Fiona had perched on the bench next to him, spreading her divided skirts to receive the warmth of the fire. “And then what happened? You can’t just stop the story there!”
“Oh, Thomas found me, but he was very angry.” Christophe smiled at the memory. “He showed me all the preparations he had made, the items he traveled with in case of misfortune. I never forgot how relieved I was to see him, and how good those first bites of food tasted from his saddlebag.”
“It sounds as if your brother is very responsible.”
“Thomas? Nothing so dull as that.” He looked amused as he considered this. “He is adventurous. Brave. Humorous. And he was completely independent before Aimée burst into his life, causing him to want to sleep with her each night and devote himself to their family.”
“It sounds…very romantic,” Fiona breathed.
“I suppose so.” Slowly, he rubbed a knuckle over his bearded jaw. “I confess, it’s all rather a mystery to me.”
“Oh aye, I remember, you have no use for marriage. You are wed to your occupation, are you not?” Her heart was beating so hard, she wanted to pace across the tiny room so he wouldn’t hear it.
“I may take great satisfaction from my work, but I am not wed to it—or anyone,” he said.
His husky tone made her feel hot, then cold. Unable to think of what to say, she stood up suddenly. “Are the horses going to be all right?”
“They have shelter under a thick stand of trees, and the rain has eased. I saw to them when I found our supper and made the fire.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “While I was sleeping?”
“Exactly.” He too stood up to turn the spit. “The birds are nearly ready.”
Fiona was glad for something to do. She found a tallow candle, lit it in the fire, and put it on the table. There was only one old trencher, but they could share it. Christophe had left the edible contents of his saddlebag unwrapped on the table, and now Fiona carefully divided another oatcake to go with the woodcocks.
“Food has never smelled so good!” she exclaimed as he set one of the roasted birds on the trencher.
“Will you have water or whiskey?” he asked, proffering an empty cup.
“Whiskey, I think, don’t you? I mean, perhaps it will help to keep us warm.”
Devils danced in his eyes for a moment, and then he turned his attention to the meal. As they sat together, eating, Christophe caused the chair he was sitting on to wobble and creak, so that Fiona looked up in alarm.
“I hope you aren’t going to break it!”
His smile flashed white in the soft golden light. “I was rather hoping I might, so that we could have more firewood. There was some here, already cut, but it won’t last the night.”
“Do you think, I mean, are you planning that we will spend the night here?”
“Even if the wind dies down, I’m not certain we could safely find our way back to the palace in the dark,” he replied. “When we go back tomorrow, I intend that you shall ride in from a different direction. You can tell your father that you impulsively went off in search of Erik but were caught in the storm. You found this cottage and stayed safe and dry through the night.”
“That’s a good plan…” Even as she spoke calmly, Fiona was awash with euphoric anticipation. An entire night alone with St. Briac! It was like a dream come true. Suddenly, she didn’t want to waste another moment on polite conversation. “May I ask you a question?”
“You may.” He was watching her under his lashes as he finished the first woodcock and started on a second one.
“What is it that you intend to build when you return to France? I mean, I know there is a project that entices you so powerfully that you were willing to come to Scotland in order to win the honor of building it.” She leaned closer, watching his face, and saw his guard go up. “I am in earnest. What can it possibly be?”
His lids were hooded in the firelight. “It would be a crowning achievement,” he said.
“I know that must be so. Will you not tell me?”
“Ever since I began studying at the College Royal in Paris, I have been drawn to the Louvre Palace. I don’t know why, really, because she is an ugly thing. A dark, old fortress. A few half-hearted attempts have been made at renovation, but I have finally persuaded the king that only extensive rebuilding will do. There is so much history there! When I recently visited the Louvre, I seemed to hear her speaking to me, begging me to help her come alive again.” He paused and gave a bemused sigh. “Do I sound mad, talking as though the building were a person?”
Feeling his creative passion, Fiona laid her hand over his. “Of course not! And I have no doubt that you could effect just such a transformation. Clearly, your king must think so, too, or he would not have promised you such a worthy commission.”
Christophe poured a bit more of the Scots whiskey into the cup. “Peut-être,” he said with a shrug. “Perhaps. And yet His Majesty exacts a heavy price, sending me to Scotland before he would grant me this assignment. No doubt he could still change his mind.”
“Not once he hears what wonders you have wrought here at Falkland Palace!” Fiona exclaimed. She moved her hand up to his arm, longing to climb onto his lap and embrace him. “He would be a fool to deny you the reward you so richly deserve.”
A strange look passed over Christophe’s handsome face. “How passionate you are. I’m not used to anyone believing in me quite so strongly. Only my sister-in-law has been known to argue my cause in such a way.”
“But how can that be? You must have countless devoted friends!”
“Friends, yes, but I have preferred to keep people at arm’s length.” Through the fabric of his doublet, she felt his arm harden and move very slightly under her hand, as if he would withdraw from her. “You must see, I cannot have a lot of people clamoring for my time. I mean, my occupation requires hours each day of focused attention.”
“Aye, of course.” Fiona spoke in a quiet voice and her fingers set him free. “I can certainly see that would be the way of it…for you.”
Chapter 15
Every emotion showed on her lovely face, and Christophe felt his heart twisting this way and that in response. Sangdieu, this was the very reason he had worked so hard to stay away from romantic entanglements!
And why the devil couldn’t Fiona behave like other well-bred women and keep her conversation to subjects like food, fashion, and the weather? There were unwritten rules about such matters and she was breaking every last one of them.
“I think the rain has eased,” he said.
“Faith! I do not want to talk about the wind or whether the woodcock was over-roasted,” Fiona said urgently. “This may be the only opportunity I’ll have to converse freely with you. I won’t be clamoring for your time after this, so you needn’t worry about that. Soon enough, I’ll return to Skye and you’ll go back to the life you love in France, and all of this will be but a memory.”
An unseen hand clenched his heart. Ah, how it hurt! When he saw the emotion in her beautiful eyes, he felt a strong sense of foreboding, of real danger, that was impossible to explain.
“Your eyes,” he heard himself whisper harshly. “I imagine they must be like the Minch under moonlight.”
“So Mama claimed,” Fiona replied with a solemn nod. “She also said she could tell when a storm was coming because my eyes would go grey.” Then she licked her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue and Christophe knew he was doomed.
His cock already throbbed, aching to be inside her. “I think you must be a witch, Fiona MacLeod. Or one of your Scottish fairies.”
He was lifting her onto his lap, burying his face in the hollow where her neck and collarbone joined. Just the smell of her made him feel mad with desire.
“Why do you ask such a thing?” Fiona queried with a soft laugh. “Do I look like a witch to you?” And even as she spoke, he felt her melting against him, arching her neck to receive his questing mouth, her pulse leaping.
“It�
�s just that…I suspect you’ve put a spell on me.”
“Don’t worry.” She panted a little, tugging at the top of her bodice in an effort to free her breasts. “It’s only for this one night. Do we not deserve one night of pleasure?” Then, almost inaudibly, he heard her add, “…and love?”
Love. Again the pain seared his heart. Christ, why does it hurt so much? He stiffened slightly, lifting his head and closing his eyes to absorb the pain. And Fiona went still as well. He could feel her watching him.
“Christophe.”
He forced himself to look at her. Surely her eyes, without an ounce of artifice, were too beautiful to be real. He strove for a jaunty smile, even though he knew she would not believe it. “Fiona?” he said back to her.
She was serious. He could feel the passion still smoldering inside her, but she had tamped it down. “What if you and I had no other duties, no obligations, to influence our choices? What if the Louvre was not pulling you back to France—and I had no promises to keep on the Isle of Skye?”
Her breathing seemed to now be inside him. “But our lives are shaped by those things. They are real.”
“But if it were just you and I, and the rest of the world fell away, what then?”
The throbbing returned. She moved slightly in his lap, as if to reassure herself that he still wanted her. “No consequences, you mean?”
“Aye.” Her lids were heavy. “No commitments that we cannot keep.”
“Ah, but Fiona, it should not be like that. You deserve so much more.”
She hardened her pretty chin. “Would you dare to tell me what I deserve? I can make that choice for myself, sir. I am a woman fully grown.”
“It’s madness.” His heart was racing now. Her lips were parted and he was hungrier for her kiss than he’d ever been for mere food.
She climbed up from his lap and began to unlace the front of her gown. “I’m chilled. This gown is wet through and there are too many layers…”
“What do you mean to do, chérie?” Of course, he could damn well see the answer to his own question. She was undressing.
As the layers of her clothing came off, Christophe felt as if all the blood in his body was pounding in his groin, surging into the erection that wanted only one thing. And it was a relief to feel his thoughts, his higher self, being overpowered by more primal needs. In the dying firelight, Fiona had never looked more beautiful. Her thin smock gapped open in front, revealing her breasts as she pushed the riding skirt down her legs. He burned to go forward and pull her into his arms. To lick and suckle each perfect breast, the way he knew she wanted him to do.
“Christophe.” She stood before him wearing only the insubstantial smock that tantalizingly revealed a firelit view of her every curve. “If we cannot have a future together, will you deny me this night?” There was a challenge in her gaze.
He thought his heart might stop, perhaps because all the blood in his body was rushing to his cock. Yet, as he envisioned them together on the bed, he could feel his heart splitting open so wide that it was like a chasm. Something mysterious lay in that blackness, something that he instinctively knew was dangerous—even life-threatening.
Yet, of course, there really wasn’t a choice. Rising, he crossed to her in one long stride. She came into his arms without another word, and when he slid his hands under her smock and felt the satiny surface of her back, he made a low, ragged sound of capitulation.
“You’re cold,” he said, running his warm hands over her body. A teasing smile touched his mouth. “I can help with this.”
“Aye,” Fiona whispered. “Please do.”
With that, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed. Fiona rose up on her knees to help him undress. Off came his fawn doublet, and she surprised and delighted him by running her hands up the muscled ridges and flat, hard planes of his chest.
“I knew you would be made like this,” she said. “Like a sculpture, but so warm and human.”
“But I’m no sculpture,” he replied as he tugged off his boots and trunk hose. “And I intend to prove it to you.”
Her eyes were fixed on his narrow hips and then the parts of him that became increasingly visible as he finished undressing. “Oh aye, you are proving it even now…”
“You’re a brazen minx, do you know that?” He brought her up into his arms so that she could feel the power of his arousal. “You play with fire.”
“Perhaps, but only with you.”
In that moment, as their eyes met, he saw luminous vulnerability. Not only was her gaze utterly free of pretense, there was more raw emotion than he could bear to contemplate. And so he kissed her with power and passion that verged on assault.
At first, Fiona responded with equal intensity, kissing him back, moaning deep in her throat. She doubtless felt he’d loosened the reins on his desires, and she welcomed that. Her soft hands ran over the muscled surface of his back, his ribs, down to his buttocks, exploring him with unabashed wonder.
Christophe felt as if he were in a race with himself, desperately trying to outrun that raw, threatening pain. As Fiona’s passion grew, his own flared to the edge of his control. He lifted her up in his arms and buried his face between her breasts. Undaunted, she cupped one of the small, firm mounds and offered it to him, dropping her head back as he took the nipple into his mouth and suckled.
It wasn’t the way it should be. He should be tender and careful with her. She was a virgin, wasn’t she? She must be! Yet she arched her back and reached for his cock as if she’d done this a thousand times. As if she had long ago embraced her primal self.
When her slim, warm fingers closed around him, he thought he might come in that instant. Unable to look again into her eyes, he sank onto the bed on one knee, groaning and moving in her hand.
“Is that what you want?” Christophe whispered harshly. He kissed her again, roughly, and thought he felt her holding back. Just the tiniest bit. His tongue pushed farther into her mouth and he imagined that she made a muffled sound of protest.
* * *
Fiona couldn’t believe this was happening. A few moments ago, she had been in the midst of surrendering to the moment, throwing caution to the wind and letting herself be swept away. She had longed so deeply for Christophe de St. Briac, for so long, it seemed a dream come true that they were here alone together, nearly naked, and she was on the brink of giving the gift of herself to him.
But now…something was wrong. She had trusted him completely, yet he seemed to have forgotten who she was.
“Christophe…” she whispered. She wanted to tell him she loved him but was afraid to say the words, even in the heat of passion.
“Don’t talk,” he said. His hand was between her legs now, his fingers inside her, but it wasn’t the tantalizing play she had fantasized about during so many restless nights.
Fiona could hear her heart beating in her ears. She tried to soften her body, hoping he would realize what she needed. But he was forcing her back on the bed, and he was so strong. His magnificent male body had been so arousing to her just a minute ago, but now it felt threatening.
He was on top of her, opening her thighs with his knee, even as the front of her smock tore and his mouth found her other nipple. She could feel the edges of his teeth on her tender flesh and imagined that if she felt safe with him, the sensation might be arousing. His erection seemed enormous. How could it possibly fit inside her?
“Wait,” she whispered. “Stop.”
“Shh.” His mouth was hot, moving lower, over the soft hollow of her belly. “Don’t worry. I have ways to make you ready.”
“Look at me, please.”
He seemed not to hear her. When she tugged ineffectually at his hair, he caught her wrist with one powerful, sun-darkened hand. “Relax, chérie…”
He exhaled, and she felt his breath, warm on the most sensitive, intimate part of her. Suddenly, Fiona was feverishly aroused, yet she couldn’t let him continue this way. When his tongue touched her there, ca
using an exquisite frisson of sensation, she flung her free hand at his head with all her might.
“I said, stop!”
Christophe pushed back in surprise and finally met her eyes in the firelit shadows. In that moment, Fiona clearly saw the conflict in his face. Breathing hard, he climbed off the bed and stared down at her.
“I told you this was a bad idea.”
She refused to let the tears come. “Something happened to you. It was as if a demon possessed you!”
“You begged me for it.” His jaw was hard as he yanked on his breeches.
“Oh!” Fiona pulled the torn edges of her smock together and glared back at him. “That was not what I wanted, and well you know it! We have shared interludes of intimacy before and I know you are fully capable of tenderness and—”
“That’s just it,” he interrupted. “You want something that I cannot give to you. I have told you I am not made for that sort of love, but would you listen? Oh, no! You knew better.”
“Is that the way you have made love in the past, m’sieur?” she cried. “Through force, with no thought for your lady’s pleasure? I cannot imagine it was so!”
Christophe had stalked across the tiny cottage. He poured some of the whiskey into his cup and drank it down. “I have never forced a woman,” he muttered. “But neither have I made love. Not in the sense that you mean—that you want.”
“Faith! What can you mean?”
He came back to stare at her from a safe distance. “I have chosen to be with women who want only romantic diversions, who perhaps have been made to marry men who do not stir them. I suppose you might say that it has been more love play than making love. And that’s the way I prefer to keep it.”
“What just happened between us was not love play,” she persisted.
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 15
