She ate hungrily of the strong cheese and warm bread, made with white flour that was reserved for the wealthy. When Christophe poured a cup of wine, Fiona drank of it to steel her nerves.
“My mother died recently,” she said. “God rest her soul. She was a Lindsay, and their clan castle, Hilltower, is near here. I spent a long time caring for Mama during her illness…and before she breathed her last, she asked Da to bring me to Hilltower, and to court here at Falkland Palace.” Blinking back tears, she added, “In truth, she told Da to bring me. I don’t know that he would have done it otherwise. He and my brothers like their life just as it is, with me tending to their needs. This journey has disrupted their comfort.”
“I’m sorry that you lost your mother,” Christophe said. He reached out and touched her wrist with his strong, elegant fingers, and Fi felt her heart skip a beat. “I know a bit about that. My own maman died when I was very young.”
“How sad!” she said instantly. “Do you remember her?”
“Oui.” A shadow passed over his handsome face. “I remember her very well. I was four.” He met Fiona’s questioning gaze, seeming to understand what she wanted to ask. “It was the plague.”
Horrified, she held her breath, waiting. Something closed in his face, though, and it was clear he did not want more questions. “I am so very sorry.”
“It was many years ago.” He poured more wine and drank from his own cup. “We pick up the pieces and go on, as you too are learning.”
Fiona’s heart swelled with pain, for the little boy who had endured such a loss, and also for herself as she tried to adjust to life without her beloved mother. Yet, she could see he did not want to speak more of this tender subject.
“Do you mind if I remove this awful headdress? It itches.”
“I heartily approve.” The smile was back, teasing at the corners of his mouth.
Fiona removed the starched gable hood and set it on the table, revealing a linen coif pinned close to her head. A few moments later, her long, ebony locks were freed, and she shook them out and sighed.
“How much better that feels!” She could see that Christophe was amused, but he only leaned back in his chair and ate a wedge of apple.
“I begin to understand why you prefer to dress as a boy,” he remarked.
“Oh, you have no idea.” Rolling her eyes, Fiona put her hands on her hips, squeezing the stomacher, farthingale, and kirtle that held her prisoner. “Every bit of this is designed to constrict movement. To confine. It’s a plot, I suspect.”
His gaze touched the tops of her breasts that peeped above her bodice. The moment passed so quickly, Fiona didn’t have time to blush. “How do you feel about returning to…where was it you said? The Isle of Skye?”
“Aye. We’ve a great, dark castle at the northern tip of the island, perched high on a cliff above the Minch.”
“The Minch?” He grinned as he repeated the word.
“’Tis a great body of water. You’ve never heard of it? Does that mean you also don’t know about the blue men of the Minch?” This seemed impossible, but it was beginning to become clear to Fiona that she and Christophe came from very different worlds.
“The—what?”
“The blue men of the Minch. They’re like…storm kelpies.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he replied, looking awfully amused for someone so ignorant.
“The blue men live in the Minch,” Fiona explained patiently. “They have the power to make storms, and then they look for sailors to drown and ships to sink.”
“Ah. I see. And they’re blue?”
“Aye.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you truly believe this?”
“Do you not have faeries in France? Everyone in Scotland believes in faeries, selkies, kelpies, and the like. They’re quite real.”
“If you say so. Tell me more about the Isle of Skye. Is your father a laird?”
“No. But his father is Alasdair Crotach, the chief of Clan MacLeod. My grandfather is quite old, and he’s always been very fond of Da, even though they only found each other after Da was grown. We live in a MacLeod castle not far from the clan stronghold of Dunvegan.” Fiona paused, gazing out the window at the trees and imagining that she could see the waters of the Minch in the distance. “Skye is the most beautiful place on earth, but very wild.”
When she looked back, she saw that St. Briac was watching her in a way that made her tingle in the most intimate parts of her body. There had been many men who had stared at her as if they wanted to lie with her, but Fiona’s response had always been indignation. Especially toward Ramsay MacAskill, who fancied himself such a big strong warrior and imagined that every lass who laid eyes on him dreamed of being in his arms.
“There are no paintings of naked women in the castles on your Isle of Skye?” Christophe queried as he handed her a piece of apple, his fingertips grazing hers just a little.
“Are you laughing at me? No! Nothing of the sort, I’m proud to say.” She took a bite of the apple, thinking that it was very tasty even after spending the winter in a fruit cellar. “My life has been very simple. This is my first grand adventure, and I think that if Da has his way, it will be the last. I’ll doubtless never meet another European after I go home to Skye, so please—you must tell me about the world.”
Fiona wasn’t sure what she expected him to say, but anything would be better than talking about herself. And she was extremely curious to know more about Christophe de St. Briac’s life in France.
“That’s fair, I suppose…” He stretched out his long, lean-muscled legs and propped them on a low stool. Fiona saw that his boots were made of very fine leather. “I can tell you that I live just outside of Paris, in a manor house I designed and built myself.”
“Paris!” breathed Fi. “Is it wonderful?”
“It is, though like all big cities, there are problems with filth. And crime. But it is beautiful in a way no other place can match.”
“You have been to other cities?”
“Of course. And I’ve traveled to many other countries. I lived in Italy for years, while studying architecture.”
She couldn’t help gasping at that. “I have always wanted to travel to Rome. Mama valued books, and she owned many of them. She taught me to read. During the long period of her illness, I would read to her for hours. I learned about Italy from those treasured volumes.”
“You have been fortunate to possess books in your home on the Isle of Skye, for books are scarce even in France.” St. Briac remarked, looking impressed.
“Mama brought them to Skye from her ancestral home, Hilltower, which lies only a short ride from here. But today, may we speak instead of Italy?” Closing her eyes, Fiona imagined rows of olive trees, history-filled Roman ruins, and classical homes with fountains.
“Indeed. I have, in fact, just finished reading an Italian epic poem. Aristo’s—”
Fiona could not stop herself from breaking in. “Not Aristo’s Orlando Furioso? Oh, I have longed to have that book!”
“How very surprising you are.” He leaned forward, looking at her more closely. “Do you read Italian?”
“Only a little. But I long to learn.”
St. Briac rose and went to a small table next to the bed where he picked up a slender book, handsomely bound in faded red leather. “In that case, you must have this.” He put it in her hands. “I hope you will enjoy it.”
“Oh, m’sieur, I could not possibly accept. It is yours!” Just the feeling of the soft, worn leather against her skin and the knowledge that it was his own possession made her blush.
He waved off her protestation. “It was mine, but now it is yours. Clearly, it will give you more pleasure.”
“Oh, you cannot imagine the pleasure it will give me.” She clasped the slim volume to her breasts. “I am also a great admirer of many Italian artists, like Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Raphael. I dream of seeing their masterpieces for myself one day.�
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He nodded. “I was fortunate enough to be able to spend a year learning about architecture from the great Michelangelo. He is brilliant.”
“Are you in jest?” Fiona tried to envision Christophe and Michelangelo standing side by side, chatting. “If that is so, I do not understand why you are in a place like Fife, living in this simple cottage in the woods. Are you being punished for a crime?”
The Frenchman began to clean up the bits of food that remained on the table, glancing back toward her with an enigmatic smile. “I am here as a favor to my own king, François I. He asked me to travel to Scotland, to oversee the expansion and renovations here at Falkland Palace. I have known your new Queen of Scots since we were children, so she trusts me.”
“And that is all?” She watched his face. “How selfless you are, sir.”
“Eh bien…there may be more to it than that, as you have guessed.” He continued to stand across the room, wrapping the cheese in a piece of linen. Fiona had a feeling that he intentionally kept a distance. “I will be given a great reward if I succeed here in Scotland. It will be a building project that I could be proud of for the rest of my life.”
She saw then, the stubborn set of his chin. “Your work must be very important to you.”
“Of course.” Christophe circled back to sit on the edge of his chair, leaning toward her now. “It is what truly gives my life meaning. My brother, the first-born, is the lord of my family’s estates, so I have had to chart a different path to fulfillment.”
Fiona felt strangely sad as she took in his words. “What about a family of your own, who wait for you in France?”
“My dog, Raoul, waits for me.”
She would not be put off so easily. “You do not have a wife or, at least, a lady who loves you?”
“I am not the marrying sort,” he said shortly.
“But…why not?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?” Now Christophe’s expression had changed, and he was looking at her again in that way that made her feel giddy and warm.
Just then, a shadow spilled across the table. Fiona looked up to see Bayard, the burly French mason, standing in the doorway.
“What do you want?” Christophe demanded. It seemed to Fiona that he was only pretending to be annoyed.
“I thought you might want to know, monsieur, that Highlander fellow is searching everywhere for his daughter.” Bayard looked in her direction, brows lowered. “If he finds her here, alone with you, he may well come after you with one of those giant Scottish swords. I think they call it a claymore…”
Chapter 6
Christophe wasn’t afraid of Magnus MacLeod and his hulking claymore, but neither did he want to provoke any drama that might interfere with his work. Being stalked by an angry Highlander was just the sort of problem he didn’t need.
“I suppose you’d better go,” he said to Fiona.
She made no move to obey him, and Christophe saw that she didn’t want to leave.
Bayard, meanwhile, was clearly bursting with curiosity. He alternated between staring at the girl and peering back toward the palace as if he expected a kilted warrior to come roaring through the trees.
“How did you know this lady was here?” Christophe asked.
Bayard waggled his heavy brows. “Monsieur, I learned long ago that if there is an innocent maiden in the vicinity, one may deduce she is likely to be smitten with you.”
At that, Fiona jumped to her feet, clutching the leather-bound volume by Aristo. Her cheeks pinkened most becomingly as she exclaimed, “I’ll be on my way, then. Thank you for the bread and cheese, m’sieur. And for this wonderful book.”
She rushed out the door in a swirl of green silk skirts. A moment later, Christophe felt an odd pang as it came to him that the cottage suddenly felt very empty.
Bayard cut a thick piece of bread and wrapped it around a wedge of cheese. “She’s not your usual sort of lady,” he said, taking a large bite.
All Christophe wanted was solitude, to work on his plans and sketches. So many ideas for the royal apartments and the renovations to the Chapel Royal had been circling in his mind since his conversation with the king; he could scarcely wait to put them on paper. Already those ideas were not as clear as they had been an hour ago, and for that, he blamed Fiona MacLeod.
“I suppose you fancy yourself an expert on the subject of my women?” Christophe queried in acid tones as he looked around at Bayard. “I would appreciate it if you too would go away, so I can work.”
“Hmm. All right, then.” Bayard cut two more pieces of cheese and went out the door, adding, “There’s more to life than work, or so I’ve been told.”
Moments later, Christophe sat alone in the cottage, thinking that he should be feeling pleased and relieved, as he always had in France when his persistent visitors had finally gone away and left him in peace. He stared at the papers, waiting for creative inspiration to return in a wave.
But instead, his memory was aglow with the face of Fiona Rose MacLeod. He heard her voice again, saying things no other high-born lady would say. He saw the challenging sparkle in her violet eyes. He felt the sweet softness of her palm under his lips.
Ambrosia.
Damn, thought Christophe. This could be a problem.
* * *
Fiona stood on tip-toe, gazing out the leaded-glass windows that overlooked the palace courtyard. It was her favorite hour, when the morning light was soft and the day’s adventure spread before her.
If only there could be an adventure!
“What are ye looking at, lass?” Her father came up behind her and put a heavy hand on her back. He was still chewing an oatcake from his breakfast. “I hope ye are not planning more mischief.”
“Da, I have told you, I wasn’t doing anything wrong yesterday. I was just out for a walk, enjoying nature.”
“I’d like to believe that, but ’tis too dull a pastime for my spirited daughter.”
She shook her head but didn’t look back at him for fear he’d see the telltale color in her cheeks. Instead, Fiona scrutinized the group of courtiers and their squires who milled about in the courtyard. They all wore fine hunting clothes, and Fiona knew that Magnus was planning to join them.
“Why can’t I go with you today?” she asked as he drew on his gloves.
“It’s not that sort of hunt,” he replied vaguely. “Ye shall hunt when the queen does.”
Magnus went out then, looking handsome and robust in his belted plaid and feathered bonnet. Fi thought that she should be kinder to him, for surely his grief was at least as keen as hers. Sometimes, in spite of his bluster, she sensed that he was rather confused and even lost in the world without his serene and lovely Eleanor.
She watched through the hazy panes of glass as Magnus emerged into the courtyard below. One of the young falconers brought Erik to him and that gave her a sharp twinge of envy. How long would it be before she could hunt with her own gyrfalcon?
The courtyard was also crowded with men who were working on the palace. Scaffolding was being assembled outside the south range where masons were working on new embellishments in the style of the finest French châteaux. It seemed that the entire façade was being recast in ashlar with new bay windows. One particularly tall mason was standing on one of the scaffolds and chiseling a complicated medallion into the stone.
As Fiona watched, she saw Christophe de St. Briac emerge from an arched door near the Gatehouse. The sight of him took her breath away.
Bare-headed as usual and clad in a handsome buff doublet, he held a parchment scroll. Approaching a few carters who had just arrived with a new supply of stone blocks from the Lomond Hills, he unfurled the paper and pointed to it. Nearby, Fiona noticed, stood the rather audacious Bayard. The others nodded obediently to Christophe, but Bayard was shaking his head and making some sort of retort.
After a bit, Christophe spoke again, then turned and walked back inside the palace. Fiona went out into the corrido
r, hurried toward the stone turret staircase that connected the east and south ranges, and went down it as sedately as she could. Some haughty members of the court glanced her way and it wouldn’t do to call attention to herself.
Reaching the bottom step, Fiona came into a long gallery that ran the length of the south range. The stone floor was covered with carpets; and along one long wall, an important-looking man was supervising as servants hung enormous tapestries depicting hunting scenes. The royal court planned to depart for Dysart in just a few days, and the tapestries and carpets would be taken down to travel with them.
At the same moment that she neared the far end of the Gallery and was about to turn into the Chapel Royal, a trio of men rounded the corner and Fiona nearly collided with one of them. The fellow lost his balance, and she instinctively put out her hands to steady him.
“Ah, you are the lovely granddaughter of the MacLeod, are you not?” the man said in a Lowlander Scots accent, holding on to her hands when she sought to disengage.
In horror, Fiona realized that she was face-to-face with the King of Scotland! She dropped her gaze and murmured, “Your Majesty, I humbly apologize for nearly striking you with my person.”
“Nay, it was I who was at fault,” he said silkily. “And I would not object to being struck by your person, lass.”
Clad in hunting garb of rich green velvet and burnished leather, King James V cut an attractive figure, and it came to Fiona that she had once heard her parents discussing his reputation as a compulsive womanizer. He had been virtually imprisoned during his youth, when Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, had controlled the Regency.
Perhaps soft bodies of various women had been the young, powerless king’s only source of affection, Fiona thought with a pang of sympathy, although all he had to show for it now was a parade of illegitimate children.
“I am sorry to have detained you,” she said, still trying to free her hands from his.
“Detained me?” The king firmly drew her closer, until their bodies were just inches apart. “Rather you have delighted me, my dear. In fact, I would like to deepen our acquaintance.” His voice lowered suggestively as he uttered the word deepen. “Will you not join me later tonight, after we sup, perhaps?”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 7