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the burlap apart. “Shoes,” she whispered, gazing up at him. Her eyes grew suspiciously bright, and though she blinked quickly, there was no mistaking the sheen of moisture there.
    Not one tear fell, though—for which Adam would be eternally grateful. Yet her humble gratitude made his belly clench with some strange emotion.
    “The tanner is a shoemaker of some skill,” Adam said as he watched Cristiane lift one of the shoes to admire it.
    “I…I had shoes at home…” she said. Her voice was soft and wistful, and she sounded more English than Scottish. “Gylys the Bald took them from me the day my mother died. He said his w-wife had greater need of them than I…”
    Adam controlled his reaction to her revelation. He was appalled to think that a mere villager would presume to confiscate the belongings of the laird’s daughter, and he was dismayed to consider how alone and defenseless Cristiane had been in St. Oln.
    He made a silent vow to see that she suffered no further abuse or humiliation while under his protection.
    Cristiane sat down on the bench, and before she could put on the shoe, Adam crouched in front of her, taking it from her hand. He lifted her foot and carefully slipped the shoe on, past delicate toes, over the heel and arch.
    “Itfits,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
    Not daring to look at her face, he laced the shoe, then reached for the other, repeating the process.
    After her feet were clad, Cristiane put one hand on Adam’s shoulder and leaned forward. He looked up, and as he felt her move closer, he anticipated the touch of her lips on his. He could imagine how soft they’d feel, how enticing the intimate contact would be. He could not take his eyes from those lips, full and inviting, moving toward his own.
    Then she shifted slightly and kissed his cheek.
    Before Adam could react, Cristiane stood and dashed out of the inn.
    “’Twill be a much more comfortable ride for you,” Sir Elwin said as he introduced Cristiane to the notion of riding the mule that stood before her. “Lord Bitterlee acquired him for you earlier this morn.”
    Cristiane felt a pang in the pit of her stomach. She had never been on horseback in her life, except for the hours she’d spent on Adam’s horse—with Adam.
    And now he expected her to ride this mule—this animal whose back was higher than Adam’s destrier—the rest of the way to Bitterlee.
    While she knew he’d been wise to put some distance between them, she did not know if she’d be able to handle this beast all the way to Bitterlee.
    She did not know if she’d be able to handle it to the end of the lane.
    With Elwin’s help, she mounted. Adam was nowhere in sight, but that did not delay Elwin and Raynauld, who flanked her as they rode out of the inn yard. Though Cristiane felt more than a little insecure perched alone atop the mule, she could not resist breaking her concentration to look down and admire the lovely leather shoes Adam had gotten for her.
    Adam rode aheadall day. He’d traveled this route two years before, riding in the back of a wagon, wounded and out of his head with fever. He couldn’t remember much of that journey.
    Then he’d arrived home on the isle and learned of Rosamund’s death only a few days before. Even through his fog of pain and fever, the shock of that terrible news was something he’d never forget.
    Adam wondered if he could have prevented her suicide had he remained at home rather than answering King Edward’s call and joining the English army in Scotland. He also wondered if his impending return had driven her to seek her own death. ’Twas a question that would forever haunt him.
    Beyond her maladjustment to marriage, Rosamund had not adjusted to life on Bitterlee, either. Everything about the isle had been too harsh, too stark, too unforgiving. After Margaret’s birth, Rosamund’s spirits had sunk ever lower.
    Yet for the first three years of Margaret’s life, the child had doted on Rosamund.