Bride of the Isle

by Maguire, Margo

  Lady Cristiane stood abruptly and walked away from the place where they’d all been sitting only a moment before. Adam did not know what was wrong, only that tension coiled throughout her body.

  Her hair cascaded down her back in spectacular red-gold waves, the wispy ends brushing the base of her spine. Adam could not keep himself from envisioning the naked woman cavorting on these rocks, taking joy in the moments spent with his daughter.

  She turned suddenly, but kept some distance between them. “Have you decided when I shall leave for York, my lord?” she asked. There was a breathlessness and an urgency to her question, and Adam wondered what had prompted it.

  Surely naught untoward had occurred today to make her want to leave Bitterlee. She seemed to truly enjoy Margaret’s company, and Adam would put no limit upon their time together.

  Gerard had been in town all through the morn, making a nuisance of himself while everyone else worked, so he could not be blamed. Adam doubted the servants would have been bold enough to insult her openly, either.

  He wondered if Cristiane was anxious to go to York in order to question her uncle about the events leading to her mother’s banishment from home. He supposed that was as good a reason as any, especially after the sketchy story that Penyngton had told her.

  “Cris-ty?” Margaret asked, tugging on his tunic. A serious frown creased her forehead.

  Adam looked down at his daughter and smiled at her shortened name for Cristiane. “Aye,” he said. “Cristy.”

  “Papa,” she said with agitation. “Cris-ty is…going?”

  Margaret’s speech startled him, and he gazed at her without responding. Then he looked back at Cristiane. “Mayhap we can find a reason to keep her here a while longer,” he finally said.

  Cristiane, her hands clasped before her, approached. “Another day, m’lord,” she snapped. “But then I must prevail upon you to provide m-me an escort. There is no further reason for me to remain on Bitterlee. I’ve d-done what you’ve asked…” she tipped her head toward Margaret without speaking of the favor he’d asked of her. “But now—” she breathed deeply “—I must take my leave.”

  Adam took Margaret’s hand and stood. Together they approached Cristiane’s tense, but unwavering form.

  He was not ready to let her go.

  “There is much more to Bitterlee than the paltry bit you’ve seen, my lady,” he said quietly. “The isle is particularly fine in spring, and anyone can see that you enjoy our little island. Please…consider remaining with us a few more days.”

  “Stay,” Margaret added, and Adam silently thanked the little girl for her additional plea. He was certain Cristiane would not refuse her.

  Yet he could see that she was torn between staying and wanting to go. He had not realized how important it was for her to meet her Yorkish relations.

  “All right,” she said, as if she believed she was making the worst mistake of her life, “I’ll stay. But only for a few more—”

  “Swim to-morrow,” said Margaret, her odd, choppy speech still surprising him.

  “Aye, if the weather’s good…” Cristiane conceded.

  “Mayhap I’ll join you,” Adam said, wondering what her reaction would be.

  “Nay!” Cristiane’s face suffused with color.

  Adam carefully schooled his own into a perplexed expression. “’Twould be my very great pleasure to join you,” he said, meaning every word. He could only imagine the pleasure he would have in that pool, naked with Cristiane Mac Dhiubh. “I would enjoy seeing my daughter swim.”

  “’T-tis…a time for ladies only,” she stammered, though she attempted an assertive tone.

  Adam decided not to toy with her now. But he would return on the morrow, and stand guard while his ladies cavorted unclothed, here on the rocks.

  Adam and Margaret fed the ducklings that afternoon without Cristiane. Wee Meg’s eyes had pleaded with her to accompany them, but Adam had said naught. Cristiane knew she would not be at Bitterlee for much longer. ’Twould not do for Meg to become too dependent upon her.

  The best thing was for Adam to take up what Cristiane had inadvertently begun, and he obviously knew it. So instead of going along and enjoying the fine day, and the company of Adam and Meg, Cristiane spent the afternoon alone in her chamber.

  Besides, she could not bear to spend another hour with them, not now…not when her feelings were so fresh, so raw.

  She realized that she’d been falling in love with Adam Sutton from the moment he’d taken her arm in St. Oln amidst the hostile people of her village. He had not judged her harshly, despite her Scots blood, regardless of the losses he’d suffered because of her people. He had kept her safe on the journey to Bitterlee, had been kind to her, treating her with deference, entrusting her with his daughter.

  He’d been naught but chivalrous and noble since the moment they’d met. How could she help but love him?

  While Adam and Meg went to the kitchen for a loaf of bread, Cristiane entered the keep alone. She had promised to stay longer on Bitterlee, but she knew it could not be for too many more days. ’Twould only hurt the worse when she finally left.

  Cristiane hurried across the length of the hall, hoping not to meet anyone, but Gerard stood near the steps, blocking her way. She stopped short when she saw him.

  “In a hurry, my lady?” he sneered.

  Cristiane started to move past him, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Come, come,” he said, pulling her toward the table, “and join me in a cup.”

  “Nay,” Cristiane replied, trying to tug her arm away. “I must respectfully decline, Sir Gerard. I have sewing to—”

  “Your stitchery will wait,” he said, his thick brows coming together in a daunting frown. “Is it not possible for a Scotswoman to show any courtesy or respect at all?”

  Cristiane shook her head and freed her arm. “Your pardon, Sir Gerard,” she said, containing her anger, “but I…” She swallowed hard. All she wanted was to get away without any harsh words exchanged. “I must go.”

  He gave a low laugh. “Ah, now I see what my nephew sees in you,” he said. “Fire enough in those eyes to entice him to your bed, yet—”

  Shocked by his words, Cristiane nearly slapped him. Instead, she spun away and darted up the stairs, loath to hear any more of his degrading talk.

  “He may bed you,” Gerard called after her, “but he’ll never wed a savage like you!”

  She stopped stock-still on the stair for an instant, cut to the core by Gerard’s caustic laugh. Then she clambered up the stairs as quickly as she could, but did not escape before his parting words slammed into her heart.

  “’Tis fortunate he did not promise your mother he would take you to wife,” Gerard bellowed. “He only said he’d bring you here and then decide if you were suitable.”

  ’Twas nearly suppertime when Adam arrived in Charles Penyngton’s bedchamber, to find Sara Cole attending him. She was simply dressed, as usual, in a well-made kirtle of good cloth. Her neatly combed hair was only partially visible beneath a modest veil.

  The room felt overly warm due to the fire in the grate, but Charles needed the extra heat. His visitors made do.

  “Margaret speaks now,” Adam said as he paced the length of the chamber. He felt entirely at ease with Charles and Sara. And though he did not officially recognize her as his sibling, they had become close over the last few years.

  “That’s wonderful news, my lord,” Sara said, handing a cup of steaming brew to Charles. “What happened? Did Mathilde…Oh! Your Scottish lady!”

  “’Tis amazing, the effect Cristiane has had on her,” Adam said. “My daughter actually talked to me about ducklings, and a red fox that she saw near the waterfall. And swimming…Cristiane is teaching her to swim!”

  “And you question whether or not to make her your wife,” Penyngton said, choking on the healing decoction. The seneschal shook his head. “You must know, my lord, that any relation of mine would be a worthy—”

 
“Charles, ’tis not a question of her worthiness.” Adam stabbed his fingers through his windblown hair. “She is as worthy as any woman I’ve known—honest and caring, and she loves the isle.”

  “But…?”

  “But…she is so confounded Scottish!” he said. “And…” Untutored, unrefined, untidy were the words that came to mind, but he did not voice them. They were unkind, and ’twas not Cristiane’s fault she’d been born to a humble Scottish nobleman.

  Adam resumed pacing, and no one spoke. Charles continued sipping from his mug, and Sara remained in her chair next to the bed. The occasional crackle of fire was the only sound as Adam traversed the chamber twice.

  “One minute her burr is as thick as mud, but the next, she sounds exactly like the granddaughter of an earl,” he said. “She looks the part of a barbarian from the north…” Although now that she had a decent gown to wear, and combs for her hair, he had to admit she did not look nearly as wild as she had merely a week ago.

  Except when she stood at the waterfall, bared to nature and all the elements. He pinched his eyes tight and suppressed a groan as his body responded to the vivid memory of Cristiane’s naked beauty and the taste of her kiss. “I cannot imagine the people ever accepting her as mistress of Bitterlee,” he said, his voice oddly harsh.

  “Mayhap in time they will,” Sara said.

  “Lady Rosamund was never truly part of Bitterlee in all the years of your marriage,” Charles said. “There was naught about the isle that pleased her.”

  Adam nodded absently, his stomach churning at the thought of watching Cristiane ride away with an escort of his men. She would sail to the mainland, her hair blowing freely, her skirts hugging her legs as she stood in the wind during the crossing. From there, she would leave for York, and he would never see her again.

  “She is anxious to go to her uncle,” he said, thinking of all the times in the past week that she’d spoken of leaving.

  “Why would she?” Charles asked. “She has never met the Earl of Learick, and after what happened to her mother…”

  “She speaks of leaving for York…”

  “Idle talk,” he said. “Ask her to stay. Or send her to me, and I’ll make your proposal for you. As her nearest relation—nearest available relation— ’twould be entirely fitting for me to do so.”

  As Adam paced across the room again, he did not notice Charles and Sara exchanging a curious glance. He could only think of Cristiane sailing away from the isle, and how dull and vacuous Bitterlee would seem once she was gone.

  “What will she have in York?” he asked. “An uncle and some cousins—”

  “Aye,” Charles said. “Two of them. Both young men.”

  Young men. If not the cousins, then some other young man. Someone who had the sense to see beyond her unrefined exterior. Someone who would learn to care for her, who would take her to wife…

  Adam’s jaw clenched involuntarily. He stopped his pacing directly in front of Charles. “Do it then,” he said. “I’ll send Lady Cristiane to you before we sup. You will act as her guardian in this instance and make her an offer—”

  “If I may, my lord…” Sara interjected. “If it were me, I would rather receive a proposal from my bridegroom, not from a distant cousin who deigns to act as my guardian.”

  Adam ran a hand over his whiskered jaw. “I…when Rosamund and I wed…our fathers negotiated the match.”

  “Well, since neither of you has a father…”

  The silence in the room was palpable for a moment.

  “Aye,” Adam finally said as he straightened his tunic. “I will do it. I will speak to her tonight.”

  Cristiane sat next to the open window of her chamber, bent over her sewing, her heart in shreds. She knew ’twas impossible to stay here any longer, feeling as she did about Adam and his daughter. It had been a mistake to insinuate that she would remain any longer than necessary, especially now that she was aware of the arrangement Adam had made with her mother.

  He’d had ample time to decide whether to take her to wife. Clearly, he’d decided she was not suitable. ’Twas true she had few womanly skills. Though capable of putting these gowns together, she could never have sewn them from a bolt of cloth. She had no knowledge of embroidery or of brewing, nor did she have experience in ordering a household.

  She could read Latin, but what use was that to a man who had a learned seneschal?

  The people of the castle avoided her, the servants went out of their way to snub her, and his uncle despised her. Though she worked to curb her Scottish tongue and speak as her mother had taught her, her burr slipped out at inopportune times. And there was naught to be done about her hair, unless she kept it covered at all times.

  She rubbed the back of one hand over eyes that were suddenly moist, then sniffed. She resumed her sewing, anxious to finish the last gown, a lovely creation of fine golden cloth. As soon as it was done, she would be ready to leave for Learick.

  ’Twould be difficult to leave Adam and Meg. Cristiane did not think she’d ever seen a child so needy. The poor lass grieved for her mother, her father barely knew how to deal with her, and her nurse…well, poor Mathilde was not well suited to bringing up a child. She treated Meg as a tiny adult.

  At least Meg had started to come out of herself. The grief would always be with her, but she was moving past the pain that had been locked inside. She would not need Cristiane much longer.

  As for Adam…they’d shared one amazing kiss. That was all.

  Clearly, it had not meant the same to him as it had to her. Nor had any of the other moments they’d shared over the last few days.

  Cristiane wiped her eyes once again, then decided she needed a change of setting. Remaining indoors at a task she found tedious only served to worsen her mood.

  She picked up a comb and worked to restore her hair to order, anchoring it with the combs Adam had given her. Brushing a few stray threads from her gown, Cristiane decided that all her paltry attempts at grooming were for naught. She was still a plain Scottish lass—unwelcome on English soil.

  She would walk down to the pond, or mayhap to the beach. She had no intention of dining in the great hall, where Sir Gerard and his caustic tongue would be at the ready. Nor did she feel she could face Adam just yet.

  Considering that there was a bit more daylight left, she took one of her books from the trunk at the foot of the bed, blew out the candles in the lamps, then turned and opened the door.

  “Adam!”

  Adam rubbed his palms against his thighs. He could not understand why he had ever thought Cristiane uncivilized. Or untidy. Cleanliness had never been a shortcoming, but now she was beautifully dressed in a gown she had helped to make, and her hair was cunningly arranged and contained. Clearly, she was more gently bred than he had credited her.

  “I apologize for, uh, startling you,” he said. “’Twas not my intention, er…”

  God’s teeth, he was stammering! He cleared his throat. “Might I escort you to the hall?”

  She did not respond immediately, her movements strangely awkward for a woman who always moved so well, so gracefully. Something was amiss, though Adam had no inkling what it might be. Unless Gerard…

  “I—I am not hungry, my lord,” she finally said. “I’d planned to go down to the pond…” she lifted the object she held in her hands “…to read.”

  Masking his astonishment, he took the book from her. “Roger Bacon,” he said, looking at the cover. “You read Opus Maius?”

  She gave a small nod. “I thought I’d spend the last hour of daylight with this…”

  He handed the beautiful, leather-bound volume back to her and jabbed his fingers through his hair. She could read, he told himself. Latin.

  “I…” She stopped and licked her lips nervously, hugging the book to her breasts. “I must admit I’ve not done as Friar Roger teaches…”

  “What?” Adam asked incredulously. She’d thrown him entirely off balance. “Learned Arabic? Studied mathematics
?” That she’d read Opus Maius at all was beyond comprehension. He had only heard of this Franciscan scholar, and he knew of no woman who bothered with such lofty ideas. He leaned one hand against the lintel of the door, his brows drawn together in bewilderment.

  “Nay, m’lord, I’ve not studied Greek or Arabic.”

  “But you have studied mathematics.”

  “Some.”

  Abruptly, he took her arm and drew her out of her chamber. How could he have misjudged her so? He’d taken her measure by her appearance only, never bothering to look any deeper.

  Adam kept hold of her as they walked to the stairs and descended, until they reached the great hall. “Where is wee Meg, m’lord?” Cristiane asked. “Will she not eat?”

  Wee Meg… It sounded so very Scottish, yet ’twas merely an endearment. Had he mistaken everything about Cristiane?

  “Nay,” Adam replied distractedly. “She is asleep in her bed. Her eventful day wore her out.”

  “Oh. Well…is there some other, er, problem?” Cristiane inquired. Her forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown, and his eyes were drawn to a tiny mole just above one golden brow. He did not know how he’d missed the delightful spot before now. He envisioned himself touching his mouth to it, smoothing the worry from her brow.

  “I only want to talk to you,” he said, tearing his eyes away.

  Several of his men were assembled in the hall for the meal, but food was not in the forefront of Adam’s thoughts. He wanted to get Cristiane away from the crowd, where he could collect his thoughts and ask her to become the lady of Bitterlee.

  Nay. ’Twas too formal a proposal. Instead, he would ask her simply to wed him. But hearing the words in his head made him realize that approach was too indifferent. He was the intended bridegroom, therefore he needed to make it much more personal, as Sara had advised. Trying the words again, he decided he would ask her to do him the very great honor of becoming his wife.