Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1)

by Cynthia Wright

  And how embarrassing it was that he knew her secret, knew she was not a boy at all, and seemed to be laughing at her for masquerading as one.

  “Unhand me,” she ordered. For good measure, she looked up at him and thrust her chin out defiantly.

  He drew her closer. “I’ve never had an urge to kiss a boy,” he mused, bending down so that his mouth was just inches from hers. “Until now.”

  “Must I hurt you where it counts? Take your hands off me!” For emphasis, Fi started to bring her knee up toward his groin.

  “You smell suspiciously like a girl,” he persisted, laughing softly as he released her.

  Fiona stepped away from him, trying to remember to scowl and stand like the men she knew. “What are you doing out here so early in the morning?”

  “Studying the palace,” he replied enigmatically.

  “Why?” She remembered then that James V had brought a lot of French masons to Falkland, at the behest of his new queen. “Are you going to help with the building?”

  “You might say that.” He returned his attention to the façade of the south range, which seemed to have already undergone some recent alterations. “I suggest you run along. I don’t have time to converse with people wearing ridiculous disguises.”

  There were tiny droplets of mist on his dark hair, she saw. He was the only man she’d seen at court who didn’t wear a bonnet decorated with a jeweled badge. Fiona suddenly had a list of questions she wanted to ask him, but of course St. Briac was right. It was silly to imagine that such a man would engage in serious conversation with her when he had already seen through her costume.

  Still, she had her pride. Striving to deepen her voice, she said, “Right, then. As it happens, I have important matters to attend to myself. Erik waits anxiously to see me.”

  Fiona had gone just a few steps when she felt him catch the hem of her doublet, halting her in mid-stride. “Who the devil is Erik?”

  “My gyrfalcon. You’ve met, remember? He’s lived a sheltered life in our castle on the Isle of Skye and won’t fly for anyone but me.” Pulling free, Fiona set off at a trot across the cobbled courtyard, calling back over one shoulder, “Au revoir, monsieur!”

  * * *

  Well, that was diverting, Christophe thought with a wry smile, watching as she disappeared from view around the garden wall. It came to him that he still didn’t know her real name.

  Soon enough, however, he forgot about the pretty girl who liked to dress up as a boy, for a stocky, freckled man with an air of authority was headed his way.

  “Greetings. I’m John Scrymgeour, Master of Works to His Majesty, King James V,” the man announced in a Lowland Scots accent. He was carrying a large, leather-bound book under one arm. “His Majesty has asked me to speak to ye.”

  “Bonjour.” Christophe extended his hand to the shorter man. “I am grateful to you for seeking me out so quickly.”

  Scrymgeour led the way to a cold alcove off the Gatehouse, where he had apparently set up a makeshift office. Gesturing for Christophe to take a chair, he sat down behind a table and opened his book.

  “I will not be here often. As Master of Works, I must oversee the building projects at many royal residences,” Scrymgeour explained. “But because I have an estate near here, I am able to visit Falkland more frequently.”

  “Have you replaced Hamilton of Finnart? I was told in St. Andrews that he was Master of Works.”

  The other man frowned. “Aye, there is talk of that. The title of Principal Master of Works may soon be his. Even now, Finnart is overseeing the improvements and building at Stirling Castle. Perhaps it is just as well, for I am only one man.” He gave a little sigh. “I cannot do everything alone.”

  Christophe wondered, not for the first time, how many people Hamilton of Finnart may have walked over during his ascent to power. “I understand.”

  “Ye shall report to me.”

  He offered a reassuring smile. “But of course.”

  Scrymgeour studied his book. “I am instructed to offer ye an appointment as Royal Master Mason here at Falkland Palace. ’Tis a great honor. Ye will be paid a fine wage and be allowed to choose the band of masons who will carry out your plans, along with the assortment of other fine craftsmen already laboring here. Does this sound agreeable, monsieur?”

  “It does, as long as you value my work enough to recompense me properly,” he replied. “I would prefer a contract to a wage. That has been my practice in France.”

  The Scotsman put down his quill. “No doubt, ye find our land very provincial compared to France, which is known for its dissolute splendor. We Scots do not squander our gold.”

  Christophe leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. He had learned long ago to smile, ever so slightly, when he was angry. “Sir, there is a principle involved. I know the value of my work.”

  “Ach. So be it!” Clearly irritated, Scrymgeour stood up. “If ye can produce results, I will pay your contract price. And ye may choose your masons. The king desires to give his new queen a castle that looks more like France than Scotland.”

  “I already envision that goal and more.” Christophe kept his tone friendly, so that the other man would understand that he was not boasting, but merely stating a fact. Rising, he extended his hand. “I can assure you that both King James and Queen Mary will be pleased with Falkland Palace when our work is finished.”

  As they shook hands, Scrymgeour sighed. “I will provide whatever ye may require toward that end, though I’ll have to dip into more than one account to scrape together the funds.”

  Christophe could sense that the Scotsman was about to end their interview. “There is one more thing. His Majesty assured me last night that you could provide me with more convenient lodgings than my current room in the middle of the palace. I need more space to work, and easy access to the outdoors.”

  “Oh. Aye. I forgot.” The older man pursed his lips. “Do you know that some of our master masons have been content to work only for food?”

  Mon Dieu, thought Christophe. It almost hurt to smile again. “I know you must have other important duties to attend to. If you could just point me in the right direction…”

  Without a word, Scrymgeour led the way back out into the sunlit courtyard. St. Briac walked beside him as they crossed the cobbles and emerged into the meadow that extended north toward the woods.

  “The king desires a walled garden to be constructed near the stable and hay yard, to please the queen.” the Scotsman remarked, pointing into the distance. He turned then, and they walked west into a grove of trees.

  Christophe was surprised when they came upon a stone cottage standing in a clearing. It appeared to be recently constructed, yet the door was open to reveal an empty interior.

  “Our last master mason was Moyse Martin, who sadly died recently. He constructed this structure to be the new brewhouse, but it isn’t quite finished. Perhaps this will do for ye?”

  A sense of anticipation rose in his heart. “Indeed. I will be able to work here in peace and also freely walk back and forth to the building site.”

  “We are in agreement then. I will ask the keeper to find some furnishings for the place.”

  With that, Scrymgeour took his leave. Christophe lingered behind, looking through the leaded glass windows back toward the palace. He could make out the shape of the building through the tree branches, yet the cottage felt secluded.

  It was perfect. Perhaps here he would be able to avoid distractions like that winsome minx from Skye…

  * * *

  A group of men, including the king, went hunting that day. Fiona had longed to accompany them but realized that she must not risk being discovered in disguise. So, wearing a gown of green silk set with pearls, she settled in for a quiet afternoon at the palace.

  “How can we possibly pass the time shut indoors?” she said to her aunt while pacing in the family apartments.

  “What about needlework?” asked Tess. She had settled her bulk into a chair near
the window, a small tapestry spread over her lap.

  Fiona blinked. She forced herself not to say something she would regret. “Oh, no. Not today, thank you, Aunt.”

  “Fi’s always been a restless lass,” remarked Magnus. Drowsy after a large meal and too much ale, he reclined in his favorite chair near the fireplace. Looking at Fiona, he added hopefully, “Perhaps court life is not to your taste, daughter. Shall we return to Skye?”

  This was enough to rouse her to action. Pretending not to hear Magnus’s question, she paused at the window and said, “Oh, look! The sun is peeking out from behind the clouds. I think I will go outside for a walk.”

  Before either of them could protest or decide to join her, Fiona was on her way out the door. There were two French-speaking ladies ahead of her in the corridor, walking gracefully in their exquisite gowns. One had golden curls that peeped from a gabled headdress, and the other was tall and slim as a reed, with brown hair. Fi thought they must be ladies-in-waiting to the new queen, for they had the look of aristocrats. She felt impatient with their leisurely pace, and when they stopped to gaze out a window, she prepared to hurry past them.

  “Ah,” said the golden-haired beauty, pointing down at the courtyard. “Do you see St. Briac, there, with the king? He is by far the most handsome man at court.”

  “And the most elusive,” agreed her friend with a rueful laugh, “once he has taken his pleasure in a lady’s bed.”

  “Pleasure indeed, both taken and given…” the first lady laughed.

  They spoke French, but Fiona understood every word. She slipped by while their backs were turned, lifting her skirts as she descended the curving stone stairs.

  In the courtyard, she saw Christophe de St. Briac, just as the women had said, standing in the sunlight. He was conversing with James V, who seemed to be returning from the morning’s hunt. All around them were courtiers and servants, waiting with strained patience for their monarch to move along. Fiona saw one of them glance up at the sun as if he were counting the minutes until the midday meal would be placed before him.

  “I am counting on you to work miracles,” said the king to St. Briac.

  He was nearly as tall as the Frenchman, and if he had been standing by himself, Fiona would have judged him to be a good-looking man. But Christophe de St. Briac cast the others into shade. And he was all the more attractive because he didn’t seem to notice. He wore his simple yet expertly-tailored clothing with the air of a man who expects them to fit well and has no time for vanity. Today he was clad in a doublet and breeches of chestnut velvet, with hose that showed the muscles of his legs. Bareheaded again, he pushed back his dark hair as he spoke to the king.

  “Miracles? A tall order, sire.” St. Briac arched a brow and smiled. “But I shall do my best. I am already at work on plans for the royal apartments. I hope you will be pleased.”

  The king started to walk away, his entourage barely a step behind. Unexpectedly, James stopped and looked back at St. Briac. “I take it Scrymgeour gave you the dwelling you requested?”

  “Indeed. I am grateful, Your Majesty. A work table is already in place, and I hope to have other furnishings on the morrow.”

  “Excellent. Come and dine with us, won’t you?”

  “Merci. Forgive me, sire, but I have one more sketch to make first.”

  Watching as James and his courtiers moved off, Fiona thought that they resembled a school of fish. She then turned back to St. Briac and saw that he had lifted a hand to shade his eyes. He was looking directly at her.

  “What mischief are you engaged in now?” he asked.

  The note of amusement in his voice told her that he wasn’t annoyed with her. On the contrary, Fiona thought she could feel the pull of his attraction to her. Was it possible? Boldly, she approached him.

  “Your charge is unjust, sir.”

  “Of mischief? But I have yet to see you behaving otherwise.” He touched a fingertip under her chin, raising it so that she had to meet his intensely blue eyes. “Who are you? I cannot address you as Robbie of Skye today since you are wearing a gown.”

  The mere touch of his fingertip sent a current of sensation down Fiona’s spine to warm the secret place between her thighs. This response was so unexpected that she felt herself blush. And somehow, she realized that he knew what was happening to her.

  “I am Fiona Rose MacLeod of the Isle of Skye. The MacLeod of MacLeod is my grandfather.”

  “Ah, I see. I’m not certain what that last bit means, but it sounds very impressive,” St. Briac told her with a smile. “I am pleased to know you, Fiona.”

  He then did something Fiona would never forget.

  Taking her hand in his, he lifted it to his mouth and slowly kissed the sensitive surface of her palm. Fiona was startled to feel her nipples tingle, followed by another spasm of heat between her legs. And when he pinned her under his knowing gaze, she was dizzy.

  Never in her life had she felt such things. It was highly unsettling…yet, Fi couldn’t wait to discover what would happen next.

  Chapter 5

  “I’m hungry,” Christophe said, to Fiona’s surprise. “Will you come with me to search for food? No doubt we can beg a few crumbs in the Bakehouse.”

  She knew she should decline. If her father were there, he could have given her a dozen good reasons to do so, but a smile bubbled up inside her. “Aye, I’ll come with you. I confess that I am hungry, too.”

  Setting off with the handsome St. Briac, Fiona felt as if she was about to have a true adventure. When Christophe led her inside the east range and down a dark, vaulted stairway, he put a guiding hand to the small of her back. His touch was light, but it seemed that her gown and kirtle were burned away and his fingertips were on her bare flesh. Fi took a deep breath of sheer pleasure.

  “How do you know where to go?” she asked.

  “They’ve given me the plans for the entire palace, outbuildings and all,” Christophe said. “I’ve been studying them.”

  The tantalizing smells of fresh bread reached them before they came into the Bakehouse. The heat was stifling. There was a great brick oven in the corner of the room, and a shirtless, thick-set man was opening the oven door. He used a long-handled wooden paddle to remove a fragrant, freshly-baked loaf.

  The baker nodded to Christophe in a friendly manner that suggested they had met before, while a serving girl glanced his way and giggled. The entire space was filled with kitchen servants who were preparing baked goods, while scullions cleaned up after them.

  “We have oatcakes,” called a buxom woman from the work table. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “Or I might be able to spare a loaf of manchet for ye, sir.”

  “Merci, Peg.” Christophe flashed a smile as he accepted the warm bread, then led Fiona back out into the sunlight. “I have a bottle of wine and some cheese,” he said. “Come with me…if you dare.”

  She felt excited as they left the courtyard and walked north through the meadow. If a member of her family should see her, there would be trouble, but she was happy to let such concerns fade away. It was a time to enjoy the moment.

  Song thrushes and finches flitted in the tree branches, while cranesbill and ox-eye daisies peeked out among the grasses.

  “This is nothing like Skye,” Fiona said impulsively. “I love it!” She broke off as they came into a clearing and she saw a small, neat stone cottage. Suddenly, she realized that she could be taking a risk, coming here alone with a man she barely knew.

  Christophe held the linen-wrapped loaf of bread in one hand and pushed open the door with the other. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Her doubts were easily forgotten as she peeked inside. The place hardly looked like a den of sin, for the furnishings were sparse, and there was not a carpet or tapestry to be seen. The room was dominated by a big table covered with what appeared to be sketches, measurements, and building plans. In one corner, there was a rude, narrow bed.

  “How can you live here?” she asked honestly. As she
went forward to peek at the sketches, Christophe scooped them into a pile and set them aside, out of view.

  “Your candor is very refreshing,” he replied with a laugh. “In my own defense, I can only say that it is far preferable to the upstairs chamber they gave me when I first arrived. And I am free to walk outside without meeting anyone in the corridor.”

  “That is a benefit,” she agreed. “Do you have a very grand home in France? I understand that nearly everyone does.”

  He was still smiling to himself as he set down the loaf of bread. “Why do you say that?”

  “Everyone whispers about the decadent French court. I have heard that it is common to find paintings of naked women everywhere one goes, even in the homes of ordinary people.” Blushing, she added, “On the ceilings!”

  “That is outrageous,” he protested, shaking his head. “And I can assure you that there are no paintings of naked women in my home.”

  “Are you not the royal master builder? One would expect you to live very well.”

  Christophe had brought a pewter trencher with a wedge of cheese and an apple on it. “I find your line of questioning very curious!” he said with a wry smile. “I did live well enough in France, but hardly in splendor. Paintings of naked women are not my style.”

  Now she felt slightly suspicious. What did he mean by that? “Do you have another preference, m’sieur?”

  “No! You are an impertinent minx.” He cut slices of cheese and bread, gesturing for her to take a chair next to his. “I prefer my naked women to be alive, preferably in my bed, not painted on the wall. Or even the ceiling…”

  “Oh!” Hot blood washed Fiona’s cheeks. The gleam in his eyes made her helplessly imagine such a scenario, with herself as the woman in question. “I see,” she murmured primly.

  “Now that we’ve sorted that out, it’s my turn to ask a question. I perceive that this is your first visit to court. Why now?”