“But how did you escape?” she asked. “And how did you find me?”
“Oh, it is a long story. I had studied the plans to the old castle, and I remembered seeing another tunnel that had been filled in. And then it was Raoul, barking, who helped me find it.” Christophe wiped the tears from her face with the edge of his plaid. After answering more of her questions, he concluded, “Once I was free, Bayard and I set off for the Isle of Skye. We were ill-prepared for all the dangers we encountered in the wilds of Scotland, but a friend of yours came to help us find the way.”
“A friend? Who could that be?”
“Erik.” Smiling, Christophe began to relax as he soaked up the feeling of her warm, softly curved body. How perfectly she fit in his arms! “He appeared at the window of my little cottage as I was packing for our journey, and he and Raoul accompanied us all the way to Skye. We came from the mainland by boat, and fate brought your brother, Ciaran, to us soon after we landed. It was he who hid Bayard and me at Dunvegan, and he who took me to your castle bed last night.”
“It’s an amazing tale.” Fiona shook her head in wonder. “I think God must have intended for us to be together.”
“I’m glad you think so because I certainly believe that it should be so. Tell me now, my love, what of these last weeks for you?”
“For me? I have felt like a rabbit in a snare.” As she spoke, her rosy cheeks went pale. “Da has been afflicted with spells, beginning shortly after Isbeil’s death, and his helplessness and confusion caused me to feel even more bound to do his bidding, to marry Ramsay as he desired, to help our clan, to sacrifice my own happiness to some…greater good. I believed you were lost to me forever, and I would never love another man.” Fiona tenderly lifted her slim fingers to his cheekbone. “Even when you came to me last night, I feared you were an illusion.”
Christophe nodded, covering her hand with his. “I heard all your father said while I was hiding behind the tapestry. I understand the burdens you were under.”
“Yet, I never lost hope, deep inside, that there might be another bend in the road for me. For us.”
“We both were on the verge of settling for half-lives,” he agreed, “but no more. Fiona, say that you will marry me.”
“Of course I will marry you,” she said passionately, rising up to kiss him in a way that expressed far more than words.
“I will do everything in my power to make you happy. If that means living on the Isle of Skye to look after Magnus, we will do it. Together.” He gazed intently into her eyes and continued, “When we were parted, it came to me clearly that the goals I aspired to would be hollow if I did not have you to share them with. I could rebuild a hundred Louvre Palaces and none of them would fulfill me as a man unless you were by my side.”
“I feel as if my heart might burst, I am so happy,” Fiona said. “I pray that we can find a path forward, through the problems that seemed so insurmountable to me. If only there’s a way to look after Da and find our own happiness as well. Oh Christophe, I want more than a life here on Skye. You know how much I have longed to travel to Europe, to experience new adventures and see all the places I have read about in books.”
“If we are together, anything is possible,” he said firmly. “We will create a future we both desire. I can assure you that compromise is possible for me.”
“This from the man who wanted to be left alone with his building plans? Who wanted to live unencumbered by the demands of a family?”
Her teasing sent a fresh surge of desire through his veins. “I only have one thing to say in my own defense. I was a fool.” They laughed together and shared a long kiss before he added, “Until I met you, Fiona, I was holding myself back on life’s journey—not in my work, of course, but in matters of the heart, that required me to go into the dark unknown and take chances. By the time we left the forester’s cottage after the storm, I knew that the very foundation of my life had shifted, but I thought I needed time to absorb those changes. To see the way forward for us. Unfortunately, we had run out of time.”
“I thank God you found me here before it was too late. If…”
“Don’t say it.” Christophe held her close, feeling the pounding of his own heart. He knew the time had come to tell Fiona everything about Ramsay MacAskill. Even though he would have liked to forget about that brute, she had to know, especially because there were still so many obstacles that remained ahead for them. “Fiona, you should know that MacAskill has committed more evil deeds than just trying to kill me.”
Just then came the sounds of a boat scraping the rocks on the shore outside their cavern, the stamp of boots, and then a familiar, faintly sardonic male voice.
“Are ye two lovers fully clothed?” called Ciaran from the mouth of the cave.
Christophe lifted Fiona to her feet and together they went to greet Ciaran. He gave his sister a slightly raffish smile as he looked her up and down. “Ye seem a good deal happier than any time since ye and Da came back from Falkland. It must be love.”
“You may not believe in love, Ciaran Alasdair MacLeod,” she replied tartly, “but I do.”
“That’s good, because ye will need that, and faerie magic as well, to convince Da and Grandfather not to toss St. Briac in the Dunvegan Castle dungeon.” Glancing over at Christophe, he added, “It has a diabolical slit window in the wall adjoining the steps from the basement kitchen, so the starving prisoners can smell the food being carried to the Great Hall.”
Fiona delighted Christophe by standing in front of him and spreading her arms out, as if to shield him. “No one is going to put the man I love in another dungeon!”
“Aye, you’re right,” Ciaran agreed with a laugh. “But Da and Grandfather are fair seething with anger, despite my attempts to explain. I brought them, with the rest of the wedding party, out of the kirk and back to Dunvegan Castle. Grandfather decided that they might as well enjoy the wedding feast, since it took so many days to prepare. Let’s hope the fine French wine will soften his temper.”
“And Ramsay?” asked Christophe, keeping his tone even so that Fiona wouldn’t be frightened.
Ciaran shrugged his strong shoulders. “By the time I got the MacLeod guests into the galley, there was no sign of him.” Their eyes met in silent understanding of what Ramsay MacAskill was capable of. “I suggest we return to the castle now and attempt to untangle this coil.”
Chapter 29
As Ciaran led the way up the uneven steps that were carved into the Dunvegan Castle cliff, Fiona felt her heart begin to pound in trepidation. The wind had come up and slate-gray storm clouds were marching in from the Minch.
“I hope Grandfather doesn’t react violently toward Christophe,” she said, glancing up at the man she loved. “We could be greeted by a phalanx of MacLeod men-at-arms or even a small army of clan warriors.”
“Nay,” Ciaran said as the guard came to open the sea-gate. “I spoke to Grandfather and Da. They are both furious, of course, but I did convince them to wait and hear ye out.” He patted Fiona’s shoulder with considerably more affection than he’d demonstrated in many years. “We know that the clan comes first, but ’tis only right that they listen before they condemn ye.”
“I should be wearing my own clothing,” Christophe interjected in a hard voice. “I should face them as myself, not have them think I’m pretending to be someone I am not.”
Ciaran shrugged. “I suspect Grandfather will like it that ye wear the plaid.”
They came inside the walls to the courtyard, and Fiona saw the familiar faces of warriors and clansmen milling about near the entrance to the Great Hall, including Feargus, the old servant who had always given her a bad feeling.
Fiona found herself imagining more dire scenarios for what lay ahead. Handling the difficult men in her family was a skill acquired over her lifetime, and even now she often felt uncertain about the way either Da or Grandfather would react when she approached one of them. It took tact, she felt, and a bit of affectionate guile to re
ad their moods and proceed accordingly. They were Highland men, after all, and Grandfather was chief of their clan. He held the power of life and death over a man like Christophe de St. Briac.
“Perhaps, I should speak to Grandfather and Da first,” she said, looking up at Christophe. “I could smooth the way for you.”
“No.” His tone brooked no argument, yet she thought he had never looked more splendid and handsome. “I will stand before them, and your entire clan for that matter, and pledge my love to you. You must let me speak, Fiona.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Without interruption.”
She could guess what he was thinking—that they already felt disdain for him as a Frenchman—a Fhrangaich—and they would never respect him as a man if she tried to plead his case.
“Aye,” she whispered. “You are right.”
Her brother Ciaran was nodding as they spoke, leading the way forward. “We must not tarry,” he said, “or ye will lose this chance.”
It eased her fears to see Christophe looking so confident, and she knew a moment’s relief that it was not up to her to solve this problem on her own. His shoulders were squared, and his crisp blue eyes blazed with purpose as he guided her into the Great Hall.
Yet, when she beheld her grandfather, Fiona’s stomach started churning again. Alasdair Crotach sat in a massive chair at the high table, surrounded by family that included her brother Lennox as well as an assortment of MacAskills. The scene was illuminated by branches of candles and torches in the wall. All of the assembled guests were enjoying a sumptuous feast while servants moved behind them, filling cups of wine. There were musicians, too, including the MacCrimmon pipers, who were pipers to Alasdair Crotach himself.
Fiona realized it had been intended as her wedding feast. As she spied her father, talking to Una MacAskill, she was relieved to notice that Ramsay was nowhere to be seen.
Ciaran strode to the middle of the hall. When he stopped in front of the high table, the assembled guests began to turn and notice Fiona and Christophe. A hush fell over the cavernous room.
“Grandfather,” said Ciaran, and bowed to the old man with his hunched back and mane of white hair. Turning to Magnus, he nodded and added, “Da. You both told me that you would hear the Chevalier de St. Briac speak.”
With that, Ciaran moved aside to stand along one wall near Violette and Bayard. Fiona watched with her heart in her throat as Christophe went forward to face her father and grandfather. What a magnificent figure he was in his linen shirt and belted plaid! His long legs were as hard-muscled as any MacLeod warrior. His chest tapered to a narrow waist, and he wore Ciaran’s “Hold Fast” brooch at his shoulder as if he’d been born to this clan.
But it was his proud, strong, even arrogant demeanor that thrilled Fiona most. Would Da and Grandfather both see the rare quality of this man she loved so deeply?
“I am grateful for this day,” said Christophe in careful Gaelic. “Grateful to be reunited with Fiona Rose, who is precious to me as I know she is to you. And grateful to have this chance to ask for her hand in marriage.”
“Marriage? How dare ye speak of marriage?” exclaimed Alasdair Crotach MacLeod. The old man pushed up on the carved wooden arms of his chair and came halfway to his feet, shaking with outrage. “Ye have behaved like a lawless pirate on this day, intruding on a holy kirk, disrupting the peace of our clan, and carrying off my granddaughter as if she were your plunder! I should have ye tossed in the dungeon and tortured. What have ye to say in your own defense, Frenchman?”
“Defense? Not a word.” Christophe calmly met the great chief’s gaze while Fiona’s heart beat so fast she feared it might come out of her chest. “My intentions, even when it may have seemed otherwise to you, have been honorable. I was attacked and imprisoned at Falkland Palace, or I would have declared myself before Fiona left to travel back to the Isle of Skye.”
“Attacked?” scoffed Magnus. “Imprisoned?”
Fiona couldn’t help herself. “Da, it’s true!” she cried, but before she could rush forward more than a few steps, her brother Ciaran caught the skirt of her gown and pulled her backward.
“Fiona, I love you, but you must leave this to me,” Christophe ordered, turning to pin her to the stone wall with his fiery blue gaze. Calmly, then, he returned his attention to Alasdair Crotach and Magnus MacLeod. “You call me a Frenchman as if to imply that I’m soft, that I prefer a world of grandeur to this place of wild beauty—”
“Is it not true?” interrupted Magnus. “Your life’s work is creating royal palaces!”
It thrilled Fiona to see that he did not back down even an inch. “I am an architect. I’m proud of my abilities, but I would live in a cold, dripping cave if Fiona were by my side.” As he spoke, a hush fell over the Great Hall. “I hope that the lengths to which I have gone to reach this day will convince you of my honorable intent. With my friend, Bayard de Nieuil, I have traveled across Scotland and sailed to Skye. I have faced all manner of danger with a smile because I had to win the hand of fair Fiona. Today, I have even wrapped myself in Highland plaid to convince you that I am worthy of her love.”
Fiona realized that there were tears on her cheeks. She longed desperately to run to him, to throw her arms around his tall, strong form and declare that she would give her life to keep him safe. But she could not.
Christophe focused on Magnus, whose face had begun to soften with grudging respect. “I love your daughter with all my heart. I pledge to be a good husband to her and to treat you and the rest of her family with honor.” After a heavy pause, he added, “Unlike Ramsay MacAskill, who has brought only evil to your family and your clan.”
No sooner had Christophe spoken Ramsay’s name than Fiona saw Feargus, the scrawny old servant, darting around near the doorway. A moment later, Ramsay himself burst in. His black hair flew around as he looked right and left, every muscle bulging, his expression crazed with fury. Both hands gripped the hilt of a giant claymore that was nearly as tall as Fiona herself.
“Did ye think ye could just march to Skye, storm our kirk, and take my possessions, arrogant Fhrangaich?” he shouted at Christophe. “Not as long as Ramsay MacAskill can battle against ye!”
Fiona felt as if the world were coming to an end at that very moment. She started forward to protest that Christophe had no claymore—and even if he did, he had not been trained to fight with one, as Ramsay had, since boyhood. “Oh, unfair!” she started to scream, but Ciaran quickly reached around behind her and clapped his hand over her mouth.
“Ye must let them fight,” he whispered harshly against her ear. “St. Briac must prove himself worthy to wed a Highland lass, the granddaughter of the MacLeod himself.”
“How can he,” she sobbed, “when he has only a rapier, against Ramsay’s giant claymore?”
But across the hall, her grandfather had taken his seat again in the tall chair. Leaning back, he glanced toward Magnus and signaled to the two men to proceed.
To Fiona’s shock, Christophe appeared to be more amused than nervous. As usual, he wore a wicked-looking rapier in a scabbard at his waist, and now he lightly drew it out and faced his opponent, taunting, “Bring me your great clumsy weapon, coward. I await you!”
Roaring with fury, Ramsay charged at him as if they were on the battlefield. His violent behavior was so extreme that Fiona thought that the events of that day must have addled his senses.
“He thinks to quickly overpower your lover,” Ciaran remarked in a low voice.
“Nom de Dieu!” exclaimed Bayard from behind them. “The man is mad!”
Fiona held her breath, watching in horror as Ramsay swept his great blade down above Christophe’s shoulder. Clearly, he meant to deal a death blow at the very outset, to cleave his opponent’s collarbone and cut straight through to the heart—but at that very moment, Christophe stepped aside. There was so much momentum behind Ramsay’s sword that he could not change course. Christophe brought his own rapier up and neatly sliced across the Highlander’s chest, causin
g a ribbon of blood to ooze through the opening in his shirt.
Christophe had the audacity to smile, which only inflamed Ramsay further. Although Fiona’s heart continued to pound, she felt herself begin to relax a bit, realizing that Christophe possessed skills she had known nothing about.
As the two men continued to fight, Ramsay knocked over a bench and then a branch of lit candles as he wildly swung his claymore at Christophe. Just as it seemed Alasdair Crotach was growing annoyed with the mayhem, Ramsay slipped on some rushes, stumbling backward, and was quickly pinned against the wall by Christophe’s blade.
“This is too easy,” Christophe said, laughing softly. “But now, for the best part: your confession. Tell them all how you tried to kill me at Falkland Palace, MacAskill.”
“Ye should be dead! How can ye be here?”
Fiona watched as Christophe looked toward her grandfather without taking the light pressure of the rapier point from Ramsay’s neck. “It’s not quite an admission of guilt, but I hope you take his meaning…” He pushed the blade a bit harder. “MacAskill, did you not hit me over the head, push me down the tunnel into the bottle dungeon, and leave me for dead?”
“Aye. Aye!” Beads of sweat broke out on Ramsay’s brow as he appealed to Una. “Ma, tell them! Tell them what we’ve been through all these years since Da died—in service to this clan!” His eyes darted toward the MacLeod. “Da even discovered a magnificent Viking treasure on our boatyard lands and gave it over to ye, Alasdair Crotach. Yet once my Da was gone, and of no further good to your clan, none of ye gave a damn about the MacAskills!”
Una had gone pale. “Ramsay, have I not told ye, over and over, it will not do to live with such darkness in your heart? The pursuit of revenge never comes right!”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 27
