Fiona’s father blinked, coming back to the moment. “Aye, then. If it is your wish.”
Fixing her weary gaze on him, Eleanor pressed, “I would hear you give your word, Magnus.”
“I swear.” He lifted her pale hand to his lips. “But ’twill not be necessary. Ye cannot leave us.”
As if conserving her energy, Eleanor made no reply, looking instead toward her sons. When she stretched out a hand, Lennox came to her first. In a tear-choked voice, he implored, “Ma, don’t go.”
“My beautiful lion, you will be just fine. Guard your tender heart, but do not hesitate to venture out into the wider world.”
Ciaran held back, dry-eyed, when she looked to him. After a long moment, he came closer but did not touch her.
“I know you fear opening yourself to love, dear son,” she whispered as a tear rolled down her pale cheek. “But I can promise you, it’s worth the pain.”
He looked stricken and Fiona understood. A human heart could only hold so much, and who knew what might be the tipping point? Fi came around to the other side of the bed, taking Isbeil’s place.
“Mama, you must rest. Will you have tea? Or a bit of food?”
Ciaran had backed away from their mother, while Lennox sat closer and Magnus wrapped her hand in his big one.
“All I need is right here,” Eleanor whispered. “My family.” Her eyes closed, her breathing slowed, and she squeezed Magnus’s hand…just enough, it seemed, to remind him of his promise.
Fiona felt a gust of chilled air in the tower room. Urgently, she said, “Mama, what about a warm biscuit with honey? I’ll go and fetch you one right now.”
“It’s no use, lass,” said her father. He looked as if he’d drunk poison. “Your beautiful mother is with the angels now.”
In a daze of disbelief and exhaustion, Fiona backed away from the bed. She couldn’t breathe. “Da…I must have a bit of air.”
“Go on, then,” he replied. “Ye deserve a respite.”
She had to pass Ramsay in the arched doorway. He towered over her, attempting as usual to impose his will on her. Another day, she would have brooded about the plans the men were making for her life, but today she felt numb and longed only to get away.
“Do ye pretend I’m not here?” he asked gruffly, blocking her path. “I bear a powerful regard for ye, Fiona Rose.”
Fi saw him staring at the ancient brooch and raised a hand to cover it protectively. “Kindly let me by.”
She squeezed past him and ran down the twisting stone steps, wishing she were not encumbered by skirts. When she emerged into the courtyard, the sun blinded her for a moment. Servants and animals were milling about, oblivious to the crushing blow that had just been dealt to her family.
In a quiet corner, near the ancient well, Fiona saw little Robbie sitting near her falcon’s perch. Robbie was a stable boy who dreamed of being a real falconer, perhaps at Dunvegan Castle, their clan stronghold. But it was Fi who had the true gift for hawking. When the falcon was on her wrist, she felt completely alive—and free of worldly cares.
Just ahead, a flat-surfaced perch was anchored to the ground and on it waited her falcon. She had named the bird Erik, even though Da scoffed that birds shouldn’t have names. He also liked to remind her that the stunning white gyrfalcon had no affection for her, no matter what Fi might imagine.
Robbie saw her coming and scrambled to his feet. Erik, wearing a soft leather hood decorated with feathers, turned his head this way and that, sensing Fiona’s presence.
She donned a long, stiff leather glove on her right hand, a smaller version of the gauntlet men wore to protect their arms from a bird of prey’s sharp talons. Fiona’s heart lifted as she turned to Erik.
“Do ye mean to hunt today?” asked Robbie. “No one told me.”
A sudden breeze from the Minch blew Fiona’s black hair behind her like a banner. “Nay.” She found, to her surprise, that she could smile. “I just needed a few moments with my friend here. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
With that, Fi pinched the tuft of feathers sewn to the top of Erik’s hood and lifted it away from his head. She next unfastened the tether that held him to the perch and extended her arm to him.
He came onto the gauntlet and blinked at her, waiting.
Fiona started toward the curtain wall. She climbed the steps to the walkway that overlooked the Minch, holding her right arm out with Erik perched on the gauntlet. Gyrfalcons were the largest of the falcons and usually reserved for men. Da had tried to give her a merlin, calling it a fitting bird for a female, but Fi would have none of it.
Erik looked at her now as if he understood everything she was feeling. She loved his mood of serious calm, his beautiful white feathers with their flecks of black. It was a blessing to be alive in this moment with such a creature of God.
When they reached the battlements, Fiona went to the very edge. Staggeringly tall cliffs lifted Duntulm Castle high above the choppy sapphire-and-crystal sea. It was a mad place to live and she adored it. She breathed deeply of the tangy air.
“Fly for me,” she whispered to Erik, extending her arm upward in a signal to the great bird. With a whoosh of his white wings, he leaped free of her, into the air, and soared high above the Minch. He was scanning the water and the rocky shore, she knew, for signs of prey.
Watching him, Fiona was relieved to feel the hot tears come at last. “Fly for Mama,” she added softly, her heart swelling as the gyrfalcon spread his wings wider and flew farther away, as if he were bound for a place unknown to her.
* * *
Manoir du Rêves
Near Paris, France
The hawk paused in mid-air, silhouetted against the pale gray sky, then made a sweeping turn and sailed back to land on Christophe de St. Briac’s outstretched, gauntlet-clad arm. Christophe loved this moment, when he felt the powerful grip of the wild bird’s talons.
“There are woodcocks over the next rise, in that thicket,” said Philippe, his falconer. The wiry young man widened his eyes hopefully. “Shall we go on?”
Christophe’s hunting dog, Raoul, waited nearby. The Grand Bleu de Gascogne hound watched them attentively, as if he could understand every word they said.
Just as Christophe prepared to toss common sense to the soft spring breeze and agree, he heard a familiar voice calling his name. Again. Wincing slightly, he turned to look back up the hillside toward his stately yet simple manor house.
Immediately he recognized the tall, powerful form of his older brother, Thomas, Seigneur de St. Briac. As he drew closer, Thomas demanded in mock-outrage, “Have you been pretending not to hear me?”
Christophe laughed. “No, but I have been trying to escape from all responsibility today. The plans for Madame Fouquet’s new château are giving me a devil of a headache.”
“Then you were right to ignore my calls. I confess that I’ve been sent by the king to fetch you. He bids you dine with him at the Palais du Louvre.”
“That is the last place I wish to be. All of Paris is celebrating the impending wedding of Marie de Guise to Scotland’s King James V. Isn’t our monarch right in the thick of it, since he arranged the marriage?” Arching a brow, Christophe turned to his falconer and extended his arm so that the well-trained hawk could hop to the other man’s gauntlet. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find the palace filled with a lot of brusque Scots tonight.”
As they walked back up the hill together, their long legs striding in perfect rhythm, Thomas murmured, “Perhaps a few…though the wedding will be at the Guise castle, Châteaudun, a good distance from Paris. And King James, her Scottish bridegroom, won’t even be in attendance. He’s sent a proxy, Lord Maxwell.”
“Indeed? I beg you, remind me of that option if I am ever tempted to wed.” Christophe arched an ironic brow. “Can I not send a proxy to answer this royal summons?”
“I’m afraid not. Will it help if I assure you that Aimée and I will be at the Louvre as well?”
Although Chris
tophe was cheered by this news, he merely gave a slight shrug. “A little.”
“Hmm. What if I tell you that Aimée believes Louise Rennault will also be in attendance?”
This drew a roguish laugh from Christophe and he threw an arm around Thomas. “My sister-in-law is an incurable matchmaker.”
They were walking up the steps to the back of the stone manor house he had designed and built himself. Handsome doors set with large panes of leaded glass led into the study that stretched across the entire floor. Christophe opened one of them and ushered his brother into the room where he spent most of his days.
“How can you possibly find anything in here?” asked Thomas, looking around in mock dismay.
Christophe pretended to ignore him. He loved this room better than any place on earth. It was lined with shelves of his books, some of them stacked on top of one another, and there was a long desk in the middle that appeared to be cluttered with building plans. Some were rolled up and carelessly tied with bits of ribbon while others were spread across the polished wood surface in no apparent order. There were special shelves and drawers built into the desk to hold his various measuring tools, ink, and quills.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he told his brother in a tone of wry humor. “I know exactly where everything is.”
“The workshop of a genius,” Thomas mused. “As I recall from the days when Leonardo da Vinci lived near the king’s château at Amboise, that great man was the same. His mind was always running ahead at a furious pace, and even at an advanced age, he was working on many projects at once.”
The sun was emerging to shine through the many windows Christophe had designed to bring light into his study. As he drew off his leather gloves, he glanced longingly at the plans he had been working on, spread open in the middle of the desk.
“Couldn’t I join you later? I’ve just had an inspiration for the tower in Madame Fouquet’s new château.”
“Absolutely not. And you’ll need to wash up and change out of your hunting clothes before we go to the palace.” Thomas crossed to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine.
“First, tell me what this is all about,” Christophe demanded. “You wouldn’t lead your own brother into a trap, would you?”
“No, of course not!” Thomas looked amused. “In fact, I think that you’ll be pleased. The king’s proposition may change the course of your life, but for the better.”
This sounded ominous. Unlike his adventure-loving brother, Christophe had an aversion to change. He preferred to wake up in his own home, where he could arrange each day without surprises.
He glanced one more time at the plans for the château he’d been commissioned to build by Madame Josephine Fouquet. A flirtatious widow, she favored a design that was numbingly similar to all the other grand homes in the French countryside. Now that Christophe had conceived of an original approach, he felt excited and wished only to lose himself in a series of new sketches.
“You know that I despise the Palais du Louvre in its state,” he complained. “Almost as much as I dislike the rich food served at royal dinners, the overbearing palace décor, and the perfumed courtiers.”
“You aren’t referring to your own brother, are you?” Thomas parried.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You aren’t one of those power-hungry sycophants. You have been the king’s friend since boyhood and no one knows better than I how you’ve avoided accepting wealth or titles from him, so that you could retain your independence.”
“That’s true. And because I only do his bidding when I agree with his motives, please trust me.” With a gleam in his eye, Thomas added, “Louise Rennault is waiting. It seems to me that you are overdue for an amorous diversion. Perhaps some feminine affection will soften your mood.”
Christophe glanced over as Raoul strolled into the room. From his canine mouth trailed a silk stocking left behind by one of his master’s paramours.
He didn’t need Aimée or anyone else to arrange a romance for him; there were more than enough women angling to share his bed. The bigger challenge was getting rid of them in the morning.
Part One
Chapter 1
The Louvre Palace
Paris, France
When Christophe entered the Louvre’s Receiving Room, he paused to glance around at the throngs of lavishly-garbed guests who were socializing with the king before dinner. Across the cavernous chamber, he saw his sister-in-law, Aimée, chatting happily with the woman she hoped to link him with. Louise Rennault was certainly his type: statuesque and fair-haired, with a sensuous mouth and firm breasts that showed above the low, compressed bodice of her gown. And because her husband had just died in a tournament a few months ago, she would be ripe for an affaire de coeur without expecting any real commitment from him.
“Christophe…” a female voice purred near his shoulder.
Sylvie de Longueville, a cousin-in-law of Marie de Guise, leaned around him, smiling coquettishly. She was a lover from his youth, married now with children, and he guessed that she was in the mood for a diversion.
“Bon soir, madame.”
“Have you noticed, mon cher…” Sylvie murmured, “every woman in the room is staring at you.”
“Are they? Perhaps I’ve forgotten an essential article of clothing.” Absently, Christophe glanced in a huge mirror that hung between enormous portraits of the two princes. “Ah, what a relief. I look just as I always do. I feared I might have dribbled soup on my doublet.”
In the mirror, he beheld a very tall, broad-shouldered man who was tanned and lean-muscled from the regular exercise he took riding, fencing, and hunting with his hound and hawk. His clothing, though expertly made, was understated compared to the elaborate, colorful jewel-encrusted garments worn by the obsequious courtiers who pretended to hang on every word of King François I.
Sylvie touched Christophe’s doublet of charcoal gray velvet sparingly set with sapphires. “On any other man, this would look somber. But with your dark hair and blue eyes, it is an inspired choice.” Her fingers moved to caress his rakish beard.
Christophe sensed that she was about to suggest they meet later, alone. “I don’t pay much attention to my clothing.”
Just then, he was rescued by Aimée, who managed to insert herself in between them. With sweet smile, she inquired of Sylvie, “May I steal my brother-in-law away for a few minutes?”
“Of course,” she said with a little laugh. “And I see the dauphin waving at me.”
When she had gone, Aimée shook her head, and her black curls gleamed in the candlelight. He had been enchanted by his brother’s wife since Thomas first brought her home to Château du Soleil, when Christophe had been just fifteen years of age.
“Tsk, tsk. They are all lusting for you,” she teased. “I suppose you’ll say you can’t help it.”
“See here, I didn’t even want to come out tonight. I was perfectly content to stay in my study with Raoul snoring at my feet while I puzzled over the plans for Madame Fouquet’s tower.”
Aimée lightly cuffed his arm. “No, no, you had to come.”
“Because the king means to bend me to his will?”
She stared back at him. “That may be, but why not focus on the pleasures at hand? Madame Louise Rennault hopes to be seated beside you at dinner tonight.”
He pretended not to hear. “There is another reason I’ve come. I intend to petition the king to commission me to redesign the Louvre. I would transform it into a palace he can truly be proud of.” Christophe could hear the excitement creeping into his own voice.
Aimée blinked. “Have you told your brother this?”
“No. It’s a dream that began when I was a student at the College Royal, but I’ve been preoccupied with other projects. It wasn’t until I arrived tonight and took another good look at this monstrosity that I realized my destiny is now at hand.”
“Destiny?” She drew back slightly. “Isn’t that a rather strong word?”
Before he
could reply, Thomas appeared with a small goblet of red wine for his wife. In a deceptively casual tone, he said to Christophe, “His Majesty asks that you attend him, now, before the boards are laid for dinner.”
* * *
Face to face with King François I, Christophe realized that the monarch’s aura of power had not diminished with age. Although a few pounds heavier, the king still wore his rich clothing with a regal air and his dark eyes snapped with interest.
“Ah, you’ve come to my palace at last, young St. Briac. You are something of a recluse, I perceive.”
“Nay, sire, I have only been working…too much, perhaps. I had forgotten how much pleasure could be gained at your court.” It was only a little lie, he told himself, suppressing a smile. “And I am grateful for the opportunity to speak to you, for I have a proposal to make.”
The king looked taken aback. “As it happens, I insisted on your presence today because I have a request to make of you.” He touched a forefinger to the side of his great nose, considering. “However, you have aroused my curiosity. I will first listen to your proposal.”
After accepting a goblet of wine from a servant, Christophe had to force himself to drink. His mind was racing. This was his chance to achieve the dream of a lifetime before he reached his thirtieth birthday. Watching the king lean back in his carved chair, waiting, Christophe straightened his shoulders.
“Your Majesty, I hope to discuss with you my work as a master builder. An architect.”
“I know all about it! Did I not reward you with a knighthood after the years you spent studying with the great Italian masters, Giulio Romano and the great Michelangelo—?”
“Yes!” Christophe was too caught up in his own feelings to realize he had just interrupted the King of France. “Ah, sire, it was the transformative experience of my life. Although I attended your own College Royal, studying principles of mathematics and art, it was not until I traveled to Mantua and worked alongside Romano as he built the splendid Palazzo del Te, that I realized I was born to create splendid buildings.”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 2