Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (14 page)

Propped up on one elbow, Connor stared into the sleeping
face of the woman by his side. The torches had burned out long ago, but when
he’d awoken just now, he’d opened the timber shutters.

In order to look at this fascinating, incredible woman.

With her gold-auburn hair spread across the pillows, she
looked like an angel. Yet her passion owed nothing to such sexless beings.

Her passion had astounded him. Even now, the memory of how
she had responded to his touch, how she had teased and taken and most of all
given, caused the blood to thicken his shaft and quicken his heart.

His Pictish lady, so reserved in public, revealed a fiery
demand for sex in the privacy of the bedchamber.

Unable to help himself, he gently tugged the furs he had
wrapped around her after their last lovemaking. Her small breasts, so perfectly
formed, boasted rosy nipples already hardening as the air caressed her naked
flesh.

He cradled her breast, delighting in how she fit so snugly
into his palms. So warm and silky-soft. His heated gaze traveled the length of
her body. She was so fragile. So small.

For a moment black fear gripped his chest, curdled his
stomach. Last night his passion had overcome his iron-clad control.

God. How could he have put her life in such danger? She
wasn’t big enough for childbearing. He never wanted to bear responsibility for
killing another woman through the consequences of his lust. That the woman
might be Aila didn’t bear contemplation.

Yet she assured him all was well and he shoved the doubts
aside. A woman knew her own body. Perhaps, in time, he would relax enough to
enjoy other nights like this one. Nights when he didn’t need to withdraw before
completion, a practice he’d remained faithful to for the last four years.

She stirred, a soft sigh whispering from her lips, as he
stroked her nipple with his thumb. Later this morning, when they met by the
stream, he would ask for her hand. He’d ask her now, but he needed time to work
on his strategy. Consider any objection she might have and come up with
solutions that would lighten her heart. Present his heritage in its most
positive light. He was, after all, related to royalty through his half brother
Fergus.

And then, when the Princess Devorgilla demanded her presence
in Dal Riada, as he was sure she would, Aila would already know a new life
waited.

With him.

His chest tightened and he lowered his head and trailed
kisses over her pale, luscious globe. His tongue flicked over her nipple,
sucked her into his mouth, her erect nub sending arrows of raw lust streaking
directly to his rigid cock.

There was plenty of time for another leisurely joining
before they needed to face the day.

Her fingers tangled in his hair and she stretched, angling
her breast more securely against his greedy mouth. God, she tasted good. He
would taste her all over before he allowed her to leave this bed.

And then she stiffened. “How late is it?” There was an
unmistakable thread of panic in her voice.

With reluctance, he relinquished her irresistible flesh.

“Don’t distress yourself. Dawn has only just broken.” He
grinned up at her over her wet, erect nipple. “Good morning, my Pictish lady. I
trust you slept well.”

Instead of a teasing response, her eyes widened in growing
alarm. “I have to leave.” She scrambled to sit up and because he knew he could
persuade her to stay a little longer, he allowed her to. “I have to return to
my chamber before anyone is about—I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She sounded as
though her world was crashing around her ears.

Damn the importance men placed on a woman’s reputation. And
yet he would not do anything to besmirch the reputation of this woman.

“It’s still early.” Aye, and he was as hard as a rock and
despite the early hour he was destined to remain so until tonight. Surely Aila would
visit him tonight. They could celebrate their betrothal. “No one will be about
yet.”

Her fingers clutched at the furs. She looked anything but
reassured by his words.

“There was something I—but never mind.” She gave him an
oddly furtive look. “You will still meet with me later this morning?” Was that
a hint of uncertainty he detected in her tone?

He covered her hands, pressed her palms against his heart.
“My king himself couldn’t keep me from you.”

She smiled, as if she doubted his word. But at least she
smiled.

“There are things we need to discuss. But I don’t have time
now.” She glanced around, obviously searching for her discarded clothing.

He put his own needs aside and dutifully brought her gown to
her. “Aye. There are things we need to discuss. I’ll be at the stream at the
fourth hour.”

She relaxed. “We’ll have a beautiful day today, Connor. I
promise you.”

* * * * *

With a sense of satisfaction, Connor emerged from the
Pictish king’s inner sanctum, Ewan by his side. He hadn’t expected the early morning
summons, but it was obvious the king didn’t want to waste any time before
discovering why the Scots had descended upon his kingdom.

“That didn’t go as badly as I feared.” Ewan’s remark
mirrored his thoughts on the matter. “Although I was sorely tempted to give a
more realistic impression of the noble and honorable prince Fergus when mac
Lutin asked after his character.”

“What did you expect me to say?” Connor rolled his
shoulders, attempting to dislodge the knotted tension. “We wanted him to agree
to the match, not sling us out on our arses.”

As they crossed the feasting hall, its long tables now
stacked against one side of the room, Ewan grunted. “He did seem overly
interested in Fergus on a personal level though, didn’t he? As if that mattered
more to him than the royal connection.”

It had been odd. Connor had expected a great many questions
and demands from the Pictish king, but he hadn’t been prepared to give personal
recommendations on the proposed bridegroom. “It appears he might be fonder of
his eldest daughter than we believed.” A twinge of guilt assailed him. But what
could he do? This was politics. He was only following the orders of his king.
If the Pictish king decided to give his own daughter in marriage to secure an
alliance, it was nothing to do with Connor.

He hadn’t lied about his half brother’s qualities. He’d just
been economical with the truth.

Just before they left the hall, he caught sight of a
time-keeping candle in a recess and cursed violently. The flame was already
halfway between the fourth and fifth hours of the morning.

He was late for Aila.

The moment he crested the ridge and saw the woman by the
stream, tension knotted in his gut. Where was Aila?

Lady Elise turned at his approach and he offered her a bow.
“My lady.”

“Connor.” She inclined her head. “I have a message from Lady
Aila.”

“Is she quite well?” He recalled asking Elise a similar
question days ago. How much had changed since then.

“Yes.” Elise’s fingers clenched on her shawl and instantly
his sense of unease heightened. “She asked me to convey her apologies but
her—her father is returned and commanded she wait at the palace to receive him
later this morning.”

His tension dissolved. The delay was nothing to concern
himself with. Not that he had been concerned. Why wouldn’t Aila wish to see him
again today?

She herself had made the arrangements. But a single, or
widowed, woman could no sooner disobey her father than she could her husband.
Or than a husband could disobey his king.

“Thank you. And I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I also was
unavoidably detained this morning.”

She waved her hand in a gesture that reminded him of Aila.
“Of course. I understand.” She hesitated as if there was more she wanted to say
and yet could not decide whether she should. “Connor.”

“What is it, my lady?” Now he was no longer concerned that
Aila had changed her mind about seeing him, he noticed the tension etched on
Elise’s face. If he could help her, he would. Although he could not imagine how
a Scot could help a woman with Elise’s fine pedigree.

“My lady Aila—my beloved cousin—thinks very highly of you.”

He couldn’t help the satisfied grin. And then Elise’s words
fully penetrated.

Her cousin. And Elise was a minor princess from the
neighboring kingdom of Circinn.

Far from trying to impress Aila and her unknown father with
his own connection to royalty through Fergus, it appeared royal blood flowed
through her own veins.

“I think very highly of Lady Aila also.”

“It’s just…” Again Elise hesitated. “She does not indulge in
such romantic intrigues as many ladies do.” A blush stained her cheeks.
“Goddess, I should not be speaking so to you.”

“What are you trying to tell me, my lady?”

Elise took a deep breath. “There’s something she wishes to
confide in you. I don’t know how you will react but please, don’t be angry at
her.” Before he could demand to know what the hell she was talking about, she
continued, “And promise me upon your word of honor that you won’t tell her I
warned you in advance.”

Warned him about what?

“I’ll keep your counsel, my lady.” His voice was hard and
Elise flinched. Another time he might have queried such an odd reaction. But
now only one thought thundered through his brain. A foul, distorted thought.
And as Elise turned to leave, he asked the question that now haunted his mind.
“Is she married?”

Elise swung back and stared at him in obvious surprise.
Whatever Aila’s great secret was, it apparanetly had never occurred to Elise he
would imagine it to be that.

“Of course not. My lord Onuist died a hero’s death, nine
years ago. While saving Lady Aila from certain capture and slavery at the hands
of the Vikings.”

For the third time Aila checked the shadows on the sundial.
She was already half an hour late for her liaison with Connor and despite her
father’s command that she wait for him, he had yet to send for her.

Of course she longed to see her father again. But why did he
want to see her so urgently? He had only been gone for two weeks, after all.

“Aila.” Her grandmother’s voice pulled her back to the
present and she turned to where she sat on her favorite stone bench in the
secluded royal garden. “What is your obsession with the time this morning?”

Aila gave a dismissive flick of her hand and forced herself
to sit beside her grandmother. “I’m anxious to see my father.” It wasn’t a lie.
She loved her father and
was
anxious to see him.

She simply wanted to see Connor first.

Her grandmother glanced to the far side of the garden, where
the queen was addressing a couple of slaves.

“Your mother might believe that, but whether you choose to
ignore it or not, you and I are too similar in character. It most certainly
isn’t your father who occupies your thoughts at this moment.”

Blood heated her cheeks. Curse her grandmother’s perception.
And then another, far more shocking thought intruded. Suppose her grandmother
guessed—or knew—what she and Connor had done last night?

“Really, Grandmamma, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
She avoided eye contact because she knew, in her heart, just how similar they
were. It wasn’t only her grandmother’s hair and eye color she had inherited.

But they were the only gifts she chose not to ignore.

Her grandmother gave an impatient sigh, as if she still
hadn’t given up hope of Aila one day embracing all she had once rejected.

“Then allow me to tell you this.”

Against her better judgment, Aila looked back at the dowager
queen. For a fleeting second, she had the uncanny sensation of looking at an
image of herself from the far future.

In forty years time perhaps she would look like her
grandmother. But unlike the dowager queen, Aila would never be surrounded by
the love of her direct blood descendants.

“Tell me what?” It was a whisper, and she didn’t know why
she had asked. Why she was encouraging her grandmother. Aila had no interest in
whatever message the old gods might wish to convey.

Her grandmother covered Aila’s hands that were clenched on
her lap. Her grandmother’s grasp was firm. “The Scots’ true purpose here is
concealed, obscured by dark fog. Even they themselves are unaware of what lurks
in the deep.”

She wanted to pull her hands free. To laugh in derision at
her grandmother’s dramatic declaration. But against her will, in the
fundamental core of her being she understood the truth of the cryptic words.

“We’ll know of their true purpose soon enough. My father
will tell us.” And yet even as she spoke the words, she knew she didn’t believe
them.

No matter how much she wanted to. No matter how hard she
fought against the insidious, intangible sense of
knowing
that had once,
long ago, been an integral element of her existence.

Her grandmother didn’t look convinced, which served only to
increase her own disquiet.

“The darkness swirls about you, Aila. And yet you’re
protected from its worst destruction.”

This time she succeeded in snatching her hands free. “Grandmamma,
I’m not interested. You can believe the malevolent whispers in the night if you
wish, but I choose not to.”

“Because,” her grandmother said, as if there had been no
interruption, “you are the founding stone. For the bridge that will one day unite
all our kingdoms.”

Aila stood and marched toward the sundial, unable to remain
still for a moment longer. She had no desire to be a founding stone. All she
wanted was Connor and that was impossible.

Her fingers clutched the stone edge of the sundial as the
impossible wavered before her eyes.

Was that what her grandmother was telling her? That her
dreams weren’t impossible? That it was acceptable to love again—to hope for a
future where nightmares no longer haunted the darkest hours?