was young and pretty, with hair the color of honey, pinned down and properly tamed. She was dressed in a clean, well-fitting gown of bright blue, and Adam seemed to pay particular attention to what she said.

  Cristiane wondered if the young lady were of the gentry. She certainly looked it, and judging from the way Adam inclined his head to listen to her, the woman was somehow special to him. Absently, Cristiane rubbed the center of her chest, as if she could rub away the sudden ache that began there.

  Abruptly, she turned and darted up the stairs and into the great hall, where servants were beginning to lay out the noon meal. The dogs saw her and ran to her, sniffing her shoes, offering their heads to be petted. Taking a deep breath, she gave them their due, then turned away from them and approached the table.

  Little Margaret was there with her nurse and Sir Gerard. Also seated was a gentleman Cristiane had not yet met. He had the look of clergy, with his tonsure and the cut of the coarse, dark brown robe he wore.

  The priest’s expression was a sour one, nearly matching that of the nurse, Mathilde. Gerard had the same sullen look about him that Cristiane had noticed the previous evening. Margaret Sutton seemed oblivious to the gloomy adults, and sat alongside them, gazing with un-focused eyes into the distance.

  Cristiane knew her own appearance was anything but appropriate for table. She should have gone to her chamber to make repairs, but there was naught to be done about it now. She had no other clothes to wear, and her hair would not be subdued, not without combs, or string to tie it. Besides, she did not want anyone to think she would waste their time—and put off the meal—with useless primping.

  Without ado, she took a seat, leaving Elwin to go where he would.

  Adam could have done without hearing of all the disasters that occurred in town during the storm. Fallen trees, roofs blown off, floods. And, of course, minor damage had occurred as well. All would require precious manpower that was scant at best.

  Yet he knew that Sara Cole would be no less than accurate in her assessment of the damage to the town. She was not a native of Bitterlee, but born a bastard into a family of traveling mummers. However, she was a gifted healer and midwife. In the five years since Sara’s arrival here on the isle, she had gained the trust and admiration of the townspeople.

  It had been Sara who had attended his wife at Margaret’s birth, and had done all she could to rouse Rosamund from her indifference in the weeks afterward.

  But ’twas not Sara who occupied Adam’s mind as he entered the great hall. If he’d thought he’d be immune to Cristiane Mac Dhiubh after his dunking in the cold water, he was mistaken. He was every bit as susceptible to her even now, with her hair loose, the bodice of her kirtle nearly splitting at its seams and her hem riding a good hand’s breadth above her ankles. All that was needed was for her to let out a bloodcurdling Scots battle cry, and the barbaric image would be perfect. He could not feel such a strong attraction to a Scotswoman.

  He watched Cristiane hesitate a moment before sitting at table. She took a deep breath and seemed to bolster herself as she took a seat without guidance from those who should have assisted her.

  The servants kept their distance, avoiding speaking directly to her. Mathilde said naught, and Father Beaupré kept his silence as well. Finally, Gerard muttered something in his usual sardonic manner, and Cristiane replied quietly, keeping her eyes down, her expression carefully neutral.

  Adam tamped down his protective instincts and at the same time fought the desire to turn and head back out the door and down the keep’s great stone steps.

  Instead, he forced himself to approach the dining table. He greeted Cristiane and introduced her to the priest in their midst. “Father Beaupré did not join us last eve, Lady Cristiane,” he said distantly, “so you did not have occasion to meet him.” Her hands were trembling slightly, but Adam made a point to ignore it. He turned his attention to his daughter as the priest stood and gave Cristiane a slight bow.

  “How do you do, my lady?” Beaupré said gravely.

  “Very well, thank you,” Cristiane replied.

  Adam saw that Margaret’s attention was once again engaged by their guest. He frowned with puzzlement. He had not seen his daughter’s eyes sparkle with such interest since the days when she’d sat playing in her mother’s bedchamber, with Mathilde looking on.

  Heartened by her reaction, he sat down and spoke to his daughter. “Margaret, do you remember Lady Cristiane?”

  A slight nod of the head was the child’s answer. Adam would not have believed the silence at the table could grow any deeper, but as he spoke to his daughter, it did. A frown of disapproval crossed Mathilde’s face, and a mask of indifference covered Gerard’s. The priest had already dug into his meal and was ignoring everything around him.

  Margaret, as usual, said nary a word.

  But that little nod of the head… ‘Twas more than he’d gotten out of her in all the months since his return from Falkirk. He dared not hope for more.

  Adam turned from Margaret, then watched as Cristiane gathered a cloak of serenity about her, the same kind of calm he’d noticed when she’d held her hand out and touched the doe near the river. “Did Sir Elwin give you a thorough tour of the gardens, Lady Cristiane?” he asked.

  Adam had promised to take her himself, and when he looked up, he read that accusation in her eyes. But the attraction he felt for her was too powerful. He had to keep a
way from her as much as possible, else…He would not give form to any thoughts of what would happen. They were sinful and without honor.

  Cristiane did not believe the company at table could have been more stiff or unfriendly. She would have declined the meal had she not already sat and been introduced. However, ’twould be the height of discourtesy to leave now, and her parents had taught her better.

  Oh, how she missed her mother and father. She felt a pang in the region of her heart when she thought of them, and blinked back a sudden rush of tears. If only they were here to guide her. She’d never felt so abandoned, so alone.

  She looked up again at Adam and saw a familiar remoteness in his eyes. He did not want her here. She did not know what his reason was for taking her from St. Oln, but ’twas clear that he wanted her gone from Bitterlee.

  And that hurt. She’d done naught to earn his scorn, other than being an inconvenience.

  She should be accustomed to that. She’d been unwelcome at St. Oln, and Cristiane was beginning to fear that she’d be unwelcome in York, too. Her Scots blood would never be forgiven. Not by her uncle; not by this quiet lord with the stormy gray eyes who’d rescued her from a thoroughly dismal existence at St. Oln.

  She bit her lip and turned her eyes to the meal, even though she had no appetite for food. Perhaps ’twould be best if Adam found an escort who could take her to her uncle right away. There was no need for her to stay here and sew new gowns. When she arrived at Learick, her mother’s brother would certainly understand her circumstances at St. Oln, and make allowances for her shabby attire.

  Cristiane sighed and resigned herself to her fate. Somehow, she would make the best of circumstances. Her mother had provided well for her future, and Cristiane would do her the honor of following her wishes. All that was necessary was to endure these next few days at Bitterlee, and then go to her uncle’s estate.

  “…from Mistress Cole,” Sir Gerard was saying. Cristiane had been too preoccupied with her own thoughts to hear more, and she did not catch his meaning.

  “Aye,” Adam replied. “She said there’s a good deal of damage. Raynauld and some of the men are already in town, helping to drag away some of the downed trees.”

  “What of the fields?” Gerard asked. “Ruined?”

  “Nay,” Adam replied, “though some are flooded. They will be all right if it does not rain again for a few days.”

  Their conversation continued, and Cristiane added naught to it. She picked at her meal, occasionally exchanging glances with Adam’s wee daughter.

  A fey one, she was, with gray eyes exactly like her father’s, though her brows were the palest gold. Her head was bound tight in the same kind of white wimple she’d worn before, so Cristiane could not see her hair, and her clothing was dark and severe. Again, she was a miniature image of her nurse, who urged her—unsuccessfully—to eat.

  The lass was too thin, Cristiane thought, with skin so transparent that her tiny blue veins were quite visible through it. Her eyes were dull, except for an occasional spark of interest when something caught her attention. Cristiane wondered if the plight of the orphaned ducklings would pique her curiosity.

  “I saw something interesting by the pond this morn,” she said when Margaret happened to look up at her. “Something unusual.”

  The child’s eyes flicked toward Cristiane for a moment before she blinked and resumed her empty stare. Mathilde made a fuss of cutting up the food in Margaret’s trencher, but the little girl clamped her lips closed and refused to be fed. Everyone else grew perfectly still, as if Cristiane had committed the worst possible blunder.

  She did not care. From what she had seen, very few of the people here at Bitterlee had the remotest notion of hospitality. Or courtesy. For the duration of her stay on the isle, she would say and do as she pleased.

  “If your papa doesna mind, I could take you out to the garden and show you after we eat,” Cristiane said. “’Tis truly amazing.”

  Again, Margaret’s interest flared and was quickly subdued again. Adam had not seen her act this way before, and he leaned back in his chair to observe his daughter’s interchange with Cristiane unobtrusively.

  Cristiane tore a piece of bread and dipped it into the juices of the trencher, then lifted it to Margaret’s lips. “Eat, lass,” Cristiane said. “If you want to come with me and see what I saw this morn, you must keep up your strength.”

  Adam held his breath as he watched Cristiane work some kind of magic on his daughter. Margaret allowed Cristiane to place the morsel in her mouth, even as Mathilde spoke. “We have our devotions this afternoon, Lady Cristiane,” she said. “Therefore, Lady Margaret will not be able—”

  “Devotions will wait,” Adam said, cutting off the nurse’s admonition. “Margaret and I will accompany Lady Cristiane to the pond this afternoon.” The situation in town would wait, too.

  He saw a flush color Cristiane’s cheeks, but she continued offering juicy bites to Margaret, who accepted them. When ’twas clear the child would eat no more, Cristiane stood and took the little girl’s hand, easing her down from her chair. “I’d rather not rush you, my lord,” she said, “but Lady Margaret and I are ready to go.”

  Cristiane picked up a loaf of bread from the table, then walked purposely from the great hall, towing Margaret along with her.

  Adam pushed away from the table and followed as she made her way through the baileys and out to the garden. She spoke to Margaret as she walked, but he could hear only a word now and again. It did not matter. She’d sparked Margaret’s interest, and he hoped his daughter would not be disappointed.

  Hell’s bells, he hoped he would not be disappointed. He had lived without hope for far too long.

  They reached the pond and Cristiane sat down on the ground in the weeds near the bank. The sun was bright and a warm spring breeze blew in from the mainland. ’Twas hard to believe that only last eve a storm had knocked down trees and wiped out two houses in town. He could only hope there would be no more rain for a few days.

  Adam stood back, watching, as Cristiane took Margaret’s hand again and got her to sit on the ground. She unlaced her own shoes and indicated that Margaret should do the same. When the child sat listlessly, not responding, Cristiane performed the task herself.

  Barefoot now, Cristiane stood again. She took Margaret’s hands and pulled her up, then tore a piece of bread from the loaf and handed it to her. The little girl took it and looked up at Cristiane, her eyes still somewhat vacant, though there was a hint of curiosity now.

  If Adam had ever thought a heart could not burst, he was unsure of it now. For he felt as if his own would pound right out of his chest as he watched his little girl come back to life.

  “You’ll see,” Cristiane said as she walked to the water’s edge. She beckoned to Margaret. “Come….”

  Margaret hesitated, but finally took her outstretched hand and stepped into the water, holding the piece of bread high. She shuddered and looked as if she would panic, and Adam fought the urge to rush to her side.

  But Cristiane spoke to her in a low, reassuring tone. Adam wished he could hear what she said, but did not want to disturb the first real communication he’d seen his daughter carry on since her mother’s death. He held back.

  Cristiane showed Margaret how to pull her skirts up to her knees and hang on to them with one hand, and Adam watched as his child mimicked her. They stepped deeper into the water and Cristiane threw out a morsel of bread. Suddenly, a brood of tiny ducklings swam ’round a tangle of branches and weeds, and darted toward the bread.

  Surprised, Margaret sucked in a breath, just as any other child her age might have done.

  Adam moved closer. He could clearly hear the cheeping of the ducklings over the water, and every word Cristiane said.

  “Tear off a bite and throw it, wee Meg,” Cristiane said.

  Wee Meg? His daughter was always called Margaret, but Adam wouldn’t question it now. Cristiane could give her any Scottish name she chose, if only she
could get Margaret to return to him.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Margaret did as she was told, and the ducklings made a dash for the newest tidbit. Margaret’s body was held tightly. She did not speak, but a controlled excitement radiated from every pore.

  “Go ahead, throw another,” Cristiane said.

  This time, the bit of bread landed closer, and the ducks swam even nearer. Margaret took another sharp breath and looked up at Cristiane with questions in her shining eyes.

  “Their mama is gone,” Cristiane said, “so they have no one to feed them.”

  Margaret looked back at the ducklings, which were now chirping madly and swarming like bees. Adam wondered if his daughter had any awareness of the similarity between the ducklings and herself.

  “We’ll help them, shall we?” Cristiane said. “And they’ll be fine.”

  Margaret quickly got the knack of feeding the ducks, breaking more of the bread and throwing it in, aiming so that the ducklings swam a short distance away. She did not laugh, or even smile, as any other child would, but Adam could not help but think she had made a huge leap of progress during this short interlude.

  He looked over at Cristiane, her back straight, her skirts up around her shapely knees. Curly red tendrils of hair had escaped their bindings to trail over her shoulders and down her back. Her rounded hips were clearly delineated when she bent to help Margaret. She suddenly gave a quiet laugh of delight, and Adam had to restrain himself from joining her where she stood.

  But he could not interrupt, not when she’d managed to do what no one else on Bitterlee had been able to.

  Margaret’s entire chunk of bread was soon consumed by the hungry ducklings. She looked up at Cristiane, frowning. “More,” she said.

  Adam’s heart pounded in his ears. He’d not heard a single word from Margaret’s mouth since his return from Falkirk. Yet now she spoke. To Cristiane Mac Dhiubh.

  Chapter Ten

  The child was so thin and frail, Cristiane had had some doubts whether she would manage the long walk to the pond. But Meg—for that was how Cristiane thought of her—had managed to hold up.