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

by Cynthia Wright

  “I regret to say, that’s not quite true,” Magnus muttered ruefully. He was more grateful than ever that he had asked Ramsay to wait a few days before following Magnus and Fiona to Falkland Palace. Initially, he had hoped that Ramsay might woo Fiona here at the palace, bringing some romance to what was otherwise a match that she stubbornly resisted. “St. Briac is a knight, and as I understand it, well-connected with the French court. I understand he’s been acquainted with our new queen for many years and agreed to come to Scotland at the behest of King François. Maybe he is here not only to rebuild the palace, but also to make certain Her Royal Highness is not ill-treated.”

  Ramsay’s face darkened. “That does not entitle him to walk among us as if he bloody belonged.”

  “’Twould seem that it does.” Magnus inclined his head toward Queen Mary and his own Fiona. Even as St. Briac approached the two women, Magnus saw that Erik was perched on the man’s wrist as if they were old friends. Fiona’s face was alight with pleasure. She drew on a padded glove and offered her arm to the gyrfalcon, who lightly sprang over to join her. The queen, meanwhile, also extended her hand, and St. Briac bent low to brush his mouth across her fingers. “’Twill be your task, Ramsay, to make certain our bonnie Fi’s head is not turned by that outlander,” he said in a low, firm voice.

  “Let me assure ye, I have already given this matter a deal of thought, from the moment I came here and first saw the way that lustful Fhrangaich did look at my lass. They are all alike in France, dissolute and sinful.”

  “Aye…” Magnus blinked, clearly taken aback by this appraisal of St. Briac. “You’re right. All the more reason to keep him away from her then.”

  The Highlander swung up into his saddle and a sudden gust of wind sent his hair flying behind him like a black flag. “I shall do whatever it takes to make Fiona mine. I vow it.”

  * * *

  It was a warm day and the woods smelled green and damp. In spite of herself, Fiona was filled with joy because Christophe was nearby. She rode near the queen and he, too, kept pace with her as they cantered through the woods.

  “What have you done with your magnificent hound?” Mary asked Christophe. “I heard he came to you here at Falkland.”

  “Your Majesty, you speak as if it was Raoul’s own doing, which may not be far from the truth.” He laughed, clearly amused. “He is with Bayard today. I thought he should stay behind until I know more of this Scottish way of hunting.”

  “Is it so different, hunting in France?” called Fiona over the sound of the huntsman’s horn.

  “It is,” Christophe said. He rode closer to her as he spoke, and she felt a delicious charge of energy in the air between them. For the briefest moment, his gaze touched her lips. “In France, there is a style of hunting called par force. Hounds are sent out ahead with huntsmen to wait for the hunt to reach them, at which point they join in, adding fresh excitement to the chase. Also, you use deerhounds here in Scotland, so I’m not certain Raoul would suit.”

  Fiona searched her memory of their conversations. “He is a greyhound?”

  The queen glanced over, as if wondering how Fiona might have such information about St. Briac. “I believe I saw your dog on the waterfront in LeHavre, as we boarded the galley to come to Scotland,” she said to him. “He was quite a handsome beast! A Grand Bleu hound, from Gascony, oui?”

  Fiona felt Erik try to pull free of his short tether. She regretted leaving his hood behind, for now he longed to fly and flush out game birds. However, birds were not their quarry today. “I probably shouldn’t have brought my gyrfalcon,” she said. “He wants to hunt, or at least to fly, but I fear it isn’t safe…given the unpredictable nature of the dogs, and the number of hunters armed with bows.”

  The woods were deepening around them as the hunting party rode farther from the palace and village. The long-legged deerhounds had scented their quarry and ran harder, breaking through uncleared areas of brush.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” cried Queen Mary. Her cheeks were pink, and her pretty feathered bonnet threatened to fly off in the blustery wind.

  “Indeed,” Fiona replied happily. “I have not felt so free since I left the Isle of Skye.”

  “Ah, Skye. I do hope I may go there one day! Will you come out of your tower house to show your island to me?” As the queen spoke, King James rode up behind them, guiding his horse between his wife and Christophe.

  “The chase is begun in earnest,” he called to the queen. “Often it is left to the dogs to simply pursue the deer once they are raised, but today has not been so simple. And how much more thrilling it is to have the hounds suddenly scent their unseen quarry and give chase! Will you ride with your husband?”

  Fiona smiled as she noted the rather dashing smile he gave to his new bride before Queen Mary brought her horse closer to his and they rode off together. Then, as she and Christophe followed the rest of the hunting party, Fiona sensed Ramsay’s presence.

  “I would have ye ride by my side,” he said loudly.

  Although Christophe gave no sign that he heard the big Highlander, he seemed to be distancing himself from Fiona, dropping back as if he knew of a better route. She knew he was trying to allay any suspicions Ramsay might have, but when he rode off through the underbrush toward Forester Meadow, Fi felt a shiver of fear. What if she were left alone in the woods with Ramsay? The memory of him trying to force the oatcake into her mouth returned, and she remembered the hard, predatory gleam in his dark eyes.

  “Why must ye have that bird? And what have ye done with his hood?” he shouted over the rising wind. “Give him over to a groom!”

  Irrationally, Fiona felt that Erik might provide some sort of protection, though it was doubtless foolish to imagine a bird might attempt to defend one human from another. Still, she would not let Ramsay give her orders.

  “Erik belongs to me,” she replied, glancing away as thunder rumbled in the distance. “The weather worsens.”

  “Fear not.” Ramsay seemed to take a deep breath before smiling down at her. “Ye are safe by my side, lass!”

  She wanted to roll her eyes but must not. It would be foolish to make him angry, she knew, and there was no sign that anything she did or said would discourage him in his pursuit of her as his bride. Just then, one of the grooms appeared on horseback, gesturing to Ramsay to follow him.

  “The hounds have cornered a great stag!” the boy cried. “Hurry!”

  Ramsay’s eyes lit up. “Ah, at last!” He started forward, barely sparing a glance back to Fiona as he commanded, “Come, lass!”

  Fiona made as if to obey, urging her mare forward, even as she wrinkled her nose and thought that he spoke to her as if she were one of the dogs. Now the rain had begun to pelt her face. It slanted sideways down from the charcoal-gray clouds, just a few sharp drops at first. Erik’s tether had become tangled and he pulled at it. Fiona reached over with her other hand to try to unsnarl the strip of leather and suddenly he sprang free, pushing off from her gauntlet-clad arm so forcefully that she cried out.

  There were small bells attached to his feet and she heard them jangle once as he rose above the trees and disappeared from sight.

  * * *

  Although Christophe’s sister-in-law Aimée believed quite passionately in intuition, he had never put much stock in matters he couldn’t explain. However, as he rode deeper into the woods, away from Fiona and that thug MacAskill, Christophe felt a prickling at the nape of his neck.

  That’s what Aimée liked to say happened to her when she was having a feeling. “I can feel the soft little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and then it rushes over me in a wave. I’d be a fool not to trust such a strong feeling!” And then, although his brother Thomas might arch a disparaging brow, he would always accept her urging to heed this intuition.

  And Christophe couldn’t remember a time when Aimée had been wrong.

  Something compelled him to tip his head back and look up. Through the leafy branches of the trees, Christop
he glimpsed a familiar shape silhouetted against the stormy sky. It was a big falcon, heavy-chested and long-tailed, moving westward.

  Raindrops pelted his face as he watched. Could it be Erik? Was something wrong? Then came the bird’s “Kak-kak-kak-kak!” cry, a signal of alarm.

  A moment later, a startled-looking mare came bounding from the underbrush. It was Fiona’s horse, and she rode recklessly, heedless of the rain and wind. To his surprise, he saw that she was alone.

  “Oh, praise God, it’s you! Erik has flown away, and he is not returning!” she cried immediately upon seeing Christophe. “Please help me.”

  “Don’t worry, he’s right there!” Extending one finger toward the sky, he followed with his eyes, but now there was no sign of the raptor.

  “Please,” begged Fiona, “I cannot trust anyone else to help me find Erik!”

  “Where are the others?”

  “They’ve all gone the other way.” She pointed to the east. “The dogs have brought down a deer.”

  “What about that Highlander who intends to make you his bride? Don’t tell me he’s let you out of his sight.”

  “Once Ramsay smells blood during a hunt, he cares for nothing else.” Her chin trembled slightly as she added, “Besides, I do not want him! You’re the only person I can trust to help me.”

  Raindrops coursed down her flushed cheeks. When Christophe realized they were tears, his heart turned over. Even if the gyrfalcon were not lost, he could never leave Fiona alone in the forest. “D’accord. Of course, I will help you.”

  Chapter 14

  For the first time in her life, Fiona was awash with raw fear. The storm had whipped itself into a frenzy as they rode through portions of the forest that were untamed and overgrown. It grew darker and darker, as dark as night, and a wild wind howled through the trees. Yet perhaps even more frightening than the worsening weather was Fiona’s sense that she was astride a runaway horse.

  Suddenly the black fingers of a bare branch reached out to snag her pretty feathered hat, yanking it from her hair so forcefully that it nearly brought her out of the saddle. “Oh!” Fiona cried, her panic increasing.

  Christophe glanced back over one shoulder as if to reassure himself that she was safe. “Just hang on,” he called.

  His horse was wild-eyed and bits of froth had appeared on the handsome stallion’s mouth, but Christophe leaned forward to speak to him in firmly soothing tones, and Fiona sensed that her mare took some comfort as well.

  “Where are we going?” she yelled, wondering if he could hear her over the keening of the wind. “I don’t know if I can stay in the saddle much longer.”

  “We are following Erik,” Christophe shouted back.

  Rain lashed them, again and again, making her feel cold as ice on the summer afternoon. And Fiona was hungrier than she could ever remember feeling. “But—the storm,” she protested.

  He drew hard on the reins until the big horse slowed its pace. When she had drawn closer, Christophe put out a hand to steady her. “Mon Dieu, look at you! We shall stop.”

  His words flooded her with relief until she realized that they were in the middle of the forest and there was no place to take shelter. Just then, however, Christophe steered his horse in a different direction, and they came to a rough path through the trees. They climbed a rocky hillside, and at the top, Fiona looked down and saw a tiny thatched cottage next to a rushing stream.

  “How did you know this place was here?” she asked, feeling faint.

  He smiled. “I saw Erik turn this way overhead, but now he has disappeared. Perhaps if we take shelter, he will come back to us.”

  Christophe reached out to hold onto her horse’s bridle as they clambered down the slick path. Rain rushed under the horses’ hooves and rocks were dislodged, flinging themselves ahead of them. When they had gained the clearing at the bottom of the hill, Fiona gladly let Christophe clasp her waist with both hands and swing her down from her horse’s back.

  “At least there is a stream, so we’ll have water,” he said.

  “’Tis a burn…” Fiona corrected him in a weak voice.

  “Oh, aye! I nearly forgot, we’re in Scotland.”

  Had the circumstances been different, she might have laughed at his fair attempt at a Scots accent. But at this moment, all Fiona cared about was getting out of the rain, and she prayed finding some food. Christophe seemed to understand this, for he opened the door to the rustic dwelling and drew her inside. His eyes scanned the shadowed interior, as if he expected to find that they were not alone.

  “I wonder who lives here?” she whispered. The cottage had a dirt floor, crudely-made walls of rubble and mud, and only one or two narrow slits for windows. There was a low bed against one wall, covered with a wool blanket, and a bench and table near the door.

  “Perhaps it was once the home of a royal forester or, at least, a place where he could sleep if he needed to work or remain deep in the woods. During long periods of harsh weather, he would need to see to it that the deer had food, and the forester has to apprehend those who attempt to kill the king’s game or cut his trees,” said Christophe. Running a finger over the thick coating of dust on the table, he added, “It doesn’t appear that anyone has been here recently.”

  Fiona looked around with a heightened sense of unease. Would spiders or snakes emerge from the blanket if she sat down on the bed? She shivered as her stomach clenched painfully. Oh, why hadn’t she eaten this morning when she had the chance?

  “I cannot imagine living in a place like this, though I know plenty of people who do, on Skye,” she said. “Crofters and fisherfolk make do with the crudest of dwellings. And our northern isle does often serve up cold and rainy weather for days on end.”

  As she spoke, Christophe had begun to empty a saddlebag on the table. “You’ll be pleased to know that I thought to bring food.”

  Her heart leaped. “Food?” Suddenly, she felt better and hurried to his side. She wanted to devour every morsel, but managed to say humbly, “If you could spare me even a bite or two I would be very grateful.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You shall have as much as you need.” He brought out a packet containing some currant-studded oatcakes that the bakers had doubtless given him that very morning. “Did you have breakfast?”

  “Um…well, no. I was too excited, but I intended to eat a hearty meal once we returned from the hunt.” Fiona’s mouth watered as she watched him take out an oatcake and break it in two, handing one piece to her. When she quickly swallowed the first bite, her stomach hurt even more. “I am very grateful that you were so much wiser than I. All I could think of this morning was having the freedom to ride away from the castle!” With a smile, she gestured down to her new split skirt called a devantière. “I was quite surprised that I was allowed to ride astride during the hunt. I expected the royal court to be stuffy about such matters.”

  “No doubt your betrothed would have preferred that you ride pillion, on his horse, as so many of the other ladies did today.”

  Fiona wrinkled her nose and gave him a wry nod. “My father did suggest that, but of course I objected strenuously. Why should I sit on Ramsay’s horse and cling to him for safety when I have been wearing breeches and riding on my own horse since I was five years old?”

  Christophe was opening another packet, this one containing thick slices of cheese, and Fiona saw that he had a handful of plums and some cherries. “Go on,” he said, handing her a piece of cheese. “Eat. I only wish we had a bottle of wine.”

  “What’s that over there?” Fiona wondered as she pointed to a pottery jug next to the fireplace.

  He arched a brow at her words and went to investigate, drawing out the cork and inhaling with an expression of surprise. “I think it’s whiskey. You Scots are known for it, I believe?”

  Fiona sat down on one of the rickety chairs and began to eat. Christophe found a wooden trencher on one of the shelves and took it outside to the stream to wash it off for her. He then began
to hand her the food he’d brought, until at last she held up her hand in protest.

  “What about you?”

  “I had a full meal this morning before we set out,” he replied. “And now that the rain has let up, I shall go out and find something for our supper. Woodcock, perhaps.” With an ironic smile, he added, “Where is your Erik when he is truly needed?”

  “Do you think something has happened to him?” Even as she spoke, she wondered how Christophe intended to start a fire to cook the birds he meant to shoot.

  “No. I will rest easier, though, when he has returned to us.”

  Fiona watched as he gathered up his bow and arrows, took a dry cape from one of his saddlebags and donned it before heading back outside. For her own part, she found that she was exhausted. In spite of her deep suspicion of the bed’s condition, she went over to it and sat down. It felt as if the mattress was filled with straw, but Fiona didn’t smell must. Perhaps it wasn’t so long since the bedding had been refreshed and aired.

  The next thing she knew, she was coming awake to tantalizing warmth and cooking smells. Although she couldn’t think where she was, instinct reassured her that all was well. Sitting up, she saw that there were birds roasting on a spit over a fire in the hearth. Nearby, burnished by the flickering light, Christophe sat on a low bench that looked too fragile for his masculine form. His legs were stretched out near the hearth, and as she watched, he pushed long fingers through his damp hair.

  “How did you do this?”

  “Ah, the princess awakens.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Are you feeling better?”

  She pushed to her feet and stretched. “Aye. Immensely!” Her gown still clung to her, but it was drying, and the warmth of the fire felt heavenly. “Tell me, how did you do it?”

  “Make a fire?” He pretended to take offense. “Am I not a man?”

  Fiona knew she was blushing. “Aye.”

  “Comfort needn’t be a mystery, especially if one is prepared. I bring necessities with me when I set off on an adventure. I learned it from my brother, Thomas, when he took me to London for the first time when I was fourteen. We were separated on the road to Calais. My fault, of course. It was nearly dark, a storm was brewing not unlike this one, and I thought I would have to spend the night in a forest.”