Bride of the Isle (13 page)

M
eg saw the combs
first.

Cristiane could not imagine where they’d come from. She picked them up and admired their smooth texture, and knew that she would be able to confine her hair appropriately with them.

It had to have been Adam again. Bit by bit, he was seeing to it that she was equipped with all she would need when she arrived in York.

Embarrassment choked her once again. Not only did she look every bit as barbaric as a Norse raider, she had gawked at his naked body like a dizzy-eyed maiden. He must think her the most laughable creature he’d ever met.

Cristiane was relieved to receive an invitation to dine with Sir Charles Penyngton in his chambers. She would not have to face Adam before they’d both had sufficient time for the incident in his chamber to recede into distant memory.

She used the afternoon wisely, sitting next to the open window, sewing on her new gowns as she and Meg listened to the sounds of a gentle rain. Meg was a great help, holding the pieces together while Cristiane slipped pins into the delicate fabric.
They worked well together, with Meg’s expression becoming more open with every hour.

She still spoke rarely, and only one word at a time, but it seemed to Cristiane that it was progress.

The blue gown was nearly finished when Mathilde came to take Meg away. “’Tis time for your instruction with Father Beaupré,” she said, taking Meg’s hand. Cristiane could not interpret Meg’s reaction from her facial expression, since she had cast her eyes down. Cristiane would have kept the child with her, but was unsure how much change she could bring about in only two days.

Before letting Meg go with the nurse, she placed her hands on the child’s bony shoulders. “I’ll come into your chamber and say good-night after prayers, shall I?”

Meg raised her head and gave a small smile. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

“At least tell me you are considering it, my lord,” Penyngton said as he watched Adam pace the floor next to his bed. A small table had been brought into the chamber that adjoined the seneschal’s office next to the great hall, and two chairs to accommodate the two who would dine with Penyngton.

“All right, Charles,” Adam replied, “I am considering it. But I promise naught.”

“Understood.”

Adam knelt and built up the fire against the cool, damp air. He found the gentle rain pleasant, but ’twould not do for Charles to take a chill. He was anxious for Cristiane to arrive, but did not want Charles to know it. The decision whether or not to take her to wife was a grave one, not to be taken lightly, and he would not raise Charles’s hopes,
only to decide against it.

A light tap at the door brought Adam to his feet. He crossed the room and opened it, to discover a very different Cristiane Mac Dhiubh standing there, blushing as red as one of the beets in Cook’s garden.

Her hair was arranged in an intricate coif of golden-red locks, gently restrained by the combs he’d left in her chamber. Soft, curly tendrils framed her face beautifully.

The blue silk had been transformed into a lovely but simple gown with long, fitted sleeves and full, flowing skirts. The bodice fit Cristiane’s form tightly to the waist, leaving her neck and shoulders delightfully bare.

There was naught barbaric about her now.

Even her eyes were demurely shuttered, betraying not the slightest hint of her thoughts. If not for her blush, Adam might have believed the incident in his chamber had never occurred.

“Come in, my lady,” he said.

“Lady Cristiane,” Penyngton said from his bed, “’tis good of you to come.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” she replied as she walked toward him. Adam was taken with her grace and poise. He’d seen hints of these qualities before now, of course. But she’d always seemed more Scottish than English.

That had changed.

“Be seated, my dear,” Penyngton said. “I would visit a bit before the meal is served.”

“Thank you, Sir Charles.” She sat near the bed, dismissing Adam completely from her awareness. “I’m anxious to hear what you knew of my mother. When she spoke of her home in York, ’twas always with sadness. All I know is that she was banished
to St. Oln, disowned by her father.”

Penyngton shook his head. “’Twas a harsh punishment,” he said. “Though no one, not even your grandmother, challenged it.”

“What happened?”

Penyngton coughed into a clean cloth. “Let us save that story until after we’ve dined,” he said when he’d recovered. Adam recognized Charles’s delaying tactics and knew that, for some reason, he did not wish to speak of Elizabeth of York now.

“How do you fare, Sir Charles?” Cristiane asked. Her sense of protocol and courtesy was flawless. Adam could almost believe she’d been tutored in the most cultured house in England.

He sat back in his chair and observed her graceful movements as she conversed with Penyngton, pouring him a mug of water, standing to assist him in adjusting a pillow. He heard her musical voice, with barely a hint of the Scots burr that was so offensive to his people. The sound of her soft laugh drifted over him like talented fingers, eliciting a physical response. ’Twas all he could do to keep from groaning aloud.

“—at the waterfall?”

Cristiane and Penyngton both looked at him as if expecting a reply.

“Sorry…I was not paying attention.”

“’Tis naught, my lord,” Penyngton said. “Just that Lady Cristiane is taken by our waterfall, and it seems that Lady Margaret gained some enjoyment from it today, as well.”

“That’s where you were this afternoon?”

“Aye, m’lord,” Cristiane replied, looking at him directly for the first time since entering the chamber. “We carried our meal out there, and sat
behind the falls to eat.”

Adam frowned with puzzlement. “My daughter ate? Out-of-doors?”

Cristiane shrugged as she nodded. “Every bit of what we brought with us.”

Penyngton was smiling triumphantly behind her. Adam had to admit ’twas just short of a miracle that Cristiane had managed to reach something within Margaret, to somehow draw her out of her shell. Mayhap Charles was right in his assertion that Cristiane should remain here. Adam did not know if this change in Margaret would continue, especially if Cristiane left Bitterlee.

“And…and how did my daughter find the falls?”

“She found them delightful, m’lord,” Cristiane said. Her smile touched her eyes and every other part of her face, making it glow. If he’d thought her beautiful before, he could not think of a word to describe her now. Radiant, mayhap. Magnificent.

The meal was served and they ate, conversing politely about the weather and the damage done to the town by the storm. Cristiane finally got over her discomfiture at having to see Adam so soon after…
seeing
him. He was modestly covered now, dressed in a fine black tunic trimmed in blue and gray, and black hose. His hair was combed neatly back from his handsome face, and she could tell that he’d recently shaved his afternoon whiskers from his jaw.

She was unused to seeing a man’s naked face. Her father and all of his men were bearded, and ’twas near impossible to discern their features.

Adam’s were well defined and striking. And if she looked at them overlong,
her heart pounded and her throat went dry.

“Your uncle Roderick, the Earl of Learick,” Penyngton said when the meal was done, “is your mother’s brother.”

Cristiane nodded. She knew this much.

“He was older by several years,” Charles continued.

“Why did my mother’s father banish her?” she asked.

“She fell in love with the wrong man,” Penyngton replied.

Cristiane leaned forward and listened with rapt attention as Penyngton told of Elizabeth Huett’s doomed affair with Learick’s huntsman.

“Alan was older and should have known better,” Charles said, “but your mother was quite a beauty in those days. She was a spirited and daring girl, who enjoyed running her horses and joining the hunt. I am certain he tried to resist her, but ’twas impossible. They were thrown together more oft than not, and…the inevitable occurred.”

Cristiane swallowed. Penyngton’s words shocked her. She had never known her mother had loved another besides her father. It caused a wealth of confusion in her mind and a stab of pain in her heart, yet she had to hear what Penyngton had to say. She felt compelled to know all.

“When the earl—her father—discovered them, he demanded that Elizabeth renounce Alan,” Charles continued. “In all honesty, I believe Alan tried to get your mother to see reason, but she would not. She ran away from her father’s house to Alan, hoping, I suppose, that he would take her away…that they would wed.”

“Charles…” Adam’s voice broke in softly, but Cristiane hardly heard his voice.

“The earl found out before—”

“Penyngton…” Adam warned. “You’re upsetting the lady.”

Cristiane realized then that
there were tears on her face. She sniffed and brushed them away. “What happened, Sir Charles? Why did they not wed?”

Penyngton gave a quick glance in Adam’s direction, but continued. “Alan was killed by an arrow that night. ’Twas put about that he was taken for an intruder at Learick Castle, and your grandfather refused to give any more details. Your mother was locked in her chamber until a suitable bridegroom could be found.

“Within weeks, she was on her way to wed the laird of St. Oln, in Scotland,” he said, “a man who was willing to take the dishonored daughter of an English earl.”

Cristiane stood abruptly and walked to the fire. She said naught, for there were no words in her heart, only a tortured coil of anguish and confusion. Adam was suddenly behind her, his hand at her waist.

“Was there some very good reason for…?” he began angrily, turning to speak to Penyngton. Then he let out a long breath of frustration and turned abruptly back to Cristiane. “Come,” he said, “you need some air, and I…I’ll walk with you.”

He picked up a lamp, and she went with him mutely. He kept one hand at her lower back, guiding her up the stairs, pondering what possible reason Penyngton could have had for telling Cristiane her mother’s sad history. The lady already grieved her parents’ recent deaths. Why dredge up this sorrowful tale now?

’Twas still raining, so they did not go outside. They walked down the corridor to Cristiane’s chamber, and Adam opened the door, guiding her into it. She stood unmoving, just inside
the room, her eyes gazing blankly at nothing.

He cleared his throat. “My lady…”

Absently, she looked up at him. “Aye?” she said quietly. A slight frown marred her perfect forehead.

“Will you be all right?”

“Oh, aye,” she replied. There was surprise in her voice, as if she had just noticed she was not alone. “Just fine, m’lord. You needn’t…I mean, ’tis a bit of a shock, learning of my mother’s…of her, umm…”

“Lover.”

Cristiane nodded. “I never knew there was anyone but my father.”

Adam did not know what to say. Clearly, Cristiane was distressed after learning about her mother and Learick’s huntsman. Both her parents were dead now, and it had happened so many years before that—

“My mother never quite fit in at St. Oln,” Cristiane said. Her voice was quiet and sad. She ran one hand along the opposite arm, as if to ward off a chill. “My father adored her. He’d have done aught for her, if only…”

Her nose reddened and her mouth twitched, as if she would weep, and Adam expected to see tears. But they did not fall. He closed the distance between them and drew her into his arms, though he knew he could do naught to protect her against the sad memories. She shuddered once and he held her more tightly.

Adam did not know how long they stood thus, but his intentions of giving solace soon changed to something different, something more. Her body felt soft and yielding against his own, and he could not keep from running his hand across her shoulders and down her back.

She made a small sound and slipped her hands ’round his waist, holding him close as she lifted her face from his chest. Her eyes
were clear and dry as she looked up into his.

He wanted her as he’d never wanted another woman.

But it was not to be.

Cristiane slept badly. She’d sat up through the deepest hours of the night, listening to the rain, thinking about her life and all that she’d known in St. Oln. She’d finally found sleep near dawn.

Her eyes were swollen and her head felt stuffed with goose down when she awoke late the next morning. But the day was warm and the sun shining, and Cristiane was not one to dawdle inside when the weather was fine.

She washed quickly, but before she was fully dressed, a tap at the door interrupted her.

’Twas Meg.

Cristiane glanced up and down the corridor outside her chamber, but saw no one else. She could not imagine where Mathilde was, but did not question the nurse’s absence. “Come in while I put on my shoes,” she said, wondering if Adam was nearby.

Meg entered and climbed up on the bed.

“Would you care to walk with me this fine morn?” Cristiane asked, smiling at the child.

Meg smiled back and nodded.

“Well, then, you’ll have to say so.” Cristiane had gotten a word or two out of the child the day before, and saw no reason to let her continue getting away with her silence.

“Go…walk-ing?”

“Aye,” Cristiane said, grinning broadly. “We shall go walking.” ’Twas another small success, but she was pleased nonetheless. She took Meg’s hand and they went down the two flights of stairs to the great hall, where one servant was sweeping out old rushes and another dusting the
massive mantelpiece. No one else was in sight.

They went out the main door of the great hall and walked down the massive stone staircase, just as a group of knights rode into the bailey on horseback. One of them stopped and removed his helm when he saw them.

Gerard Sutton.

Cristiane refused to retreat, even though the malevolent look in Gerard’s eye was intimidating. She took a firmer hold on Meg’s hand, tightened every muscle in her back and continued down the stair, determined to go ’round him.

He turned his horse and stepped ahead, then dismounted directly in front of her. Cristiane had no choice but to step back.