Cristiane didn’t notice Adam following until after she’d hiked up her skirts and stepped into the water, but ’twas too late now for decorum. He wouldn’t expect it from her, anyway. She’d been undressed or partially dressed in his presence far too many times for him to think she had any sense of propriety about her.
Besides, hadn’t she just convinced herself not to care what anyone here on Bitterlee thought about her?
“Will you not join us, my lord?” she called to him.
For one who was always so strong and confident, he seemed oddly hesitant to approach her and Margaret.
“You do not mind if your papa helps us feed the bairns, do you, Meg?” she asked.
Margaret stared toward the ducks and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
“See, my lord?” Cristiane said, smiling. “Join us!”
Part of her wished he would remove his own shoes and hose, but he could not do that without being wholly improper. Still, Adam came to the edge of the water and stood watching, his presence both reassuring and dangerous to her peace of mind.
“Meggie lass,” Cristiane said, “give your papa some of the bread.”
Margaret looked up at Cristiane, then back at the ducklings, which were swarming again. She tore off a small piece of her bread and stepped back to the bank to hand it to her father.
Whatever danger Cristiane imagined Adam posed to her, it was gone when he touched his daughter’s hand. Cristiane felt a tug in the center of her chest when she saw the expression in his eyes. They brimmed over with love and caring…and helplessness.
Cristiane could not imagine what ailed the child, and wondered if she’d always been like this. At first, she’d thought Margaret dull witted, but clearly, that was not the case. Perplexed, Cristiane wondered if Margaret’s problem was spending too much time with that awful Mathilde.
Cristiane resolved to see that Margaret came out to the pond every day she remained at Bitterlee. Mayhap enough time out-of-doors would have a positive effect on the child. She might even say a few more words if she were motivated enough.
“Let’s show your papa what to do, shall we, Meg?” she asked as she waded over to them. “Take his hand….” Cristiane took Margaret’s hand and guided it to Adam’s. “Help him throw it.”
Adam waited for Margaret to move. Suddenly, she lifted his hand and “helped” him toss the bread to the wildly peeping ducklings. Then she covered her mouth with her hand as her eyes became dull again.
Adam’s throat was choked by emotion. He did not think he’d ever experienced such joy. He longed to pull Margaret up into his arms and hug her tightly, but did not want to frighten her deeper into her shell. Holding her during a storm was one thing. This was altogether different.
She had made progress today. After months of trying to get his child to respond to him, it had taken a stranger—Cristiane Mac Dhiubh—to make her come alive.
“Margaret,” he said thickly. “’tis been my pleasure to help you feed the ducklings. Shall we come again tomorrow?”
Acknowledgment flashed in Margaret’s eyes, then she quickly put her head down and did not answer. But it did not matter. He was heartened by her behavior, because only yesterday she’d have given no response at all.
Stepping aside to let Cristiane usher Margaret out of the pond, he stayed clear of them while the Scotswoman straightened their skirts and put both pair of shoes back on. He caught a puzzled look from her, but followed quietly behind as they returned to the hall.
Mathilde and Gerard awaited them. The nurse took charge of Margaret and propelled her toward the chapel, and the child kept her head down and went along without protest.
Cristiane would have spoken up, but Gerard cornered Adam before she had a chance.
“Mistress Cole awaits you in the solar,” Gerard said.
Adam glanced toward the staircase, then turned back to Cristiane. “I cannot thank you enough, my lady, for…taking Margaret to the pond. And—”
“What ails the lass, my lord?” she asked. “Why is she—”
“Adam…” Gerard said harshly.
Adam ignored him. “My daughter has been low spirited since my wife…since my wife’s death.”
“Do you mean she has not spoken since then?” Cristiane asked, frowning. “She has not smiled or played or—”
“It pains me to see her thus. She was always such a vibrant child,” he said. His frustration and helplessness were clear in his voice. “I have not known what to do…”
“’Tis her grief, my lord,” Cristiane said. She was so close to her own grief that she could easily understand Margaret’s. The child must miss her mother terribly. “It may take some time for her to recover from it.”
“’Tis been two years!” Adam said bitterly.
“Aye,” Cristiane said. “I know how it feels…when ye canna pull yerself out of it.”
He looked at her as if he did not believe her. “You don’t understand. Her mother was never…” he speared his fingers through his hair. “Margaret was practically an infant when her mother died—”
“Adam,” Gerard interrupted, “the child is a simpleton. There is naught you can do for her. Leave her to the nurse and—”
“Leave us, Gerard!” Adam said in anger. “I will see Sara when I am through here.”
Cristiane would have preferred not to witness an altercation between Adam and his uncle, and was even more uncomfortable at the look of pure repugnance in Gerard’s eyes when he gazed at her. She knew she was not popular with the people of Bitterlee, but Sir Gerard’s blatant antipathy bruised her anew. Tears threatened, but she blinked them away, refusing to be cowed by his blatant hostility.
Gerard stalked away, though Cristiane would not have been surprised to find the man lurking somewhere nearby, poised to sling an unkind remark at her at the first opportunity.
“I’ll not keep you any longer, my lord,” she said, turning away. “I’ll just return to the pond while the sun is still warm.”
“Cristiane.” Adam took hold of her arm before she was able to take a step. “What you did today…” His dark gray eyes shone with gratitude. “Taking Margaret to the pond…did you know ’twould make her come alive again?”
Cristiane smiled weakly and shrugged. “Nay, my lord. I only knew how I’d have felt at her age. Seeing that brood would have gladdened my heart. I only hoped ’twould do the same for Meg.”
Adam could well imagine Cristiane as a bright, redheaded sprite, laughing, dancing out into the water to dally with the fowl that swam there. He raised his hand and gently touched her jaw with his fingers. Color rose in her cheeks and her breath quickened. He was tempted to touch his lips to hers.
Merely in gratitude.
But a kiss would be anything but proper. Adam forced himself to step back, freeing her arm from his light touch. The prudent thing would be to leave her here and head for the solar and see what Sara wanted. ’Twas likely she had come to visit Penyngton, and Adam wanted to know her thoughts on his condition.
Yet he was reluctant to leave Cristiane. His hands ached to touch her, his mouth to taste her.
Cristiane’s lively blue eyes turned wary as he looked at her. Try as he might, he could not keep himself from taking hold of her arm again, and pulling her to him.
He tipped his head down as she lifted hers. She moistened her lips.
An eternity passed as they closed the space between them. He felt her breath on his lips, knew her sweetness before they touched.
Her mouth was soft. ’Twas hot and wet.
His free hand found the nape of her neck and pulled her close. He felt her body tremble as he opened his lips and urged her to do the same. Her tongue met his shyly, and he thought he might burst with the sudden intensity of his arousal.
Her hands moved tentatively, reaching up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. A soft whimper escaped her and Adam deepened the kiss. His hands caressed her nape, then slid down her back to her hips. He cradled himself in her sof
tness, resisting the urge to pick her up and carry her to his chamber, where he could make love to her all afternoon.
But he would not. They were practically strangers, destined to be no more than acquaintances. She had been kind to Margaret, but would soon depart Bitterlee…with his blessings. And when she left for York, Lady Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would essentially exist no more.
“Adam!” Gerard’s voice caused them to leap apart.
Chapter Eleven
Cristiane’s embarrassment was profound when Sir Gerard interrupted her tryst with Adam in the great hall. She should have known better than to allow her attraction to go so far. ’Twas unseemly to behave in such a manner with a man who was not—who would never be—her husband.
Shakily, she fled the hall. Somehow, she managed to make it all the way to the pond after Adam’s sensuous onslaught, taking refuge on the ground at the base of an ancient oak. Curling her legs under her, Cristiane relived the moment when his lips had touched hers, when he’d pulled her close and let a feverish groan escape.
Where would their sensuous interlude have led if Gerard had not intruded? To a private alcove in the castle? To a bedchamber? Cristiane knew Adam’s wife had been dead two years. Had loneliness, coupled with her own convenient presence and naiveté, driven him to take advantage of the moment?
’Twas difficult for Cristiane to care what the reason was. She’d been strongly attracted to Lord Bitterlee since the moment he’d rescued her at St. Oln, and feared she would have given herself to him, regardless of his reasons for wanting her.
His body was hard and unyielding. He was as strong and powerful as any man she’d ever known, and Cristiane still felt an intense desire to pursue the course of their attraction.
’Twas wrong. Whatever she felt for Adam was not reciprocated. She was not so naive as to believe aught else. His kiss had started as an expression of his gratitude, and naught more. ’Twas only the physical attraction between them that had turned it into more.
“Sir Charles is naught but skin and bone,” Sara Cole told Adam. “He tells me he’s been suffering through night sweats for quite some time, and now he’s coughing blood,” she added. “I would say ’tis a kind of lung fever, my lord.”
“Why did he not tell me he was ailing?” Adam asked, pacing the chamber restlessly. He was frustrated both with his friend’s reticence and with Cristiane’s inflamed response to his touch, his kiss.
He was an idiot to have touched her so intimately. Now that he’d tasted her, he doubted he could ever forget how she’d felt in his arms.
Sara shook her head. “I do not know,” she replied, frowning. “He never told…I can tell you that without proper rest and attention, he will d-die.”
“Is there naught that you can do for him?” Adam asked, horrified by the prognosis given his closest friend. ’Twas clear that Charles’s fate lay heavily upon Sara, too.
“Aye,” she replied. “Some. There is a decoction that I will mix especially for him. I’ll bring it here every day and give it to him myself.”
“Thank you, Sara,” Adam said. “But is there anything the rest of us can do, here at the castle?”
Sara smiled, causing the dimple high on her cheek to deepen. It reminded Adam of the same mark on their father, as did the color of her hair. For she was his half sister, and had come to Bitterlee five years before in order to meet the noble father who had abandoned her mother.
When Sara had first arrived, their father had been too ill to accept or deny her claim, but in his delirium, he had spoken the name Nichola—Sara’s mother’s name.
Adam had not been able to deny that Sara was his sister. She had his father’s green eyes, the same dimple and his coloring. There could be no doubt that Sara was a Sutton.
Yet she had not come to Bitterlee with the intention of being welcomed into the family. Nay, she had merely wanted to meet the man who was her sire. But when she found him ill, and near death, kindhearted Sara had stayed to nurse him until the end.
Subsequently, she’d made a life for herself in town. And if anyone suspected she was Thomas Sutton’s daughter, no one had mentioned it in all these years.
“You can help keep his spirits up,” she said. “See that he is offered his favorite foods. Do whatever is necessary to keep him happy, content.”
Adam gave a quick nod. It would be done. Adam could not imagine Bitterlee without him. Beyond being seneschal of Bitterlee, Charles Penyngton had been a loyal and true friend.
Adam walked with Sara to Penyngton’s room and opened the door a crack, only to find that Charles was asleep. Closing the door quietly, he took her by the arm and led her down the stone staircase. With luck, he would send Sara on her way, and resume his interlude with Cristiane.
It only remained to be seen whether that kind of luck would be good or bad.
Cristiane was not normally prone to prowling indoors. She preferred the elements, whether fair or harsh, wet or dry. Yet Bitterlee Castle fascinated her.
And she was restless.
Her father’s keep at St. Oln was a primitive shelter compared to this. Domhnall Mac Dhiubh had possessed one tower, with a few mean chambers abovestairs, and one wooden staircase, the place where he’d met his death.
As she wandered through the keep, Cristiane discovered several rooms off the great hall, many with long, narrow windows covered with panes of glass that could be opened like those in her own chamber, when the weather permitted. A row of secret alcoves lay beneath the main staircase, and beyond that was a large chapel.
’Twas as grand as the church at St. Oln. Nay, more so.
The Bitterlee chapel was made of stone, with a huge, ornately carved altar at one end. Tiny flames from a hundred beeswax candles flickered in the semidarkness of the chamber, and the aroma of incense was strong. Long, ornamented plaques painted with the images of Christ and the Madonna hung on the walls beyond the altar.
Cristiane felt compelled to kneel in this exalted setting. Bowing her head, she prayed for the strength to resist her fleshly urges and endure her stay at Bitterlee without falling into temptation. Her attraction to Adam was naught short of sinful, and there was no future in it.
Determined to put that moment of lunacy out of her mind, she offered prayers for the souls of her parents, and for wee Meg, that she would soon overcome her grief.
Crossing herself devoutly, Cristiane rose and left the chapel, following the long corridor with the alcoves. When she reached the great hall, she saw Adam and the young woman from town. This must be Sara.
They were speaking quietly together, and Adam had a proprietary hand at her elbow. It should not have been such a surprise, nor should Cristiane been so dismayed by the sight of Adam with that woman.
Yet she was. For all her resolve to avoid physical entanglements in future, it hurt to know that he had only trifled with her.
“’Tis doubtful any border Scots enjoy such bountiful fare,” Gerard said as he speared a succulent bite of fish with his knife. “Nor should they.”
Cristiane tried to ignore his harsh words, but they stung, as they were meant to. Yet she kept her head down and continued with the evening meal, alongside Meg and Adam.
“Lady Cristiane had naught to do with any English deaths,” Adam said. “Her village had no part in the conflict with King Edward.”
“Ah…so the lady is an innocent,” Gerard said, his sarcasm ripe, “who knows naught of that devil, William Wallace.”
Cristiane slapped her knife on the table, and was about to retort, when Adam intervened. “You will be unwelcome at my table, Uncle, if you persist in baiting our guest.”
“Your guest, Nephew,” Gerard said with a sneer. “Your very convenient guest.”
Cristiane was not certain of his meaning, but made a guess, based on Gerard’s interruption of the kiss she’d shared with Adam. Her heart sank, knowing that Gerard’s assessment of her was a fair one.
A lady of good breeding would never have been caught kissing a man.
&nbs
p; She suddenly had to get away, get out of the stifling confines of the hall. Adam’s conversation had been stilted, and now Gerard was plainly insulting. She could not take much more.
Cristiane stood and excused herself from the table. Knowing how poorly dressed she was, how badly she fit in and how much she was reviled here, she had to summon every ounce of brazen nerve she possessed to walk away.
She kept her trembling to a minimum as she fled to the chapel and out the door nearby.
“That was uncalled for, Gerard,” Adam said angrily. He shoved back his chair. “If it should happen again, I’ll put you off the isle.”
He walked away, following in Cristiane’s footsteps, unsure what he would do once he found her. She’d been visibly upset, though he believed she’d managed to conceal her hurt from all in the hall but him. However, he was too aware of her for her reaction to escape his notice.
His limp slowed him down, so that by the time he reached the castle gates, she was out of sight. Undeterred, he continued on the path—the only way for her to go, unless she’d walked around the keep and slipped back inside.
Somehow, he doubted she’d do that.
As the path grew steeper, he slowed slightly, due to the soreness in his thigh. The wound had come a long way, but still needed more time before ’twas completely healed. He could only hope that the limp, and the pain he felt when he overtaxed himself, would eventually subside.
When he came to the turnoff toward the waterfall, he stopped and considered which way she would have gone.
Then he opted for the path to the waterfall.
The sun had not yet set, and so ’twas slightly cooler in the shady forest, though the day had stayed warm and sunny. It should have cheered her.
A multitude of wild creatures fled from Cristiane as she walked, and birds chirped overhead. The scent of pine was strong, but there were many deciduous trees as well, just coming into bloom. Cristiane should have enjoyed it more, but she could not shake the wretched feelings wrought by Gerard’s words.
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