Adam had not arrived to take part in the meal, and servants began to serve without him. Trays of steaming food were set on the table, and a footman placed a pitcher of ale at Gerard’s elbow. He poured himself a full cup, though Cristiane was of the opinion that he needed no more.
“Try this, Meg,” she said, deliberately turning away from Gerard. She offered a bite of fish to the child. Margaret opened her mouth and took the morsel, while Cristiane remained uncomfortably aware of Gerard’s scrutiny.
“Where’s old Tildy?” Gerard asked. “In the chapel, on her knees again?”
Cristiane realized he was asking about Mathilde, but before she could reply, Gerard spoke again.
“Can’t imagine what she’s done that requires so much penance.”
“I—”
“You, on the other hand—along with all the rest of your Scots butchers—have plenty for which to atone.”
His speech had become even more slurred, and Cristiane recognized the mean tone that often accompanied drunkenness. Some men became maudlin, some jovial. Too many became cruel.
Gerard was one of those, and Cristiane had no intention of remaining here at table, suffering his ire.
Without giving it another thought, she gathered the trencher she’d been sharing with Margaret, grabbed the lass’s hand and took her away from the table. Ignoring Gerard’s command to return, she drew Meg to the door and stepped outside.
It looked as if it might rain, but Cristiane and Meg walked through the castle gate and up the path. They had not gone far when Cristiane stopped, allowing Meg a moment to rest. The child held back, unaccustomed to this kind of exertion, yet there was a light of excitement in her eyes. And the hint of a smile about her lips.
Meg’s expression lightened Cristiane’s heart, and she knew she had done the right thing in bringing her out here. She could hardly wait to see how Meg would react to seeing the waterfall.
Adam could not find Cristiane. And according to Gerard, she had Margaret with her.
He did not know exactly what had transpired between Cristiane and Gerard, but his uncle was livid. Before Adam had been able to extricate himself from the great hall, he’d heard more than enough about the Scots she-devil who was poisoning the very air of Bitterlee.
Gerard had been involved in many a campaign in Scotland, so Adam knew he felt justified in his hatred of the Scots. Yet ’twas not reasonable to vent his ire upon Cristiane. She’d had no part in any of Wallace’s campaigns against the crown. She was as much English as she was Scot, and everyone here needed to recognize that fact.
Adam walked through the garden and toward the pond, where he hoped he would find Cristiane and Margaret. Certain that Cristiane would be upset by her confrontation with Gerard, he wanted to get to her as soon as possible. After all, something had upset her earlier that morning, and he was likely to find her in tears again, distraught over the incident with Gerard.
He stopped short when he thought of it. What would he do to comfort her? She’d refused his touch this morn, and had asked about leaving for York. ’Twas likely she’d be even more anxious to go now, and Adam had no idea how he would dissuade her.
He needed her. Margaret was responding to Cristiane in a way he’d not seen in two years.
Cristiane had to stay.
The old wound in his leg pained him fiercely after all his activities that day, but he continued on until he reached the duck pond, only to find it deserted. The little ducklings swam toward him when they saw him, clearly expecting a treat, but he hadn’t brought any food.
He walked to the far side of the pond and sat down on a stone bench to rest his leg, rubbing the pain from it, wondering where Cristiane and Meg could have gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Cristiane had very little personal experience with children, though she’d seen plenty of them at play in St. Oln. Meg Sutton did not know the first thing about playing.
She’d come down the trail to the waterfall, followed Cristiane behind the sheet of falling water and stood staring at it. Cristiane was certain that any other child would have stepped closer and put out her hand to reach into the curtain of water.
“Come, Meggie,” Cristiane said. She pushed up her sleeve and tested the water, indicating that Meg should do the same.
The child followed suit finally, giving a squeal and jumping back when the cold water hit her. Cristiane was afraid at first that the experience had been too shocking, but one look at Meg’s face told her the lass was delighted. True, her stance and expression remained tightly controlled, but there could be no doubt that she had enjoyed it.
Cristiane breathed a sigh of relief.
“Come back,” she cried happily. “’Tis only cold. ’Twill not hurt you, though you might get a wee bit wet.”
Meg stepped closer to Cristiane, grabbing hold of her skirt. Then she put her hand into the stream of water again, and laughed aloud.
“’Tis wonderful, is it not?” Cristiane asked.
Meg nodded, her face a mirror of joy. The significance of this response was not lost on Cristiane. She hardly knew Margaret, but she was aware of Adam’s worries regarding his daughter. She’d been locked up with grief, and it seemed that she was starting to let it go.
“I know you can speak, lass,” Cristiane said, laughing. She threw her head back. “Say, ‘This is wonderful!’”
Meg ducked her head shyly, but Cristiane swooped down and picked her up, swirling her around behind the waterfall, making them both laugh heartily, their voices echoing off the rocky walls.
“Wonder-ful!” Meg cried.
“I knew you would love it,” Cristiane said, letting her down. “Shall we take off our shoes and get our feet wet?”
Without speaking, Meg reached down and unlaced her shoes. She pulled each one off and tossed it away from the falls, then stepped up to Cristiane to take her hand.
There was no point in remaining at the pond, so Adam walked painfully back to the keep. He had to believe Cristiane would keep his daughter safe—and he hoped that whatever effect Cristiane was having on Margaret would continue.
Aware that naught but a hot soak would improve the condition of his leg, he climbed slowly to his own chamber in the north tower, after giving orders for a hot bath to be made ready for him. He would heat the tortured scar sufficiently to relax, then rub in some of the ointment Sara had made for him.
Sometimes it actually worked.
Adam entered his chamber and walked to the open window. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain yet. He unfastened his tunic and pulled it off, then removed the light linen undertunic while he waited for the footmen to bring in the tub and hot water.
His saddle pack lay in a corner near the bed, and Adam suddenly remembered the ribbons for Margaret. He did not know what had possessed him to purchase them, for Meg always wore a wimple—just like her mother and her nurse—unless it was from some odd notion that if her hair flowed free, so would her words and deeds.
He knew it made no sense, but he’d bought the colorful strips of cloth anyway. He took them from his satchel and left his room. He walked down the corridor, past the chamber that had once belonged to his wife, then on to the nursery.
Stepping inside, he was struck by the austerity of the room. ’Twas entirely different from the kind of surroundings he’d had as a lad, but Rosamund had insisted on leaving the furnishings to Mathilde. Adam had acquiesced on this point, aware that whenever he denied Rosamund her wishes, she’d become more forlorn, more withdrawn.
He placed the ribbons on Margaret’s washstand, hoping that when she discovered them, Cristiane would help her put them in her hair.
“My lord!” Mathilde stopped abruptly near Margaret’s chamber, clearly surprised and chagrined by Adam’s state of undress. She blushed furiously and stared at the floor.
“I am just leaving, Mathilde,” Adam said. He frowned. It struck him then that Rosamund’s reaction to his naked flesh had always been the same as the nurse’s.
’Twas very d
ifferent from Cristiane’s.
He cleared his throat. “I brought some ribbons for Margaret’s hair. I would like you to leave her wimple off in future. ’Tis unhealthy to have her head covered so tightly all the time.”
“But my lord—” Mathilde ventured, glancing quickly up at him, keeping her eyes carefully trained on his face.
“I’ll hear no more of it,” Adam said as he stepped away. “My daughter will be spending more time with me, too, Mathilde. Every afternoon, in fact. Allow for it in your daily plans.”
Mathilde may have replied, but Adam did not hear her as he took the few steps to Rosamund’s chamber. Turning the latch, he went inside the room where he’d never felt welcome.
Many of Rosamund’s possessions remained here, including some clothing that had not been given away. He would like to give it all to Cristiane, but Rosamund had been a much smaller woman. None would fit the Scotswoman.
He glanced around, remembering insignificant details about Rosamund—her delicate features, her tiny hands and feet. Pale, white skin, soft and smooth as down. Her hair had been the same as Margaret’s—white-blond, like an angel’s. Always covered. Untouchable.
A small wooden casket lay on the windowsill, and Adam opened it. Inside were the two combs he’d hoped to find, along with some jewelry Rosamund’s family had not taken.
The wooden combs were of little value. They were simply carved and highly polished to a dark sheen. Yet he knew Cristiane would appreciate them. There had to be thread and needles here, too, and after a quick search, he found them.
Closing the door against unwelcome memories, he walked down the dark corridor and stopped in Cristiane’s room, leaving the combs and the sewing supplies on the table. The package of unfinished gowns lay on the bed. Besides the parcel, there was little sign that anyone occupied the chamber, just Cristiane’s discarded kirtle and the ragged underclothes she wore with it.
Adam lifted the thin linen bodice, feeling the frailty of the cloth, remembering the way it had so perfectly—so arousingly—framed her naked body. His physical reaction to that memory was so quick and so profound that he dropped the chemise.
He suppressed the erotic thoughts he had no right to entertain, and jabbed his fingers through his hair. Then he turned and stalked back to his own chamber, where his bath awaited.
Though Cristiane would have stayed at the waterfall with Meg until dark, she could imagine Adam calling out all his men to search for them if they did not return soon. Besides, it looked as if rain was coming, and Cristiane did not want Margaret caught out in it. Who knew if it would storm as violently as it had the night she’d arrived on Bitterlee?
With a promise to return the next day, or as soon as the weather permitted, Cristiane helped Meg put on her shoes, and returned with her to the keep.
Hoping to avoid encountering anyone—Gerard in particular—they went in through the door near the chapel, then walked quietly to the great hall.
“I’d rather avoid your uncle, lass,” Cristiane whispered, which resulted in a tiny giggle from Margaret.
Cristiane looked down at her, marveling at the changes that had occurred in such a short time. Why had no one taken the time to treat the lassie like the child she was? Of course she was silent and withdrawn. She knew naught else.
Cristiane resolved to speak to Adam about this as soon as she saw him next.
Finding no one in the hall, they climbed the steps, then followed the route to the north tower, where the family chambers were located. “If I can find a needle and some thread,” she said quietly to Meg, “I’m going to sew one of those gowns. Then I’ll be presentable tonight at table.”
Meg nodded.
“Would you like to help me with it?”
Cristiane’s heart was warmed by the child’s smile. She lifted the latch of her chamber door and pushed on it, then was shocked to discover that she’d chosen the wrong room.
She pushed Meg behind her and tried to get her jaws to work. Adam had just stepped out of his bath and stood fully nude next to the tub. She could not take her eyes from him.
“I—I…”
Adam did not speak, either, nor did he attempt to cover himself. Never having seen a naked man before, Cristiane was struck by the masculine beauty of his body—the finely sculpted muscles, the rough hair that furred his legs and chest and nested that most virile part of him.
She wondered how he managed to keep it contained when he was fully clothed. It did not seem possible.
More embarrassed than she’d ever been before, she finally found her voice and spoke as she pulled herself out of the chamber. “Y-yer pardon, m’lord.”
“Pa-pa?” Meg asked, and Cristiane was too rattled to feel any astonishment at the child’s unexpected speech.
“Aye,” she said, feeling the heat in her face. “’Twas your papa.”
She did not know how she would ever face him again.
“Come,” she said, pulling Meg to the next door. She opened it cautiously, then stepped inside, closing it behind them.
Adam did not know whether to feel chagrin or to relish the obvious hunger he’d seen on Cristiane’s face when she’d looked at his fully aroused, naked body. By the time she’d stammered her way out of his chamber, her face had been covered by a furious blush, but at least she had not been frightened.
He was certain, however, that she would never come out of her own chamber again without coercion. He would deal with that later.
For now, he had much to think about.
Penyngton had a valid point about keeping her at Bitterlee. Unquestionably, she was taken by the isle, and all its rough beauty. He doubted that even their winter weather would intimidate her. She had made more progress with Meg—Margaret, he corrected himself—than anyone else in the two years since his return from Falkirk. She had no family anywhere, other than the Earl of Learick, whom she did not know, and would not miss if she did not see him.
Adam recognized the obvious problems with making her his countess. She was still a rough Scotswoman, uneducated, underbred, and as much a villein as any of the people of the isle. At least she seemed that way, for all her noble blood.
The islanders would not only have difficulty accepting her as their mistress, they would have difficulty concealing their hostility. To them, she was a bloodthirsty Scot. Even the servants at the castle had not yet come ’round, and Gerard seemed to delight in baiting her.
But once Penyngton had brought it up, it seemed that Adam could think of naught else than making Cristiane Mac Dhiubh his wife. He craved her in a way that was wholly unseemly—and likely unwelcome, knowing what he did about wives—but he was unable to dismiss this notion from his mind.
Chapter Fifteen
Meg saw the combs first.
Cristiane could not imagine where they’d come from. She picked them up and admired their smooth texture, and knew that she would be able to confine her hair appropriately with them.
It had to have been Adam again. Bit by bit, he was seeing to it that she was equipped with all she would need when she arrived in York.
Embarrassment choked her once again. Not only did she look every bit as barbaric as a Norse raider, she had gawked at his naked body like a dizzy-eyed maiden. He must think her the most laughable creature he’d ever met.
Cristiane was relieved to receive an invitation to dine with Sir Charles Penyngton in his chambers. She would not have to face Adam before they’d both had sufficient time for the incident in his chamber to recede into distant memory.
She used the afternoon wisely, sitting next to the open window, sewing on her new gowns as she and Meg listened to the sounds of a gentle rain. Meg was a great help, holding the pieces together while Cristiane slipped pins into the delicate fabric. They worked well together, with Meg’s expression becoming more open with every hour.
She still spoke rarely, and only one word at a time, but it seemed to Cristiane that it was progress.
The blue gown was nearly finished when Mathild
e came to take Meg away. “’Tis time for your instruction with Father Beaupré,” she said, taking Meg’s hand. Cristiane could not interpret Meg’s reaction from her facial expression, since she had cast her eyes down. Cristiane would have kept the child with her, but was unsure how much change she could bring about in only two days.
Before letting Meg go with the nurse, she placed her hands on the child’s bony shoulders. “I’ll come into your chamber and say good-night after prayers, shall I?”
Meg raised her head and gave a small smile. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
“At least tell me you are considering it, my lord,” Penyngton said as he watched Adam pace the floor next to his bed. A small table had been brought into the chamber that adjoined the seneschal’s office next to the great hall, and two chairs to accommodate the two who would dine with Penyngton.
“All right, Charles,” Adam replied, “I am considering it. But I promise naught.”
“Understood.”
Adam knelt and built up the fire against the cool, damp air. He found the gentle rain pleasant, but ’twould not do for Charles to take a chill. He was anxious for Cristiane to arrive, but did not want Charles to know it. The decision whether or not to take her to wife was a grave one, not to be taken lightly, and he would not raise Charles’s hopes, only to decide against it.
A light tap at the door brought Adam to his feet. He crossed the room and opened it, to discover a very different Cristiane Mac Dhiubh standing there, blushing as red as one of the beets in Cook’s garden.
Her hair was arranged in an intricate coif of golden-red locks, gently restrained by the combs he’d left in her chamber. Soft, curly tendrils framed her face beautifully.
The blue silk had been transformed into a lovely but simple gown with long, fitted sleeves and full, flowing skirts. The bodice fit Cristiane’s form tightly to the waist, leaving her neck and shoulders delightfully bare.
There was naught barbaric about her now.
Even her eyes were demurely shuttered, betraying not the slightest hint of her thoughts. If not for her blush, Adam might have believed the incident in his chamber had never occurred.
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