Bride Of The Isle. Margo Maguire
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felt more than a little insecure perched alone atop the mule, she could not resist breaking her concentration to look down and admire the lovely leather shoes Adam had gotten for her.
Adam rode ahead all day. He’d traveled this route two years before, riding in the back of a wagon, wounded and out of his head with fever. He couldn’t remember much of that journey.
Then he’d arrived home on the isle and learned of Rosamund’s death only a few days before. Even through his fog of pain and fever, the shock of that terrible news was something he’d never forget.
Adam wondered if he could have prevented her suicide had he remained at home rather than answering King Edward’s call and joining the English army in Scotland. He also wondered if his impending return had driven her to seek her own death. ’Twas a question that would forever haunt him.
Beyond her maladjustment to marriage, Rosamund had not adjusted to life on Bitterlee, either. Everything about the isle had been too harsh, too stark, too unforgiving. After Margaret’s birth, Rosamund’s spirits had sunk ever lower.
Yet for the first three years of Margaret’s life, the child had doted on Rosamund. She’d worried and fretted whenever her mama was unwell—which was often—and wanted naught more than to be allowed to play quietly in her chamber. It seemed an unlikely way to rear a child, though Adam knew little of these matters.
A sense of bitter sadness took hold of him, as it always did whenever he thought of Rosamund. She’d been so distant and fragile. He’d never quite known what to do with her, or about her, from the time they’d met and wed. He’d been paired with her through the efforts of her sire and his own, with nary a thought to how satisfactory a match was being made, or how well Rosamund was suited to the place or the man who would become her husband.
Adam presumed his own father had decided that any young woman of noble birth would suffice, as long as she was capable of bearing his heirs. Adam’s father could not have been more wrong, but the earl had not lived long after the marriage had taken place. He hadn’t witnessed Rosamund’s growing despondency and subsequent withdrawal.
By the time Adam returned home from Falkirk, life at Bitterlee had changed dramatically. Rosamund was gone. Mathilde, the stern old nurse who had come to Bitterlee with Rosamund, had taken Margaret in hand, and seen to her care. Adam’s uncle, Gerard, had taken charge in a harsh and incompetent manner, looking after matters on the isle. Luckily, Penyngton had been there to see that his excesses caused no harm.
Unfortunately, a great number of Bitterlee men had gone to Falkirk with Adam—and not returned home. Too many fields lay fallow now, for lack of farmers. And too few fishermen plied the seas with their nets.
Upon Adam’s return from Falkirk and the carnage there, he’d had a difficult time mustering the strength to reclaim his demesne and his daughter. He knew he’d left Gerard too long in charge. And little Margaret shrank away from the stranger who was her father—the man with the terrible scar across his jaw, and the ungainly limp.
He knew he must seem a monster to her now.
It had taken Charles Penyngton’s persistence to show Adam that things must change. The seneschal had helped Adam reclaim his rightful place as lord of Bitterlee, gently relegating Uncle Gerard to his favorite pastime—overimbibing the castle ale and wandering the isle at will. Gerard sometimes stayed for days in one or another of his many secret places on the island.
Penyngton had also managed to convince Adam of the need for a wife. A new lady of Bitterlee.
Adam would find one. Soon. ’Twas quite unfortunate that Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would not do—that her Scottish side overbalanced the English blood that must run in her veins. But he was determined not to err again in his marital duty. Though the woman managed to stir him in ways he’d all but forgotten, she was wholly unsuitable for Bitterlee. Naught less than a gently bred, English lady would do.
Still, he would not shirk his responsibility toward Lady Cristiane. On Bitterlee, he would see that she was clothed properly, then assign an escort to take her to her uncle in York. ’Twould be no hardship for two or three of his knights to make the journey. Spring was upon them, and travel would be easy.
As for this short journey to Bitterlee, Adam knew Elwin and Raynauld were entirely capable of protecting Lady Cristiane, so he felt no qualms about keeping his distance from her. Now, if only he could keep his mind as far from removed from her as his body was…
’Twas no use trying to keep his thoughts on Bitterlee. She had an untamed beauty that enthralled him, but a vulnerability that was frightening. He did not want another sensitive female under his care. Certainly not a bloody Scottish one.
The day continued fair and sunny, and Cristiane grew accustomed to the rhythm of the mule’s gait. They did not travel fast over the woodland path, but made good progress south. She could smell the sea to her left as they rode, and she wondered if they would camp near water as they had on their first night out.
She also wondered if they would meet up with Adam before nightfall.
Though Elwin and Raynauld were good company, Cristiane found herself wishing for Adam’s presence. She sighed quietly as she thought of his strong, capable hands, lacing the shoes he’d acquired for her. She’d never noticed any other man’s hands before, but something about Adam’s caught her eye.
They were large, but well formed, with dark hair on the backs and thick blue veins prominent under smooth skin. His clean nails were neatly trimmed. Cristiane would feel safe in those hands, if he ever chose to touch her again.
Which he would not. She was certain of that.
She’d seen something in his eyes that morning while she dressed, something that even now brought a blush to her cheeks. But he’d withdrawn from her. He’d made a point of staying away—other than during those few short moments when he’d fastened the shoes on her feet. Clearly, he had not experienced the same rush of heat she had. Whatever had been in his eyes, it had not been a wave of lust.
More likely embarrassment.
’Twas foolish to ruminate over it now. Adam’s lack of interest was of no consequence to her. She would not tarry long at Bitterlee. ’Twould be a mere fortnight or less, she guessed, before she continued her southward journey to her uncle in York.
She felt fortunate that she at least had shoes for her arrival in York, but wished she owned something to trade for better clothes. Her belongings were meager, and of them, the only possessions of value were her two books, which she’d managed to hide away in her cave. Cristiane did not think she could part with them, even for the finest of kirtles. For they’d belonged to her father and she’d learned so much from them.
Nay, she would just have to arrive looking a pauper…as she truly was.
“Not much farther to go, yer ladyship,” Sir Elwin said. “We’ll meet Lord Bitterlee just over that rise.”
Cristiane was surprised by that news. She’d had no idea where Lord Bitterlee had gone off to, but her heart beat a bit faster, knowing she’d soon see him again.
“He stayed ahead of us all day,” Raynauld remarked.
“Why?” she wondered aloud.
“For safety’s sake,” Elwin replied. “After our encounter with last night’s raiders, he did not want us to be riding headlong into another ugly situation.”
Cristiane had not thought of that, but she was glad Adam had. The idea of running into those English marauders again made her blood run cold. She did not care to repeat her reaction to the violence on the stair the previous night. She’d been incapacitated, and her mind had taken her back to the battle in which her father had been killed.
Prior to this, she’d only seen his violent death in her worst nightmares. Never while she was awake.
“We’ve kept up a good pace,” Sir Elwin said, turning her mind from the possibility of danger, “so we’ll be reaching the Isle of Bitterlee before nightfall on the morrow.”