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Bride Of The Isle
Margo Maguire


Get Out, Ye Bloodthirsty Half-Breed!Since the infamous Battle of Falkirk, Cristiane MacDhiubh had these words–and worse–hurled at her in the village streets. Half Scot, half English, she could claim no place as home–until the Lord of Bitterlee, as gallant a knight as any could dream, came in search of a bride…!Marriage had been naught but sadness for Adam Sutton, yet duty demanded he wed again. Cristiane MacDhiubh, as fey and wild as his own island fiefdom, might rouse his forgotten passions. But brave of heart though she might be, could Cristiane ever heal his sorrowing soul?







Adam could not recall seeing anything quite as grand as Cristiane MacDhiubh

enjoying her first sunrise on Bitterlee. Her eyes were wide, framed by gold-tipped lashes. Her lips were full and moist, and entirely too alluring.

His heart began to pound. The rushing surf was naught compared to the roaring in his own ears.

In the growing light he saw that she was covered from neck to toe by a thin linen kirtle, yet her enticing form would never be hidden from him again, no matter how well covered it might be. Burned into his memory was the way she’d looked in the firelight the morning he’d seen her undressed.

’Twould take only the slightest movement of his hand to pull her close, a trifling tip of his head to bring his lips into contact with hers.

And every fiber of his being demanded that he do so…!


Acclaim for Margo Maguire’s latest titles

Celtic Bride

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Dryden’s Bride

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The Bride of Windermere

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#607 HER DEAREST SIN

Gayle Wilson

#608 NAVAJO SUNRISE

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#610 CHASE WHEELER’S WOMAN

Charlene Sands


Bride of the Isle

Margo Maguire






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Available from Harlequin Historicals and

MARGO MAGUIRE

The Bride of Windermere #453

Dryden’s Bride #529

Celtic Bride #572

His Lady Fair #596

Bride of the Isle #609


This book is dedicated to Amy Ho, enthusiastic backpacker, avid reader, daring volunteer and student extraordinaire. May all your dreams and wishes come true.




Contents


Prologue (#uecd113bd-95eb-568a-b30c-5fe603f836eb)

Chapter One (#u96888acb-7fa5-5bc7-b01b-87d2e938185f)

Chapter Two (#ud2ebb125-22ce-5c47-876a-5d219e75df0e)

Chapter Three (#ub3547763-0cec-56ca-bf50-eae73a9e5a0c)

Chapter Four (#ua083d342-9141-5a0c-832a-faed5a8a946f)

Chapter Five (#ue42428f6-5b01-50c3-86a9-627389b58ee7)

Chapter Six (#u55700a36-705f-503b-b779-85229028e274)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Isle of Bitterlee, in the North Sea

Autumn, 1299

“Nay, Penyngton,” said Adam Sutton as he restlessly paced the length of the tower room. “I’ll not marry again. And certainly not a Scot.”

“But, my lord,” Sir Charles Penyngton protested. He had license to speak to his lord in this manner, only because of his long term as seneschal here at Bitterlee. “You are still a young man. Merely one and thirty. And you have no heir. As Earl of Bitterlee, ’tis your duty to provide…”

Distractedly, Adam stopped at one of the long arrow loops in the wall of his solar and gazed out at the sea beyond. Bitterlee was a bleak, isolated place. According to legend, it had been named the “Isle of Bitter Life” by one of his ancient ancestors after his wife had ended her life here. ’Twas said that the name had changed over the years—been corrupted—to Bitterlee.

“This Scotswoman is perfect,” Charles said. “Cristiane of St. Oln. She is accustomed to a harsh climate such as ours, and is said to be a hearty lass.”

“Unlike Rosamund,” Adam said starkly. He knew what Charles and the others assumed. That he still mourned the death of his wife, Rosamund. And that was true, to a point.

What they did not understand was that he had never cared for Rosamund the way he should have, nor did he mourn her loss. Oh, true enough, he mourned her death, as he would have mourned anyone in his household.

But Rosamund had never been part of his heart or his being. Adam did not care to think how he would feel if she had been more to him than she was.

Even now he did not understand how Rosamund’s father could have given her to him in marriage. Surely the man had known Bitterlee’s characteristics, its isolation, its harsh winters…its fierce beauty. Rosamund had been a delicate young lady who should have married a southern lord. She’d have fared so much better wed to a man with connections in London, a man with aspirations at court.

Instead, she’d come to this godforsaken isle. And languished here for nearly five years. She had despised it.

“My lord,” Charles began again, but his words were cut off by a spate of coughing. When Adam would have seen to him, the seneschal waved him off, insisting he needed no help. “There are other considerations,” he said, once he’d caught his breath. “Your daughter, my lord…she is in need of…”

Adam frowned and speared Charles with his steely gray gaze.

“Er…that is, Margaret needs…I mean to say Lady Margaret does not seem to—to adjust, my lord.”

Adam had to admit that much was true. Though everyone at Bitterlee had kept secret Rosamund’s cause of death, Margaret was clearly traumatized by the loss of her mother. The child was a wraith. She looked nothing at all like a Sutton, and was as frail and wispy as her mother had been. Since Rosamund’s death, Margaret had closed herself off. She never spoke, and she showed little interest in anything that would normally hold a child’s attention.

And if Adam did not do something about Margaret’s impassivity, she would not survive the year.

But marry a Scotswoman?

“Tell me more of this…Cristiane of St. Oln,” he said, his words and attitude without hope. He’d recently suffered bitter losses at the hands of the Scots, and could not imagine bringing one of their kind to the isle. “But do not assume that I will go along with your plan.”




Chapter One


The Village of St. Oln, Scotland

1300

Cristiane inghean Domhnall, the half-English daughter of Domhnall Mac Dhiubh, sat on a rocky promontory overlooking the crashing black waves of the North Sea. The wind had kicked up, and the clouds overhead were thick with moisture. Cristiane knew there would soon be a downpour.

’Twas no matter. There was a cave nearby if she needed to find shelter. She would not return to the village by choice. Lord knew she was barely tolerated in St. Oln since the death of her parents.

Cristiane stretched one arm out and opened her hand, letting it rest quietly beside her. Soon enough, a pair of soft gray kittiwakes approached, one more shyly than the other. The bold one stood looking at Cristiane, then hopped closer, eyeing the outstretched hand, tilting his head this way and that, viewing from all angles the bit of bread she held.

Cristiane smiled wistfully. ’Twas a game she’d played for years, with the guillemots, the shags and the puffins that inhabited this place. The birds were unafraid of her. Wary, of course. She expected nothing less of them.

But soon she would see them no more. For her mother had arranged for her to be escorted to York, to the estate of her uncle. Elizabeth of York had known that Cristiane had no future here in St. Oln. When the lass’s father, the Mac Dhiubh, had been killed in a skirmish with a neighboring clan, Elizabeth had begun to seek a new home for Cristiane.

She wondered if a likely husband existed in York. There was no one in St. Oln who’d have her, especially now that her father was gone. No Scotsman would willingly take a half-English wife.

Again, ’twas no matter. There was no one Cristiane was interested in having, either, though she did yearn for a man of her own, and a family. By the age of two and twenty, all the village lasses were well and truly wed, and some already had babes and wee children playing at their feet. It hurt Cristiane deeply to know that she was never to have the same pleasure.

She knew she was different from them. Besides being half-English, she had been reared separate from the other village children. Her father had tutored her in French and Latin, and she could read. She’d also had hours of leisure to explore the cliffs, and to learn the ways of the creatures that lived here.

’Twas no wonder none of the men of St. Oln would have her.

The brazen kittiwake approached, and with its long, sharp beak, quickly snatched the bit of bread from Cristiane’s hand. Then it hopped away to pick at its food and argue with the shy one over it. Cristiane closed her hand. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them.

She knew she had only a day or two left at St. Oln before the earl’s men came for her. ’Twas her mother’s dearest desire that Cristiane leave this poor, unfriendly land where Elizabeth had been banished by her own father so many years before. Now that her mother was dead and buried, Cristiane was compelled to carry out her last wish.

’Twas a bittersweet promise. Cristiane had no regrets over leaving the village of St. Oln, but when she traveled to the strange land to the south, she would lose the comforting presence of the familiar birds and the wee creatures that nested on her beloved cliffs.

But she had no choice in the matter. Her English-bred mother had been wife to the Mac Dhiubh, and therefore tolerated as long as there was peace in the land, and the laird was alive. But the once-prosperous St. Oln had fallen on hard times. War with the English king and with neighboring clans had made the people suspicious of all outsiders, including Lady Elizabeth and even Cristiane inghean Domhnall. Her father’s influence was no longer a force to be reckoned with.

Cristiane had always known she had ties in England. Her mother’s elder brother was the Earl of Learick, away south in the land of York, and it had been her mother’s last wish that Cristiane remove to his estates there. On her deathbed, Elizabeth had made her daughter promise to go with the earl’s men when they came for her.

Cristiane had no idea what her mother’s connection was to the Earl of Bitterlee, or why ’twas Bitterlee’s men who would come for her. By the time her mother had spoken of these plans, she had been too ill to be questioned. It still seemed strange to Cristiane that it was not her uncle who was coming for her, to take her directly to York.

Ah, well… ’twas too late now to learn any more from her mother. Elizabeth had rarely spoken of her family until the very end, so Cristiane knew little of them. Only that her mother had been disowned by her father all those years before, and sent away to St. Oln to marry Domhnall Mac Dhiubh. Domhnall had been chosen because her Yorkish uncle had known him in Paris years before.

Cristiane sighed as the first drops of rain touched her face. ’Twas spring and the weather was fine, but the rain was cold and biting. She gathered up her thin, ragged skirt and climbed to her shallow cave, where a few of her precious belongings were stored. Since no one ever came up here, Cristiane knew they were safe.

’Twas a strange provision, Adam thought, that the Mac Dhiubh girl be allowed to adjust to Bitterlee before he made her his wife. Still, he’d allowed Sir Charles to agree to it when he wrote to Elizabeth Mac Dhiubh. After all, it suited Adam’s own purposes perfectly. This way, he would not be compelled to wed the girl if she were unsatisfactory.

Nay, ’twas lucky for him that her mother had insisted she be given time to adjust to Bitterlee before he even suggested they wed. ’Twould give him time to evaluate and adjust, as well.

Adam doubted the girl would be suitable, anyway. Even if she were half-English, she’d been raised here among the lowland Scots, barbaric people who had a decided mistrust of all things English. Clan Mac Dhiubh might even be responsible for harrying English border estates.

Adam did not need a bloodthirsty Scot for a wife.

The village of St. Oln was a poor one, he thought, as he and his escort dismounted in front of its ramshackle stone church. His leg, horribly butchered during the clash at Falkirk, pained him from sitting so long in the saddle. The cold rain hadn’t helped, either. He stood still a moment as his two knights flanked him, then he limped to the church steps, glancing around him at the village.

Here lived the true victims of the wars, he thought, the people who remained after the battles, ragged and hungry and disillusioned. The villagers gathered their children and scampered into their huts in order to avoid the three hauberk-clad English knights who rode in, just as bold as could be.

“Be ye the Sassenach lord, then?” a deep masculine voice intoned from the open door at the top of the stairs.

Adam glanced up to find a grizzled old village priest looking down at him. He gave a quick nod and started up the steps.

“I thought ye’d have been here ’afore now,” the old man said, turning to move out of the rain.

“If you would tell my men where to find Lady Elizabeth,” Adam said, grateful to step into the relative warmth of the church, “they will fetch her and her daughter here.”

They’d ridden past a broken-down, stone-and-timber keep that was clearly no habitable abode for anyone. Not even a Scot. So Lady Elizabeth must be housed in one of the hovels that lined the narrow lane. Adam hoped she was not too frail to travel, thus delaying their departure from this unpleasant town.

“Nay need fer that,” the priest replied. “Everyone in St. Oln saw ye comin’—it willna be long before the lass arrives.”

“And her mother?” Adam asked.

“Passed on a fortnight ago, God rest her soul,” the priest replied, crossing himself as he spoke. “The lass is alone…truly alone now.”

The cleric’s words added a sharp chill to the cold Adam already felt clear to his bones. What now? The agreement was for Adam to escort Lady Elizabeth and her daughter to Bitterlee, where they would spend the summer. Then, if all was favorable, the lass would become his bride. If not, he would see that the two women were transported to York.

Now that she was alone, would Adam still be expected to take Lady Cristiane to Bitterlee? Did the agreement still hold?

“Come,” the priest said, dodging the trickle of rain that dripped through the leaky roof. “Warm yer bones a bit.” He led the three men to a brazier near the altar and held his own hands out to warm them. Adam and his two men did the same. “Cristiane canna remain here at St. Oln any longer. Now that both her father and her mother are gone, ’tis only a matter of time afore somethin’ happens to the lass.

“I promised her dyin’ mother I’d see that yer end of the bargain was met. Take her to yer island home, my Sassenach lord. For the lass’s own good, and safety, take her to Bitterlee with ye.”

Adam considered the priest’s words in silence. He wondered what dire consequences would occur if Lady Cristiane remained here at St. Oln. Surely they would be minor, considering that the girl had been raised here. Her father had been head of the clan. The fact that she was half-English would be forgotten now that her mother was dead.

Harsh voices outside distracted Adam from his thoughts, and he limped to the entrance of the church to see what was afoot. The rain had let up, though there was still a salty mist in the air. The people, mostly women, had come out of their dwellings and were shouting angrily at a pair of ragged people walking through their midst, the man pulling the woman by the arm.

“Ah, ’tis Cristiane,” the clergyman said, poking his head out the door.

Adam’s brows came together. The young woman wore a dingy brown kirtle that even the lowliest peasant would have shunned. She carried a small sack in one hand and moved along quickly through the hostile crowd. They shouted at her in their Scots tongue, and although Adam did not understand what they were saying, there was no mistaking the intent.

Apparently they had not forgotten the lady was half-English.

Through it all, Lady Cristiane held her head high, her back straight, her bright eyes focused ahead. Her hair was a glorious mass of shining red curls and her skin as pale as a winter moon, with the exception of the bright flush of color that bloomed on each cheek. Not one of her features was particularly remarkable, but taken together, Cristiane Mac Dhiubh was a strikingly beautiful woman.

She was not at all what he had imagined. He had not expected to be so…susceptible to the woman and her plight.

“Why are they so angry with her?” he asked, his male instincts on full alert. ’Twas all he could do to keep from rushing down into the crowd to rescue her.

The priest shrugged. “Who can really say?” he replied. “For bein’ half-English? For bein’ daughter of the laird who failed to protect us from the raidin’, blood-happy Armstrong clan?”

Someone pitched something—a stone, perhaps—that struck Cristiane. Suddenly a bright streak appeared on her high cheekbone, though she faltered only slightly and continued on her way in spite of the blow.

Adam could not stand still. Anger simmered as he descended the steps, moving more quickly than he had in months. When he pushed through the crowd and arrived at the lady’s side, taking her arm possessively in his own, the jeering stopped and the villagers backed off. His fierce visage dared them to throw anything else.

He gave a quick glance to the lady, and watched as one sparkling tear spilled over thick, auburn lashes. Her chin trembled almost imperceptibly, but Adam sensed fierce pride in her, a solid wall that would not allow her to show any more vulnerability than this.

He closed his right hand over hers, tucking her arm close to his waist, and proceeded to the church.

Under other circumstances, Cristiane’s knees would have gone weak at the sight of the stunning knight who came to her rescue in front of One-eye Mòrag’s cottage. The mere touch of his bare hand on her own was enough to make her tremble in awe. As it was, however, she refused to buckle in the face of the overt hostility of her father’s people.

In truth, she could not blame them for their malice. For it had been English raiders who had damaged the clan, making the Mac Dhiubhs vulnerable to the Armstrong attack that had killed so many more men, along with her father. The people of St. Oln had no reason to be sympathetic to the daughter of a Sassenach woman.

Cristiane might wish for things to be different, for acceptance and respect, but that was not to be. She was the daughter of an Englishwoman, and the people of St. Oln would never accept her. She reminded herself again that she was fortunate, indeed, to have the freedom to leave.

’Twas not until she began to climb the steps with her knight rescuer that she noticed his limp. A sidelong glance revealed his strong jaw clamped tightly against the discomfort of each step. They made it up to the church doors without mishap, and the knight ushered her inside.

“Cristy,” Father Walter said familiarly, taking her hand when the knight released her. “Are ye injured, lass?”

“Nay, Father,” she replied quietly, touching her cheek with two fingers. “Merely bruised, I think.”

With his hands devoid of gauntlets, Cristiane’s knight—for that was how she thought of him—took a cloth and wiped gently at her cheek, removing the dirt and a small speck of blood that oozed from the scrape.

Cristiane stood still and searched the man’s eyes. Dark gray they were, as stormy as the sky above the thrashing sea. His brows were even darker, caught together in a frown as he dabbed at her tiny wound. His nose was straight and his lips full but well-defined. A cruel scar marred the perfection of his jaw, and Cristiane wondered what battle, what terrible wound, had caused such frightful damage to his otherwise perfect face.

If her Yorkish uncle ever found her a husband, Cristiane hoped he would be something like this man who stood, so tall and broad shouldered, before her. Many were the times she had dreamed of someone like him, with strong, but gentle hands, intense, fascinating eyes. Someone who had the prowess to keep her safe…. Cristiane had never thought her dream could be real.

Until now.

“My lady,” Father Walter said more formally, “these gentlemen are here to escort ye to Bitterlee, as your mother wished.”

“Aye, Father,” Cristiane replied, uncomfortable with the turn her thoughts had taken. “So I gathered.”

When the priest addressed Cristiane’s knight, her surprised eyes flew to the stranger. “M’lord Bitterlee,” Father Walter said. “This is Lady Cristiane Mac Dhiubh.”

This was the lord? This man, for whom she felt an attraction unlike anything she’d ever experienced before? Cristiane swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat.

She reined in her wayward thoughts and realized she did not know whether to be flattered or distressed that the English lord had come for her himself. She had never met a high chief before. She’d met no one, in fact, who had more power or influence than her own father. And Domhnall had merely been the Mac Dhiubh, chieftain of this small clan. He’d been more a scholar than a leader, and certainly not a warrior, though he’d done his best to defend her, as well as the clan.

Cristiane cringed as she considered her appearance. Her hair was unbound and uncovered, her feet bare and her kirtle a mere scrap of poor homespun that her mother had received in trade, along with food and a meager shelter, for their own finer garments.

She remembered the fine clothes her mother had worn years before, when Cristiane was still a small child. And she recalled the snippets of information Elizabeth had told about her home in York and her one visit to the English court.

Cristiane knew with certainty that she looked nothing like the “lady” Lord Bitterlee must have expected to find.

To his credit, he showed no disdain—although Cristiane could well imagine what he must think of her. She curled her toes and tried to hide her cut and bruised feet under her hem.

“Lady Cristiane,” Bitterlee said, tipping his head slightly. “We will depart St. Oln within the hour. Please make ready to leave.”

“Aye, m’lord,” she said. “I’m ready now.”

She kept her chin up as she replied, knowing how foolish a barefoot noblewoman who carried all her possessions in one small sack would appear to him. She could not allow his opinion to matter, however. She had said her farewells to her beloved cliffs, and now ’twas time to move on.

She could not bring herself to ask any of the questions that burned the back of her throat, either. Cristiane was too ashamed to draw any more of his attention to herself.

“What’re yer plans, m’lord?” Father Walter asked.

“We should cross the Tweed by nightfall, then we’ll camp just south of it.”

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.

He stood in front of the grate and faced the fire, listening as she pulled out laces and slipped her kirtle from her body. As articles of clothes continued dropping to the floor, his body reacted swiftly, shocking him with its intensity. He had not felt such a wave of pure lust since…He could not remember.

He wondered again if this had been such a good idea.

“M’lord?” she said. “’Tis safe to turn now.”

She appeared small and vulnerable in the bed, under a thick layer of blankets. At the moment, it was difficult to think of her as a Scot. Or even as the woman who had walked so proudly through the hostile villagers in St. Oln.

She was just a woman now, frightened and vulnerable.

Against all rational thought, he wanted to gather her up in his arms to reassure and comfort her.

Instead, he picked up the clothing next to the bed and spread it out before the fire to dry. He hoped the raiders below stairs did not decide to pursue the woman they knew was here, rather than go on their intended raid.

Still, Lady Elizabeth of York had been correct when she’d written that her daughter was a hearty lass. Lady Cristiane had lost both her mother and father in a short span of time. Her village had showed naught but hostility toward her when she’d left, and she’d been forced into the company of three strange, foreign men who had carried her far away from all that she’d ever known. She was holding up remarkably well.

Adam walked to the other side of the room and sat down with his back against the door. He lay his sword on the floor next to him and tried to relax. The forced intimacy they’d shared during the journey so far had been difficult. Sharing a horse, holding her body close to his during the long daylight hours, breathing in her fresh, womanly scent, having his nose and chin constantly caressed by wisps of her hair…Adam hadn’t thought it could get any worse.

Yet as he sat gazing at her clothing, Adam knew that every stitch she possessed was drying by the fire. And he wished the thought hadn’t occurred to him. The last thing he wanted was to begin imagining beautiful Cristiane Mac Dhiubh naked.

Sometime during the night, Cristiane heard a light tap at the door. ’Twas Raynauld, informing Adam that all was quiet down below, and the raiders had either left or were passed out from drink in the great room of the inn.

Adam must have been awake all night, she thought as she watched him pick up his saddle pack. He stayed as quiet as possible, taking a blanket from the pack and spreading it out near the fire.

He added a few bits of wood, then stood and untied the leather laces of his hauberk. He pulled it over his head, keeping only his light linen shirt on. Then Lord Bitterlee wrapped himself in his blanket and settled down to sleep.

He’d looked weary. And with good reason, Cristiane thought. He’d stayed on guard most of the night, sitting by the door with his legs outstretched. His hair was disheveled and there was a dark shadow of beard on his jaw. He was as handsome a man as she’d ever seen, even tousled as he was.

Cristiane’s heart fluttered. She’d been completely defenseless—overcome by the stark memories of her father’s death—when Lord Bitterlee had rescued her and carried her to safety. Then he’d kept a vigil all night to see that she stayed safe.

Not only was he heroic, he was also a man of honor. He could easily have taken advantage of her vulnerable state. But he hadn’t. He had calmed and reassured her when she was caught deep in the memories of the past, then he’d gallantly turned his back so that she could undress. What other man would have done so much for her?

She knew so little of men. Her father had kept her far removed from his warriors, and the people of St. Oln had had no fondness for her, so she’d spent little time among them. She did know, however, that ’twas the rare warrior who had the patience to deal with her so carefully. Most would likely have stashed her in this little room and returned to the thick of battle.

She preferred Adam’s way.

’Twas difficult to think of him as Lord Bitterlee now. The sound of his title was too imposing, too harsh. Nay, Adam was a kind and considerate man, a chivalrous knight, a noble warrior. Whether she would ever be impertinent enough to call him Adam, she did not know. But in her mind, he would never be the lord of Bitterlee to her again.




Chapter Four


It had to be close to dawn, by the sound of the birdsong outside. Adam didn’t think it was the birds that woke him, but soft whispery sounds in the room itself. He was too tired to move, and his leg was stiff and aching. He managed to open one eye, however, and caught sight of Cristiane Mac Dhiubh.

His mouth went dry at the sight of her.

She had gathered up her clothes and was in the process of dressing, but she had not gotten far enough to impede his view of her soft, feminine curves.

She was lovely. Her hair cascaded in gentle curls over her shoulders, teasing the naked tips of her breasts, but leaving enough bare flesh for Adam to appreciate their soft fullness. Her legs were well-shaped and strong, and the feminine V where they met was shielded by an enticing russet shadow.

It made him ache to look at her this way, to know what lay concealed under her ugly brown kirtle.

As he watched, she pulled on a ragged underkirtle that reached only her hipbones, leaving that most intriguing part of her delightfully, seductively bare. The laces were open, so most of her torso was exposed, as well. He must have groaned inadvertently, for she gasped and moved to cover herself.

Slowly, he dragged his eyes up the length of her gloriously blushing body and caught her own heavy-lidded gaze. He had no doubt that she was as aroused as he, but painfully embarrassed by her nakedness. Neither the tattered underkirtle nor her arms managed to cover her sufficiently.

“Your pardon, my lady,” he said as he stood. His grimace was due only in part to the stiffness of his wounded leg. “I will leave you to your privacy.”

Cristiane stood rooted to the floor as Adam retreated through the door, then she threw on her clothes as fast as she could. She was not going to be caught unawares again!

Yet as she tied the laces of her kirtle, she realized that she had not disliked having Adam look at her. In reality, she had enjoyed the look of appreciation in his eyes. Still, it was terribly embarrassing to have her most private parts exposed to his view.

She wondered if it would have seemed so embarrassing if Adam had also been unclothed. He was broad shouldered and lean hipped, though he had the powerful legs of a horseman. She wondered how ’twould feel to be naked with a man. Unconsciously, Cristiane moistened her lips and speculated that this was one of the pleasures husbands and wives shared. She knew so little of such things. Her parents had been respectful of each other, but Cristiane had never witnessed any special intimacy between them.

Voices in the inn yard below distracted her from these intriguing thoughts, and Cristiane quickly finished lacing her kirtle. She rolled up Adam’s blanket and stuffed it into his saddle pack, then opened the door to leave.

She drew up short when she considered what had happened on the stair the previous night. Would it be safe to go downstairs? Unwilling to suffer a repeat of that incident, she turned back and sat down on the bed to wait for Adam to return. Then she heard footsteps approaching.

“Lady Cristiane.”

“Aye, Sir Raynauld,” she said, sagging with relief as she recognized the friendly voice. She opened the door to Adam’s knight and he took the pack from her. She could not help but wonder where Adam was.

“The landlord’s wife has prepared a meal for us,” he told her. “If you’re ready, I’ll take you down and you can break your fast.”

“Thank you.”

They walked into the common room, where the landlord was setting bowls on the table. Cristiane glanced around in search of Adam, but he was not in sight.

With a sigh, she sat down at the table and began to eat.

Adam returned to the inn, pleased with his purchases. The villagers had been happy to take his coin for their goods, and he’d found a few small novelties to take home to Margaret. He’d also found a woman willing to part with her shoes, since her husband was a tanner skilled in shoe craft.

These he intended to give to Cristiane before they left for the last stretch of their journey to Bitterlee. He had seen how her lack of shoes humbled her, and when the opportunity to acquire a pair had presented itself, he’d not hesitated.

He’d kept his mind thoroughly occupied since his hasty departure from Cristiane’s chamber, fully aware that he had to do all in his power to avoid any more intimacies with her. This morning’s interlude had clearly demonstrated how susceptible he was to her charms, and he knew he had no business fostering any further attraction between them.

For Lady Cristiane had not been oblivious to the heat of the moment, either. He’d seen confusion in her eyes, and embarrassment as well. But underneath it all was the subtle excitement of arousal. And knowing that she felt the same surge of lust made him nearly groan aloud.

Adam did not think he could endure riding several hours more on horseback with Cristiane’s hips wedged between his legs and her back pressed against his chest. And though it cost a pretty penny, he convinced the landlord to part with an ancient mule in his stable. Cristiane would ride separately the rest of the way to Bitterlee.

“Good morn, my lord,” Sir Elwin said as Adam strode into the inn yard.

Adam nodded. “Has Lady Cristiane broken her fast yet?”

“She has, my lord,” Elwin replied as he continued saddling his horse. “She’s still inside.”

Adam continued on into the inn, where he found Cristiane alone in the common room. One glance told him it was a mistake to look at her.

She looked almost ethereal with the morning sunshine glancing off the bright highlights of her hair. She had just stood up from the table and gathered her oddly shaped satchel against her breasts when she looked up and met his eyes. Her lips were parted, her nostrils slightly flared. Neither of them moved for a moment, though Cristiane blushed delightfully.

She was remembering.

Even now that she was shabbily, but decently, dressed, Adam could not keep his eyes from roving over the length of her, or forget the alluring picture she’d made that morning in their room. At the time, her Scottish blood had not mattered in the least.

He cleared his throat and set his package on the table.

“I found these for you,” he said.

Cristiane looked down at the bundle, then back at Adam with questions in her eyes. “What…?”

“Just a…” he began, then shrugged. “Open it.”

She bit her lip and unwrapped the string from the package, then pulled the burlap apart. “Shoes,” she whispered, gazing up at him. Her eyes grew suspiciously bright, and though she blinked quickly, there was no mistaking the sheen of moisture there.

Not one tear fell, though—for which Adam would be eternally grateful. Yet her humble gratitude made his belly clench with some strange emotion.

“The tanner is a shoemaker of some skill,” Adam said as he watched Cristiane lift one of the shoes to admire it.

“I…I had shoes at home…” she said. Her voice was soft and wistful, and she sounded more English than Scottish. “Gylys the Bald took them from me the day my mother died. He said his w-wife had greater need of them than I…”

Adam controlled his reaction to her revelation. He was appalled to think that a mere villager would presume to confiscate the belongings of the laird’s daughter, and he was dismayed to consider how alone and defenseless Cristiane had been in St. Oln.

He made a silent vow to see that she suffered no further abuse or humiliation while under his protection.

Cristiane sat down on the bench, and before she could put on the shoe, Adam crouched in front of her, taking it from her hand. He lifted her foot and carefully slipped the shoe on, past delicate toes, over the heel and arch.

“It fits,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Not daring to look at her face, he laced the shoe, then reached for the other, repeating the process.

After her feet were clad, Cristiane put one hand on Adam’s shoulder and leaned forward. He looked up, and as he felt her move closer, he anticipated the touch of her lips on his. He could imagine how soft they’d feel, how enticing the intimate contact would be. He could not take his eyes from those lips, full and inviting, moving toward his own.

Then she shifted slightly and kissed his cheek.

Before Adam could react, Cristiane stood and dashed out of the inn.

“’Twill be a much more comfortable ride for you,” Sir Elwin said as he introduced Cristiane to the notion of riding the mule that stood before her. “Lord Bitterlee acquired him for you earlier this morn.”

Cristiane felt a pang in the pit of her stomach. She had never been on horseback in her life, except for the hours she’d spent on Adam’s horse—with Adam.

And now he expected her to ride this mule—this animal whose back was higher than Adam’s destrier—the rest of the way to Bitterlee.

While she knew he’d been wise to put some distance between them, she did not know if she’d be able to handle this beast all the way to Bitterlee.

She did not know if she’d be able to handle it to the end of the lane.

With Elwin’s help, she mounted. Adam was nowhere in sight, but that did not delay Elwin and Raynauld, who flanked her as they rode out of the inn yard. Though Cristiane felt more than a little insecure perched alone atop the mule, she could not resist breaking her concentration to look down and admire the lovely leather shoes Adam had gotten for her.

Adam rode ahead all day. He’d traveled this route two years before, riding in the back of a wagon, wounded and out of his head with fever. He couldn’t remember much of that journey.

Then he’d arrived home on the isle and learned of Rosamund’s death only a few days before. Even through his fog of pain and fever, the shock of that terrible news was something he’d never forget.

Adam wondered if he could have prevented her suicide had he remained at home rather than answering King Edward’s call and joining the English army in Scotland. He also wondered if his impending return had driven her to seek her own death. ’Twas a question that would forever haunt him.

Beyond her maladjustment to marriage, Rosamund had not adjusted to life on Bitterlee, either. Everything about the isle had been too harsh, too stark, too unforgiving. After Margaret’s birth, Rosamund’s spirits had sunk ever lower.

Yet for the first three years of Margaret’s life, the child had doted on Rosamund. She’d worried and fretted whenever her mama was unwell—which was often—and wanted naught more than to be allowed to play quietly in her chamber. It seemed an unlikely way to rear a child, though Adam knew little of these matters.

A sense of bitter sadness took hold of him, as it always did whenever he thought of Rosamund. She’d been so distant and fragile. He’d never quite known what to do with her, or about her, from the time they’d met and wed. He’d been paired with her through the efforts of her sire and his own, with nary a thought to how satisfactory a match was being made, or how well Rosamund was suited to the place or the man who would become her husband.

Adam presumed his own father had decided that any young woman of noble birth would suffice, as long as she was capable of bearing his heirs. Adam’s father could not have been more wrong, but the earl had not lived long after the marriage had taken place. He hadn’t witnessed Rosamund’s growing despondency and subsequent withdrawal.

By the time Adam returned home from Falkirk, life at Bitterlee had changed dramatically. Rosamund was gone. Mathilde, the stern old nurse who had come to Bitterlee with Rosamund, had taken Margaret in hand, and seen to her care. Adam’s uncle, Gerard, had taken charge in a harsh and incompetent manner, looking after matters on the isle. Luckily, Penyngton had been there to see that his excesses caused no harm.

Unfortunately, a great number of Bitterlee men had gone to Falkirk with Adam—and not returned home. Too many fields lay fallow now, for lack of farmers. And too few fishermen plied the seas with their nets.

Upon Adam’s return from Falkirk and the carnage there, he’d had a difficult time mustering the strength to reclaim his demesne and his daughter. He knew he’d left Gerard too long in charge. And little Margaret shrank away from the stranger who was her father—the man with the terrible scar across his jaw, and the ungainly limp.

He knew he must seem a monster to her now.

It had taken Charles Penyngton’s persistence to show Adam that things must change. The seneschal had helped Adam reclaim his rightful place as lord of Bitterlee, gently relegating Uncle Gerard to his favorite pastime—overimbibing the castle ale and wandering the isle at will. Gerard sometimes stayed for days in one or another of his many secret places on the island.

Penyngton had also managed to convince Adam of the need for a wife. A new lady of Bitterlee.

Adam would find one. Soon. ’Twas quite unfortunate that Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would not do—that her Scottish side overbalanced the English blood that must run in her veins. But he was determined not to err again in his marital duty. Though the woman managed to stir him in ways he’d all but forgotten, she was wholly unsuitable for Bitterlee. Naught less than a gently bred, English lady would do.

Still, he would not shirk his responsibility toward Lady Cristiane. On Bitterlee, he would see that she was clothed properly, then assign an escort to take her to her uncle in York. ’Twould be no hardship for two or three of his knights to make the journey. Spring was upon them, and travel would be easy.

As for this short journey to Bitterlee, Adam knew Elwin and Raynauld were entirely capable of protecting Lady Cristiane, so he felt no qualms about keeping his distance from her. Now, if only he could keep his mind as far from removed from her as his body was…

’Twas no use trying to keep his thoughts on Bitterlee. She had an untamed beauty that enthralled him, but a vulnerability that was frightening. He did not want another sensitive female under his care. Certainly not a bloody Scottish one.

The day continued fair and sunny, and Cristiane grew accustomed to the rhythm of the mule’s gait. They did not travel fast over the woodland path, but made good progress south. She could smell the sea to her left as they rode, and she wondered if they would camp near water as they had on their first night out.

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.




Chapter Five


Adam 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.

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.




Chapter Six


The 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.




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