Read Online Bride of the Isle by Margo Maguire - Free Book Online Page B

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 lashedat 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 whisperedaround 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 fiercelyprotective 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