Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (18 page)

Aila flexed her fingers and dropped her embroidery onto her
lap. For three days she and all the noble ladies in Ce-eviot had gathered in
the queen’s private chambers and sewed as if their lives depended on it.

Her mother was determined Aila’s gowns would be a source of
great envy among the Scots ladies once she arrived in Dal Riada.

Surreptitiously she glanced around the chamber. Every head
was bent, every needle busy. It appeared no one wanted the eldest princess
Devorgilla to be outshone in her new home.

Aila knew she should care. She was the first to make such a
marriage and there was little doubt in her mind that others would follow. It
was her duty to make a good impression. To foster harmony and trust between her
people and those of her husband.

But every time she thought of her unknown husband, acrid
fear gripped her heart.

It was one thing to know she could make love with a man who
was not Onuist. It was another thing entirely when that man wasn’t Connor.

Connor.

It had been three days since she had last seen him.

Since the betrothal, she’d been watched as though she were a
highly prized hostage. A royal guard of four shadowed her every move. Yet every
moment of her waking day was spent with her mother, her grandmother, sister and
cousins and various other ladies.

Only now, when her life was about to change so drastically,
did she truly appreciate how much freedom she had enjoyed over the last few
years.

She’d all the privileges of her rank, but none of the usual
responsibilities that went with it. No husband, no household to run, no
servants or slaves to supervise. No children to worry about.

She had poured her passion into her art, into her teaching,
as if by so doing she was somehow keeping the memory of Onuist alive. But
Onuist would never completely die, not as long as he was remembered. And she
had ensured, nine years ago, his memory would live on, honored and revered.

Drun gave a heavy sigh, his head across her feet. Ah, Drun.
She thought of her true, unspoken hero. But some things could never be shared
and Drun would never condemn her for her silence.

* * * * *

Chest heaving, Connor acknowledged his opponent with a jerk
of his head. For three hours he’d fought one warrior after another, broadswords
clashing in this field so distant from his home, sweat dripping into the
ancient Pictish earth.

It had been three days since he’d last spoken to Aila by the
stream. And since then she’d been guarded as if she was—

A bitter laugh escaped. As if she was a princess.

Hands braced against his thighs he sucked in air, only half
listening to the conversation of a group of warriors behind him.

“How much longer will that damn princess make us stay in
this heathen land?” MacGregor said.

“I doubt the princess has anything to do with it,” he heard
Cam say. If he wasn’t so twisted with fury about the entire situation, he might
find wry amusement in the notion of Cam, of all people, defending a Pictish
princess against slander. “They’re still waiting for the messengers to return
from the other Pictish kingdoms.”

“I’m reliably informed,” said a third voice, MacIntosh,
“that the princess intends to take with her three wagonloads of personal
possessions.”

Connor turned and glared. Only Cam looked uncomfortable.
Which just proved how well his relationship with Aila had been concealed from
his men.

“Fuck, Connor,” MacGregor said, slapping his shoulder, as if
oblivious to how his insult against Aila rankled. “You look like shit. How
about we find some willing Pictish maids to entertain us this afternoon? The
ladies are all otherwise engaged in an attempt to make the princess less
hideous to her bridegroom but some of the serving wenches are—”

“Shut it, MacGregor,” Cam said with his ever-present glower.

“Aye, you could do with a fuck as well, MacNeil,” MacGregor
said without rancor. “Might loosen some of that aggression.”

“I’ll wait,” Cam said between his teeth, “until I’m back
among my own kind.”

“Connor,” MacIntosh said under his breath. “Is there a
problem you’ve not shared with us? Did mac Lutin stipulate clauses you doubt
MacAlpin will consider?”

With an effort, Connor dragged his attention from the other
two. From the enticing notion of smashing their skulls together.

“No, mac Lutin agreed to all the major clauses in principle.
He intends to finalize the contract in person.”

“I heard he had strong views over the bride price.”

His views over the bride price had been immovable.
Everything Aila took into her marriage remained hers and, should the marriage
for any reason be dissolved, returned to her. But since MacAlpin had foreseen
such possibility, he and Ewan had been given permission to concede on this
point, if it was raised.

Ewan had conceded. Connor had been excluded from the
subsequent meetings. But he hadn’t been dragged before mac Lutin nor questioned.
And surely if they suspected he had so much as touched their princess, let
alone had her in his bed for one glorious night, his head would already be
impaled on a spike.

“Everything is going to plan, MacIntosh.” Bitterness
scorched his voice. Already the messengers that mac Lutin had sent to Fidach,
Circinn and Fotla had returned. When the last three reported back, there would
be no further reason to delay their departure. “We’ll be leaving by week’s
end.”

* * * * *

Finally word came. They were to leave Ce the following
morning. Twelve days after they had first entered the kingdom.

It had been five days since he’d last spoken to Aila. Five
days since he had even seen her. Now, when he knew how false the rumors
surrounding her were, she became as elusive as he had ever accused the eldest
Princess Devorgilla of being.

Tonight’s feast was a great celebration. A farewell. A
fucking travesty. And yet to refuse to attend would be an insult.

Aila would be there. Like a love-struck youth, he ached to
see her, even if only from a distance. Even if seeing her stoked the insanity
churning his mind, fueled the fury incinerating his heart.

Aware of the furtive glances he drew as they waited for the
royal arrival in the feasting hall, his glower intensified. He knew he looked
formidable. Days of drinking and fighting to excess and then the inability to
fall into oblivion at night did not make a man look his best.

The senior royals entered the hall. His gaze fixed on the
slender figure of Aila as she followed the dowager queen. She was dressed in a
forest-green gown with matching veil. Her beautiful hair glowed like ethereal
flames in the flicker of the lamplights. Even from this distance, he could see
jade, or perhaps emeralds, threaded through her plaits at each point of every
lock.

She looked every inch a princess. A royal bride-to-be.

The woman he loved.

As the royal party sat, her gaze caught his. Her veil framed
her face, sweeping beneath her chin and draping over her shoulder, and the
heavy gold band upon her head glittered with precious jewels. A sacrificial
innocent, to appease the bloodthirsty greed of men.

The king’s speech, on the benefits of an alliance between Ce
and Dal Riada, on the marriage of his beloved daughter to a prince of the
Scots, seared through his gut like acid.

Only Ewan’s remorseless hand on his shoulder forced him to
sit when everyone else did. Only Ewan’s solid presence by his side forced him
to remain seated when every fiber of his being demanded he march up to the high
table and claim Aila for his own.

Claim her. And risk her reputation, his head and another
blood-drenched war.

The feast was interminable. One magnificent dish after
another and every one tasted of ashes. Slivers of conversation penetrated his
black fog.

“Damn, the princess is a beauty,” said MacGregor, sounding
torn between astonishment and rising lust.

“Fergus will find it no hardship bedding this bride,”
MacIntosh agreed.

All his men cared about was the fact Aila wasn’t a repellent
hag. That Fergus would find her desirable. That within a month, two at most,
she would be with child.

He stifled the rage that demanded he challenge them. How
dare they speak so of her? Yet all the while, bitter knowledge curdled in his
mind. For less than two weeks ago, his opinion had been no different from
theirs.

When, hours later, the two long tables were pushed back to
the walls to allow space for the entertainment to begin, his patience frayed.

He’d go insane listening to bards and their endless songs of
true love. He needed air. Deliberately not glancing in Aila’s direction, he
marched from the hall.

Unlike the last time he’d escaped the confines of the hall,
he was alone outside, apart from the requisite Pictish guards. Unable to remain
still, he walked on toward the outer edge of the bright glow thrown by the
dozens of torches that surrounded the palace.

Haunting fragments of harp music floated on the breeze and
with a muttered curse, he walked farther from the source, around the side of
the palace, where silence enveloped him like a malignant savior.

This was only a taste of what was to come. When they reached
Dal Riada, when the clauses in the marriage contract had been settled to both
kings’ satisfaction, there would be a formal betrothal. And then the wedding
itself.

Not if he had anything to do with it.

As if summoned by his frenzied thoughts he watched her
emerge from stone shadows, accompanied by Elise. Somehow she’d escaped her
royal guard, had used a different exit to the main doors that were so heavily
guarded. She hesitated in a pool of light, as though unsure of his reaction.

Desperate hope surged. There could be only one reason why
she sought him out, and he marched toward her, scarcely acknowledging how Elise
vanished back into the palace.

“Aila.” How good it felt to say her name once again. To see
her gazing up at him. To touch—

She held out a hand, warning him against such action. “Douse
the torches,” she whispered. “No one must see us, Connor. It’s too dangerous.”

He wrenched a couple of torches from their iron supports and
rammed the flames into the ground. It gave them a degree of privacy. From a
distance no one would be able to distinguish she was the princess.

She’d removed the distinctive crown and already her veil
slipped over her silken hair. But she didn’t appear to notice.

“I can’t stay long.” Her whisper was so low he had to bend
toward her to catch her words. No hardship. He breathed in deep, savoring her
fresh, evocative fragrance. “But I had to see you. I had to tell you how wrong
you are.”

He stilled. “Wrong?”

She shivered. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her
shoulders, trying to transfer his body heat to her. God knew, his blood was hot
enough for the both of them.

She sank against him. He brushed his lips across the top of her
head, her hair silky-soft, and one hand slid the length of her back to curve
around her waist.

She had come to him. She intended to sever the contract. And
although she would be disgraced, at least she would be free.

Right now, he couldn’t think further than that. But so long
as she remained free, there was hope for them both.

Then she straightened and a chill invaded where only seconds
before her soft body had shared his warmth. Yet he kept his arms around her,
despite the way she stiffened as though his touch no longer pleased her.

“I didn’t want you to think the night we shared didn’t mean
everything to me.”

“I didn’t think that.” Everything to her? That was more than
he’d hoped. But he’d never truly believed all he had meant to her was warm
memories.

In the shadows it was hard to see her clearly, but he saw
the way her lip trembled, as if his reply touched her deeply.

“It was…” she hesitated for a moment. “It was truly the most
beautiful night of my life.”

He rested his forehead against hers. Bone-deep relief
streaked through him. Somehow she would be his, and they could spend a lifetime
creating such nights together. “I’m glad.” His voice was rough with need.

Inexplicably she pulled back, and his fingers relaxed,
allowing her to break free. Because the only thing she was breaking free from
was that cursed marriage contract.

Not him.

She stared up at him, as if she was committing his features
to memory. But she had no need because he would always return to her no matter
where his king sent him.

Damn the poor light. He wanted to see the mesmeric green of
her eyes, the extraordinary glow of her hair. But most of all he wanted to take
her in his arms, carry her off to his bedchamber and show her without the need
for awkward words everything she meant to him.

“It would break my heart,” her voice was soft, “to think you
believed I only used you.”

“Hell, Aila.” He ached to hold her, but something in the way
she continued to look at him stayed his hands. But no matter. There would be
plenty of time to hold her later. “I only said that because I was angry. Don’t
dwell on it. My words in the heat of the moment mean nothing.”

An odd expression flickered over her face. As if, far from
comforting her, his reassurance had somehow wounded. But it vanished in an
instant and he wondered if he had imagined such a fanciful notion.

“I know.” Infinite sadness threaded through her words,
belying the smile she offered. “I wasn’t going to tell you. But then I thought,
why not? It’s the truth. And I would rather you know the truth than ever have
any doubt as to how much you mean to me.”

Unease flickered deep inside although he couldn’t fathom
why. “The truth?”

She gripped her fingers together. “Yes. I love you. It’s the
reason I came to your bedchamber. The reason I shared your bed. I will always
love you. And if you ever think of me, please always remember that.”

If he ever thought of her? He would never cease to think of
her. Would never forget this night when she had given him what he so desired.

A laugh rumbled deep inside and he claimed the small step
that separated them. Strangely she retreated a corresponding step that brought
her back against the stone wall of the palace.

“I promise,” he said, again wishing there was more light so
he could see every detail of her lovely face. “I will always remember.”

Another uneven sigh whispered from her lips, as though his
promise reassured her. Had she truly been concerned he could ever think of her
with anything but pleasure?

“Then I should go.” But her words lacked conviction and
where did she think she was going anyway? He cradled her chilled face, pressed
his body against hers. Even through his plaid and her gown she would feel the
extent of his arousal.

“You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.” Before she could
respond, his mouth claimed hers and his tongue invaded her parted lips. He
thrust into her and her wet heat embraced as he angled himself more thoroughly
against her, his cock hard as iron. Wanted, needed, to penetrate her more
intimately. To prove to her, beyond reason, how much he returned her love.

Still holding her face with one hand, his other trailed the
length of her jaw, her neck, and molded the curve of her breast. God, this was
torture. His blood was on fire, his cock in agony. Her scent invaded his
senses, her skin entranced him. Her tiny moans of pleasure sent him spiraling
into insanity.

His thumb caressed the hard peak of her nipple. He imagined
ripping her gown from her, taking her succulent nipple into his mouth. Lifting
her skirts and impaling her where she stood.

He dragged his mouth from her, panted into her face. He
might want her up against a wall, but it wouldn’t be an outside wall. Wouldn’t
be where anyone might pass by and see them. See her. Hell no. She was his and
her body was for his eyes only.

“Aila.” His voice was ragged. “I want you.” He was incapable
of explaining further, but it didn’t matter. She knew how he felt. Knew what he
meant. They needed privacy, so he could show her in ways that words never
could.

With surprising force, she flattened her palms against his
chest and shoved. He didn’t relinquish her face or her breast but he eased back
a fraction, an unwilling concession to her obvious demand.

“Don’t.” Her voice was breathless. Shock stabbed through
him. She sounded on the verge of tears. “Don’t tarnish what we had by doing
this.”

Tarnish? Did she think he was going to ravish her as though
he were an undisciplined bastard and she a common slave?

“I’d no intention of taking you out here.” Damn, but it was
hard to speak when all he could think about was parting her thighs and sinking
into her beautiful, welcoming body.

She curled her fingers around his wrist and attempted to tug
his hand from her breast. And because he had no idea why she was doing it, he
allowed her to.

“I have to go.” There was a tremble in her voice, yet she
still managed to sound immovable. And despite his lust, he knew she was right.
She had to go back. Had to see out the rest of the night. But later—later she
would find a way to come to him.

Something occurred to him. He struggled to batten down his
need, focus on facts.

“Have you told your father yet?” His thumb stroked her
heated cheek. “Do you want me with you when you do?” He risked his neck, but if
she wanted him by her side when she confronted the Pictish king, then nothing
would keep him away.

Her eyes widened in horror. “Of course I haven’t. I never
will. I’d never put your life in such danger.”

He managed a halfhearted grin. “Aye, well I didn’t mean go
into the details of the other night.” He wound his fingers around one plait and
let the silken rope slide against his palm. “I meant when you tell him—if you
haven’t already—that you’re breaking the betrothal.”

The silence after his words was more than a pause. It sank
into the night around them, blacker and deeper than any abyss. A silence that
shrieked louder than any scream of protest.

He stared into her eyes. Refused to acknowledge the
insidious whisper of truth that gnawed through his mind. Refused to even
contemplate the possibility.

Thrust the kernel of doubt aside.

“Well?” His demand was harsh.

She stiffened. “Why do you assume I’m breaking the
betrothal?”

He refused to think. Refused to analyze. Focused entirely on
this moment.

“Because you’re here.”

“Yes, I’m here. Because I had to see you. To make sure you
understood what you mean to me.”

She was speaking his language, as she had since the first
time they had met. There was no misunderstanding between them. Her words were
clear. But they made no sense. How could she stand there, tell him she loved
him, and not be prepared to break the betrothal?

“I understand what I mean to you.” It would do no good to
vent his impatience on her. She was clearly confused by events. “That’s why you
can’t marry Fergus.”

“I’ve given my word.” Her voice was low, yet so regal, as if
she were a queen explaining something fundamental to a mere peasant.

The analogy stung and he braced his palms on the wall on
either side of her shoulders, a blatant reminder she was out here alone with
him. So close he could feel her breath on his face and yet the icy conviction
gripped him that she was as distant as she had been for these last five days.

Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his body against hers, and
her curves molded to him as if they belonged together. Because they did belong
together. And why she couldn’t see that was beyond him.

“You’re a woman.” Their lips almost brushed. He slid one
knee between her legs, exerted pressure against the tempting juncture of her
thighs. Felt her startled gasp caress his mouth. Desire thrummed in his blood,
clouded his reason. The thought of her pledging her loyalty to Fergus knotted
his guts. “Tell your father you’ve heard sick tales of the prince.” Her father
loved her. That was the reason he had asked so many questions of the proposed
bridegroom. And Connor had told him what he had wanted to hear. The knowledge
that he was responsible for mac Lutin accepting Fergus for his daughter enraged
him. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

Her hands curled around his biceps. But she didn’t try to
push him away. It was as if she needed his strength.

God knew, she had it.

“Would you go back on your word to your king?”

He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Why would I do that?” He
was a warrior. A warrior didn’t break his word to his king. “We’re not talking
about me, Aila. This is about you. Your future. Your life.”

Her hands slid from his biceps, inched between their melded
bodies and flattened against his chest.

“My love.” Her voice was gentle and the words he’d
fantasized her saying to him eased his battered heart. At last, she had seen
sense. He allowed the smallest smile of relief to touch his lips. “Is a woman’s
integrity worth less than a man’s?”

And froze.

“What?” The word scraped between his teeth, incredulous. How
could she ask him such a thing? How could she insinuate that he somehow thought
her lacking simply because she didn’t possess the honor of a warrior?

Her bottom lip trembled. But shadows or not, he couldn’t see
a hint of tears.

“How could I hope to keep your respect if I break my word so
easily?”

“My respect?’ He could scarcely articulate the word. “It’s
not my respect I’m offering you.”

Except it was. He offered her everything. But unless she
broke her word, there would never be even a chance of his offer being accepted.

“You once admired my loyalty.”

His hands fisted, knuckles grazed against the unyielding
stone. “So now you throw my words back in my face.” Of course he admired her
loyalty—but this was different. “He’s my half brother, for God’s sake. You
don’t have the first idea what he’s like.”

Fergus would never be faithful to her. And while he might
never hurt her physically, Aila would fade beneath his brother’s brash
insensitivity.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Raw pain vibrated through
every word. And instead of victory that he’d finally touched her, all he felt
was despair. “I’ll spend the rest of my life knowing I’m with the wrong
brother.”

He seized on her confession. “Then end it now. It will cause
a storm, but it’ll soon pass. MacAlpin knows of your reputation as a recluse.
Offense can be averted. There are ways around this, Aila, if you will just—”

“Just what? Compromise my honor?”

Frustration ripped through him. “No man will dare question
your honor within my hearing.”

She looked at him but didn’t respond. Her expression showed
she knew he had subtly altered her interpretation of honor to suit himself.

He knew, as well as she, that her integrity would be
questioned. Her reputation damaged.

But at least she wouldn’t be wedded to Fergus.

He recalled the night they had shared. His reckless
behavior. And seized on the one possibility that might—that had to—possess the
power to change her mind. Even if that very possibility sent shards of terror
deep into his soul.

“What if you’re wrong?” His voice was harsh, racked between
hope and fear that he was right. “About the other night? You could have
conceived my child, Aila. You could be carrying my babe as we speak. Would you
truly marry another man, knowing that’s a real possibility?”

“I’m not with child.” Her voice was strangely devoid of
emotion.

“You can’t know for certain.” God knew, he didn’t want her
to be with child, but if it was the only way she would see sense—Christ, how
could he wish this on her? But how could he not?

“I do. And I am not going to bear your child.”

Wretched despair snaked through him. There was only one
reason why she could be so sure. Her body had cleansed her womb of his seed
with her blood.