Bride of the Isle (5 page)

She also wondered if they would meet up with Adam before nightfall.

Though Elwin and Raynauld were good company, Cristiane found herself wishing for Adam’s presence. She sighed quietly as she thought of his strong, capable hands, lacing the shoes he’d acquired for her. She’d never noticed any other man’s hands before, but something about Adam’s caught her eye.

They were large, but well formed, with dark hair on the backs and thick blue veins prominent under smooth skin. His clean nails were neatly trimmed. Cristiane would feel safe in those hands, if he ever chose to touch her again.

Which he would not. She was certain of that.

She’d seen something in his eyes that morning while she dressed, something that even now brought a blush to her cheeks. But he’d withdrawn from her. He’d made a point of staying away—other than during those few short moments when he’d fastened the shoes on her feet. Clearly, he had not experienced the same rush of heat she had. Whatever had been in his eyes, it had not been a wave of lust.

More likely embarrassment.

’Twas foolish to ruminate over it now. Adam’s lack of interest was of no consequence to her. She would not tarry long at Bitterlee. ’Twould be a mere fortnight or less, she guessed, before she continued her southward journey to her uncle in York.

She felt fortunate
that she at least had shoes for her arrival in York, but wished she owned something to trade for better clothes. Her belongings were meager, and of them, the only possessions of value were her two books, which she’d managed to hide away in her cave. Cristiane did not think she could part with them, even for the finest of kirtles. For they’d belonged to her father and she’d learned so much from them.

Nay, she would just have to arrive looking a pauper…as she truly was.

“Not much farther to go, yer ladyship,” Sir Elwin said. “We’ll meet Lord Bitterlee just over that rise.”

Cristiane was surprised by that news. She’d had no idea where Lord Bitterlee had gone off to, but her heart beat a bit faster, knowing she’d soon see him again.

“He stayed ahead of us all day,” Raynauld remarked.

“Why?” she wondered aloud.

“For safety’s sake,” Elwin replied. “After our encounter with last night’s raiders, he did not want us to be riding headlong into another ugly situation.”

Cristiane had not thought of that, but she was glad Adam had. The idea of running into those English marauders again made her blood run cold. She did not care to repeat her reaction to the violence on the stair the previous night. She’d been incapacitated, and her mind had taken her back to the battle in which her father had been killed.

Prior to this, she’d only seen his violent death in her worst nightmares. Never while she was awake.

“We’ve kept up a good pace,” Sir Elwin said, turning her mind from the possibility of danger, “so we’ll be reaching the Isle of Bitterlee before nightfall on the morrow.”

“The isle?”

“Aye,” Raynauld
replied. “Bitterlee is an island in the North Sea.”

“Oh!” Cristiane said with wonder. “No one told me that Bitterlee was an isle.” She could hardly imagine standing in a place where she would be surrounded by water. What a wonderful thought. There would be birds, and tide pools and wee sea creatures…

“Aye,” the knight continued. “With Lord Bitterlee’s castle perched high on the cliffs overlooking the sea.”

“’Tis a fair wondrous place in summer,” Sir Elwin added. Then he frowned. “But our winters are harsh. ’Tis not a clime for the fainthearted.”

Cristiane thought Elwin would have said more, but he stopped himself, and Raynauld took up the discussion.

“Besides our lovely summers,” he said, “we’ve always got food to spare, even when the grain harvest is sparse….”

“Aye, Bitterlee’s fishermen are England’s best.”

“We feast on codfish and whitynge year-round!”

“’Tis how we fare in St. Oln, too,” Cristiane said, though many fishermen had died recently on battlefields. So had farmers. Food was now scarce in her village. ’Twas one more reason they wanted her gone.

She did not notice the look that passed between the two knights, but rode on, wondering when they would meet with Adam and stop for the night. Every now and then the sun broke through the trees, but they could see that it rode low over the horizon. Night would soon be upon them.

Cristiane was weary. The day’s ride had taken its toll. She was more than ready to lay her head down for the night and rest her sorely tested muscles.

They’d
been riding through a dense forest for several hours, but when they reached the crest of the hill that Elwin mentioned, the land below was clear. From their perch, the sea was visible in the distance.

“Lord Bitterlee will be in the dell alongside the river,” Elwin said.

They made their way down the hillside and soon reached a stream that Cristiane considered more a wee burn than a river. But she did not contradict her escort. She was just glad to know she’d be able to dismount soon. Her legs were sore, and her back ached from holding it so stiffly all day.

They rode three abreast, following the burn. When they smelled the welcoming aroma of a wood fire, and of cooking meat, they knew they were close. They followed the curve of the little stream and soon came upon Lord Bitterlee, who had just stepped out of the frigid water.

To Cristiane’s shock, Adam was shirtless. She’d never seen a man of St. Oln so unclothed. Always, for modesty’s sake, the men kept on at least an undergarment, even while performing the hottest, most arduous tasks.

But Cristiane could not find fault with Adam’s near nakedness. His chest and arms were well formed, and his belly…something about the way those hard muscles moved made Cristiane’s insides flutter.

Dark hair furred his chest in a swirling pattern that trailed to a point below his waist, where his chausses and braes rode low on his hips. The chausses themselves were damp, and Cristiane could make out the firm lines of the muscles of his legs, though she could discern no indication of the reason for his limp.

What had
caused it? A battle wound?

She suddenly realized that she was sitting motionless atop her mount. Raynauld and Elwin had ridden well ahead of her as she’d sat staring at Adam, and she flushed with heat. ’Twas embarrassing to be caught with her jaw agape.

A
dam threw on
his undertunic quickly. The icy bite of the river had no effect on him now. If anything, he felt too warm. Lady Cristiane’s unabashed appraisal of his naked form was surprisingly arousing. Suddenly, all he could think of was the way her lips had felt on his cheek after he’d placed the shoes on her feet. All he could smell was her scent, soft and musky. Intriguing.

He’d never known a noblewoman to be so appreciative of the male form. Rosamund had certainly never been. If anything, she had abhorred his superior size and strength. In their four years of marriage, Rosamund had never been at ease with him. She had given excuses to keep him from sharing her bed, and certainly had not enjoyed the few times he’d gotten past her defenses.

’Twas a miracle she’d ever conceived Margaret.

“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 rising 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.