Bride of the Isle (17 page)

Gerard spat into the fresh rushes.

“A bloody Scot for a bride,” he snarled derisively.

“Half-Scot,” Adam muttered, turning away from his uncle. “And you’d do well to remember it when she is my wife.”

“She’ll wed you only to stay on Bitterlee, to become mistress here,” he said. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed her wandering. The isle reminds her of her home…of all she has lost.”

That thought gave Adam pause, and he wondered if Gerard had been spying on her from one of his various hideaways on the isle.

“She’ll be no wife to you, Adam,” Gerard continued. “’Twould be better to take yourself off to Watersby when you have need of a woman, rather than take this—this bloody savage to wife.”

“Stay away from her, Gerard,” Adam stated, then turned away. He spotted Raynauld seated at a table nearby, along with Sir Elwin and his wife, Leticia. He could count upon these men to support Cristiane. They knew she was no bloodthirsty Scot. Nor was she a cold-hearted opportunist.

’Twas true that she
liked the isle…but what did that matter? The mistress of Bitterlee ought at least to feel comfortable on her island home. He would not tie himself to another wife like Rosamund, a faint-hearted woman who felt trapped and secluded here.

Voices suddenly grew quiet, and Adam looked up to see that Cristiane was standing in the gallery at the top of the stairs.

She was so beautiful that his throat went dry. She fairly shimmered in a gown of gold cloth that hugged her body from her breasts to her waist, then flared just below her hips. He nearly groaned aloud, wondering how she could be as alluring fully clothed as she was naked.

Her hair was tame, perfectly demure, and partially covered in the same golden cloth as her gown. She glowed with an aura of health…and nervousness, Adam realized.

He climbed the steps to escort her down, and saw that her hands were clenched at her sides. “My lady,” he said as he turned and took her hand, placing it atop his own. “Do you see Sir Elwin there?” he asked as they descended. “Next to him is his wife, Leticia. And Raynauld beside them.”

“Where is Meg?” she asked, and he saw her glance toward the main dais, where his uncle was sitting, hunched over a large mug.

“She will take her meal in the nursery this eve, with Mathilde,” he replied, glad to have something to speak of, to take her mind off what awaited them below. “And no prayers for her tonight, beyond one quick one before bed.”

Cristiane’s brows
raised, widening her eyes delightfully. “What will Mathilde do with her then?”

“I told her to teach Margaret a game or two,” he said, wishing he could pull Cristiane into his arms and kiss away the lines of worry.

She smiled at his jest, a tense smile, but it pleased him when she no longer resembled a prisoner being led to the stake. He knew this was difficult for her. She was entirely among strangers, people who had yet to make her feel welcome.

And she was to become their mistress.

Raynauld came to the foot of the stairs when they reached the bottom.

Cristiane was as glad of his appearance now as she’d been when he’d shown up on the staircase of the English inn and helped Adam get her to safety.

This room was not as hostile as the inn…or was it? Gerard stared malevolently at her, and it seemed that everyone else waited in silence for her to commit some grave error.

“Lady Cristiane,” Sir Elwin said as he approached, “may I present my wife, Leticia.”

A pretty round woman with rosy cheeks and glossy black hair smiled shyly at her. “’Tis my pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,”

“No greater than mine, Leticia,” Cristiane said, and with her words, the silence in the hall broke.

Everyone began to speak again. Servants moved about the tables, setting out platters of food and pitchers of ale. Musicians began playing, and a pair of jugglers thrilled the crowd with their antics.

“Shall we be seated?” Adam asked. He put his hand at Cristiane’s back and felt her trembling. “The worst seems to be over.”

They were
approached by several of Adam’s knights, and Cristiane was introduced to the reeve of Bitterlee town. She was as gracious and polite as Adam could possibly have wished.

He had hoped that Penyngton would be well enough to join them, to bolster Cristiane’s morale, but the seneschal was too ill. His cough was worse, and he was feverish. For the first time since his friend’s illness, Adam was truly worried for his life. He was pale and drawn, and coughing seemed to wrack the very life from him.

Adam had summoned Sara from town to come up and do what she could for him, and she’d promised she would remain with him as long as he needed her.

That was some relief, although Adam had hoped to introduce Sara to Cristiane tonight. He doubted that he would ever acknowledge her publicly as his sister, but he would certainly tell Cristiane of their relationship. Besides, Sara was a respected resident of the town, and Cristiane should know her.

The Bitterlee cooks provided a pleasing, impressive meal, yet Adam noticed that Cristiane merely picked at her food. She also sat stiffly in her chair, although her most avid detractor was nowhere near. Gerard had disappeared.

Adam glanced around the hall, and though there was plenty of entertainment, ale and good food, the guests were strangely somber. The people of Bitterlee were not ready to accept her as their lady, though the knights of his garrison were slowly coming ’round.

Adam turned to her. “By what miracle do you manage to induce my daughter to eat?”

“My lord?” she asked. The tiny mole at her brow moved as she frowned with puzzlement.

“You have
hardly touched your meal,” he said, “so I wondered what I might do to convince you to eat.”

“Ach, I’m na…” She blushed and bit her lip. “I’m not hungry,” she said, enunciating each word carefully.

“Cristiane,” Adam said, placing one hand over hers. “I do not judge you by your speech. You needn’t guard against the occasional slip with me.”

Her chin quivered for an instant before she was able to get her emotions under control, and she glanced at the people in the hall. “I’m afraid it
will
matter to the rest of Bitterlee.”

“Not for long,” he vowed.

He removed his hand from hers and stood. Taking up his knife, he tapped on the side of his goblet to get the attention of the assemblage. The music stopped, the jugglers dropped their balls and conversation ebbed. Soon all was quiet in the hall.

“Thank you all for joining us this eve,” he said. He spoke of the recent storm and the repairs being made. He joked about his soldiers doing the work of farmers. Finally, he said, “Our celebration tonight is to mark the occasion of my betrothal to Lady Cristiane of St. Oln.”

When silence ensued, Adam continued. “The marriage will take place in ten days, at Holy Cross Church. My bride and I invite all to attend the wedding and the Mass in town,” he said. “
And
the feasting afterward!”

Adam’s knights began to applaud, but the clapping sounded hollow in the hall. The townspeople sat quietly, apparently stunned by their lord’s news. Adam had not believed Cristiane’s body could become any stiffer than it had been during the meal, but now she seemed brittle enough to break.

“A toast!” Sir Elwin called before Adam could act.

The knights and all their ladies stood as Elwin toasted the lord and his lady’s health, wishing them a long and prosperous life together. By the time he was finished speaking, all the other guests had stood and lifted their cups to Adam and Cristiane.

Though they
drank reluctantly, Adam felt ’twas a beginning. He could not ask for more.

R
ain threatened. Cristiane
could feel the change in the air, and the heaviness matched her mood.

Standing on the parapet where she’d met Adam her first morning on Bitterlee, she breathed deeply.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said quietly.

Cristiane whirled around at the sound of his voice, and saw Adam step away from the door and walk toward her, lit by the hazy moonlight.

“They will accept you in time,” he said.

Cristiane said naught, but turned and placed both hands on the low crenelation. She was not so optimistic. Their disdain was clear. Yet she would not renege on her promise to wed him.

She knew she could not bear to leave him, even if every last person on the isle hated her.

“How many men did you lose at Falkirk?” she asked without turning.

“Seventy.”

Cristiane’s heart dropped. So many men. So many families affected. How would a Scotswoman ever win them over? Would they ever see her as aught but the enemy?

“Nearly all
of the knights in the hall tonight went to Scotland with us as well,” Adam said. “They do not hold you responsible for our losses.”

“’Tis not a rational thing,” she said. “I merely represent that which caused their sorrows.”

“You are too insightful for your own good, Cristiane,” he remarked, turning her to face him. His strong hands were gentle on her shoulders, and Cristiane wished that he would pull her close, mayhap even kiss her as he had done once before. “Their feelings will change. They will see what you’ve done for Margaret and…”

’Twas clear he did not want to kiss her, or he’d have done so by now. She did not understand why he’d kissed her that one time, unless he’d been carried away with the emotion of seeing changes in Meg. He’d certainly not thought of doing it since then.

Resigned to becoming a mere replacement for Meg’s mother, Cristiane could not allow herself to dwell on her secondary position. She would become Adam’s wife, and a mother to the lass. Mayhap in time Adam would come to care for her as she cared for him.

But she would not count on it.

Thunder rumbled low in the distance, presaging the storm to come. Adam let go of Cristiane’s shoulders reluctantly. If he had not, he’d have done something he would certainly live to regret.

He reminded himself that patience was the key. He would court her as if she had a chaperon with her at all times, and never once give her reason to feel alarmed in his presence. Soon after the marriage, he would approach her as a husband, but not until then.

“Rain is coming,” he said, exerting monumental control over his baser urges.

“Will it be as
severe as the last?”

“I hope not,” he replied. “There was enough damage done in town. We don’t need any more.”

“Has…has Meg always had a fear of storms?” she asked.

“You heard her, then, the night you arrived?”

“Aye…” she replied, turning away.

“Before I went away,” he said, “before her mother died, she was never afraid. Now the sound of thunder sends her into a panic…. ’Tis not practical for one who lives on Bitterlee to fear a storm.”

In the moonlight, he saw the crease between Cristiane’s brows that indicated she was puzzling over some problem. It warmed his heart to know that she was concerned about his daughter, that she thought about the things that troubled her.

He would have taken her in his arms right then if he hadn’t been afraid that his premature advances would drive her to the edge of this parapet.

Shuddering, he stepped away.

This time, when Cristiane heard the scream in the night, she knew what it was. Though she knew Adam would take care of Meg, she scrambled out of bed and lit a lamp anyway, before hurrying to Meggie’s chamber.

Adam was there ahead of her, only partially dressed, already holding the child in his arms. His back was to her, but Meg saw her as soon as she walked through the doorway.

“Chris-ty!” the girl wailed.

“Aye, lass,” Cristiane said. “I’m here.”

Another crack of thunder rattled the window and Meg screamed again. “Papa!”

“I’m here, Margaret,” he
said. “There’s naught to fear.”

“Mama!” she cried, burying her face against Adam’s bare chest. “Come back!”

“Cristiane is here, sweet,” Adam said, glancing up, “and she is not leaving.”

Cristiane sat down on the bed with Adam and his daughter, putting her arm around Meg’s wee shoulders. “Try not to let the wind and thunder frighten you, Meggie,” she said quietly. “’Twill not hurt you.”

“It hurt Mama,” she said against Adam’s chest, so that it was difficult to understand her.

“Nay,” Adam said. “Mama was hurt when she fell.”

Cristiane looked sharply at Adam. She’d not heard Rosamund’s cause of death before, and it surprised her to learn the woman had fallen to her death. Had it happened during a storm? Had she slipped on the rocks near the beach? Was that why Adam had told her there was no way down there?

“Was it storming when Lady Rosamund fell?” Cristiane asked him.

Adam shook his head. “I do not know. She died the week before my return from Falkirk.”

“Mayhap we should find out.”

The storm passed without doing any damage, and life went on as it had before. Cristiane and Meg fed the ducklings and swam at the waterfall, while Adam kept watch over them.

He learned that Rosamund had, indeed, jumped from the parapet during a violent storm. But why such a strong connection between storms and Rosamund’s death should exist in Margaret’s mind was unexplained. Adam could only hope she would outgrow it, just as she seemed to be developing normally in other ways again.

As the days passed, Charles
Penyngton’s condition worsened, and Cristiane made only a few short visits, as they seemed to tire him. Sara Cole, however, spent a good deal more time at the castle, nursing him.

“Is there anyone in town who is not opposed to my marriage to Cristiane?” Adam asked Sara late one afternoon as he walked her to the main door of the great hall. Penyngton’s fever had broken and he was resting comfortably, so Sara would return home until she was summoned to the castle again.

“Of course,” she replied. “But there are those who will despise her forever, just because of her Scottish blood.”

“You know these people, Sara,” he said. “You live with them. Do you think their opinion of her will change in time?”

“They regard you most highly, my lord,” she said. “I cannot imagine they would scorn your wife forever.”

“I’ve noticed some of the servants warming to her,” Adam mused. In fact, several of the younger maids had begun to show deference to her, and the footmen and grooms did not seem quite so hostile.

“As will the rest of the people of Bitterlee,” she said.

“I hope—”

“Papa!” Margaret’s voice broke into their conversation, and Adam looked up to see his daughter running toward him. Cristiane remained behind. She seemed wary, unsure.

Adam took Sara’s arm and walked down the stone staircase to meet Margaret, who threw her arms ’round her father’s legs. “Cristiane,” he said, lifting Margaret into his arms. “Come and meet Sara.”

Cristiane wished she had worn one
of her better gowns today. Instead, she found herself meeting this paragon of Bitterlee wearing some woman’s discarded, faded green kirtle. And her hair was its usual mess, having been subjected to the wind down near the pond.

“How do you do, Mistress Cole.”

“Sara, please,” she said. “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, my lady. Lord Bitterlee has spoken of you often.”

Cristiane felt a pang of jealousy that she knew was unwarranted. He may have told Sara about
her,
but had hardly mentioned Sara in their own conversations. It gave her the impression that her betrothed shared long, intimate talks with this woman.

And Sara was beautiful, with perfect skin and lovely features. Cristiane knew her own appearance could not begin to compete with Sara Cole’s.

“I’m sure there’s not much for him to tell,” Cristiane said, taking care to tame her burr.

“Oh, but there is,” Sara replied. “Look how much you’ve helped little Margaret. I cannot believe the change in her.”

She reached over and smoothed a lock of Margaret’s blond hair away from her face, and Cristiane had the irrational urge to tell the woman to leave her daughter alone. ’Twas ridiculous. After all, Sara Cole had known Meg all her life. Cristiane was a newcomer.

Still…

“—told me of the ducklings you and Margaret saved,” Sara was saying. “And about a fox that actually takes bread from your hand.”

Cristiane’s eyes opened wide and flew to meet Adam’s. How did he know she’d been feeding the fox? The last time he’d gone with them to the waterfall, the fox had still been too shy to come near. He must have seen her—

She blushed from the roots of her hair
to her neck. The only way he could possibly have known about her feeding the fox was if he’d seen her bathing with Meg. They still went every day that the weather permitted, and they swam naked in the water.

“I—I…”

“’Tis quite a talent,” Sara said, “this way that you have with wild creatures.”

“I suppose….” she replied. “That is, I…” She did not dare look at Adam or her color would deepen even more.

“Drink, Cris-ty!” Meggie cried, slipping out of Adam’s arms and rescuing Cristiane from her shock. She had every reason to take her leave now, without seeming ungracious.

“If you’ll excuse us, my lord,” she said, “Sara. ’Twas a pleasure meeting you.”

Cristiane climbed the steps holding Meg’s hand. When they entered the dark hall, the dogs stood up and trotted over, anxious for Cristiane’s attention. “A
way with animals,
indeed,” she muttered. “No healing skills, no control over the servants, no—”

“Breeding,” Gerard said. He sat in one of the chairs near the hearth, and Cristiane had not seen him. “Nothing at all to recommend you.”

Meg tugged at Cristiane’s skirts to draw her away from the unpleasant uncle, and Cristiane was more than willing to follow.

“Not like Sara,” he said, slurring his words. “Much better suited to Bitterlee.”

Even though they were walking away from him, Cristiane heard what he said. And this time, she couldn’t have agreed with him more.

Adam found them sitting on
the steps at one of the back entrances of the keep, sipping water from mugs. The two big dogs pranced around them, waiting for some attention.

He could not forget Cristiane’s expression when she’d realized he’d seen them at the waterfall. Fortunately, she had not seemed angry. She had blushed, and there’d been heat in her eyes for the instant she’d allowed herself to look at him.

This was wholly satisfactory progress, he thought.

“We travel to Bitterlee town tomorrow,” he said, sitting down next to Cristiane. Sara had proposed a fête in town to introduce Cristiane. She had found Cristiane charming, and believed that the townsfolk would quickly come to accept her if they had an opportunity to meet her.

“No, Papa!”

He should not have been surprised by his daughter’s reaction, but she’d become so much more inquisitive and outgoing these last few days that he’d expected her to be interested in a trip to town. “Why not, Margaret?”

“We feed the ducklings!” she said. Her words were becoming less disjointed, much more appropriate for a child her age.

“I see,” he replied. “And if we found someone who would feed them in your place?”

Margaret pondered the question.

“Because there is to be a festival in town,” he added, raising his eyes to meet Cristiane’s. “To celebrate my betrothal to Lady Cristiane.”

“Oh, but Adam—”

“Don’t tell me you
cannot leave the ducklings for one day, either, Cristiane,” he teased. He would do anything to remove the line of worry that creased her forehead, yet he knew how important it was for her to go into town and mingle with the people.

No one could hate her once they knew her.

“N-nay…”

“Do not worry,” he said. “I’ll be with you. Naught untoward will happen tomorrow.”

It seemed to Cristiane that the town was overtaken with children. And quiet, cautious adults.

Cristiane could only be grateful that Gerard Sutton was not here to add to her unease.

The day was overcast and cool, but musicians played, and the jugglers and acrobats who entertained at the castle were there to help to enliven the gathering. Adam had been true to his word, and kept by Cristiane’s side. No one had the gall to act in an overtly hostile manner. In fact, there were a few who’d actually been friendly.

“Many blessings on you,” said a young girl as she handed her a clump of flowers.

“I thank you,” Cristiane said, overcoming the vast lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. “What is your name?”

“’Tis Gemette, my lady,” the girl replied before running off.

Meggie clung to Cristiane’s skirts, eyeing the children as they ran through the lanes, frolicking and playing as they would do on any feast day. Though she was not quite ready to join them, their activities fascinated her.

Trestle tables were set up in the center of town in front of the stone church, and women were bringing baskets of food—breads and dishes of fish, mostly—under Sara Cole’s supervision. Also helping were several of Adam’s servants, who laid out food brought from the castle earlier in the day.

It would all have been
very inviting if Cristiane had not been quite so nervous.

“My lord.” ’Twas the reeve. Cristiane remembered being introduced to him at their betrothal feast. “Lady Cristiane, may I present my wife, Lucy Morton.”

“I am glad to meet you,” Cristiane said to the woman, who carried an infant in her arms and walked with a toddler wrapped around one leg.

“Likewise, my lady,” Lucy replied, obviously feeling awkward.

“Your children are beautiful,” Cristiane said. “But they must cause a good bit of work.”

“Ah, that they do,” she said, “and we have two more, besides.”

“What are their ages, Madam Morton?” Cristiane asked.

As Lucy relaxed and spoke of her family, Adam gave Cristiane’s arm a reassuring squeeze. Or mayhap ’twas more in the way of letting her know that she was doing well with his people.