Bride Of The Isle. Margo Maguire
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the aftereffect of her foolish ruminations when she’d first seen him in St. Oln that made her imagine how it would feel to be possessed by such a man.
Since the river crossing, Lord Bitterlee had been nothing but solicitous and respectful of her, seeing to her comfort, helping his men set up a tent for her use. And he kept his distance. Clearly, she was not at all what he expected of a high-born Englishwoman.
She could not blame him. She felt more like the commonest of peasants than a true noblewoman. Less, even. In St. Oln, even the lowliest of women owned shoes.
Life had changed drastically after the death of her father. He had never had the kind of wealth possessed by some chieftains, but Cristiane and her mother had been comfortable, if not entirely accepted by the towns-people. They were tolerated, but not much more.
’Twas no wonder Elizabeth had sickened and died within months after losing Domhnall’s protection.
Cristiane looked around her. She was sorry she had slept through so much of the journey so far, and promised herself to do better on the morrow. After all, she would never travel this way again, and she wanted to see and savor all of the country through which she traveled. Once she reached York, and the home of her uncle, ’twas doubtful she would ever leave.
While the knights went fishing to catch their evening meal, Cristiane walked down to the river’s edge and waded into the shallows to wash. Then she found a quiet place to sit and watch the waterfowl as the sun set over her shoulder. She saw plenty of familiar birds—the proud razorbills sticking out their fat white chests, a few guillemots and some squawking herring gulls.
But the birds that most fascinated her were of a breed she had never seen before. They were huge white waterfowl, with long, graceful necks. A pair of full-grown birds swam before a line of smaller ones. ’Twas a family, or at least it seemed that way to Cristiane. The king and queen of the river. Closing her mind to the uncertainty of her future, she sat back and observed the majestic birds as they made their way downriver.
“You should not stray so far from camp, Lady Cristiane,” said Lord Bitterlee, startling her from her thoughts. He had removed his chain hauberk and wore a plain blue tunic over dark chausses. His casual mode of dress did not make him any less appealing, though his tone of voice betrayed irritation with her.
Cristiane pulled the hem of her kirtle over her naked feet and looked out at the river. The feelings he aroused in her made her restless, even when he wasn’t nearby.
“Aye, m’lord,” she said contritely, “I’ll not do it again, if ’tis bothersome to you.”
“’Tis for your own safety,” he said gruffly, “not for any particular convenience to me. Sir Raynauld is back at camp. He and Sir Elwin are cooking the trout they caught.”
“Then I’d best go back with you,” Cristiane said as she began to rise, keeping her bare feet out of sight. Lord Bitterlee gave her a hand and helped her to stand. The heat of his flesh on her own nearly made her jump, but she did her best to ignore the unwelcome quivering that came over her when he touched her.
“M’lord,” she said, intent on distracting herself from the foolish thoughts crossing her mind. She took her hand away from his and pointed downstream. “Do you know what those bonny white birds are called?”
He turned and glanced at the birds she wondered about, then looked back with an expression that reminded her of her father’s, when she’d said something incredibly foolish. “Why, they’re swans,” Lord Bitterlee said, as if he were stating the obvious. “Two parents and their brood following.”
“Parents?” Cristiane asked. They began walking through a thick stand of woods, toward the campsite. “You mean, these birds rear their young? Together?”
“I believe so.” He shrugged. “I’ve never really thought much on it.”
“Ah,” she said, glancing back at the swans. She would have to remember everything about them, for she doubted such birds were very common.
Cristiane realized how hungry she was when the delectable aroma of cooked trout assailed her nose. She hurried up the path toward their camp, but stepped on a sharp stone that threw her off balance. Lord Bitterlee kept her from falling by quickly throwing an arm about her waist.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice deep and caring.
“Aye,” she replied, more breathlessly than she liked. She pulled away once again, and nearly ran up the path.
Adam could not imagine that the woman had never heard of swans till now. Her life must have been even more parochial than he’d first thought. Which would account for her coarse clothing and bare feet, as well as the unkempt mop of her hair—glorious though it was.
He watched Cristiane as she ate with her fingers, pulling tender meat away from the bones adroitly, delicately licking the juice from her fingers. She tipped her mug and drank slowly, the muscles of her throat working as she swallowed. Adam lowered his eyes against her unconsciously arousing display and tried to ignore the tightening of his body in response. He concentrated on his own meal before him.
These intemperate reactions would have to stop. They had at least two more days of travel before they arrived at Bitterlee, and they would be sharing close quarters until then. Very close quarters. He’d made a solemn promise to Cristiane’s mother either to wed her or to see her safely escorted to her uncle in York. Since he’d already decided he would not wed her, lust had no part in this.
When he looked at Cristiane Mac Dhiubh again, she was standing. She had taken the tin plates from Raynauld and Elwin, and was coming toward him.
The stride of her legs, and their movement against the coarse cloth of her kirtle, aroused him in ways he refused to consider. She was just a young girl, he told himself. Inexperienced, untried. His masculine appetites may have suddenly returned unbidden, but Adam knew he had no business centering them on Cristiane Mac Dhiubh. She was not at all the kind of wife he needed or wanted. Nor was she some cheap strumpet….
He would set Charles Penyngton the task of finding a more appropriate wife—an English lady—as soon as he returned to Bitterlee.
“Your plate, m’lord?” Cristiane asked quietly. “I’ll rinse it with the others in the stream.”
The setting sun was at his back, and it illuminated her eyes as she spoke. Her lashes were thick, dark near the roots and sun-kissed gold at the ends. Though her gaze was direct, she looked at him almost shyly, as if she knew how unsatisfactory he considered her, while she waited for him to reply.
He stood and handed her the plate, then stalked away with his ungainly gait into the woods. He had more important things to consider than the length of Cristiane’s eyelashes or the berry-red softness of her lips.
As Penyngton had repeatedly said over the last few weeks, Bitterlee needed a mistress. Little Margaret needed a mother. Adam knew that no one could replace his wife in that respect, even though Rosamund had never been very attentive to their daughter.
However, common sense told him that the little girl needed someone who would care for her in the manner of a mother—accepting her faults, disciplining her with kindness and tolerance. And until he found the right person, Adam intended to become more of a parent to his child.
He knew that Margaret’s life depended upon it.
She had become little more than a silent skeleton since Rosamund’s death, with wide, hollow eyes. Her nurse, Mathilde, could not seem to draw the child out of her cocoon of grief. Little Margaret scarcely left her chamber, except to venture into the castle chapel to spend excessive amounts of time in prayer.
Adam did not need to know much about children to understand that this was not typical behavior for a five-year-old child. He would do something about all that when he returned to Bitterlee.
Preoccupied, Adam limped back to camp, where the men were setting out their bedrolls near the fire.
“Has Lady Cristiane returned from the