LITMIR.BIZ

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lips close around the opening of the skin. A thin trail of water splashed down her chin and onto the cloth of her kirtle, pasting it to her skin.

      He swallowed thickly and looked away. “’Tis nearly dark. If you need, er, if you care to wash, there’s a secluded place downstream, ’round that curve.”

      He’d never had occasion to speak to Rosamund about such private matters, and he did not care to dwell on them now, with Cristiane. “Do you think you can walk?”

      “Oh, aye,” she said, handing his water skin back to him. She wiped the droplets from her chin, then pushed her hair back. For the first time, he noticed how delicate her hands and wrists were. She was not as tiny as Rosamund had been, but Lady Cristiane was still distinctly feminine.

      She walked away, following the edge of the brook, and he could not help but notice her unsteady gait. Stepping toward her to give assistance, he stopped himself. Determined to stay clear of her, he decided that if she stumbled, one of his men could bloody well help her.

      Cristiane managed. Her legs were not exactly sore, but wobbly. It made no difference; the end result was the same. She was unsteady as she walked around the curve of the burn.

      Puzzled by Adam’s attitude toward her, she washed in the stream and tried to understand why he should seem annoyed with her, even as he showed her kindness. It made no sense.

      Pushing aside her confusion, she thought about the island she was about to visit. She’d never been beyond the boundaries of St. Oln, but she’d heard of islands in the North Sea, and knew they were occupied by a multitude of birds and other wildlife. She wondered if Bitterlee would be the same.

      ’Twas merely a half day’s ride to Adam’s isle. Cristiane was doubtful about making it alone on the back of the mule for that length of time, and wished Adam would take her up with him on his mount.

      Besides, she wanted to feel his arms around her once more. She’d never before known the kind of heart-pounding reaction he caused in her, and wanted to experience it again. She craved his touch in a way that was wholly unfamiliar. She wanted to see his naked form again, even though she supposed ’twas sinful to have such a blatant desire of the flesh.

      A bit stunned by her strange feelings, she wiped her face on the skirt of her kirtle and turned back to join the men in camp. Their low voices carried and she could hear them talking comfortably together. She found Elwin turning the hares that were cooking over the fire, and Raynauld was looking over some colorful bits of cloth with Adam.

      “These will look well in Margaret’s hair,” Adam said.

      “Oh aye, my lord,” Raynauld said, holding up several lengths of ribbon. “No doubt she will love them.”

      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,”

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