Fiona noticed that the two men-at-arms who had flanked James V had now discreetly drifted away down the Gallery. They looked out the windows, pointing at the masons and their raw blocks of ashlar, pretending not to notice the scene between the king and Fiona.
“Join you?” A wave of real panic swept over Fiona. “But, sire, what of the queen?”
“The queen does not care,” he replied flatly.
Another voice interrupted them, declaring, “Ah, Mademoiselle MacLeod, there you are!”
Fiona’s heart leaped when she turned her head and saw Christophe de St. Briac walking toward them from the Chapel Royal. His head was cocked slightly as if he was amused, and he seemed to have no inkling that he was interrupting the Scots king in the act of trying to seduce Fiona.
“See here, St. Briac, can you not see that we are engaged in private conversation?” James grumbled. “And why are you here, lurking about the Gallery?”
“One of the projects I’ve been tasked with here at Falkland involves the Chapel Royal, sire,” said Christophe. “I am told you wish to change the ceiling.”
The king sniffed. “I don’t remember asking for that. Perhaps it was the new queen. I would prefer more outdoor pursuits, s’il vous plait.” He spoke the French words with a decided Scots accent and then returned his attention to Fiona. “Now then, where were we, my lovely lass?”
Fiona tried once more to free herself from his grip, and this time, his hands relaxed enough for her to step backward. She longed to seek protection in Christophe’s shadow, but it wouldn’t do to embarrass the king.
“Ah, Your Majesty,” she protested, “you were exceedingly kind to pause to greet me, but I know that you have other duties of much greater importance to attend to. I would not be so selfish as to keep you from them.”
James V gazed at her from under his hooded lids for a long moment as a slow smile touched his mouth. “As you say, my lady.” He reached for her hand, brought it to his lips, and pressed a damp, lingering kiss to her fingers. “I trust that we shall meet again. Very soon…”
Fiona managed a strained smile. Why, she wondered, did the king’s touch evoke sensations so utterly different from those she’d felt when Christophe had kissed her palm yesterday? Now, as she backed up against the Frenchman’s chest and watched James stride away with his men-at-arms, Fiona knew a strong sense of relief. And when Christophe put a warm, strong hand on her arm, she was euphoric.
“You are expert at getting yourself into trouble,” he whispered in sardonic tones, breaking the spell.
“Ach, how dare you? I did nothing wrong,” Fiona protested. Before she could speak again, he touched a silencing fingertip to her mouth and drew her away, into the Chapel Royal.
“You don’t need to do anything,” he said, pinning her with his intense blue gaze. “I think that trouble comes to meet you, and you bring everyone in your orbit with you, whether they are willing or not.”
His words stung, but she would never let him know it. “I suppose you are speaking of yourself?”
“Possibly,” he agreed in ironic tones. “I came in here expecting to work. Instead, I found myself embroiled in a scene between an impetuous maiden and the randy King of Scots.”
Fiona wanted to argue that she’d not asked for his help, but such a line of attack seemed terribly ungrateful. Instead, she challenged, “What are you suggesting? That I was not passing here by chance, but instead came because I knew you were here, trying to work, and I hoped to upset your day?” Good, she thought. Now he would feel ridiculous for harboring any suspicions toward her.
“Why exactly, were you passing by?”
She felt herself blushing under his keen regard. “This is a chapel. I came here to pray.”
“Ah. My apologies. I did not realize you were so pious.” Christophe wore an expression of utter skepticism as he bowed to her and swept an arm toward the altar. “Be my guest.”
Fiona was trapped. She nodded, but when he began to turn away, she caught his arm. “Wait. First, I have remembered that I wanted to speak to you about something. I have had an idea!”
“I’m not a bit certain I want to hear it.” He gave her a dark look, yet she felt certain there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “Eh bien. Go on, but be brief.”
“I am bored. As a female, there are so few acceptable ways for me to pass time, and most of them are very dull. The thought of needlework or music is suffocating!” She waited for him to put up a hand and tell her to leave him alone, but he continued to wait, his expression guarded. “I am much more interested in your work. And surely I could help you. I could be your secretary! My handwriting is beautiful, much better than yours, no doubt—”
“Fiona.” He said her name in a way that silenced her immediately. “You know that is impossible. Even if I were agreeable to such a mad scheme, your father would never allow it.”
She was flooded with disappointment and frustration. As tears pricked her eyes, she turned away so he wouldn’t see them. “Of course. You’re right. Excuse me, won’t you? I have prayers to say.”
* * *
Christophe stared at the wood paneled chapel ceiling, waiting.
Usually, inspiration came to him in a predictable rush of creative energy. He would begin to have ideas so quickly that he could scarcely record them fast enough.
Today, however, the fount was dry. When he looked at the ceiling, his mind went blank.
Turning his head as little as possible, he stole a glance at the source of his problems—Fiona Rose MacLeod. She knelt in a pew near the altar, head bowed, seemingly engaged in communion with God. Christophe tried to remember that she was complicating his existence on a daily basis, but instead. he could only see the graceful curve of her neck, the lovely line of her back in a pretty gown of berry-tinted silk, and her delicately-etched profile that looked so innocent in prayer.
Her idea about helping him with his work was absurd, yet he had felt tempted to accept. And that, alone, was a cause for serious alarm. Christophe drew a ragged breath, and as he stared at her, his cock began to swell and stiffen. There was no stopping it. Damn it. He knew a nearly overpowering urge to sit beside her, take her forcefully in his arms, and burn the column of her neck with kisses. Then he would open her bodice and…
Stop! he admonished himself with a groan. I have lost my mind. We are in a chapel, and I am dreaming of ravishing a maiden who has brought me nothing but aggravation.
Ravishing her right there, in the pew.
With that, Christophe rolled up his parchment and gathered his tools. The more distance he put between himself and Mademoiselle Fiona MacLeod, the better off he would be.
Chapter 7
When Fiona opened her eyes and discovered that she was alone in the chapel, her first impulse was to go after Christophe. How dare he trick her into closing her eyes in prayer and then slip away?
She sat for a long moment in the stillness, realizing that she couldn’t pursue him around the palace grounds. The very thought was ludicrous. Tipping her head back, she gazed at the carved wooden ceiling above. It had once been painted in areas with gold leaf, and there were the initials of King James IV and his queen, Margaret Tudor, entwined.
Clearly, mused Fiona, James V needed to find ways to make this palace his own. He had lived such a hard life until recently, under the thumb of more than one evil regent. Now that he was six-and-twenty and had wed a dynamic noblewoman, he seemed to be maturing in many ways…except when it came to fidelity.
An idea began to percolate in Fiona’s mind. Because she always did her best thinking in the open air, she rose and left the chapel. Outside, gray clouds were burgeoning against a sky that had gone from azure to chalky-white. Fi walked past the building activity that was going on in the courtyard and on through the arched passageway that led to the meadow.
What was it that the king had said when St. Briac told him he was planning to renovate the Chapel Royal? I would prefer more outdoor pursuits…
She
headed toward the stable and mews that stood beyond the meadow, at the edge of the forest. Erik would not be on his perch in the mews today, for he had joined her father and the rest of the hunting party. Fiona tried not to think about the white gyrfalcon, but rather to focus on her budding plan.
Was there space beside the stables for what she had in mind? She stopped by a grove of dogwood trees and surveyed the landscape. A moment later, a woman’s voice, speaking French, drifted to her from the other side of a wall.
“Ah, you were ever the charmer!” Soft laughter followed. “It helps me to see you here. I don’t know if I could bear it were it not for the faces of friends like you.”
“Your Majesty, you are one of the strongest women I have ever known,” an appealing male voice replied. Fiona was shocked to realize that it was Christophe de St. Briac who spoke, and he must be addressing the new queen! What were they doing together behind that wall? Was the queen as faithless as her husband?
“Do you not long for France, mon cher?” the woman persisted. “Everything is so very different here. People warned me that the Scots were barbarians, so of course, I am relieved to find that some are not, yet I fear it will never feel like home.”
There was a long silence. Was he kissing her? Fiona’s heart raced as she imagined Christophe holding the Queen of Scots in his arms. For a moment, she felt ill.
“You are very resilient, Marie,” he said at last. “It’s been true since we were children. And now, régardez. Within the last year, you have suffered the loss of your husband, Louis, the Duke of Longueville. Your second son died as well, within months of his birth. And then you were pressured into marriage with the King of Scots, forced to leave your home and family to come and live in a strange land, while your other young son had to remain behind with his grandparents.” There was another pause before Christophe added, “And yet, here you are, fashioning a strong new life from a series of tragedies and changes.”
When the queen spoke again, she sounded resolute. “Bien sûr. You are right, my dear friend. But may I confide that sometimes I wish I were not noble? I dream of fashioning my own destiny.”
“I was not born into the Guise family, but even I cannot do as I please. If I could, I would be at my peaceful home, Rêves, reading and working in my study or walking in the woods with Raoul, my faithful hound.” Christophe gave a dry laugh. “However, King François will not be denied.”
“Amen to that,” rejoined the queen in a tone of grim amusement. “We must smile and accept our fate here in Scotland, no? And it could be much worse. My new husband is a king who puts a host of beautiful palaces at my disposal…”
“Indeed. With that in mind, let us discuss the walled garden you desire to have here at Falkland.” His voice grew fainter, leading Fiona to guess that they must have started to walk away.
She stood there, frozen, as birds flitted above her among the tree branches. Long minutes passed. Fiona wished she could turn back the clock and be at home in Duntulm Castle, sitting on her mother’s bed and reading aloud. Her life had been so uncomplicated then!
The longing for her mother swept over her in a familiar wave. Ach, but it hurt so much to realize she would never see her again, would never be able to go to her with a problem. Especially now that she actually had problems.
She thought of the advice Christophe had just given the queen. Fiona too was strong and resilient, and she too could weave a new life from the ashes of loss and change. Wasn’t she already doing just that? It came to her that her mother had been doubtless thinking of just such a plan when she begged Magnus to bring their daughter to Falkland Palace.
Breathing deeply of the fragrant summer air, Fiona lifted her skirts and started off to find the way around the garden wall.
* * *
Christophe was a builder, not a gardener, yet the queen kept asking him about the plants for the walled garden he would construct for her.
“I have an idea,” he said, at last. “I will make a plan for you, with the walls and doorways in place, and then you can confer with the gardeners about the plants you prefer, taking into consideration the light and soil.”
“Fair enough, though I suspect that they will be Scotsmen. I find their language very coarse compared to our French,” she said. The queen, a tall, handsome woman with auburn hair and flawless skin, was clad in a light gown of gleaming gold tissue, lavishly sewn with pearls and rubies. She came forward now and rested a be-jeweled hand on his arm. “I am very grateful that our French king persuaded you to come to Scotland. I hope he promised you a very fine reward.”
Just then, to Christophe’s utter astonishment, Fiona came around the corner. It was virtually impossible that she had come upon them by chance in this sheltered, remote spot.
“Oh!” She made a show of surprise, but he was not fooled. “I apologize for intruding on your conversation, Your Majesty.” For good measure, Fiona curtsied to the queen.
Queen Mary, whom Christophe would always think of as Marie de Guise, glanced over at Fiona with momentary annoyance. Clearly, she wanted to ask why this Scottish lass should take even a moment of their time by speaking at all. “Not at all,” she murmured politely, turning slightly to signify that she had nothing further to say.
“I believe I saw a group of your ladies-in-waiting, looking for you in the orchard,” Fiona said.
Christophe had to admire the nerve of the Scots lass. The queen took the bait and walked to the end of the wall to gain a clear view of the orchard.
“I should join them, I suppose.” She glanced back toward Christophe. “I will look forward to our meeting with the gardeners.”
When she had gone, he bent a skeptical look at Fiona. “Are they really in the orchard?”
“Do you take me for a liar? Of course they are there…though I do not know if they were looking for the queen.”
How fresh and lovely Fiona was in her gown of raspberry silk. Her only jewelry was the necklace she had worn before, with the fine single emerald on a golden chain. She is trouble, Christophe admonished his primal self. Beware.
“Wait,” Fiona said. “I can see that you are about to run away from me again—”
“I do not run away,” he interrupted.
“Do you not? I beg your pardon.” Her words were belied by a bright smile. “I would only have a word with you. You see, I have an idea.”
“The one about becoming my secretary?”
“Nay. This is a new idea!”
As he felt Fiona spinning her web around him, it came to Christophe that she was utterly guileless. That was one of the reasons he found her so charming. She said exactly what was on her mind, come what may. “Be brief.”
“I know something you can make here at the palace that will please both the king and the queen. Perhaps it will even improve their marriage!”
He wanted to tell her that she could not begin to imagine the scope and detail of his work, and there was nothing a simple lass from the Isle of Skye could possibly say that might be useful. But this was Fiona, after all.
“Tell me, then,” he said.
“You must build them a tennis court.” When he didn’t immediately reply, she added, “Do you know what that is?”
Mon Dieu! She had cheerfully insulted him again. “Of course, I know what tennis is.” Lightly, Christophe grasped her elbow and brought her closer to him. “Are you not aware that France is infinitely more civilized than Scotland? I can assure you that anything worth having probably already exists there.”
Fiona rolled her eyes in a way that made him want to kiss her—until she submitted completely to him.
“You are not very appealing when you talk that way,” she said. “Are you going to tell me that you already meant to build a tennis court here at Falkland Palace?”
He released her arm. “It’s tempting to say yes, of course, I already thought of it. But the truth is that I had not considered the idea, and I agree that it is worth pursuing.”
“Aha! I knew it was brill
iant. You see, I can help you!” Her cheeks were becomingly flushed in the warm sunlight. “If you build it at a distance from the palace—here by the stable, the queen and her ladies will feel that they can join in the game as well.”
“Next you’ll say that she should wear breeches, like Robbie of Skye,” Christophe replied with irony.
Fiona beamed at him. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“I have other work to do before I can even consider such a thing,” he said, turning back toward the cottage where all his sketches and plans were spread across the table. “First, the Chapel Royal—”
“No, no, listen to me!” Fiona lifted her skirts and hurried along beside him. “You should not bother with the chapel now. Didn’t you hear what the king said this morning?”
He shot her a dark glance. “Do you mean when he was attempting to seduce you? I am afraid I was paying more attention to his deeds than his words, and you should be thanking me for that.”
“Of course. I did thank you!”
“Did you?”
She tugged at the sleeve of his doublet. “Kindly halt! I cannot converse with you when you are taking such long steps.”
Christophe didn’t understand why he found Fiona so vexing. He seemed to be torn between a desire to put as much distance as possible between them and an equally powerful urge to toss her down in the meadow, lift her skirts, and…
“What is it then?” he demanded, turning to face her. “Speak your mind.”
“The king said that you should give him something outdoors rather than wasting your time in the chapel.”
“He never said that last bit.”
“Aye, perhaps not, but that is what he meant.” Fiona wrinkled her nose and smiled. “The tennis court will please him far more than a new chapel ceiling. But I have an idea about that ceiling as well.”
He started walking again. “Mademoiselle, I do not need ideas from you. If I were not able to conceive of brilliant designs, unaided, the King of France would not have sent me here.”
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