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

the lower half of his face with one hand. The last thing he wanted was to touch her again. He’d made his decision regarding Lady Cristiane, and it was a sound one. She would never do as a proper English wife, but he knew his body would betray him again if he did not avoid touching her.
    She could dismount without assistance, he told himself. She was robust and hearty, and he was certain she had no need of his help.
    Yet, in spite of all this, he stepped over to her. “Allow me,” he said, holding his hand out to her.
    She took it without hesitation and slid down the mule’s side. Adam caught her waist to steady her as she slipped down the length of his body. He gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge the sparks set off by the contact, and she seemed to do the same. But her legs were unsteady and she faltered as she tried to step away.
    Adam took hold of her again and led her to a likely seat—the trunk of an uprooted tree. As he held her, he was almost painfully aware of how flimsy were the layers of her clothes, and his hand learned the supple curves of her waist and hip the way his eyes had already been tutored.
    “Thank you, Lord Bitterlee,” she said as she sat. “I’m sure I’ll be fine in a moment.”
    He knew she could not have been accustomed to riding, with no horses in St. Oln. He should have anticipated how difficult it would be for her to ride that mule all day.
    Would she beable to ride again on the morrow? They had only a half day’s journey ahead of them, and he wanted to make it back to Bitterlee. These days, he did not like being away from home too long, not with Margaret so frail and Gerard so ready to take control of the isle.
    Adam wished Penyngton had known how unsuitable Cristiane Mac Dhiubh would be. He’d have saved himself the trip.
    He limped back over to the fire and picked up his water skin. Returning to Cristiane, he handed it to her. “The food will be ready shortly,” he said, watching her 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.
    Cristianemanaged. 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