Bride of the Isle (6 page)

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.”

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.

The wind took his breath away, whipped his hair to a tangled mess and pasted his clothes to his long, muscular frame.

“That’s a Scotswoman you brought with ye, eh, m’lord?” the master asked.

Adam raised an eyebrow at the question, but did not begrudge the man an answer. He’d been the skilled master of the harbor for many years, always loyal and reliable. “She is,” he replied simply.

The man pursed his lips and thought a moment before speaking again. “D’ye think the island people will take to her, m’lord?”

“’Tis no matter. The lady is my guest,” Adam said, raising his voice to carry over the wind. “She will be up at the castle for the length of her visit. I don’t expect the island people will be bothered by her.”

Adam thought the master made a sound deep in his throat, but could not be sure, because the man turned away just then and began to shout orders to his oarsmen. Adam dreaded turning to look at Cristiane, certain that he would find her cowering in the hull of the ship, green to her gills.

Instead, he watched the sky as several large brown skuas rode the wind, impervious to the impending storm. They screeched as they flew, then dived into the waves or at the smaller gulls, each one securing a meal. Adam watched them for a long moment, putting off the time when he’d have to go and see to Lady Cristiane.

An unfamiliar, musical
sound made him turn to the hull of the ship, and he discovered Cristiane standing at the port side, pointing up at the flying birds. She laughed as she watched them dance across the sky, and the color in her fair cheeks was good.

The wind blew her skirts up above her ankles, and she absently pushed them down with one hand. Adam was painfully aware of what lay beneath those skirts, and he desperately hoped that the wind became no fiercer. Otherwise, Cristiane would most certainly be embarrassed.

And Adam would have to throw each and every man who saw her overboard.

He crossed to her and gripped her arm more fiercely than he intended. “The seas are rough, Lady Cristiane,” he said. “’Tis best if you take a seat.”

“Ach, but—”

“’Tis true, m’lady,” the master shouted from his post at the bow. “Can’t have no accidents on m’ ship, now!”

Cristiane complied with both men’s wishes, finding a seat away from the oarsmen. Adam sat down beside her, oddly disturbed by her ease in the circumstances. He should have been relieved that she was not puking over the side, yet her exhilaration in the face of the wind and high seas was confusing. Never had he known a woman so comfortable with the elements.

“’Tis wonderful, is it na, my lord?”

“What? The storm?”

“Aye! And the bonniest great skuas I’ve ever seen.” Cristiane laughed again. “They’re like the ruddy kings of the sky—diving for food, but stealing the prey from smaller birds!”

Adam had to
smile at her likening the big gulls to a king. She was more accurate than she knew.

“I’m glad ’tis so…so alive for the crossing,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Aught else, and ’twould have been a dull ride!”

Something inside Adam made him want to shake some sense into her. Didn’t the foolish girl understand there was danger here? That the weather could turn frightful in an instant, with dangerous lightning and torrents of rain?

’Twas clear he’d have to look out for her while she remained on Bitterlee. She didn’t have the sense God gave a…a skua.

T
he town lay at
the southernmost point of the isle, slightly east, at the mouth of the harbor.

Adam’s family had long been popular with the people, for Bitterlee was a prosperous holding, and well administered. Bitterlee’s sympathies became even more fully engaged when Adam returned from Scotland nearly two years before, a grievously wounded hero, only to discover that his young wife had died.

Little Lady Margaret became one of their own. Prayers and indulgences doubled on behalf of Lord Bitterlee and his poor, motherless child. Adam was revered as their tragic young lord, and their hearts went out to him.

And they blamed the Scots for all the troubles that had befallen them.

Cristiane fell in love with the isle the moment the ship pulled into harbor. It called St. Oln to her mind, but Bitterlee was so much more. The town that nestled ’round the harbor was pretty, with neat cottages near the water and on the hillsides, along well-tended lanes. A multitude of fishing boats lined the harbor, all tied securely against the growing gale.

The lush aromas
of freshly tilled earth and salty air filled her nose, but ’twas the high ridges and cliffs that drew Cristiane’s attention. As the wind battered the trees high above them, she could see rough peaks in the distance, black, rocky crags enshrouded in a heavy mist. The castle wall was white against the gray haze, and behind the wall rose gleaming turrets and towers. Cristiane’s breath caught in her throat at the sight. She had never seen so magnificent a place.

Townspeople came out in spite of the weather and welcomed Lord Bitterlee and his men back to the island. Children, along with barking dogs, ran up and down the planks of the dock as the men and women gathered, creating a festive atmosphere.

Uncomfortable with the thought of joining this mass of people, Cristiane remained onboard the galley with Raynauld and Elwin until they were ready to disembark. There was no doubt that the people on the mainland had realized she was Scottish, mayhap because of her red hair, and had shunned her. She did not doubt that she’d be greeted with suspicion and hostility here as well.

She crossed her arms over her chest, then rubbed her hands over her upper arms to warm herself against the sudden chill. She’d faced a number of difficulties since the death of her father, the very least of which had been the unkindness of the people of St. Oln.

She would survive them again.

After all, as wondrous a place as the Isle of Bitterlee was, she would not be staying long. A week, mayhap a fortnight, and she would make the crossing back to the mainland, and leave this intriguing place. She promised herself she would explore every ledge of the cliffs before she left. She wanted to discover all the nesting creatures in the rocks so high above the sea.

The wind lashed
at Cristiane’s hair and she struggled to gather it in one fist. She caught sight of Adam at the center of the crowd at the base of a hill as he made his way to a shelter where the horses and her mule were tethered. ’Twas clear he’d forgotten her.

Cristiane tamped down a wave of alarm. She was being ridiculous. He hadn’t abandoned her yet, and she doubted he would do so now, even though his people would surely scorn her.

“Come, m’lady,” Elwin said. “Best we be getting home before the clouds burst.”

She nearly had to run to catch up to the knights as they walked ahead of her, shielding her from the worst of the wind. Still, she could see Adam up ahead, continuing to walk toward the animals’ shelter, yet speaking to all who would have his ear. She stopped herself from wishing he’d give her half as much attention. ’Twas quite an improper thought, knowing as she did that the man had a wife awaiting him.

Turning her attention to the high cliffs where the castle stood, remote and protected, she said, “How will we climb up there? The rocks—”

“There’s a good path along the escarpment, though you can’t see it from here,” Sir Raynauld said. “We’ll ride the horses.”

“Would it not be wise to stay in the village until the storm passes?” she asked.

Elwin and Raynauld exchanged a glance. “Nay,” said Raynauld.

“But we must move quickly now,” Elwin said, mindful of the coming storm. “We cannot tarry!”

With that, he took Cristiane’s arm and propelled her forward. The crowd parted as they headed toward Adam, and silence followed in their wake, just as it had in the tavern on the mainland. Cristiane wished she had a shawl to cover her offending hair. She felt utterly conspicuous, penetrating their midst, looking so much the stranger, and a Scotswoman at that.

Voices whispered
around her, then became rude mutterings. Cristiane heard the words and girded herself against the hurt they caused. She knew
she
was not responsible for the deaths of their men or the wounding of their lord.
She
was not the one who’d raided their borders or taken up arms at Falkirk.

She was just like any of them, having watched the knights and soldiers of St. Oln leave for battle, some never to return. Yet in Scotland, some had stayed to fight on home turf. Her father had been one of those.

And he had died defending her.

Before she had even a moment to reflect on that, she was thrown off balance by a nasty tug on her hair. Then someone shoved her. Soon the voices became louder, more hostile, and Cristiane was knocked to the ground.

“Hold!”

Anger seethed. Adam had never been so incensed in his life. He had never seen these people behave cruelly, yet their treatment of Cristiane was unmerciful and would have become even more brutal if he had not intervened.

Pushing through the crowd to where his men were helping her up, Adam realized he should have sensed they’d take one look at her and know she was Scottish. And by the way she was dressed, Cristiane looked no better than any of them. They did not know she was the granddaughter of an English earl, or the daughter of her clan’s laird.

If only Adam had been able to find more suitable attire for her, they’d never have dared to treat her so, Scot or not.

Feeling fiercely
protective now, Adam took Cristiane’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Lady Cristiane is a guest of Bitterlee,” he said sternly as he studiously avoided looking into her overbright eyes. Even so, he could not help but feel her trembling. “’Tis true she is of Scots blood, but she was no less harmed by the war than all of you.”

Subdued but not cowed by Adam’s words, the crowd made way as he escorted Cristiane to the horses. Raynauld and Elwin followed close behind, as the wind grew even worse. Adam would normally have considered staying in town until the storm blew itself out, but he would not subject Cristiane to that. He knew that his words had not quelled the people’s hostility.

Quickly glancing at the sky, he judged that if they hurried, they would have time to make it to the castle. Just barely.

The path was difficult, and Adam did not want to waste time guiding Cristiane and her mule. So he hoisted her onto his own horse, then mounted behind her to ride as they had together early in their journey from St. Oln.

“My lord?” she asked after she’d caught her breath. Her voice was unsteady and her body trembled against his, but he tightened his muscles and swung his horse out of the shelter without answering.

’Twas necessary to travel single file, for the path was narrow and sometimes followed the edge of the escarpment. Dangerous as it was, Adam felt it necessary to hold Cristiane close. She leaned into him as if she belonged there, as if they had not spent more than a full day apart.

Her head fit just under his chin, and her back rested against his chest. He could not help but slip his hands around her waist and pull her even closer. Her breath caught in her throat, and Adam felt himself becoming aroused.

He knew he
had to pay close attention to the ride. One misstep had the potential of sending them over the cliff. But even as the wind battered them and the rain threatened, he knew a fierce desire to tip his head down and taste the tender skin at her nape. He would have liked naught more than to raise his hands and fill them with her breasts.

“Best close yer eyes now, as we come up to these peaks!” Elwin called, turning to speak to Cristiane from his position in the lead.

“Why?” Cristiane called back to him, as if she were unaware of Adam’s pulsing need. “You would have me miss the most glorious views I’ve ever seen?”

Elwin barked out a laugh, then turned to mind his own way along the path. Adam knew Cristiane would not think Bitterlee quite so glorious once she’d lived through the full ferocity of an island storm.

He’d heard tales of his own mother’s frequent absences from Bitterlee; evidently, she had not been able to bear the fierce weather or the isolation of the place. And there was the legend of the ancient lord whose wife had poisoned herself in despair at having to remain on the isle.

And Rosamund. Adam’s poor, timorous wife had preferred death to life on Bitterlee. With him.

Who was to say Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would be any different?

Adam had more than enough reason to steel his thoughts away from her. He had to keep his attention on the narrow horse path. He ought to be considering the tack he would take with little Margaret to bring her out of her grief. He should give due attention to the changes that were necessary on the isle and the mainland to get the rest of the spring crop in.

Instead, all
Adam could think of was the rampant protectiveness that had surged through him when he’d seen Cristiane manhandled by the crowd in town. He could not remember ever feeling so outraged or helpless as when she had been pushed to the ground.

He could not get to her fast enough.

Riding together, with nature about to give her most powerful display, Adam found Cristiane’s scent filling his senses. Her hair tickled his nose, and his hands itched to do more than hold her steady against him.

Yet he could not pursue this untenable attraction. The reaction of the Bitterlee townspeople had shown him beyond a doubt that she would never fit in here. She was not for him, and ’twas his duty to see that she arrived untouched at the home of her uncle, just as he’d promised.

Cristiane’s attention was torn between the wonder of the isle and the intense sensations caused by the man whose heat warmed her as they rode through the mist toward the castle. The hard muscles of his chest buttressed her back, and she felt like curling against his body like a kitten.

Yet she could not. ’Twas sinful to lust after another woman’s husband, and Cristiane would not stoop so low. She straightened up and pulled slightly away from Adam. A husband would be found for her in York, and Cristiane would go to him as a chaste bride.

“Be still, Cristiane.” Adam’s voice rumbled close to her ear. In spite of her resolve to remain detached, she could not prevent the flare of heat caused by his breath, or the tightening of his grasp on her.

“Sorry, m’lord,” she
said, realizing she’d been squirming. “D-do you often have such fierce weather?”

She turned slightly, and her head bumped his chin. He gave a curt nod and swallowed.

“And is there m-much damage?” she asked. “Trees down? Cottages wrecked?”

“Occasionally,” he replied gruffly.
Especially in spring,
he thought, looking at the sky. “We are accustomed to the elements here on Bitterlee.”

She did not remark on that, but looked over the edge of the cliff to the sea, and its dark waves crashing on rocks far below. She truly hoped there would be an opportunity to explore these cliffs before she had to leave.

Before long, the castle was in sight. ’Twas an impregnable fortress, rising high above the cliff and surrounded by tall, crenelated walls made from gleaming white limestone. It had not seemed so massive from down below, and Cristiane had to crane her neck to see the towers that rose high above the wall.

She heard voices calling over the howling wind, and soon the gates were open and they were riding through them into a grassy yard. Adam took them to a broad stone stair that led up to the main doors of the keep. Bitterlee grooms, wearing russet and black, surrounded them, taking hold of the reins of the horses and pulling down the packs. Adam dismounted, then helped Cristiane down. He guided her up the steps and inside.

In the great hall, servants scurried about, lighting tapers as well as the candles of a huge chandelier that hung over a long wooden table. Cristiane had never seen such a spacious or well-tended room.

A fire crackled welcomingly in a huge fireplace at one end, and a comfortable settle along with two stuffed chairs were situated nearby. Cristiane thought it made a cozy place for the lord and his lady to spend an evening together.

Two big dogs
were lounging by the fire, but they jumped up and crossed the rushes to greet their master, whining happily and wagging their tails frantically when they saw Adam.

“Down, Ren!” he said sharply to the wolfhound that jumped up on him. “Good girl, Gray,” he said as he petted the other wolfhound—the one that had behaved.

The dogs were curious about Cristiane, and she held her hands out for them to sniff.

“They’re quite gentle,” Adam said, “otherwise I would not keep them, not with Margaret…”

“I understand,” Cristiane said. She’d never known a man to be so solicitous of his wife. ’Twas not a common attitude in St. Oln. Not even her father had taken such care of her mother, and he’d loved her dearly. With a pang of regret that she did not care to pursue, Cristiane petted the dogs.

A servant came into the hall, carrying Adam’s saddle pack and Cristiane’s belongings. “A chamber has been made ready in the east tower, my lord,” he said. His manner was cold and unfriendly, but Cristiane thought naught of it. She’d been subjected to much worse, of late. “Would you care to follow me now?”

Cristiane looked up at Adam, who nodded. She turned then and followed the servant, with Adam right behind. “Where is Lady Margaret, Stephan?” Adam asked.

“In the nursery, I believe, my lord,” the man replied. “With Mathilde.”

Cristiane kept her eyes on the floor as she crossed the hall, shocked by her reaction to what she’d heard. A wife
and a child?
She was truly damned for coveting this man. Yet her heart did not feel damned.