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

by Cynthia Wright

  Even so, the battle exacted a terrible price from the MacLeods. Not only were most of the best clan lieutenants dead, but Alasdair’s gruesome wound led to the name Crotach or Humpback, which he carried to this very day. After the battle, the MacLeods had spent years regaining their strength and none had bothered, it seemed, to tend to Murdo MacAskill’s surviving family. Worse yet, because Murdo’s three brothers had been killed with him, there were no close kin to help Una and her children.

  They had struggled on, but Ramsay had felt the fire of resentment even as a wee lad. He hated the MacLeods for not bringing the family of his loyal and honorable father fully into the shelter of the clan, but even more, he burned with resentment to think of them having the treasure his father had found and turned over to Alasdair Crotach out of some misguided sense of loyalty.

  “Ye must not waste your life in hatred,” his mother was saying now. “And brooding about that treasure is a waste of time. What would we do with it—wear the jewels?” She gave a soft, mocking laugh and gestured toward her mended gown and plain headcovering. “Your da did what he thought was right, and we must be proud and go on.”

  “Ma, can ye not see that choosing honor has brought us nothing but the promise of an early grave? It was bad enough that Da trusted the MacLeods, but I will not be so foolish!” He managed to soften his tone before adding, “Ye deserve so much more than this, Ma. I mean to shower ye with riches one day.”

  Shaking her head, Una rose and began to prepare him a plate of stew. As she did so, Ramsay moved around the horrible cottage, poking around in the shadows.

  “Do ye still have those potions left to ye by old Aunt Moira?” he inquired at length.

  His mother set the trencher on the table and peered at him. “What do ye want with them?”

  “Ah well, I know a man who takes a drop of belladonna to sleep, and he has asked me for another bottle of the elixir.” Seeing the suspicion in her eyes, Ramsay added, “’Tis a MacLeod who makes the request.”

  He felt a wave of relief as Una went to a little chest she kept by her bed and opened it with a key. “Ye must promise me to have a care with this, Ramsay Murdo MacAskill,” she said, handing over a tiny bottle to him. “No more than one drop for sleep, or the consequences could be dire!”

  * * *

  Violette’s dainty fingers separated Fiona’s ebony hair into three parts and began to weave a long, loose braid. “I’ve picked some flowers to put in it,” she said with a smile.

  Fi stared out her tower bedroom window. How could she tell the girl that she didn’t want to look pretty? The last thing she wanted to do was attract Ramsay. Whenever she thought of kissing him, she remembered the day when he’d tried to push the oatcake into her mouth and the look on his face that told her he would relish the chance to force her in other ways.

  Every thought of Ramsay was followed by one of Christophe…irresistibly handsome, lean-muscled, wide-shouldered, his blue eyes gleaming with the ready wit she adored. Where was he today? What was he thinking? It was enough to make her feel ill enough to take to her bed.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Violette went to admit Ewan, who had taken on the role of manservant to the often-ailing Magnus.

  “I’m instructed to deliver a message to Mistress MacLeod,” Ewan intoned, looking past Violette toward Fiona. “Because word has come that a priest is traveling to Waternish on Sunday, ye will be wed on that day in the kirk by Dunvegan Castle. The MacLeod chief himself will be there.”

  When he was gone, Fiona sank down on the window bench and tried to resist the urge to weep. How many times in recent days had she been reminded that she was serving the clan by helping to repair the frayed alliance with the MacAskills? And the one thing that seemed to bring a smile to her father’s face was the prospect of welcoming Ramsay as his son-in-law. His own sons were rarely there, but Ramsay was at his beck and call, even bringing food and drink to Magnus’s bed and sitting down to chat with him while he ate.

  “Is there no other way forward?” asked Violette.

  Fiona glanced up in surprise. She should not speak of such things with her serving maid, yet Violette had always been different. “Nay. It is my duty,” she whispered.

  “Have you told your father how you feel?”

  “I have tried, but he does not want to hear my protests. So I stopped. Now that Mama has died, he cannot bear the thought of losing me as well.”

  “And what of…” Violette paused, seeming to gather her courage to say the words aloud. “The Chevalier de St. Briac?”

  “Oh, it’s quite impossible. He lives in a very different world, as you must know, and his real passion is his work. I had a small hope that it might be otherwise, but it was crushed.” When Violette gently put an arm around her, Fiona let herself rest her cheek on the girl’s shoulder. “It is not easy to be a lass, I fear. Even the queen agrees.”

  Violette nodded and turned her face slightly away. “And so do I! I had to come to Scotland to get away from the men in my family who would rule me.”

  “Really?” Fiona sat up at that, her heart beating fast. “Do you mean—you defied them?”

  “If running away is the same as defiance, the answer is Oui.”

  Jumping up, Fiona paced across the tower room, circling back to stare out over the castle walls toward the white-capped Minch. She wanted desperately to think there might yet be hope, even without Christophe…but how could it be?

  Running away was impossible.

  It would be hard enough to turn away from her duty to her clan, but the notion of deserting her father and breaking his heart was unthinkable.

  Chapter 23

  “I am completely lost,” Bayard boldly asserted after they had ridden in silence for nearly an hour. “But no doubt you know where we are going.”

  St. Briac gave him a sidelong glance. “As a matter of fact, I do not.”

  “Do you mean to just continue on aimlessly in this godforsaken land, until night falls and we are left here to starve—or be eaten by whatever wild animals roam about?” Bayard motioned toward Raoul, who had just bounded off in pursuit of a hare. “Or perhaps you are expecting that hound to provide our next meal.”

  “Is this not an island? I am confident that we shall reach some sort of destination very soon.”

  Trying to ignore Bayard’s impatient sigh, St. Briac looked down at Erik, who had ridden on his gauntlet-clad arm most of the time since they’d come ashore on the western coast of Skye. He’d kept him close by at all times, unhooded, and felt the strong bond of trust and understanding between them. The bird was now lifting his head, turning it left and right.

  “Are we very near Fiona?” Christophe whispered to the gyrfalcon.

  “More likely, we are about to be attacked by a band of marauding MacDonald warriors!” exclaimed Bayard. “Did you not hear the captain of the galley that just brought us to Skye? This is MacDonald land we dare to cross. Furthermore, the man didn’t want to go any farther along the coast for fear of being attacked by—who did he say? Ah oui, the MacAskills, who patrol the waters off Skye for Clan MacLeod.”

  “You’ve become quite the expert on Highlander ways,” Christophe rejoined dryly. As they continued toward what he hoped was the northern tip of the island where they would find Magnus MacLeod’s castle, he admired the stunning scenery. Just to the south were low, rust-tinted mountains, with strands of mist still clinging to their conical peaks. These must be the Red Hills Fiona had told him about. She had worn a faraway expression of love and longing as she’d described this island where she had spent all twenty-four years of her life until she’d come to court at Falkland Palace.

  “I suspect we’ll wish we’d worked a bit harder at becoming Highlanders before we set off in such a rush,” remarked Bayard. “I don’t suppose you brought one of those plaid frocks they wear, or remembered to put a dirk in your boot?”

  The sound of the French mason saying words that were so peculiarly Scots made St. Briac want to laugh. “I broug
ht my best rapier,” he said lightly and touched the curved hilt, visible at his waist.

  Bayard snorted. “If you are challenged by a Highland warrior, he will split you in two with one blow of his giant claymore. Your rapier will be no more effective than a tiny twig.”

  Christophe arched an eyebrow but made no reply. Unfortunately, there was truth in Bayard’s words. Regrettably, King James had already departed for Dysart during Christophe’s imprisonment in the bottle dungeon, or he doubtless would have gone to him for more extensive advice about their journey and, perhaps, even some special clothing. After all, His Majesty was known to be a master of disguise. As it was, St. Briac could only confer with a group of men in the stables, many of whom had carried messages for the royal court. “The few roads that exist in the Highlands are not fit for travel,” he’d been told. “The quickest way to Skye is to ride west, over good Lowland roads, then sail north to the isle herself.”

  Even that faster route had made for a brutally difficult journey, fraught with dangers that they had avoided through various means. One bandit had been subdued through force. Another gang of thieves had been outwitted when they hid behind a tavern and watched them ride by. By now, St. Briac was feeling that he hadn’t had a real night’s sleep since before he and Fiona were stranded together in the forest cottage, when he’d unleashed emotions held at bay most of his life.

  Since that night, he had slept little and barely missed it. Even if his nerves were not stretched taut, there was no time for rest. God only knew what Fiona was doing at that very moment, or what peril she might be in.

  “What will you do if she’s already wed to MacAskill?” asked Bayard, reading his mind.

  “I’ve heard that the Highlanders often have trial marriages, for a period of a year,” he replied with a grim smile. “I’m not certain if the bride has that same option to change her mind, but I would have to make it so.”

  Rather than dwell on that unsavory possibility, St. Briac focused on the folds of deep green hills that lay ahead of them. Even at the peak of summer, the air was cool, and rushing streams were a common sight. He had to admit, Skye was as beautiful as it was wild.

  “Have you ever seen so many large rocks?” asked Bayard. “If the clans are ever at war, no doubt these are favorite places to lie in ambush.”

  St. Briac sat up straighter in the saddle of his hired horse, wishing he could see something besides endless emerald hillsides, purple heather, and a scattering of black-faced sheep. No sooner had the thought come to him, than he spied a young man on horseback, riding toward them between the hills. He wore a plaid, wrapped about him in the same way as Magnus and Ramsay had worn theirs. His hair, worn longer than Christophe’s, was black as a raven’s wing, and covered by a tartan bonnet with a badge on it.

  Raoul began to sound a howling warning bark.

  “Between us, we could easily do him in,” said Bayard as he brought a chisel out of his belt.

  “Perhaps we should learn a bit more of his intent before we murder the man,” St. Briac replied in tones of irony. Just then, Erik began to emit a high-pitched sound that seemed more excited than alarmed, then glanced back once before pushing off from Christophe’s wrist and flying up into the blue sky.

  When Erik soared down to land on the darkly handsome stranger’s extended arm, Christophe suspected he was about to meet one of Fiona’s brothers.

  * * *

  Ciaran MacLeod settled his gaze on the oddly-dressed outlanders, trying to decide whether they could possibly be dangerous.

  “Tell me,” he said in a deceptively casual voice, “How is it ye have my sister’s falcon?”

  He did not advance toward them, but waited instead for the two strangers to ride forward, a great spotted hound bounding along at their sides. As they drew near, Ciaran held up a hand to stop them from coming too close.

  “I was bringing Erik home to Duntulm Castle,” said the taller man who had an air of authority. He smiled, as if hoping a bit of charm would win Ciaran over. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Christophe Mardouet, Chevalier de St. Briac, and this is Bayard de Nieuil. We journeyed to Scotland to rebuild Falkland Palace.”

  “Ah.” Ciaran did not smile, though he was feeling secretly amused by these two fancy fellows, so out of place on the Isle of Skye in their doublets, jerkins, and velvet caps. It was a wonder they hadn’t been murdered by bandits already. “And am I expected to believe that ye came all the way to Skye merely to return Fiona’s bird?”

  The man called St. Briac cocked his head slightly at the challenge. “Allow me to speak frankly, m’sieur. I came to know your sister and father while they were guests at Falkland Palace, and during that time, I fell in love with Fiona. After they left to return home, I realized that the life I thought I wanted will be meaningless without her to share it.” He paused, grimly arching a brow. “First I must stop her marriage to Ramsay MacAskill, and then I will plead my own case.”

  Ciaran gave a short laugh. “Then ye are just in time. The wedding is tomorrow—and I’ll be glad to help put a stop to it.” Though he privately doubted St. Briac could carry off this plan, or that his father would allow Fiona to consider such a match, Ciaran was glad to see him try. Surveying the two outlanders, he shook his head. “I thought I had come out today in search of some lost cows, but clearly there were more powerful forces at work.”

  “Do you not intend to tell us your name?” asked the burly, curly-headed man St. Briac had called Bayard.

  “I am Ciaran MacLeod. Let’s be away to my grandfather’s castle, where I can get ye some proper Highland clothing and hear this plan of yours.”

  Appearing almost overcome with relief, St. Briac closed his eyes momentarily. “You have no idea how grateful I am. Tell me, is Fiona well?”

  “Oh aye, she is well enough, though I have lately seen little of her usual spirit.”

  As Ciaran wheeled his horse around, St. Briac urged his own mount forward to keep pace and asked, “Who is this grandfather you mentioned?”

  “Alasdair Crotach, the chief of Clan MacLeod,” came Ciaran’s casual reply. “Both of ye will have to stay hidden, for Grandfather is hosting tomorrow’s wedding feast. Fortunately, it is a very big castle.”

  With that, Ciaran glanced over and sent the Frenchman a conspiratorial grin.

  * * *

  “I am much recovered, lass, and I mean to be there tomorrow for your wedding,” Magnus said firmly as he ate a large helping of roasted salmon and barley bannocks with honey. He was sitting in a chair near the tall, narrow window overlooking the Minch, and Fiona was reminded of the days when Mama had been well enough to rise from her bed and sit in the same chair.

  The sense that she had been here before, living these same moments, held a dark power for Fiona. Each time Da appeared to overcome one of his mysterious spells, he would fall ill again, and Fi began to fear that she knew what the ending of this tale would be.

  “Of course, you will be there, Da,” she said from her chair on the other side of his small table. “If not, I would insist that we postpone the wedding.”

  If only it were possible to do so! Yet, despite her dread of events on the horizon, a part of her was prepared to go through with it just to give her father something he yearned for. What pleasure he would take from a great wedding celebration and feast at Dunvegan Castle, the clan’s stronghold since the 13th century. Magnus enjoyed an affectionate and respectful relationship with his natural father, the elderly clan chief, Alasdair Crotach, even though he had not learned of his parentage until he was a grown man and the MacLeod chief had fathered more children with his lawful wife.

  “Nay, there’ll be no postponement,” Magnus insisted. “I will be there in my best plaid, wearing the brooch given to me by my father, the MacLeod himself.” His eyes grew misty at the thought of his relative. “By the saints, he must have at least four score and five years.”

  “Aye, Da, and more. I believe it’s eight-and-eighty now.”

  Magnus put a hand
over his heart. “And leading us still, by God’s grace.”

  As Fiona listened to her father, she smiled and relaxed against the back of her carved chair. No sooner had she let her guard down than two strong hands came from behind to grasp her shoulders.

  “Ah, my lovely lassie!” Ramsay rounded the chair to lift Fi off her feet and clasp her against his musky-smelling body. “It does warm my heart to see ye here with your da, chatting and offering him your comfort as only a good daughter can.”

  Fiona felt that she was choking as Ramsay pulled her closer. It seemed that she couldn’t protest, since they were soon to be wed, and in any case, she make that sort of scene in front of her father now. The thought that he might not recover from his next spell was forcing her to put everything aside but his happiness—but it was so much easier to do when Ramsay wasn’t there.

  “You’ve returned from seeing your mother?” Fi tried to smile as she put her hands up to push him firmly away. “Say hello to da, won’t you? He’s doing much better.”

  “I’ll be at the wedding tomorrow,” Magnus repeated, this time looking at Ramsay.

  “Aye, of course, ye will!” agreed Ramsay.

  “And have ye heard that the MacLeod himself is hosting the feast at Dunvegan Castle? My father will make it a wedding celebration to remember all our lives!”

  “I heard the news.” Ramsay went forward to clasp his future father-in-law’s hand, while Fiona felt queasy. “Ye will be glad to know I’ve spoken to Ma and my kin will be there as well. They want to aid in mending the bonds between our two families.”

  Just then, one of Magnus’s castle guards knocked at the door. When Fiona saw who it was, she took the opportunity to slip away, but no sooner had she stepped out onto the tower stairs than Ramsay came after her.