Margo Maguire - Bride Of The Isle

When dusk approached, she wondered if they would soon stop to camp, for she was weary and it had begun to drizzle. Her back and legs ached from the long hours on horseback. Eventually they came upon a village of sorts. Nay, she amended, ’twas not quite a village, but merely an inn with a few cottages nearby.

She hoped Lord Bitterlee intended to spend the night here. They rode into the yard and saw that a number of horses were already tethered there. Voices carried from the inn, and by the sound of it, the place was crowded. Lord Bitterlee dismounted, then turned to help Cristiane down.

“Shall I go inquire about rooms, my lord?” Sir Elwin asked as he tied his horse to a post.

Lord Bitterlee nodded. “Stay close to me,” he said to Cristiane. “While we’re so near the border, there are risks. Especially for you, but for us as well.”

Cristiane nodded. Hostilities ran hot along the Scottish border, and though they were actually on English soil, she assumed that strangers would not be trusted. She almost wished they’d stopped somewhere along the road, where she could spend the night in the tent they’d brought along for her. She would have felt a great deal safer.

Resigned to staying here, where raucous voices disturbed the peace of the day’s end, she drew close to Lord Bitterlee and waited for his knight to return.

There was a chill in the air, and Cristiane shivered. Then she felt Bitterlee’s arm go around her shoulders, and he pulled her closer. The fine mail of his hauberk should have been cold, but Cristiane could feel his heat radiating through the steel.

’Twas a long time since she’d felt so protected. Not since the sudden and violent death of her father had anyone helped her with life’s difficulties. She’d been so alone since her mother’s illness…Cristiane blinked away the sudden moisture in her eyes, brought on by the kindness of Adam Sutton and the strength of his arm around her.

“M’lord,” Sir Elwin said, “the men here are a rough lot. I don’t know that it would be wise to take Lady Cristiane inside.”

“Are there any rooms?” he asked as he glanced quickly at Cristiane. She was wet and shivering.

“Only one,” he said with a sigh. “I told the landlord to hold it.”

Lord Bitterlee nodded. “Is there a back entrance?”

“Through the kitchen, m’lord,” he said. “We might be able to get her ladyship in with no one the wiser.”

She felt the lord’s hand at her lower back as he urged her to follow Sir Elwin. He followed close behind, while Sir Raynauld remained to deal with the horses.

There was a haze of smoke in the kitchen, and a multitude of aromas hit her at once. Mingled with the smell of smoke were the strong odors of food, grease and ale. A raucous crowd had taken over the common room. Men’s voices were raised with excitement and lust over an upcoming raid.

“We’ll have to climb a staircase adjacent to the main hall, m’lord,” Elwin said, keeping his voice low. “’Tis the only place where her ladyship might be exposed to view. But there is no other way up the stairs.”

“We’ll flank her on the way up, and guard her from sight,” Bitterlee said. “Move quickly, my lady.”

He shielded her from the crowd below, but someone managed to catch sight of her and called out that there was a woman on the stair. Cristiane cringed with fear as Adam propelled her up the remaining steps. Then, along with Elwin, he turned and drew his sword.

Four men rushed them, drawing their own weapons, but Adam planted a booted foot on one man’s chest and shoved, knocking him back down the stairs, and two others with him. Adam turned to climb the stairs again, but more of the revelers closed in on them.

Quickly, Adam and Elwin engaged in battle. Swords clanged. Men grunted and cursed. Blood flowed.

And Cristiane’s limbs were paralyzed. She could move neither forward nor back, for she saw before her eyes the battle in which her father had been killed. She felt dizzy and weak. Her ears buzzed and hummed, shutting out the sounds of aggression just below her.

She went numb.

Then, as now, she had watched from a dark corner in the main staircase of the keep as her father had fought to save her from the Armstrong enemy. She had seen Domhnall speared through his chest, and had watched his life’s blood flow from him, spreading a dark stain on the landing and down the steps.

“Cristiane!”

Her father had managed to wound his killer, so the man had retreated. He’d left Cristiane alone, but she had cowered there in her dark refuge until all had gone quiet around her. The acrid scents of burning buildings and burned animal flesh filled her nose, her mind. The sight of her father’s blood dripping down the steps—

“Cristiane!”

Lord Bitterlee’s commanding voice finally penetrated her hazy consciousness and she shook her head. She blinked her eyes in confusion and tried to turn her attention to him.

But she still felt bound by the same sluggishness that had plagued her for weeks after her father’s death. Cristiane knew she should be moving, following Lord Bitterlee’s directions, getting to safety. Yet her legs would not obey his commands, nor would her body allow her to turn away from the battle being waged before her.

“Cristiane! Move! There must be a room—ugh!” One of the men butted Adam’s midsection with his head, and Adam slammed the flat of his sword down on him, throwing him off.

Raynauld arrived and fought his way to Adam’s side. Adam turned quickly, took two steps at once and gathered Cristiane in his arms. Seemingly without effort, he threw her over one shoulder and shoved his way into a room, slamming and barring the door behind him.

A pathetic little fire in the grate gave sufficient illumination to keep Adam from falling over anything. Quickly, he set Cristiane on the bed in the corner of the room.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She did not respond to his question, so he knelt in front of her and took both her hands. They were like ice, and she was shaking, but Adam knew better than to think Cristiane was not as barbaric as every bloody Scot he’d encountered at Falkirk. She might be half-English, but she’d been raised among them.

Cristiane’s silence perplexed him, however, and he started to rub her hands between his own as he kept one ear attuned to the noises on the stairs and below. He did not think any of the attackers had been killed, but blood had flowed. And Cristiane’s reaction had been one of horror. Looking at her colorless visage, he could no longer deny it.

God’s cross! Why had they stayed here, knowing what was brewing within? They could very well have spent another night out-of-doors, with Cristiane safely lodged in the canvas tent. What difference was a bit of rain? Adam and his knights had lived through worse.

“’Tis over now, Cristiane,” he said gently. “You’re safe now.”

“Aye,” she said quietly, looking up at him blankly. The red scrape on her cheek stood out in sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. “I know.”

“You’ll sleep here, and my men and I will keep watch.”

“All right.”

“Can you…er, your clothes are wet,” he said. “They’ll need to come off. I’ll just step out for a mo—”

Cristiane grabbed his hand. “Dinna go!” she whispered, sounding more Scottish than he’d noted till now. “Please. I…”

Adam ran a hand through his damp hair and tried to think of a way to calm her.

“I’ll be here…just inside the door,” he finally said as he extricated his hand from her grasp. “I’ll turn my back and you can get undressed.”

He heard her swallow. Adam had not been told what had happened in Cristiane’s village, but he’d seen the ravages of recent battle. Judging by her reaction just now, Cristiane Mac Dhiubh may have been in the thick of it. Mayhap even a half-Scot would be unable to witness that kind of butchery without being affected by it.