Ciaran stared. “That’s all well and good, I suppose, but we are men! The lasses may like to think that love can triumph over more practical concerns, but we know better, do we not? Ye and Fiona are from different worlds. She has real obligations to our family and our clan. And ye have important work to do among the aristocracy of France.”
“Monsieur traveled to Scotland at the command of King François himself!” confirmed Bayard.
Leaning back against the stone wall, Ciaran looked at St. Briac and flipped up his palms. “To be honest, I would never give ye even a wee bit of encouragement if not for Ramsay MacAskill.” His nostrils flared as if he’d smelled something foul. “I despise him and cannot stomach the notion of Fi becoming MacAskill’s bride.”
“Why?” asked Christophe, holding his breath.
“I never knew him much until this past year, when he visited Duntulm Castle and attempted to curry favor with Da…or at least that’s the way it seemed to Lennox and me. But it was a hard time for all of us, with Ma so ill.” He frowned. “Then, last autumn, I rode out for a half day to look for some cattle that had wandered off. I paused at an abandoned croft, thinking a wee calf might have gone through the open door. The next thing I knew, I found myself at the bottom of a well with no notion how I’d gotten there. No one heard my shouts and as I truly began to fear I would drown, he came along and saved me. He’s been a hero to my da ever since, but it never set right with me.”
Christophe’s heart was pounding hard. “You don’t remember falling?”
“Nay. The last thing I recall was poking around in that abandoned croft house.”
“I would wager that Ramsay was behind your supposed accident.” He turned to clasp Ciaran’s shoulder, and their eyes met. “Something very similar happened to me. I walked into a room in Falkland Palace and suffered a blow to my head. When I awoke, I was at the bottom of the bottle dungeon with the skeleton of a dead prince. If not for the barking of Raoul, which led me to find an old tunnel leading to a cellar, I might be there still, and even now I have not fully recovered from the injuries dealt to me by that blackguard.”
The big hound rose at the mention of his name and ambled over to lean against his master.
“Why didn’t I see it sooner?” Ciaran sat up straighter, breathing hard. “MacAskill must have put me in the well only to pull me back out again, and thus gain Da’s immediate trust and gratitude. Now, it all makes sense.”
“You must not blame yourself, for how could you guess the truth?” Christophe said. “You had no way of suspecting his nature could be so dark. It took both of us, sharing our stories, to see who Ramsay really is.”
Ciaran’s eyes blazed. “St. Briac, how do ye propose to stop this wedding and bring MacAskill to justice?”
Bayard had finally finished eating, and now he leaned forward to listen. “How indeed?”
Although he was relieved to put some of the pieces together, St. Briac knew that the way forward would not be easy. They still didn’t understand the motive behind Ramsay’s evil deeds. “Of course, we have no proof that he pushed you down the well and put me in the bottle dungeon. Perhaps we can talk to your father and grandfather, telling them what we suspect, and they can help bring MacAskill to justice.”
“Before or after he is wed to Fiona?” Ciaran’s voice was threaded with sarcasm. “Your plan sounds very civilized, like something they must do in France. But now ye are in the Highlands, my friend, and we settle our scores more…directly.” He paused for effect. “If ye take my meaning.”
St. Briac had to struggle to keep his temper in check. “Do you take me for some fancy courtier? I can assure you that we don’t shy away from bloodshed in France, at least, not when it is called for. For Fiona’s sake, however, I hoped to resolve this without violence.”
“Aye. I see your point, although I doubt MacAskill can be subdued through peaceful means.” Ciaran thoughtfully rubbed his jaw. “Da will come here to Dunvegan tomorrow morning to share breakfast with Grandfather before everyone convenes at the kirk at Kilmuir. Ye should be able to speak to them both then, well before the wedding, and with luck, my grandfather will have his men-at-arms seize the villain and lock him in the Dunvegan dungeon.”
“Excellent.” Relief and hope swelled in Christophe. “You will join me to make a case against MacAskill? Without any real proof, I’ll need stories like yours to help convince them of his guilt.”
“Aye, I’ll be here. We’ll do it together.” A sudden smile lit Ciaran’s dark countenance. “But now, I must go. There’s a bonnie lass in Uig who waits for me to warm her cold and lonely bed.”
“Mais non. You cannot leave.” Christophe was on his feet. “You are going to take me to Fiona tonight.”
“Ye must be mad! I cannot take ye to Duntulm Castle. It is fortified on the top of a giant cliff, and there are guards on the walls. And that’s before I could even get ye inside, where Da or Ramsay would likely be about. Nay, ye must wait to see her until tomorrow.”
Bayard jumped up and stood between the two tall, powerful men. “He’s right, monsieur! For once, listen to reason.”
“I will find a way,” Christophe countered in a hard voice. “I cannot bear to be parted from Fiona for even one more night…and she needs to know I have not forgotten her.”
Chapter 25
“I don’t know how ye persuaded me to join you in this madness,” said Ciaran as he rowed the tiny boat almost soundlessly toward the cliffs of the Trotternish peninsula. The crescent moon overhead silvered the black water and illuminated Ciaran’s profile as he scanned the cliffs.
“You don’t strike me as the type to shy away from adventure,” remarked Christophe. He had begun to realize that Fiona’s brother would be the first to charge at an enemy with a claymore, but when it came to the prospect of engagement with his own family, Ciaran seemed uneasy.
“Adventure—is that what ye call this? Those guards won’t see it that way if ye are caught.”
“I won’t be,” Christophe said lightly. Danger was the furthest thing from his mind as he stared up at Duntulm Castle, a dark shape atop the towering cliff. Fiona was there. All Christophe cared about was holding her in his arms again, hearing her voice, and proving to her he hadn’t forsaken their love.
A short distance before they reached the castle, Ciaran brought the little boat near the shore and slipped out of it with nary a splash. “Ye cannot go through the sea gate, of course. There’s another way, here on the east slope before the cliff. Stay low, come around to the wall, and then ye must climb. I’ll be here, waiting, for one hour only.” He leveled a threatening stare at St. Briac. “Do ye understand?”
“Aye,” he said with a grin, in his best Scots accent. “Which window is Fiona’s?”
Ciaran stared at the castle and his brows lifted slightly “There is a faint light in the near corner of the tower. Do ye see it? No doubt, she is reading by candlelight, as she has done since she was a wee lass.”
Christophe’s heart swelled with love and a sense of anticipation as he set off. He was clad in a dark leather doublet and breeches, with soft boots that made virtually no sound at all as he crept up the footpath. Ciaran had given him a dirk, but he prayed he would not have to use it unless it was to persuade someone to release him.
When he came up next to the castle wall, he saw that the stones were rough and irregularly shaped, unlike the smooth ashlar blocks he’d used to rebuild Falkland Palace. It should be easy enough to gain a foothold and climb this structure. Men’s voices reached his ears, and he heard that they were talking about the chilly night air and their craving for a whiskey. It must be the guards. One said he thought he could sneak inside to get a jug of whiskey, since the laird and young MacAskill had retired for the night.
Christophe climbed the lower outer wall as silently as a ghost, and when he came to an opening in the stones, he looked through and saw that there were only three guards and one of them was disappearing into a guardroom. The other two continued to ch
at, clearly unconcerned about the possibility of intruders.
Fiona’s chamber was clearly visible now, with a small metal balcony attached to its narrow window. If Christophe could manage to climb up a dozen feet of stone wall without falling or being discovered, he would have her in his arms again.
* * *
Fiona lay in her big bed against a pile of pillows, her cherished volume of Aristo’s Orlando Furioso open in her hands. She had reached the section where Orlando, a trusted paladin to Emperor Charlemagne, falls in love with the pagan princess Angelica and forgets his duties. Tonight, the Italian words swam before her in the meager light of a guttering candle. Her eyelids drooped. This was just the way Mama had always advised her to fall asleep when she felt worried or disturbed by events that seemed beyond her control.
All her instincts urged her to rebel against this wedding, but each time she considered a possible plan, Fiona remembered how her ailing father had come to rely on Ramsay, and how pleased her grandfather was that the MacAskill family would return to serve Clan MacLeod after years of estrangement.
It wasn’t as if she had any other prospects for her future. Her life was here on Skye, and even though she might endure a loveless marriage, there would be many other compensations. She would enjoy a close relationship with her family in the place she loved best. And it would be very satisfying to know that she had been able to contribute to the safety and wellbeing of her clan.
Certainly, she was not the first woman to marry for reasons other than love. It happened every day. And there was no reason for her to defy her father and selfishly wait for a romantic marriage. Christophe St. Briac was the only man she would ever love and he had chosen to live forever separated from her—not only by an ocean but by a great cultural divide.
To distract her mind from thoughts of tomorrow’s wedding, Fiona closed her eyes and imagined herself sitting in the sun with her father, one or two bairns with dark, curly hair playing nearby.
When she next opened her eyes, the chamber was completely dark except for a few rays of starlight that streamed in through the tall, narrow window with its view of the Minch.
Her heart was racing, and it almost seemed that she could sense Christophe’s presence, even smell his intoxicating essence. She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to calm herself.
“Fiona,” a deep, stirringly familiar voice murmured.
When she reached out in the darkness and felt the hard contours of his chest, Fiona gasped in disbelief.
“I am dreaming,” she whispered.
“No, you are not, I am very real.” Now he was kneeling on the edge of her mattress and gathering her into his strong embrace. “Oh, mon Dieu,” he groaned. “Fiona, I have missed you so much, my heart hurts.”
Every fiber of her being sang and ached for him. He couldn’t be real, yet he felt warm, and she could hear his heart beating through the leather of his doublet. Fiona knew that some dreams could be more real than life and she was grateful to have Christophe on any terms.
“Kiss me. Oh, please, mo ghràdh…” she begged.
Her breasts tingled against the thin fabric of her smock as she raised her arms to his shoulders. When his mouth came down to claim hers, Fiona nearly wept with the intensity of her pleasure and longing. It was as if the whole world was concentrated right there, in that moment. Christophe brought her fully into his embrace and she opened her mouth to him, surrendering to the splendor of their kiss.
His hands slid down over her hips then he cupped her buttocks and brought her fully in contact with the warm, pulsing proof of his need for her. Please God, this time don’t let anything bar our way… Fiona thought. She couldn’t make sense of Christophe’s presence and had no idea if he was even real, but she would not be denied this chance to find fulfillment with the man she loved. Some part of her believed that it would be enough to carry her through whatever the future held. She would keep the memory in the little, carved chest with the slender volume of Orlando Furioso, the dried lavender, and the Viking brooch.
“Your clothes,” she begged, tugging at his doublet, yearning to feel his bare, hard-muscled chest and back, to touch him everywhere.
Christophe drew back and for a moment, his gaze burned her in the starlit darkness. “This is madness,” he said raggedly, but began to quickly undress.
When he was standing naked before her, Fiona realized that she was wet and aching with need. Christophe drew the hem of her shift upward and she raised her arms to help. A moment later, they were embracing, and Fiona thought it was the happiest she had ever been. The feeling of his warm, hard flesh against her breasts, belly, and thighs was so pleasurable, she thought she would never forget that moment, that it alone might be enough. But then Christophe was bending her back and kissing his way down her neck, over one shoulder, to her breasts.
I’ve waited so long…she thought, and it seemed she heard him mutter the same words as his mouth found her nipple. His tongue circled, sending currents of sensation to the place between her legs that now seemed to be the center of the universe. Fiona was lying back on the bed, and his bare limbs were twined in hers. She wanted to touch him everywhere, and she tried, sinking one hand into his crisp dark curls, over the rough curve of his cheekbone, across the breadth of his muscled shoulder. So beautiful! Her fingertips trailed down his tapering back, then found the hard, throbbing length of his erection. Christophe made an animal sound in the back of his throat as he kissed her again, stroking her tongue with his, while his fingertips lightly traced the line of her hip and then teased their way between her legs.
When he touched her there, Fiona thought she would break apart. She spread her legs open to him, wanting more, more, moving against his fingers, panting. As the sensations built inside her, his mouth found her breast again, and this time he sucked harder at her nipple, and as he did so, Fiona saw stars. His fingers pushed inside her as her release came in a shuddering wave of rapture.
“Oh!” she gasped, staring up in wonder at his beloved face.
“Fiona, listen to me,” he said roughly. “I love you. I couldn’t wait another moment to tell you, I had to come tonight.”
“I don’t understand, nothing makes sense, but I don’t care,” she said, hearing the giddiness in her own voice. “I love you, too. Oh, Christophe, this must be a dream, but it’s all I need.”
She was reaching for him, wrapping her fingers partway around his shaft. She wanted to push him back into the pillows and straddle his hips and kiss him all over, but a little warning voice in her head told her there wasn’t time. “Hurry,” she urged as she brought him to the slick and swollen entrance to her very core. “Please, now.”
Christophe took her face in both hands and stared into her eyes before he kissed her. “I don’t want to hurt you, chérie.” Then, with infinite patience, he began to push inside her. After a few moments, he paused, closing his eyes, and she could see in the shadows how intense his pleasure must be. Slowly, almost reverently, he filled her completely, then withdrew, and Fiona began to lift her hips to meet him. She barely felt the moment of pain as her maidenhead gave.
Bringing his face next to her ear, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” Fiona felt as if she might cry. “I feel…complete.”
For a moment, their gazes held, and Christophe urged, “Hold onto me then, ma belle, and we’ll go to a place of our very own.”
Fiona wrapped her bare legs around his waist and clung to his broad shoulders as their bodies found a timeless rhythm. Feeling him thrust deep inside her was the closest Fi had ever come to heaven, but the sensation of him withdrawing and then plunging in again took her higher yet. She panted as she pushed back against him, her own pleasure building again, swelling, cresting, until together they at last found fulfillment in a storm-tossed sea of bliss.
Fiona felt flushed and every nerve in her body seemed to tingle in the afterglow. Her legs trembled as Christophe held her close against him, still buried inside her, while cradling her
in his arms.
“I never want to let you go,” he whispered. “My love.”
* * *
Violette had learned to spy on her enemies long before she escaped from France, and now she was spying on someone she cared for.
Fiona was in bed with St. Briac, Violette felt certain of it. She stood in the tiny servant’s chamber that adjoined that of her mistress, her ear pressed to the door, her heart pounding. Panting, tell-tale rhythmic movements, soft laughter, murmurings.
Thank God he had come! Violette’s heart lifted for her dear Fiona.
It must be Ciaran MacLeod who had brought him here. It was the only answer that made sense. Fiona’s brother had been staying at Dunvegan Castle, and somehow St. Briac had made his way to Skye and enlisted his help. Through her tiny window, Violette could see the little boat on the beach a short distance from the castle, while in the courtyard below, the guards were oblivious. The trio now lounged together against the guardroom wall, their heads lolling as they shared the jug of whiskey.
Violette had to speak to Ciaran…if she could just get to him. Soundlessly, she donned her sturdy shoes, wrapped herself in a hooded cloak, and slipped out through the other door that led into the dark corridor.
* * *
Where the devil could the Frenchman be? fumed Ciaran as he shivered in the damp wind blowing off the Minch. No doubt he is ravishing my sister, thanks to me!
In his frustration, Ciaran felt like pacing, but of course, he could not. Just then, glimpsing a shape on the path that circled around to the castle, he felt a wave of relief. Finally!
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 24
