Bride Of The Isle. Margo Maguire
Adam could not recall seeing anything quite as grand as Cristiane MacDhiubh
enjoying her first sunrise on Bitterlee. Her eyes were wide, framed by gold-tipped lashes. Her lips were full and moist, and entirely too alluring.
His heart began to pound. The rushing surf was naught compared to the roaring in his own ears.
In the growing light he saw that she was covered from neck to toe by a thin linen kirtle, yet her enticing form would never be hidden from him again, no matter how well covered it might be. Burned into his memory was the way she’d looked in the firelight the morning he’d seen her undressed.
’Twould take only the slightest movement of his hand to pull her close, a trifling tip of his head to bring his lips into contact with hers.
And every fiber of his being demanded that he do so…!
Acclaim for Margo Maguire’s latest titles
Celtic Bride
“Margo Maguire’s heart-rending and colorful tale of star-crossed lovers is sure to win readers’ hearts.”
—Romantic Times
Dryden’s Bride
“Exquisitely detailed…and entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”
—Rendezvous
The Bride of Windermere
“Packed with action…fast, humorous, and familiar…THE BRIDE OF WINDERMERE will fit into your weekend just right.”
—Romantic Times
#607 HER DEAREST SIN
Gayle Wilson
#608 NAVAJO SUNRISE
Elizabeth Lane
#610 CHASE WHEELER’S WOMAN
Charlene Sands
Bride of the Isle
Margo Maguire
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
MARGO MAGUIRE
The Bride of Windermere #453
Dryden’s Bride #529
Celtic Bride #572
His Lady Fair #596
Bride of the Isle #609
This book is dedicated to Amy Ho, enthusiastic backpacker, avid reader, daring volunteer and student extraordinaire. May all your dreams and wishes come true.
Contents
Prologue
Isle of Bitterlee, in the North Sea
Autumn, 1299
“Nay, Penyngton,” said Adam Sutton as he restlessly paced the length of the tower room. “I’ll not marry again. And certainly not a Scot.”
“But, my lord,” Sir Charles Penyngton protested. He had license to speak to his lord in this manner, only because of his long term as seneschal here at Bitterlee. “You are still a young man. Merely one and thirty. And you have no heir. As Earl of Bitterlee, ’tis your duty to provide…”
Distractedly, Adam stopped at one of the long arrow loops in the wall of his solar and gazed out at the sea beyond. Bitterlee was a bleak, isolated place. According to legend, it had been named the “Isle of Bitter Life” by one of his ancient ancestors after his wife had ended her life here. ’Twas said that the name had changed over the years—been corrupted—to Bitterlee.
“This Scotswoman is perfect,” Charles said. “Cristiane of St. Oln. She is accustomed to a harsh climate such as ours, and is said to be a hearty lass.”
“Unlike Rosamund,” Adam said starkly. He knew what Charles and the others assumed. That he still mourned the death of his wife, Rosamund. And that was true, to a point.
What they did not understand was that he had never cared for Rosamund the way he should have, nor did he mourn her loss. Oh, true enough, he mourned her death, as he would have mourned anyone in his household.
But Rosamund had never been part of his heart or his being. Adam did not care to think how he would feel if she had been more to him than she was.
Even now he did not understand how Rosamund’s father could have given her to him in marriage. Surely the man had known Bitterlee’s characteristics, its isolation, its harsh winters…its fierce beauty. Rosamund had been a delicate young lady who should have married