Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (16 page)

Here was her opportunity. How could she even think of trying
to escape this fate, even if her barrenness gave her the perfect opportunity to
do so? It was cowardly. She wasn’t a coward. She was a princess of Ce, of
Pictland, and it was her duty to do whatever she could to protect her people—to
protect her sister.

To honor the memory of Onuist.

His name tore through her mind, shredding her fragile veneer
of calm. For one terrifying moment she thought she would fall, allow the agony
crushing her heart to consume her.

She had thought, for a few wild, exhilarating days, she had
paid her penance. That it wasn’t a sin to love another man. To envision a
future with him, even though she had always known such a life was only a dream.

But she had been wrong.

Her penance was not paid. She’d had no right to fall in love
again. And now she was faced with duty, the prospect of a lifetime locked in a
loveless political marriage, she dared to even consider trying to evade her
destiny?

Connor had been an interlude. It wasn’t his fault she had
fallen in love with him or harbored foolish hopes of a life together. He had
never suggested anything more, had never attempted to coax promises or an oath
of fidelity from her.

She would bury the memory of his touch, of his voice, of the
look on his face as he held her in his arms, deep in her soul. Her beloved
savage Scot. The man who owned her heart even though she gave her body to
another for political stability.

Her father was giving her a choice. Yet there was no choice.

She stiffened her spine, gripped Talargan’s hand and sealed
her fate.

“I am able to consummate the union. I accept MacAlpin’s
proposal.”

With unconcealed impatience, Connor squinted at the sun. It
was directly overhead.

Where the hell was Aila? How long did it take for a father
to greet his daughter, even a dearly beloved daughter? And yet he couldn’t
leave in case she arrived while he searched elsewhere.

This was madness. The longer he waited for her to appear,
the less confident he became of her response to his proposal. Yet surely she
must have some inkling of his feelings? He’d given her enough clues during the
night.

He resumed pacing along the bank of the stream, methodically
recounting his arguments as to why they should wed. There was only one matter
he had failed to address and that was the issue Lady Elise had mentioned
earlier.

To what she referred, he couldn’t imagine. Marriage was the
only insurmountable obstacle he could foresee and Elise had assured him that
wasn’t the case.

What could Aila possibly be hiding from him?

He paused and frowned across the stream into the copse. This
morning, before she had rushed from his chamber, she had been agitated. He’d
assumed it was because she was afraid of being seen. Of ruining her reputation.
But now he thought about it, hadn’t she said they needed to talk? Maybe that
had been the reason for her flustered air.

“Fucking hell, Connor.” Ewan’s exasperated yell bit through
his skull and he turned to see his friend glaring down at him from the ridge.
“Mac Lutin’s summoned us and nobody knew where you were.”

Connor snorted in disgust. The Pictish king certainly didn’t
waste any time. This day was turning into a farce.

He marched up the slope toward Ewan and scanned the area,
but Aila was nowhere in sight.

“I wonder if we’ll have the honor of meeting the eldest
princess this time?” Ewan said as they made their way toward the palace.

Connor wasn’t interested in the eldest princess. “When a
woman holds a secret close, what would it be?”

Ewan brightened considerably. He always enjoyed talking
about one of his favorite subjects. Women. “Usually, my friend, they keep their
age a close secret. As if revealing it would initiate a great catastrophe.”

He already knew how old Aila was. “No. What else?”

Ewan slung his arm around Connor’s shoulder. “How many
lovers they have entertained over the years. That’s always a popular one.”

Aila had told him she had known only her husband. He
believed her.

“No. Not that.”

Ewan shot him a calculating glance. It appeared he was going
to make a personal remark, but then he clearly thought better of it. “I’ve had
ladies keep secret the extent of their experience, the true color of their
hair—God, that one was a shock.” For a second he appeared lost in salacious
memories. “On occasion they omit to reveal their true marital status or even
the number of offspring they’ve birthed. Once—”

Shock stabbed through him.
Offspring
.

Was that the secret Aila kept? That she had a child? But why
would she keep that from him?

It was the one thing he hadn’t contemplated. But as Ewan
continued to divulge the many and varied secrets ladies apparently kept, the
idea clung, refused to be ignored.

It explained her violent reaction when he’d spoken of
Fearchara’s death. Made sense of how she’d defended a woman’s right to choose
the pain of childbirth for herself and not simply for producing an heir for her
lord.

She had a living reminder of the husband she had lost. For
that, he was happy for her. Happy she had a child, that she had traversed the
perilous journey and survived.

As they approached the palace, he attempted to batten down
the treacherous image that crawled through his mind. An image he had no right
conceiving. Because, no matter her past, such selfish thoughts still put her
future in jeopardy.

Thoughts of Aila nurturing his child within her womb.

“You’ve yet to tell me,” Ewan said under his breath as they
entered the inner sanctum of the Pictish king, “what you’ve decided to do about
your Lady Aila.”

“One way or another,” Connor said, “she’ll return to Dal
Riada with me.”

There was no time for further conversation. As Connor swept
into a bow before the king, prickles of alarm scuttled over the back of his
neck. The war chamber wasn’t crowded, but in the moment between the doors
opening and his show of respect, his brain registered several royal figures
seated on either side of the king.

But something was wrong. His senses were on full alert, yet
the Pictish warriors who stood guard over the royal presence didn’t emanate
especial hostility.

Connor straightened. And saw Aila, sitting at mac Lutin’s
right hand.

He stared, seeing yet not comprehending. What the hell was
Aila doing there? Her face was so white she looked ill but her eyes, her
beautiful eyes, locked on him as though he were her only salvation.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but perhaps it was only in
his head. The king was speaking but the words were muffled, outside his
comprehension. And then, without warning, clarity speared through his brain.

“My daughter,” the king said, taking Aila’s hand. “Aila, the
eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce.”

No.

Denial pounded against his temples, disbelief hammered
against his ribs. Words lodged in his throat, choked his vocal cords. And still
he couldn’t drag his eyes from Aila.

Silence vibrated throughout the chamber, an ominous, ugly
silence, a silence that clamored against the restrictive confines of his skull.

Hands fisted, his fury mounted. There was a mistake. Aila
was not the eldest princess Devorgilla. Aila was not betrothed to his half
brother Fergus.

He heard Ewan respond to mac Lutin, saw the subtle shift in
the stance of the Pictish warriors, as if they suspected Connor of some
treachery.

Treachery? He’d give them fucking treachery.

But he couldn’t vocalize his thoughts. Because, God damn it,
he couldn’t understand his fucking thoughts.

Why hadn’t she told him?

Aila belonged to him. He’d be damned if he’d allow his
brother, of all people, to lay claim to her. The idea was repellent. Curdled
his guts.
Fergus
.

As if sensing the insanity twisting Connor’s brain, Ewan
clamped his hand around Connor’s biceps. The Pictish warriors were no longer
being subtle and more than one dagger had been drawn.

He shot Aila one last, infuriated glance.
This wasn’t
over
.
He saw her eyes widen, knew she understood. Knew that, if she
didn’t seek him out, he would find her. Demand to know
why
.

The doors slammed behind them. He had no recollection of
leaving the chamber. Only knew that Ewan gripped his arm as if he suspected
Connor might ram the doors and violate the inner sanctum.

“Keep walking.” It was a harsh command and because he needed
air, needed to get out of this cursed Pictish palace, he didn’t argue. Just
marched outside into the mocking spring sunlight.

And all but collided into Cameron MacNeil.

“Fuck,” Cam said, glancing from him to Ewan. “So mac Lutin
turned MacAlpin down after all.”

“No.” Ewan continued walking, clearly wanting to put as much
distance between the palace and them as possible. “He agreed. The betrothal is
official.”

The hell it was.

“So why are you looking so fucking pissed, Connor?”‘ Cam
fell into step beside him. “Did you finally get to see the elusive princess? Is
she such an ugly whore even Fergus won’t be able to fuck her?”

Connor’s fist connected to Cam’s face, shoving the other man
off balance. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

Cam responded and the sensation of knuckles crushing against
his jaw sent morbid satisfaction splintering through Connor’s jagged nerves.

By the time Ewan and another three warriors had parted him
and MacNeil, his fists were raw and his face on fire.

“Feel better?” MacNeil asked, dragging the back of his hand
across his mouth and flicking blood onto the ground.

Connor wrenched free, spat blood. “God help me, open your
filthy mouth again and I’ll break your neck.”

The leer on Cam’s face slowly faded. “The princess,” he
said. “Fuck, Connor. She’s not—”

“Enough.” Ewan said sharply, jerking his head at the other
warriors and crowd of locals who’d gathered in anticipation of an extended
round of entertainment. Only when they were once again alone did he turn back
to Cam. “This goes no further, do you hear? Whatever you know, or think you
know, keep to yourself.”

“Christ.” Cam sounded shaken. “None of us will crawl out of
here alive if mac Lutin discovers you’ve been fucking his daughter.”

“Worse than that.” Ewan sounded grim. “MacKenzie hasn’t even
bedded the lady.”

Erotic images seared Connor’s mind of Aila in his bed last
night. Her glorious hair caressing him. Her sweet cries of passion enflaming
him.

Her tight sheath welcoming him, as though she had been made
solely for their joining.

“You haven’t?” Cam frowned, clearly lost. “How’s that
worse?”

His question hung in the air. Cam’s frown finally slid into
disbelief.

“Aye.” Ewan’s voice was hard. “So keep your counsel and
mouth to yourself. This isn’t about a warrior’s pride.” He was no longer
speaking to Cam. Connor gritted his teeth and continued to glare toward the far
village. “It’s the difference between forging peace and initiating war.”

He returned to the stream. It was the only place he could
think to go. To return to the palace caused his guts to knot and besides he
didn’t trust himself not to storm the inner sanctum and demand audience with
the Pictish king.

Recant the offer of marriage. Discard the offer of
allegiance.

Risk the fury of mac Lutin and the wrath of MacAlpin.

Initiate war.

He swung around. Aila stood on the ridge, looking down at
him, Elise by her side. Slowly she made her way toward him and this time he
didn’t help her. Didn’t trust himself to touch her. Because to touch her would
recall the previous night, the early hours of this morning. How could he touch
her without embracing her? Kissing her? Demanding to know what she thought she
was doing?

“Connor.” Her whisper sank into his heart, savaged his soul.
Her face was as pale as it was the first day they had met. Her eyes huge,
haunted. Her glance flickered over his battered face and it was obvious the
knowledge he had been fighting did not surprise her. “I’m sorry. I meant to
tell you who I truly was last night.”

“The eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce.” How he had despised
that seemingly elusive lady.

How he damn well wanted her.

Her fingers clutched the edges of her shawl. “I didn’t mean
to deceive you. Although… I did.” Briefly she closed her eyes. “I’ve no excuse.
But I never thought you would discover my true identity in such a…” She
hesitated, clearly unable to find words adequate to describe the scene he’d
just endured. “Manner.”

Unable to help himself, he stepped toward her. She gazed up
at him, as if he was her world, her lord. God Almighty, surely she would see
she couldn’t go through with marriage to Fergus?

Only now did he acknowledge the true reason he wanted to
marry her. He loved her. He needed her. After she’d left him this morning,
during the hours he’d waited for her perfecting his suit for her, the certainty
had solidified. It wasn’t just because she intrigued him. It wasn’t just
because he knew she would not contemplate becoming his mistress. It was more than
mere lust, more than simple affection.

With Maeve, he felt both. But while the thought of never
seeing her again caused regret, the notion of never seeing Aila again ripped
holes through his gut. His heart.

A sorry circumstance for a warrior.

“Why did you agree?” His voice was harsh and he saw the way
her lip trembled as though she battled for calm. Let her battle. It could never
match the battle currently tearing his reason to shreds.

“What would you have me do?” The question was soft yet
threaded through with regal pride, as if she were a royal princess and he a
mere commoner.

The knowledge that that was exactly the situation stoked his
simmering temper. He closed the distance between them until he could feel her
ragged breath graze his face. Until he could wind his arms around her and drag
her into his waiting embrace.

He clenched his fists by his sides.

“What would I do?” Their lips almost brushed. He could see
eternity in her eyes, yet it was an eternity hovering just beyond his desperate
grasp. “I would have you in my bed every night, Aila.
My
bed.” He
scarcely kept the rabid need from his voice. Or the revulsion that, unless she
revoked her promise, it would be his brother’s bed she shared. “I’d have you
under me, on top of me, taking me deep inside your body. Night after fucking
night.”

“Connor, don’t.” She looked at him, but she didn’t see him.
She couldn’t see him, otherwise how could she not fall into his arms? Promise
to break the betrothal? Tell him that even if she didn’t love him the way he
loved her she still wanted him? Needed him?

“Why not?” His whisper was feral. He knew Elise watched from
the ridge but it made no difference. If Aila did not succumb to his will within
the next few moments, then God help him. He’d carry her into the forest and
seduce her into submission.

“It was just one night.” Her voice was low, as though she
were afraid of being overheard. But there was only Elise and she was too far
away to hear their conversation. “We both knew it meant nothing more than that.
How could it? We’re from different worlds, Connor. I never expected anything
more from you than…warm memories.”

Warm memories? Outrage pumped through his blood, igniting
with the fury, the frustration and the ever-present horror at the prospect of
Aila becoming his brother’s wife. Of knowing she had no choice but to submit to
Fergus’ every salacious demand within the bedchamber.