“How can this be?” she repeated. “Could he have flown all the way back to Skye on his own? And how could he know where to find me?”
“I do not know, mademoiselle. No doubt we will discover the answer later.” Violette gazed thoughtfully at the bird until Erik pushed his way back out the window opening and took flight, soaring high above the courtyard. Turning back to Fiona, the maid urged, “You must join the other ladies now.”
“You are coming with me, are you not?” Fiona felt a bit emotional at the thought of being parted from Violette.
“Mais oui! As soon as I can, but I have just remembered I left something in the Keep earlier today. Allow me to go and fetch it, then I will join you.”
Fiona thought Violette’s behavior was odd, especially when the girl turned once more to look out the window, her expression distracted. It almost seemed she was searching the sky for the white gyrfalcon.
Chapter 27
It was a rare day on the Isle of Skye, clear and sun-washed, with a sky the color of bluebells.
The kirk of St. Mary was perched on a grassy knoll overlooking Loch Dunvegan, and it was a place steeped in legend and history. Outlined against the horizon were magnificent flattened hilltops known as the MacLeod Tables, while the cemetery outside the small kirk was the resting place of great clan warriors, their armor-clad images carved into the graveslabs.
Standing outside the kirk among the festive wedding guests, Fiona felt isolated and bereft. Tears filled her eyes as she gazed out to the stone that marked her mother’s grave. The last time she had been here was the rainy spring day, when Eleanor Lindsay MacLeod was laid to rest beneath the ground.
Oh, Mama, how I wish you were here to help me now…
Fiona had once dreamed of being wed here to a man she would love and trust. Sometimes, when her mother was too tired to speak and needed only a story, she would tell her about that day. In the tale, Eleanor and Magnus were there together, everyone had fine new clothes, and joy filled the air.
“Your ebony hair will lie in a long plait down your back,” her mother had whispered, smiling. “And we’ll weave in wildflowers. Red campion, yellow saxifrage…”
“And tiny marsh orchids,” Fiona had said. When she was a wee lass, they had gathered speckled marsh orchids together, imagining that the faeries used them for fancy bonnets.
Today, it seemed that the faeries had forsaken her and were playing one of their evil tricks.
“If ye will all make your way over, we’ll hear this fine couple say their vows on the porch, where no one can dispute them before we go inside,” the priest was saying.
Fiona’s throat closed in panic as she looked around for Violette. Where could she be? And where was her own brother, Ciaran? She sent Lennox an imploring look, and he came to her side.
“Do you know where Ciaran has gotten to?” Fi asked.
“Nay.” He gazed toward the sea, looking every inch a Viking warrior, and sighed. “He’s been behaving even more strangely than usual, though. I hope he’s not gotten himself into trouble.”
Fiona wanted to tell her brother that she was the one in trouble, but what could Lennox do about it? Her heart hurt as she tried to take a deep breath.
“Are you glad for this wedding?” she whispered, searching his face.
“In truth, I hoped ye might find a different husband when ye went to court.” He gazed down at her, seeming to truly see her for the first time that day. “Fi, are ye only doing this for Da’s sake? And Grandfather’s?”
As their eyes met, Fiona tried to let her brother see what was in her heart. She was on the verge of begging him to help her escape, but before she could speak, Alasdair Crotach approached with Ramsay’s mother, Una MacAskill. The bright sunlight made their grandfather look even older than usual, his craggy face deeply creased and his humped back more pronounced.
“’Tis good that ye are making this marriage,” he said to Fiona, reaching out to clasp her hand before gesturing toward Ramsay’s mother. “I’ve been telling Una here that I should have done more for her in the time after her husband died defending our clan at Glendale. I regret it now, but this alliance will help to set things right.”
Magnus and Ramsay were approaching, side by side, a striking pair in their finest Highland garb.
“Ye are a lovely bride, lass,” her father said as he took her arm.
It was hard for Fiona to look at the blue gown she wore, for it was one her mother had made before her illness. And when the women at the castle had presented her with a bouquet of lilies, she had pretended to forget to bring it to the church.
“I’m surprised ye are not wearing the Viking brooch with the ruby at its center,” Ramsay said as he walked beside them to the kirk porch. “I know how much it means to ye.”
You don’t know the first thing about me or my feelings, she thought, with a stab of anger.
It was the most terrible of positions in which to find herself. Christophe had not come to stop the wedding, to ask her father to let her marry him instead. Magnus, the overlooked natural son, was feeling pleased to have played a key role in this new alliance between their clan and the MacAskills. And her grandfather, who also happened to be the MacLeod himself, was beaming at her. Everyone was happy except Fiona.
People were all around her, herding her up the few shallow steps to the porch of the church. Family members and friends who were in attendance crowded around them inside the small stone kirk and on the grass below the porch.
Ramsay took Fiona’s hand and leaned down to sneer, “Soon…soon,” in her ear. Bile rose in her throat.
“We are gathered here together on this joyous day to witness the union of these two children of God,” the priest was saying. “Let us now hear their vows…”
Just then, as Ramsay opened his mouth to speak, Fiona saw a white falcon wheeling against the expanse of blue sky above the kirk. Her heart gave an irrational leap of hope. As the bird dipped once, soaring down toward them, the rest of the wedding party looked up, too.
It was Erik!
And in the next instant, she heard a shout and turned to see two armed Highland warriors charging up the hillside, toward the kirk. Pure joy surged through her veins. The man who was a few steps ahead was tall, powerfully-built, with lean, muscular legs showing beneath his belted plaid. He wore a bonnet tilted slightly at a rakish angle with a MacLeod badge affixed to it.
Fiona could scarcely believe her own eyes. It was Christophe—in full Highland garb! And lumbering up the hill in his wake was none other than Bayard, the French stonemason. How could this possibly be happening?
“I’ll thank you to hand over the bride,” commanded St. Briac as he drew near, brandishing a claymore.
“Ye cannot do this!” cried the priest. “This is a kirk, a holy place!”
For a moment, Fiona feared that Magnus, Ramsay, and the other men might try to storm down and overpower Christophe and Bayard, even though none of them had weapons. It was a wedding, after all, and even the chief’s own bodyguards had left their dirks behind in the galley out of respect for the setting.
“Do any of you wish to do battle with me?” Christophe taunted before reaching out a hand to Fiona. “Come to me, chérie,” he said in a tone that brooked no refusal.
Ramsay’s face had gone purple with rage and Magnus started forward as well until Lennox put a firm hand on his arm and held him back.
“Da,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Let her go. It is what she wants.”
Even as Fiona tried desperately to free herself from the crush, Ramsay grabbed her, wrapping one sinewy arm around her midriff.
All she had to do was bring one leg up and lean sideways to pull the dirk from the ribbons that bound it to her calf. The look of shock that passed over Ramsay’s face when Fiona raised the evil weapon toward him was deeply satisfying, but she knew she had to move quickly, for he could doubtless wrest it from her grasp in an instant if she lingered.
“Loose me!” she demanded.
He flinched involuntarily at the sight of the dirk, relaxing his arm for only an instant, but it was long enough for Fiona to free herself and push past the priest. Christophe was there to meet her on the top step, and she went to him without hesitation.
“Did I not promise to come for you?” he said, daring to laugh.
Just when Fiona thought she could not be more thrilled, Christophe lifted her with one arm and easily tossed her over his shoulder as if she were pirate’s plunder.
“Do not attempt to pursue us,” he charged them.
“Ye have no skill with our weapons, Fhrangaich!” shouted Ramsey, his eyes blazing with fury as he turned to the other warriors present. “These villains are outlanders! There are only two of them, against more than a dozen of the clan’s finest warriors! Will ye allow them to steal the MacLeod’s own granddaughter under our very noses?”
“Ye are in the presence of God, Ramsay MacAskill!” cried the priest. “There will be no violence in this holy kirk!”
And as St. Briac made off with the bride, running easily down the hillside away from the kirk, Magnus met the outraged eyes of Alasdair Crotach and raised a hand in the air to silence the other men. “The Frenchman will do her no harm, I think. Let her go.”
No sooner had he spoken the words than Bayard was upon them. He made an almost comical figure in his poorly-wrapped plaid and ill-fitting bonnet, but he was stocky, strong, and fearless.
“Do not dare to step off that church porch, or I shall be forced to run you through!” he exclaimed in a heavy French accent. Many of them clearly weren’t certain what he was saying, but his meaning was clear as he brandished his claymore to herd the wedding guests into the kirk. “If you are foolish enough to challenge me, I shall spit you like pigs! Now get you all into the church. Allez, allez!”
It was Lennox MacLeod who stepped forward to help Bayard, barring the door to ensure a safe escape for his sister.
Meanwhile, at the bottom of the hill, Christophe crossed a cart track before setting Fiona lightly down on the grass. “Must I continue with this forced abduction, or will you come with me willingly?” he asked, smiling into her eyes in a way that reminded her of all they had shared.
“To the ends of the earth,” she replied.
Holding her hand, Christophe led her down into a little bay. Fiona was startled to see her brother Ciaran, waiting at the rudder of Alasdair Crotach MacLeod’s finest small galley. Across from him at the oars sat Violette Pasquiére.
“Make haste!” he shouted.
As Christophe handed her into the boat, Fiona could hardly believe her eyes. “Do you mean to steal Grandfather’s galley?” The notion of leaving the great MacLeod chief stranded was unthinkable.
“Nay,” laughed her brother, as Bayard rushed down to them and pushed the boat off the beach before jumping in himself. “We’re only borrowing it!”
Chapter 28
Christophe moved past Fiona to take an oar, sharing it with her as they joined in the effort to speed the small galley into the loch and away from the kirk where at least two dozen MacLeod clansfolk were trapped. Bayard also manned an oar, even as a gusty wind came to fill the sail and aid in their escape.
“I still cannot believe this has happened,” Fiona exclaimed, and Christophe felt her mixture of euphoria and shock.
“Did ye imagine we had abandoned ye to that villain?” her brother shouted over the rising wind. “I suspect our Grandfather is secretly relieved ’twas not the MacDonalds who outwitted us MacLeods this day. They would have doubtless thrown a burning torch on the kirk roof before making their escape.”
Blood was pounding through Christophe’s body as they sailed around a narrow promontory and into a small, hidden bay. Until he knew they were safe, it was impossible to relax, yet he had never felt more exhilarated. Fiona was beside him, her shoulder pressed to his, and nothing else mattered.
“I know ye need time alone,” Ciaran said as he brought the boat up on a rocky beach. “Fi, take your man into the cave here while we return to the castle. I’ll do my best to sort things out with Da and Grandfather. When they’ve cooled off and had a whiskey, I’ll come back for ye.”
Christophe looked at Violette and Bayard. “Will the two of you look after Raoul until this drama is resolved? I don’t like to think of him locked in the tower all day.”
“Worry not,” Violette said warmly. “I will stay with him as much as possible.”
Ciaran, who clearly had other matters on his mind, focused on Fiona and asked, “Do ye remember the way into the cave?”
“Of course, I remember!” she replied. “I doubtless know it better than you do, Ciaran MacLeod. ’Twas my secret place when I was but a bairn.”
As Christophe climbed out of the boat, Fiona paused to kiss her brother’s cheek and quickly embrace both Violette and Bayard, murmuring her thanks to all three.
“Come, lass, to your Highland warrior,” Christophe commanded and reached back to swing Fiona out to stand beside him on the beach. As he stood looking into her eyes, both of them damp and windblown, he was filled with a feeling of raw joy and anticipation for the future.
The galley soon disappeared from sight and Fiona turned to come into Christophe’s arms. “No Highlander I have ever known could hold a candle to you, mo ghràdh,” she whispered, pressing her cool, moist cheek to the side of his neck.
“Let’s get into this cave you seem to know all about, and you can teach me more Gaelic love names,” he said with a soft laugh.
She laughed, too, dimples winking in a way that made him want to take her into his arms and peel away the blue wedding gown that seemed so incongruous in this setting. Instead, Christophe let her lead him into a hollow between the craggy rocks lining the beach. It looked at first as if they were just going to stay there, in that narrow space, but Fiona inclined her head to indicate that there was more. Pushing aside some ragged bushes, she revealed the entrance to a dark cave that continued on into shadowed, hidden recesses.
“My clan believes this was once the dwelling of folk who lived here long ago before the Vikings came to Skye,” she said, her voice echoing a bit as she went farther inside, bending down under the low ceiling and gesturing toward the fanciful formations of crystalized limestone.
Christophe continued to feel charmed by the tales that Fiona had been raised on, of faeries who rocked babies in their cradles, blue serpents in the Minch, and now ancient people who inhabited the island caves. He, on the other hand, had his doubts. “Who would want to live in a place like this? Not only is it dismal and dark, but no man could stand up straight. And the drip-drip of moisture is unceasing.”
“You have a point,” she agreed, laughing. “But when I was young, I loved to spend time here, pretending to be a woman grown, waiting for my husband to come home from the sea.”
“A husband?” He drew her with him to sit on a nearby boulder, grateful for the light that filtered in through the cave entrance and allowed him to glimpse the blush that suffused her cheeks. “And what did you imagine that husband would be like, chérie?”
Tears filled her eyes. “I could never have dreamed of a man like you. Oh, Christophe…even now, I can scarcely believe you are real.”
For a long, tender moment, they gazed at one another and then he drew her into his embrace. “I feel that too.” The primal urges that usually seized him when he touched her subsided now. “I love you, Fiona, with all my heart.”
Her face was pressed to his and he felt Fiona’s tears wet his roughened cheek. When she spoke, her voice was choked. “When I gave you that message at the palace and then you didn’t come…I came to believe that perhaps I had dared to hope for a love you could not give me.”
Her words tore at his heart. This was why he had intended to talk to her last night when he came to her room at Duntulm Castle! There was so much that needed to be said, that he wanted to explain to her, yet when Fiona was in his arms again, the physical expression of their feelings had swept away all rati
onal thought.
“My darling, you must listen to me now. We may not have much time and I cannot risk another interruption.” He kept one arm around her but lifted his other hand to rub the furrow in his brow. Fiona had turned her face up to him, watching and waiting. “I fully intended to come to you after I read your note but something happened. To me.”
“I don’t understand…”
“This will sound mad, but I was summoned to the Gatehouse to meet with John Scrymgeour. As I came through the door, someone struck me over the head. When I regained my senses, I was at the bottom of the dungeon.” After Christophe explained about the bottle dungeon and its entrance in the floor of Scrymgeour’s office, he continued, “It was darker than a moonless night. A tiny space at the bottom of a long tunnel, rather like a well with no water. My only companion was the skeleton of another unfortunate prisoner.”
“Christophe!” she gasped, horrified. “Who could have done such a terrible thing to you?”
He looked at her and slowly arched a brow. “Although I have no proof, who else could it be but Ramsay MacAskill?”
Fiona blinked as awareness dawned in her eyes. “Faith…I can see you are right.” For a long moment, she fell silent, breathing faster. “When I think of how terrible such an ordeal must have been for you, I can scarcely bear it. To be closed in utter darkness, without food or water or air…”
He gave a short nod and gathered her closer on his lap. “You alone would understand. Yet those feelings began to lose their power when I found the courage to share them with you, that night in the cottage…”
Fiona turned her anguished face up to him. “How could I have left Falkland while you were locked in the dungeon? I imagined that you had chosen your work over my love when you didn’t come for me. How wrong I was to have doubted you, even for a moment!”
“Yet how could you know? And you didn’t leave me, not really.” He kissed her salty lips. “If not for you, I might not have fought so hard to survive. I thought of you constantly, chérie, and I knew that I had to find a way out—so that I could pursue you to the Isle of Skye and convince you to marry me.”
Abducted at the Altar: A St. Briac Family Novel (Brides of Skye, Book 1) Page 26