“M’sieur,” called a barely audible voice, and he saw Fiona’s plain French serving maid, Violette, come into view. She pushed back her hood to give him a better view of her scrubbed face and smiled slightly.
“By the saints, what are ye doing here?” he demanded softly.
“I had to come—”
Ciaran grasped the girl’s wrists and nearly lifted her off the ground. “Do ye mean to get our friend St. Briac killed?”
“Pas du tout! But I knew you were here, and I had to tell you…I believe Ramsay MacAskill has been poisoning your papa.” She spoke the last word with her charming French accent, and then her tale of suspicions and cup-switching tumbled out.
Because she was whispering it all in a rush, Ciaran could only understand about half of her words, but it was enough. “Nothing ye could say about that evil oaf would shock me,” he ground out at length.
“We cannot let them marry!” In her zeal, Violette forgot to whisper.
“Shh!” Had he seen a movement on the castle wall? The only thing Ciaran could think to do was attempt to distract anyone who might be watching. He pulled the girl roughly into his arms and pretended to kiss her.
At least, he meant to only pretend, but to Ciaran’s utter surprise, the moment his mouth covered Violette’s, he was shot through with a bolt of keen arousal.
“Jesu!” he exclaimed when at last he was able to break free from her sweet, intoxicating lips. “Are ye a witch?”
* * *
“We must talk,” murmured Christophe as he cupped Fiona’s breast and lightly rubbed the pad of his thumb over her responsive nipple.
Arousal blossomed everywhere he touched her. “Can we not stay like this forever? I don’t want to talk if it has to do with the real world.”
“Ah…chérie, I wish—”
Before he could finish, a tapping sound came at Fiona’s door, and her heart stopped. “Who—who is it?”
“Ah, Fi, ’tis your da. I find I cannot sleep.” He sounded apologetic, yet hopeful. “Will ye spare me a few minutes on the eve of your wedding?”
She was flooded with panic as she turned toward Christophe. “Tomorrow, they mean that I should—”
He put a finger to her mouth and said softly, “Worry not. There will be no wedding.”
She watched as he climbed out of the rumpled bed, feeling as if some essential part of her was being torn away. Helplessly, Fiona reached out and caressed the muscled ridges of his abdomen, and for the briefest instant, he bent to brush a burning kiss to her mouth.
“Just a moment, Da!” she called, striving to keep the panic from her voice. “I was—I was dreaming.” To Christophe, she mouthed, “Hide, there!” and pointed to the tapestry that hung near her window. He had already gathered up his clothing and, in his nakedness, reminded her of a classical sculpture as he went silently to the hiding place.
Fiona rose, her heart in her throat, and drew on first her smock, then a loose robe. Would her father be able to see immediately what she had been doing? It seemed her heightened state of sexual arousal must be clearly evident on her face. Still, she took a deep breath, lifted the bar, and opened the door.
Magnus stood there, fully clothed, holding a candlestick, with Dougal by his side. His gaze softened as it swept over her. “Ah, lass, how radiant ye are. Ye soon will be a bonnie bride.”
“Woof!” Dougal gave a muted howl.
The sight of the wolfhound stretching his big head forward for a better look inside her chamber sent panic flaring over Fiona’s nerves. Da’s remarks meant nothing compared to her fear that Dougal would raise the alarm that a stranger was in their midst. Quickly, Fi slipped out into the corridor and pulled the door closed.
“You should not see my chamber in such disarray,” she explained, trying to look embarrassed. She reached down with one hand to scratch Dougal behind the ears. “Violette and I spent all the evening assembling my wedding costume.”
Magnus smiled indulgently and nodded. “Oh, aye, I thought I heard voices.”
Voices! Fi’s heart jumped. How mad it had been for them to make love in this castle, on the eve of her wedding to another man! But, of course, it could not happen now. Christophe had come, and tomorrow everything would be different.
“If only your ma could have been here for this day,” Magnus was saying. “She would have loved to fasten your gown and weave flowers in your hair. Do ye know how proud I am, lass? The only thing that eases my grief over your ma’s death is knowing that ye, Ramsay, and I will be here together in the future.” He paused, his voice breaking. “It means everything to me, knowing you’ll be near.”
His need for her was a weight on her heart, and for a moment, she couldn’t speak. “I love you, too, Da,” she murmured at last, while continuing to stroke Dougal’s big head. “But now, you should try to sleep. You have been so ill, and you need your rest for tomorrow.”
“Aye. I know ye are right…”
When he finally relented and came close to kiss her goodnight, she wondered if he could detect the scent of mating on her. Fiona took a step backward and smiled.
“I’m so happy to see you up and prowling about at night,” she told him. “Mama used to say that you were ever the last one in the castle to go to sleep. I think this late visit is a sign you’re feeling your old self again.”
He beamed at her. “Ye are right, of course. Dougal and I will leave ye then. Dawn will be here before we know it, and then we’ll be on our way to Dunvegan to begin your wedding celebrations.”
No sooner had she closed the door behind him than Fiona turned and hurried across the chamber to Christophe’s hiding place. Part of her feared that it had all been a dream, perhaps a trick of the faeries, for how could the man she loved truly be there on the very northern tip of Skye, high in Fiona’s castle room? It was madness.
And sure enough, when she pushed the tapestry aside, there was no one there.
No one at all…
Chapter 26
“Ye must lie down on the plaid,” Ciaran instructed and pointed to the length of woolen fabric spread out on the floor.
Bayard glanced toward Christophe and raised a skeptical brow. “Why would I want to do that?”
“’Tis the only way to put it on properly,” came his cool retort. “And if ye don’t have it right, ye will find yourself bare-arsed at the worst time possible. Watch me then, all right?”
Christophe leaned back against the stone wall of the tower, watching, but dreaming all the while of Fiona. He’d only slept at all last night because he’d known he must. He could still smell her on his skin and the memories of all they had given to each other last night were achingly vivid.
“Are ye watching?” barked Ciaran as he lay down on the fabric and wrapped the two long ends of the plaid around his body, left over right.
Christophe nodded, trying to look interested. He knew he should be more grateful for the assistance of Fiona’s brother for, in spite of his grumbling, he had made it possible for Christophe to hold Fiona last night, to hear her voice, to –
“Psst.” Bayard jabbed him in the ribs and cocked his head toward the plaid-donning demonstration Ciaran was finishing. He was back on his feet now, cinching his belt around the loosely-gathered folds of fabric.
“And then,” he said, “ye draw the long end up over your shoulder and fasten it to your shirt with a clan brooch.”
Christophe watched as the Highlander brandished a golden circle with a stag’s head rising out of the center. When he had pinned it below his left shoulder, he held out both hands as if to seek their approval.
“Most impressive,” St. Briac declared with a nod. “You look magnificent.”
Ciaran surveyed his own reflection in the looking glass and grinned. Although his appearance was far from anything that would be deemed acceptable at the French court, here on the Isle of Skye, young MacLeod was doubtless the epitome of rakish style. His long, dark hair curled slightly in casual disarray. His chiseled face was tanned,
and he wore the belted length of plaid with a self-assurance Christophe had to admire.
“I must go to share breakfast with the men,” said Ciaran. “Get into your new clothing, and I’ll be back to fetch you for your meeting with Da and Grandfather.”
* * *
“I am dreaming of turning all of this over to my son, William, and living out my days at the monastery on the Isle of Harris,” said Alastair Crotach, the great chief of Clan MacLeod, from his chair at the head of the table. “Ye would help your brother with the duties of chief, would ye not, Magnus?”
Ciaran heard all of this as he quietly entered the Great Hall at Dunvegan Castle and took a chair next to Lennox. The two brothers exchanged glances. Once again, Ciaran was grateful that they were close, for he never felt he could let his guard down with Da.
“I thank God ye came back in time for this occasion,” Ciaran said in a low voice to Lennox.
Meanwhile, their grandfather was going on about the number of days he felt too tired to carry on as chief. How many times had they heard this? Of course, it would be perfectly understandable for him to feel this way, but even at nearly ninety years of age, he was reluctant to give up control of the clan holdings and politics.
And Ciaran almost felt sorry for Da, listening to Grandfather’s plans to pass the chief’s duties on to William. Da was the oldest brother by seven years, but because he was Grandfather’s natural son and hadn’t even been acknowledged until after his mother died, all the real responsibility and honor of being clan chief would go to the children born of Alastair Crotach’s legal marriage to Margaret Cameron.
At least, Grandfather had the good grace to look slightly abashed for passing over Magnus so regularly. But if Ciaran himself were in Da’s place, he would not sit by and take this ill-treatment.
Of course, he also would not have stayed away from his own wife during the worst days of her illness. When Da glanced down the table now, clearly seeking support from his sons, Ciaran could only think, Selfish bastard!
“Aye, this marriage is a fine thing,” Alasdair Crotach was saying. “It pleases me to reaffirm our clan ties with the MacAskills, especially after the way Murdo and his brothers were murdered in the Battle of Glendale. I was so grievously wounded myself, and our clan so weakened, that we neglected to look after Murdo’s wife and children in the years that followed. Now that Ramsay is grown into a fine warrior, it is the time for healing.”
“Ye could not be faulted,” said Magnus. “Ye nearly died in that battle.” His gaze touched the old chief’s permanently hunched back. “Anyone else would have been cleaved in two by that battle axe.”
“We lost many good men that day. Our own Paul Dubh, who carried the faerie flag into battle, was killed.” The old man’s eyes grew wet with tears. “But we have long since rebuilt, and now the time has come to restore our alliance with the MacAskills. Perhaps I will offer Ramsay his father’s old position, as Captain of our fleet of birlinns.”
Ciaran wanted to jump to his feet and challenge this injustice. How could Grandfather consider giving this honor to a villain like Ramsay, when Ciaran himself had earned it fairly, a thousand times over? Slowly, he forced himself to breathe in and out, until his temper cooled. Soon enough, he and St. Briac would face Da and Grandfather and tell them the truth about Ramsay MacAskill.
* * *
Ramsay stood in Dunvegan’s courtyard, just outside the Great Hall, feeling more powerful than ever. He had delivered his ma and brothers to St. Mary’s kirk, a short distance down the road, and soon, he would travel there himself in the company of the legendary Alasdair Crotach MacLeod. By the end of this day, he would have attached himself to the Clan MacLeod and would possess not only a sizeable monetary tocher as a marriage settlement, but also the Viking treasure his da had given to Alasdair Crotach so many years ago.
At last!
How easily Magnus MacLeod had agreed to his conditions when they drew up the marriage contract. ’Twas child’s play, just like disposing of that Frenchman, St. Briac, in the bottle dungeon at Falkland Palace.
This magnificent day would be finished to perfection, Ramsay thought with a twisted smile, the moment he took the luscious Fiona MacLeod to his bed. If she resisted, he would tear her clothes from her and force her to submit to his baser urges. All of them. The thought of this filled him with white-hot lust and he had to delay another moment outside the Great Hall, until his erection subsided.
Just as he started toward the door, Feargus MacLean came rushing out.
“Praise the saints!” cried the servant who Ramsay paid to spy for him. “I feared I couldn’t get ye alone!”
“Do not make a scene! What is it?”
“Oh, I have news the likes of which ye cannot imagine.”
Ramsay wanted to hit him in the face and break his ugly nose, but instead he forced himself to smile. “Will ye not share it with me?”
The scrawny man gave him a coy look. “Oh, aye, I will. For a price.”
“I’ve already paid ye.” Realizing that Feargus meant to hold out, and knowing that at any moment, the MacLeod chief and his family could emerge from the Keep, Ramsay said, “I will give ye coin tomorrow, when I have it. Ye have my word.”
“Aye, all right. I suppose I must trust ye.” Feargus leaned closer, his breath smelling of onions. “There are outlanders in the Tower. Frenchmen.”
For a moment, Ramsay thought he might black out as a great pain burst inside his head. Yet, he managed to keep his voice low and inquire, “Can ye describe these Frenchmen?”
“One of them is a strapping sort with curly hair. The other man is high-born. Tall, lean and strong, with dark hair.” He paused. “The MacLeod’s grandson Ciaran called him St. Briac.”
Ramsay felt blood pounding in his ears. “They are in the Tower, you say?” As he waited for Feargus to nod, his thoughts were racing ahead. “I want you to go up there, now, and lock the door so they can’t get out. Do you understand me?” He paused and added, “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Feargus leaned in to emit another gust of foul breath. “Consider it done, milord.”
* * *
As Magnus amused Alasdair Crotach with a tale about King James V’s fondness for donning disguises and mingling with the common folk, Ciaran rose and slipped out of the Hall. He crossed the courtyard to the Tower and hurried up the oppressively close, steep stairway, past the bedchamber where the faerie princess had been seen rocking her baby son, and on up to the highest room. He knocked softly, twice, then once, and the arched door opened to admit him.
The sight of Christophe St. Briac in full Highland regalia made him take a step back. “Ach, look at ye! What a splendid sight.” It was true; the Frenchman wore his plaid as if he’d been born to it, and his lean-muscled physique was made for battle.
St. Briac gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s all thanks to you.”
“One day, we’ll be brothers,” Ciaran was surprised to hear himself say. “I do feel it in my bones.”
Across the room, he saw Bayard standing near Raoul, the hound, and Fiona’s gyrfalcon, who rested on his perch, his head covered by a tiny hood. The stonemason shifted his weight awkwardly as he met Ciaran’s gaze. His plaid was stretched tight around his considerable girth, and he wore a wool bonnet that looked too small for his tangle of dark curls. Ciaran wanted to rearrange his clothing, but there was no time.
“Are ye ready?” he said “Do ye have your claymore and dirk?”
“Aye,” replied St. Briac, practicing his Scots accent, his eyes recklessly agleam.
“My da and grandfather are still in the Great Hall. Let’s go and speak to them, to put an end to these mad wedding plans!”
Just as the trio turned toward the door, the portal swung closed with a thud. Before Ciaran could rush forward to push back against it, he heard a key turn in the lock.
* * *
“Are ye ready to leave for the kirk?” asked Margaret, Magnus’s younger half-sister.
Margaret and the other women had spent the morning in another part of the castle, preparing Fiona for the ceremony at the kirk. She submitted to their ministrations only because she felt certain Christophe had a plan to stop the wedding. All morning long, she waited for someone to summon her and say that Ramsay had been banished and the ceremony was cancelled.
But now, through a window, she saw MacLeod warriors milling about in the courtyard. They would go by water to the kirk, leaving the castle through the sea-gate to sail in one of her grandfather’s fine birlinns. When she saw Ramsay come out of the Keep and pause to shade his eyes, looking up to her window, Fiona felt physically ill.
“Very soon, my dove, ye will be my bride,” he called.
At Falkland Palace, Christophe had promised that he would not fail her, yet when she had written to summon his help, there had been no reply. And last night, once her father was safely out of the way, Fiona had hurried to Christophe’s hiding place only to find it empty.
“Violette,” she said to the maid in a whisper. “I feel as if I am going to my execution.”
“Nay, mademoiselle, do not lose hope.” Coming forward, Violette drew her into a corner near the window. “But just in case it all goes wrong, I have something for you.”
The French girl glanced back over her shoulder and drew a dirk from the folds of her gown. “We shall strap it to your leg.”
Fiona stared at the lethally sharp dirk and began to nod. Aye. If it all went wrong, and she found herself at Ramsay’s mercy, she would summon the courage to rescue herself.
Violette knelt beside her to lift her lovely gown of sapphire-blue silk. Using two long ribbons, she fastened the dirk to Fiona’s calf, and rose again, smiling. They were just about to start toward the door when a movement outside the window caught her eye.
Fiona saw it, too, and gave a loud gasp. “Look! It’s Erik! How can this be?”
Together they guided the bird in through the narrow window until he perched on the stone sill, staring intently at Violette. Fiona wanted to wrap him in her arms, but of course, it was out of the question. Erik appeared to be cool and emotionless, though Fi knew in her heart that he loved her.
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 25