Of course, he had no proof that it belonged to St. Briac, but he had a strong suspicion this spotted cur would know well enough.
“Bonjour, Raoul. I need your help,” he said in a low, urgent voice, crouching to meet the dog at eye level as he’d seen St. Briac do. “Your master is lost, and ye must help me find him.”
Holding out the glove, he perceived a flash of recognition in Raoul’s eyes. When the hound rose up to his feet and came closer for a better look, and then a sniff, Ramsay gave him the kindly smile he’d been practicing on the gullible MacLeod clan.
* * *
Christophe dreaded the coming of the dawn.
It had been the best night of his life, he decided, as he lay on the crude bed and held a sleeping Fiona in his arms. He never thought he could have such deeply tender feelings toward a woman, especially when they hadn’t properly lain together, but it was true. It seemed she had been created to fit against him so perfectly. Her head rested on his chest, and she was curled on her side, one arm flung across him, touching his hipbone. Just holding her was balm for his soul.
Pale gray light had begun to filter through the narrow slit of a window when Fiona trailed her fingertips from his hip up to his jaw. She touched his mouth with her forefinger very softly.
“Hello.”
Christophe was grateful the blanket covered enough of him so she couldn’t see the blatant proof of his arousal. Looking over, his eyes met hers. It rather alarmed him, this unpredictable tide of emotion, yet some new part of him welcomed it.
Mon Dieu, the things he’d said last night. It was a wonder he could bear to face her at all, but of course, the alternative was much worse. He could have stolen away and sent Bayard back to rescue her, but what would that have solved? Fiona had said, “It will take all your courage,” and truer words had never been spoken. If he fled now, he’d be a gutless coward.
“You slept,” he said in a voice husky with sleep. Or the lack of it.
“I did.” She bestowed a radiant smile on him. “In your arms.”
His eyes fell on the smock she still wore. Perhaps she had made it herself, with painstakingly tiny stitches, and he had thoughtlessly torn it asunder last night. Christ, he’d been a barbarian. “I don’t know if I have apologized properly for the way I…treated you last night. I deserve to be flogged.”
“Your bad behavior was merely covering over your pain,” she whispered. “But of course, it was very wrong and I had to put a stop to it.” Her eyes darkened, then, as if she was remembering the arousal that had flared white-hot between them. “Selfishly, I wish it could have gone differently, but if it had, you wouldn’t have been forced to talk about your past. How do you feel this morning?”
The last thing he wanted to do was talk about that again. No, he yearned to roll Fiona over into the straw tick and demonstrate that he was ready to truly make love to her, just as she had asked him to do. Slowly, with the most exquisite sensations of passion she could ever imagine.
But of course, that was out of the question. It was too soon after the episode of last night, this was surely not the place…and he didn’t deserve her.
“I feel…eviscerated,” he muttered with heavy irony.
This drew wry laughter from her. “And well you should. You had been carrying a heavy burden, in your soul.”
“Can we talk about something else?” Christophe drew her close against him, and he felt his own heart beating hard against her cheek. He wanted to express feelings he’d never before allowed himself to have. “Fiona, I want to tell you—”
“Wait!” she interrupted. “Listen. What’s that?”
In the distance, a dog barked. He and Fiona sat up at the same time.
“Put on your clothing,” said Christophe. “Someone is coming.” There was a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Could that have been Raoul barking?
“Perhaps it is the owner of the cottage!” cried Fiona. “What shall we do?”
Christophe had already donned his clothing and was pulling on his boots. The barking was getting closer as he looked around to see Fiona struggling with the divided skirt of her devantière. “I’m not certain if this is good news or not, but that’s Raoul barking out there.”
“Raoul?” she exclaimed. “Do you mean the dog you left behind in France? The only soul who waits for you to come home?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Did I forget to tell you that he has come to Scotland? A girl named Violette brought him to me. I think he must have been driving my brother to distraction.”
“I am confused! What is he doing out there, in the king’s forest?”
“I have no idea.” He began to help Fiona with her buttons. “Perhaps Bayard has brought him in search of me.”
“Oh, aye! That is doubtless the answer.” She looked relieved.
Christophe began to gather up his saddlebags and other possessions that were still inside the cottage. “Just in case we are wrong, and it’s not Bayard out there, I should not be here when Raoul arrives. I will lead my horse into the woods.”
Their eyes met, and he knew that she realized they could both be in danger. “Aye. Hurry, then,” Fiona said in a low voice.
“I won’t be far away if you need me. Go outside, now, and greet Raoul as he approaches. He won’t hurt you, I promise. He’ll take one look at you and be as smitten as I am.”
Her face lit up suddenly as his words sank in, but before she could reply, Christophe was heading for the low door at the back of the cottage which would take him to the place where the horses were tethered. “Worry not,” he called softly before disappearing through the small opening, “I won’t leave you.”
* * *
Fiona emerged from the cottage to find that a splendid new day was dawning. Luminous sunbeams broke through the canopy of green leaves that covered the sky, and the air was fresh and cool. When she took a deep breath, she felt a sweet happiness spread inside her.
Last night had not gone as she would have planned, but was that not always the way of it? The warm feeling in her heart told her that what they had shared, as complicated as it had been, had bound them together in a way neither of them could have predicted.
And he had held her all night, even though she suspected he’d lain sleepless himself. The memory of coming awake in the night and feeling his warm, muscled chest under her cheek was bliss. Each time he felt her stir, he had held her tighter.
“I won’t leave you.” A smile lit her face as she repeated his words to herself. To Fiona, they meant more than a proposal of marriage.
The barking came again, closer, and she watched as a great spotted hound came bounding down the muddy hillside. It must be Raoul! She tried to give the beast a smile in greeting, but he only paused to sniff her and then ran on, around to the back of the cottage.
Fiona turned to go after him. Why hadn’t they thought of this? Of course, Raoul would discover Christophe. He couldn’t hide from his own hunting dog! She was about to turn and follow him when a deep voice rumbled from the wooded brow of the hill.
“Fiona MacLeod! Praise the saints, I’ve found ye!”
Looking up, she beheld Ramsay MacAskill on the distant horizon, astride a powerful horse. The distance was too great to clearly make out his expression, but she knew he was wearing that smile he had lately liked to turn her way.
Part of her wanted to turn and run after the dog, to warn Christophe, but of course far too much would be clear to Ramsay if she did so. Instead she took a deep breath and waited until he came down the hill to her.
“What a relief it is to see you,” she said brightly as he swung down from the chestnut gelding’s back. “Now that the storm has passed, I was just about to start off in the hope that my horse could find his way back to the palace.”
“Your father’s hair is turning white with worry, lass. And, of course, I’ve been pacing the floor as well.” He scanned the exterior of the cottage. “How fortunate that ye were able to find shelter. And ye look none the worse for wea
r!” He reached out to run a hand over her long ebony curls that spilled loose around her shoulders.
Fiona expected him to take her in his arms and force a kiss on her, but was relieved that he seemed to have other things on his mind. When he looped his horse’s reins around a nearby tree branch and started into the cottage, she was beset by a wave of panic. If only he would not go in!
“Aye,” she said with false cheer, following in his wake and nervously scanning the room. “The saints were with me. I was fair soaked through and filled with terror when I came upon this cottage.”
“It was empty? Ye stayed here alone?”
“Except for my horse.”
Ramsay strode to the bed and stared down at the rumpled blankets, his jaw tightening, but he made no comment. “What did ye eat?” He pointed to the trencher that still sat on the crude table, littered with the bones of the woodcocks Christophe had roasted.
She swallowed. “I found a bow and arrows here. I shot a bird and cooked it over the fire. Perhaps you did not know how resourceful I can be?”
“Where is your horse?” Ramsay didn’t sound a bit pleased by her spirited reply.
“I must take issue with your tone, sir. You speak as if I have done something wrong and you are determined to find me out.”
Head held high, even as her heart raced, Fiona turned and swept out of the little cottage. She hadn’t the slightest notion what she would do once she came to the grove of trees where Christophe was waiting with the horses, yet she was determined not to let Ramsay feel that he had power over her.
Behind the cottage, there was a path leading into a grove of hawthorn trees. As she walked, Ramsay loomed up beside her, taking her arm in a grasp that was a bit too tight.
“Have a care, lass. I would not have you fall!” His grimace twisted into a strained smile.
A rivulet of sweat ran down the back of her neck. They came into the grove of trees to find her pretty mare standing all alone, grazing on a patch of green grass. When Fiona looked around in wonder, she saw that Ramsay was scanning the trees expectantly. No doubt, he was looking for Raoul.
“What has happened to the dog?” Fiona asked. “And why did you bring him with you today?”
He took a few more steps into the woods, scowling, listening, watching. “Dog? I brought no dog! Take your horse and let’s be away.”
Chapter 17
Christophe rode like the wind back to the palace, with Raoul bounding in his wake. He couldn’t fathom what MacAskill was up to, but he was determined to keep Fiona safe from any suspicions the Highlander must have.
Arriving back at the stable, he turned the gray stallion over to a groom. “Give this fine steed a carrot and some extra oats, please,” he said, stroking the horse’s nose before reaching into his pocket and putting a gold crown into the boy’s hand. “You never saw me return, is that clear?”
“Oh, aye!” cried the groom, nodding.
And with that, Christophe and Raoul set off with all speed in the direction of the palace. As they passed into the courtyard, he saw that Violette was standing near the east range, chatting with Bayard as he cleaned his chisels.
“Mon Dieu!” the young woman exclaimed, walking over to meet him. “You have returned, m’sieur, in the company of Raoul! When you did not appear after the hunt, I went to stay with my friend.” She paused to pet the hound with feeling. “I was worried sick when I awoke this morning to find him gone. How did you find him?”
Christophe did not know how Raoul came to be in the forest that morning, in the company of Ramsay MacAskill, but he had his suspicions. Lightly, he asked, “Was no one worried about my absence?”
“I do not concern myself with your whereabouts, m’sieur.” She pressed her lips together as if to suppress a smile. “But Raoul and I became very close during our journey to Scotland. I adore him.”
Arching a brow, Christophe said, “Yes, he does have a history of charming young ladies. Thank you very much for looking after him in my absence. I was caught in the storm and had to wait it out, then happened to encounter Raoul as I rode home this morning.”
Even as Christophe related the half-true story, he caught a glimpse of Ramsay and Fiona, entering on horseback through the courtyard gate. Fiona looked somber, yet defiant.
His heart hurt. It had gone against all his instincts to leave her there with that overbearing Highlander, especially after telling her quite plainly that he would not do so. Yet, what had been his choice? If MacAskill had seen them at the cottage together, the consequences for Fiona would have been dire.
As he pondered these options, Magnus came hurrying out of the palace. Ramsay dismounted and grasped Fiona’s waist to lift her down from the mare’s back. Potent, unfamiliar feelings surged through Christophe’s body. Jealousy? Rage?
Or was it something more meaningful? He hardly knew how to manage the rush of raw feeling that had him in its grip.
He had never let himself fall in love. It was, in fact, a fate to be avoided at all costs. All his life, a message had been engraved on his consciousness: People you love may leave you and never return.
Fiona was now embracing her father and allowing him to shepherd her back inside. Magnus’s broad-shouldered frame hid her face from view, but Christophe couldn’t help leaning sideways, watching. Then, just as the trio passed into the arched stone doorway, Ramsay MacAskill abruptly stopped and looked back, directly into Christophe’s eyes. A shadow seemed to pass overhead as Christophe recognized the naked hatred in the Highlander’s black gaze.
The one thing that he couldn’t allow was MacAskill aiming that venom toward Fiona. If that meant staying in the background for now, so be it.
“Ah, there you are at last, monsieur,” said Bayard, coming up behind Christophe. “Perhaps you have been stranded during the storm with Mademoiselle MacLeod?”
“Perhaps you should look after your own affairs.” He didn’t turn, not yet; he could still glimpse Fiona’s skirts as she entered the palace. When she had disappeared, he forced himself to glance back at Bayard. “I know you mean well, my friend.”
Their eyes met for a several seconds before Bayard said more softly, “It’s true, you know. She is betrothed to that MacAskill fellow, and rumor has it her father summoned him to join them at court, to protect her from the attentions of other men. I am sorry, monsieur, but even your storied charm cannot overcome such an arrangement.”
Christophe gave him a quelling glance. He wanted to tell him that he could have Fiona, that her betrothal could be ended if he so desired…but was it true?
After a minute of heavy silence, Bayard said, “Of course, I know better than anyone that you are not the sort to enter into a serious romance with any woman, no matter how beguiling she might be.” He nodded to himself before declaring, “It is simply not your way.”
“Is it not conceivable that a person might change?”
Bayard appeared to ponder this question seriously. “In my experience, monsieur?” He glanced away. “No.”
* * *
“Ach, you had me worried to the very brink of madness!” exclaimed Magnus.
Even though they had come into the family apartments, he continued to hold onto Fiona’s arm as if he were afraid she might run away from him. She tried to understand how he felt, but it was smothering her, nonetheless.
“Da, you know how resourceful I have always been. You trusted me to take care of Mama all those years, so could you not trust that I’d survive one night in the Scottish woods?” She gave a little laugh. “I found shelter, I survived the storm, and now I am back with you. Is there anything else we must really discuss?”
“Do not make light of this.” There were tears in her father’s eyes. “Ye cannot imagine how afraid I have been, Fi. These weeks since we lost your ma have been the most trying of my life, and today…not knowing where ye were or if ye were safe…’twas tearing me apart.”
Ramsay stepped forward to put a calming hand on Magnus’s shoulder. “What matters now is th
at our lass is here, safe, with her family.”
At this, Magnus released Fiona and turned to clasp the younger man’s arm. “I am filled with gratitude, lad. Now ye have saved the lives of two of my beloved offspring. First, ye rescued Ciaran from the well, and now ye found Fi in the midst of that great forest.” He threw an imploring look back to her. “Will ye not tell your intended husband that ye are grateful for his rescue?”
Feeling trapped, Fiona did it for her father. “Thank you for seeing me back safely to the palace,” she told Ramsay in a low voice. “And now, if you both will allow me out of your sight, I must go to my chamber to wash and put on clean clothing.” As she took her leave, Fi glanced toward the door. “I am surprised Isbeil has not come to me already, taking me into her care.”
Ramsay looked as if he were about to speak when Magnus declared, “Isbeil is getting older every day, I notice. She’s really not fit to be your maid, lass.”
The thought of having anyone else tend to her needs was impossible for Fiona to imagine. “Nay, Da. She does very well for me. Besides, whenever I see her, I think of the many years she cared for all of us…especially Mama.”
“Go on then, lass,” Magnus said. “Take a wee respite. Then we’ll dine together and talk further.”
Fiona didn’t want to think about the implications of his words. Instead, she opened the door to her chamber, grateful to escape the suffocating company of the two men. She was exhausted from the events of the past twenty-four hours. Isbeil would bring her a small tub of warm water so she might wash, then the old nurse would brush her hair and help her to don a fresh gown. Perhaps by then, Christophe would have returned to the palace and she would know what had become of him and Raoul.
Worry not. I won’t leave you, he had declared. She couldn’t help feeling hurt that he had disappeared after making such a powerful promise.
Entering the bedchamber she expected to find Isbeil sitting in a chair, doing some mending. Where could the old woman be? Her gaze swept the room and then stopped at the sight of Isbeil, apparently taking a mid-morning nap on Fiona’s bed. It was impossible. The nurse had slept on a pallet on the floor as long as Fi could remember. Even when her mother had tried to give Isbeil a small room of her own with a bed in it, the old woman had refused. During the last year of Eleanor MacLeod’s waning life, Isbeil slept near enough to hear if her mistress’s breathing became labored.
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 17
