And because he’d never gone to challenge the imagined killers, he had deprived himself of the full sweetness of life. Tears burned his eyes as he thought of Fiona, whose joyous, curious, and passionate nature had awakened his deepest longings—and fears. Now Fiona was going home to Skye and he was trapped with broken bones and a thirst beyond imagining.
It was a cruel trick.
Fiona. When he heard himself whisper her name, Christophe knew he would not die in this pit. There must be a way out, and he intended to find it.
* * *
Magnus and Ramsay kept them moving at a relentless pace, working together to guide their little party along the roads and cart tracks by day, hunting game and making camp at night. There was little time for conversation. Fi and Violette were so tired when the evening meal was over that they were grateful to unroll their blankets, side by side, and surrender to sleep.
By the end of the second day, Fiona was actually looking forward to her first glimpse of the red Cuillin hills of southern Skye. When she awoke during the night, dreaming of Christophe, she would stare up at the stars and think of home. Of course, nothing would be the same without her mother and Isbeil there, but she longed for it all the same.
That next morning, Fiona and Violette cooked oatcakes on a little griddle with a handle that could be tied to their other bundles on horseback. Ramsay came up behind the two women and took one of the warm oatcakes.
“Your new laird has caught some fish,” he said to Violette. “Go down to the riverbank and fetch them back so your mistress can cook them.”
Violette looked at Fiona, waiting, and did not move. One thing Fi appreciated about the Frenchwoman was her spirit. She might be a servant, but she was clearly intelligent and accustomed to thinking for herself.
“You may go to get the fish,” she said with a nod. “I’ll be fine.”
When Violette had left the clearing, Ramsay turned to Fiona. She could see that he was struggling to suppress a scowl. Instead, he took a deep breath and smiled. Some other lass might find him attractive, with his shaggy black hair and beard, muscular body, and rugged features. He wore his plaid with arrogant self-assurance.
“Fiona,” he said in a low voice. “Why must ye always resist me?” He took a step closer and she caught a whiff of his musky male scent. “I’ll make ye a fine husband. I know a bit about pleasure…”
He swept his gaze over her in a way that was surely meant to entice her. Fiona felt the perspiration gathering at the base of her neck, felt the droplet traveling down between her shoulder blades. “I need time, Ramsay,” she said firmly. “I have just lost my dear Isbeil. Let me grieve for a bit, not only for her but for Mama as well.”
“Your ma died weeks ago. And that nurse was but an old woman, a servant.”
She watched in disbelief as he reached out with one hand to cup her breast, as if it were his right. “Ramsay! Would you have me call out to Da?”
“We are to be wed soon.” His nostrils flared as he removed his hand from her and stepped back, adding with conviction, “I know how to please a woman.”
Oaf, she thought angrily, yet managed a tight smile. “I don’t doubt that. But we are not wed, and my father is just through the trees.”
A wider smile spread over Ramsay’s face. “Aye, I’ll wait. Soon enough, ye will be in my bed, lass, and no one will interrupt us.” Leaning closer, he added, “I promise, ye will enjoy it.”
Fiona was grateful to see Violette coming into the clearing, holding a string of three fish. As if the girl could read the situation, she walked more quickly and came to stand beside Fiona.
“Your father will be here at any moment,” Violette said, her tone fearless.
“Oh aye, that’s good!” declared Ramsay, as if he were the hero in the story. “I’d begun to fear he’d had another of those spells.”
Fiona glanced away, reminding herself that soon she would see Skye again. When they were back home at Duntulm Castle, everything would feel better.
* * *
After a day…or two?…the swelling went down on Christophe’s head and he realized he must be in the bottle dungeon. His memory returned, and he recalled walking into the palace guardroom, at the supposed behest of Scrymgeour. But of course the Master of Works had played no role in his imprisonment. There was no one else who would do this except Ramsay MacAskill, and Christophe realized the summons from the young page had been a ruse.
The Highlander had doubtless been afraid Christophe would interfere with his plans to marry Fiona, so he’d simply gotten him out of the way. Permanently.
Damn him.
Christophe closed his eyes to better see Fiona’s expressive, lovely face. He thought of the note she had written him, that he’d read in his cottage just before the page appeared with the urgent summons to the Gatehouse.
I have sad news…Isbeil, who cared for me as a child and my mother in her last months, has died very suddenly. I am filled with grief and a sense of loss, which I trust you may understand. Da feels it is time for us to return to Skye and intends that we depart on the morrow…
Why had he waited to read her message until the end of the day, and why had he then hesitated for even a moment? Tears welled in his throat as he thought back over every wrong step, every ill-considered word he’d spoken, every missed opportunity to let himself love Fiona.
Now, she was with Ramsay MacAskill, a villain who was capable of murder, and Christophe was locked away to die in this dungeon. His mind drifted to and fro as he wondered if the bones piled in the corner belonged to the Scottish crown prince who had been imprisoned here so long ago. How much longer could he live without food or water? He tried to stand and felt a searing pain tear through his left ankle. Was it broken?
Perhaps there was a chance Scrymgeour was in the chamber above and would hear if he shouted. He began to yell with all his might, all the while remembering the thickness of the stone that covered the opening to the dungeon. And Christophe judged he must be fifteen feet or more underground. The plans he had seen that showed the bottle-shaped dungeon had also revealed that the last several feet had been carved out of bedrock.
The shouting used too much energy, and every deep breath reminded him of his broken ribs. He was already sick from lack of water and food, he couldn’t afford to use up his last reserves. Sinking back down in the utter blackness, Christophe heard, faintly, the sound of barking.
Was it a dream? His heart seemed to stop as he listened, then he felt a powerful surge of hope. Yes! It was his own Raoul, far away, but barking all the same…as if he were calling his master’s name. In the next instant, Christophe remembered the tunnel that the plans had shown, leading from the dungeon to one of the vaulted storage cellars below the palace. It had been filled in, Scrymgeour said.
There must be some alteration in the dungeon wall where the tunnel had been sealed. Christophe began to feel along the circular perimeter of the small space, listening all the while for Raoul’s intermittent barking. When he reached a smoother place, the dog’s voice seemed a bit louder.
“Raoul!” he shouted and was rewarded with an excited series of howls.
A powerful surge of excitement coursed through Christophe’s body, but in the next moment, he faced the reality of his situation. How the devil was he to get out of this hellhole? He would have to dig. Mon Dieu, this was one of the rare times he had gone out without some sort of knife in his belt, for it more often came in handy as a tool rather than a weapon. It seemed he had two very poor options: his own hands or scraping with the heel of one of his boots.
He stood there for a long moment, thinking, and then he remembered the skeleton. Would he burn for eternity if he used a human bone to gain his freedom from this torture pit?
It was a chance he would have to take. Steeling himself to endure the excruciating pain in his leg, Christophe hobbled across the dungeon and began to sort through the bones. It quickly became clear that more than one man had been thrown down here to die from torture-infl
icted wounds or starvation, for the bones were stacked higher than he’d thought. No doubt the last prisoner had tried to move them as far away as possible…
When his fingers touched a large skull, Christophe paused. This could become just the tool he needed. If he broke the skull, the edge would make a fine scraping blade.
Suddenly he felt blinded by exhaustion. How long had it been since he’d had even a sip of water? The darkness spun around him as he held the skull in both hands and made his way back to the wall.
I’ll just lie down for a moment. The thought came through a mist of pain, hunger, and thirst, followed by an inner voice that warned, If you go to sleep, you may never wake up.
Chapter 21
Once the band of travelers had procured a small birlinn and begun to sail around the Isle of Skye, even the air seemed fresher than it had been on the mainland. Fiona breathed deeply of it, wondering why she had always longed to leave this splendid place.
Every view of the dramatic cliffs plunging down into the foaming sea was thrilling. Fi drank in the sight of the hillsides beyond, dotted with sheep and little stone dwellings. The sky was bluer than she remembered in contrast to the bright green slopes, and drifts of purple heather had come into full bloom during her absence.
“You see, lass?” murmured her father, resting for a moment at the tiller, “this is our home. It’s where we belong.”
“Aye,” she agreed, as the wind shifted and caught her hair. “I do love it.”
The birlinn had oars, two of which were plied by Ramsay and their groom, Ian, as well as sails, manned by Magnus. It was the most efficient way to travel around the Western Isles, much quicker than going over land, where the few existing roads were rough at best.
Fiona sat with Violette on one bench near the middle of the boat, holding her arm as the currents tossed them, pointing out her favorite sights, like the distinctive stone spires called the Old Man of Storr. And finally, as they sailed into the turbulent strait known as the Minch, Fiona craned her neck for a glimpse of Duntulm Castle. Finally, she saw the hump of Tulm Island, and then her castle home, perched dramatically on the steepest cliff protruding from the coastline.
Fi gave a cry of joy. “There it is!”
“It is magnificent,” said Violette, clearly awed. “Your father must be a great lord.”
“Nay, Da is merely a keeper—of our castle and lands, but his father is the Clan MacLeod chief.” Fiona wrinkled her nose. “It’s different here than in France, you’ll find.”
Violette shaded her eyes against the sun and the spray of the sea. “And this man, M’sieur MacAskill, you are meant to wed—he is not a lord either?”
“Nay. But his family has always been allied with our clan.” Careful to speak softly enough that she would not be overheard by Ramsay, she continued, “The MacAskills have been in charge of the MacLeod fleet of galleys and have fought with us many times. Da says that there was a great battle when I was a babe, and the MacLeods were so badly injured that they were left with few men and little time to nurture their alliance with the MacAskills. This marriage would help to mend those ties.” This reminder that it wasn’t just her father’s wish, but that of her grandfather, their elderly clan chief, made Fiona feel even more unsettled. “No doubt there are a good many arranged marriages in France as well…”
Violette’s nostrils flared slightly and she arched a brow, but said only, “Mais oui.”
There were grooves in the stone cliffs, left by the prows of larger galleys. As they were being handed out through the sea gate, Violette pointed up the steep path that circled down from the castle.
“Who is that?”
Fiona looked up and gave a little gasp when she recognized the dark, powerful, kilted figure of Ciaran MacLeod. “Oh my! ’Tis my older brother, Ciaran. He has been away so much, I did not expect to see him here today.”
To her surprise, Ramsay separated from the other men and came forward to take her arm. “I’ll escort ye, lass.”
“It’s really not necessary. I mean, I’ve been scrambling up and down this cliff since I was a wee bairn, just learning to walk!”
Ramsay was staring ahead, holding fast to her as Ciaran came down to meet them. The two men were nearly the same size, both hard-muscled and imposing, though Ciaran was leaner than Ramsay. When they were face to face, Fiona felt the force of her brother’s ill will toward Ramsay. Was there some grievance between them that she had never known about?
“Back at last,” Ciaran said to her, and reached for her free hand, drawing her away from Ramsay. “Your absence has been sorely felt, Fi.”
She searched his darkly handsome face, but it was inscrutable as usual. And without speaking to Ramsay, he waved to Da and led Fiona away, up the path to their castle home.
* * *
“Raoul!”
It seemed impossible that the hound could hear him, his voice was so hoarse. The way his throat felt was unlike any thirst he’d known in the past. This was sheer torture—a raw, searing, primal need that made it nearly impossible to think of anything else.
Yet, he could not stop digging.
Christophe had made a macabre tool out of the skull he’d found in the dungeon, deciding that the prince who had been imprisoned there before him would be pleased to know that someone else had been able to escape because of him. It was like a little, curved spade that fit perfectly into his hand, so that all he had to do was grasp the top of the skull and scoop at the dirt that filled the tunnel.
He had no idea how long he’d been at it, scraping away in the blackness, forcing back the waves of dizziness and utter exhaustion that urged him to lie down, close his eyes, and let go.
More barking reached his ears, still faint yet it seemed to intensify as he scooped the dirt away. “Raoul!” As he worked, he thought of Fiona, who might leave Falkland if he didn’t get out. All his old ideas about what he wanted from life now seemed ridiculous. The Louvre! It was a mere building, and any accolades he might earn for his work would crumble to dust if Fiona were not by his side to share them.
Just then, the densely-packed dirt gave way to rubble that was loosely piled ahead of him in the tunnel. Over the top of the stones, St. Briac discerned a thin, horizontal ray of light in the distance, the first light he’d seen since regaining consciousness in the bottle dungeon. Could it be shining from under a door? He remembered Scrymgeour saying that the tunnel connected to an old undercroft that was part of the old castle.
Dropping the skull, Christophe began to pull the rubble away, throwing it back into the dungeon until there was an opening big enough for him to force his way through. His broken bones were forgotten as strength flowed through his body.
“Raoul!”
The barking turned frantic from just beyond the door. When Christophe managed to reach it at last, he felt for a latch. His blood ran cold as he realized the door was completely smooth. The only means of opening it was on the other side…and even Raoul seemed to have given up. His barking had stopped.
For Fiona’s sake…don’t lose hope! he told himself, sensing that his old terrors were trying to break through. Just then, he heard a scraping sound as the latch lifted and the ancient door opened.
“Saints preserve us, it’s the Chevalier de St. Briac!” cried the familiar voice of Peg, one of the women from the Bakehouse. “Your big hound did bring me here, pushing at me and growling whenever I resisted. Now I know why!”
Christophe felt light-headed with relief and joy as the older woman drew him out of the tunnel and into the dim light of the vaulted cellar. Raoul was barking again, running in circles around them, and Peg was staring at him in shocked wonderment.
“What day is it?” he asked, stroking Raoul’s head and wishing that the room would stop spinning around him.
“Tuesday,” Peg said. “Here then, ye look awful, pale as death and covered in dirt and cobwebs. How did ye get into that tunnel? Everyone thought ye had gone from Falkland, back to France…”
Tues
day! Was it possible that he had been in that cursed dungeon for several days?
Not caring that he must look like a madman, St. Briac turned on her and demanded, “What of MacLeod, the Highlander who was staying in the palace with his daughter?”
“Oh, they left days ago, four of them together. Come with me then and have a wash-up and a good meal. Ye look like the devil himself!”
As he followed the big woman up a few crumbling steps and outside into the blinding light, St. Briac reached a hand out to the stone wall to steady himself. Raoul, seeming to sense his master’s weakened state, brought his long-legged body closer for added support.
“Do ye need to sit down?” asked Peg, looking back with concern.
“Oh, no. There’s no time for that.” St. Briac’s heart raced with a sense of urgency as he thought of the evil Ramsay was capable of. The only thing that mattered now was reaching Fiona’s side and keeping her safe.
* * *
Once they were inside, Magnus brought out his best whiskey and he, Ramsay, and Ciaran gathered in the Hall with a group of MacLeod clansmen. Fiona and Violette did not wait for an invitation, but came to join them, filling their own cups with ale.
Ciaran explained that he had just stopped by the castle for a few days, on his way to see the galley that was being built for him near Dunvegan. Lennox, too, was occupied, with clan business on Raasay Island.
“Another day and I would have likely been gone,” Ciaran said, sounding as if he secretly wished that were so. His flint-blue eyes touched Ramsay like sharpened blades.
“There’s no surprise in that, lad. Ye have a wandering spirit.”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 20