Bride of the Isle

by Maguire, Margo

  Adam reached the point where they would have left the path to go down to the waterfall, but remembered that was not one of Gerard’s favored places. Nay, the man had a cave far down the beach, where he liked to go and drink himself into a stupor, and relive his past glories in the army of King Edward.

  Adam was certain that was where he would find him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cristiane watched as the storm came closer. Long daggers of lightning flashed close by, striking the water and setting off earsplitting crashes of thunder.

  She felt minimally protected under an overhang of the cliff, but knew it would do her no good if the storm came closer and lightning struck. She wished she’d kept her wits about her when she’d run from the castle, but the shock of seeing Adam with Sara had overwhelmed her good sense.

  Cristiane didn’t realize how much she had counted on Adam breaking off with the townswoman, how much she needed his loyalty and devotion. She did not know how she was going to live here on Bitterlee as his wife, knowing that, in truth, she was no more than a nursemaid for his daughter.

  She’d thought, after the previous night, that she was more to him…that perhaps he felt as she did, that there could be no one else, that—

  A streak of lightning struck close, the shock of it knocking Cristiane to her knees. More frightened now, she could not decide whether to quickly move away from her little shelter, or stay and wait out the tempest. Remembering what her father had taught her about storms, she decided to stay here, under cover of the overhang.

  She moved slightly, into a crouch, with her head down and her arms about her knees. The storm raged all around her, but Cristiane could not move. Fear of the violent weather and misery over Adam’s duplicity paralyzed her. ’Twas foolish, she knew, to be so affected by Adam’s actions, for her mother had prepared her for the likelihood of her husband keeping a mistress.

  Yet, at their wedding, Adam had promised to love and honor her, to guard her and to forsake all others. Had he lied? Did all English husbands lie when they married?

  Cristiane’s brain hurt with all her ruminations. She’d gone from thinking that Adam must care for her as she did for him, to believing him capable of going to his mistress mere hours after sharing the most intimate of experiences with her.

  She did not know what to think anymore.

  After a time, it seemed that the lightning no longer struck so close, and the thunder was not as earthshaking. Yet the rain continued to pour down, and the wind was still fierce. Somewhere in the distance, Cristiane thought she heard a different sound. She raised her head from her arms and listened.

  Barking!

  Adam’s dogs were out in this tempest. Surely someone would have brought them inside rather than allowing them to run free during a storm like this. They were suddenly upon her, barking and baying, as if they’d discovered the most delectable prey.

  “Cristiane!”

  Adam had never seen a more pitiful sight. She looked half-drowned and miserable. Gerard was nowhere in sight. “Are you all right?” he shouted over the combined noise of the dogs and the storm.

  She began to speak, but then shook her head, as if unable to form the words to answer him.

  “Where is Gerard?” he asked as he helped her to her feet.

  He saw her shrug before he pulled her into his arms to hold her shivering body against him. They had to get out of this rain. He would not have her fall ill again.

  “Come on,” he said, taking her hand and leading her farther down the beach. “We have to get to shelter. This rain will last for hours.”

  They stayed close to the overhang, but the rain pelted them as they moved down the beach. Cristiane said naught, and Adam wondered what had happened to her. She had no visible injuries, but if Gerard had hurt her, Adam would not merely banish him from Bitterlee.

  He would kill him.

  Gerard’s cave was not much farther. The dogs ran ahead, seemingly oblivious to the rain, while Adam strained his eyes, looking for the niche in the cliff where Gerard liked to go to brood. Adam put his arm around Cristiane and drew her close as they walked, but neither of them spoke.

  “Up there!” he said when he saw the place. Let Gerard try to refuse them entry, he thought as he helped Cristiane up the rocks. He would haul his uncle’s sorry arse to the sea and throw him in.

  They clambered over loose rock to get to the entrance, but still Adam could see no sign of Gerard. “Just a few steps more, Cristiane,” he urged.

  They finally made it, and Adam drew her inside with him. ’Twas dark, but there was no indication of another occupant. He had not been here since he was a lad, and would have forgotten the place, except that Gerard had mentioned it once or twice in passing. Adam wondered where his uncle had gone.

  “Come inside,” he said. “’Tis safe here.”

  Still quiet, Cristiane followed him.

  Adam knew Gerard would not spend so much time here without a few comforts. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark, then looked around to discover a lamp sitting on a table formed from rocks. He lit it, then turned back to Cristiane.

  “I’ll get a fire going and then you’ll have to get out of those wet clothes,” he said.

  When she still did not speak, he said, “Cristy, what is it? What happened? Did Gerard bring you out here?”

  “Nay, ’twas not your uncle,” she replied.

  “What then? Why are you out here in this tempest?”

  “I…” She sniffed once and wiped the rain from her face.

  “You what?”

  She did not reply for a long time. Finally, she shook her head in a derisive manner. “I was just f-foolish, Adam,” she said. “I thought…I believed that…” Crossing her arms, she rubbed them with her hands and turned away from him.

  He took hold of one arm and turned her back. He would not let her withdraw from him. Whatever had happened could be redressed. “What? What did you think?”

  “’Twas stupid really…”

  “Cristy, tell me.”

  Her brows quivered and her nostrils flared as she forced back her tears. Adam looked into her eyes and saw pain there. He felt powerless. All he could do was run his hands up and down her arms.

  “’Twas just as Gerard said when I came into the k-keep and saw you with Sara,” she said, her voice trembling as she strove to maintain control. “I knew then that he was r-right. You l-love her, but only married me bec—”

  “God’s Cross, Cristy!” Adam said, pulling her into his arms as understanding dawned. All the cruel remarks his uncle had made, all his outrageous insinuations…”Never listen to Gerard. He is a bitter old man who loves naught more than to stir up trouble.”

  “But I saw y—”

  “You saw me comforting my sister,” he said as he leaned away to look at her. “Sara is my father’s bastard daughter. I should have told you before, but I…With Charles so ill, and you coming down with the fever, I just…”

  Confusion clouded her eyes. Her chin trembled and she bit the corner of her lower lip.

  “Sara cares deeply for Charles,” Adam said. “And it pains her to see him suffer.”

  “Poor Sara!” Cristiane cried. “I never realized…Oh, Adam, I feel terrible. Gerard’s been saying things ever since I came here…about Sara, and how well suited she is to the isle. He intimated how much better a wife she would make you, so much better than a loathsome Scot. I tried not to heed him, but ’twas impossible. He seemed to always be there, ready to prey on all my—”

  “—on all your uncertainties.” Adam frowned. Gerard had deliberately worked to undermine Cristiane’s confidence and comfort. If he’d been at it ever since her arrival on Bitterlee, ’twas no wonder she had believed the worst when she’d seen him with Sara. “Cristy,” he said, pulling her close, “there is no other woman in my life. There is you, and only you.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her while cupping her face in his hands. There were fresh tears on her cheeks, and he rubbed the
m away with his thumbs. “Do not weep, love,” he murmured, kissing her again and again. “’Twas only Gerard tormenting you. Naught that he said was real, or true.”

  She nodded and took a deep, quavering breath.

  Reluctantly, he let her go. “Let me get a fire started,” he said. “We must warm you and get you dry.”

  There were no spare clothes, nor any blankets in the cave. The oilcloth cloak had kept Adam reasonably dry, and so Cristiane lay wrapped up in it next to him, on a primitive pallet that Gerard had set up deep inside the cave. A fire, made from driftwood that Gerard must have dragged in, burned near the mouth of the cave, and the dogs lay nearby, guarding the entrance. Cristiane’s clothes were draped over some rocks near the fire in the hope that they would dry.

  She doubted they would. The rain was still coming down in sheets, and showed no sign of letting up.

  Not that she cared. She was content to stay here, safe and warm in the arms of her husband, with all her worries about him—and his lover—untrue.

  “Why did you not talk to me about Sara?” Adam asked. He held her close, caressing her back as they lay together.

  “I was embarrassed,” she said, lowering her eyelids so she would not have to look at him. “I…thought if I…if you…” She shook her head and frowned, still uncomfortable speaking of it. “Was I to ask you outright about your lover?”

  “Cristy…” he said, tipping her chin up and forcing her to look at him. “I love you.” He kissed her deeply, slipping his hands inside the oilcloth, caressing the bare flesh beneath. “There could be no one else for me.”

  “Oh, Adam,” she whispered, “I love you, too. I could not bear it, thinking you cared for Sara, and I did not know what to do. I ran from the castle without thinking.”

  “Promise me you’ll never run away again,” he said huskily. His hand slipped down to trace tantalizing patterns over her buttocks. “Come to me if aught troubles you, Cristy. We must talk to one another…”

  “Aye, in future, I will,” she whispered as goose bumps rose on her skin.

  Then Adam’s hand stilled. He was silent, pensive for a moment. “I wonder if Gerard drove Rosamund to her death with his insinuations.”

  “Drove her?” Cristiane asked.

  “She caused her own death,” he said grimly, “by jumping from one of the castle parapets.”

  Cristiane took in a sharp breath. “Oh, Adam,” she said. “I am so sorry. I cannot imagine what you went through.”

  “She died a week before I was carried back to the isle from the battle at Falkirk,” he continued. “If he taunted and goaded her with untruths just as he’s done to you…”

  Cristiane felt sickened, and covered her mouth with one hand. Gerard had succeeded in manipulating her to a point near utter despair. ’Twas not difficult to believe that he’d done the same to Rosamund.

  “Sir Gerard’s tenure on the isle is finished. When I see him next, I intend to banish him,” Adam said, tucking Cristiane firmly against him once again. “He can return to King Edward’s court or fend for himself elsewhere. I’ll not have him disrupting my family.”

  Cristiane swallowed the lump in her throat. Her fears were for naught, and Adam would see to it that Gerard caused neither her nor Meg any problems in the future.

  She could ask for no more.

  “Oh! Meg!” Cristiane cried. “I told her to wait for me in her chamber and—”

  “She is fine,” Adam said. He began to nuzzle Cristiane’s neck. “Playing with the servants’ children.”

  “Oh,” she replied, relieved. “Ooh…” She closed her eyes, and her breath came quick and fast as Adam’s lips moved lower, his hands spreading the oilcloth apart. His mouth sought the hard peaks of her breasts, then he teased each one with his tongue and teeth as his hands slid down her body.

  “Teach me, Adam,” Cristiane said, boldly unfastening his belt. “I want to please you.”

  “Ah, Cristy,” Adam replied, already exquisitely aroused. “To please me, you have naught to do but touch me, love me. Hunger for my touch.”

  She moved his chausses and braes aside and grazed his most sensitive flesh with her hands. “I do, m’lord,” she breathed. “I do.”

  Epilogue

  Castle Bitterlee

  Autumn, 1303

  Bitterlee’s two noble swans paddled regally across the pond, their small brood following faithfully. How they’d happened to come to Bitterlee was a mystery to all on the isle, but no one questioned it overmuch. The beautiful fowl seemed to exemplify the recent growth and prosperity of the isle.

  Music played all around, and the castle grounds were teeming with townspeople, here to celebrate the harvest and the renaming of the isle. There had already been games and dancing, and soon the feasting would begin.

  Adam stood behind the bench where Cristiane sat holding their tiny son, Thomas, and rubbed her shoulders. While Thomas slept, she tipped her head, first to one side, then to the other, to afford Adam better access. Her muscles were tired after the long day, and his attentions were appreciated, but Cristiane always cherished Adam’s touch.

  “Ah…that feels heavenly, Adam,” she said.

  He leaned down, touching his lips to her ear. “’Tis naught compared to what I have in mind for later, love,” he said quietly. Shivers of delight ran though her with his promising words.

  “Oh?” she asked, smiling. “And what might that be?”

  “Mama,” Meg called out, “Charles will not hold my hand near the water!”

  Adam sighed. “I’ll handle this,” he said, straightening. “Your son is a feisty lad.”

  “My son?” she said, displaying a distinctly innocent face.

  Adam tossed back a smile at her as he went to deal with little Charles, who had been a trial to his sister ever since he’d learned to walk.

  Naturally the children had a nurse, but Cristiane would never wholly entrust their care to her, not after seeing the damage that a mediocre nurse could do to a child. Though Mathilde had done only what she’d thought best, she had nearly succeeded in making Meggie as timid and fearful as she’d made Rosamund.

  “The lad knows his own mind, m’lord,” Sir Raynauld remarked. He had become Adam’s seneschal soon after Charles Penyngton’s death, and was proving to be an apt manager.

  Cristiane knew that Adam missed Charles, just as he missed Sara, who had left Bitterlee more than a year before.

  Their lives were full, though, and life was good on the isle. So good that Adam had decided that their home had been called the Isle of Bitter Life long enough. ’Twas time to change its name to reflect the prosperity and joy of its inhabitants. And he’d petitioned the king for permission to do just that.

  Cristiane’s heart beat a little faster as she watched her husband lift his small, giggling son to his shoulders. Those big hands that she’d always admired were so gentle and loving, with her and with their children.

  Little Charles ruffled his fingers though his father’s hair, making a delightful mess of it.

  “He is stubborn is all,” Meg said in true sisterly fashion. “He could fall into the pond, and then what?”

  “Why, you would have to reach in and save him,” Adam said.

  “Any young maid who swims as well as you should have no trouble,” Raynauld added.

  But Meg’s annoyance with her little brother was clear, as was her opinion of her father’s and Raynauld’s teasing. She lifted her chin in a truly superior manner, turned and walked away with great dignity, until she saw some of her friends running down the path. Then she quickly shrugged off her regal air and joined them.

  Cristiane repositioned Thomas and stood up. His birth in midsummer had been an easy one, and she felt as fit as ever. Adam returned to her with Charles still on his shoulders, and put one arm around her waist.

  “My lord,” Raynauld said, “they’re signaling for you to come and begin the feast.”

  Taking their leave of the pond, they started down the path, back to the
bailey, where trestle tables had been set up out-of-doors, and were now laden with platters of food and pitchers of ale.

  “Have you decided whether to give your speech before or after the meal, my lord?” Raynauld asked.

  “Before,” Adam replied. “If I wait until later, they’ll all be too far into their cups to hear my brilliant remarks.”

  The children’s young nurse met them near the keep and took the baby and Charles away. Adam placed Cristiane’s hand upon his own and accompanied her, with great formality, to the dais.

  Adam gained everyone’s attention and began his speech, talking of their great harvest, and the season’s tremendous fishing successes. He spoke with pride of his growing family, of the traditions of the isle and of his hopes for the future.

  “Which is why I’ve asked the king to allow me to call our isle home by another name. A new name…a more fitting name. Raise your cups,” he called out, even as he raised his own. Cristiane came to her feet next to him and he put his arm around her. “Drink to the Isle of Hope!”

  There was silence for a moment while they drank, then the cups hit the tables, and the shouts and applause were deafening. The music resumed and Adam looked down at Cristiane. She had brought love and good fortune to him. She had given him the hope he now felt in his heart.

  When she looked up at him, her eyes were bright with pride and happiness.

  “You know you are queen of the Isle of Hope,” he said, taking her in his arms.

  “Only if you are king, my lord,” she replied.

  “Do not mention that to King Edward,” he jested. Then he tipped his head down, while she raised hers, and their lips met somewhere in between. Adam pulled her close and kissed her deeply, as she slipped her arms around his shoulders, then up to his neck.

  Their actions did not go unnoticed. The crowd clapped and cheered noisily at their lord and lady’s amorous activity.

  Adam was breathless when he finally broke the kiss, but he kept his wife in his embrace. “You are my life and my hope, Cristiane,” he said fervently. “I love you.”