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 ungainl
y 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.
Bride of the Isle Page 2