Bride Of The Isle. Margo Maguire
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his otherwise perfect face.
If her Yorkish uncle ever found her a husband, Cristiane hoped he would be something like this man who stood, so tall and broad shouldered, before her. Many were the times she had dreamed of someone like him, with strong, but gentle hands, intense, fascinating eyes. Someone who had the prowess to keep her safe…. Cristiane had never thought her dream could be real.
Until now.
“My lady,” Father Walter said more formally, “these gentlemen are here to escort ye to Bitterlee, as your mother wished.”
“Aye, Father,” Cristiane replied, uncomfortable with the turn her thoughts had taken. “So I gathered.”
When the priest addressed Cristiane’s knight, her surprised eyes flew to the stranger. “M’lord Bitterlee,” Father Walter said. “This is Lady Cristiane Mac Dhiubh.”
This was the lord? This man, for whom she felt an attraction unlike anything she’d ever experienced before? Cristiane swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat.
She reined in her wayward thoughts and realized she did not know whether to be flattered or distressed that the English lord had come for her himself. She had never met a high chief before. She’d met no one, in fact, who had more power or influence than her own father. And Domhnall had merely been the Mac Dhiubh, chieftain of this small clan. He’d been more a scholar than a leader, and certainly not a warrior, though he’d done his best to defend her, as well as the clan.
Cristiane cringed as she considered her appearance. Her hair was unbound and uncovered, her feet bare and her kirtle a mere scrap of poor homespun that her mother had received in trade, along with food and a meager shelter, for their own finer garments.
She remembered the fine clothes her mother had worn years before, when Cristiane was still a small child. And she recalled the snippets of information Elizabeth had told about her home in York and her one visit to the English court.
Cristiane knew with certainty that she looked nothing like the “lady” Lord Bitterlee must have expected to find.
To his credit, he showed no disdain—although Cristiane could well imagine what he must think of her. She curled her toes and tried to hide her cut and bruised feet under her hem.
“Lady Cristiane,” Bitterlee said, tipping his head slightly. “We will depart St. Oln within the hour. Please make ready to leave.”
“Aye, m’lord,” she said. “I’m ready now.”
She kept her chin up as she replied, knowing how foolish a barefoot noblewoman who carried all her possessions in one small sack would appear to him. She could not allow his opinion to matter, however. She had said her farewells to her beloved cliffs, and now ’twas time to move on.
She could not bring herself to ask any of the questions that burned the back of her throat, either. Cristiane was too ashamed to draw any more of his attention to herself.
“What’re yer plans, m’lord?” Father Walter asked.
“We should cross the Tweed by nightfall, then we’ll camp just south of it.”
The old priest nodded. “Aye, ’tis a good idea to get yerselves to English soil,” he said. “But how will Cristiane travel? Ye might have noticed we have no horses here in St. Oln.”
Chapter Two
He’d thought he could do it, but ’twas not possible. He could not take an uncouth, butchering Scot to wife. His experience at Falkirk, coupled with Cristiane’s utter unsuitability—her hair, her dress, her speech—nay, he had no choice but to find himself an English wife.
Still, Adam was not about to let Lady Cristiane ride with either of his men. So she sat before him on his destrier, her hips pressed to his loins, her back colliding with his chest at every bump in the road.
They rode for hours this way, and kept near the coast whenever possible, though the terrain sometimes made it necessary to move inland.
After a few hours, Cristiane’s posture began to slip, and she leaned into him. Without thinking, Adam closed his arms around her more securely, to keep her from falling. He had no objection to her sleeping as they rode, but he did object mightily to the possibility of her falling.
She was warm and soft, and her scent made him think of the outdoors and the sea. A few light freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, but they seemed to make her flawless complexion even more perfect. If that were possible. The structure of her bones and the fine veins of her graceful neck enticed him, while the steady pulse beating there fascinated him more than it should.
Her mouth was slightly parted in slumber, her generous lips moving a bit with each breath. Her unruly hair brushed across his face, eliciting a response he had not experienced since before Falkirk. He wanted her.
’Twas impossible. She was as far from being an acceptable wife as a barbaric infidel woman from the east. Cristiane Mac Dhiubh did not even vaguely resemble a gentle English lady, though she was of noble birth. Adam would carry her to Bitterlee, see that she was outfitted more appropriately to her station, then send her with an escort to her uncle in York.
’Twas unfortunate that Cristiane was so damnably Scottish, or he might have considered marrying her. But her fiery red hair and freckled skin were only the most visible aspects of her Scottishness. Even though she spoke with more gentle a burr than the other inhabitants of St. Oln, she dressed like a savage, with feet as bare as the poorest villein in the village.
Nor did Cristiane seem at all a meek or pious sort of woman. He had to admire the fortitude and courage she’d shown amidst the hostile crowd at St. Oln, but those attributes were neither highly desirable nor necessary in a wife. He could not imagine that she’d been tutored in any of the finer womanly arts, so what kind of mother would she make to his little daughter? What kind of example?
A poor one, without a doubt.
In her favor, she did not seem dull or ignorant. She was well-spoken and held herself with the proud bearing of the noblest Englishman. Her blue eyes were bright with intelligence and interest, though tinged with sadness at leaving her home. Or even more likely, she suffered a lingering sadness at the recent loss of her parents.
Cristiane muttered in her sleep, and as he looked down at her, she licked her lips and spoke softly. Though he could not quite hear what she said, he caught the final muttered words, “…in vacuo.”
Latin?
He shook his head to clear it. Surely no untutored Scotswoman spoke Latin in her sleep. He must have been mistaken.
Yet he considered the translation of those words: alone. Isolated. Lady Cristiane was probably more alone than she’d ever been in her life, with her father’s death and her mother’s more recent demise.
“The river, m’lord,” Sir Elwin called from his position up ahead. He slowed his pace to allow Adam to catch up. “Would we be crossing now, or waiting until morning?”
Adam looked ahead and saw that the River Tweed was in sight. ’Twas nearly dusk and he felt a strong urge to set his feet on English soil as soon as possible. There were no towns or villages nearby on either side, so they ought to be safe in the sheltered forest on the other side of the river. Adam decided they would camp near the river tonight, then move on in the morning.
“We cross.”
Sir Elwin spurred his horse and rode ahead with Sir Raynauld, leaving Adam alone with Cristiane, who remained soundly asleep. He indulged himself with her softness for another moment more, cradling her, going so far as to span her waist with both his hands, spreading his thumbs to the forbidden territory at the base of her rib cage.
She made a low, unconscious sound that made Adam think of intimate pleasures. He shuddered with a hunger he knew he would never appease with this woman, then spurred his horse toward the river’s edge.
Cristiane knew