Free Bride of the Isle by Margo Maguire Page A

was torn between the wonder of the isle and the intense sensations caused by the man whose heat warmed her as they rode through the mist toward the castle. The hard muscles of his chest buttressed her back, and she felt like curling against his body like a kitten.
    Yet she could not. ’Twas sinful to lust after another woman’s husband, and Cristiane would not stoop so low. She straightened up and pulled slightly away from Adam. A husband would be found for her in York, and Cristiane would go to him as a chaste bride.
    “Be still, Cristiane.” Adam’s voice rumbled close to her ear. In spite of her resolve to remain detached, she could not prevent the flare of heat caused by his breath, or the tightening of his grasp on her.
    “Sorry, m’lord,” shesaid, realizing she’d been squirming. “D-do you often have such fierce weather?”
    She turned slightly, and her head bumped his chin. He gave a curt nod and swallowed.
    “And is there m-much damage?” she asked. “Trees down? Cottages wrecked?”
    “Occasionally,” he replied gruffly. Especially in spring, he thought, looking at the sky. “We are accustomed to the elements here on Bitterlee.”
    She did not remark on that, but looked over the edge of the cliff to the sea, and its dark waves crashing on rocks far below. She truly hoped there would be an opportunity to explore these cliffs before she had to leave.
    Before long, the castle was in sight. ’Twas an impregnable fortress, rising high above the cliff and surrounded by tall, crenelated walls made from gleaming white limestone. It had not seemed so massive from down below, and Cristiane had to crane her neck to see the towers that rose high above the wall.
    She heard voices calling over the howling wind, and soon the gates were open and they were riding through them into a grassy yard. Adam took them to a broad stone stair that led up to the main doors of the keep. Bitterlee grooms, wearing russet and black, surrounded them, taking hold of the reins of the horses and pulling down the packs. Adam dismounted, then helped Cristiane down. He guided her up the steps and inside.
    In the great hall, servants scurried about, lighting tapers as well as the candles of a huge chandelier that hung over a long wooden table. Cristiane had never seen such a spacious or well-tended room.
    A fire crackled welcomingly in a huge fireplace at one end, and a comfortable settle along with two stuffed chairs were situated nearby. Cristiane thought it made a cozy place for the lord and his lady to spend an evening together.
    Two big dogswere lounging by the fire, but they jumped up and crossed the rushes to greet their master, whining happily and wagging their tails frantically when they saw Adam.
    “Down, Ren!” he said sharply to the wolfhound that jumped up on him. “Good girl, Gray,” he said as he petted the other wolfhound—the one that had behaved.
    The dogs were curious about Cristiane, and she held her hands out for them to sniff.
    “They’re quite gentle,” Adam said, “otherwise I would not keep them, not with Margaret…”
    “I understand,” Cristiane said. She’d never known a man to be so solicitous of his wife. ’Twas not a common attitude in St. Oln. Not even her father had taken such care of her mother, and he’d loved her dearly. With a pang of regret that she did not care to pursue, Cristiane petted the dogs.
    A servant came into the hall, carrying Adam’s saddle pack and Cristiane’s belongings. “A chamber has been made ready in the east tower, my lord,” he said. His manner was cold and unfriendly, but Cristiane thought naught of it. She’d been subjected to much worse, of late. “Would you care to follow me now?”
    Cristiane looked up at Adam, who nodded. She turned then and followed the servant, with Adam right behind. “Where is Lady Margaret, Stephan?” Adam asked.
    “In the nursery, I believe, my lord,” the man replied. “With Mathilde.”
    Cristiane kept her eyes on the