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 sai
d, 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.”
When the child was in her clean kirtle, Cristiane picked up a comb from the night table and began to comb through Meg’s beautiful blond locks as she hummed a tune her mother used to sing to her. She felt content, as if she belonged, as if this could be her own child, her own home.
’Twas a foolish fancy, she knew. But for a few minutes, she would enjoy the peace she felt here with this wee lass whose grief was as keen as her own.
“There you are!” Nurse Mathilde swept into the chamber, her presence dominating the whole room. “I became worried when I could not find you, Lady Margaret. You should have—”
“Wee Margaret was with me…and Lord Bitterlee,” Cristiane said, cutting off the nurse’s tirade. Cristiane did not care for the woman’s tone, though her words were not inappropriate. But she made it seem as if Meg were at fault for causing worry, when the nurse had to have known Adam had taken charge of his daughter.
Mathilde sniffed, then joined her hands under her breasts and slipped them into her sleeves. Meg kept her eyes on the floor. Waiting.
“I’ll just finish combing Meg’s hair,” Cristiane said, deciding to brazen it out, “and take her down to her father for the noon meal. It is nearly time, is it not?”
Mathilde said naught for a moment, and Cristiane held her breath. She’d never asserted any sort of dominance over another person before, and was not certain the nurse would accept her authority now. But Mathilde bowed and acquiesced.
Cristiane let out the breath she had not realized she’d been holding, and watched as Mathilde quit the room.
“Well,” she said brightly. “That wasna so verra difficult, was it?”
“Keep her here,” Penyngton said breathlessly as he climbed into his bed. “My lord, you could do worse.”
“Aye,” Adam agreed, aware that the seneschal was referring to Cristiane. “But not much.”
“What are you saying? Lady Cristiane is perfect.”
Adam shook his head. He knew she was perfect, but not as his countess. She’d be well suited to his bed, but naught more.
“Did you see how Margaret kept her eyes on her?” Penyngton asked. “How she watched Lady Cristiane’s every move?”
Adam had not, only because he’d been so occupied with watching Lady Cristiane himself. He’d dwelt upon the way her sodden gown had clung to every curve, and had thought of tasting the tiny drops of water at the base of her throat. He had hardly thought of Margaret’s reaction to her.
The untamed aspect of Cristiane that repelled him from taking her as his wife demanded that he take her to his bed. Yet he could not. She was no harlot for hire.
“You never mentioned she was your cousin.” Another reason Adam would never touch her.
“Twice or thrice removed,” Penyngton replied with a shrug. “I maintained an occasional correspondence with her mother.”
Adam clasped his hands behind his back and stepped away from the bed. “When did you plan to inform me of your illness, Charles?” he said, changing the subject. “Cl
early, this…this cough…did not come upon you suddenly.”
Penyngton pressed his lips together tightly. “There was so much that needed doing here, my lord,” he said. “And with your own injuries…and the situation with Lady Margaret…I just thought—”
“That ’twould not matter to me that you were ill?”
“Nay,” he replied quietly. “Only that it seemed more important for you to go to St. Oln and remove Lady Cristiane from her situation there than to stay here worrying over my health.”
Adam rubbed the back of his neck. Charles suddenly looked much older than his forty-five years. His light brown hair was dull now, and there were strands of silver that Adam had never noticed before. The seneschal’s cheeks were hollow and sunken, yet his eyes sparkled with the same feisty intelligence that had characterized all his years of service to Bitterlee.
“What has Sara Cole said about…all this?” Adam asked, still trying to absorb the enormity of Charles’s illness.
“She calls it a consumption of the lung,” Penyngton said. “I must rest, try to eat, and I will have to drink some awful concoction that she’ll bring to the castle daily.”
Adam braced his hands behind his back and nodded, as Penyngton began to cough again. “You will rest, Charles,” he said. “There is naught for you to do now, anyway. I’ll take care of whatever comes up—”
“And my cousin?” Penyngton asked. “What of Lady Cristiane?”
Adam resumed his pacing, his brow deeply furrowed, his mouth drawn into a serious line. “Leave her to me.”
“Well, well…it seems we dine informally this noon,” Sir Gerard said as he joined Cristiane and Meg at table. His words were slurred, as if he’d already consumed too much ale. He belched loudly, the sound echoing through the hall.
Cristiane braced herself for his next remark, and vowed to remain silent, regardless of how cruel it might be. She had already challenged Mathilde’s authority over Meg, and was not about to cause a disturbance with Gerard. She hoped that if she said little, the odious man would leave her be.
Bride of the Isle Page 12
