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

by Cynthia Wright

  In that moment, his head came up and he stared at her in the shadows. Fiona saw that he understood completely. He wanted her, too…but he had not lost touch with reason.

  Before Christophe could speak, a shout broke through the night air.

  “Fiona Rose MacLeod! Show yourself to me!”

  She saw a mixture of alarm and anger flash in Christophe’s eyes. Reaching down to straighten her bodice and smooth errant curls back under her headdress, he said, “Go to your father quickly, before he suspects that I’ve undressed you.”

  “You must stay here,” she cautioned.

  “I’m certain he already has seen that I came with you. Leave it to me.”

  With that, he took her arm and led her back up the slope to the courtyard entrance. Fiona thought her heart would leap out of her chest when she saw her father, feet planted a distance apart and arms crossed, scowling at them.

  “What the devil have ye done to Fiona?” he barked at St. Briac.

  “Your daughter was feeling warm and faint. She needed air, and I could not let her wander about outdoors alone,” the Frenchman said in a calm, firm voice. “I merely accompanied her to keep her safe.”

  It was true, as far as it went, Fiona thought, suppressing a smile. She stepped away from Christophe and patted her father’s brawny arm. “You are angry for no reason, Da. You see, I am untouched!”

  Magnus bit his lip but seemed to relent. “Ach, ye will drive me to an early grave, lass.”

  Fi saw a shadow move behind her father, in the entrance arch, and a cold wave of nausea swept over her. Following her gaze, Magnus looked back into the darkness.

  “I had come to find you because we have a guest!” he announced in a tone of false jollity. Looking toward Christophe, her father arched both brows. “Mayhap ye did not know my daughter is betrothed?”

  Fi felt sick with dread as tall, broad-shouldered Ramsay MacAskill emerged from the shadows, smiling as if they were lovers.

  “Ah, Fi, how I have missed ye,” the Highlander declared. He came forward and put one arm around her, drawing her farther away from St. Briac. “I have come a great distance to claim ye. Now that ye have had a visit with your ma’s kin, it’s time this betrothal ended, and we were married properly!”

  Part Two

  Chapter 11

  St. Briac felt as if he’d been struck a crushing blow to his chest. In an instant, everything had changed. He was trying to decide whether he could dare leave her there with the two men when Magnus MacLeod leveled a stare at him.

  “As ye can see, mon-sewer,” Magnus said, again mispronouncing the French word in a way that he seemed to enjoy, “ye are no longer needed. Henceforth, my daughter’s betrothed, Ramsay MacAskill, will see to her safety.”

  He looked at the man who stood with one hand on Fiona’s waist and felt a burning urge to do away with him. MacAskill was no taller or stronger than he was, yet the Highlander still dared to glance his way dismissively. Were it not for the glowering presence of Fiona’s own father, Christophe would attempt to intervene on her behalf.

  “I appreciate your kindness, m’sieur,” Fiona said, to his surprise, as if they were mere acquaintances, “looking after me when I was forced to come outside alone for air. We must not keep you from the festivities in the Hall. Good night.”

  All his instincts told him not to leave her there with the two men, yet what could he do? He had no claim on her. Quite the contrary! Not only was he an outlander, but he had a future clearly mapped out in France.

  Besides, if Fiona needed rescuing, would she not have found a way to let him know?

  * * *

  “Thistles?” Bayard queried doubtfully as he peered down from the scaffolding. “Why do you want those? Our family gardener in Toulouse chopped them whenever one intruded.”

  “That was in France,” Christophe replied with exaggerated patience. “Scotland is a different situation entirely. I have been assured that here, thistles are beloved.”

  Bayard looked confused. “But—”

  “Am I not the Royal Master Mason?” Christophe shaded his eyes against the midday sun as he looked up at the other man, nodding to answer his own question. “I want to create a symbol for King James, something that will make him feel that this palace is his own, and I am putting you in charge of this plan. Have a few thistles painted on the chapel ceiling and add some carvings here and there to the stairways and the stone mantelpieces and doorframes.” Pausing, he produced a small piece of parchment with the drawing he’d made in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep. “Here is the design.”

  Bayard accepted the paper and squinted at it. “I don’t understand, but I’ll do it.”

  As he headed off across the courtyard toward the Gatehouse, Christophe mentally marked off one more item on his list. He was relieved, in a way, to be able to focus completely on his work now that Fiona was occupied with her Highlander. It had always been his preference to lose himself in work, and today he was grateful for that.

  The busy scene in the courtyard pleased him. A new shipment of timbers from Sweden had just arrived. They’d come by ship to Scotland, where they were roped together, pushed into the water, and towed across the Firth of Forth. Arriving in Leven, the timbers were stacked, cut, and carted to Falkland. St. Briac stopped to confer with the carpenters about the quality of the wood and then moved on.

  More ashlar was arriving tomorrow. Fortunately, the stone could be quarried in the nearby Lomond Hills, then brought down by sled and carted to the palace. One of the most difficult parts of St. Briac’s work had to do with the recasting of the south range’s stone façade. They were transforming the structure from a gloomy Scots castle into an elegant French palace that would please the new queen. He meant to succeed, but it was a tricky undertaking.

  “Ah, there ye are, St. Briac!”

  Beyond the crowds of tunic-clad men who were laboring to unload wood from the carts, Christophe saw Scrymgeour. The thick-set older man was carrying his large account book, as usual, as he approached from the Gatehouse.

  “Bonjour,” he greeted him in a businesslike tone. “I was just on my way to confer with the plasterers in the Gallery. I suspect we shall need to check our supplies. Bringing more plaster from the gypsum beds of France takes planning and time.”

  The Scotsman opened his book and ran a stubby finger down a column of numbers. “Ye strain my accounts!”

  “Was I not given the freedom to order and build as needed, in order to create the most beautiful palace possible?” Christophe asked calmly, arching a brow.

  “Aye… But I was just coming to ask ye, must every window be glass, even in the new kitchens and bakehouse? Ye must know what an extravagance glass is these days.”

  “What would your king say? I think you know the answer, m’sieur.” He paused to brush a bit of sawdust from his moss green doublet. “Oh, and one more thing. I want to have decorative roundels carved into the stone façade of the south range.”

  “Roundels?” Scrymgeour repeated, looking as if he rather dreaded hearing more.

  St. Briac lifted both hands to sketch a large circle in the air. “Decorative medallions. I intend that the subjects’ heads be women, not men.”

  The Scotsman’s nostrils flared. “I don’t see the sense in that! What women do ye mean?”

  “Perhaps our new queen, for one,” he replied casually. “And the others could be ladies of the court. Have you seen Fiona MacLeod, who is visiting here from the Isle of Skye?”

  “Aye. A bonnie lass indeed.” Scrymgeour scratched his head and shrugged. “I gave ye leave to do as ye see fit. If the medallions will please the king, so be it.”

  After the Master of Works had trudged off with his book, Christophe stood still for a moment, absorbing the sights and sounds in the courtyard. It was always a thrill to witness the transformation of a building into something new and memorable. The wellspring of creativity inside him was replenished each time a new project took shape, and he relished t
he opportunity to lose himself in work and leave the thorny problems of the real world behind.

  The roundels would be something very special. He intended to assign the carving of Fiona’s medallion to Bayard, who surely could capture her vibrant beauty in stone better than any other craftsman. The notion of her likeness remaining behind on the palace itself, to mark their brief time together, meant more to him than he would ever admit.

  Even to himself.

  * * *

  The very thought of food made Fiona feel ill, yet Ramsay picked up the oatcake and held it to her lips.

  “Ye must try it, Fi,” he said in a genial tone. Although he was all kindness on the outside, she could always detect the undercurrents of dominance he tried to hide. “What would our neighbors think if your bones show on our wedding day?”

  “Aye!” exclaimed her father from the doorway. He was busy fastening a badge to the bonnet he was about to don. “Do as Ramsay says.”

  Fiona pressed her lips tightly together. For a moment, she thought that this man who meant to marry her might actually try to push the oatcake into her mouth. She could feel the energy emanating from him, even though he continued to smile as if she were merely a difficult child.

  “Lass,” he murmured under his breath, “do ye defy me?”

  As their eyes met, Fiona suddenly felt she was seeing into the future, to the time when he meant to bed her. He would have the power to force her to open her mouth to him…and his body. A shiver ran through her, yet she returned his smile. Two can play this game, she thought. Reaching up to accept the oatcake from Ramsay’s hand, she then returned it to the plate.

  “Defy?” she replied lightly. “Why would I do that? Nay, it’s only that I feel unwell and cannot eat.”

  The black-haired Highlander leaned back against the settle, considering. “Are ye ill?” He glanced toward Isbeil, who had come in with a bowl of fruit. “Mayhap your mistress is afflicted with the same illness that took her mother.”

  The old woman gasped, watching as Ramsay plucked a plum from the bowl and ate it. He gave her a look of mild surprise, as if he had no notion that he’d said anything amiss.

  “I wonder, Ramsay,” called Magnus from across the room, “if ye would care to have a look at the Royal Mews? ’Tis far grander than any on our humble island. Two falconers have just departed for Holland to bid for the migrating hawks they’ve trapped there. It’s said those birds are the finest in all the world.”

  Ramsay turned to Fiona and pinned her under his dark eyes. “Ye will join us?”

  It wasn’t really a question, she knew, but she smiled again. “You are kind to invite me, sir, but as I have said, I feel unwell. Perhaps a bit of rest will prove restorative.”

  When the two men were gone, Fiona felt dizzy with relief.

  “What are ye on about, simpering at MacAskill that way?” demanded Isbeil.

  “Believe me, although he thinks no one will see beyond his guise of friendliness, I know exactly who he is.” Rising, Fi couldn’t resist giving the old nurse a brief embrace. “I am going out for a walk, while I still have the freedom to do so.”

  * * *

  Fiona lifted her skirts and hurried down the turnpike staircase that joined the east and south ranges of the palace. She was careful, though, when she reached the bottom step, for she didn’t want to charge headlong again into someone who might be rounding the corner from the Gallery.

  How long would her father and Ramsay be gone? The mews and stables were a good distance north of the palace. Perhaps she could slip away into the village and be at liberty for an hour or more!

  Just then, a hand clasped the back of her skirt, bringing her up short. Immediately, without even a glimpse, she knew it was Christophe de St. Briac. Her heart soared.

  “I am surprised that your betrothed has allowed you to venture forth alone,” he said in a cool, ironic voice. “Does he know?”

  “Ramsay does not own me,” Fiona said as she turned to face him.

  “Indeed?” As Christophe arched a brow, she decided that he grew more sinfully handsome by the day. “Have you conveyed that information to him?”

  Please touch me, she thought, aching for him. “I cannot spare time for this banter. I must speak to you in earnest.”

  His face turned serious. “Come.”

  They went into the chapel, and he drew her behind a carved screen. Seeing the questions in his face as he gazed down at her, waiting, Fiona felt sick with anxiety and longing.

  “You must be very busy with your work,” she ventured.

  “Very. But I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “I—I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t mean to hide this…situation from you.”

  “No? Then what exactly would you call it when you throw yourself into my arms and neglect to mention that you are betrothed to another man?”

  That stung. “I did not throw myself, m’sieur!”

  He cocked his head slightly, in disbelief. “That is not my memory, but it doesn’t matter now. Your would-be husband has traveled across Scotland to claim you.” After a moment’s pause, he added meaningfully, “Just in time.”

  “Did you have another plan for me?” she challenged, even as her cheeks flamed. “I was under the impression that you mean to return to France as soon as possible. That you have a prestigious building project waiting for you there, the dream of your lifetime, and nothing must interfere with it.”

  A cloud seemed to pass over his face and Fiona felt her heart clench. Of course, this was the truth of it, and she had known all along. Had he not told her so? And in any event, why would someone like Christophe de St. Briac give up his perfect, sophisticated life in Paris to be with Fiona on the wild Isle of Skye and deal with her problem-ridden family?

  Even if he should be mad enough to do so, it would never work. He could never be truly happy in her world, nor she in his.

  “You needn’t reply. I know the answer.” Tears burned her eyes. “And as for me, I tried to tell you that day in your cottage…plans have long been made for me. So you see, when I threw myself into your arms, I knew very well that it was only a lovely little dream. I have always known it could be nothing more! In fact—”

  “Fiona.” He touched a fingertip to her mouth to silence her.

  Never had she seen him so deadly serious, and that tore at her even more. Swallowing hard, she whispered, “Aye?”

  “You do not have to do something that would make you unhappy.”

  But what was her alternative? Glancing away from him, Fiona replied, “I have known all along that this would be my future. I belong on the Isle of Skye, and my family continues to need me close to them. An alliance with Ramsay will strengthen both our clans.”

  Gently, Christophe took her chin and turned her face so that she was looking into his crisp blue eyes. “You are special, Fiona. You deserve to have real love and passion in your marriage.”

  With an effort of will and pride, she restrained herself from going into his arms. “If only life were like a faerie story…but you and I both know that deep love goes hand-in-hand with heartache. Much of life is beyond our control. We have both watched our parents die too young, and I’m certain they deserved a great deal more than they received as well.” Fi saw him blink and what might have been tears gleamed in his eyes. “No matter what my marriage holds, I have known passion with you, Christophe. I will keep those memories.”

  There was nothing more to be said. Quietly, Fiona turned and left the chapel, praying that she could reach a place of privacy before the tears came.

  Chapter 12

  At dawn, Christophe gave up trying to sleep. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he raked long fingers through his hair.

  What a terrible night. Thoughts of Fiona had circled endlessly round and round in his mind. One moment he would remember her speech that day in the chapel, when she had insisted that she had made a choice of her own free will. Marrying Ramsay MacAskill and living out her days on the Isle of Skye
was what she wanted.

  Forget about her, he would tell himself. It almost worked, but then just as he would drift off to sleep, doubts would swoop down like black crows to peck him awake again. He couldn’t help feeling that Fiona secretly prayed he would intervene and rescue her.

  Then the words she had spoken to him started again, and he would get out of bed and pace in the darkness. There was something between them that he couldn’t explain. Didn’t want to understand. After all, no amount of emotion could change the reality of this situation.

  Fiona was betrothed to another man. And even if she were not, Christophe had duties and dreams of his own, waiting across the sea in France. He had been striving his entire life to reach the goals that were finally within his reach, goals that would set him firmly on the path to professional fulfillment.

  Pushing to his feet, he pulled on breeches and went to the window. It was already open, but now he levered the leaded-glass panes out further so that he could feel the cool dawn breeze on his face and chest.

  “There you are!” It was Bayard, coming up the path with a loaf of bread in one hand.

  “Be warned, I feel like the devil,” Christophe told him as he came through the door.

  “Too much of the king’s wine? Which reminds me, did I tell you that the Scots masons tried to give us wine made from beets?” Bayard shuddered at the memory. “Clearly, they have no knowledge of the civilized world we enjoy in France.”

  If Christophe had been in a better mood, he might have reminded Bayard that grapes did not grow in Scotland, so the common people had to be creative. Instead, he muttered, “The wine is not to blame. There is…something on my mind.”

  “Ah!” Bayard’s bushy brows flew up. “It must be about Mademoiselle MacLeod.”

  “Have I mentioned how extremely annoying you can be?”

  The mason began to poke around in the cupboards where Christophe usually kept food. “No oatcakes?” Finding a day-old cluster of cherries, he popped one into his mouth. “I have been meaning to ask you about that fellow who is newly-arrived at the palace. MacAskill? He goes everywhere with your lady’s father. Is he the reason for your foul temper?”