“Cristiane!”
Lord Bitterlee’s commanding voice finally penetrated her hazy consciousness and she shook her head. She blinked her eyes in confusion and tried to turn her attention to him.
But she still felt bound by the same sluggishness that had plagued her for weeks after her father’s death. Cristiane knew she should be moving, following Lord Bitterlee’s directions, getting to safety. Yet her legs would not obey his commands, nor would her body allow her to turn away from the battle being waged before her.
“Cristiane! Move! There must be a room—ugh!” One of the men butted Adam’s midsection with his head, and Adam slammed the flat of his sword down on him, throwing him off.
Raynauld arrived and fought his way to Adam’s side. Adam turned quickly, took two steps at once and gathered Cristiane in his arms. Seemingly without effort, he threw her over one shoulder and shoved his way into a room, slamming and barring the door behind him.
A pathetic little fire in the grate gave sufficient illumination to keep Adam from falling over anything. Quickly, he set Cristiane on the bed in the corner of the room.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She did not respond to his question, so he knelt in front of her and took both her hands. They were like ice, and she was shaking, but Adam knew better than to think Cristiane was not as barbaric as every bloody Scot he’d encountered at Falkirk. She might be half-English, but she’d been raised among them.
Cristiane’s silence perplexed him, however, and he started to rub her hands between his own as he kept one ear attuned to the noises on the stairs and below. He did not think any of the attackers had been killed, but blood had flowed. And Cristiane’s reaction had been one of horror. Looking at her colorless visage, he could no longer deny it.
God’s cross! Why had they stayed here, knowing what was brewing within? They could very well have spent another night out-of-doors, with Cristiane safely lodged in the canvas tent. What difference was a bit of rain? Adam and his knights had lived through worse.
“’Tis over now, Cristiane,” he said gently. “You’re safe now.”
“Aye,” she said quietly, looking up at him blankly. The red scrape on her cheek stood out in sharp contrast to the paleness of her skin. “I know.”
“You’ll sleep here, and my men and I will keep watch.”
“All right.”
“Can you…er, your clothes are wet,” he said. “They’ll need to come off. I’ll just step out for a mo—”
Cristiane grabbed his hand. “Dinna go!” she whispered, sounding more Scottish than he’d noted till now. “Please. I…”
Adam ran a hand through his damp hair and tried to think of a way to calm her.
“I’ll be here…just inside the door,” he finally said as he extricated his hand from her grasp. “I’ll turn my back and you can get undressed.”
He heard her swallow. Adam had not been told what had happened in Cristiane’s village, but he’d seen the ravages of recent battle. Judging by her reaction just now, Cristiane Mac Dhiubh may have been in the thick of it. Mayhap even a half-Scot would be unable to witness that kind of butchery without being affected by it.
He stood in front of the grate and faced the fire, listening as she pulled out laces and slipped her kirtle from her body. As articles of clothes continued dropping to the floor, his body reacted swiftly, shocking him with its intensity. He had not felt such a wave of pure lust since…He could not remember.
He wondered again if this had been such a good idea.
“M’lord?” she said. “’Tis safe to turn now.”
She appeared small and vulnerable in the bed, under a thick layer of blankets. At the moment, it was difficult to think of her as a Scot. Or even as the woman who had walked so proudly through the hostile villagers in St. Oln.
She was just a woman now, frightened and vulnerable.
Against all rational thought, he wanted to gather her up in his arms to reassure and comfort her.
Instead, he picked up the clothing next to the bed and spread it out before the fire to dry. He hoped the raiders below stairs did not decide to pursue the woman they knew was here, rather than go on their intended raid.
Still, Lady Elizabeth of York had been correct when she’d written that her daughter was a hearty lass. Lady Cristiane had lost both her mother and father in a short span of time. Her village had showed naught but hostility toward her when she’d left, and she’d been forced into the company of three strange, foreign men who had carried her far away from all that she’d ever known. She was holding up remarkably well.
Adam walked to the other side of the room and sat down with his back against the door. He lay his sword on the floor next to him and tried to relax. The forced intimacy they’d shared during the journey so far had been difficult. Sharing a horse, holding her body close to his during the long daylight hours, breathing in her fresh, womanly scent, having his nose and chin constantly caressed by wisps of her hair…Adam hadn’t thought it could get any worse.
Yet as he sat gazing at her clothing, Adam knew that every stitch she possessed was drying by the fire. And he wished the thought hadn’t occurred to him. The last thing he wanted was to begin imagining beautiful Cristiane Mac Dhiubh naked.
Sometime during the night, Cristiane heard a light tap at the door. ’Twas Raynauld, informing Adam that all was quiet down below, and the raiders had either left or were passed out from drink in the great room of the inn.
Adam must have been awake all night, she thought as she watched him pick up his saddle pack. He stayed as quiet as possible, taking a blanket from the pack and spreading it out near the fire.
He added a few bits of wood, then stood and untied the leather laces of his hauberk. He pulled it over his head, keeping only his light linen shirt on. Then Lord Bitterlee wrapped himself in his blanket and settled down to sleep.
He’d looked weary. And with good reason, Cristiane thought. He’d stayed on guard most of the night, sitting by the door with his legs outstretched. His hair was disheveled and there was a dark shadow of beard on his jaw. He was as handsome a man as she’d ever seen, even tousled as he was.
Cristiane’s heart fluttered. She’d been completely defenseless—overcome by the stark memories of her father’s death—when Lord Bitterlee had rescued her and carried her to safety. Then he’d kept a vigil all night to see that she stayed safe.
Not only was he heroic, he was also a man of honor. He could easily have taken advantage of her vulnerable state. But he hadn’t. He had calmed and reassured her when she was caught deep in the memories of the past, then he’d gallantly turned his back so that she could undress. What other man would have done so much for her?
She knew so little of men. Her father had kept her far removed from his warriors, and the people of St. Oln had had no fondness for her, so she’d spent little time among them. She did know, however, that ’twas the rare warrior who had the patience to deal with her so carefully. Most would likely have stashed her in this little room and returned to the thick of battle.
She preferred Adam’s way.
’Twas difficult to think of him as Lord Bitterlee now. The sound of his title was too imposing, too harsh. Nay, Adam was a kind and considerate man, a chivalrous knight, a noble warrior. Whether she would ever be impertinent enough to call him Adam, she did not know. But in her mind, he would never be the lord of Bitterlee to her again.
Chapter Four
It had to be close to dawn, by the sound of the birdsong outside. Adam didn’t think it was the birds that woke him, but soft whispery sounds in the room itself. He was too tired to move, and his leg was stiff and