Bride of the Isle (19 page)

Adam would have prolonged the ride if he could. He put his arms ’round Cristiane’s waist and pulled her back against him, relaxing to the sway of his horse’s easy gait. The top of her head fit just under his chin, as if she were made for him.

And he had no doubt that she was.

Her hair was loose, and as they trotted up the path, it tickled his nose and chin. She smelled warm and feminine, and thoroughly enticing. He moved his hands to span the area below her breasts, gratified by her reaction.

She sighed.

’Twas all Adam could
do to keep from leaving the path and finding a private place to further explore her reactions to him. If he could touch her this way, would she allow him to kiss her mouth, or her ear? He would give most anything to press his lips to the notch at the base of her throat, to spread his hands over the enticing softness of her breasts.

He knew these thoughts were untimely. He had no intention of acting precipitously, of frightening her. Besides, he had to consider his daughter. She would not appreciate arriving at the castle without her papa,
or
her new mama.

Adam contented himself for the moment with Cristiane’s closeness, the softness of her body and the anticipation of pleasures to come.

Soon she would be his wife, and his efforts at wooing her would bring results they would both cherish.

Tomorrow, Cristiane would become Lady Bitterlee. The special permission had arrived from Alnwick only yesterday, and while she had been on pins and needles awaiting word from the bishop, Adam had been confident that it would arrive in time.

She had seen Sara Cole several times since the incident in town, but had spoken to her only once, to thank her for the use of her cottage. The other times, Sara had been coming or going to see Charles Penyngton, whose illness had again become worse.

Adam’s relationship with Sara worried Cristiane. There could be little doubt that the townswoman was his mistress, and Cristiane wondered if that would continue after
they were wed. She was too embarrassed to speak of it to Adam, even though she was desperate to understand the terms of their marriage.

He might mistake her concern for jealousy.

Still, she wished she knew what to expect of this union. ’Twas clear that Adam considered her a good nursemaid for his daughter. But he would soon want a male heir. Since Sara Cole was not of noble birth, she would not be a suitable mother for his son.

Which left Cristiane.

Sunlight filtered in through the solar windows, giving enough light for Agatha Williamson to work on the gown Cristiane would wear for her wedding. The seam-stress fit the last bit of contrasting cloth into the bodice.

“’Tis too low,” Cristiane complained.

“Aw now, you’ve got to give your bridegroom a tiny peek at your charms….”

Cristiane blushed. Adam had already seen her unclothed—and more than once. A bit of décolletage was naught compared to that, so Cristiane went along with Agatha, complaining no further until the woman pulled the laces at the back.

She sucked in a breath and said, “’Tis so tight, Madam Williamson!”

“To make the most of your other charms,” the seamstress replied. “Believe me, your husband will have eyes only for you, my lady.”

“Aye, because I’ll be lying prostrate on the floor of the church for lack of air.”

Agatha laughed but did not relent. “Nay, you’ll be the most beautiful lady there.”

Cristiane could only hope that would be true, at least upon the day she became Adam’s wife.

“You look much
better this morn, Charles,” Adam said. ’Twas the morning of his wedding, and he’d wanted his old friend to attend. But even though Charles seemed improved, he was not well enough to make the ride to town and back.

“Aye,” the seneschal replied. “I feel much better, too.”

“Don’t suppose I can persuade you to talk some sense into my fool nephew,” Gerard said, leaning lazily against one wall of Charles’s chamber.

“Regarding what?” Charles asked.

“Cease, Gerard,” Adam said, more annoyed with his uncle than he’d ever been. “I’ve heard all your objections and they’re unfounded.”

“The Scotswoman knew a good thing when she saw it,” Gerard said, sneering, “and she went after it.”

Charles said, “Sir Gerard, I sincerely doubt—”

“Doubt what? That she did not intend to become mistress of the richest demesne in all Northumberland?”

“Exactly,” Charles replied, though he barely got out the word before he went into a fit of coughing.

Adam did not like Gerard’s accusations. They reminded him of Cristiane’s plight—of being taken away from her home to be sent south to York, to family who could very well harbor hostility toward her, not only because of her Scottish blood, but also because of her mother’s indiscretion.

Still, both he and Cristiane had been manipulated by Charles. He’d been encouraging Adam to take her to wife ever since her arrival on the isle. And he’d told Cristiane about her mother’s unfortunate affair, with the hope that she would be less inclined to want to go to York because of it.

Well, all had worked according to Penyngton’s plan, though Adam’s reasons for marrying Cristiane had naught to do with convenience, or with her suitability as a mother to his daughter.

His life had become
full as it had never been before. Cristiane was exciting and adventuresome, willing to take a risk. Her beauty stole his breath away, and when he touched her…well, thus far, she had not shied away from him. That alone gave him hope that she would respond with enthusiasm—not abhorrence—when he finally made love to her.

Adam did not care whether or not Gerard was correct in his assumptions regarding Cristiane’s desire to be mistress of Bitterlee. ’Twas the marriage he wanted, and he was certain he and Cristiane would fare well together. Besides, he could not have borne sending her to her uncle.

She belonged here on Bitterlee.

“
She
did not ask
me
to wed her, Gerard,” Adam said.

“She did not need to,” Gerard said. “She’s teased you with her shapely arse and flaunted her—”

Adam slammed his uncle up against the wall, his forearm pinning the older man’s throat so he was unable to speak.

“Another word, you bloody bastard,” he said, his voice low. “One more word about my
wife
and you will no longer be welcome on Bitterlee soil. Is that clear?”

Gerard’s eyes flamed angrily for a moment, then he capitulated. Adam let him loose after another moment, and Gerard stormed out of the chamber.

A long silence ensued as Adam remained standing in place, his heart pounding, his blood roaring in his ears. He would not tolerate any slurs against Cristiane. If there was anyone on the isle who was more pure of heart, and of body, then he did not know who it was.

“I don’t suppose
he’ll be at the wedding,” Charles finally remarked.

Adam said naught as he worked to control his anger. His uncle had been a difficult man ever since Adam’s father had allowed him to come home years ago. But Gerard’s bitterness had gone too far. Adam would not hesitate to boot him off the isle if he made one more insult, or gave the slightest offense to Cristiane.

He would not stand for it.

“What is the time?” Charles asked. “Should you be leaving for town?”

Adam relaxed his stance and went to the bedside. “Aye,” he said. “I am sorry you will miss the ceremony, especially after all your work.”

“My work?” Charles asked with feigned innocence.

Adam gave a knowing smile, patted Charles’s hand and left the room.

Agatha Williamson dressed Cristiane for the marriage ceremony. All the men had been shooed out of the Williamson cottage, and the two women stood together, along with Meggie, who was also dressed in a new gown for the occasion.

Cristiane sneezed.

“You went and got yourself the ague, jumping into the river the other day,” Agatha said. “Mind, I’m not complaining that you did it, but ’tis your wedding day, my lady, and you should not be ill when you meet your groom on the steps of the church.”

“I’ll be all right,” Cristiane said. She blew her reddened nose. “I’m never ill.”

“Well, you’ve got it now,” Agatha said as she pulled tight the laces.

“Ooh! If I sneeze, I’ll burst
your seams,” Cristiane complained.

“Not
my
seams,” Agatha retorted. “They’ll hold.” She fussed a bit more over Cristiane’s head rail, then stated, “You are beautiful, my lady.”

Cristiane blushed at the compliment, so unexpected from one as brusque as Agatha Williamson.

“Are you ready, little love?” Agatha asked Meg.

“Aye,” she replied.

“Then it’s time to go.”

Hand in hand, Cristiane and Meg walked to the church, Sir Elwin and Sir Raynauld flanking them. Townspeople followed almost reverently in procession as they made their way.

Adam stood waiting for his bride at the top of the stairs. He felt no nervousness at all, but distinctly different from the way he’d felt when he’d stood here waiting for Rosamund years before. He’d been young—too young—to marry, and to know how to deal with a wife.

This time, he had some ideas.

Cristiane looked radiant in a gown of deep green that emphasized her feminine attributes. Her hair was pleasingly arranged as a maiden’s should be, combed to a high sheen and cascading down her back in luscious curls and waves. A flowery coronet adorned her head, and a short veil flowed from one point at the back.

Adam could hardly believe she was his.

She finally reached the church. Gathering up her skirts in one hand, she took Meg’s hand in the other and climbed toward him, wearing an uncertain smile.

She was even more beautiful at close range.

“Papa!” Meg whispered.

Adam leaned down and kissed his daughter’s cheek, then turned to face the priest after giving her over to Sir Elwin.

Father Beaupré stood
solemnly before the doors of the church and began the ceremony. “My Lord Bitterlee, are you of age to bind yourself in Holy Matrimony to this woman?”

“Yes, Father,” Adam replied.

Beaupré turned slightly. “Lady Cristiane Mac Dhiubh, are you of age to bind yourself to Lord Bitterlee?”

“Aye, Father.”

The questions continued, a mere formality in this case, since neither of them had parents to approve the match, and ’twas well known that there was no forbidden consanguinity between them. At the end of the interrogation, Adam handed Father Beaupré the document that gave the bishop’s consent to the marriage without the usual three weeks wait.

Cristiane hardly heard the priest’s words. Her attention was fully upon her groom, so handsome in his deep blue tunic, his shoulders broad, his narrow waist belted in silver. His dark hair was combed neatly back, his face freshly shaved, his scar raw upon his jaw.

He would have had an altogether forbidding appearance if not for his eyes, deeply gray, set off by thick black lashes. Cristiane saw promise in those stormy depths, of anticipated pleasures.

Blushing, she glanced down at the hand upon which her own rested so formally, and found herself craving a far more intimate touch.

Soon, she thought. She and her husband would share a bed tonight.

She had every hope that what transpired between them tonight would give Adam due cause to abandon Sara Cole, binding him to Cristiane for all time.

J
ongleurs entertained
during the wedding feast. Jugglers and tumblers, musicians and tricksters delighted the company with their talents. Surprisingly, Meg ran off to play with Gemette and some of the other little girls. All of the children had been admonished to stay away from the river.

Cristiane held up very well through the meal, and then the dancing, but Adam could see that she was suffering. She was sniffling and sneezing, and her voice sounded thick and edgy, as if her throat was sore.

He had to get her home, to bed.

He was standing with Sara in front of her house on the hillside. “This will help clear Lady Cristiane’s head,” Sara said as she handed a stoppered crock to him. “And it will help her to sleep, too.” Sara seemed on the verge of tears, though Adam did not know why, or how to react.

“Thank you, Sara,” he replied as he embraced her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“’Tis naught,” she replied, pulling away.

“You are…” He took her arm. “Sara, you weep. What has happened?”

“’Tis not what
has happened,” she finally said, “but what will never be.”

“I do not understand you.”

One tear spilled from her eye and trailed down her cheek as she looked up at him. “Your marriage. I wish you well, Adam. You and Lady Cristiane suit each other well. ’Tis just that…I wish that…”

“What?”

“I grieve for what I can never have, for what will never be.”

“You will not marry?” he asked. “Why? Is there no one who—”

She stopped him with a shake of her head. “Go to your bride, Adam. She awaits you. Besides, I must return to Sir Charles at the castle.”

Adam had thought she was happy here. Content. Never had it occurred to him that she was pining for a husband of her own, and mayhap children. She’d never said anything about it, never once complained of her life here on Bitterlee.

He was reluctant to leave Sara in her troubled state. Nevertheless, he allowed her to persuade him to return to the wedding festivities, while she returned to the castle. He stepped away from her cottage and walked down the hill, preoccupied by her words.

With their father long dead, Adam should have become her protector. Yet he’d neglected her. So much had happened since her arrival on the isle. She’d been useful…mayhap
too
useful.

’Twas not too late to remedy the situation. Sara was not too old to wed, being several years younger than Adam. But who would be a suitable bridegroom? One of his knights? Surely she would not wed a man of lesser rank, even though she could not claim her noble blood.

Somehow, a solution
would be found.

The sun had come out from behind a thick layer of clouds and the day had grown warm, but Cristiane felt chills. Her nose ran, her eyes were sensitive to the light and she could not keep herself from sneezing every couple of minutes. Besides all that, her gown was too tight. She was miserable.

In spite of it all, the marriage ceremony had been lovely, and Father Beaupreé’s nuptial Mass uplifting. As Adam’s wife, Cristiane felt truly welcomed into this close-knit community, whose women hugged her tearfully and whose men called out their well wishes.

Even Sara Cole had embraced her. “Your husband is a good man,” she’d said quietly in Cristiane’s ear. “Take care of him.”

Cristiane had been too astonished by her words to respond. Did they mean that Sara was giving him up, that she would no longer be his mistress?

“My lady,” Agatha Williamson said, “you are looking peaked. Come and sit, and drink this.”

Cristiane followed the woman to a table close to the church, where she sat down and drank the hot, spiced cider handed to her. ’Twas getting late. She looked around for Adam and caught sight of him on the hillside, outside of Sara Cole’s cottage.

A wave of jealousy, as well as hopelessness, washed through her as he watched Adam hug Sara close.

He’d known the other woman so long…. There was no doubt in Cristiane’s mind that he respected her skills, and probably loved her, too. How could Cristiane compete with that? How could she face the woman, knowing she would have been Adam’s choice had she been wellborn?

“Your husband
ought to take you up to the castle, my lady,” Agatha said, “before it gets any later, or colder.”

“I—I think you’re right,” she stammered. Then she sneezed.

All was quiet at the castle when they arrived. Most everyone was still in town, feasting and celebrating the lord’s marriage. The only ones who remained at the castle were Charles Penyngton and one old Bitterlee knight who was well past his fighting days, but who provided good company when called upon.

“Sara brought Meg home earlier,” Adam said as they climbed the stairs to the east tower, “and she’ll stay with Charles.”

Cristiane was not comforted by the thought of Adam’s lover spending this night—her wedding night—under the same roof. But there was naught she could say about it. Surely Sir Charles was in need of her medicines, and Cristiane did not begrudge him that. Besides, Sara had been kind enough to offer to bring Meg home, allowing Adam and Cristiane to ride together, alone.

Adam walked beside her until they stood in front of her chamber door. Then he reached up and smoothed a tendril of hair back from her face.

“Shall I help you to undress?” he asked quietly.

“I…I—”

“You are ill, Cristiane,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand.

She shivered once, and Adam knew she burned with fever.

“Come,” he said, opening the door and drawing her inside. After setting his saddle pack on the floor, he lit the fire that had been laid, then turned back to her. She had already removed the garland of flowers from her head.

“I can do it, my
lord,” she said, when he turned her around and untied the fastenings of her gown.

“Hush, Cristiane,” he said from behind. “Allow me to help you.”

He slid the bodice down her shoulders, then pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. She shivered again, and this time Adam doubted it was from fever. Or rather, it was from a different kind of fever.

Emboldened by her reaction, he ran his hands down her arms, then circled her waist, pulling her back against his chest. “Be comfortable with my touch, Cristiane,” he said. “When you are well again, I will make you my wife…and not a moment before.”

She tipped her head, giving him better access to her neck, and he touched his lips to it, trailing small kisses from her ear to the end of her shoulder.

She trembled under his touch, but Adam was determined to be cautious, to go slowly with her, no matter that the effort was monumental. He had managed to control himself up until now, and he would continue to do so. He would not have Cristiane suffer an unsatisfactory first experience in their marriage bed, and learn to dread his touch.

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?