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

by Cynthia Wright

  “You thought to kill me,” Christophe said harshly, “striking me down from behind and leaving me to starve in a cold dark pit at Falkland Palace. But I’m not the only one who has suffered from your crimes.” He glanced toward Ciaran, who disengaged himself from the group and went forward. His tousled black hair shone in the torchlight, and his eyes were like blue ice as he addressed Magnus.

  “Da, ye should know the truth about Ramsay. I’ve gotten back my memory of what really happened on the day I found myself drowning in an abandoned well. ’Twas Ramsay MacAskill who lay in wait and pushed me in. Later, when I’d given up yelling for help, he turned up to pull me out and claim the glory for rescuing me.” Ciaran gave Ramsay one of his coldest stares. “Ever since ye started hanging about and began acting like a son to Da, I’ve had ill feelings toward ye. Now I know why! I can only thank God that St. Briac stopped ye from marrying my sister.”

  “What say you, MacAskill?” Christophe asked softly, as a few crimson drops of blood appeared at the base of the Highlander’s throat. “Aye or nay?”

  “Aye!” he choked. “’Twas the simplest way to quickly win favor from Magnus and the MacLeod.”

  Then, Violette walked forward amid a soft chorus of curious whispers. Fiona noticed the way her brother lingered to watch the young French woman, but of course, he was known for bedding virtually every relatively attractive female he encountered. No doubt he intended to have Violette next, although Fiona wouldn’t have expected her arresting brother to be drawn to so plain and unadorned a lass.

  “I am but a servant,” the girl was saying to Alasdair Crotach, “but I also have a tale of the evil done by Ramsay MacAskill.” She turned to face Magnus. “He has been poisoning you, m’lord. The spells you have suffered have been caused by some potion this villain has put in your ale. I have no proof, but he was behaving very suspiciously, and when I changed your glass with his last night, he only pretended to drink…and you did not fall ill as you had before.”

  “What have you to say to this charge?” demanded Christophe.

  Before Ramsay could reply, Una MacAskill struggled to her feet. There were tears on her puffy cheeks as she exclaimed, “Ach, ’tis the truth! He first asked for the potion before he went to Falkland with ye, and then again when he visited me just days ago. I wanted to believe my son when he claimed he needed the drops for a friend who could not sleep, but I did fear he had a darker purpose.” Wringing her hands, she turned to Magnus. “Can ye forgive this foolish old woman?”

  Magnus looked stunned, and Fiona recognized that his flush was a sign of embarrassment. Turning to Ramsay, he asked in a hoarse voice, “Is this true? Did ye do me this harm, after I treated ye as a son?”

  Swamped by feelings of outrage and fury, Fiona longed to rush forward and stab Ramsay with her own dirk. Yet she held back, watching as Christophe leaned forward slightly until more drops of blood collected on his blade.

  “Answer for your crimes, MacAskill,” he demanded in a deadly tone.

  Scowling, Ramsay closed his eyes. “’Twas the only way to bend that wayward lass to my will. I could not take the risk that she might be tempted to change her mind.”

  Her father turned to look for her through the crowd. “Ah, Fi, I was so very wrong not to listen to ye when ye told me not to force this marriage,” he said, his voice raw. “I was selfish and blind.”

  Tears burned Fiona’s eyes as she replied, “I understand, Da. Ramsay worked his wiles on both of us.”

  She started forward but Bayard restrained her with a hand on her arm. “Mademoiselle, do not intervene. You may depend upon St. Briac to win the day for you.”

  “Let me go, Bayard. It is time now for me to have my say.” With that, Fiona made her way through the other onlookers to stand in the center of the hall, conscious of her elders leaning forward to watch her intently. “I praise God that I have found the love of a truly good man like the Chevalier de St. Briac. And I challenge Ramsay MacAskill to answer for the death of my dear nurse, Isbeil, whose poor, lifeless body I discovered on my bed at Falkland Palace.” She pointed at Ramsay, her voice cold with fury. “Did you not kill her as well? No doubt she suspected you intended nothing but ill toward me and my family!”

  A gasp was heard through the Great Hall as Ramsay responded by opening his eyes just a fraction. “I had no choice! When the old crone discovered me searching for the Viking brooch, which rightfully belonged to the MacAskills, she threatened to expose me.”

  “Murderer!” cried Fiona, overcome by grief.

  “I have heard enough!” Alasdair Crotach bellowed in a surprisingly strong voice. He pushed himself to stand. “MacAskill, you are right about one thing. The Viking treasure, discovered by Murdo MacAskill should be in the care of his family, and I will make certain your mother is entrusted with it this very day. You, however, will fully taste the evil you have visited on others. Guards, take this villain to the dungeon!”

  Ramsay seemed to lose consciousness, collapsing on the stone floor. Christophe did not remove his blade until two brawny MacLeod men-at-arms appeared. They lifted Ramsay by both arms and began to drag his limp body away, but after a few steps he suddenly wrenched his arms away and sprang to his feet. Flinging himself free of the surprised guards, he bolted off in the other direction with a strength born of madness.

  He ran out of the keep with the men-at-arms and countless others in pursuit. Fiona caught hold of Christophe’s hand as he went by, and together they emerged into the courtyard with her brothers, father, Bayard, and Violette nearby.

  After a moment’s confusion, Fiona saw Ramsay scrambling up a set of steps that led to the ramparts. “I will not submit to ye and die in your dungeon, MacLeod!” he screamed.

  A moment later, Fiona and Christophe watched as Ramsay jumped to his death, throwing himself from the parapet to the massive rocks a hundred feet below.

  Epilogue

  April, 1539

  Cottage of Dreams, Isle of Skye

  “I’ll own I never thought mornings like this could be ours,” said Christophe as he lay in bed, his hard-muscled arms wrapped securely around his wife. “Is it too late for breakfast?”

  “It depends on what sort of breakfast you mean,” Fiona said with a soft laugh. Snuggling closer to his bare chest, she added, “Do you refer to food?”

  “Food? What’s that?”

  They were both laughing now, touching each other intimately as Christophe rolled on top of her and began to kiss his way from her neck to the swell of her breast. This was bliss. After all they had been through to be together, hadn’t they earned the right to sit up talking until midnight, indulge in uninhibited lovemaking throughout the night, and then lounge naked in bed, dozing until mid-morning?

  “I feel so very decadent,” murmured Fiona as he licked her nipple and then, oh so slowly, began to suckle it in exactly the way that made her whimper with arousal. Her fingers stole down to find his erection, stroking him in the way she knew would drive him mad. “Even a bit…sore.”

  This caused him to lift his head and gaze into her sleepy, sensual eyes. “Have I inflicted pain on you, chérie? And if so, why are you touching me that way?”

  She laughed, easing his fears. “It’s just that we have loved so often since moving into our cottage—and I can’t seem to stop myself.” It was her turn to push him into the pillows and cover his lips with hers. Her tongue was bold, fencing and teasing, and she straddled his hips and moved intimately against him. She was certainly wet enough, but he knew ways to make her wetter, hotter, crying out as she convulsed against his mouth.

  “Come to me, my beautiful bride,” he ordered before framing her hips with his strong hands and urging her forward until she knelt above his face. Looking up, he felt a surge of stormy passion mixed with deep love as he watched her drop her head back, breasts thrust out, in anticipation.

  “You have made me a wanton,” Fiona accused with a sensual smile.

  “Hold still, love,” he said hoarsely, and began
to pleasure her in exactly the ways he knew she craved most.

  * * *

  Fiona awoke an hour later to hear Raoul making a sound in the back of his throat. Not a bark or a growl, but a polite bid for attention. When she opened her eyes, she saw him sitting next to the bed, his penetrating gaze fixed on her.

  She sat up which caused Christophe to awaken. “We forgot Raoul! How bad we are.”

  Raoul seemed to take the sound of his own name as an invitation and leaped up into the bed with them. The wooden frame creaked a protest, causing the hound to glance around in alarm while his two humans laughed. Fiona had never imagined she could be so profoundly happy, and yet, there were even happier times ahead it seemed for her monthly flow had ceased, and she guessed a baby would be born by the end of summer. When she had told Christophe, he’d insisted that they move immediately into the cottage he’d been building. They called it Cottage of Dreams, the English translation of his French home, Manoir du Rêves. It nestled against the slope of a green hill near Duntulm Castle, but hopefully far enough away from the sea to be safe from attack.

  Already the spacious cottage, with its unusually high roof and large windows, looked as if they had lived there always. Embers from their fire glowed in the hearth. The stone floor was strewn with fresh rushes and lavender, and in one corner, Christophe had placed bookshelves and a large table strewn with papers and rolled-up plans. Whenever he had enough of work, he could look out over the garden Fiona had begun to plant and the sheep-dotted glen beyond.

  “Let us have breakfast,” she said. “Poor Raoul must be ravenous, and even we need real food…occasionally.” How she loved to see him laugh! “Stop enticing me with that weapon of yours, and let me up to prepare our meal.”

  “How could I be so thoughtless?” Christophe swung his long, powerful legs over the side of the bed. “You and my son need nourishment.”

  “Your son may well be a lass,” Fiona rejoined.

  “Do you think I could be a proper father to a daughter?” He leaned back to kiss her. “God knows I’d be grateful to try.”

  An hour later, they were walking hand-in-hand up the hillside toward Duntulm Castle as Raoul bounded along beside them. It was a typical day on Skye, misty and cool. Up on the battlements, Fiona could make out the shape of Robbie the falconer, flinging Erik off his gauntlet and into the air.

  “I miss him,” Fiona confessed. “But, at least, we are close enough to visit.”

  Christophe gave a wry laugh and pulled her against him. “I notice you aren’t claiming to miss Magnus, or your rogue of a brother, Ciaran.”

  “True. I confess, the months we lived in the castle did try my patience at times, but thankfully, we had a chamber of our own to escape to.” She thought back to the early days of their marriage, which they had solemnized through a handfasting ceremony. It had been just the two of them, in the same cave where they’d been after the abduction at the kirk, the same cave where Fiona had long ago pretended to be a bride, waiting for her husband’s return. For their vows, she had worn red campion, yellow saxifrage, and marsh orchids in her hair, and the Viking serpent brooch had been fixed to her gown. It was the only piece from the Viking treasure that remained in the MacLeod family, and it always reminded Fiona of her mother—and also of the day at Falkland Palace when she had told Christophe about the blue men of the Minch.

  “I wonder how Violette is faring without you at the castle,” he mused now, pausing to throw a stick for Raoul. “It cannot be easy for her to manage your father’s household on her own.”

  “Violette is a strong-willed lass. I feel certain she can fend for herself, but I do wonder why she stays in Scotland. I expected her to want to return to France, or that someone from her family might travel here to seek her out.”

  Christophe stared out toward the sea as the chilly wind blew his dark hair back from his face. “It would seem the life she left behind must have been worse than her current situation.”

  “At least, Da and Ciaran do not mistreat her!” Hearing the defensiveness in her own voice, Fiona sighed. “Aye, they can be difficult, I’ll grant you that. If Lennox would spend more time at home, that might help. He’s always been an easier sort than Ciaran.”

  “You and I and Raoul will sail for France within the fortnight,” he reminded her. “Would you like to invite Violette to come with us?”

  Fiona stopped, as if the castle had ears. It seemed disloyal to even consider taking Violette away from Skye. Now that Da felt as if he had lost both his wife and daughter, Violette had become a satisfying substitute. Fi had taught her everything she had learned over a lifetime, and now Violette knew just how much ale to keep on hand, the schedule Da liked to keep, even how to get along with Old David, the cook.

  “I would feel terrible if we asked her and she agreed,” Fiona said. “How would Da manage now without her?”

  “Fiona, for God’s sake, your father is a grown man—and the last time I checked, your brothers were as well.”

  “All right. I will ask her, but I pray she declines.”

  They were nearing the new landward entrance Christophe had designed for the castle. When he first mentioned his idea to bring Duntulm Castle out of the middle ages, he’d had resistance from Magnus, who felt vulnerable to attack from enemies on horseback. “In France, we’ve been opening up the fortifying walls of our châteaux for decades. Those savage times are behind us,” Christophe had told Fiona, but he knew better than to make such comparisons to his father-in-law. Eventually, Magnus had agreed on his own because there had been a long period of peace between the MacDonalds and the MacLeods…and he wanted to make it easier for Fiona to visit him once she and Christophe moved to their new cottage.

  “How handsome the new door is,” Fiona said proudly, as they approached it. “Thanks to you.”

  He nodded but looked distracted. “I am eager to return to Falkland Palace on our way to France. It will be so good to see the masons again, especially Bayard, and I want to show you the roundel that we created in your likeness.”

  “I am looking forward to seeing it,” Fiona replied. No matter how much they had both enjoyed their first months of marriage in Scotland, she knew that her husband was missing his work. His gifts were too important to be wasted on designing a simple castle door. “It will be wonderful to return to Falkland Palace, to reunite with Bayard and the king and queen, and to place some flowers on dear Isbeil’s grave.” Fiona swallowed hard at the thought of the faithful old servant and all she had endured. “How pleased she would be to know the happy outcome.”

  “Indeed.” Christophe stopped a few feet from the entrance and drew her into his arms. “And I intend to make your dreams come true for many years to come.”

  “And I yours,” she rejoined, beaming up at him. “I can hardly wait to sail to France, to meet your family and see your beautiful home.”

  “Manoir du Rêves is our home, chérie. And Thomas and Aimée are your family as well. I am frankly surprised that they have not turned up on our doorstep—or should I say, at the sea-gate, during our sojourn on the Isle of Skye. Since they had given up on finding me a bride, they must be beside themselves with curiosity to meet you.” He kissed her then, slowly and tenderly, as he always did when she needed to feel his love. “And I intend to take you to all the places in France and Italy you’ve dreamed of seeing. We shall visit Michelangelo in Rome and see the fresco of the Last Supper he has been painting on the altar wall in the Sistine Chapel.”

  Fiona felt dizzy with joy. “I cannot even imagine such a meeting. I like to think that Mama will be watching us and sharing in our happiness.”

  “She’ll be with us in spirit, and pleased to see you enjoying all the books you ever dreamed of.”

  “No doubt, there are more in your own library in Paris than I have seen in my lifetime,” Fiona said with a sigh.

  Just then, they heard a female cry out inside the castle, and a moment later, a young lass came rushing out the door. The bodice of her simple g
own was unbuttoned, her hair was uncovered, and she carried her shoes as she ran past them, barefoot.

  “Oh, pardon!” the girl cried as she narrowly avoided bumping into Christophe.

  “It’s Bea, the castle blacksmith’s daughter,” Fiona said in surprise, watching the lass rush into a nearby grove of trees.

  “We’d better see that everyone is all right inside,” Christophe said, taking Fiona’s arm.

  They went through the handsome portal and soon emerged into the Great Hall where Magnus was sitting at a table and eating his midday meal. Dougal, his wolfhound, made a low sound of warning at Raoul, even though they had lived together in the castle for several months.

  “Ach, ’tis good to see ye, lass!” Magnus exclaimed to Fiona.

  She wanted to remind him to greet Christophe as well but had learned it wasn’t worth mentioning day after day. At least he was civil, and that seemed enough for now.

  “Why was Bea running out the door as if she feared for her life?” Fi asked her father.

  Before he could reply, Violette came into the hall, looking as if she had smelled something rotten. Following close behind her was Ciaran. His black hair was even more disheveled than usual and he wore only his plaid, seemingly donned in haste, with the long end pulled around his broad shoulders.

  “You disgust me!” Violette pronounced, without deigning to look at him.

  “Ye have no right to judge me, lass!” came his outraged reply. “Am I not a man, with a man’s needs? Do not expect me to live a celibate life just because I am under the same roof as ye! Ye choose to go about with ice in your veins? Fine. But I’ve Highland fire in mine, and I’ll not be changing to please a serving wench!”

  Violette made no reply, merely sending him a murderous glance as she marched across the hall toward the kitchen.

  “Ciaran,” said Fiona, “must you behave like an utter savage at all times?”

  Her splendid-looking brother padded barefoot across the clean stone floor to take a seat across from Magnus. “’Tis my house, too,” he said and poured himself a cup of ale. “I am not wed to that shrew and she has no right to set a code of behavior for me!”