Читать книгу Bride Of The Isle - Margo Maguire - Страница 14

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.