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

by Cynthia Wright

  Ciaran received his father’s remarks with a wary look, but before he could respond, Magnus poured more whiskey, waving off Old David, the cook, who hovered near.

  “We’ll eat later!” Magnus barked. He went on to break the news about Isbeil’s death, and then casually mentioned that Fiona was betrothed to Ramsay MacAskill. “As ye know, son, MacAskills have always come to the aid of MacLeods. This marriage will only strengthen our alliance and this family as well.” Suddenly, Magnus went pale and grimaced. Setting down his cup, he looked around in confusion. “Ach, I am feeling poorly…”

  Ciaran took one of his arms and Ramsay the other, and together, they were able to help Magnus up the stone steps to the same tower room where Eleanor MacLeod had lain in the weeks before her death. No sooner was he settled on the bed than Ramsay excused himself.

  “Before the sun sets, I must take my things to my house and then ride south to look in on my own ma.” He looked down at Magnus and added, “I have no doubt that ye will be up and about by the time I do return tomorrow.”

  Fiona was relieved to see him go. She felt beset by a host of conflicting emotions as she sat by the bed, watching as her father lapsed into a state of semi-consciousness. He tossed his big head from side to side, perspiring, though his hands were cold as ice.

  “What can be afflicting him?” demanded Ciaran as he paced across the stone floor. “He looked perfectly fine when your birlinn came up on the beach.”

  “He had a spell like this before we left Falkland,” Fi replied, “but it did pass. We thought it might have been something he ate.”

  Ciaran snorted in disbelief. “Da had not eaten one bite of food yet tonight. Whiskey, aye, but no food. And we all drank from the same jug.”

  The late afternoon light that streamed in through a tall, narrow window softened Magnus’s face. “I confess I am worried,” Fiona said.

  “Aye, I’m worried as well. And how do you think I feel to be told my sister is betrothed to Ramsay MacAskill?” Ciaran asked.

  Her brother said the word betrothed with an edge of mockery, and Fiona looked up at him. It made her heart hurt even more to realize that her own brother was so disdainful of the plan for her to wed. “Did you really know nothing of this proposed marriage alliance?”

  At that, Ciaran motioned for her to come away from the bed and stand with him near the window. “I knew nothing and I would wager that neither does Lennox,” he whispered harshly. “First ye tell me that old Isbeil has followed our own ma to the grave, then I learn that a marriage is planned between ye and MacAskill, and now Da has suffered a spell that renders him insensible.” He gave her a penetrating look. “It feels as if all the solid pieces of our life here have begun to crumble away. Do ye understand my meaning?”

  “Don’t imagine I feel any differently!” Tears crowded her eyes. “But Da tells me I have a responsibility to our clan. Ramsay is a strong warrior, and he would bring even more of his family to fight with the MacLeods in battle.”

  He rolled his eyes dismissively. “I mean no disrespect to Da, especially in the state he’s in, but ye know full well that he wants ye married to MacAskill because it will bind ye closer to him. To this castle! Ye have been looking after everyone here since Ma fell ill, years ago, and now that she’s gone, Da can’t face the notion that you might leave as well.”

  “I know,” she admitted, wondering why Ciaran had waited until now to voice his feelings so forcefully.

  “Ye know but do not care?”

  Fiona reached out and cuffed his arm. “Where were you when I needed help? If it hadn’t been for Isbeil…” Looking up, she saw that his brow was furrowed, but he put an arm around her and drew her near. “Ciaran, I learned when I went away to court that many of my dreams of travel and adventure were insubstantial, like the dawn mist over the Cuillins that disappears in the light of day. Dreams and longings can feel so powerful, but they’re an illusion.” Fiona paused as bittersweet memories of Christophe swept over her. She had to fight against the fear that her heart was broken beyond repair. “What is real is right here, on Skye, where I have known each rocky, green hilltop since I was a wee bairn. I love it here, and I feel a duty to our Da. I don’t think I could live with myself if I turned away and left him here alone.”

  “But, Fi…”

  She knew just what she could say that would put an end to this. “Would you rather stay in my place?”

  “Nay.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Yet, I cannot like MacAskill.”

  Fiona wanted to agree with him, but instead she replied, “I’m surprised you aren’t celebrating this marriage. No sooner had Ramsay begun visiting our castle than you fell into a well and he saved your life! We all feared you were dead, so is it any wonder Da treats Ramsay as a hero?”

  Her brother looked away and raked a hand through his tousled black hair. “Must we reward him by making him part of our family?”

  “I think Da hopes he will stay nearby when you and Lennox wander, as you are wont to do. He likes Ramsay. And I am trying to see the good in him.” She caught his sleeve and said softly, “And there is now another reason I should not rebel. Something is very wrong with our da. His needs must come first.”

  Ciaran’s strong hand came up to catch her chin, and he turned her face up to meet his dark scrutiny. “I’ve an ill feeling about this, Fi, but for now, I’ll bend to ye.”

  “Bend? My brother Ciaran?” She gave a rueful laugh but broke off at the sound of their father’s voice.

  “What are the two of ye plotting?” Magnus called from the bed. His voice was weak, but Fiona turned to see him trying to push up on an elbow.

  “Praise the saints, Da, you are back among us!” Fiona clapped her hands and hurried over to the bed.

  Just then, the door opened, and Violette appeared, carrying a tray covered with dishes. The fragrances that filled the tower room were unlike any Fiona had ever known at Duntulm Castle.

  “Violette, you should not be serving us,” Fi said as she gently urged her father back onto the pillows.

  The French girl blushed but continued into the chamber and put the tray down on a table. “I didn’t mind. I needed something to do,” she said.

  Ciaran had crossed to her side and now was peering into the aromatic bowls of soup. There was also a chicken that seemed to have been roasted on a spit and a bowl of colorful vegetables.

  “What’s come over our cook?” he wondered. “Old David’s never made a meal like this in his life.” His nose twitched once as he bent closer and inhaled.

  “I asked Old David to allow me to cook this meal, and he was very accommodating,” Violette said, pronouncing David in the French way. Fiona could see the steel in her spine as she met Ciaran’s intimidating gaze before turning to Magnus. “I will bring your bowl of soup to you there, m’sieur. I believe it will improve your health.”

  “Did ye carry that heavy tray up all those stairs alone?” demanded Magnus as Fiona helped him to sit up against the pillows.

  “Mais oui, m’sieur,” came Violette’s clear reply. “But have no fear. I am very strong!”

  Fiona stood back from the bed, watching, delighted to see her brother Ciaran, who rarely betrayed emotion, staring at Violette in consternation.

  * * *

  The summer days were long and it was still light outside when Fiona crawled into her own bed, weary to her bones. It had been a relief to hear Violette insist on staying with Magnus. Part of her was thankful to be back home and to be busy, for it was a distraction from the deep ache that seemed to have embedded itself in her heart.

  Now, lying in the cool, purplish light, Fiona looked around the small chamber where she had slept since childhood. Everything felt different now. It was as if she had opened one of her favorite books and discovered that none of the words made sense any longer.

  Mama was gone…and Isbeil. Even Erik, who had been there for her when she needed to spread her own wings and feel free, was missing.

  She closed her eyes and saw
Christophe, filling the darkness with his male energy, humor, and curiosity for life that drew her like a magnet. How she wished they were together again in the woodsman’s cottage, lying entwined on the bed, kissing hungrily. She could almost feel the firm, warm texture of his skin, smell his arousing essence, taste his tongue as it entered her mouth, questing, demanding.

  This time, if he was not gentle with her, she would better understand his conflict and would not push him away. Perhaps that would have made the difference…and he would not have fallen silent when she was being forced to return to Skye. In her heart, Fiona knew that she could not have submitted to him in that dark moment, yet she felt desperate for him to understand how much she had wanted him too. If only she could go back and change the past.

  She thought back over their long conversation that night, when Christophe had shared with her the ordeal he’d suffered as a wee lad. Was there something she should have said or done that she had not? At the time, Fiona thought she’d understood his feelings, but now she had come to doubt all that had seemed so clear.

  More memories cascaded back of their last moments together, outside the garden gate at Falkland Palace. How many times had she relived that scene, searching for clues? Yet Fi had gradually accepted that it was impossible to read Christophe’s mind, to know what really lay in his heart.

  The fact was, he had not come for her. He’d read the note but had chosen not to intervene. There was no further point examining every moment they’d spent together and torturing herself with thoughts of What if…

  Fiona must accept the fact that Christophe de St. Briac was part of her past. She was now obligated to wed Ramsay. Bittersweet tears soaked into her pillow as she told herself that no matter what the future brought, she would always have her memories.

  Chapter 22

  Peg, the baker, had strong opinions about what Christophe should do next. She wanted to take charge of him, feed him, get a real bath for him, and see that his filthy, blood-stained clothing was washed.

  But he had other plans.

  “See here, Peg, I appreciate your concern for my welfare, but I can manage on my own. I’ll gratefully accept your offer of food and drink, but then I must find my friend Bayard. There are many important matters that demand my immediate attention.”

  Her eyes were wide. “But I do fear for your health, m’sieur! You could scarcely walk a few minutes ago.”

  Outside the cellar, St. Briac found that clouds covered the sun, which was moving westward across the sky. It was a shock to face even muted daylight, after days shut away in complete blackness. He limped after Peg into the Bakehouse, where she put several oatcakes and a warm loaf of bread into his hands, along with a jug of cold ale.

  “I will send a serving lass to your cottage with more food, unless ye have a servant to fetch it,” she said, watching as he helped himself to a long drink of well water.

  At that moment, Christophe wished he had a full staff of servants, for there was much to do. “Alas, I do not. I will be grateful to you for sending the food. I’ll need some strips of cloth to bandage my broken ribs. And if you could possibly send a bundle of supplies for a journey, I’ll stop here to thank you personally.”

  “With a kiss?” she wondered, batting sparse colorless eyelashes.

  “If you so desire, of course,” he said gallantly. “You saved my life, Peg.”

  “Nay,” she scoffed. “’Twere this great beast of yours! He’s been raising a fuss in that old tumble-down cellar for days and running into the kitchens, trying to get someone to join him. We all thought he had a rat cornered inside, but all along it was you, sir!”

  Just then, Christophe saw Bayard crossing under the arched gallery adjoining the courtyard. He was holding his chisel, but his posture was dispirited.

  “Bayard,” he tried to call, but his voice was more of a croak.

  Raoul seemed to know just what to do. He bounded through the archway, into the courtyard, and nearly knocked Bayard down. When the burly mason regained his balance, he straightened and shaded his eyes as he watched Raoul run back toward the Bakehouse.

  “Is it possible?” Bayard shouted, and then he was running as well until he reached Christophe and threw his arms around him. “Monsieur, it is you! I have been afraid that some terrible harm had befallen you!”

  “You were quite right, it had, but there’s no time to talk about that now.” Christophe began to make his way toward his cottage. Even the water he’d drunk had proven somewhat restorative and now he bit into an oatcake, thinking the strange Scottish bread had never tasted so good.

  “You look horrible,” pronounced Bayard, walking slowly at his side.

  “Merci,” he rejoined dryly. “You have looked better yourself. But there will be time enough for this idle conversation once our journey is begun.”

  “Journey?”

  “I must hasten to the Isle of Skye, and you are coming with me.”

  Bayard wore an expression of utter bewilderment. “But, what about our work here at the palace? I have just finished the roundel of Mademoiselle MacLeod, and at the risk of sounding boastful, it is a perfect likeness.”

  This roused St. Briac’s attention. “Have you? Excellent. I want to see it before we go. As for the palace…has Nicholas Roy arrived yet?”

  “Oui, monsieur.” Bayard cringed slightly before continuing, “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but when you did not appear by the third day, he was put in charge of the building. Scrymgeour has given him your title of Master Mason.”

  “That is splendid news!” Christophe exclaimed with a laugh. “Perfect! Now I can go on with my life without fear that I’ve shirked my duty here.”

  “But, monsieur, what about the Louvre? If you do not finish your work here, you will not win the appointment you have so coveted in Paris.”

  As they came through the cottage door, Christophe saw the note Fiona had given him, still lying on his work table among all his drawings and plans. In the message, she hadn’t directly told him that she wanted and needed him, but he’d knew full well what she hoped for from him.

  And still he had delayed going to her!

  His gaze fell next on a chair that evoked keen memories of the afternoon he’d sat there with Fiona on his lap. She’d given him innocent, arousing kisses, practically insisting that he take her to his bed.

  Christophe clearly saw now that her unabashed passion for life had struck terror into his shuttered heart. What a fool he’d been.

  “Devil take the Louvre,” he said harshly. “The same man who hit me over the head, threw me in the bottle dungeon, and left me for dead is betrothed to Fiona. How quickly do you suppose we can we reach the Isle of Skye?”

  Just then, before the startled Bayard could reply, a tapping came at St. Briac’s cottage window. Glancing over, he saw Erik the gyrfalcon, clinging to the stone ledge outside. When Christophe pulled on a glove and went outside, the great bird came immediately to perch on his wrist. For a long moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes.

  “You’ll help me find her, won’t you, Erik?” Christophe got his answer when the white gyrfalcon leaned closer and briefly rubbed against his bearded cheek.

  * * *

  Ramsay MacAskill sat across from his mother in the small, dark stone cottage where he had been raised. As usual, he felt torn between a duty to protect her and an urge to run out the door and never come back.

  “Have ye been ill, Ma?” He reached across the crude table to take her hand that now looked as withered as a grandmother’s.

  “Nay.” Una managed a smile. “Merely tired. Tell me then, where have ye been? Your brothers have missed ye.”

  This remark elicited a familiar pang of guilt. It amazed Ramsay that his brothers Iain and Balgair still continued to try to till the rocky land of their croft. And how could they all live together in this hovel? It had only a hole in the roof to let out the smoke, and now it stank of the mutton stew his mother was cooking over a fire inside the swelteringly hot co
ttage.

  “I’ve been at the royal court, Ma, at Falkland Palace.” He tried to say it as if he were delivering good news, even though he sensed she would see through him. “I went with Magnus MacLeod himself, son of the chief.”

  “Aye, of course I remember Magnus MacLeod. He was a friend to your da.”

  Ramsay couldn’t keep the note of triumph from his voice. “I’m to wed his daughter, Fiona.”

  “Are ye indeed?” His mother’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I thought ye would be happy. It means a new alliance between MacAskills and the Clan MacLeod.”

  “Yet how is this possible? Since your da was struck down when ye were a wee lad, nothing has been the same with the MacLeods.” Una shook her head and looked away, turning her pinched profile to him. “Do ye truly long to mend the rift? ’Tis better that we make our own way. Leave it be, lad, and I hope ye not be dreaming of vengeance by marrying the MacLeod lass?”

  Ramsay tried to stay calm so that she wouldn’t see the secrets that burned inside him, but the words tumbled out. “And why should I not dream of taking back what should be yours, Ma, and seeing them suffer as we have?”

  When his mother looked back into his eyes, he saw the tears that sprang from the deep well of pain inside her. “Ramsay, ye are misguided.” She squeezed his hand and implored, “Listen to me. When your da found that Viking treasure in a cairn near the MacAskill dockyard, his honor demanded that he take it to the MacLeod chief. In return, the MacLeod made Murdo Captain of the fleet, the highest honor for any MacAskill man. It was the proudest day of our lives!”

  Of course, all of this and so much more was seared into Ramsay’s memory. Tears burned the back of his throat as he pictured his tall, strong da wearing the fine suit of armor he’d received when the MacLeod chief had awarded him command of the galleys. At the time, it had felt as good as keeping the Viking treasure, but soon the MacLeods were caught up in the terrible coastal Battle of Glendale with the clan MacDonald, their worst adversaries. Murdo MacAskill and all three of his brothers had been slain by the hand of Allan of Moidart, and the MacLeod chief himself had been grievously injured by a warrior wielding a battle axe. It wasn’t until the clan’s legendary faerie flag was unfurled that the tide of battle turned against the MacDonalds.