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

by Cynthia Wright

  They had reached his cottage door, and now, the infuriating maiden followed him inside.

  “Don’t you want to know what it is?” Before Christophe could speak, she rushed on. “King James needs to feel that this is his palace. He was virtually imprisoned by that horrible regent for most of his life, and now he finally has control of these castles, but they have the imprint of his father all over them.”

  “Do you think I am ignorant of these facts?”

  “Why are you being so difficult? I am trying to help you.”

  To Christophe’s astonishment, she pushed him into a chair and sat on his lap.

  “You are a vixen and I don’t want your help,” he ground out.

  “Just sit still for one blessed moment and listen to me.” Fiona leaned against his chest, as if to hold him prisoner, even though he could have stood up and brushed her away from him in an instant. “This king needs a symbol of his own, something you can paint and carve throughout the palace, including on the chapel ceiling.”

  In spite of himself, he felt curious. “Perhaps.”

  She leaned closer still, and a light fragrance of meadowsweet filled his senses. “The thistle,” she whispered in his ear.

  Her breath tickled erotically. He was painfully aware of her breast pushing against his chest while her satin-soft cheek was barely an inch from his face. Silently warning his cock to be still, he replied, “What are you talking about? The thistle is a prickly weed.”

  “That’s true,” Fiona agreed happily, “but in Scotland, it is beloved! Legend has it that, long ago, sleeping Scots warriors were saved from ambush by a Norse army when one of the invaders stepped on a thistle plant and cried out in pain, alerting the Highlanders.”

  “Were the blue men of the Minch involved?” he murmured, enchanted.

  “You may scoff, but the thistle is a perfect symbol, not just for Scotland but for our young King James.”

  Christophe glanced down slightly at the exposed swell of Fiona’s breast that showed above her snug bodice. He could imagine what her nipple must look like, how it would feel against his tongue, in his mouth…

  “Fine, then,” he managed to say, his voice rough. “We’ll give him thistles.”

  “Good…” Her face was inches from his, her lips parted.

  He could feel her heart beating faster through the silk of her gown. Arousal coursed like liquid fire through his veins, filling his shaft until it ached and throbbed. When her mouth came closer, Christophe brought a hand up to the back of her head, sank his fingers into her hair, and kissed her with bruising heat.

  As they kissed, a voice inside his head shouted at him to stop, to go back, to put her from him. Danger, danger, it warned. And yet as he pushed his tongue against hers, deeper into her sweet mouth, he was lost.

  Fiona’s bottom squirmed against his erection, an enticing mixture of passion and innocence. Her arms had rounded his shoulders, and she was turning so that both her breasts could find contact with his hard chest. Christophe had kissed a lot of women, but none like this. She was utterly intoxicating.

  At last, when they broke apart for air, Fiona panted. “I ache,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Sangdieu, he thought. Some mystical power was drawing them inexorably together. Perhaps it had to do with those faeries Fiona had told him about…

  She was taking his big hand in her slim fingers, drawing up her skirts while staring wonderingly into his eyes. Her thigh was slim and soft, and then she guided his hand between her legs. The nest of curls was wet with her arousal, and the instant his fingers touched her nether lips, he thought he might climax right there, like an inexperienced youth.

  She began to move against him and, in a corner of his mind, he heard a warning bell. Dimly, he realized it was the honor he’d nearly forgotten he possessed, sounding an alert.

  “God help me, I want you,” Christophe heard himself whisper harshly, even as he brought his hand away, “but I cannot. We must not.” He drew her skirts back down over her bare legs.

  Fiona gave a little whimper and buried her face against his neck. “You don’t know,” she whispered. “This could be my only chance to…to…”

  “Nonsense.” He took a deep breath, willing his burning arousal to subside. More gently, he told her, “You’re an innocent maiden, and you must stay that way if you are to have a proposal of marriage from a worthy husband. And I cannot afford to become entangled with any woman now. My work is crucial, and nothing must interfere with it…”

  Drawing back, Fiona glared at him. “I did not ask you to marry me!” she said angrily. “I don’t want to marry at all. I wish to return to Skye and be free of men and their controlling ways.”

  “Do you indeed?” She was struggling to get off his lap, but something compelled him to hold her. “I fear you’re not made for spinsterhood, chérie.”

  When Fiona tried to slap him, eyes blazing, he easily caught her wrist.

  “All I want is to feel life,” she said in a voice that singed his heart. “Ever since the moment I first saw you, I’ve wondered what it would be like to kiss you. To feel your hands on my skin. To—”

  “Arrêtez,” he groaned. He released her wrist and watched her scramble free to pace across the cottage. “Stop. Don’t say any more.”

  “Why shouldn’t I pursue my longings? Soon enough, they mean to take me back to Skye.”

  Christophe realized that she was offering herself to him, with no strings attached. Why didn’t he take her? God knew he burned to do so. He desired this little spitfire with her tousled hair and penchant for getting into trouble more than any woman he’d ever known.

  And that scared him like the devil.

  Chapter 8

  Fiona heard a sharp tap at the cottage window and looked over to see Erik, her gyrfalcon, clinging to the stone ledge outside. When their eyes met, he rapped his curved beak against the leaded glass again.

  “Da is back from the hunt,” she said urgently. “I must go!”

  Even as she started toward the door to greet Erik, Christophe caught her arm.

  “You’re not afraid of your father, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Even though this was true, she felt her face growing warm with emotion. “But it wouldn’t do for him to discover me here with you, alone.”

  “All right.” Christophe released her and stepped back. Fiona could see the conflicting emotions on his face. She wanted desperately to throw her arms around him and hear him beg her to stay, but clearly, that was not going to happen.

  “Goodbye then,” she said primly. “You may thank me for all my creative ideas at a later time.”

  And with that, Fiona went out of the cottage, following Erik as he circled back toward the mews.

  * * *

  “Where did ye get to?” complained Magnus. He stood in the courtyard, surrounded by other members of the hunting party, watching as Erik glided down to land heavily on his arm.

  “Hello, Da,” called Fiona. As she started toward them, she suddenly felt self-conscious. Would her father guess what she’d been doing? She hadn’t even smoothed her hair since St. Briac had buried his hands in it. And what about her bodice…was it closed properly?

  Just thinking about those brief moments of passion in his cottage caused her nipples to tighten and warmth to gather again between her thighs. He’d touched her in a way that promised so much more…

  “Lass, are ye deaf?”

  “What?” Fiona shook herself back to reality. Men were milling about everywhere she looked—the hunting party, the grooms who were taking their horses, and the masons and other craftsmen who labored just a short distance away.

  “I asked what ye have been doing, off alone,” Magnus said gruffly.

  “Oh, you know me, just off to explore a bit in the wood. ’Tis difficult for me to sit quietly with a needle and thread.” She prayed to keep the telltale blush from her cheeks.

  “Ye weren’t with that Frenchman, I hope?”

  “What
a question! I have no business with a builder.” She gave a laugh and quickly changed the subject. “Was the hunt successful, Da?”

  “Aye. Good enough.” He nodded toward the dead partridges that were being conveyed toward the kitchen. “And the king killed a deer. ’Twere a great buck.”

  Fiona guessed that the others had let King James shoot and kill the deer rather than upstaging him in his own park. “Very impressive,” she said, smiling.

  Just then, Christophe St. Briac came into view nearby, pausing to speak to the king as he made his way back to the building site. There were two carts filled with stone coming in through the orchard gate, and Fiona remembered hearing that the rest of the old castle was being demolished to provide more stone for this rebuilding project.

  “You must be thirsty and hungry,” she said to her father. “Shall I return Erik to the mews for you?”

  He looked tempted. “You haven’t a gauntlet. That bird would bloody your tender flesh.”

  Just then, St. Briac appeared beside them. “Take my glove, mademoiselle,” he said, smiling at her as if they were mere acquaintances, and pressed one of his fine leather gloves into her hand.

  Fiona prayed her feelings didn’t show on her face for Da to see. “How kind of you. Thank you, sir.”

  As St. Briac nodded to them both and walked away, Fi turned to her father and was relieved to see that he didn’t seem to be paying any attention to them.

  “Will you let me take Erik now, Da?”

  “Perhaps…” he said absently.

  Fi watched as Magnus gazed out over the tops of most other men’s heads. After several moments, she said, “What is it? Are you looking for someone?”

  He blinked. “Nay, of course not! Who could I possibly be looking for here, in the back of beyond, so far away from our dear Skye?”

  That was a good question, but he certainly had seemed to be expecting someone to arrive at any moment. “Let me take Erik back, please, Da. The falconers are occupied with other birds.” She showed him the glove that she now wore.

  “I’ll do it myself,” Magnus said abruptly. “Why don’t ye go inside and do something civilized, lass. Let me hear ye play a song on your lute when I come up the steps.”

  With that, her father turned away, gauntlet-clad arm extended to support Erik. The big gyrfalcon, so striking with his black-flecked white plumage, swiveled his head to stare at Fiona.

  She met the bird’s piercing eyes, unaccountably feeling that he seemed to know her secrets. Of course, that was ridiculous. Even if Erik could understand such things, what would he care if Fi engaged in a secret tryst with St. Briac?

  * * *

  Back upstairs in the palace, Fiona discovered a dazzlingly beautiful gown was spread out over her bed. As she entered, Aunt Tess rose from her chair, needlework in one hand, and hurried over.

  “Look what I’ve brought for you to wear to the ball tomorrow night,” she exclaimed. “Of course, as you may guess, it was your mother’s. After word came of my sister’s death, I discovered it in a chest in our childhood bedroom and saved it for you, lass.” Coming closer, Tess added, “Eleanor wore it on the very night she met your da at Holyrood Palace.”

  Hot tears clouded Fiona’s vision. Her heart swelled and ached in her chest as she went closer to the bed. The gown was fashioned of rich violet silk, embroidered with golden thread. Pearls and diamonds were sewn on the square bodice, and nearby lay a full-skirted kirtle of lavender…nearly the color of her mother’s eyes.

  “It’s too beautiful,” she breathed.

  “Too beautiful for you? Nay, sweet Fi. You must learn to value yourself more than you do.” Tess embraced her, and for a moment Fiona felt teary. Her aunt’s body felt so achingly familiar, and it had been a long time since Fiona’s mother had been healthy enough to stand and draw her into her arms.

  “I shall try,” she promised.

  “Let me help you try it on. No doubt it will need alterations.”

  As Fiona changed out of her simpler clothing and donned the sumptuous gown, she thought again about her mother and the life she had lived, growing up nearby at Hilltower. The Lindsay clan was different from the MacLeods of Skye, who carried on Highland feuds and fought marauding invaders from the sea.

  “What accounts for that faraway look?” Tess asked as she finished fastening the gown.

  “I was thinking about Mama, and how she met Da when they both were visiting Edinburgh. They saw each other for the first time at a ball…but in my world on Skye, there are no balls. Oh, aye, there are celebrations at our clan stronghold, Dunvegan Castle, but only for occasions like weddings and christenings. They aren’t proper balls, like the one I’ll attend here at Falkland Palace tomorrow night.” A small furrow creased her brow. “I’ve not even learned yet to dance the galliard.”

  “I’ve never imagined that you would pine for such lavish forms of entertainment,” Tess remarked.

  Fi tossed her dark curls. “Nay, I do not. Yet, when a lass reaches the age of marriage, it might be agreeable to have such opportunities…”

  “Would you care for some tea, or perhaps a wee sip of something stronger?” Tess reached for the decanter on a nearby table and poured a small amount of whiskey into a crystal glass. “I think we are overdue for a long talk.”

  Fiona accepted the glass with a rueful smile. Why did she feel like crying? Sipping the spirits, she welcomed the radiant heat that coursed down to the center of her body and spread over her until even her nose felt warm.

  “There’s a good girl.” Her aunt took the glass away before she could finish it all at once and knelt to insert some pins in the hem of the skirt. “You’re not as tall as my dear sister was.”

  “Isbeil can make the alterations,” Fiona said softly. “It wouldn’t be the first time she remade one of Mama’s dresses to fit me.”

  In a voice that sounded a bit too casual, the older woman said, “You must tell me, dear niece, what is it you have planned for your life now that you are no longer caring for your mother?”

  Fi looked down at the top of her aunt’s head. Was she busy pinning the hem of her gown so that she could ask bold questions without looking her in the eye? “I have never felt that I could make such choices for myself,” she said softly.

  “Indeed? Ach, I took you for a more spirited lass than that.”

  “My heart may long for more, but it seems that God has had other plans for me. If it were not true, I wouldn’t have been born on the very wildest northern tip of Skye, in a castle that quakes on the edge of a cliff.” She sighed deeply. “My dear mama wouldn’t have fallen ill, with only me to care for her properly. And if I were destined for more, my brothers would have gone off long ago to take wives of their own. As it is, the men of Duntulm Castle need me.”

  “No doubt you feel responsible for your da now…?” Tess inserted the last pin and clambered to her feet, finally meeting Fiona’s gaze.

  “Of course! Have you not heard him declare that he needs me now more than ever? Truly, I fear that he may die of loneliness without Mama…and if I were to abandon him there, I’d feel responsible for his death.”

  “Ah, lass, you have placed a great burden on your own slim shoulders.” Tess poured a small drink for herself just as Isbeil appeared in the doorway.

  “Do ye have need of me?” asked the old woman. Before either of them could reply, Isbeil gasped and staggered slightly. “By the saints, lass, ye look like a princess in your ma’s beautiful gown. It’s the one she wore to Holyrood Palace the night she met Magnus MacLeod…”

  “I know that, Isbeil,” Fiona replied fondly. “Do you think Mama would be pleased that I am going to wear it to a ball at Falkland Palace?”

  “Pleased is but a tiny word for how she must feel, watching now from Heaven,” Isbeil said with a catch in her voice. “Ye are a vision.”

  “If I look half as fine as Mama, I will be satisfied.”

  “We’ll need your help,” Tess said, turning to Isbeil. “As you know, my sis
ter was taller than Fiona. I’ve already pinned up the hem—”

  “Say no more,” the nurse said brusquely, with a wave of her hand. “Mistress, if ye will kindly remove the gown, I shall have it altered in a trice.”

  When she had gone, Fiona wore only her linen smock and stiffened petticoat as Tess led her over to the settle and pressed the small glass of whiskey into her hands.

  “Now then, sip a bit of that and tell me what you’d like to do if you didn’t have so many obligations to the men in your family,” her aunt said. She sat down on the firm cushion and patted the place beside her.

  Fi was beset by another urge to cry. “I have rarely let myself have such thoughts,” she said softly.

  “Indeed? Well, then, this may be a time to indulge in them.” After a moment, Tess added, “If you care to.”

  A long silence followed. At last, Fiona found her voice.

  “Perhaps you know that Mama taught me to read and we were fortunate to own many books that quench my thirst for adventure. Every day, I would read aloud and Mama and I would pretend we were living in another place, even another time.”

  Tess nodded patiently. “That’s lovely. But if you could live away from Duntulm Castle, what would you do, where would you go?”

  “Oh, I would do so much! Of course, these are but dreams, but I would love to sail to far-off places that I’ve only read about. Spain. Paris. Florence and Rome!” Sitting up straighter, she paused to sip the whiskey and allowed the spirits to embolden her. “Oh, Aunt, would you not love to travel through all of Italy? I would disguise myself as a boy so that I might wander freely, unhindered by the constraints placed on females.”

  “I see! And what would you do in such exotic places?”

  “Learn.” Fiona breathed the word as if it were a prayer.

  “Are you not fearful of the dangers in far-off lands?” Tess wondered.

  “Not a bit! When I contemplate adventure, I feel very much alive. Oh, if only it were possible.”

  “You speak as if your dreams are inconceivable. Why?”