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Cristiane sighed as the first drops of rain touched her face. ’Twas spring and the weather was fine, but the rain was cold and biting. She gathered up her thin, ragged skirt and climbed to her shallow cave, where a few of her precious belongings were stored. Since no one ever came up here, Cristiane knew they were safe.
’Twas a strange provision, Adam thought, that the Mac Dhiubh girl be allowed to adjust to Bitterlee before he made her his wife. Still, he’d allowed Sir Charles to agree to it when he wrote to Elizabeth Mac Dhiubh. After all, it suited Adam’s own purposes perfectly. This way, he would not be compelled to wed the girl if she were unsatisfactory.
Nay, ’twas lucky for him that her mother had insisted she be given time to adjust to Bitterlee before he even suggested they wed. ’Twould give him time to evaluate and adjust, as well.
Adam doubted the girl would be suitable, anyway. Even if she were half-English, she’d been raised here among the lowland Scots, barbaric people who had a decided mistrust of all things English. Clan Mac Dhiubh might even be responsible for harrying English border estates.
Adam did not need a bloodthirsty Scot for a wife.
The village of St. Oln was a poor one, he thought, as he and his escort dismounted in front of its ramshackle stone church. His leg, horribly butchered during the clash at Falkirk, pained him from sitting so long in the saddle. The cold rain hadn’t helped, either. He stood still a moment as his two knights flanked him, then he limped to the church steps, glancing around him at the village.
Here lived the true victims of the wars, he thought, the people who remained after the battles, ragged and hungry and disillusioned. The villagers gathered their children and scampered into their huts in order to avoid the three hauberk-clad English knights who rode in, just as bold as could be.
“Be ye the Sassenach lord, then?” a deep masculine voice intoned from the open door at the top of the stairs.
Adam glanced up to find a grizzled old village priest looking down at him. He gave a quick nod and started up the steps.
“I thought ye’d have been here ’afore now,” the old man said, turning to move out of the rain.
“If you would tell my men where to find Lady Elizabeth,” Adam said, grateful to step into the relative warmth of the church, “they will fetch her and her daughter here.”
They’d ridden past a broken-down, stone-and-timber keep that was clearly no habitable abode for anyone. Not even a Scot. So Lady Elizabeth must be housed in one of the hovels that lined the narrow lane. Adam hoped she was not too frail to travel, thus delaying their departure from this unpleasant town.
“Nay need fer that,” the priest replied. “Everyone in St. Oln saw ye comin’—it willna be long before the lass arrives.”
“And her mother?” Adam asked.
“Passed on a fortnight ago, God rest her soul,” the priest replied, crossing himself as he spoke. “The lass is alone…truly alone now.”
The cleric’s words added a sharp chill to the cold Adam already felt clear to his bones. What now? The agreement was for Adam to escort Lady Elizabeth and her daughter to Bitterlee, where they would spend the summer. Then, if all was favorable, the lass would become his bride. If not, he would see that the two women were transported to York.
Now that she was alone, would Adam still be expected to take Lady Cristiane to Bitterlee? Did the agreement still hold?
“Come,” the priest said, dodging the trickle of rain that dripped through the leaky roof. “Warm yer bones a bit.” He led the three men to a brazier near the altar and held his own hands out to warm them. Adam and his two men did the same. “Cristiane canna remain here at St. Oln any longer. Now that both her father and her mother are gone, ’tis only a matter of time afore somethin’ happens to the lass.
“I promised her dyin’ mother I’d see that yer end of the bargain was met. Take her to yer island home, my Sassenach lord. For the lass’s own good, and safety, take her to Bitterlee with ye.”
Adam considered the priest’s words in silence. He wondered what dire consequences would occur if Lady Cristiane remained here at St. Oln. Surely they would be minor, considering that the girl had been raised here. Her father had been head of the clan. The fact that she was half-English would be forgotten now that her mother was dead.
Harsh voices outside distracted Adam from his thoughts, and he limped to the entrance of the church to see what was afoot. The rain had let up, though there was still a salty mist in the air. The people, mostly women, had come out of their dwellings and were shouting angrily at a pair of ragged people walking through their midst, the man pulling the woman by the arm.
“Ah, ’tis Cristiane,” the clergyman said, poking his head out the door.
Adam’s brows came together. The young woman wore a dingy brown kirtle that even the lowliest peasant would have shunned. She carried a small sack in one hand and moved along quickly through the hostile crowd. They shouted at her in their Scots tongue, and although Adam did not understand what they were saying, there was no mistaking the intent.
Apparently they had not forgotten the lady was half-English.
Through it all, Lady Cristiane held her head high, her back straight, her bright eyes focused ahead. Her hair was a glorious mass of shining red curls and her skin as pale as a winter moon, with the exception of the bright flush of color that bloomed on each cheek. Not one of her features was particularly remarkable, but taken together, Cristiane Mac Dhiubh was a strikingly beautiful woman.
She was not at all what he had imagined. He had not expected to be so…susceptible to the woman and her plight.
“Why are they so angry with her?” he asked, his male instincts on full alert. ’Twas all he could do to keep from rushing down into the crowd to rescue her.
The priest shrugged. “Who can really say?” he replied. “For bein’ half-English? For bein’ daughter of the laird who failed to protect us from the raidin’, blood-happy Armstrong clan?”
Someone pitched something—a stone, perhaps—that struck Cristiane. Suddenly a bright streak appeared on her high cheekbone, though she faltered only slightly and continued on her way in spite of the blow.
Adam could not stand still. Anger simmered as he descended the steps, moving more quickly than he had in months. When he pushed through the crowd and arrived at the lady’s side, taking her arm possessively in his own, the jeering stopped and the villagers backed off. His fierce visage dared them to throw anything else.
He gave a quick glance to the lady, and watched as one sparkling tear spilled over thick, auburn lashes. Her chin trembled almost imperceptibly, but Adam sensed fierce pride in her, a solid wall that would not allow her to show any more vulnerability than this.
He closed his right hand over hers, tucking her arm close to his waist, and proceeded to the church.
Under other circumstances, Cristiane’s knees would have gone weak at the sight of the stunning knight who came to her rescue in front of One-eye Mòrag’s cottage. The mere touch of his bare hand on her own was enough to make her tremble in awe. As it was, however, she refused to buckle in the face of the overt hostility of her father’s people.
In truth, she could not blame them for their malice. For it had been English raiders who had damaged the clan, making the Mac Dhiubhs vulnerable to the Armstrong attack that had killed so many more men, along with her father. The people of St. Oln had no reason to be sympathetic to the daughter of a Sassenach woman.
Cristiane might wish for things to be different, for acceptance and respect, but that was not to be. She was the daughter of an Englishwoman, and the people of St. Oln would never accept her. She reminded herself again that she was fortunate, indeed, to have the freedom to leave.
’Twas not until she began to climb the steps with her knight rescuer that she noticed his limp. A sidelong glance revealed his strong jaw clamped tightly against the discomfort of each step. They made it up to the church doors without mishap, and the knight ushered her inside.
“Cristy,” Father Walter said familiarly, taking her hand when the knight released her. “Are ye injured, lass?”
“Nay, Father,” she replied quietly, touching her cheek with two fingers. “Merely bruised, I think.”
With his hands devoid of gauntlets, Cristiane’s knight—for that was how she thought of him—took a cloth and wiped gently at her cheek, removing the dirt and a small speck of blood that oozed from the scrape.
Cristiane stood still and searched the man’s eyes. Dark gray they were, as stormy as the sky above the thrashing sea. His brows were even darker, caught together in a frown as he dabbed at her tiny wound. His nose was straight and his lips full but well-defined. A cruel scar marred the perfection of his jaw, and Cristiane wondered what battle, what terrible wound, had caused such frightful damage to his otherwise perfect face.
If her Yorkish uncle ever found her a husband, Cristiane hoped he would be something like this man who stood, so tall and broad shouldered, before her. Many were the times she had dreamed of someone like him, with strong, but gentle hands, intense, fascinating eyes. Someone who had the prowess to keep her safe…. Cristiane had never thought her dream could be real.
Until now.
“My lady,” Father Walter said more formally, “these gentlemen are here to escort ye to Bitterlee, as your mother wished.”
“Aye, Father,” Cristiane replied, uncomfortable with the turn her thoughts had taken. “So I gathered.”
When the priest addressed Cristiane’s knight, her surprised eyes flew to the stranger. “M’lord Bitterlee,” Father Walter said. “This is Lady Cristiane Mac Dhiubh.”
This was the lord? This man, for whom she felt an attraction unlike anything she’d ever experienced before? Cristiane swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat.
She reined in her wayward thoughts and realized she did not know whether to be flattered or distressed that the English lord had come for her himself. She had never met a high chief before. She’d met no one, in fact, who had more power or influence than her own father. And Domhnall had merely been the Mac Dhiubh, chieftain of this small clan. He’d been more a scholar than a leader, and certainly not a warrior, though he’d done his best to defend her, as well as the clan.
Cristiane cringed as she considered her appearance. Her hair was unbound and uncovered, her feet bare and her kirtle a mere scrap of poor homespun that her mother had received in trade, along with food and a meager shelter, for their own finer garments.
She remembered the fine clothes her mother had worn years before, when Cristiane was still a small child. And she recalled the snippets of information Elizabeth had told about her home in York and her one visit to the English court.
Cristiane knew with certainty that she looked nothing like the “lady” Lord Bitterlee must have expected to find.
To his credit, he showed no disdain—although Cristiane could well imagine what he must think of her. She curled her toes and tried to hide her cut and bruised feet under her hem.
“Lady Cristiane,” Bitterlee said, tipping his head slightly. “We will depart St. Oln within the hour. Please make ready to leave.”
“Aye, m’lord,” she said. “I’m ready now.”
She kept her chin up as she replied, knowing how foolish a barefoot noblewoman who carried all her possessions in one small sack would appear to him. She could not allow his opinion to matter, however. She had said her farewells to her beloved cliffs, and now ’twas time to move on.
She could not bring herself to ask any of the questions that burned the back of her throat, either. Cristiane was too ashamed to draw any more of his attention to herself.
“What’re yer plans, m’lord?” Father Walter asked.
“We should cross the Tweed by nightfall, then we’ll camp just south of it.”
The old priest nodded. “Aye, ’tis a good idea to get yerselves to English soil,” he said. “But how will Cristiane travel? Ye might have noticed we have no horses here in St. Oln.”
Chapter Two
He’d thought he could do it, but ’twas not possible. He could not take an uncouth, butchering Scot to wife. His experience at Falkirk, coupled with Cristiane’s utter unsuitability—her hair, her dress, her speech—nay, he had no choice but to find himself an English wife.
Still, Adam was not about to let Lady Cristiane ride with either of his men. So she sat before him on his destrier, her hips pressed to his loins, her back colliding with his chest at every bump in the road.
They rode for hours this way, and kept near the coast whenever possible, though the terrain sometimes made it necessary to move inland.
After a few hours, Cristiane’s posture began to slip, and she leaned into him. Without thinking, Adam closed his arms around her more securely, to keep her from falling. He had no objection to her sleeping as they rode, but he did object mightily to the possibility of her falling.
She was warm and soft, and her scent made him think of the outdoors and the sea. A few light freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, but they seemed to make her flawless complexion even more perfect. If that were possible. The structure of her bones and the fine veins of her graceful neck enticed him, while the steady pulse beating there fascinated him more than it should.
Her mouth was slightly parted in slumber, her generous lips moving a bit with each breath. Her unruly hair brushed across his face, eliciting a response he had not experienced since before Falkirk. He wanted her.
’Twas impossible. She was as far from being an acceptable wife as a barbaric infidel woman from the east. Cristiane Mac Dhiubh did not even vaguely resemble a gentle English lady, though she was of noble birth. Adam would carry her to Bitterlee, see that she was outfitted more appropriately to her station, then send her with an escort to her uncle in York.
’Twas unfortunate that Cristiane was so damnably Scottish, or he might have considered marrying her. But her fiery red hair and freckled skin were only the most visible aspects of her Scottishness. Even though she spoke with more gentle a burr than the other inhabitants of St. Oln, she dressed like a savage, with feet as bare as the poorest villein in the village.
Nor did Cristiane seem at all a meek or pious sort of woman. He had to admire the fortitude and courage she’d shown amidst the hostile crowd at St. Oln, but those attributes were neither highly desirable nor necessary in a wife. He could not imagine that she’d been tutored in any of the finer womanly arts, so what kind of mother would she make to his little daughter? What kind of example?
A poor one, without a doubt.
In her favor, she did not seem dull or ignorant. She was well-spoken and held herself with the proud bearing of the noblest Englishman. Her blue eyes were bright with intelligence and interest, though tinged with sadness at leaving her home. Or even more likely, she suffered a lingering sadness at the recent loss of her parents.
Cristiane muttered in her sleep, and as he looked down at her, she licked her lips and spoke softly. Though he could not quite hear what she said, he caught the final muttered words, “…in vacuo.”
Latin?
He shook his head to clear it. Surely no untutored Scotswoman spoke Latin in her sleep. He must have been mistaken.
Yet he considered the translation of those words: alone. Isolated. Lady Cristiane was probably more alone than she’d ever been in her life, with her father’s death and her mother’s more recent demise.
“The river, m’lord,” Sir Elwin called from his position up ahead. He slowed his pace to allow Adam to catch up. “Would we be crossing now, or waiting until morning?”
Adam looked ahead and saw that the River Tweed was in sight. ’Twas nearly dusk and he felt a strong urge to set his feet on English soil as soon as possible. There were no towns or villages nearby on either side, so they ought to be safe in the sheltered forest on the other side of the river. Adam decided they would camp near the river tonight, then move on in the morning.
“We cross.”
Sir Elwin spurred his horse and rode ahead with Sir Raynauld, leaving Adam alone with Cristiane, who remained soundly asleep. He indulged himself with her softness for another moment more, cradling her, going so far as to span her waist with both his hands, spreading his thumbs to the forbidden territory at the base of her rib cage.
She made a low, unconscious sound that made Adam think of intimate pleasures. He shuddered with a hunger he knew he would never appease with this woman, then spurred his horse toward the river’s edge.
Cristiane knew she must have been dreaming. Surely she had not felt Lord Bitterlee’s hands caressing her body as if he had the right to do so. ’Twas only 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.
