Bride Of The Isle

The old priest nodded. “Aye, ’tis a good idea to get yerselves to English soil,” he said. “But how will Cristiane travel? Ye might have noticed we have no horses here in St. Oln.”

Chapter Two

He’d thought he could do it, but ’twas not possible. He could not take an uncouth, butchering Scot to wife. His experience at Falkirk, coupled with Cristiane’s utter unsuitability—her hair, her dress, her speech—nay, he had no choice but to find himself an English wife.

Still, Adam was not about to let Lady Cristiane ride with either of his men. So she sat before him on his destrier, her hips pressed to his loins, her back colliding with his chest at every bump in the road.

They rode for hours this way, and kept near the coast whenever possible, though the terrain sometimes made it necessary to move inland.

After a few hours, Cristiane’s posture began to slip, and she leaned into him. Without thinking, Adam closed his arms around her more securely, to keep her from falling. He had no objection to her sleeping as they rode, but he did object mightily to the possibility of her falling.

She was warm and soft, and her scent made him think of the outdoors and the sea. A few light freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, but they seemed to make her flawless complexion even more perfect. If that were possible. The structure of her bones and the fine veins of her graceful neck enticed him, while the steady pulse beating there fascinated him more than it should.

Her mouth was slightly parted in slumber, her generous lips moving a bit with each breath. Her unruly hair brushed across his face, eliciting a response he had not experienced since before Falkirk. He wanted her.

’Twas impossible. She was as far from being an acceptable wife as a barbaric infidel woman from the east. Cristiane Mac Dhiubh did not even vaguely resemble a gentle English lady, though she was of noble birth. Adam would carry her to Bitterlee, see that she was outfitted more appropriately to her station, then send her with an escort to her uncle in York.

’Twas unfortunate that Cristiane was so damnably Scottish, or he might have considered marrying her. But her fiery red hair and freckled skin were only the most visible aspects of her Scottishness. Even though she spoke with more gentle a burr than the other inhabitants of St. Oln, she dressed like a savage, with feet as bare as the poorest villein in the village.

Nor did Cristiane seem at all a meek or pious sort of woman. He had to admire the fortitude and courage she’d shown amidst the hostile crowd at St. Oln, but those attributes were neither highly desirable nor necessary in a wife. He could not imagine that she’d been tutored in any of the finer womanly arts, so what kind of mother would she make to his little daughter? What kind of example?

A poor one, without a doubt.

In her favor, she did not seem dull or ignorant. She was well-spoken and held herself with the proud bearing of the noblest Englishman. Her blue eyes were bright with intelligence and interest, though tinged with sadness at leaving her home. Or even more likely, she suffered a lingering sadness at the recent loss of her parents.

Cristiane muttered in her sleep, and as he looked down at her, she licked her lips and spoke softly. Though he could not quite hear what she said, he caught the final muttered words, “…in vacuo.”

Latin?

He shook his head to clear it. Surely no untutored Scotswoman spoke Latin in her sleep. He must have been mistaken.

Yet he considered the translation of those words: alone. Isolated. Lady Cristiane was probably more alone than she’d ever been in her life, with her father’s death and her mother’s more recent demise.

“The river, m’lord,” Sir Elwin called from his position up ahead. He slowed his pace to allow Adam to catch up. “Would we be crossing now, or waiting until morning?”

Adam looked ahead and saw that the River Tweed was in sight. ’Twas nearly dusk and he felt a strong urge to set his feet on English soil as soon as possible. There were no towns or villages nearby on either side, so they ought to be safe in the sheltered forest on the other side of the river. Adam decided they would camp near the river tonight, then move on in the morning.

“We cross.”

Sir Elwin spurred his horse and rode ahead with Sir Raynauld, leaving Adam alone with Cristiane, who remained soundly asleep. He indulged himself with her softness for another moment more, cradling her, going so far as to span her waist with both his hands, spreading his thumbs to the forbidden territory at the base of her rib cage.

She made a low, unconscious sound that made Adam think of intimate pleasures. He shuddered with a hunger he knew he would never appease with this woman, then spurred his horse toward the river’s edge.

Cristiane knew she must have been dreaming. Surely she had not felt Lord Bitterlee’s hands caressing her body as if he had the right to do so. ’Twas only the aftereffect of her foolish ruminations when she’d first seen him in St. Oln that made her imagine how it would feel to be possessed by such a man.

Since the river crossing, Lord Bitterlee had been nothing but solicitous and respectful of her, seeing to her comfort, helping his men set up a tent for her use. And he kept his distance. Clearly, she was not at all what he expected of a high-born Englishwoman.

She could not blame him. She felt more like the commonest of peasants than a true noblewoman. Less, even. In St. Oln, even the lowliest of women owned shoes.

Life had changed drastically after the death of her father. He had never had the kind of wealth possessed by some chieftains, but Cristiane and her mother had been comfortable, if not entirely accepted by the towns-people. They were tolerated, but not much more.

’Twas no wonder Elizabeth had sickened and died within months after losing Domhnall’s protection.

Cristiane looked around her. She was sorry she had slept through so much of the journey so far, and promised herself to do better on the morrow. After all, she would never travel this way again, and she wanted to see and savor all of the country through which she traveled. Once she reached York, and the home of her uncle, ’twas doubtful she would ever leave.

While the knights went fishing to catch their evening meal, Cristiane walked down to the river’s edge and waded into the shallows to wash. Then she found a quiet place to sit and watch the waterfowl as the sun set over her shoulder. She saw plenty of familiar birds—the proud razorbills sticking out their fat white chests, a few guillemots and some squawking herring gulls.

But the birds that most fascinated her were of a breed she had never seen before. They were huge white waterfowl, with long, graceful necks. A pair of full-grown birds swam before a line of smaller ones. ’Twas a family, or at least it seemed that way to Cristiane. The king and queen of the river. Closing her mind to the uncertainty of her future, she sat back and observed the majestic birds as they made their way downriver.

“You should not stray so far from camp, Lady Cristiane,” said Lord Bitterlee, startling her from her thoughts. He had removed his chain hauberk and wore a plain blue tunic over dark chausses. His casual mode of dress did not make him any less appealing, though his tone of voice betrayed irritation with her.

Cristiane pulled the hem of her kirtle over her naked feet and looked out at the river. The feelings he aroused in her made her restless, even when he wasn’t nearby.

“Aye, m’lord,” she said contritely, “I’ll not do it again, if ’tis bothersome to you.”

“’Tis for your own safety,” he said gruffly, “not for any particular convenience to me. Sir Raynauld is back at camp. He and Sir Elwin are cooking the trout they caught.”

“Then I’d best go back with you,” Cristiane said as she began to rise, keeping her bare feet out of sight. Lord Bitterlee gave her a hand and helped her to stand. The heat of his flesh on her own nearly made her jump, but she did her best to ignore the unwelcome quivering that came over her when he touched her.

“M’lord,” she said, intent on distracting herself from the foolish thoughts crossing her mind. She took her hand away from his and pointed downstream. “Do you know what those bonny white birds are called?”

He turned and glanced at the birds she wondered about, then looked back with an expression that reminded her of her father’s, when she’d said something incredibly foolish. “Why, they’re swans,” Lord Bitterlee said, as if he were stating the obvious. “Two parents and their brood following.”

“Parents?” Cristiane asked. They began walking through a thick stand of woods, toward the campsite. “You mean, these birds rear their young? Together?”

“I believe so.” He shrugged. “I’ve never really thought much on it.”

“Ah,” she said, glancing back at the swans. She would have to remember everything about them, for she doubted such birds were very common.

Cristiane realized how hungry she was when the delectable aroma of cooked trout assailed her nose. She hurried up the path toward their camp, but stepped on a sharp stone that threw her off balance. Lord Bitterlee kept her from falling by quickly throwing an arm about her waist.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep and caring.

“Aye,” she replied, more breathlessly than she liked. She pulled away once again, and nearly ran up the path.

Adam could not imagine that the woman had never heard of swans till now. Her life must have been even more parochial than he’d first thought. Which would account for her coarse clothing and bare feet, as well as the unkempt mop of her hair—glorious though it was.

He watched Cristiane as she ate with her fingers, pulling tender meat away from the bones adroitly, delicately licking the juice from her fingers. She tipped her mug and drank slowly, the muscles of her throat working as she swallowed. Adam lowered his eyes against her unconsciously arousing display and tried to ignore the tightening of his body in response. He concentrated on his own meal before him.

These intemperate reactions would have to stop. They had at least two more days of travel before they arrived at Bitterlee, and they would be sharing close quarters until then. Very close quarters. He’d made a solemn promise to Cristiane’s mother either to wed her or to see her safely escorted to her uncle in York. Since he’d already decided he would not wed her, lust had no part in this.

When he looked at Cristiane Mac Dhiubh again, she was standing. She had taken the tin plates from Raynauld and Elwin, and was coming toward him.

The stride of her legs, and their movement against the coarse cloth of her kirtle, aroused him in ways he refused to consider. She was just a young girl, he told himself. Inexperienced, untried. His masculine appetites may have suddenly returned unbidden, but Adam knew he had no business centering them on Cristiane Mac Dhiubh. She was not at all the kind of wife he needed or wanted. Nor was she some cheap strumpet….

He would set Charles Penyngton the task of finding a more appropriate wife—an English lady—as soon as he returned to Bitterlee.

“Your plate, m’lord?” Cristiane asked quietly. “I’ll rinse it with the others in the stream.”

The setting sun was at his back, and it illuminated her eyes as she spoke. Her lashes were thick, dark near the roots and sun-kissed gold at the ends. Though her gaze was direct, she looked at him almost shyly, as if she knew how unsatisfactory he considered her, while she waited for him to reply.

He stood and handed her the plate, then stalked away with his ungainly gait into the woods. He had more important things to consider than the length of Cristiane’s eyelashes or the berry-red softness of her lips.

As Penyngton had repeatedly said over the last few weeks, Bitterlee needed a mistress. Little Margaret needed a mother. Adam knew that no one could replace his wife in that respect, even though Rosamund had never been very attentive to their daughter.

However, common sense told him that the little girl needed someone who would care for her in the manner of a mother—accepting her faults, disciplining her with kindness and tolerance. And until he found the right person, Adam intended to become more of a parent to his child.

He knew that Margaret’s life depended upon it.

She had become little more than a silent skeleton since Rosamund’s death, with wide, hollow eyes. Her nurse, Mathilde, could not seem to draw the child out of her cocoon of grief. Little Margaret scarcely left her chamber, except to venture into the castle chapel to spend excessive amounts of time in prayer.

Adam did not need to know much about children to understand that this was not typical behavior for a five-year-old child. He would do something about all that when he returned to Bitterlee.

Preoccupied, Adam limped back to camp, where the men were setting out their bedrolls near the fire.

“Has Lady Cristiane returned from the river?”

“Nay, my lord,” Sir Raynauld replied. “I was just thinking of going down there to see if all is well.”

“Never mind,” Adam said. “I’ll go.”

He walked quietly down the path toward the river, caught up in his thoughts about his daughter and his unwelcome attraction for Cristiane Mac Dhiubh, until he caught sight of Cristiane near the water. She stood perfectly still, facing the sunset, the skirt of her kirtle rippling slightly in the breeze. One hand held back her hair; the other was outstretched.

And at the end of that hand stood a red deer, touching Cristiane’s fingers with its nose.

Chapter Three

Adam did not move.

Stunned by the sight before him, he stood stock-still and watched as the doe sniffed Cristiane’s hand and then licked it. Cristiane said nothing that Adam could hear, but soon turned her hand and gave the deer a gentle rub on the underside of its chin.

The animal suddenly looked up and saw Adam. He watched as panic spread through the doe’s body and it dashed away.

He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Ah, m’lord,” she said, turning to see what had frightened the deer. “I was just about to—”

“Lady Cristiane,” he said, flustered, “that was a deer just now. A—a deer standing next to you, touching your…”

“Aye.” Cristiane nodded as she crouched down to wash her hands in the stream. “Too young to know any better, though she’s a bonny one.”

Adam was thunderstruck. The doe had known well enough to flee when it had seen Adam. Besides, young or old, he’d never heard of a wild deer approaching a person in this manner. How had Cristiane done it?

“My lady,” he said. But then she stood and looked at him with those clear blue eyes and he forgot what he was going to say. Or ask.

’Twas ever so pleasant to have a man—a handsome, well-bred man—come to escort her back to camp. The knights had set up a lovely, spacious tent for her, and Lord Bitterlee explained that they had expected to be escorting both her and her mother to Bitterlee, then to York.

And so it was that Cristiane Mac Dhiubh settled down for the night, comfortably, with thoughts of her mother and better times running through her mind.

Morning dawned bright and sunny. They rode again as they had the day before, with Cristiane seated sidesaddle ahead of Lord Bitterlee. She was certain that every time he looked down, he noticed her bare feet protruding from the edge of her kirtle. At least they were clean now, she thought, still embarrassed to be without shoes.

They’d been taken from her in St. Oln, along with most of her other meager possessions. Cristiane would not have cared, except that now she would arrive in Bitterlee looking no better than the poorest villein. She had never thought of herself as overly proud, but this lack of shoes was one thing she could not abide. Yet there was no way to remedy it.

The day passed uneventfully, though rain threatened as they traveled farther south. Part of the time they rode along the cliffs above the sea. Sometimes the track took them through wooded lands, where Cristiane made note of the new green growth everywhere, and the small animals that darted and scurried to hide from the human intruders.

When dusk approached, she wondered if they would soon stop to camp, for she was weary and it had begun to drizzle. Her back and legs ached from the long hours on horseback. Eventually they came upon a village of sorts. Nay, she amended, ’twas not quite a village, but merely an inn with a few cottages nearby.

She hoped Lord Bitterlee intended to spend the night here. They rode into the yard and saw that a number of horses were already tethered there. Voices carried from the inn, and by the sound of it, the place was crowded. Lord Bitterlee dismounted, then turned to help Cristiane down.

“Shall I go inquire about rooms, my lord?” Sir Elwin asked as he tied his horse to a post.

Lord Bitterlee nodded. “Stay close to me,” he said to Cristiane. “While we’re so near the border, there are risks. Especially for you, but for us as well.”

Cristiane nodded. Hostilities ran hot along the Scottish border, and though they were actually on English soil, she assumed that strangers would not be trusted. She almost wished they’d stopped somewhere along the road, where she could spend the night in the tent they’d brought along for her. She would have felt a great deal safer.

Resigned to staying here, where raucous voices disturbed the peace of the day’s end, she drew close to Lord Bitterlee and waited for his knight to return.

There was a chill in the air, and Cristiane shivered. Then she felt Bitterlee’s arm go around her shoulders, and he pulled her closer. The fine mail of his hauberk should have been cold, but Cristiane could feel his heat radiating through the steel.

’Twas a long time since she’d felt so protected. Not since the sudden and violent death of her father had anyone helped her with life’s difficulties. She’d been so alone since her mother’s illness…Cristiane blinked away the sudden moisture in her eyes, brought on by the kindness of Adam Sutton and the strength of his arm around her.

“M’lord,” Sir Elwin said, “the men here are a rough lot. I don’t know that it would be wise to take Lady Cristiane inside.”

“Are there any rooms?” he asked as he glanced quickly at Cristiane. She was wet and shivering.

“Only one,” he said with a sigh. “I told the landlord to hold it.”

Lord Bitterlee nodded. “Is there a back entrance?”

“Through the kitchen, m’lord,” he said. “We might be able to get her ladyship in with no one the wiser.”

She felt the lord’s hand at her lower back as he urged her to follow Sir Elwin. He followed close behind, while Sir Raynauld remained to deal with the horses.

There was a haze of smoke in the kitchen, and a multitude of aromas hit her at once. Mingled with the smell of smoke were the strong odors of food, grease and ale. A raucous crowd had taken over the common room. Men’s voices were raised with excitement and lust over an upcoming raid.

“We’ll have to climb a staircase adjacent to the main hall, m’lord,” Elwin said, keeping his voice low. “’Tis the only place where her ladyship might be exposed to view. But there is no other way up the stairs.”

“We’ll flank her on the way up, and guard her from sight,” Bitterlee said. “Move quickly, my lady.”

He shielded her from the crowd below, but someone managed to catch sight of her and called out that there was a woman on the stair. Cristiane cringed with fear as Adam propelled her up the remaining steps. Then, along with Elwin, he turned and drew his sword.

Four men rushed them, drawing their own weapons, but Adam planted a booted foot on one man’s chest and shoved, knocking him back down the stairs, and two others with him. Adam turned to climb the stairs again, but more of the revelers closed in on them.

Quickly, Adam and Elwin engaged in battle. Swords clanged. Men grunted and cursed. Blood flowed.

And Cristiane’s limbs were paralyzed. She could move neither forward nor back, for she saw before her eyes the battle in which her father had been killed. She felt dizzy and weak. Her ears buzzed and hummed, shutting out the sounds of aggression just below her.

She went numb.

Then, as now, she had watched from a dark corner in the main staircase of the keep as her father had fought to save her from the Armstrong enemy. She had seen Domhnall speared through his chest, and had watched his life’s blood flow from him, spreading a dark stain on the landing and down the steps.

“Cristiane!”

Her father had managed to wound his killer, so the man had retreated. He’d left Cristiane alone, but she had cowered there in her dark refuge until all had gone quiet around her. The acrid scents of burning buildings and burned animal flesh filled her nose, her mind. The sight of her father’s blood dripping down the steps—

“Cristiane!”

Lord Bitterlee’s commanding voice finally penetrated her hazy consciousness and she shook her head. She blinked her eyes in confusion and tried to turn her attention to him.

But she still felt bound by the same sluggishness that had plagued her for weeks after her father’s death. Cristiane knew she should be moving, following Lord Bitterlee’s directions, getting to safety. Yet her legs would not obey his commands, nor would her body allow her to turn away from the battle being waged before her.

“Cristiane! Move! There must be a room—ugh!” One of the men butted Adam’s midsection with his head, and Adam slammed the flat of his sword down on him, throwing him off.

Raynauld arrived and fought his way to Adam’s side. Adam turned quickly, took two steps at once and gathered Cristiane in his arms. Seemingly without effort, he threw her over one shoulder and shoved his way into a room, slamming and barring the door behind him.

A pathetic little fire in the grate gave sufficient illumination to keep Adam from falling over anything. Quickly, he set Cristiane on the bed in the corner of the room.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She did not respond to his question, so he knelt in front of her and took both her hands. They were like ice, and she was shaking, but Adam knew better than to think Cristiane was not as barbaric as every bloody Scot he’d encountered at Falkirk. She might be half-English, but she’d been raised among them.

Cristiane’s silence perplexed him, however, and he started to rub her hands between his own as he kept one ear attuned to the noises on the stairs and below. He did not think any of the attackers had been killed, but blood had flowed. And Cristiane’s reaction had been one of horror. Looking at her colorless visage, he could no longer deny it.

God’s cross! Why had they stayed here, knowing what was brewing within? They could very well have spent another night out-of-doors, with Cristiane safely lodged in the canvas tent. What difference was a bit of rain? Adam and his knights had lived through worse.

“’Tis over now, Cristiane,” he said gently. “You’re safe now.”

“Aye,” she said quietly, looking up at him blankly. The red scrape on her cheek stood out in sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. “I know.”

“You’ll sleep here, and my men and I will keep watch.”

“All right.”

“Can you…er, your clothes are wet,” he said. “They’ll need to come off. I’ll just step out for a mo—”

Cristiane grabbed his hand. “Dinna go!” she whispered, sounding more Scottish than he’d noted till now. “Please. I…”

Adam ran a hand through his damp hair and tried to think of a way to calm her.

“I’ll be here…just inside the door,” he finally said as he extricated his hand from her grasp. “I’ll turn my back and you can get undressed.”

He heard her swallow. Adam had not been told what had happened in Cristiane’s village, but he’d seen the ravages of recent battle. Judging by her reaction just now, Cristiane Mac Dhiubh may have been in the thick of it. Mayhap even a half-Scot would be unable to witness that kind of butchery without being affected by it.