Free Bride of the Isle by Margo Maguire

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.
    “My lord?” she asked after she’d caught her breath. Her voice was unsteady and her body trembled against his, but he tightened his muscles and swung his horse out of the shelter without answering.
    ’Twas necessary to travel single file, for the path was narrow and sometimes followed the edge of the escarpment. Dangerous as it was, Adam felt it necessary to hold Cristiane close. She leaned into him as if she belonged there, as if they had not spent more than a full day apart.
    Her head fit just under his chin, and her back rested against his chest. He could not help but slip his hands around her waist and pull her even closer. Her breath caught in her throat, and Adam felt himself becoming aroused.
    He knew hehad to pay close attention to the ride. One misstep had the potential of sending them over the cliff. But even as the wind battered them and the rain threatened, he knew a fierce desire to tip his head down and taste the tender skin at her nape. He would have liked naught more than to raise his hands and fill them with her breasts.
    “Best close yer eyes now, as we come up to these peaks!” Elwin called, turning to speak to Cristiane from his position in the lead.
    “Why?” Cristiane called back to him, as if she were unaware of Adam’s pulsing need. “You would have me miss the most glorious views I’ve ever seen?”
    Elwin barked out a laugh, then turned to mind his own way along the path. Adam knew Cristiane would not think Bitterlee quite so glorious once she’d lived through the full ferocity of an island storm.
    He’d heard tales of his own mother’s frequent absences from Bitterlee; evidently, she had not been able to bear the fierce weather or the isolation of the place. And there was the legend of the ancient lord whose wife had poisoned herself in despair at having to remain on the isle.
    And Rosamund. Adam’s poor, timorous wife had preferred death to life on Bitterlee. With him.
    Who was to say Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would be any different?
    Adam had more than enough reason to steel his thoughts away from her. He had to keep his attention on the narrow horse path. He ought to be considering the tack he would take with little Margaret to bring her out of her grief. He should give due attention to the changes that were necessary on the isle and the mainland to get the rest of the spring crop in.
    Instead, allAdam could think of was the rampant protectiveness that had surged through him when he’d seen Cristiane manhandled by the crowd in town. He could not remember ever feeling so outraged or helpless as when she had been pushed to the ground.
    He could not get to her fast enough.
    Riding together, with nature about to give her most powerful display, Adam found Cristiane’s scent filling his senses. Her hair tickled his nose, and his hands itched to do more than hold her steady against him.
    Yet he could not pursue this untenable attraction. The reaction of the Bitterlee townspeople had shown him beyond a doubt that she would never fit in here. She was not for him, and ’twas his duty to see that she arrived untouched at the home of her uncle, just as he’d promised.
    Cristiane’s attention