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

by Cynthia Wright

  The king expected him to attend, so he would go. He was hungry. No doubt, they were about to dine before the dancing and entertainments commenced, and he could enjoy a meal fit for the royal court.

  He thought about Fiona MacLeod and the interlude of intoxicating passion they’d shared when she had been on his lap, kissing, moaning, and guiding his hand up her thigh to touch her so intimately. The vivid memories quickly brought him to a state of aching arousal. He’d warned her away from him then, and of course it was true. She was not a girl to trifle with nor one of the married women who brought their talents and needs to his bed but always went home to their disinterested husbands.

  Fiona was special.

  It hurt to breathe as he considered those words. He remembered her telling him how she had always dreamed of traveling to Europe. Of plunging into new adventures. And again he saw her eyes as she spoke about the illness and death of her mother.

  Every one of Fiona’s emotions showed on her charming, guileless face. This realization caused him to feel both captivated and wary.

  Yes, she was special, and he’d been right to urge her to guard her virtue for the man she would one day wed. But that didn’t stop him from wanting her, even against his better judgment.

  No doubt Fiona was in the Great Hall at that very moment. Christophe told himself that it shouldn’t be difficult to avoid her in such a large gathering of people. Yes, if he saw her, he would simply nod but avoid further contact.

  But first he had to think about something else so that he wouldn’t enter the hall with a raging erection. Closing his eyes, Christophe counted to ten while conjuring tales of the dreaded bottle dungeon…

  Chapter 10

  It was exceedingly warm inside the Great Hall, where richly-garbed courtiers exuded the cloying scent of patchouli. Fiona saw that her father had already begun to perspire, even though he had just arrived.

  “Da, have I told you how fine you look in your plaid?”

  He was indeed an imposing figure, his muted brown and green tartan plaid wrapped artfully around him, belted at the waist, with one long end draped over a shoulder and secured with his clan brooch. Alasdair Crotach, the clan chief and also his father, had given him the circular brooch. It was inscribed with a bull’s head and the clan motto: Hold Fast. Magnus wore his best bonnet, decorated with the MacLeod badge, and his shoulder-length auburn hair looked fittingly disheveled.

  “It’s ye who are fine, Fiona Rose,” he replied. His eyes misted as he gazed down at her. “I never thought I could say it, but ye may be lovelier even than your mother…particularly in that gown.”

  For once, her father did not shift his gaze away from her. It was a relief to feel connected to him again, for there had been many moments in recent days when Fiona had suspected that something was wrong. He often seemed ill at ease and detached from her. Perhaps, as she so often reminded herself, his discomfort was merely another symptom of grief.

  Fi lifted her hand to her father’s cheek, smiling. “It touches my heart to hear you say that, Da.”

  “Ye know, I hope… I want only the best for ye, daughter. Ye can be too willful for your own good.”

  She held her breath. Please, Da, don’t break the spell. Why did every tender moment between them seem to end with Magnus attempting to rein her in?

  They were seated for the banquet at the same long table with Fiona’s Aunt Tess and Uncle Stephen. The wine they drank was imported from France, for nothing as civilized as grape vines could grow in the craggy landscape of Scotland.

  At last, to a trumpet fanfare, the king and queen appeared at the far end of the tapestry-hung Hall. Everyone stood as they passed by, clad in their finest clothing and jewels. The queen’s gown was fashioned of saffron silk, sewn with golden threads and encrusted with diamonds. As she came near Fiona, there seemed to be an aura surrounding her that protected her from anyone’s touch.

  Was the king falling in love with his new bride? Of course, it was fanciful to imagine that there could be real love between them, for all marriages among nobility were undertaken for political purposes. It was a simple fact that no one in such a position could dream of putting his or her own romantic fancies first. Even she, the granddaughter of a powerful Highland chief, must consider the needs of her clan rather than the yearnings of her own heart.

  Not that those yearnings could lead anywhere, even if the world would allow her such freedom. The man Fiona dreamed about had other plans that did not involve her in the least.

  As a magnificent feast was served, trumpets sounded with the arrival of each new course. The guests laughed and admired the huge peacocks and swans that were being served in full plumage, and Fiona thought that the new French queen must surely be impressed that the Scots kitchen could produce such creations.

  Carefully, she looked across the hall toward the table where the king and queen sat, surrounded by courtiers and servants. Behind King James stood his cupbearer, who was entrusted with bringing the monarch’s wine to the table and tasting it first. Queen Mary was smiling as she beheld a particularly splendid peacock, its tailfeathers spread, that had been set before them. In the light of a thousand candles, she looked radiant.

  To Fiona, it seemed such a paradox, that a woman could be raised to enjoy every possible indulgence, yet not be free to marry the husband of her choice. It was said that even England’s King Henry VIII had been pursuing Mary of Guise. Fi shuddered at the thought of being forced to endure the company of that corpulent, overbearing tyrant, although one might not have to share his bed for very long since he seemed to behead the wives he tired of.

  Yet Mary appeared to be serene, if not happy. There was a sense of resilience about her that gave Fiona hope. If the French queen had learned to accept her fate and find reasons to smile…couldn’t Fiona do so as well?

  Then, even as she watched, a tall, lithe man with wide shoulders and tousled dark hair came into view. The queen’s face lit up. Seeming to forget ceremony, she lifted her hands in an invitation for him to kiss them. As the man complied, he flashed a smile that was sinfully arresting.

  Fiona sighed. Of course, the man was Christophe, Chevalier de St. Briac.

  Both the king and queen seemed to be insisting that he take a place near them. Two other ladies from the French court appeared to join St. Briac, and as he accepted a cup of wine, Fiona suddenly felt drab and provincial in her old-fashioned gown. Her eyes stung.

  Next to her, Magnus was telling Stephen how much he missed their castle on the Isle of Skye. More dishes of food appeared. Spit-roasted lamb basted with butter and herbs. Venison stuck with sprigs of rosemary. Fancy custards and oatcakes baked on a griddle. Fiona’s stomach ached just looking at all of it.

  When at last the boards were cleared and dancing began, she watched as Christophe was approached by one of the Frenchwomen who had looked down their noses at her in the Gallery. The lady was willowy and golden-haired, a hundred times more poised than Fiona could ever hope to be. Fi found herself burning with outrage as she decided the woman was surely setting a trap for Christophe.

  “Do you know who that woman is?” she whispered to her aunt. “The Frenchwoman who fawns over the Chevalier de St. Briac?”

  Tess seemed to read her true feelings as if she were transparent. “I believe that is Agnès Géroux, a cousin and friend of the queen. Her title escapes me at the moment, but it appears that she knew St. Briac in France…”

  Knew him in France. Her aunt’s meaning could not have been clearer. This was no trap; it was another scene in an ongoing affair.

  “I am not feeling very well,” Fi murmured. Her heart hurt and jealousy burned in her veins like poison. She was ashamed to harbor such terrible emotions toward a woman who did not even know Fiona existed.

  “Perhaps a sip of wine?” Tess suggested.

  Before she could reply, she was surprised to see Christophe turn away from Agnès, who looked annoyed. Fi’s whole body felt frozen as she watched him stride toward her, smiling and gazi
ng directly into her eyes.

  “Bon soir, mademoiselle,” he said, his French accent melting her bones. Fiona could only watch as he lifted her hand and scorched her tender flesh with his mouth. “You are looking especially lovely tonight.”

  Even as she felt herself blushing, her father stiffened beside her.

  “What business have ye with my daughter, mon-sewer?” Magnus said, seeming to purposely botch the pronunciation of the French word.

  St. Briac straightened with a lazy smile. “No business at all, sir, only pleasure. I hoped Mademoiselle MacLeod might dance the galliard with me.”

  “Dance?” Fiona was awash with panic. “I must confess that I cannot dance. I mean…” She paused to lick her lips. “I never have had an opportunity to learn.”

  “Ah, then it is time you did.” Christophe spoke the words slowly, extending a hand in invitation.

  “Fiona Rose.” Magnus had taken hold of the back of her arm, above her elbow where the flesh was tender. “I think ye should stay. There is another man who would teach ye…”

  Something about the way her father said the word teach made the baby hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “Ah, Da, will you deny me a bit of pleasure? You know it was always a wish of Mama’s that I should learn to dance.” Fiona paused and added, “Besides, there is no one on Skye who could teach me properly.”

  There, she thought. Take that. And when she attempted to pull her arm free, only a moment passed before he reluctantly let her go to the Frenchman.

  “Have a care, Fhrangaich…” Magnus muttered under his breath.

  Fi blinked to hear her father use the Gaelic word for “Frenchman” in such a cold, disparaging tone. Did he mean to threaten him?

  * * *

  St. Briac told himself—again—that the last thing he needed or wanted was to become entangled with Fiona Rose MacLeod. Just a short while ago, he had made a promise to himself to avoid her tonight. What was it about Fiona that compelled him to return to her side, even though he could plainly see that she was trouble for him?

  A short distance away, he could see the elegant Agnès Géroux watching him under her long lashes. She had made it clear that he could visit her bed tonight if he wished, yet Christophe found that he was more attracted to this winsome lass who liked to disguise herself in boy’s clothing and seek out adventures.

  “Are you going to teach me?” Fiona whispered, touching his hand. Musicians had begun to play harp, fiddle, and small flutes known as quhissels while the king himself strummed the lute.

  Just the brush of her fingers caused St. Briac to throb with a disturbingly primal need. “Teach you?” Blood was surging into his cock, damn it. For once he was grateful for a codpiece.

  Fi blushed prettily at his tone. “To dance, m’sieur. Did you not make me a promise?”

  Oh, right, he thought cynically. But it would be a relief to dance, to do anything to take his mind off the charged atmosphere between them and his hunger to taste her mouth again, to open her bodice and—

  “Are you all right?” Fiona whispered. She was gazing up at him in a way that suggested she could read his thoughts. Her eyes had gone dark violet and were warm with sensuality. For God’s sake, they were standing in the middle of the Great Hall, surrounded by courtiers who had begun to dance. Had he lost his senses?

  “You needn’t worry about keeping up with everyone else,” he told her. “The galliard is rather difficult, and you’ll need to practice.” As he spoke, Christophe led her to the outer edge of the crowd, where no one would step on her as they leaped and turned. “There are five steps you should learn first. In French, they are known as the cinq pas. You see?” He gestured toward the dancers and counted to five in French as they stepped right, left, right, left, right, ending with a longer leap that brought one leg in front of the other.

  “It looks very gay!” Fiona exclaimed, beaming. Yet, when he took just her fingers in his, their eyes met in unspoken desire. “I suppose I should concentrate on the steps,” she said.

  Christophe watched as she nervously licked her lips, glancing away, and he thought he’d never wanted a woman so much. Wanted to push up her skirts and explore every intimate part of her. Perhaps she was one of those cursed faeries she’d told him about and had put a spell on him.

  “Like this?” Fiona asked, making the leap.

  “Exactly.” He flashed a smile and watched her cheeks go pink. “Tell me something, mademoiselle. How old are you?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Christophe studied her for a long moment as they continued the galliard. Had he misjudged her age? Was she very young? Some men had a taste for girls who were just on the cusp of adolescence, and plenty of noblemen entered arranged marriages with such maidens, but he had always preferred a grown woman who could make her own choices…and would preferably have no expectations of him. Perhaps, if Fiona was younger than he had guessed, it explained her father’s overbearingly protective attitude.

  “Now you must tell me,” he said. “I insist.”

  “In truth, I am quite old.” She stopped dancing and averted her eyes.

  “Indeed?” A smile touched his mouth. How charming she was! “Give me a number.”

  “Four and twenty.”

  “What is wrong with that?” Christophe watched her for a moment and realized that she was embarrassed.

  “Nothing! Nothing at all is wrong with my age.” Fiona straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Yet others call attention to it, as if I am somehow…undesirable goods. I am unmarried by choice, as I have told you before. Perhaps now that you know my age, you will believe what I say.”

  “Oh, I believe it. And I can assure you that I don’t find you undesirable in any way, Fiona Rose.”

  As their eyes met and held, Christophe remembered their interlude in his cottage, when she had brushed off his assertion that she should save herself for her husband. Another wave of hot desire seemed to magically pull him closer to her.

  “I don’t feel very well,” she whispered.

  Had he heard correctly? Leaning closer, he breathed in her soft scent and felt himself pulse and stiffen once again. “What is it? Shall I call your father?”

  “No! I—I am a trifle faint. I only need a bit of air. Won’t you take me into the garden for a few moments?”

  That sounded innocent enough. Glancing around, he saw that the dancing had resumed and Magnus himself was allowing his sister-in-law to lead him out for a turn.

  “Just a few moments, then,” Christophe agreed, endeavoring to ignore the now-familiar voice that warned, Danger. Danger!

  In any event, how much trouble could he encounter in a moonlit garden with one bonnie lass from the Isle of Skye?

  * * *

  Fiona felt terribly warm and breathless, and her heart was beating rapidly. What could be amiss? Although it seemed she might be ill, she knew somehow that was not the case. As they went into the garden laid out behind the Great Hall, she looked around in the starlight and wondered if there might be faeries present, so far away from Skye.

  Clasping Christophe’s strong hand, she led him a short distance to a stand of ancient oak trees. It was darker here, but the moon still shone through the spreading branches. Fiona leaned back so that her headdress pushed against the rough bark and closed her eyes. The cool night air tasted better than wine.

  His deep, faintly amused voice came to her as if in a dream. “I take it you’re feeling better…”

  Without opening her eyes, she replied, “I am not certain what came over me, but I had to get away from all those people.”

  “I understand completely. I feel that way most of the time.”

  Fiona studied him under her lashes and her heart again beat faster. Perhaps it wasn’t the people at all that caused her to have this spell, but the presence of this man. She could not tell him that, however. Her lips parted. She felt her breasts swelling above the edge of her bodice. The warm tingling sensations Fi had come to recognize gathered
again in the place between her legs.

  The place that ached for him in ways that she could not begin to understand.

  “I wish…” she heard herself breathe.

  There was a charged moment of silence before Christophe replied, “Eh bien, chérie…what is it you need?” His voice was rough with an edge of passion.

  In truth, she wished he would unlace her gown and kiss her bare breasts in the moonlight. The very thought of his mouth on her nipples made her ache with a congested need that she couldn’t explain.

  “A kiss,” she whispered, and reached out to him. “What harm can there be in a kiss?”

  St. Briac brushed both her small hands aside, closing the gap between them with one stride. He clasped her around the waist and pulled her against his tall, hard body, and Fi felt the evidence of his arousal. The sudden realization that they felt the same was utterly thrilling.

  “Harm?” he repeated, and she heard the dangerous edge in his voice. “Ma petite, perhaps you do not understand, you are playing with fire.”

  “Aye. ’Tis exactly what I want. Fire.”

  His chiseled face loomed above her for an instant before he took her in his arms and covered her mouth with his. He nipped slightly at the edge of her lips, making her whimper, and then his tongue followed, taunting, teasing, until she strained upward to plead for all of him.

  When he began, finally, to kiss her in earnest, the fire became a blaze. His mouth was an aphrodisiac and Fiona couldn’t get enough. They kissed for long moments while his hands moved over her back. And then…his tongue began to move back and forth in her mouth, until Fiona’s hips mimicked the movements, arching helplessly toward his.

  She could feel the heat and power of his erection, pressing against the cleft between her legs, even through the layers of their clothing. A small, primal moan escaped her as his mouth ravished hers. Christophe pressed her back against the tree and cupped her breasts with both hands, squeezing just enough to deliciously fan the flames inside her.

  “Take me,” she heard herself say. “It’s all I want.”