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

by Cynthia Wright

  “I…” He groaned and sat down in one of the old chairs, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. “I had to show you that I cannot be what you want me to be.”

  “Not even when you know we will soon be parted forever?” Dear God, was that plaintive voice her own? “Not even for one night?”

  “Fiona, heed my words.” He paused and looked up at her with naked pain in his eyes. “I cannot do it even for one moment.”

  Sensing a crack in his armor, she rose and went to kneel beside him, resting her arms on his taut thighs. “I beg you to try to explain. I vow I will tell no one.”

  “It’s impossible to put into words.”

  She moved to meet his elusive gaze. “Just say what you can.”

  “You are relentless!” Christophe accused. “Eh bien. It feels…as if I am standing on the edge of a precipice that looms over a pit of utter blackness. At that moment, every fiber of my being is certain I will perish if I am foolish enough to go forward.”

  “Forward into what?” she whispered.

  “The devil if I know.” Christophe closed his eyes, brow furrowed. “Love, I suppose. I’ve had this experience ever since I grew old enough to have romantic longings. With practice, I’ve been able to keep a safe distance from the precipice…until now.” Opening his eyes again, he touched the side of her face with his hand. Fiona could have wept as she absorbed the tenderness in his fingertips. “Until you.”

  “Oh, Christophe, I think I understand at least part of what you mean. I have had that feeling of raw fear while my mother was dying. It was as if I’d been ripped open, all my emotions exposed.” She paused before adding gently, “Will you tell me again about that time around your mother’s illness and death?”

  “I was just a little boy,” he said dismissively.

  “But perhaps that’s part of it! I was old enough when I watched Mama die to be able to talk to myself along the way, to reassure myself, to understand that she couldn’t help what was happening… But you were only four years old.”

  “I would rather be tied to the rack and have my joints separated than have this conversation.”

  “Yet, perhaps it will shine a light into the darkness,” she suggested softly. “What do you remember?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Christophe began to speak. “My father and brother were both away in Italy, fighting with King François and the French army. Before Papa rode off, I clearly remember him looking down and saying that I must be the man of the manor in his place. I felt quite important.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile. “Quite a lot of time passed, and all was well. Maman relied on me for company. Then, one morning there was no breakfast to be had because Cook had sickened with a terrible fever. Years later, I was told that it had been the plague, probably brought to the village of St. Briac-sur-Loire by a traveler from the Far East. First, the townspeople began to leave, then the servants at our château packed up bundles of clothing and food and set off on foot. I remember hearing that they didn’t know where they were going to go…as long as it was as great a distance as possible.”

  Fiona nodded, dreading the rest of this horrific tale. “Aye, it’s always said that the best protection against the plague is to ‘leave quickly, go far away, and come back slowly.’”

  “Of course, Maman could not go. She felt responsible for our family estates and even the people of the village. She nursed Cook, and then others who sickened, sitting up with them without sleep for herself. But eventually Maman fell ill as well.”

  As he spoke, his voice sounding more and more distant, Fiona felt the panic and confusion of the child Christophe had been. His hands were cold under hers. “It’s unimaginable. Who was looking after you?”

  He shrugged again. “I was not a baby. Our housekeeper, Zelia, who had labored in the service of our family her entire life, took care of Maman…and I tried to help. I picked her favorite fruits in the garden and brought them to her, though she soon could not eat. I sang to her the songs she had taught me, and sometimes she would open her eyes and manage a smile.”

  Fiona’s heart swelled painfully as she remembered performing the same tasks of love for her own dying mother. Yet, she had been a woman, and she’d had Isbeil to help and guide her. When she imagined Christophe as a wee lad, doing his best to nurse his beautiful maman back to health, tears slipped from her eyes. “How brave you were.”

  “I suppose I was merely imitating the things she had done to care for me as a small child.”

  “Were you very frightened?”

  He looked around for the whiskey. “Fiona, for God’s sake. What purpose does this serve?”

  “Please, tell me what happened next.”

  He grimaced. “This must be your revenge for what I did to you tonight.”

  “Not a bit. Have I not already spoken up for myself?” She turned her cheek against his clenched fists, wondering if he could feel the love flowing from her body into his. Firmly, she added, “I do not speak about your mother’s death to torment you, but it seems there is a dark room locked in your heart…and the only way forward is to pry the door open and shine a light inside.” She raised her eyes to his. “’Twill require all your courage, Christophe.”

  * * *

  He’d been on the verge of just standing up and walking away until Fiona added that last bit about courage. What a shrewd minx she was! Yet, the tears that gleamed in her eyes were real. And she had suffered something similar to his loss, felt the same sense of powerlessness over death.

  “If I answer your questions, will you stop talking about this?”

  “I will.”

  He could feel that she wanted to come onto his lap and embrace him, so he crossed his arms and glanced toward the fire. “My mother died. Nothing I brought her, no childish song I tried to sing, no prayer or plea that I made could stop that. And by the time Maman died, Zelia was also very ill.”

  Fiona gave a little gasp and he knew she realized what the situation must have been.

  God save me from more questions, Christophe thought. With a note of finality, he added, “As you might imagine, it was very sad.”

  “But…who was there to take care of you?”

  He slumped against the chair back. Clearly, she was not going to take any hints from him and let this subject drop. He thought of her words about courage and the dark room. Stirring up these memories seemed also to prod the tiger who had crouched in the blackness at Château du Soleil, waiting for him.

  “No one was there to take care of me,” he said flatly. “Not until Tante Fanchette, who was away in Paris, heard of the panic in our village. After she arrived, she took matters well in hand, and she was there from that day forward, doing her very best to fill the place left by Maman.”

  “And your father?”

  “He and Thomas eventually came home from the war in Italy. Papa had been wounded, and once he discovered what had happened at the château, he was quite broken. He never really recovered any pleasure in living and went to join Maman soon after.”

  “Ah, Christophe,” she murmured. He could hear that she was on the verge of tears. “Did you ever tell anyone the details of what had happened at the château?”

  “No. Why would I want to do that? In fact, I didn’t speak at all for, at least, a year after Maman died. It was easier that way, and because I was so young, no one thought much about it.”

  Now that he’d opened the door to the room of darkness, terrible memories were creeping up around him, touching him softly with their sharpened claws. His heart hurt so much it went numb.

  “Look,” he said abruptly. “I am very tired. And you must be, too.”

  Fiona was nodding. Watching him. “Will you lie down with me…and hold me?”

  It came to him that this conversation must have reopened a host of painful memories for her as well, memories that were much fresher than his own. Together, they rose and went to the bed, and he was silently grateful that she lay down first, nearer the wall. He had always preferred to
sleep alone, and failing that, had to be on the outside of the bed, so that he knew he could escape at a moment’s notice.

  If Fiona heard this, she would ask questions. And he had no more energy to dig in the darkness for answers.

  As she curled against him, and he drew her into the circle of his arms, Christophe tried to slow the beating of his heart and the feeling that the tiger was awake again after all these years. There were some things he could never tell Fiona or anyone else.

  How many days and nights had he been closed inside the château with the bodies of Maman, Zelia, and two servants he’d nearly stumbled over while entering the kitchen in search of food? Realizing that he was trapped, he had tried to lift the bar on the door so that he might go outside—not that there had been anyone there to help him either. Zelia kept keys to the storerooms of food, he knew, but the thought of searching the clothing of a corpse had been too horrifying to consider.

  Worst of all, by far, had been the nights. Without any source of light, Christophe had been left alone in the inky blackness with the body of his dead mother.

  It was impossible to speak of these things to another person. Impossible. Who could understand the terror, loneliness, and desperation he had felt as he lay down beside Maman and began to sing in a quavering voice?

  Singing to keep the tiger at bay.

  “Christophe?”

  Fiona was watching him. She raised a hand and pushed the tangled hair back from his brow.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “I am so glad you are here with me tonight. I can’t imagine how terrible it would be if I were alone.”

  And with that, she settled trustingly against his chest and soon her breathing changed. She slept, but Christophe lay wide awake, holding her, absorbing the warmth of her body, trying to still the turmoil that raged on inside him.

  How much time passed, he could not have said, but a moment came in the darkness when Fiona nestled closer still. As he looked down at her exquisite face, aglow in a ray of moonlight, it came to him that the tiger had gone.

  Chapter 16

  “At last!” exclaimed Magnus as he strode across the courtyard to greet Ramsay and the last group of stragglers who had been caught in the storm. “I’ve been awake all night, waiting for Fi. I knew it was a mistake to let her go hunting!”

  Summer caused the dawn to come early to Scotland and although the time was not yet five o’clock, the eastern sky had begun to lighten. Ramsay was exhausted and his plaid was sodden and cold against his flesh. As a groom came to take his horse’s reins, he tried to absorb the older man’s words. “Fiona…? Has she not come back, then?”

  Magnus blinked rapidly and his face grew flushed. “Nay! As the storm lessened during the night, groups from the hunting party returned, a few at a time. Each time, I felt certain I would see Fiona among them, but each one said he had not seen her. I knew, of course, that ye must be with her, keeping her safe.” He paused. “Was I mistaken?”

  Ramsay forced himself to meet Magnus’s blazing eyes. “If ye fly into a rage, it will not aid in our efforts to find her.”

  “I trusted ye!”

  “Aye, and so I did try! But your bonnie lass does not welcome the protection of a man. I called Fiona to follow me but she turned and went the other way, chasing that cursed bird of hers.”

  “We must call out the king’s men-at-arms to search the forest,” Magnus said, breathing hard, as if to calm himself. “She may be lying somewhere, hurt.”

  Ramsay put a hand on the other man’s arm. “If any lass could outwit a storm, ’tis our own Fiona Rose. She is resourceful, like her da! And the king’s men-at-arms do not know her as I do. I will take a scent dog and find her much quicker.”

  “Aye,” Magnus nodded, apparently seeing the logic in Ramsay’s plan. “I’ll come as well.”

  “I can travel faster on my own. But let us split up! You ride to the east.” Even as he spoke, Ramsay knew that Fiona had not turned east, but to the west. And St. Briac had not been seen after that, either. “Go now and get a horse. Take a groom for protection. I’ll don dry clothing and be away in a trice.”

  Magnus rubbed a big hand over his haggard face and nodded as he started off through the arched gateway that led to the stable. “May the saints be with ye.”

  There was no time to lose, Ramsay thought grimly as he turned toward the palace. Soon enough the rest of the court and the royal household would be astir. Already a few were about, laboring in the kitchens and stables.

  Before he could attempt to put his plan in motion, Ramsay had to see to a matter or two inside the palace, and there was no time to lose.

  His rooms conveniently adjoined those of the MacLeod family. Upon reaching his bedchamber, Ramsay stripped off his wet clothing. Never had he wrapped a dry plaid around himself more quickly, and when it was belted, he went soundlessly into the MacLeod rooms. Praise God, there was no sign of that witch Isbeil. At the entrance to Fiona’s chamber, he paused, scanning its contents. If someone came upon him, he could say he was retrieving an article of Fiona’s clothing for the dog to scent, but in truth he hoped to discover that Viking brooch she guarded so carefully. It was an important piece in the treasure he sought, one that would restore the wealth his family had lost due to the misguided loyalty of his father and the disrespectful treatment of the Clan MacLeod elders.

  Crossing the room, Ramsay was about to throw open the chest where her belongings were stored when, from the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a tiny bit of fawn leather. His heart began to pound. It was the thumb of a fine calfskin glove, peeking out from Fiona’s pillow. Snatching it up, Ramsay stared, enraged. Of course, it must belong to St. Briac. She kept it under her pillow and doubtless caressed it over her body in the dark of night.

  “Ye will regret this, lass,” he snarled, “when ye are my bride and I am your master.”

  “How dare ye trespass in this chamber?” a thin, high voice cried out from the doorway.

  Whirling around, he saw Isbeil standing there, her withered face a mask of outrage. As he stuffed the glove into the front of his doublet, Ramsay muttered, “Go away, old crone.”

  “I saw ye take that glove. I know what ye truly are—a sneaking, lying villain!” She came at him, apparently unaware that he could pick her up and toss her out a window with one hand. “I have never believed that ye saved Ciaran MacLeod from dying in that well. And I know ye do not love my lass, Fiona!”

  When Ramsay grasped the front of her ill-fitting bodice, he could feel the bones of her chest against his knuckles. What the devil was he going to do with her?

  “Ye don’t frighten me,” Isbeil went on. “I’ll tell them ye were in here, sneaking about, stealing!” Reaching out with hands like claws, she tried to scratch his face.

  Someone would hear her if she didn’t stop! Ramsay pushed her down on the bed. “Quiet!” He saw her open her mouth as if to scream, so he took Fiona’s pillow and covered her face with it. If others in the palace heard her and came rushing in, what the devil would he do? “Can you not understand? I am no villain. I have vowed to restore the fortunes of my clan!”

  Isbeil’s black eyes were bulging, and yet he knew that if he took the pillow away, she would resume her attack. Unable to bear the sight of her fear and rage, he adjusted the pillow to cover all of her face.

  “When ye obey me and are silent, I’ll release ye,” he growled. A few moments later, she stopped struggling. “That’s better, ye old hag.”

  Removing the pillow, Ramsay realized that she was dead.

  * * *

  Back outside in the courtyard, it was still not fully dawn.

  It was a relief to have the old nurse out of the way. Since the time Ramsay had gone to Duntulm Castle to begin ingratiating himself to the MacLeods, he’d sensed that Isbeil didn’t trust him. If she had remained quiet, behaving as a servant should, he could have overlooked her disrespect. But her behavior today had been intolerable. No doubt old age had addled her brain.


  Aye, it was good that he’d gotten Isbeil out of the way. No one would guess that she’d been murdered. Nay, he amended to himself. Not murdered! Did she not bring it on herself, by refusing to be silent? He’d left her looking quite peaceful, reclining on Fiona’s bed as if she were merely indulging in a wee nap.

  With that, Ramsay put the old nurse out of his thoughts and looked around carefully to make certain he was not being observed. St. Briac’s barrel-chested lackey slept in the village of Freuchie with the other masons, so he should not yet be here. Would the dog be on its own in St. Briac’s own cottage behind the palace? Ramsay walked there as quickly as possible, oblivious to the sounds of the birds and small animals as they sang and rustled about to start the day.

  Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to anyone else that St. Briac had not returned from the hunt yesterday, or that he might be with Fiona. The storm had caused so much confusion, especially once it became clear that Fiona was lost in it, that Magnus had never thought to ask about the Frenchman. Ramsay, however, had been suspicious from the first moment he’d realized Fiona was gone during the hunt. Aye, she might be in pursuit of her cursed falcon, but there was more to it than that.

  A smile twisted his face when he saw the ugly spotted hound lying in the doorway to St. Briac’s cottage. He took a piece of dried rabbit from his pocket and held it out to the dog, smiling. “Come on, then,” he crooned. “There’s a good fellow.”

  The dog stared back, impassive.

  Ramsay had to repress a powerful desire to grab the stupid hound by the scruff of its neck. He went a few steps closer, and as he approached the cottage window, he glanced inside and saw a woman lying on St. Briac’s bed. She was fast asleep, plainly-garbed in an unflattering gown and headdress, and he remembered that she’d been with St. Briac, the mason Bayard, and the dog when Ramsay had come upon them in the courtyard. If the lass should awaken and find him outside the cottage, all his plans would be disrupted.

  Backing up, Ramsay held a hand out beseechingly to the dog. What the devil had that trio of Frenchies called the beast? Oh aye, Raoul. He began to sweat a bit as he reached into his pocket and took out the man’s glove he’d found among Fiona’s things.