Bride Of The Isle

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“Ach,” she said, with a shrug that caused her shoulder to brush Adam’s arm. Her body was warm, welcoming. He clamped down on his inappropriate reaction to her touch. “I’m na worrit.”

Elwin laughed. “Tell me that when your color comes back.”

She lowered her eyes and blushed, feeling the heat. She had to know that the color was back in her cheeks, if only from embarrassment, but she did not say more.

“Did you send a boy to the ship with the horses?” Adam asked his men.

“Aye, m’lord,” Sir Elwin replied. “All will be ready when we arrive on the wharf.”

“And oarsmen?”

“Aye,” said Raynauld. “They’ll be there.”

Cristiane ate little, but Adam did not remark on it. He would not urge her to eat, then board the galley. It could very well become a difficult crossing if the winds continued, and then they’d all be glad her stomach was empty.

He remembered that Rosamund had never had an easy time with the crossing. She did not usually become acutely ill, but her complexion would grow sallow, and she’d lose all color in her lips. After she reached dry land again, ’twould take an hour or more before she returned to normal.

’Twas a quick, but windy walk to the wharf, and Cristiane held on to her skirts with one hand to try to keep them from blowing up to her knees. With the other hand, she captured her loose hair and held it tight.

Adam forced his eyes away from her lissome form.

The horses and Cristiane’s mule had been sent ahead on another ship to the island, so Adam and his party boarded a lightly burdened galley. Hopefully, ’twould make their passage all the faster.

The wind took on a bitter bite as they found their seats in the open ship. The galley was manned by eight oarsmen, and Raynauld and Elwin added their strength to the rowing, too. They would use no sail, for the wind was too sharp, but Adam had faith that they would make good speed to the isle.

For the first time in days, Adam felt a lightening of his spirit. Soon he would be home, where he belonged. His promise to Cristiane’s mother had been partially fulfilled, and he was now free to undertake the responsibilities he’d neglected far too long at Bitterlee.

The men rowed the ship out of the harbor on rough seas. The bow reared up and crashed over the waves as they made their way toward the land mass that rose up ahead of them. Adam stood at the bow with the ship’s master, exhilarated by the ferocity of the elements, and kept watch as they rowed farther out.

The wind took his breath away, whipped his hair to a tangled mess and pasted his clothes to his long, muscular frame.

“That’s a Scotswoman you brought with ye, eh, m’lord?” the master asked.

Adam raised an eyebrow at the question, but did not begrudge the man an answer. He’d been the skilled master of the harbor for many years, always loyal and reliable. “She is,” he replied simply.

The man pursed his lips and thought a moment before speaking again. “D’ye think the island people will take to her, m’lord?”

“’Tis no matter. The lady is my guest,” Adam said, raising his voice to carry over the wind. “She will be up at the castle for the length of her visit. I don’t expect the island people will be bothered by her.”

Adam thought the master made a sound deep in his throat, but could not be sure, because the man turned away just then and began to shout orders to his oarsmen. Adam dreaded turning to look at Cristiane, certain that he would find her cowering in the hull of the ship, green to her gills.

Instead, he watched the sky as several large brown skuas rode the wind, impervious to the impending storm. They screeched as they flew, then dived into the waves or at the smaller gulls, each one securing a meal. Adam watched them for a long moment, putting off the time when he’d have to go and see to Lady Cristiane.

An unfamiliar, musical sound made him turn to the hull of the ship, and he discovered Cristiane standing at the port side, pointing up at the flying birds. She laughed as she watched them dance across the sky, and the color in her fair cheeks was good.

The wind blew her skirts up above her ankles, and she absently pushed them down with one hand. Adam was painfully aware of what lay beneath those skirts, and he desperately hoped that the wind became no fiercer. Otherwise, Cristiane would most certainly be embarrassed.

And Adam would have to throw each and every man who saw her overboard.

He crossed to her and gripped her arm more fiercely than he intended. “The seas are rough, Lady Cristiane,” he said. “’Tis best if you take a seat.”

“Ach, but—”

“’Tis true, m’lady,” the master shouted from his post at the bow. “Can’t have no accidents on m’ ship, now!”

Cristiane complied with both men’s wishes, finding a seat away from the oarsmen. Adam sat down beside her, oddly disturbed by her ease in the circumstances. He should have been relieved that she was not puking over the side, yet her exhilaration in the face of the wind and high seas was confusing. Never had he known a woman so comfortable with the elements.

“’Tis wonderful, is it na, my lord?”

“What? The storm?”

“Aye! And the bonniest great skuas I’ve ever seen.” Cristiane laughed again. “They’re like the ruddy kings of the sky—diving for food, but stealing the prey from smaller birds!”

Adam had to smile at her likening the big gulls to a king. She was more accurate than she knew.

“I’m glad ’tis so…so alive for the crossing,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Aught else, and ’twould have been a dull ride!”

Something inside Adam made him want to shake some sense into her. Didn’t the foolish girl understand there was danger here? That the weather could turn frightful in an instant, with dangerous lightning and torrents of rain?

’Twas clear he’d have to look out for her while she remained on Bitterlee. She didn’t have the sense God gave a…a skua.

Chapter Six

The town lay at the southernmost point of the isle, slightly east, at the mouth of the harbor.

Adam’s family had long been popular with the people, for Bitterlee was a prosperous holding, and well administered. Bitterlee’s sympathies became even more fully engaged when Adam returned from Scotland nearly two years before, a grievously wounded hero, only to discover that his young wife had died.

Little Lady Margaret became one of their own. Prayers and indulgences doubled on behalf of Lord Bitterlee and his poor, motherless child. Adam was revered as their tragic young lord, and their hearts went out to him.

And they blamed the Scots for all the troubles that had befallen them.

Cristiane fell in love with the isle the moment the ship pulled into harbor. It called St. Oln to her mind, but Bitterlee was so much more. The town that nestled ’round the harbor was pretty, with neat cottages near the water and on the hillsides, along well-tended lanes. A multitude of fishing boats lined the harbor, all tied securely against the growing gale.

The lush aromas of freshly tilled earth and salty air filled her nose, but ’twas the high ridges and cliffs that drew Cristiane’s attention. As the wind battered the trees high above them, she could see rough peaks in the distance, black, rocky crags enshrouded in a heavy mist. The castle wall was white against the gray haze, and behind the wall rose gleaming turrets and towers. Cristiane’s breath caught in her throat at the sight. She had never seen so magnificent a place.

Townspeople came out in spite of the weather and welcomed Lord Bitterlee and his men back to the island. Children, along with barking dogs, ran up and down the planks of the dock as the men and women gathered, creating a festive atmosphere.

Uncomfortable with the thought of joining this mass of people, Cristiane remained onboard the galley with Raynauld and Elwin until they were ready to disembark. There was no doubt that the people on the mainland had realized she was Scottish, mayhap because of her red hair, and had shunned her. She did not doubt that she’d be greeted with suspicion and hostility here as well.

She crossed her arms over her chest, then rubbed her hands over her upper arms to warm herself against the sudden chill. She’d faced a number of difficulties since the death of her father, the very least of which had been the unkindness of the people of St. Oln.

She would survive them again.

After all, as wondrous a place as the Isle of Bitterlee was, she would not be staying long. A week, mayhap a fortnight, and she would make the crossing back to the mainland, and leave this intriguing place. She promised herself she would explore every ledge of the cliffs before she left. She wanted to discover all the nesting creatures in the rocks so high above the sea.

The wind lashed at Cristiane’s hair and she struggled to gather it in one fist. She caught sight of Adam at the center of the crowd at the base of a hill as he made his way to a shelter where the horses and her mule were tethered. ’Twas clear he’d forgotten her.

Cristiane tamped down a wave of alarm. She was being ridiculous. He hadn’t abandoned her yet, and she doubted he would do so now, even though his people would surely scorn her.

“Come, m’lady,” Elwin said. “Best we be getting home before the clouds burst.”

She nearly had to run to catch up to the knights as they walked ahead of her, shielding her from the worst of the wind. Still, she could see Adam up ahead, continuing to walk toward the animals’ shelter, yet speaking to all who would have his ear. She stopped herself from wishing he’d give her half as much attention. ’Twas quite an improper thought, knowing as she did that the man had a wife awaiting him.

Turning her attention to the high cliffs where the castle stood, remote and protected, she said, “How will we climb up there? The rocks—”

“There’s a good path along the escarpment, though you can’t see it from here,” Sir Raynauld said. “We’ll ride the horses.”

“Would it not be wise to stay in the village until the storm passes?” she asked.

Elwin and Raynauld exchanged a glance. “Nay,” said Raynauld.

“But we must move quickly now,” Elwin said, mindful of the coming storm. “We cannot tarry!”

With that, he took Cristiane’s arm and propelled her forward. The crowd parted as they headed toward Adam, and silence followed in their wake, just as it had in the tavern on the mainland. Cristiane wished she had a shawl to cover her offending hair. She felt utterly conspicuous, penetrating their midst, looking so much the stranger, and a Scotswoman at that.

Voices whispered around her, then became rude mutterings. Cristiane heard the words and girded herself against the hurt they caused. She knew she was not responsible for the deaths of their men or the wounding of their lord. She was not the one who’d raided their borders or taken up arms at Falkirk.

She was just like any of them, having watched the knights and soldiers of St. Oln leave for battle, some never to return. Yet in Scotland, some had stayed to fight on home turf. Her father had been one of those.

And he had died defending her.

Before she had even a moment to reflect on that, she was thrown off balance by a nasty tug on her hair. Then someone shoved her. Soon the voices became louder, more hostile, and Cristiane was knocked to the ground.

“Hold!”

Anger seethed. Adam had never been so incensed in his life. He had never seen these people behave cruelly, yet their treatment of Cristiane was unmerciful and would have become even more brutal if he had not intervened.

Pushing through the crowd to where his men were helping her up, Adam realized he should have sensed they’d take one look at her and know she was Scottish. And by the way she was dressed, Cristiane looked no better than any of them. They did not know she was the granddaughter of an English earl, or the daughter of her clan’s laird.

If only Adam had been able to find more suitable attire for her, they’d never have dared to treat her so, Scot or not.

Feeling fiercely protective now, Adam took Cristiane’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. “Lady Cristiane is a guest of Bitterlee,” he said sternly as he studiously avoided looking into her overbright eyes. Even so, he could not help but feel her trembling. “’Tis true she is of Scots blood, but she was no less harmed by the war than all of you.”

Subdued but not cowed by Adam’s words, the crowd made way as he escorted Cristiane to the horses. Raynauld and Elwin followed close behind, as the wind grew even worse. Adam would normally have considered staying in town until the storm blew itself out, but he would not subject Cristiane to that. He knew that his words had not quelled the people’s hostility.

Quickly glancing at the sky, he judged that if they hurried, they would have time to make it to the castle. Just barely.

The path was difficult, and Adam did not want to waste time guiding Cristiane and her mule. So he hoisted her onto his own horse, then mounted behind her to ride as they had together early in their journey from St. Oln.