Bride of the Isle (15 page)

Except when she stood at the waterfall, bared to nature and all the elements. He pinched his eyes tight and suppressed a groan as his body responded to the vivid memory of Cristiane’s naked beauty and the taste of her kiss. “I cannot imagine the people ever accepting her as mistress of Bitterlee,” he said, his voice oddly harsh.

“Mayhap in time they will,” Sara said.

“Lady Rosamund was never truly part of Bitterlee in all the years of your marriage,” Charles said. “There was naught about the isle that pleased her.”

Adam nodded absently, his stomach churning at the thought of watching Cristiane ride away with an escort of his men. She would sail to the mainland, her hair blowing freely, her skirts hugging her legs as she stood in the wind during the crossing. From there, she would leave for York, and he would never see her again.

“She is anxious to go to her uncle,” he said, thinking of all the times in the past week that she’d spoken of leaving.

“Why would she?” Charles asked. “She has never met the Earl of Learick, and after what happened to her mother…”

“She speaks of leaving for York…”

“Idle talk,” he said. “Ask her to stay. Or send her to me, and I’ll make your proposal for you. As her nearest relation—nearest
available
relation— ’twould be entirely fitting for me to do so.”

As Adam paced across the room again, he did not notice Charles and Sara exchanging a
curious glance. He could only think of Cristiane sailing away from the isle, and how dull and vacuous Bitterlee would seem once she was gone.

“What will she have in York?” he asked. “An uncle and some cousins—”

“Aye,” Charles said. “Two of them. Both young men.”

Young men.
If not the cousins, then some other young man. Someone who had the sense to see beyond her unrefined exterior. Someone who would learn to care for her, who would take her to wife…

Adam’s jaw clenched involuntarily. He stopped his pacing directly in front of Charles. “Do it then,” he said. “I’ll send Lady Cristiane to you before we sup. You will act as her guardian in this instance and make her an offer—”

“If I may, my lord…” Sara interjected. “If it were me, I would rather receive a proposal from my bridegroom, not from a distant cousin who deigns to act as my guardian.”

Adam ran a hand over his whiskered jaw. “I…when Rosamund and I wed…our fathers negotiated the match.”

“Well, since neither of you has a father…”

The silence in the room was palpable for a moment.

“Aye,” Adam finally said as he straightened his tunic. “I will do it. I will speak to her tonight.”

Cristiane sat next to the open window of her chamber, bent over her sewing, her heart in shreds. She knew ’twas impossible to stay here any longer, feeling as she did about Adam and his daughter. It had been a mistake to insinuate that she would remain any longer than necessary, especially
now that she was aware of the arrangement Adam had made with her mother.

He’d had ample time to decide whether to take her to wife. Clearly, he’d decided she was not suitable. ’Twas true she had few womanly skills. Though capable of putting these gowns together, she could never have sewn them from a bolt of cloth. She had no knowledge of embroidery or of brewing, nor did she have experience in ordering a household.

She could read Latin, but what use was that to a man who had a learned seneschal?

The people of the castle avoided her, the servants went out of their way to snub her, and his uncle despised her. Though she worked to curb her Scottish tongue and speak as her mother had taught her, her burr slipped out at inopportune times. And there was naught to be done about her hair, unless she kept it covered at all times.

She rubbed the back of one hand over eyes that were suddenly moist, then sniffed. She resumed her sewing, anxious to finish the last gown, a lovely creation of fine golden cloth. As soon as it was done, she would be ready to leave for Learick.

’Twould be difficult to leave Adam and Meg. Cristiane did not think she’d ever seen a child so needy. The poor lass grieved for her mother, her father barely knew how to deal with her, and her nurse…well, poor Mathilde was not well suited to bringing up a child. She treated Meg as a tiny adult.

At least Meg had started to come out of herself. The grief would always be with her, but she was moving past the pain that had been locked inside. She
would not need Cristiane much longer.

As for Adam…they’d shared one amazing kiss. That was all.

Clearly, it had not meant the same to him as it had to her. Nor had any of the other moments they’d shared over the last few days.

Cristiane wiped her eyes once again, then decided she needed a change of setting. Remaining indoors at a task she found tedious only served to worsen her mood.

She picked up a comb and worked to restore her hair to order, anchoring it with the combs Adam had given her. Brushing a few stray threads from her gown, Cristiane decided that all her paltry attempts at grooming were for naught. She was still a plain Scottish lass—unwelcome on English soil.

She would walk down to the pond, or mayhap to the beach. She had no intention of dining in the great hall, where Sir Gerard and his caustic tongue would be at the ready. Nor did she feel she could face Adam just yet.

Considering that there was a bit more daylight left, she took one of her books from the trunk at the foot of the bed, blew out the candles in the lamps, then turned and opened the door.

“Adam!”

Adam rubbed his palms against his thighs. He could not understand why he had ever thought Cristiane uncivilized. Or untidy. Cleanliness had never been a shortcoming, but now she was beautifully dressed in a gown she had helped to make, and her hair was cunningly arranged and contained. Clearly, she was more gently bred than he had credited her.

“I apologize for, uh, startling you,” he said. “’Twas not my intention, er…”

God’s teeth, he was stammering!
He cleared his throat. “Might I escort you to the hall?”

She did not respond immediately, her movements strangely
awkward for a woman who always moved so well, so gracefully. Something was amiss, though Adam had no inkling what it might be. Unless Gerard…

“I—I am not hungry, my lord,” she finally said. “I’d planned to go down to the pond…” she lifted the object she held in her hands “…to read.”

Masking his astonishment, he took the book from her. “Roger Bacon,” he said, looking at the cover. “You read
Opus Maius?
”

She gave a small nod. “I thought I’d spend the last hour of daylight with this…”

He handed the beautiful, leather-bound volume back to her and jabbed his fingers through his hair. She could read, he told himself.
Latin.

“I…” She stopped and licked her lips nervously, hugging the book to her breasts. “I must admit I’ve not done as Friar Roger teaches…”

“What?” Adam asked incredulously. She’d thrown him entirely off balance. “Learned Arabic? Studied mathematics?” That she’d read
Opus Maius
at all was beyond comprehension.
He
had only heard of this Franciscan scholar, and he knew of no woman who bothered with such lofty ideas. He leaned one hand against the lintel of the door, his brows drawn together in bewilderment.

“Nay, m’lord, I’ve not studied Greek or Arabic.”

“But you
have
studied mathematics.”

“Some.”

Abruptly, he took her arm and drew her out of her chamber. How could he have misjudged her so? He’d taken her measure by her appearance only, never bothering to look any deeper.

Adam kept hold of her as they walked to the stairs and descended,
until they reached the great hall. “Where is wee Meg, m’lord?” Cristiane asked. “Will she not eat?”

Wee Meg…
It sounded so very Scottish, yet ’twas merely an endearment. Had he mistaken
everything
about Cristiane?

“Nay,” Adam replied distractedly. “She is asleep in her bed. Her eventful day wore her out.”

“Oh. Well…is there some other, er, problem?” Cristiane inquired. Her forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown, and his eyes were drawn to a tiny mole just above one golden brow. He did not know how he’d missed the delightful spot before now. He envisioned himself touching his mouth to it, smoothing the worry from her brow.

“I only want to talk to you,” he said, tearing his eyes away.

Several of his men were assembled in the hall for the meal, but food was not in the forefront of Adam’s thoughts. He wanted to get Cristiane away from the crowd, where he could collect his thoughts and ask her to become the lady of Bitterlee.

Nay. ’Twas too formal a proposal. Instead, he would ask her simply to wed him. But hearing the words in his head made him realize that approach was too indifferent. He was the intended bridegroom, therefore he needed to make it much more personal, as Sara had advised. Trying the words again, he decided he would ask her to do him the very great honor of becoming his wife.

And then he would give her his reasons.

H
e refrained from touching her
as they walked along the cobbled path through the garden, uncertain of his ability to make his proposal without scaring her off. He knew how Rosamund would have reacted if he’d touched her in an overly familiar manner at their betrothal. He did not want to elicit the same reaction from Cristiane Mac Dhiubh.

Nay, he would take some time with Cristiane. Wooing her, softening her, until she would welcome his advances.

“Were all seven ducklings still here this afternoon, m’lord?” Cristiane asked when they reached the pond.

“Aye,” he replied. “We fed every one of them.”

“Good,” she said. “If they can survive another week, I think they’ll be all right.”

He nodded in agreement. She seemed to know a great deal about wild creatures, and held a special affinity for them.

Rosy light from the setting sun glinted on Cristiane’s hair, and several tendrils had come loose from the combs. They framed her face softly, accentuating the delicate shape of her ears, the line of her jaw.

His fingers ached to touch her.

He knew how it felt to kiss her, to hold her. But he also knew how a wife responded to such advances. Rosamund had despised
any physical intercourse with him. He was determined to exercise whatever restraint was necessary to keep Cristiane from becoming frightened of him.

“There is a bench on the far side of the pond,” he said when they reached the place where Cristiane and Meg had waded in to feed the ducklings.

“Oh,” she replied. “I haven’t been to the other side yet.”

Still, Adam refrained from touching Cristiane as they continued on the path, circling the water as he absorbed everything about her. She was surefooted, matching his pace as they walked. Not dainty, he noticed, though her skin was very fine and her bones sturdy.

She would have no difficulty bearing his children.

“Do you not have swans here?”

Adam flushed with color, and was glad Cristiane was looking across the pond and not at him. “Nay,” he said. “To my knowledge, Bitterlee has never had any.”

“There were none in St. Oln, either,” she said, “or I’d have known them.”

“I have no doubt you would,” he replied. “How did you learn so much about the birds and beasts?”

“From my father,” she replied. “He was a learned man, for all the warring he was forced to do.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “A scholar, he was,” she said, slowly making her way along the path. “He even studied for a time in Paris…before he wed my mother.”

“So that explains the book?”

“Aye,” she said. “
And
the reason my mother was sent to him, though I didna understand it entirely until Sir Charles explained the
circumstances to me.”

“How so?”

“My uncle—my mother’s brother,” she said, “knew my father in Paris years ago. That was never secret.”

They reached the bench and sat down facing east, where the sky was a deep wash of blue upon gray.

“My mother never hid the fact that she’d had a falling-out with her father, which was why she left Learick,” Cristiane continued. “I never knew the particulars of their…disagreement…though I’d always known ’twas her brother who’d arranged for her to go to St. Oln.”

Adam said naught, but watched the play of the sky’s changing colors in her eyes. ’Twas clear that the loss of her parents was still fresh in her heart, yet it seemed to do her good to speak of them.

“She wasna happy there,” Cristiane said. “She never felt that she belonged.”

If Cristiane refused his proposal, would this be the reason? Because she knew how it was to be an outsider? He had every reason to believe he could make his people come to accept her. With Sara’s help, they would forget she was half-Scot, and would think of her only as the mistress of Bitterlee. His wife.

“And now I know the other cause of my mother’s sadness,” Cristiane said. “The way her father dealt with her lover…” She shuddered.

Adam was certain she would be just as much an outsider in Learick. The fact that she was the lord’s niece would not make her seem any more English to the people of Learick, especially now, with so many English lives lost in King Edward’s campaign against Scotland.

And there would be many at Learick who would remember her mother’s indiscretion with the huntsman. Who knew how that
would affect the way they treated Cristiane?

“I suppose I’d worry about my parentage,” Cristiane said, glancing away, “but I know my mother went to Scotland and married my father several years before I was born.”

There was naught he could say about that, so he took the book from her hands once again, opened it and carefully turned the pages, reading a short passage in Latin aloud.

“Theologians sometimes discuss the substance of our earth,” Cristiane translated with ease, “trying to locate heaven. They want to know if it lies on the equator. They ask, where is hell? Do the heavens have power over things that can be born and die? Or over the rational soul…”

“Your Latin is far superior to mine, my lady,” Adam said.

“I doubt you have much use for it,” she said, blushing at his compliment.

“You are right about that,” he said. “’Tis fortunate I have Sir Charles to do all my writing for me.”

“Was it he who corresponded with my mother…who made the arrangements for me to be brought here?”

“It was,” he said, and it seemed a good time to make his proposal. “Lady Cristiane…”

The book lay open on his lap, unnoticed now, though the wind fluttered its pages. She looked up at him and unconsciously moistened her lips.

He cleared his throat. “You and Meg—Margaret—get on well.”

“Aye,” Cristiane said. “She’s a bonny child.”

“And the isle…it pleases you.”

“’Tis true,” she sighed. “If only there was time to explore every corner of it! But I’ll soon leave for York and—”

“Cristiane,” he said. He nearly took her hand in his, but thought better of it. “You need not leave Bitterlee.”

Her brows came together for an
instant over puzzled eyes. “But I—”

“Stay,” he said. “Remain on the isle and become my wife.”

Cristiane would have clapped her hands with joy if only Adam had shown some enthusiasm, some personal need for her, beyond that of taking care of his daughter.

His manner was cool, distant, as if her answer was of little consequence. She looked up into his eyes and saw something in the stormy gray depths, a flash of something she’d not seen before and could not identify.

If only he would touch her, mayhap even kiss her again. She longed to feel his arms around her, feel the length of his body pressed against hers. She needed to know that he wanted her as badly as she yearned for him. Then she would know how to answer.

Her reaction was foolish.

Many a marriage—even that of her parents—had been based on less. Titles, estates, political power…these were good reasons to wed. Truly, when she arrived at her uncle’s estate, there would be far less reason for any man to wed her, for she had no land, no dowry, no political connections. If anything, she would merely be an unwelcome Scot.

’Twould be much the same here, though the days spent with Meg, and the beauty of the isle, might be compensation enough.

Whatever spark had been in Adam’s eyes was gone now, every expression carefully concealed. But Cristiane had seen it, and she believed there was more behind Adam’s proposal than
the convenience of gaining a new nursemaid for Meg.

His assessment was partially correct—the isle pleased her, and she got on exceptionally well with Meg. What he did not know was that she loved him, and would have stayed even if he had not asked her to wed him.

“I have no dowry, my lord,” she said quietly. His jaw was rough with dark growth, and she could almost feel its texture without even touching him. Without noticing, she leaned closer, wondering how his whiskers would feel against her skin.

“A dowry is not necessary,” he replied, his breath mingling with hers. ’Twas warm and inviting, and Cristiane could not keep herself from inching even closer.

“’Tis unlikely that the people of Bitterlee will ever accept me as mistress here.” Her voice was a mere whisper. Blood pounded in her ears as she watched his eyelids lower, and he gazed at her lips. Surely he wanted to touch her. In another moment he would ki—

“That will change in time,” he said, suddenly standing. He stepped a few paces away, then turned and looked at her, his hands gripped into fists at his sides.

She could not help but notice that the pulse in his neck was racing and his expression was earnest. Cristiane could almost believe her answer to his proposal was of the greatest importance to him.

She did not understand why this should be so, but did not care to question it now. ’Twas enough that she would be allowed to stay. “Well then, my lord,” she said, looking into his stormy gray eyes, “I’ll stay. I’ll be your wife…”

“Papa coming too?” Meg asked as she took Cristiane’s hand. They went through the great hall and out the main door, walking through the bailey toward the path that led
to the waterfall. The sun was high and warm, and ’twas a perfect time for swimming.

“Nay, Papa said he would see us later,” Cristiane replied. “He had some matters to attend in town.”

Her heart was full as it had not been in months, and there was naught that could spoil her day, not even the distance Adam kept between them. ’Twas no matter, Cristiane thought. She could only believe that would change after they were wed.

In the meantime, she and Meg would have their swim, would play near the waterfall for a while, and at supper Adam would announce their betrothal.

She smiled at the thought.

“Taking the half-wit for a stroll?”

Meg let go of Cristiane’s hand and buried her face in Cristiane’s skirts when Gerard spoke.

Cristiane did not know how the man managed to sneak up on her so often, but he’d done it again—caught her unawares, startling her with his cruel words.

“Try to keep a civil tongue, Sir Gerard,” she said, somehow managing to stop her voice from quavering. “Or ’twill be said the isle was named after you.” She peeled Meg’s hand from her skirts and led her forward again.

Some of the men in the bailey must have heard the interchange, because there was laughter behind them now, and Gerard’s angry voice in reaction to it. Cristiane did not know how she had summoned the nerve to speak in such a way to Gerard, but she was not sorry for it. And if he ever said another disparaging word about wee Meg and her lack of speech…well, Cristiane would not be responsible for her actions.

She took Meg’s hand in her own and continued down the path. Meg held on as if her very
life depended upon it.

“I wonder if our bonny wee fox will come today,” Cristiane said once the castle wall was out of sight.

“Have you any…bread?” Meg asked, still cowed by the confrontation with Gerard.

Cristiane laughed, then stopped and hugged the child. “You are a quick one, my lass!” she said, treasuring the thought of becoming this child’s mother. She felt a fierce protectiveness toward her, and woe to anyone who would dare to hurt her. “Aye, I brought bread.”

They came to the place where the path turned and continued toward the waterfall. They climbed down to the rocks and wandered near the falls for a few minutes, while Cristiane glanced ’round, looking to see if the area was entirely isolated before shedding their clothes to swim.

Cristiane suspected the English would consider swimming naked barbaric, but naked was how she’d done it at home. Besides, she had no spare clothes—and no extra chemise—to wear in the water. Meg probably had one. Cristiane would find out about that before they came here again.

For now, though, they were alone, the sun was shining and the day could not have been more fine. “Come on, Meggie,” she said to the child as she pulled off her shoes. “There’s a lovely blue pool waiting for us!”

There was no reason to wait three full weeks to wed her.

Early that morn, Adam had dispatched a man to the bishop in Alnwick, with letters from the priest of St. Oln, and Lady Elizabeth, and another from Father Beaupré, attesting to the
lawfulness of the match. It should only take a few days for the journey, then to see the bishop and gain his permission. ’Twas possible to be wed by week’s end.

Adam would wait no longer. He did not think he
could
wait any longer.

He gazed down at the pool where Cristiane and Margaret swam. He’d promised himself only to keep watch over them, but found he could not keep his eyes from straying down to them.

And why should he not?

The one was his own little daughter, the other his betrothed, soon to be his wife…

Even though she stayed mostly in the water and out of sight, Adam’s body reacted in a manner that was becoming familiar. It had been years since he’d felt this way. He wanted Cristiane fiercely, but there was no doubt that she would be terrified by the intensity of his need.

He vowed to keep control.

They would have many long years together, and Adam would not spend them the same way he’d passed his years with Rosamund, with her ignoring and avoiding him.

He wanted Cristiane.

And he believed that, with care, he could foster and encourage the glimmer of interest he’d seen in her eyes. He knew ’twas not impossible for a wife to desire her husband. He’d seen evidence of it with some of his men. Elwin, for instance. The men often made veiled remarks regarding his lusty wife.

But Adam’s mother, as well as his own wife, had abhorred their husband’s touch.

Adam wanted this marriage to be different. He wanted Cristiane to feel every bit as eager to touch him as he was to touch her. He wanted to
hold her through the night as they slept in his bed. He did not know why this ideal held such appeal—his parents had certainly never done it, nor had any other nobleman of his acquaintance. He’d never spent an entire night with Rosamund.
She
had never once visited his bed, and on the occasions when Adam had gone to hers, she’d made it clear he was unwelcome to stay the night.