Margo Maguire - Bride Of The Isle

“Lord Bitterlee will be in the dell alongside the river,” Elwin said.

They made their way down the hillside and soon reached a stream that Cristiane considered more a wee burn than a river. But she did not contradict her escort. She was just glad to know she’d be able to dismount soon. Her legs were sore, and her back ached from holding it so stiffly all day.

They rode three abreast, following the burn. When they smelled the welcoming aroma of a wood fire, and of cooking meat, they knew they were close. They followed the curve of the little stream and soon came upon Lord Bitterlee, who had just stepped out of the frigid water.

To Cristiane’s shock, Adam was shirtless. She’d never seen a man of St. Oln so unclothed. Always, for modesty’s sake, the men kept on at least an undergarment, even while performing the hottest, most arduous tasks.

But Cristiane could not find fault with Adam’s near nakedness. His chest and arms were well formed, and his belly…something about the way those hard muscles moved made Cristiane’s insides flutter.

Dark hair furred his chest in a swirling pattern that trailed to a point below his waist, where his chausses and braes rode low on his hips. The chausses themselves were damp, and Cristiane could make out the firm lines of the muscles of his legs, though she could discern no indication of the reason for his limp.

What had caused it? A battle wound?

She suddenly realized that she was sitting motionless atop her mount. Raynauld and Elwin had ridden well ahead of her as she’d sat staring at Adam, and she flushed with heat. ’Twas embarrassing to be caught with her jaw agape.

Adam threw on his undertunic quickly. The icy bite of the river had no effect on him now. If anything, he felt too warm. Lady Cristiane’s unabashed appraisal of his naked form was surprisingly arousing. Suddenly, all he could think of was the way her lips had felt on his cheek after he’d placed the shoes on her feet. All he could smell was her scent, soft and musky. Intriguing.

He’d never known a noblewoman to be so appreciative of the male form. Rosamund had certainly never been. If anything, she had abhorred his superior size and strength. In their four years of marriage, Rosamund had never been at ease with him. She had given excuses to keep him from sharing her bed, and certainly had not enjoyed the few times he’d gotten past her defenses.

’Twas a miracle she’d ever conceived Margaret.

“Looks like the weather will stay clear, my lord,” Raynauld said, dismounting and leading his horse away. “An easy night for sleeping out-of-doors.”

Adam nodded and stepped over to the campfire, where he’d left his mail hauberk. He assumed, hoped, Elwin had assisted Cristiane from the mule.

But Elwin led his horse past him, asking, “Your ride was uneventful, my lord?”

“Aye, not a…” He turned and caught sight of Cristiane. She was attempting to dismount alone, but the distance to the ground was too great. Raynauld was out of sight and Elwin was heading in the opposite direction.

Adam muttered a reply and rubbed the lower half of his face with one hand. The last thing he wanted was to touch her again. He’d made his decision regarding Lady Cristiane, and it was a sound one. She would never do as a proper English wife, but he knew his body would betray him again if he did not avoid touching her.

She could dismount without assistance, he told himself. She was robust and hearty, and he was certain she had no need of his help.

Yet, in spite of all this, he stepped over to her. “Allow me,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

She took it without hesitation and slid down the mule’s side. Adam caught her waist to steady her as she slipped down the length of his body. He gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge the sparks set off by the contact, and she seemed to do the same. But her legs were unsteady and she faltered as she tried to step away.

Adam took hold of her again and led her to a likely seat—the trunk of an uprooted tree. As he held her, he was almost painfully aware of how flimsy were the layers of her clothes, and his hand learned the supple curves of her waist and hip the way his eyes had already been tutored.

“Thank you, Lord Bitterlee,” she said as she sat. “I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment.”

He knew she could not have been accustomed to riding, with no horses in St. Oln. He should have anticipated how difficult it would be for her to ride that mule all day.

Would she be able to ride again on the morrow? They had only a half day’s journey ahead of them, and he wanted to make it back to Bitterlee. These days, he did not like being away from home too long, not with Margaret so frail and Gerard so ready to take control of the isle.

Adam wished Penyngton had known how unsuitable Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would be. He’d have saved himself the trip.

He limped back over to the fire and picked up his water skin. Returning to Cristiane, he handed it to her. “The food will be ready shortly,” he said, watching her lips close around the opening of the skin. A thin trail of water splashed down her chin and onto the cloth of her kirtle, pasting it to her skin.

He swallowed thickly and looked away. “’Tis nearly dark. If you need, er, if you care to wash, there’s a secluded place downstream, ’round that curve.”

He’d never had occasion to speak to Rosamund about such private matters, and he did not care to dwell on them now, with Cristiane. “Do you think you can walk?”

“Oh, aye,” she said, handing his water skin back to him. She wiped the droplets from her chin, then pushed her hair back. For the first time, he noticed how delicate her hands and wrists were. She was not as tiny as Rosamund had been, but Lady Cristiane was still distinctly feminine.

She walked away, following the edge of the brook, and he could not help but notice her unsteady gait. Stepping toward her to give assistance, he stopped himself. Determined to stay clear of her, he decided that if she stumbled, one of his men could bloody well help her.

Cristiane managed. Her legs were not exactly sore, but wobbly. It made no difference; the end result was the same. She was unsteady as she walked around the curve of the burn.

Puzzled by Adam’s attitude toward her, she washed in the stream and tried to understand why he should seem annoyed with her, even as he showed her kindness. It made no sense.

Pushing aside her confusion, she thought about the island she was about to visit. She’d never been beyond the boundaries of St. Oln, but she’d heard of islands in the North Sea, and knew they were occupied by a multitude of birds and other wildlife. She wondered if Bitterlee would be the same.

’Twas merely a half day’s ride to Adam’s isle. Cristiane was doubtful about making it alone on the back of the mule for that length of time, and wished Adam would take her up with him on his mount.

Besides, she wanted to feel his arms around her once more. She’d never before known the kind of heart-pounding reaction he caused in her, and wanted to experience it again. She craved his touch in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. She wanted to see his naked form again, even though she supposed ’twas sinful to have such a blatant desire of the flesh.

A bit stunned by her strange feelings, she wiped her face on the skirt of her kirtle and turned back to join the men in camp. Their low voices carried and she could hear them talking comfortably together. She found Elwin turning the hares that were cooking over the fire, and Raynauld was looking over some colorful bits of cloth with Adam.

“These will look well in Margaret’s hair,” Adam said.

“Oh aye, my lord,” Raynauld said, holding up several lengths of ribbon. “No doubt she will love them.”