Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

Christina
Phillips

When tough Scot warrior Connor
Mackenzie rides into the barbaric lands of the Picts on a mission for his king,
he never expects to be captivated by a beautiful Pictish widow. Drawn under her
spell, yet unaware of her true identity, he risks everything for one passionate
night in her arms.

Aila, princess of Pictland, swore
long ago she would do anything within her power to help defeat the Vikings who
invaded her land and murdered her husband. But after meeting Connor, her frozen
heart thaws and once again she imagines a future filled with love and passion.

Connor delivers the message from
his king and Aila becomes a pawn in a deadly game of politics. Her heart
belongs to Connor, but she must marry the prince of Dal Riada—Connor’s
half-brother. However, the fates have other plans for the star-crossed lovers
as they fight their enemies and themselves to find true love.

A
Romantica®
historical erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

Dedication

For
Vincent, our little ray of sunshine

Acknowledgments

A big thank you to Emmanuelle Morgen for
first suggesting that I should write a Highland Warrior book. And for loving my
Pictish world as much as I do!

For Krishan Trotman who made my day by
telling me how much she loved my men, and Vicky Reese who helps make the editorial
process so painless—thank you!

For Syneca and her wonderful team, thank
you for another fabulous cover!

A special thanks to Sara Hantz and Amanda
Ashby for all your encouragement, support and cyber chocolate over the
years—long may the fun continue!

And finally thank you to Mark and our
marvelous children. I wouldn't be here without you all.

Author's Note

Although Kenneth MacAlpin, King of the Scots of Dal Riada,
became King of Pictland in 843 AD or thereabouts, this is a work of fiction
based on myths, legends and my own imagination.

Kingdom of Dal Riada, Pictland

Spring, 843

Connor MacKenzie stifled the irrational urge to flinch as
Maeve Balfour, possibly the most beautiful woman in the great hall that
evening, allowed her fingers to drift across his. He attempted without success
to ignore the blatant invite in her seductive hazel eyes and instead downed his
tankard of ale. God, he was tired. All he wanted was for this victory feast to
end so he could fall into oblivion in his bed.

Alone.

Lies. What he wanted was to sink into Maeve’s welcoming
heat, feel her arms around him, forget for a few precious moments the bloodied
images imprinted in his brain.

But their liaison could no longer continue.

“You look tense, my love.” Maeve offered him a smile that
during the last year had never failed to rouse his interest. Tonight was no
different, except tonight everything was different. “Come to my chambers
later,” she whispered as she raised her goblet to her lips. “There’s no chance
of MacDougall catching us now.”

Corrosive guilt cramped his gut and strangled the heated
lust that threatened to override good sense. “The man’s not cold in his grave
yet, Maeve.” The hypocrisy of his words choked him. He’d held Iain MacDougall
in contempt during his life. Why did death suddenly elevate his status?

He’d been a bastard to every soul he owned. His wife
included.

A blush heated Maeve’s aristocratic cheeks. “Aye. And I won’t
pretend despair when all that fills my heart is relief. You know how it was,
Connor. He lost my respect long ago.”

“I know.” Briefly he squeezed her fingers and once again
battled against the lust that speared his loins. He recalled how hard Maeve, as
a young bride six years ago, had tried to win the love of her arrogant lord. How
MacDougall had abused her. Had continued to fuck any female unlucky enough to
catch his salacious eye. “But I saw him fall.” Saw the Vikings behead him. No
matter how much he’d despised the man, no warrior deserved such a barbaric
fate. “He was still my countryman. And I failed to save him.”

Maeve studied the cut of lamb she’d barely touched before
picking it up between thumb and forefinger and slinging it to the prowling
dogs. “Does this change things between us?”

Appetite lost, he shoved his plate aside. The raucous
laughter and jeers around the long table hammered into his brain. The stink of
ale and sweat and canine drenched his senses.

The memory of Maeve in his arms haunted his twisted
conscience.

“How can it not?” He glanced across the table at his half
brother Fergus who was stuffing his mouth with one hand and fondling a
dull-eyed slave girl with the other. “You know it does.”

He turned to the young woman by his side, but from the
corner of his eye saw Fergus stumble to his feet and drag the reluctant girl
from the hall. Weary disgust roiled Connor’s stomach. There were women aplenty
who’d share Fergus’ bed, yet he found more pleasure in taking those who had no
rights of denial.

“Aye.” Maeve’s voice was soft, as if it were no great
revelation to her. “But I hoped—I prayed—it wouldn’t.” She offered him a smile
that magnified his guilt, illuminated his self-loathing. “You honored me with
fidelity this last year. That’s more than my husband ever did. I can wait until
you’re ready.”

Aye, he’d been faithful to his mistress. But Maeve had given
him what he needed. A warm body to slake his need. Pleasing conversation to
soothe his mind.

And the safety of knowing she would never—could never—demand
any more from him.

He had no more he could give.

* * * * *

The chill night air of the keep was a welcome respite after
the stuffy confines of the crowded hall. He dragged in a great breath, filling
his lungs, clearing his head. Dunadd, the royal stronghold of Dal Riada, and
the center of existence for its surrounding chattels and farmsteads dominated
the hilltop. For three hundred years, the hill-fort’s formidable ramparts had
repelled enemy attacks from both the Northumbrians in the south and the Picts
to the northeast. But now they faced a new invader. One who dared to stake
their claim on the Scots’ islands heritage, who dared to look across the firth
of Lorn to the heart of their kingdom.

Light spilled from the narrow window slits behind him,
illuminating Fergus as he dropped a couple of coins into the girl’s hand and
staggered back. She curled her fingers against her breast and huddled against
the stone wall, making her way back toward the massive timber doors.

Then she stilled, like a rabbit sensing a predatory fox, as
she became aware of Connor’s presence. Biting back a curse, he stepped away
from the wall to allow her unimpeded access, but she remained frozen, obviously
expecting him to take his turn with her. And even though it had been weeks
since he’d lain with Maeve, the thought of slaking his pent-up lust with an
intimidated slave was enough to cool any ardor that still heated his blood.

“Get back to the kitchens.” His voice was unintentionally
gruff and she flinched, sinking into the shadows of the ancient stone. And who
was he to tell her what to do? She’d obey her master. And if serving the
warriors’ every need was her order, then she had no choice in the matter.

He waited until she scurried away before striding toward
Fergus as he unsteadily took a piss. He turned at Connor’s approach and offered
a welcoming leer.

“Alone, little brother? You need to learn how to enjoy life
more.” He adjusted his plaid then rolled his shoulders, clearly well satisfied.

“We have different definitions of enjoyment.” Connor
narrowed his eyes as he stared down from their mighty hill toward the firth and
beyond, where the Isle of Iona braved the western ocean. Where the Scots had so
recently beaten back the Norse invaders who cast their shadow across the outer
islands like a hell-borne plague.

Fergus slapped his shoulder and attempted to pull him into a
bear hug. The drunker Fergus became, the more inclined to familial intimacy he
became. It didn’t mean much when Connor still bore the scars from his brother’s
childhood beatings.

But, after all, Fergus was his only brother. Buried deep
inside, somewhere, lay the tattered remains of his boyhood hero-worship. And it
had been thirteen years since Fergus had dared lay hands on him in anger.

“If you can’t find pleasure in fucking every beautiful woman
you come across, then you might as well tether your balls in another marriage.”

Connor grunted, disinclined to discuss such matters. Fergus
didn’t take the hint.

“Not that a wife would keep my cock leashed.” Fergus grinned
at his wit and aimed a less-than-steady punch at Connor’s chest. “But such
unnatural chastity comes easily to you.” He staggered and steadied himself
against Connor’s shoulder. “Tell me. How many whores have you had these last
four years?”

“None.” Connor shoved his brother upright. “I don’t fuck
whores.” He and Maeve had been scrupulous in their efforts to keep their affair
private. Neither had wanted to arouse MacDougall’s suspicion. Not because he
feared the other man’s fury, but because he had no intention of allowing such
knowledge to besmirch Maeve’s reputation.

MacDougall would have dragged her naked by her hair through
the filth of the middens had he discovered her infidelity. And in the challenge
to avenge her honor, Connor would have run his sword through the bastard’s
heart.

And marriage to the widow would have been the inevitable
conclusion.

“Then it’s a wonder,” Fergus said, “how you manage to lift
your sword, considering the exercise you must inflict upon your wrist in
pursuit of self-gratification.”

Sometimes it was easier to agree than argue when Fergus
floundered in ale-induced stupidity. Especially when Connor had no intention of
enlightening him as to the error of his convictions. “Aye.”

* * * * *

The sharp tang of salt from the sea flavored the westerly
breeze as Connor strode toward the stables the following morning. Clouds
scudded across the pale-blue sky and rain threatened on the horizon, but it
would take more than a spring thunderstorm to prevent him from leaving.

His hill fort in the east of Dal Riada, small as it was, had
been neglected too long.

“Connor.” Ewan MacKinnon, fellow warrior, lifelong friend
and the only one aware of his attachment to Maeve, hailed him from the fort.
Connor turned, raised a hand in greeting and waited until Ewan reached his
side. “The king wants to see us.”

“Do you know why?” Connor abandoned the stables to fall into
step beside his friend as they returned to the fort. God, he hoped the king
didn’t have another imminent battle plan in mind. He’d die for his king, but
he’d like a short respite first. The thought of returning to the killing fields
without so much as a week of peace knotted his guts.

Treacherous thoughts. Ones he would never utter. But still
they polluted his mind.

Ewan shrugged and looked as grim as Connor felt. “Can’t be
the Vikings back already. Probably the Picts this time.”

Slaves were clearing the great hall of the remnants of the
previous night’s feast, and a couple of dogs fought a bloody battle under the
high table as he and Ewan passed through on their way to the king’s inner
sanctum. A couple of older warriors, eyes hard, expressions of stone, emerged
from the sanctum as Connor and Ewan approached. An aura of secrecy and intrigue
clung to them as palpable as the mist that obscured the hilltops at dawn.

Through the open door, their king waved them in. As Connor
went down on one knee and bowed his head, he knew he wouldn’t be returning this
day to the place he called home. The war room vibrated with scarcely concealed
anticipation.

“Connor. Ewan.” Kenneth MacAlpin, King of the Scots, flicked
his hand in an impatient gesture, ordering them to rise. Four of the king’s
advisers flanked him, staring at Connor and Ewan as if they were cockroaches
they’d like to crush beneath their heels.

They probably would. None of them had forgotten that, until
four years ago, both Connor’s and Ewan’s fathers had been MacAlpin’s most
trusted of intimates. But along with so many others during that bloodied battle
of ’39, their lives had been lost defending their king. And their noble
positions had been filled with those less scrupulous.

The king folded his arms and leaned back against his heavy
timber desk. “If we want continued success against the Vikings, we need the
Picts’ allegiance.”

Connor refrained from glancing at Ewan, but only just. Of
all the things he’d expected the king to say, it hadn’t been this.

“I can’t see them deferring to a Scot.” Especially since
they didn’t even formally recognize MacAlpin’s kingship of Dal Riada. “Why
should they offer us their trust?”

“Wrad is dead,” the king said.

Connor waited, but it appeared MacAlpin considered that
explanation enough.

“Why does the death of their high king affect us?” Ewan
said, clearly as much in the dark as Connor. “Their heathen tribes will only
fight among themselves again until they elevate another to the position.”

The king bared his teeth in a feral smile. “They won’t.
Because in accordance with their customs of inheritance, the kingship of
Fortriu now belongs to me.”

This time Connor did catch Ewan’s eye. “I can’t see the
Picts agreeing without bloodshed.”

“They don’t have a choice.” The king strolled around his
desk and glanced at the map that covered its surface. “My birthright is
unchallenged through the bloodline of my royal mother.”

“And claiming Fortriu will secure the loyalty of all the
Pictish clans?” Ewan didn’t sound convinced and Connor agreed. While there had
been intermittent peace between the two peoples over the last three hundred
years, trust had never taken root. And to mean anything, loyalty had to be
freely given not extracted by brutality.

He caught the guarded look that passed among the king’s
advisers. As if they knew exactly how the king intended to exact such loyalty.
Connor’s gaze sharpened on the king, who appeared absorbed in studying the
borderlines of the seven Pictish kingdoms that swallowed up the land northeast
of Dal Riada.

There was more at stake here than the claiming of a
matrilineal heritage.

“Marriage will claim their loyalty.” The king finally looked
up, iron purpose glinting in his eyes. “Their daughters and our warriors. And a
Scot ruling the supreme kingdom uncontested.”

Aye, he could see that working. In theory. In practice he
doubted the Picts would so easily give up their royal daughters. “But what if
they don’t want such an alliance?”

The king tapped his finger on the map and Connor and Ewan
dutifully stepped forward. “The northernmost clans are most affected by the
Vikings. Fidach is weak and relies on the neighboring Ce.” He jabbed his finger
at the relevant clan territories. “Rex Bredei mac Lutin of Ce has at least two if
not more daughters. He’s the one we need as our ally. Assure him of our
undivided support against the barbaric Norsemen in return for political favor.
Once we’ve secured his eldest daughter in marriage, our hold on the north
strengthens.”

“Who does my liege consider worthy of such marriage?”

“A man,” the king said, “who will beget heirs without
delay.”

Unease trickled along Connor’s spine at the piercing glare
MacAlpin arrowed his way. Surely the king wasn’t suggesting he was to be
married to this foreign princess? Connor’s ties to the king were absolute, by
virtue of his heritage and personal actions. But he did not possess royal
blood. Why would any Pict king agree to such a union for his daughter?

“It’s a pity,” the king said, never taking his eyes from
Connor, “the eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce has a reputation as a
cantankerous shrew. She’s also reclusive and, I fear, has the countenance of a
belligerent hag.”