Bride of the Isle

by Maguire, Margo

  Nay, when he made love to her, she would discover that ’twas not something to fear, but something to anticipate, and to savor.

  He loosened the ties at her waist and let her skirts fall, then lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

  She looped her arms ’round his neck and let him carry her. ’Twas almost better that she was ill tonight, he thought. She did not have the energy to be embarrassed, or to fight him. Circumstances made it possible for him to see that she became accustomed to him before they were truly intimate.

  When he’d gotten her situated under the blanket, he poured some of Sara’s medicine into a cup and bade Cristiane drink it. Then he unfastened his tunic and pulled it over his head. His linen undertunic followed, along with his shoes, then his chausses and braes.

  “My lord?” Cristiane queried, her voice a mere squeak, and her eyes widening with every item of clothes that he removed.

  “Rest easy, Cristiane,” he said, climbing into the bed with her. “’Tis only the first of many nights I intend to sleep with my wife.”

  He turned to his side, pulled her close and cupped her body with his own. Through the thin fabric of her chemise, he could feel her heat, her softness. And he questioned the prudence of spending the night with her, thus.

  “Adam?” she asked.

  He would be content only to lie with her, nuzzling her neck, holding her. He allowed his fingers to creep partway up to her breasts, caressing their lower fullness through the thin fabric, but going no farther.

  “I am sorry, Adam,” she croaked.

  “Hmm?”

  “’Tis surely not the way you expected to spend your wedding night.”

  “Nay, ’tis not,” he replied. “Go to sleep, Cristiane.”

  Cristiane spent the first three days of her marriage in bed. And most of that time was not with her husband.

  Meg had come in to see her the first day, and she had insisted upon remaining in the chamber, playing quietly while Cristiane dozed. Sara had looked in on her, had made her drink some bitter draught, and had conferred with Adam quietly before leaving.

  Cristiane had seen her, and known that she was talking with Adam, but was unable to hear what was said.

  Every night, Adam slept with her, holding her. And even through the haze of illness, Cristiane felt reassured that at least he was not with Sara Cole.

  She awoke alone on the fourth day, feeling a great deal more healthy than she had only the night before. Her head had cleared, and her throat no longer felt swollen and as if it were on fire.

  But she was hungry. Famished!

  She pulled herself up and sat on the edge of bed, then had to wait out a wave of dizziness before moving any farther. When it passed, she got up and started to wash, only to be startled by Bea.

  “Oh! My lady, you’re out of bed!” she cried as she came through the door, carrying fresh bedding and dry towels.

  “Aye,” Cristiane said. “And feeling as if I’d fallen off a cliff.”

  “You look ever so much better today,” Bea said. “We were all quite worried, what with you coming down with the ague, and all from jumping into the river to save Olive Raven’s son. But Mistress Cole told us not to worry, and that it would take three days before you were well again.”

  The maid pulled the bedding off and occupied herself with spreading fresh linens over the ticking.

  “Oh?” Cristiane said.

  “And she was right, wasn’t she?” Bea said, almost to herself. “Mistress Cole is never mistaken about these things.”

  Somehow, it did not please Cristiane to be one of Sara Cole’s predictions come true. “Where is Lord Bitterlee?” she asked as she returned to her ablutions.

  “Your husband is in Sir Charles’s chamber with Mistress Cole,” she replied, tucking in the bottom edge of the blanket. “Sir Charles has not been well…”

  She stopped and looked over at the maid. “Do you mean he’s worse than he was?”

  Bea nodded solemnly. “We’ve all added special prayers for him, and Father Beaupré has been offering Mass for him every day.”

  At once, Cristiane felt worse than small for her petty jealousy. What little energy she had, left her suddenly, and she sat down on a chair near the hearth. “Is there aught I can do for him?” she asked. “Any—”

  “Mistress Cole said that you were to stay away from Sir Charles’s chamber, for in his weakened state, he’d be in danger of catching your illness.”

  Cristiane did not know how ’twas possible to feel worse. Poor Charles lay ill, perhaps even dying, and because of it, Adam was spending time with the only woman whose presence was a threat to their marriage.

  “And Meg?” Cristiane asked.

  “Mathilde has full charge of her now,” Bea said, scowling, “until you feel up to dealing with her. Lord Bitterlee did not want her bothering you, and since he’s been so occupied with Sir Charles—”

  “Aye,” Cristiane said. Dismayed by this turn of events, she was more curt than she intended. “Bea, when you leave here, I’d like you to find Meg and have her brought to me.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Bea replied. “Er, Mistress Cole said you’d be hungry. Shall I bring you something to eat?”

  ’Twas another full day before Cristiane had the strength to make her way downstairs. But even if she hadn’t had the strength, she’d have managed somehow.

  Adam had not come to her bed last night.

  When she reached the great hall, she nearly turned around and went back upstairs when she saw Gerard sitting alone at his usual place at the long table. He was sipping from a cup of what Cristiane knew would be strong ale.

  At least Meg was napping in her own chamber at the moment, and would not have to suffer her uncle’s bitter tongue.

  “Ah, so the mistress of Bitterlee approaches!” he said sarcastically.

  Cristiane ignored him and spoke to a footman. “Is my husband here in the keep?”

  “Aye—” he began, but Gerard interrupted.

  “He is in Charles Penyngton’s chamber,” Gerard muttered, his voice slurred. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down? You look like a bloody codfish, all white and clammy.”

  Cristiane knew she was not yet at her best, but did not believe she looked as bad as that. Still, she went to the great hearth and sat down in one of the large, stuffed chairs before it.

  Pointedly, she turned away from Gerard and spoke to the footman. “Would you please go to Lord Bitterlee and ask him to join me when he has a moment?”

  “Aye, my lady,” the man replied, as he left to do her bidding.

  She had no real reason to summon Adam, only that she’d missed him the night before and needed the reassurance of his presence. Their married life had not started auspiciously, and she felt uncertain, vulnerable. If he had not bothered even to look in on her last night—

  “Sara has been here night and day with Charles.”

  “’Tis good of her,” Cristiane said to Gerard.

  “She did the same when Adam’s father sickened and died,” he added, “and again, when she attended Rosamund in childbed.” He took a long draught from his cup. “She even tended Adam when he returned from your bloody Falkirk.”

  Cristiane found herself unable to speak. She had not known that Sara had cared for Adam, though she should have realized it.

  Why did Sara have to loom so heavily upon her mind now? Would she have to content herself with sharing her husband, as so many other noblewomen did?

  Cristiane did not think that would be possible for her, even though her mother had prepared her for the practice that seemed to be so common among English lords. With very little provocation, she was consumed with envy over Sara’s long relationship with Adam, and there was a very good chance that her feelings would only worsen.

  If only she had the nerve to question Adam directly.

  But alas, she did not. She was the new wife, a stranger to the isle, really, whose only distinction was her ability to handle wee Meg.


  Gerard stood up and swayed for a moment, then picked up his cup and ambled over to the fireplace. He glared at Cristiane.

  “So now you’re a bloody heroine, I hear.”

  Refusing to be goaded, Cristiane did not answer him. She bit her tongue to keep from entering into an argument with him, then stood up and strode from the hall. She left the keep by way of the door near the chapel, and walked to the garden, replying to the greetings of everyone she passed.

  She felt heartened by the people’s reaction to her. While still not entirely accepting, they were at least respectful now, and did not seem to despise her as they had before, when she’d first arrived on Bitterlee.

  The day was overcast again and threatened rain, but Cristiane continued walking until she reached the bench on the far side of the pond. She hoped someone would tell Adam that she’d left the keep, but she had no doubt that he’d eventually find her here. After all, she was his wife now, and ’twas his duty to see to her, even if Sara Cole’s company was preferable.

  No one was in the great hall when Adam came looking for Cristiane.

  “My lord, she was just here,” a footman said from the hallway. “With your uncle.”

  Adam ran one hand across his mouth and jaw. He knew the kind of hurt his uncle was capable of inflicting with one word here, another there. The man was a master at disrupting the peace, and Adam did not know why he allowed Gerard to continue on Bitterlee.

  It occurred to him that it might be wise to send his uncle elsewhere, as he had threatened.

  “Mayhap she returned to her chamber?” the footman asked.

  Adam doubted it. If he knew Cristiane at all, she would be outdoors somewhere. Considering her weakened state, she had likely gone no farther than the pond.

  He headed out of the keep, taking the dogs and following the garden path to the water.

  ’Twas a relief to leave the confines of Penyngton’s chamber. Bitterlee’s seneschal—Adam’s closest friend—was dying. And there was naught that he or Sara Cole could do about it.

  Adam suspected that Sara had deeper feelings for Charles than she’d previously let on, and he finally understood the sadness and futility she had expressed when they’d spoken after his wedding to Cristiane. There was a quiet desperation about the way Sara attended Charles now, and an underlying despair that she was not doing enough.

  Adam well knew the feeling of futility. He’d neglected Cristiane and kept a vigil all night in Charles’s room so that Sara could get some much-needed sleep. He had helped Charles through far too many violent coughing spells during the night. Yet there was naught he could do about the blood that his friend brought up each time.

  Adam was weary, his emotions on edge. He’d been out of his mind with worry over Cristiane, and then Charles’s condition had worsened. At least Meg was in good health and seemed content.

  He arrived at the edge of the pond and saw Cristiane sitting on the bench on the far side. Circling the water, he saw that her complexion was still pale and drawn, and it startled him for an instant. He had no doubt she would recover fully, however. Sara had assured him of that, and he had complete faith in her knowledge of the healing arts.

  Cristiane’s attention was occupied by the ducklings, which had swum over to beg for food. Adam heard her make her apologies to them, saying that she’d come without bringing any bread.

  They were unforgiving, and all seven of them stepped out of the water, waddling up to the bench to surround her. He smiled at the sight they made.

  “’Tis sorry I am,” she said, amidst all their quacking, “but surely you’re old enough now to find your own food. Meggie and I—” She suddenly heard him. “Adam!”

  “’Tis a treat to see you up and about, my lady wife,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing the back of it. More than a treat, ’twas pure relief to see her here in this natural setting. “I was beginning to think you’d be abed forever.”

  “Nay, Adam,” she replied, as a bit of color came into her cheeks. “I feel much better.”

  “I’m glad to see it. Have you had food, drink?”

  “Nay,” she replied. “I…I am not hungry.”

  He sat down next to her, keeping her hand in his. One day—soon—she would welcome his touch, he promised himself. She was becoming accustomed to him. He’d been heartened by her response to him on their wedding night when he’d helped to undress her, and when he’d slept with her, holding her through the night while she was ill.

  He’d missed that last night.

  “Are you still feverish?” he asked, touching her cheek and then her forehead with the palm of his hand.

  Her eyelids lowered at his touch, and he felt her lean slightly toward him. He had the urge to pull her into his arms, but refrained. For now.

  Instead, he let his thumb caress her cheek. “You must take care for the next few days,” he said. “Sara said you would feel weak—”

  Cristiane stood abruptly. “Nay, I do not feel weak at all, my lord. I feel perfectly—”

  “There is no shame in your illness, Cristiane,” he said as he rose to his feet next to her. “’Twas likely caused by your heroic venture into the river the other day.”

  She shrugged.

  “Are you ready to return to the keep?”

  “Aye,” she said with a quick nod.

  He did not understand what had come over her. The warmth she’d shown was gone now, and a chilly demeanor had taken its place.

  Regardless, he took her hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow. Her changeable mood was likely a lingering effect of the illness, and no cause for worry.

  “Meg has been playing in your room these last few days while you slept,” he said. “She’s been worried about you.”

  “Meg, my lord?” Cristiane asked, glancing up at him. “I thought she would always be Margaret to you.”

  “Your pet name suits her,” he replied. “As does the way you treat her. She’s grown so healthy, so much more…normal since you’ve come to Bitterlee.”

  “I’ll come back here and feed the ducks with her later,” she said.

  “Do not overtax yourself, Cristiane,” he countered, stopping in the path.

  “’Twill not overtax me, my lord,” Cristiane replied. “’Tis a short walk, and I want Meg to know I am all right. That everything is as it was. She worries…”

  She seemed determined to do this, so Adam would not say her nay. But he would come along, and see that Cristiane suffered no untoward effect from her exertions.

  Cristiane felt him watching her closely—for signs of infirmity. ’Twas frustrating to be laid so low, so soon after her marriage, and unable to establish herself as Adam’s wife.

  That was going to change. Tonight.

  She was not quite sure what to do. She’d only been kissed once…well, twice, if she counted the fleeting touching of lips that had taken place at the church after Father Beaupré had declared them husband and wife.

  But when Adam had touched her on their wedding night, kissing her shoulders, her neck, her ear, she had experienced exquisite pleasure. She had only to develop enough nerve to do the same to Adam, and she was certain he would have the same reaction she’d had.

  Tonight, she was confident that all would go well. She would follow his lead, and touch him as he had touched her on their wedding night. She would kiss him the same way he’d kissed her the first time.

  Cristiane quivered at the thought of the night ahead. She sensed that intimacy between them would solidify their marriage, and she was anxious for that. Besides, from the first time Cristiane had seen him, Adam was everything she’d ever imagined her husband should be—strong and powerful, yet gentle and kind. And Meggie was a sweet and loving daughter. The isle, with its waterfall, its intriguing coastline and all its birds was her idea of paradise.

  It would have been perfect if not for Sara Cole.

  “My lord!” a page called out as he approached them on the path.

  “Yes, Jon?” Ad
am said.

  “Mistress Cole needs you,” the boy replied. “Sir Charles worsens…”

  Adam raised one hand and cupped Cristiane’s jaw. “I must go,” he said.

  “Adam, is there aught that I can do for Charles?”

  “Nay, Sara has matters well in hand.” He kissed her cheek. “Jon will see you back to the keep.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In spite of his limp, Adam trotted rather quickly back to the keep ahead of them, while Cristiane took Jon’s arm and walked the rest of the way. She actually did feel rather fatigued, but she would never admit it to Adam—or Sara.

  It bothered Cristiane to have such feelings of animosity toward the woman, for Sara had done a great deal of good in town, as well as for Charles, Cristiane’s cousin. But ’twas difficult for her to feel charitable toward the woman who was competing for her husband’s affections.

  She felt useless. While Sara was well loved, and helpful, Cristiane could do naught for anyone. She’d been warned away from Charles, in case the miasma that had caused her illness should spread to him, so she could not even sit with him.

  She had no idea how to assert herself as chatelaine here, or what such duties would entail.

  Mayhap Sara would know, she thought sourly.

  She reached the bailey and saw Gerard approaching, his expression sour and forbidding. Cristiane flinched inwardly when he flashed her a scathing look, but he turned away and headed down the path toward the waterfall.

  Cristiane gave a short prayer of thanks that she had never run into him there, only to have the peace of the place disturbed by his forbidding presence. She just wished there was some way to avoid him in the keep.

  She was truly tired by the time she reached the hall, so she decided to climb to her chamber and lie down for a while. It would not do for her to be overtired tonight, when Adam came to her.

  Movement in the room woke her.