Margo Maguire - Bride Of The Isle

Margaret.

The name was repeated a thousand times in Cristiane’s mind as she tried to sleep, and another thousand times as she rode the damnable mule the rest of the way to Bitterlee. Adam rode far ahead, out of sight.

She should have realized he had a wife. ’Twas the reason he’d kept his distance. Sure enough, there’d been heat between them, but Adam—Lord Bitterlee, she amended—had done the honorable thing and stayed away from her.

She could not help but feel disappointment. He’d been her hero, her savior, on the stair of the inn. He’d taken gentle care of her and seen that she was protected through the night. Was it so strange that she would feel some attachment to him? Was it odd that she should want to believe there was more than basic chivalry in his concern for her?

Cristiane sighed. She was just an inexperienced lass from a small village too far north of anywhere that mattered. However, she was intelligent enough to realize that she would have to guard her heart as she traveled, and not succumb to every attraction she felt. Just because a man paid her a kindness did not mean he intended to commit his life to her.

Yet it hurt to know that she was naught more than a responsibility to Adam. ’Twas likely he owed a debt to her father, or mayhap to her uncle, and that was why he’d been compelled to escort her from St. Oln.

She was merely the means for payment of that debt.

’Twas fortunate for Cristiane’s peace of mind that the scenery changed. It intrigued her. As they rode closer to the sea, on high embankments and across wide beaches, she drank in and savored all the sights.

Her beloved guillemots and fulmars, puffins and razorbills, all nested and fed here in huge numbers. She watched as they circled over the water, screeching, then diving, and resurfacing with their catch.

“Are there many birds on the island?” she asked.

“Aye,” replied Elwin. “All along the cliffs south of the castle.”

“And does…does Lady Margaret walk along the cliffs?”

“Oh, ye know of Lady Margaret, then?” Elwin asked.

Cristiane nodded.

“Well, nay, she does not,” he answered. “The lord would be afeared of her slipping and falling.”

Though Cristiane had skipped among the rocky cliffs above St. Oln all her life and knew there was little danger for the surefooted, she wished that some likely lad might have had a care for her safety. ’Twas clear that Lord Bitterlee held his lady in high regard.

Cristiane put those thoughts from her mind. She had many miles to cover before she met her uncle in York, and it would not do at all for her to pine over what could not be.

“Look!” Raynauld said. He extended one arm to the left and pointed. “Bitterlee!”

In the afternoon sun, Cristiane could see a dark mass rising out of the glittering sea in the distance. It was impossible to make out any detail from so far away, but it was comforting—nay, exciting—to have her destination finally within sight.

The Bitterlee lords kept a tiny village on the mainland, where a perfect harbor was well situated for launching boats to the island. Adam tied his horse to the post in front of the wineshop that also served as an inn, and went inside to wait for his men to arrive with Lady Cristiane.

The weather was fair enough now, so the crossing should pose no problems. The only difficulty would be once they reached the isle. He had not yet figured out how to avoid Lady Cristiane.

The castle was large, but only a small part was inhabited by the family. There was only one appropriate place to lodge Cristiane, being a guest, and that was near his own chambers, not far from Margaret’s. As usual, meals would be served in the great hall, and he could see no possible way to stay away from them. Or her.

He could turn her over to his uncle, but Gerard was a decidedly unfriendly, inhospitable fellow. He was a mere decade older than Adam, and for many years he’d resented Adam’s inheritance of the Bitterlee title and demesne. His actions of late indicated that he still resented him for it.

Gerard Sutton had spent the greater part of his youth as a knight in King Edward’s employ, only returning to Bitterlee upon the death of Adam’s father. Mayhap at that time, Gerard had hoped he would somehow inherit Bitterlee. Adam knew ’twas entirely possible his uncle had petitioned the king in this matter, too.

But King Edward was not fool enough to make exception to the laws of inheritance. ’Twould start a precedent that would cause chaos in the kingdom.

Nay, Adam was lord of Bitterlee, and he would be until the title passed to his own son.

If ever he had one.

“Rain in the air, m’lord,” the innkeeper said, drawing ale from a barrel.

“Aye,” Adam replied. “I smell it, too. But not for a few hours.”

“Right you are,” the man said as he set Adam’s ale before him.

“Lookin’ fer some refreshment, m’lord?” the innkeeper’s wife asked. “A meal or—?”

“Only if you’ve something prepared,” Adam said, noticing the woman for the first time. She was redheaded, like Cristiane, but her hair color was dull, uninteresting. Her features were unremarkable, too, without the vividness of Cristiane’s bright blue eyes, or the delicacy of her nose and jaw. This woman did not have full, soft lips like Cristiane’s, lips that could…

In frustration at his wayward thoughts, he turned and prowled back to the open door. He’d managed to avoid thinking of her all day, and now this. The image of her face came to mind, as well as all the attributes below her neck.

“When my men arrive,” he said, turning, “we won’t tarry. I want to cross before the rain comes.” He would get Cristiane situated somewhere in the castle and forget about her. Soon he’d meet with Penyngton and have him draft a letter to all the lords of the realm. One of them had to have a daughter of marriageable age. Adam would have a marriage contract drawn up, and wed a proper Englishwoman.

Then he’d be able to get on with his life.

“Aye, m’lord,” the innkeeper said. “Wise. There’s some cold chicken, and mayhap a bit of mutton left.”

“Whatever you have will do, Edwin,” Adam said.

The innkeepers left him to his own devices as they went to the kitchen to prepare the meal. Adam walked back to a table, sat down and lifted his drink.

He knew what his problem was, and it had naught to do with Cristiane Mac Dhiubh. Any woman that pleased the eye could solve it. Mayhap he should send Elwin and Raynauld ahead with Cristiane to Bitterlee. Then he could ride inland to Watersby, a good-size village at a crossroads, where the tavern women were pretty. And willing to take care of a man’s needs.

If he rode hard, he would make it there before dark. He could spend a couple of days slaking a need that had not troubled him for eons, then return to Bitterlee, refreshed and immune to Lady Cristiane’s allure.

He had almost convinced himself that it would be best to head out for Watersby when he reminded himself it had been a week since he’d seen his daughter. Little Margaret was frail and sickly, and he could not stay away for as low a reason as he’d just considered. Nay, he was not so depraved as that.

He would return to the isle and see to his daughter, just as he should.

A gust of wind caught one of the shutters and slammed it against the wall of the inn, forcing Adam’s attention back to the elements. Mayhap the storm would come sooner than he expected. He went outside and glanced down at the harbor, then looked at the sky.

The clouds were still far in the distance, but he hoped Elwin and Raynauld would ride into the village soon. They would have time for a quick meal, then make the crossing before the rain came. Judging by the cold bite of the wind, this storm was going to be more than a gentle shower.