“Let me escort ye back to your chamber,” he said in a low voice that she realized was meant to be seductive. “’Tis fitting, I think, on the eve of our wedding.”
Fiona didn’t know how to refuse him, so she made no reply as they went up the stone steps. When they reached her door, Ramsay lifted the latch before she could reach it and opened the it, gesturing for her to enter.
What was he thinking to do? Again, thoughts of her father’s precarious condition stopped her from speaking to Ramsay as she would have otherwise. It seemed she could not refuse his attentions. She had been pushed into a corner by circumstance and events, and she reckoned she had little choice but to deal with the consequences.
“Ye will be a bonnie bride,” Ramsay said as he followed her inside. “I suppose ye will wear that brooch with the serpents on it, to remember your ma?”
Why was he talking about that brooch? Fi remembered then that it wasn’t the first time he had shown an interest in it. “In truth, I haven’t thought about it.”
“I have heard there are other fine pieces of Viking jewelry ye might wear with the brooch,” he said. “Will ye show them to me?”
“They are not in my possession.” She tried to smile then, hoping to encourage him to leave her alone. “I have a great deal to attend to today, and no doubt you do as well.”
“I do indeed,” Ramsay agreed, “but first, I have need of sustenance.”
His eyes were on her breasts in a way that made her feel sick. “You need only ask and no doubt Old David will provide you with whatever food you may desire.”
“Fiona,” he said, coming toward her until she had backed up against the cold stone wall. “Ye do know what I mean, so do not pretend otherwise.”
And now, he was towering over her, leaning down to tip her face up, and lifting her off the floor so that she felt powerless in his smothering embrace. The full, awful reality of what lay ahead enveloped her for the first time, like a dense black cloud.
Ramsay began to kiss her, forcing his tongue between her closed lips. She could feel his erection pressing into her belly as he began to thrust his tongue deep into her mouth, then nearly out, over and over again, panting, pressing his hips against hers, grinding.
Hot tears spilled from her eyes onto her cheeks. Bile rose in her throat. “Stop!” Fiona managed to free her mouth from his and was gratified to see his expression of surprise. “Do you forget that I am a maiden? And we are not yet wed!”
Ramsay released her and stepped back a few inches. “Are ye in truth a maiden?” he murmured, nostrils flaring.
“Do you mean to insult me on top of the other indignities you subject me to? I am not the sort of woman who should be shackled to the likes of you.” The truth came spilling out before she could censor herself. “I have only agreed to this wedding for the sake of my clan and to please my da, who may not have many days left to him. Truly, if it were up to me—” Realizing what she was about to say, Fiona brought a hand to her mouth.
Ramsay’s mouth twisted in a parody of the smile he had worn so often of late. “It’s that dissolute Frenchman you dream of, isn’t it! What does he do to you that makes you crave his touch so?” He raked his gaze over her body.
In her fury, Fi bit the inside of her lip so hard she tasted blood. “I’ll ask you to leave my chamber, sir.”
“Aye, I’ll go, but first, I will make ye a promise.” Ramsay stared into her eyes. “By the end of our wedding night, I’ll make ye forget all about that Fhrangaich.”
When he was gone, Fiona stood still for a few moments, waiting for her turbulent emotions to grow calmer. When her heartbeat had slowed, she took out the little, carved chest she kept hidden under her bed and opened it. Inside, under the treasured Viking brooch, she saw the small, leather-bound volume of Aristo’s Orlando Furioso Christophe had given her during her first visit to his cottage. She took it out and pressed it to her face, imagining she could feel him in the fine leather that he had touched.
It seemed a lifetime ago. Inside, hidden in a folded piece of linen, was the last spray of lavender Isbeil had brought for Fi to put next to the bed of Eleanor MacLeod. Her heart was filled with yearning for the people that were gone forever from her life.
I must leave these things alone, she thought, or the pain will never ease…
Chapter 24
“The only way to gain entrance to Dunvegan Castle is by sea,” Ciaran explained, one hand on the tiller of their small boat as he watched the sail shift in the wind.
The two Frenchmen were passengers, seated on a bench in the middle of the boat, while Raoul lounged nearby. Erik was wearing a hood again and tethered to Christophe’s wrist.
“It’s magnificent,” Christophe said with feeling. As he spoke, golden sunbeams sliced through the clouds to illuminate the MacLeod castle. “Has your clan held strong here since the mists of time?”
Ciaran was every inch the Highland warrior as he turned in profile, granite-blue eyes narrowed, his belted plaid catching the wind and revealing thighs as hard as iron.
“Dunvegan was a fort to begin.” He paused, glancing toward Christophe. “Your Gaelic is quite good, but do ye understand that dun is our word for ‘fort’?”
It was the perfect setting for such a stronghold. A great platform of rock rose up out of the loch, crowned by a massive rampart wall protecting the castle itself. The shore was just far enough away to keep the fortress safe from any landward intruders.
“The oldest parts were built three centuries ago by the first chief, Leod, son of the Norse King Olaf the Black. Ma liked to say that my brother Lennox resembles that part of our family.” They were drawing closer to steps that were carved in the steep cliff as Ciaran continued, “They say there was once an old wooden fort inside the walls, but soon it was replaced by a large stone keep. At the other end of the courtyard, Grandfather made that newer tower you can see facing southeast. Everyone fears it’s haunted, so that’s where I mean to put ye.”
St. Briac thought he saw a sardonic smile touch Ciaran’s mouth as the Highlander fell silent, turning his attention to bringing their small craft up on the rocky beach. Together the three men disembarked and carried the boat free of the water, while Raoul leaped out and began to bound toward the steps.
“Ye must try to make yourselves invisible,” Ciaran instructed sternly. “I am hoping no one will notice ye, which means that hound must be quiet as well.”
One stern glance from St. Briac caused Raoul to put his ears back and follow meekly in their wake. As they ascended the steps carved into the stone promontory, Erik allowed Ciaran to conceal him under the loose folds of his plaid. There were guards at the sea-gate, but one look at Ciaran and they stepped back, seeming to pay no attention to the young MacLeod’s guests.
As they hurried across the courtyard and entered the taller tower, St. Briac’s thoughts were filled with Fiona. This was her family castle, the seat of her clan, and now he understood better how she could be so proud, so fresh and yet civilized. She was part of something much bigger than her own family.
Clan MacLeod.
Just inside the tower there was a fine room where an assortment of musical instruments was laid out, as if musicians were expected at any moment, and a nearby table was covered with the leavings of a game of chess.
No sooner had they entered than a tall, thin man came rushing toward them.
“How may I be of service, sir?” he said to Ciaran.
At close range, St. Briac could see that the man was older, for his red hair was faded, and his pale blue eyes were bloodshot. MacLeod turned to the servant and said, “Feargus, I have no need of ye. I am just going to show these friends about, but ye must go on with your usual business.”
“Oh aye,” Feargus replied quickly, nodding. “As ye wish.”
With that, Ciaran led the way up a cramped twisting staircase built into the thick wall. Although Feargus made no further comment, Christophe felt certain that if he were to turn around suddenly, he would see the
odd man staring after them, unblinking.
* * *
“Do ye have faeries in France?” Ciaran asked as they paused in the doorway of a room on the tower’s second level.
“There’s no telling what some people may believe,” replied Christophe, “but I have never seen a faerie.”
Looking into the chamber, where a rather grand bed stood beside a humble cradle, Ciaran gave a wry nod. “On Skye, it’s common knowledge that faeries exist. For example, there was once a MacLeod chief who fell in love with a faerie princess and eventually she was allowed to stay at Dunvegan and marry him…but she had to promise her father, the king, to return to their magical land in a year and a day.”
Remembering Fiona’s enchanting stories about the blue men of the Minch, Christophe nodded. “I see…”
“What happened then?” prompted Bayard.
“The faerie princess gave birth to a baby son, and when the allotted time was over, she bade her new family farewell at a nearby bridge. A few months later, the babe was in his cradle, being looked after by a nursemaid, right there.” Ciaran pointed to the cradle for emphasis. “There was a great feast going on downstairs, and the nurse could not resist the temptation to have a look. While she was away, the babe began to cry, and when the nursemaid returned she found the faerie princess wrapping him in a beautiful cloth and singing to him.”
Bayard was staring, wide-eyed. “In this very chamber?”
“Did I not just say so?” After slanting an amused glance at St. Briac, Ciaran continued, “The cloth has come to be known as the faerie flag, and its magic powers have been used to save our clan in times of terrible trouble. However, because there have been many sightings of the faerie princess here in this chamber, few people dare to venture past this doorway.”
When Ciaran turned away with an air of finality, Bayard tapped him on the arm. “It was your grandfather who married the fairy princess?”
“Nay! He married only once, late in his life.”
“But if he built this tower, what other MacLeod chief could have married her?”
Christophe wanted to clap his hand over the Bayard’s mouth. “Are you mad? Do not question their legends,” he whispered, his warning laced with amusement.
Glancing heavenward, Ciaran added, “Your friend is right. This is the Isle of Skye, where such stories change shape with each telling. In the future, have the good grace to simply nod and look amazed.”
With that, he gestured for them to follow him up to the highest floor, where there was another furnished bedchamber with a view of Loch Dunvegan through an arrow-slit window.
“Ye will stay up here, well out of the way, until we sort out this situation with Fi,” said Ciaran. He crossed the stone floor to point out another narrow window that overlooked the courtyard. “Do ye see that disfigured old man down there?”
In the courtyard, St. Briac saw a big man with flowing white hair. It seemed he had once been tall and powerful, but age and a crippling injury had done their worst. Still, there was something regal in his proud, craggy profile and the way he stood and shook his walking stick at a Highlander who appeared to be the Captain of the Guard. “I take it that is your grandfather?”
“Aye. That’s Alasdair Crotach, the MacLeod himself.” Ciaran’s flinty gaze turned almost wistful before he blinked. “We especially can’t have him knowing ye are here. It’s fortunate for us he can’t climb these steps any longer.”
“But how are we going to live up here, even for a short while?” Bayard burst out.
“Never fear, I’ll bring ye food. There’s a fine bed over there, with a chamber pot underneath.” The MacLeod warrior flashed a sudden smile. “’Tis better than a blanket in the forest! Now then, let me find something for us to eat, and then ye will tell me your story, St. Briac, and we’ll set about turning the two of ye into Highlanders.”
* * *
When Ramsay came into the Hall and saw Magnus MacLeod sitting with Violette, the plain lass from France, his jaw ached with the effort it took to keep smiling.
“Ah, how pleased I am that ye are out of bed,” he greeted Magnus, clapping him on the back. “What are ye two doing on this important day?”
“We’ve been relaxing here, and Magnus has been telling me about his life,” said Violette.
“This kind lass enjoys hearing about my Ellie,” said the older man. “And she’s told me she will look after me at the wedding tomorrow.”
Ramsay wished the Frenchwoman would go away. He wasn’t bothered so much by Magnus being awake and alert, though it had been much easier to manage him when he was suffering from a “spell.” All along, Ramsay had planned to only give him the potion until the wedding was at hand and he had Fiona where he wanted her.
In less than a day, they would be wed. At last, he would hold a position of some power within the MacLeod clan and have every opportunity to reclaim the treasure that his father had given to Alasdair Crotach. Yet, Ramsay couldn’t stop worrying about the way Fiona had behaved when they’d been alone in her chamber earlier that day. In her eyes, he had seen a very real danger that she might bolt.
Perhaps another wee drop for her da was called for. If an attack is mild, yet plain to see, Ramsay thought, Fiona will stay focused on his well-being rather than her own feelings.
“Come and join us, lad!” Magnus exclaimed, jolting Ramsay back to the moment. “My own sons are off slaying dragons of their own and have no time for their old da. I’m grateful to be gaining a new son who enjoys my company.”
“I’d like nothing more than to share a bit of whiskey with ye now that you’re feeling yourself again,” Ramsay replied. “I’ll fetch it.”
Violette rose to her feet. “Oh, m’sieur, let me do it.”
“Sit!” His patience snapped as he turned on her. “Leave this to me.”
Her eyes widened, but she lowered herself back into the chair and assumed a submissive posture. “Excusez-moi, m’sieur.”
With that, Ramsay crossed the Hall to the shelf where Magnus kept the jug of whiskey. He wanted to look back to see if Violette was watching him, but told himself he was being ridiculous, imagining that a mere servant would be suspicious of him. No, it was better to just continue on as if she wasn’t there. Careful to keep his broad back turned toward the pair who sat a good distance away, Ramsay poured the whiskey into two cups, slipped the tiny vial from a pouch attached to his belt, and added just a drop to Magnus’s portion.
It should be just enough to cause noticeable confusion and lethargy, which would concern Fiona, but Magnus would be fully recovered before tomorrow’s short journey to Dunvegan Castle.
“Here we are!” Ramsay announced as he carried the two cups back across the rush-strewn floor. “Just the thing.”
No sooner had he set the adulterated portion of whiskey in front of Magnus, than Violette quickly picked it up, moving the cup over one place in front of Ramsay’s empty chair. In the next moment, she took the untainted cup from Ramsay’s hand and gave it to Magnus.
Ramsay could only stare as Violette smiled and said, “It’s a fine night for you two men to share a drink.”
Magnus raised his cup. “Indeed! Slàinte Mhath.”
“I’m determined to continue to improve my Gaelic,” said Violette. “What does it mean?”
“Good health,” muttered Ramsay. Then, because they were both watching him expectantly, he reached for his cup, raised it to Magnus, and pretended to drink.
* * *
“I feel like a bird in a cage,” complained St. Briac, pacing back and forth across the tower room. Through the arrow-slit window, he could see the summer sun beginning to move lower in the western sky. “If I don’t see Fiona soon, I think I may go mad.”
“Eh bien, if I don’t get food soon, I think I may starve,” Bayard rejoined. As if on cue, his stomach emitted a loud rumble. “And I don’t mean that gruesome haggis they all seem to love here in Scotland.”
Just then, there was a faint knock at the door. Two taps,
then one, letting them know their visitor was Ciaran MacLeod. He came into the room in a blaze of male energy, bringing with him a cloth bag filled with food and two folded lengths of woolen fabric, each with a faint tartan pattern woven into it.
“Did ye think I would not return?” he asked.
“What’s that I smell?” Bayard’s prominent nose twitched.
Ciaran opened the bag to reveal some smoked fish, strong cheese, nuts, and a handful of plums.
“What, no oatcakes?” cried Bayard, feigning disappointment.
Christophe sent him a quelling glance. “This is no time for humor.”
Ciaran arched a brow, clearly wondering why the Scottish staple should be cause for amusement, while Bayard began to eat. And although Christophe took some food, he had no appetite for anything but Fiona.
“If ye hope to overpower MacAskill, ye will need to eat,” said Ciaran, pointing to the napkin filled with food in Christophe’s hands. “And kindly enlighten me further. I confess I find the notion of your romance with my sister to be very curious.”
The trio sat down on a bench near the narrow window and Bayard continued eating while Christophe partook more sparingly and related his story.
“I never planned to fall in love with Fiona or anyone else for that matter. Yet, from the moment I saw her, wearing boy’s breeches as she came looking for her falcon in the courtyard at Falkland Palace…” He inclined his head toward Erik, who sat, hooded, on his perch near the bed. “I was under her spell.”
“I certainly wouldn’t have predicted it,” Bayard interjected. “Your sister is not monsieur’s usual sort of woman.”
This made Ciaran bristle. “What do ye mean by that?”
“Oh, merely that he prefers a more elegant type. Stately, even regal, preferably with golden hair and certain unmistakable assets.” Bayard took a bite of plum and waggled his eyebrows.
St. Briac shot him a threatening look. “Pay no attention to this windbag. I love everything about Fiona, from her raven hair to her audacious nature.” He made no mention of the rest of her, for whenever he thought of her body, he was gripped by a mixture of arousal and need. And he couldn’t tell Ciaran that Fiona was the only person he had been able to talk to about the deepest parts of himself, that not until he’d been dying in the bottom of a dungeon had he fully realized how truly connected they were. “Perhaps, it might seem that we are opposites, but in every way that matters, we feel the same.”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 23