Bride of the Isle (11 page)

Then he would be finally rid of this constant state of agitation.

“’T
is a
mess, is it not, my lord?” Sara Cole said to Adam as he stood in front of her house on the hillside just above the harbor. ’Twas already dusk, and he’d known better than to ride to town at this time of night. He would be lucky to get back before dark.

Yet his restlessness had forced him to act. Every pore of his body demanded that he go to Cristiane and satisfy the lust she aroused in him. Luckily, good sense ruled. He would not violate her innocence while she resided here at Bitterlee, no matter how strong the urge.

“And the fields…” Sara continued. “The women and children have been working to clear the brush and debris.”

“Aye,” Adam said distractedly. “’Twill take everyone’s help to clear the mess.”

He turned away and led his horse down the hill toward the cottage that had sustained the most damage.

Sara was not mistaken about the conditions here. Fortunately, no one had been hurt in the storm, and all the ships had survived. Losing a fishing vessel would have been even more devastating than the damage to the cottages, especially at this time of year. Until the harvest, grain would be short. Bitterlee would depend primarily upon fish for its sustenance.

Still, the repairs
that were needed would seriously tax the manpower on the island. ’Twould be several days before he could spare anyone to take Cristiane to York.

Adam helped the men finish stacking the logs they had cut from one of the downed trees, then walked to the tavern to share a few mugs, glad for a respite from his thoughts.

Adam had not returned to the castle the night before, and Cristiane learned that he’d stayed the night in town. In spite of herself, she wondered how much Sara had had to do with his decision not to return home.

’Twas not her concern, Cristiane told herself as she climbed out of bed. Adam Sutton could be naught to her, even though he made chaos of her senses. His life here on the isle would go on without her once she left for York, and she would hardly be remembered, if at all.

Except, perhaps, by Gerard, who would think of her with disdain.

She swallowed and wrapped her arms around herself, tamping down a wave of emotion so unexpected it took her off balance. If only she still had her mother…Cristiane had never needed her more than now, when everything about her life had changed, and was about to change again. She needed Elizabeth’s wise advice. She missed her desperately.

Blinking away the foolish moisture that welled in her eyes, Cristiane opened the window of her chamber. Once again, a beautiful day had dawned. Determined to avoid Adam’s nasty uncle, she dressed quickly and slipped down the stairs, only to be confronted by the very man she’d hoped to elude.

“At least
we were not all murdered in our beds as we slept,” he said, sneering.

“Wh-what?” Cristiane asked, alarmed by Gerard’s remark. “Are there—”

“If
I
were lord of the isle, I would certainly not allow a bloody Scot under my roof…unguarded.”

His meaning suddenly became clear, and Cristiane bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling. She spun away from the hateful man and ran outside, closing her ears to the jeering remarks that followed her.

She had done naught to him, or any other Englishman, yet he hated her as if she herself had wielded a sword in William Wallace’s army.

Rushing blindly, Cristiane once again found herself on the path that led to the waterfall. Instead of heading inland, she kept walking along the escarpment that overlooked the sea, searching for a likely place to climb down.

Before long, she came upon a break in the edge, where there appeared to be good footholds and a few sturdy bushes that she could hold onto if necessary. Still shaking from her confrontation with Gerard, she picked her way down.

Cristiane was surprised to discover that the descent to the beach posed no more difficulty than the rocky slopes at St. Oln. She had expected much worse, after Adam’s warning that there was no way down to the water.

Had he wanted to keep her away from here for some reason?

She made it all the way down to the beach, where a narrow strip of sand, broken by huge, black boulders, met the sea. Carefully choosing the right pillar of rock, she stepped onto it and sat down, leaning back to take refuge in the beauty of the clear blue sky.

For a few
short moments, she was able to keep her mind carefully blank. As the breeze ruffled her hair and tossed her skirts, she did not think of her mother or father, or of Sir Gerard’s meanness. She did not allow thoughts of Adam to cross her mind. She just lay quietly on the rough surface of the rock and watched absently as herring gulls circled in the air, their screeches echoing over the water.

But her troubles soon returned.

Cristiane took off her shoes and stepped down to walk aimlessly along the edge of the water, occasionally glancing up at the rocky slope she’d scaled. This spot was so isolated, she could easily believe herself to be the only person in the world.

She did not doubt she was the loneliest person in the world. At least at St. Oln, she’d had her mother and father. Here, she had no one.

Suddenly there was a lump the size of a duck’s egg in her throat, and the pain of grief welled in her chest. She missed her father’s great belly laugh and her mother’s quiet counsel. They may have been an odd little family, but her parents had enjoyed a deep affection for one another, and they’d loved their daughter.

How would she ever go on without them?

Tears had never been Cristiane’s solution to a problem. Yet she felt them welling in her eyes as she thought of her parents, cold in their graves. Her vision blurred as she gazed out over the sea and considered her future, and the bleakness that was sure to follow her to York.

She would not belong there any more than she belonged in St. Oln…
or
on the Isle of Bitterlee. She was a misfit, a lost soul. She would be lucky if she were met with indifference in York, rather than outright abhorrence.

Many a time had
Adam spent the night in town, accepting the reeve’s hospitality, and his best bed. Adam had been anxious to return home last night, but he’d had one—mayhap three or four—too many cups of good Bitterlee ale to make the ride up to the castle in the dark.

He’d done naught but think of Cristiane Mac Dhiubh all night—while he was awake, and in the restless dreams that had plagued him hour after hour. He’d awakened in an agitated state, anxious to act, but unsure what to do.

’Twas barely daybreak when Adam returned to the keep. He checked on his daughter and found her fast asleep, then discovered that Cristiane was nowhere in the castle.

He had not intended to seek her out, but was powerless to resist the pull. Only a few servants were about when he walked out to the duck pond, but Cristiane was not there. Suspecting that she’d gone wandering beyond the castle walls again, Adam started up the path, looking for her.

He doubted she would come to any harm on the isle, but he was responsible for her. He did not want any mishap to befall her while she was under his protection.

Besides, those dreams of the previous night haunted him. He’d seen her soft curves again, and had tasted her mouth, but in the dreams, they had not stopped with one kiss. He had touched her, had run his tongue across the pebbled tips of her breasts, his hands down the soft curves of her buttocks.

And that was naught
compared to the way
she
had touched
him.
He’d been ready to explode upon awakening.

Adam quickly reached the waterfall, finding it deserted. He stripped off his clothes and slipped into the pool, once again cooling the heat that had simmered within him since he’d met Cristiane Mac Dhiubh.

He decided she must have walked farther along the path, mayhap down to the beach. She had seemed quite determined about that, and of course there was a safe route down the rocky escarpment. He had not told her about it because he hadn’t wanted her going down there alone.

’Twas his mistake.

He climbed out of the pool, refreshed and without the headache that had annoyed him since awakening an hour earlier in the strange bed. He dressed and went up to the path, following it to the only place where Cristiane could have climbed down to the beach.

He did not see her, but scrambled down the rocky face of the escarpment anyway, withstanding the ache it caused in his injured thigh, certain that she must be here somewhere. He made it to the sand and stopped to lean against one of the huge rocks that stood upright out of the water. Glancing first one way and the other, he finally saw a patch of color in the distance.

Cristiane.

He let his throbbing leg rest a moment before setting off down the rock-strewn beach, toward her perch.

She had chosen one of his favorite spots, near a small inlet where the Cuddy ducks liked to come in and feed. She was sitting on a flat-topped boulder, her knees drawn up and her head resting upon them. Her red curls trailed wildly down her back.

She did not
hear him as he approached, and he called out so he wouldn’t startle her.

Her head jerked up as if she’d been slapped. Her mouth moved, but he couldn’t hear what she said. Even from a distance, Adam could see that her eyes were red and swollen, and her face covered with tears.

The most enticing face he’d seen since he’d watched her at the waterfall the day before…

Frowning with concern, he increased his pace, even as she turned away. She rubbed away her tears with the skirt of her gown, then slid off the rock and onto her feet to meet him, smiling shakily.

“Y-your leg, m-m’lord,” she said, determined to speak first. “Should you have climbed—”

He took hold of her upper arms. The sight of her distress infuriated him, and it bothered him even more that she attempted to keep her anguish from him.

He’d made a solemn vow to keep her safe, to prevent any further cruelties. Yet he’d failed. He’d spent the night carousing and lusting after her, while something must have occurred to make her miserable. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

Her chin quivered, but she swallowed hard, searching for control. “Naught, m’lord. ’Tis naught.”

“Has my uncle—”

“Nay,” she replied. “I only…” She tugged herself out of his grasp and moved a few paces away. Turning to face the sea, Cristiane crossed her arms over her breasts. “’T-tis beautiful here.”

Adam did not know how to respond. Clearly, something had upset her, yet she would not speak of it. He would take her in his arms if he thought she would permit it, but her stance all but screamed for him to keep his distance.

“When
d’ye suppose ye’ll be able to t-take me to York?”

He was dumbfounded by her question. “I thought you would stay a few days,” he said carefully. Just as he was about to speak of the gowns he thought she’d make, he stopped himself, realizing ’twould only serve to remind her of her shabby appearance. She was upset enough without adding aught more.

“I’d hoped you’d…spend some time with my daughter,” he said instead. “You’ve had more effect on her than anyone since my wife’s death.”

Margaret ate barely enough to survive, and she shunned normal childish activities.

Yet Cristiane Mac Dhiubh had been on Bitterlee less than a full day before she’d managed to get Margaret to eat. She’d drawn Margaret out of her silence, if only to speak one word. ’Twas naught less than amazing. Adam could not let her leave before seeing how Margaret would react to her today.

He would deal with any wrong done her, if only she would consent to stay a few days and see what further effect she might have on his daughter.

Luckily, Cristiane was not unaffected by Margaret’s plight. Adam could see that the notion of staying to help Margaret was compelling.

“You managed to get her to eat yesterday,” he said, approaching her cautiously. “Would you try again today?”

The muscles in her throat moved convulsively, then she brushed away another tear from her face. “Aye, m’lord,” she replied shakily. She raised her chin and sniffed once. “I’ll sit with her at mealtimes and take her to feed the ducklings.”

“Thank
you, my lady,” Adam said. “And as to whatever upset you—”

“’Twas naught,” Cristiane said. “Just a wee bit of foolishness.”

Adam doubted that, but kept his counsel. Mayhap she would speak of it another time.

T
he sky was
overcast when Cristiane led Meg to the duck pond. The old nurse had resisted allowing the child out for the afternoon, but Adam prevailed. Cristiane could feel him walking behind, carrying extra bread and a couple of linen towels, trying his best to be unobtrusive.

As if such a thing were possible. She felt his presence with every fiber of her being.

She’d have thrown herself into his arms earlier that morn, if only it would not have been wholly inappropriate to do so. She knew the warmth and security of his embrace would have comforted her, but she also knew it would have led to more.

“Do you think the ducklings will still be here?” Cristiane asked Meg. She already knew the answer, because she’d brought food for them earlier.

But Meg didn’t reply.

“Have you still got your loaf?” Cristiane asked.

The lass held up her hand for Cristiane to see the bread she carried. She did not acknowledge her father walking behind them, nor did she speak. But Cristiane detected a hum of excitement in the child’s bearing, the light of interest in her eyes.

When they reached
the edge of the pond, Margaret sat down on the ground and removed her shoes without being prompted. The two adults exchanged an astonished glance over her head, and Cristiane felt an odd sensation unfurl in the region of her heart.

For now, she felt as if she belonged here.

Basking in the joy of the moment, she sat next to Margaret and removed her own shoes. She had to hurry in order to catch up to Meg, who had already hiked up her skirt and stepped into the water.

“Meggie! Wait for me!” she called, concerned about the frail bairn in the water alone.

But the ducklings swam right over to her, capturing her full attention. She waded farther in, throwing scraps of bread to them. Adam stepped forward to intervene, but Cristiane was quickly ready, and stepped into the pond before him.

“’Tis glad they are to see you, Meg,” Cristiane said.

Margaret made no reply, but waded deeper as she continued tearing bread from her loaf and throwing it to the ducklings. Cristiane stayed next to her, ready to grab her if she should lose her footing.

“Step carefully, lass,” Cristiane said. The farther they went into the pond, the muckier the bottom. “You don’t know if—”

All at once, Margaret slipped. Cristiane lunged, keeping the child above water, but losing her own footing. She went down with an awkward splash, up to her neck. Adam stormed into the water to help, drenching his shoes and hose and most of his tunic.

Meg clapped one hand over her mouth and her eyes grew huge and terrified. The little ducks scattered, quacking frantically at the disturbance.

Adam swore
under his breath.

And Cristiane smiled at the absurdity of the incident. She’d been trying to keep up with reticent Meg, yet the child had gone on ahead of her. Meg had stepped out a little too far, but might have kept her footing well enough without Cristiane’s clumsy assistance.

Naught had gone right for her today. To her intense mortification, Adam had caught her on the beach indulging in a spate of self-pity, weeping her heart out. He’d managed to sway her from leaving Bitterlee right away, using his daughter’s plight to induce her to stay.

And now she was sitting on the murky bottom of his duck pond, with a frightened five-year-old and a comely English nobleman looking on. It could not be more ridiculous.

Catching Meg’s eye, she laughed aloud.

The child still seemed stunned. Then Adam laughed behind her.

“Your bread is still intact, Meg!” Cristiane said amid her laughter.

“Though Lady Cristiane’s dignity is not,” Adam jested, and Cristiane sent a well-aimed splash toward him.

Adam did not mind, not after he saw the hint of a smile on his daughter’s face. Margaret was actually amused by Cristiane’s antics! If it would not have been wholly unfitting, Adam would have gathered Cristiane in his arms in gratitude for showing him the key to unlocking Margaret’s heart.

Just as he had the day before.

“Dinna laugh at me, my wee bairn,” Cristiane teased, her burr as thick as that of Wallace himself. She stood up out of the water. “Or I might be compelled to splash ye, too!”

“Oh!” Margaret
cried, unsure what to do. Adam did not interrupt, aware that Cristiane had some kind of unique rapport with Margaret. “I…”

“’Tis all right, lassie,” she said, affectionately touching Margaret’s head. “Dinna worry. I wilna dunk ye.”

But Cristiane’s dunking had molded her clothes to her body. She might as well be naked for all that her thin gown covered her, for she’d worn her old brown kirtle from St. Oln, not wanting to ruin the better gown she’d been given at Bitterlee.

Her hair was wet and pushed away from her face, leaving her throat and collarbones bare. Adam could think of naught but touching his lips to that delicate notch where they met, then trailing his mouth down to her breasts. He would not stop there. His hands would trace the sweet curve of her back and her bottom, and he would close the gap between them, pressing tightly, inflaming her. Torturing himself.

Adam looked away, across the pond. This temporary loss of his senses could only be due to his pleasure in witnessing Margaret’s changed behavior. While he recognized and appreciated Cristiane’s uncommon beauty, he was resolved to keep her at Bitterlee only as long as her influence over Margaret continued to be so vital.

When he looked back at his daughter, Cristiane was unfastening Margaret’s wimple. ’Twas not long before she was pulling it off and tossing it onto the bank. “That’s much better, Meggie,” she said as she ushered her out of the pond. “You have beautiful hair.”

Margaret touched her head tentatively, as if unfamiliar with it. Adam frowned.

“I always wished I had pretty hair like yours,” Cristiane continued. “All silky and gold like the brightest rays of the sun.”

Margaret
remained silent while Cristiane spoke, though she kept her eyes trained on Cristiane, her attention fully captured by the vibrant Scotswoman. “I had a lovely green veil once, a long time ago…” she said, as Adam picked up a towel. “And combs to hold my hair in place.”

“Combs?” Margaret said.

Adam stopped moving when Margaret spoke.

“Aye, combs,” Cristiane said, as if it weren’t the most amazing thing in the world to hear her speak. “You know—they’re made of bone and if you place them just right, your hair will be beautiful.”

“Beauti…ful.” The little girl’s speech was awkward, unpracticed. But clear.

Cristiane took the towel from Adam and continued drying herself, while Margaret watched her every move. “Your papa brought you some hair ribbons from his trip.”

Adam had forgotten them, but when Margaret looked up at him with yearning in her eyes, ’twas all he could do to keep from running to the keep and digging them out of his saddle pack.

“Aye,” he said. “I’ll give them to you when we go back. Would you like that, Margaret?”

His daughter nodded solemnly.

“Lady Cristiane,” he said, “’tis not warm enough here in the shade for you to stand about in wet clothes. We had better get you back to the keep and out of that gown.”

Cristiane blushed at his words, and he belatedly realized his double entendre. “Come,” he said, wrapping a dry towel around her. He took Margaret’s hand and was gratified when she did not resist.

Cristiane walked near them, though she held back, as if she knew she did not belong.

“Charles!” Adam
said as they entered the great hall to find Charles Penyngton on the settle before the fire. “You should be abed.”

“Aye, my lord,” Penyngton replied, “but I wanted to see you this morn. And,” he added, with a twinkle in his green eyes, “I knew there was no other way to meet Lady Cristiane.”

Adam glanced over to where Cristiane stood, wrapped in the toweling cloth and holding Margaret’s hand. Margaret looked more like a natural five-year-old now, damp and bedraggled, with her hair loose and disheveled. Her eyes were no longer expressionless. She was coming back to him.

He was sure of it.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Penyngton said, “if I do not stand.”

“Lady Cristiane, this is Charles Penyngton,” Adam said, “seneschal of Bitterlee.”

“And cousin to your mother,” Penyngton added, gaining a sharp, puzzled glance from Adam. “’Tis sorry I was to hear of her passing.”

“I…I thank you, sir,” Cristiane replied haltingly. A faint crease appeared between her brows, and Adam could see that she was baffled by his claim of kinship.

Adam had not known of Penyngton’s connection to Cristiane’s mother, either, though it made perfect sense. How else would he have known of Cristiane’s plight? He must have kept up correspondence with Lady Elizabeth all these years.

“I remember Elizabeth
when she was just a girl at Learick,” Penyngton said. He covered his mouth with a cloth as he suffered a fit of coughing. “Mayhap you will have an opportunity to pay me a visit in my chamber and I will tell you about your mother…and her journey to Scotland all those years ago.”

“I—I would like that, Sir Charles,” Cristiane said, her voice betraying her surprise, as well as her curiosity.

“My lord,” Penyngton said, facing Adam, “Bill Williamson brought this parcel up from town a short while ago.”

As soon as Adam saw it, he knew it contained the two gowns he’d had made for Cristiane. Actually, the gowns were not complete, merely cut out and started for her, since he’d been unable to provide Williamson’s wife with Cristiane’s exact proportions. Merely close approximations.

He set the parcel on one of the chairs and opened it. Inside, he found that the seamstress had used both bolts well. The gowns seemed nearly complete; all that was left was to stitch up the sides.

“I had these made for you in town,” he said, looking up at Cristiane. He lifted first one and then the other, to show her.

She wore the same expression as she had the time he’d given her shoes—close to tears, barely in control of her emotions. He thanked heaven for that. He did not think he could stand to see her overcome by tears as she’d been this morn on the beach.

“They’re not, er, finished,” he added awkwardly. “I could give only approximations of your si—” He stopped himself when he realized what he was about to say. Like a sudden storm, the image of her body, partially clothed, came upon him. Every muscle clenched as he thought of her intimate dimensions.

By the expression
in her eyes, he knew she was remembering the moment, too. He felt singed by the heat he saw there, and touched by the intensity of her emotion.

Another coughing spell, more virulent than Penyngton’s first, broke the contact between Adam and Cristiane. Adam frowned as he watched his old friend wracked with misery, and he finally insisted upon helping him back to his bed.

Cristiane hugged the bundle to her breast, then glanced at Meg, whose eyes were downcast. Not another soul was in sight, so she said, “Come with me.”

The child did not hesitate, but followed her up the two staircases and into her chamber, where Cristiane set down her bundle. She let out a laugh that was half a sob, and looked at the gowns again. “Your papa is a thoughtful man,” she said to Margaret.

The gowns were made of fabrics that were entirely unfamiliar to Cristiane. All she knew was that one was an incredible blue, with green sleeves and gold edging at the neck. The other was the most vibrant yellow she had ever seen, so soft ’twas like the down of a Cuddy duck.

The loveliness of the two gowns brought tears to her eyes. She’d never had anything so precious—besides her two books.

“Weep-ing?”

Meg’s voice startled Cristiane. She had nearly forgotten the child was with her, yet there she stood, beside the table at the bedside, her golden hair in a wild tangle, her eyes as large as goose eggs.

“Nay, lass,” Cristiane said, turning to her and taking her hand. “’Tis just that I’ve had nothing so fine as these two gowns—oh! A beautiful chemise, too!” she said, noticing the undergarment for the first time. She hugged it to her breast and blushed. “Your papa…” Had seen with his own eyes that she needed it.

She set the
unfinished gowns back on the bed and unlaced the old kirtle she’d been wearing when she’d been drenched in the pond. Glad she’d had the foresight to put it on, rather than the more acceptable one that had been provided for her, she peeled it away, along with the old undergarment.

“I donna suppose ye’ve had occasion to see anyone naked before,” she said, when she saw that Meg’s mouth had dropped open. “Well, ’tis naught to be ashamed of.” She pulled on the dry chemise and then the kirtle over it. “I did a good bit o’ swimming without clothes back home.”

Margaret still said naught, but her amazement showed in her eyes. Cristiane finished lacing her gown, then touched the child’s shoulder. “Come,” she said. “’Tis time we got you into something dry. Show me your chamber, lass.”

Meg took her hand and led her down the dim hall to the room where Adam had comforted her during the storm. The child pushed the door open and the two went inside. ’Twas dark. Cristiane walked to the window and pulled open the heavy drapes that shrouded the room.

“This is where you sleep, then?” she asked, looking at the stark furnishings of the nursery. A large wooden crucifix dominated one wall, a prie-dieu standing beneath it. At least that was what Cristiane thought it must be. She’d never seen one, but had heard her mother’s description of the little kneeling stands where a lady might say her devotions.

This one was
made of wood, just like the cross above it, and was unsoftened by any padding whatsoever. She caught wee Meg eyeing it, and Cristiane frowned, wondering how much time the child spent kneeling there.

The room also contained a narrow bed with a rough woolen cover, a small trunk that stood under the window and a plain washstand near the bed. No rushes covered the cold floor.

Meg went to the trunk and pulled out fresh clothes. She stood still then, seeming not to know what to do.

“Here, lass,” Cristiane said. “Pull out the laces…. That’s it,” she added, when Meg began to unlace herself. “Your papa will be proud when he learns what a bonny lass you are.”