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

by Cynthia Wright

  “Oh, aye, sir!” The boy’s eyes lit up. “He’s a knight in France. All the pages look up to him.”

  “Of course, they do. And do ye know the cottage where he stays?” He forced himself to keep smiling as the boy nodded. “Good. I want ye to go to him and tell him that Master Scrymgeour requires his presence in the Gatehouse.”

  “Oh, aye! But I didn’t know Master Scrymgeour was at the palace today.”

  “He’s just arrived.” Ramsay took out another coin and leaned closer. “Ye don’t need to bother yourself about that, do you understand? Just find him and deliver the message. Tell him it’s very important.” He paused a moment before giving him the second shilling and added, “Deliver the message and then forget ye have done so. Am I understood, lad?”

  “Oh, aye.” Hallont’s eyes were like saucers as he clutched the two coins.

  As the lad dashed off in his miniature livery, Ramsay walked quickly along the Gallery, passed the outside guardroom adjoining the Gatehouse, and went up the few worn steps to the little office where Scrymgeour kept his work table. Child’s play indeed, yet he felt himself begin to sweat, anticipating the moment he’d waited for so patiently.

  He hurried over to pull back the thin carpet. It was better to have everything ready, just in case someone should come. Using both hands, Ramsay removed the heavy stone covering the round grate. Below, there was an impossibly narrow tunnel that plunged straight down to the foul-smelling bottle dungeon. It was as black as the Earl of Hell’s doublet down there, Ramsay thought with satisfaction.

  Were those footsteps he heard? Ramsay’s heart threatened to burst from his chest as he rushed back to stand behind the heavy, paneled door, holding the piece of timber he’d hidden behind a tapestry earlier that day.

  “Scrymgeour?” called the Frenchman, as he knocked once before pushing the door open.

  When St. Briac entered, he seemed immediately to see the exposed opening to the bottle dungeon. His handsome head straightened, as if he smelled danger, and Ramsay knew he must act immediately, before St. Briac could turn and see him.

  Ramsay brought the piece of timber down over the other man’s head—hard. He knew he had to use deadly force, or it might not be enough to render a tall, strong man like St. Briac senseless. For a moment, it seemed it wasn’t enough. The Frenchman started to turn, and Ramsay swung at him again, this time a sideways blow to his chest, so that he doubled over and fell to the ground.

  Blood oozed out from the wound on St. Briac’s head and made a small, dark pool on the stone floor. His crisp, dark hair soon was matted with blood. Ramsay assumed he must be dead, or nearly so, because as soon as he attempted to move him, he found that his tall, hard-muscled body seemed to be ten times heavier because it was completely limp. Ramsay could see the man’s face getting paler as he continued to bleed.

  Feeling panicky as he stared at the corpse and pool of blood, he took St. Briac by the boots and dragged him across to the bottle dungeon. It was an awkward business, but Ramsay managed to lever him up, tug at the waist of his doublet, and fit his legs, one at a time, into the opening of the vertical tunnel.

  Then, using all his strength, Ramsay forced Christophe St. Briac down into the hole, until the man’s legs, chest, and finally his broad shoulders were wedged inside. At that point, as Ramsay continued to push, the weight of St. Briac’s big, lean body took him down, down, into the blackness, until the Frenchman landed with a muffled thud far below.

  Someone else has died in there, Ramsay realized, choking as he inhaled the terrible stench. Quickly then, he closed the grate and slid the big round stone back into its place in the floor. After a moment, it came to him that if he just readjusted the carpet, he could hide the blood stains. His heart was still thundering as he strolled out of the Gatehouse and out into the courtyard, but he knew that he’d succeeded. Fortunately there was no one around the guardroom.

  Distracted by a sticky feeling on the fingers of his right hand, Ramsay glanced down and saw the blood. He knew a moment of panic, but two or three deep breaths steadied his nerves. Changing course, he walked toward the new stone fountain and idly washed his hands. A smile curled his lips as he thought how fitting it was that St. Briac himself had designed this fountain and now it was stained with his blood.

  The troublesome Frenchman was out of the way. Nothing now could interfere with Ramsay’s plan to marry Fiona and make the Clan MacLeod suffer for all the misery they had brought to Ramsay’s family.

  Chapter 19

  Moonlight spilled through the windows of Fiona’s palace bedchamber. Outside, an owl hooted. It was the middle of the night, but she was wide awake, sitting in a chair next to the bed she couldn’t bear to sleep in.

  True, the linens had all been changed since Isbeil’s body was removed, but Fi couldn’t bring herself to lie down there. And even if she could, what would be the point? Until Christophe came to see her, sleep was impossible.

  She had waited patiently for some word from him, glad to be able to stay by her father’s side as he recuperated from his brief, mysterious illness. Throughout the evening, Magnus had gradually returned to normal, and by nine o’clock, he was sitting up in a chair and eating a light meal. At midnight, he’d left their apartments for a walk outdoors in the fresh air, and soon after, had bade her goodnight, promising again that they would depart for Skye with the morning light.

  At the behest of her father and Ramsay, Fiona had reluctantly packed her things, but she really didn’t expect to go anywhere. She wasn’t certain what action Christophe would take, but she did trust that he would stop her from going. When they’d spoken outside the courtyard gate, and Fi had given him the note explaining about Isbeil and the plans for Fi’s departure, she’d seen a host of deep and powerful emotions in his eyes.

  True, he seemed to be struggling with those feelings, but…it was unthinkable that he would simply let her go.

  And surely it was impossible that he’d allow her to leave with Ramsay.

  As the minutes and hours ticked by, however, Fiona began to fear that Christophe might do just that. She went back over every word and touch that had passed between them since they were caught in the storm. And the more she thought, the more cold and clammy she felt. What was it he had said just a few hours ago?

  I am sorry for the way I am, for my limitations…This is not easy for me.

  And of course, she knew the cause of those “limitations.” He had kept his feelings and traumatic memories closed up inside for his entire lifetime. Perhaps it wasn’t even possible for him to surmount them to be at Fiona’s side now that she was in the midst of a family drama of her own.

  He never told you he loved you, she thought miserably, as the pink light of dawn began to creep above the palace walls. But he certainly had told her in no uncertain terms how important his work was, how it steadied him and gave him peace. And that work had never left time for the sort of lifelong love affair she dreamed of.

  Feeling empty, Fiona rose from the chair. Knowing the queen liked to walk in the garden early in the morning, she decided to go in search of her. If Fi was indeed going back to Skye, there were other matters she must attend to first.

  * * *

  Blackness. He came out of a dense, black, excruciating fog into more blackness. Blackness inside his throbbing head, his aching body. He thought he was opening his eyes, but there was only more blackness.

  The stench in the blackness was stomach-turning. It was cold, wet, infinitely worse than even the château had been in the middle of those endless nights next to his dead mother, when the tiger had waited in the black night for him to make a sound.

  HELL. Of course, this must be hell. I’m DEAD.

  That made perfect sense, yet he wondered vaguely what he’d done that was so terrible he’d earned this particular eternal punishment. He would have to be the worst sinner ever to walk the earth for God to subject him to everlasting life in a foul-smelling pit of blackness that had terrified him since he was a small boy
of four years.

  There was no reason to think any longer, so he let the pain carry him away to oblivion. In the last moment before he ceased to be conscious, Christophe breathed, “Fiona.”

  * * *

  “Ah, ma petite,” said Queen Mary. Framed by new plantings of foxgloves and roses, she paused beside a tall, rangy man on the garden path and waited for Fiona to draw near. “What brings you out so early?”

  Although Fiona’s nerves were raw, she curtseyed and tried not to let tears sweep her away. “Might I have a word with Your Royal Highness?”

  “Mais oui.” The queen smiled. “Fiona, do you know Thomas Melville, our gardener here at Falkland Palace? He promises to make a garden for me to rival the best in France.”

  “Aye, that I will, Your Majesty,” Melville said. After nodding to Fi, he added, “I have a great deal to attend to this morning, so I’ll leave you now.”

  Fiona stood looking into the kind eyes of the queen. “Have you word of your little son?”

  “I do.” Mary of Guise smiled. “He has a new pony, though I hardly think he is old enough to sit alone upon its back.” Looping an arm through Fiona’s, the tall woman began to stroll along the pathway. “And what of you? Has your missing falcon returned?”

  “Nay.” Fiona thought, everything has gone wrong, but she would never say it to the queen. “Sadly, Erik is missing still.”

  “I hope no harm has come to that magnificent bird.” Pausing, the queen plucked a sprig of lavender and held it to her nose. “Ah. That’s lovely. We are going to make a walled Physic Garden here, with medicinal plants of every kind. Did you know that lavender is a remedy for bee stings?”

  “My mother was a fine herbalist,” said Fi. “And lavender was always her favorite. In her final weeks, her nurse and I kept a small bouquet of it by her bedside.”

  The queen handed her the fragrant stem and murmured, “You must tell me what ails you, child. You look as if you haven’t slept in a week.”

  Fiona felt the storm of tears threatening again, but fought it off. “My father has been ill. Thankfully, he has recovered, but last evening I did spend hours at his bedside.” When the queen made no reply, only continuing to watch Fiona attentively as they walked, Fi drew a deep breath. “Also, yesterday, my mother’s devoted nurse passed suddenly from this life.” Her chin began to tremble. “Isbeil helped to bring me into this world four-and-twenty years ago, and she was with me as we saw my mama through her final illness. She was much more than a servant to me.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” Mary paused to turn toward Fiona, smoothing back the loose curls from her brow. “A terrible loss indeed.”

  “My father has decided that the time has come for us to return to our home on the Isle of Skye.” She glanced away, trying to smile. “So, you see, I came to bid you farewell, Your Majesty, and also to beg you to allow Violette Pasquiére to become my ladies maid.”

  “Ah, how I shall miss your lively countenance and your lessons in the Scots language. You have helped me to feel more comfortable in this new land, mademoiselle.” Mary smiled at her warmly. “Of course, if it is possible, I shall grant your request. But I cannot recall who you mean…?”

  “Violette is the French lass who brought Christophe St. Briac’s hound to Scotland a few days ago. I believe she hoped to gain a position here at court but has been told that no fitting places are open.”

  “But that is splendid! She should surely go with you. I have a feeling you will need a friend, ma petite.”

  “I am very grateful for your kindness, Your Majesty,” said Fiona. “I hope you will be happy here in Scotland, in spite of the challenges.”

  “You are kind to say so, but I am not certain happiness is possible,” Queen Mary said with a rueful smile. “I decided long ago that it is a dream, especially for someone like me.”

  Fiona longed to embrace the older woman. “Your courage and grace are an inspiration to me.”

  “Life seldom unfolds as we might wish,” the queen observed, her smile tinged with sadness. “Yet, we must make the best of the opportunities that come to us, n’est-ce pas?” She leaned forward then and to Fiona’s surprise, kissed her on the cheek.

  * * *

  No, not dead after all.

  The dead couldn’t possibly feel so much pain or such extreme thirst. The air was oppressive, the dirt against his cheek stank of excrement, and when he tried to extend a hand, he touched something that felt like the bone of a skeleton.

  And still, the utter and complete blackness.

  His heart began to race in the familiar way as he sensed the tiger, preparing to run at him from the chasm he couldn’t see.

  When he was growing up, Christophe had thought the attacks of crushing fear would lessen with each passing year, and indeed they did come less often…but the intensity never changed. Over the years, he’d developed his share of tricks to keep the tiger at bay, but they all involved getting away. A clear means of escape always had to be at hand. While working, he was aware of the easiest way to get away, and he never positioned himself at the top of the scaffolding or on a roof. At a large gathering, he would find a way to sit at the end of the table. And when he was in bed with a beautiful woman, he lay nearest the door—and stayed with her no longer than necessary.

  Yet, now there was no escape. He could barely move, let alone get away, and he found it was almost a relief to no longer have the choice. Each breath was such agony that it came to him his ribs must be broken.

  Come on then. Now is your chance. Come and get me.

  Lying back, every nerve in his body on fire with pain, thirst, and bone-numbing cold, Christophe waited for the blackness to swallow him up at last.

  * * *

  “How I shall miss you, my dear,” said Tess, opening her arms.

  Fiona’s heart hurt as she lost herself in her aunt’s embrace that felt so much like her mother’s. “I can never properly thank you for all the kindness and love you’ve shown me, Aunt.”

  Tess drew back and looked down at her. “I pray that you will seek your dreams. It’s what your mama would have wanted.”

  But Mama isn’t here, thought Fiona, only a lot of men who care nothing for my dreams. It was one thing to think about pursuing the longings of her heart, but if the man she loved could not even come to speak to her, to declare himself, to tell her they would somehow find a way together, how could she do it alone?

  “Ye are ready?” asked Magnus. “We have a long ride ahead.”

  Violette was there, waiting with Ramsay by the horses, and Fiona went to join them. In the distance, she saw Christophe’s men working in the courtyard. Bayard was standing on the highest scaffolding. Where was Christophe? The thought that he might be avoiding her made her feel physically ill.

  “Au revoir, mademoiselle!” called Bayard, waving at her.

  Somehow, Fi managed to smile and wave back.

  “I am very grateful to you for asking me to be your maid,” said Violette. “I did not know what I would do. I was feeling desperate.”

  They smiled at one another. “I am equally grateful,” Fiona replied. “It would be a very lonely journey without the companionship of another woman.” Then, very lightly, she asked, “Were you able to say goodbye to the Chevalier de St. Briac?”

  “I hoped to, but he has not appeared today. I asked Bayard to make my farewells.” Violette smiled, and her golden-brown eyes softened. “In truth, it is Raoul I shall miss the most. I think he feels sad as well, for he won’t come away from the cottage door.”

  Fiona felt Ramsay watching her. “The Frenchman must have gone off with the lady he supped with last night in the Great Hall.” His tone was confidential, as if he were telling them a naughty secret. “A flaxen-haired goddess, clearly nobility. Agnès, he called her. I saw them leave together.”

  Fiona’s heart raced and the courtyard began to spin. At that moment, Magnus came up and put an arm around her. “Ye look pale, lass. Are ye unwell? I hope it’s not the same illness that
struck me down.”

  Somehow, Fiona found her voice. “Nay, Papa. I’ll be fine. I am a bit tired; there’s been so much to do.” She saw that Violette was watching her in concern, and she gave her a smile. It wouldn’t do for the poor girl, who was seemingly alone in the world and now dependent on Fiona for her future, to sense her weakness.

  For a moment, time seemed to stop as Fiona looked around the cobbled courtyard, remembering the day when she had come through the garden entrance, looking for Erik. Pain squeezed her heart as she saw Christophe again in her mind—utterly splendid, his blue eyes sparkling with laughter as he swept his gaze over her male garb. Erik, who’d been perched on his wrist, had been in no hurry to return to her.

  It seemed now that she’d fallen in love that very moment, because nothing in her world had been the same since.

  How bittersweet it was to leave today, her heart aching after the loss of Isbeil, Erik the gyrfalcon, and it seemed, even Christophe.

  Worry not, he’d said. I won’t leave you.

  Blinking back the sting of tears, Fiona straightened her back and smiled at her father. “Have you brought a fine horse for Violette? It is her first time in Scotland, you know, and I look forward to showing her our enchanted Isle of Skye. Let’s be away, shall we?”

  Part Three

  Chapter 20

  The cursed tiger isn’t coming after all, Christophe thought with a wry smile that never quite touched his mouth. No tiger or any other force born of the darkness.

  This was the time he might have welcomed such a savage attack, but now a realization came to him through the fog of his pain. The fear of the dark that had shadowed him since childhood was baseless. If his current situation were any less dire, he might have laughed.

  What was the point of all my efforts to keep myself safe?

  He lay back on the fetid earth and let the truth wash over him in a wave. The days he’d spent in the dark château with the bodies of his mother and their servants were part of a tragic episode, but it was in his past. His traumatized heart and mind had not understood that the tiger did not continue to wait for him to venture into the darkness, and there had been no reasoning with the icy terror that seized him, insisting that he guard his life.