Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (19 page)

“I may not be a warrior.” Pain clouded her voice, but once
again that regal resolve underpinned every word. “I don’t ride into battle with
broadsword and shield. But I made a vow on the memory of my husband Onuist that
I would do whatever I could to help rid this land of the Viking invaders.” She
paused for one heartbreaking moment. “Would you have me break that oath simply
because I find the means not to my liking?”

Her question, her accusation, thundered between them,
opening a chasm impossible to breach with words or blood or even his heart laid
at her feet.

She loved him. But she loved her dead husband more. The
husband who had sacrificed his life for hers. Who had died a hero and about
whom bards sang.

He dragged himself upright, arms dropping to his sides.
There was nothing else he could say to her. Aila was a woman, but her honor and
integrity were as much a part of her as the color of her eyes or shade of her
hair. If she sacrificed either, her worth would be diminished in her eyes, if
not in his own.

Yet he loved her because of who she was. And she was Aila.

But he’d be damned if he’d stand by and watch her marry his
half brother.

Aila kept her gaze straight ahead and tried to ignore the
nervous churn of her stomach. Soon they would reach Dunadd, the royal
stronghold of Dal Riada, and while she longed for this interminable journey to
end, she dreaded its inevitable outcome.

For two weeks, they had traveled through glens and mountain
passes. At night they’d stayed in various Pictish hill forts and palaces. And
their numbers had increased as kings and nobles and warriors joined their
progress.

The last few nights, after entering the Scots territory
within Pictland, had been spent in foreign property. While they had been
treated with nothing but respect she’d felt like an oddity, an exhibit on
display. She knew it would only get worse after arriving at Dunadd.

Connor kept his distance. His message couldn’t be plainer.
If he couldn’t have her the way he wanted her, then he didn’t want any part of
her at all.

Drawn by an invisible thread her gaze tugged to the left.
Connor and a group of Scots warriors were overtaking the ambling pace of the
massively extended train. Again her stomach pitched, although whether it was
the sight of Connor on horseback or the knowledge that he was riding ahead in
order to announce their imminent arrival at Dunadd, she couldn’t say.

He didn’t glance her way. He might have been entirely
oblivious to her presence.

Her fingers tightened on the reins as she forcibly dragged
her gaze from his retreating back. She knew the thought of her marrying his
brother disgusted him. Would he be so enraged if her proposed husband was a
different prince? Or was it the thought of her marrying—no matter whom—that so
infuriated him?

But what did he expect from her?

It wasn’t as though he’d ever spoken of his plans for the
future to her. He’d taken the night she’d offered without any indication
afterward of wanting to prolong their liaison. And while she cherished the
words he’d whispered in the throes of passion, words that hugged her heart and
filled her lonely soul, she knew it highly likely he didn’t even remember them.

Hadn’t he told her, that last night they had spoken, that
what he said in the heat of the moment meant nothing?

As Dunadd became visible in the distance, on top of a mighty
hill on the west coast of Pictland, a dark despair dug in poisoned claws. And
lurking beneath the flimsy facade of piousness instilled over the last nine
years she glimpsed the raw truth.

She wanted his love, even if she could never accept it. Even
if it meant Connor, the man whose happiness she craved above all else, suffered
agonies because of that love.

She tried to retract the thought, smother it. Pretend it had
never touched her mind because it was selfish, cruel.
Pagan
.

But it made no difference. Whether she wanted to acknowledge
it or not, ancient pagan blood ran through her veins and in this moment of
clarity, she saw the unvarnished truth.

If given the choice between Connor loving her or having
simply used her because she was available, she’d take his love.

Despite the pain it caused him.

* * * * *

Three hours later, after having arrived at Dunadd, Connor
watched Aila as the royal party was greeted by a noble council. For two weeks
he’d avoided her, yet been excruciatingly aware of her every movement. For two
weeks he’d formed plans and strategies only to discard them in disgust. And now
the moment had arrived he was no clearer in his mind as to how he was going to
persuade his king against this disastrous marriage.

“Connor.” Ewan gripped his arm. “You aren’t truly going to
speak to MacAlpin about this matter, are you?”

In a moment of madness during the journey, Connor had
confided in his oldest friend. And been offended by Ewan’s horror of his
intention to confront their king. He wrenched his arm free and sent Ewan a dark
glare.

“What would you have me do? Stand by while Aila marries my
brother?” Far from diminishing, the revulsion at such a future had magnified
beyond endurance. “If she refuses to save herself, then I have no choice.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you if your head ends up on a
spike.”

Connor turned on his heel and marched off. There was a
chance he might infuriate the king but he was sure his head was in no danger.

At least, as long as MacAlpin remained in ignorance of the
night Connor had shared with the princess.

* * * * *

“My liege.” Connor rose from his knee as MacAlpin beckoned
him forward. They were in the war chamber and, miraculously, MacAlpin was not
surrounded by his advisors.

“Why so grim?” MacAlpin slapped him on the shoulder, clearly
well pleased. “Events are proceeding exactly as planned.”

That was the problem.

“I have reservations.” The words were out, stark and
uncompromising. He’d had more than two weeks to perfect this speech and still
the right damn words eluded him.

MacAlpin raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise.
“Reservations?”

“Aye.” His mouth dried. Christ, now what? From nowhere, his
brain hooked on to the image of Aila with her father. The questions the Ce king
had demanded Connor answer before agreeing to this alliance. “I’ve had time to
watch the King of Ce. He is devoted to his daughter. I fear once he discovers
Fergus’ true nature toward women and fidelity, he’ll demand a retraction of the
betrothal.”

MacAlpin didn’t appear overly concerned. “And are you the
King of Ce’s mouthpiece? Did he send you here with this…threat?”

Threat? “No, my liege. I speak only from my personal
observations.” He spoke for Aila. Because she refused to speak for herself.

MacAlpin gave a short laugh devoid of mirth. “MacKenzie, all
fathers are devoted to their daughters. We want them to make successful
marriages and strengthen our alliances. The fidelity of their chosen husband
is, I assure you, of little significance to us.”

Sweat trickled along Connor’s spine. He knew, without
question, had he told the King of Ce about Fergus’ predilection for young slave
girls, his aversion to matrimony and distaste for tying himself to a wife, the
king would never have agreed to the alliance.

“My liege, the Picts are different in the way they—”

“No, Connor.” MacAlpin took one step toward him. “The Picts
are no different from us in this matter. Only you, with your idealized vision
of marriage, can’t see it. And who are you to level such accusations against
your brother?” MacAlpin narrowed his eyes. “Do you think me unaware of your
liaisons these past four years? The married women you take to your bed? You’re
no better than any other noble in my court in that regard.”

The accusation stung, but he wasn’t talking of any other
noble. Wasn’t referring to any other political marriage. Impotent rage twisted
through his blood. “At least I have never taken a woman against her will.”

He thought MacAlpin was going to thrust his words aside.
Slaves were of no account and a wife little better. But then the king drew
back, as if seriously considering the matter.

“Fergus will never harm the princess. Her well-being is our
priority. No matter what your brother does outside of the marriage bed, be
assured the Ce king will have no complaint as to how his daughter is treated as
the wife of a Dal Riadan prince.”

Desperation clawed through Connor’s guts. There had to be
something he could say that would sway his king’s mind. “My liege—”

“Enough.” MacAlpin’s command slashed through the chamber
with the force of a battle-ax. “Your concern for the continuation of this
alliance is commendable. However.” MacAlpin’s icy gaze froze the words of
denial on Connor’s tongue. “Take a care, Connor, that you always remember to
whom you owe your loyalty.”

When Aila reached her chambers, exhaustion overtook her and
she sank onto the bed. Six noble ladies comprised her personal retinue and
stood in a semicircle before her, awaiting instructions. They were older than
was usual for a princess of her age, widowed and without young children. There
were none of royal blood. Her mother, for all her influence, had failed to
persuade any other king to relinquish a treasured daughter to accompany hers
into an unknown future.

A feast was to be held in her honor, when she would meet
MacAlpin and his cousin’s son. Her betrothed. She stifled the knot of fear and
gripped her fingers together. These ladies were not strangers to her, but none
of them were close confidantes. She couldn’t show her true feelings. She was
their princess and they looked to her for guidance in this new life.

But who would she look to?

A knock on the antechamber door distracted her and as two of
the ladies left the bedchamber, she hoped it was her dear faithful servant
Floradh returning with refreshments. Floradh, who had refused to be left behind
in Ce despite her advancing years.

Floradh, who was the closest thing to a friend she had in
this strange new world.

Her ladies returned. “Madam,” Cailleach said. “Lady Maeve
Balfour wishes to extend her greetings to you.” She paused, glanced at her
companion. “She also brings refreshments.”

God, she was in no fit state to play hostess. She wanted to
be left alone until the last possible moment. Until she had to attend the feast
this evening and once again be subjected to endless speculation.

She inclined her head. “Of course.” She would have no Scot
accuse a Pict of being ill-mannered. “Show her through.”

Receiving visitors in her bedchamber was scarcely the
correct protocol, but her antechamber was crowded with her and her ladies’
traveling caskets and belongings that had yet to be sorted out.

And besides, she wasn’t sure her legs would support her if
she attempted to stand. The last few days of the journey had been especially
tiring. She hoped Lady Maeve Balfour wouldn’t stay long so she could try to
rest before the dreaded feast.

She watched the Scot enter her chamber, and her spine
stiffened further. She already knew, from the nights she’d spent in the
Scot-owned hill forts, that the gowns of Scot ladies were very different from
her own. It was another point of disparity between them. Another fact that made
her stand out when all she wanted was to blend in.

It didn’t help that all her gowns were highly embroidered at
the bodice and sleeves in threads of gold and scarlet. The Scots’ gowns were
often a white plaid, with a few small stripes of black, blue and red, girdled
around the waist with elaborate silver buckles and jewels.

Not Lady Maeve Balfour though. Her gown, although in the
same style as the other Scot ladies Aila had already met, was a vibrant blue
and her buckle and brooch were of gold, set with precious gems.

Lady Maeve sank into a curtsey. “Welcome to Dunadd, Princess
Devorgilla,” she said in deeply accented Pictish. “I hope you find happiness
with us.”

The simple speech eased her terror in a way the formal
greeting earlier had only managed to intensify. “Thank you,” she said in her
own language. And then something made her add, “I speak your tongue.”

Relief flooded Lady Maeve’s lovely face. “I’m glad, madam.
I’m afraid my Pictish is very limited.”

It may have been limited but at least she’d gone to the
trouble of addressing Aila in her own language. That was more than the official
welcoming council had done. In itself that didn’t worry her. She could, after
all, understand the Gaelic language. But it was the unshakable feeling that the
Scot nobles had assumed she didn’t comprehend their words—and they didn’t care.

She’d seen the assessing glances they’d leveled her way. And
because they clearly assumed she didn’t speak Gaelic she hadn’t deigned to
enlighten them.

But it had done nothing to lighten her fears for the future.
The fear that the rumors were true. That, with perhaps some exceptions, the men
of Dal Riada did consider their womenfolk inferior in intellect.

She glanced at her ladies and they brought over a small
table for the refreshments and a stool for Lady Maeve.

They passed a few pleasantries, remarking upon the length of
the journey and the comfortable appointment of her chambers. Lady Maeve was
even kind enough to admire the embroidery on Aila’s gown. Embroidery that
Finella had painstakingly labored over during the last week before she’d left
Ce.

She couldn’t think of Finella now. Couldn’t face the
possibility they would never see each other again. Only when she was alone
would she ever be able to unfurl her heart. Embrace her loved ones’ memories.
Because when she did, she was not certain she’d be able to hold back the tears.

She had to change the subject.

“I look forward to meeting the prince tonight.” That was a
lie. But she would have to get used to lying. The rest of her life was going to
be one great lie. She fixed a smile on her lips and picked up a cup of aromatic
tea.

“Aye, madam. We are all very much looking forward to the
alliance between our two peoples.”

Aila sipped her herbal tea so she didn’t have to keep
smiling. Lady Maeve’s accent reminded her of Connor’s. Doubtless every person
here possessed the same turn of phrase, the same inflection on their words.

“I know nothing of the prince.” She hoped her voice was
light and didn’t sound as despairing to Lady Maeve as it did to her own ears.
“He is a great warrior, I imagine?” With raven-black hair and stormy-gray eyes?
She’d go insane if Fergus resembled Connor in looks as well as voice and
accent.

“Indeed, madam. He’s as brave and honorable a warrior as any
in Dal Riada.”

Of course he was. After all, he shared Connor’s bloodline.

Desperate hope pierced her heart. Perhaps she and the prince
could come to an arrangement after their wedding. Perhaps he would be agreeable
to a marriage of political convenience only.

Perhaps, if Fergus shared his brother’s sense of honor, she
wouldn’t be forced to submit to another man in her bed.