Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (20 page)

It was a slender, tenuous hope. But the only hope she had.

* * * * *

Connor kept his arms folded across his chest as Fergus,
dripping sweat from his training session, marched toward him across the
flattened grass, broadsword still in hand.

“You’re back then?” The words were a snarl as he shoved his
weapon at a servant to clean. “Fucking MacAlpin, going behind my back. Now I’m
saddled with a cantankerous shrew. If he wanted me shackled, he could at least
have found me a young malleable virgin.”

Connor’s hands fisted. Images of smashing his brother’s jaw
flashed through his mind. So visceral he could smell the iron tang of blood as
it splattered across his knuckles.

“The Princess Devorgilla is twenty-six.” Where MacAlpin had
gotten his information from Connor couldn’t imagine. No one with eyes in his
head could look at Aila and think her a belligerent hag.

“Fucking old woman.” Fergus glared, as if Aila’s age was a
personal affront. “Why should I get something another man’s fucked? My bride
should be untouched.”

Dark rage pounded through Connor’s chest, constricting the
breath in his lungs, tightening his throat. And then, between one infuriated
heartbeat and the next, lightning flashed across his brain, illuminating the
black fog.

“You’re right.” His voice was harsh and Fergus shot him a
distrustful frown at the sudden agreement. “A prince of Dal Riada deserves a
virgin bride.”

“Aye.” Fergus sounded slightly mollified by Connor’s evident
understanding of the matter. “Who knows what unsavory habits a woman of her age
has acquired?”

Connor struggled to hold on to his unraveling threads of
temper. Fergus was playing straight into his hand. All he had to do was feed
his brother’s sense of injustice, stoke the fire of rebellion and Fergus would
request MacAlpin extricate him from the betrothal.

“It’s likely,” he said in response to his brother’s remark,
“she is as set in her ways as an elderly maiden aunt.”

The silence was broken only by the clash of sword on sword
as warriors practiced on the field. Fergus watched them for a moment before
turning to Connor, his eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun.

“You’ve seen her, this betrothed of mine?” He sounded as
though he spoke of a plague. “Is she as hideous as rumor has it?”

Connor stared at the fighting warriors but saw Aila in his
mind. To agree with his brother was pointless since no man would find the
princess hideous. Instead he shrugged, as if the matter was of little account.
“She’s attractive enough. But not your type.”

Silence again. Then Fergus folded his arms. “Really? Tell
me, Connor. Is she your type?”

Caught in his own trap, Connor rounded on his brother,
disbelief and incredulity at his own stupidity pounding through his chest. How
had Fergus jumped to that conclusion? He hadn’t given any indication of how he
felt. Had he?

Fergus regarded him, his face an implacable mask. Perhaps,
after all, his brother only bantered and meant nothing by his pointed remark.

“I hadn’t given the matter much thought.”

“It appears to me,” Fergus said, “you’ve given the matter a
great deal of thought.”

Fuck, could this day get any worse?

“You’re mistaken.” Connor glowered across the field, fingers
itching to draw his sword and release some of the hellish energy that thundered
through his arteries. “I’m merely agreeing with your objections to this match.”

“Aye. And that’s what I find so…” Fergus paused, considering
the matter. “Interesting.”

Connor grunted. It seemed the safest answer since everything
else he had uttered this day had been turned inside out and manipulated beyond
all sense.

“I don’t for one moment,” Fergus said, “imagine you give a
shit about my marital happiness. We both know a wife will hinder me not in the
slightest in my pursuit of earthly pleasures.”

Connor’s chest constricted. Of course he knew that. And if
he’d been honest with the King of Ce when answering the king’s penetrating
questions, then perhaps Aila would not now be in imminent danger of shackling
herself to Fergus for the rest of her life.

Fergus appeared to be enjoying himself. “Therefore, I can
only conclude it’s the happiness of the princess that concerns you. Do you
desire her for yourself?”

Connor glared at his smirking brother. He could deny the
accusation but there was no point. Fergus would believe whatever he wanted to
believe whether it was the truth or not.

“You don’t want this marriage. You don’t want the princess.
Tell MacAlpin, Fergus. He’ll find a way to free you from the obligation.” He
was clutching at insubstantial fantasies. But even the slenderest of hope was
better than nothing.

“I didn’t want this marriage,” Fergus said. “But there’s no
way I’ll ask MacAlpin to free me from this betrothal now.” He laughed. “Fuck
no. You want this princess, don’t you? And she is destined to be
my
bride. Destined to bear
my
sons. And all you can do is stand by and
watch.”

Connor had never seen so many bodies pressed into the great
hall. A lower high table had been set up for the many royal guests, leaving the
high table for MacAlpin’s intimates and the immediate kin of Aila.

And now his king entered, leading the distinguished party
that included his brother and his bride-to-be.

As she followed mac Lutin, a ripple of interest spread
throughout the hall. Heads craned for a better look at this foreign princess,
breath inhaled, whispers echoed. She looked as regal as the queen she might one
day become as she sat on a carved chair, the sumptuous gold of her gown a
stunning contrast to the scarlet embroidery at her bodice and along her
sleeves. Her veil too was scarlet and once again she wore the gem-encrusted
crown.

She could have been one of the mystical fae folk from
ancient tales, who had stumbled by accident into the drab world of mortals.

He couldn’t drag his wretched gaze from her.

MacAlpin’s speech of welcome droned through Connor’s brain,
meaningless. Aila did not glance to her left or right, merely looked at some
indefinable point in the distance, as if the purpose of this feast meant
nothing to her.

And then mac Lutin responded, taking Aila’s hand in a
gesture of clear pride. Offering his daughter to Fergus MacKenzie in an
alliance to bond both peoples of Pictland.

It was done. The cheering and stamping of feet pounded
against Connor like waves in a storm. Yet unlike when navigating a stormy sea,
he possessed no learned wisdom on how to deal with the acidic energy firing
through his blood.

“The princess is quite beautiful,” Maeve said as they
finally sat and extravagant dishes were brought in. He couldn’t fathom why
she’d decided to sit next to him when he’d broken their liaison. “At least
Fergus no longer looks as if he wishes to rip the king’s head off.”

Unwillingly Connor glanced at Fergus. Although seated at the
other end of the table from Aila he obviously liked what he’d seen of her, if
the self-congratulatory grin on his face was anything to go by. But then, it no
longer mattered to Fergus whether he liked the look of Aila or not. All that
mattered was he had taken what Connor wanted.

He couldn’t trust himself to answer. Instead he downed a
tankard of mead, refusing to look in Aila’s direction.

“I took it upon myself,” Maeve said, “to visit the princess
this afternoon.”

Wariness prickled along his skin as he turned to look at
her. Maeve had a smile on her lips as she toyed with the stem of her goblet,
but he knew her too well. She was hiding something.

“And how did you find her?” He jerked his head at a slave
for more mead, tried not to glare at Maeve nor glance at Aila. He only
succeeded by draining his tankard once again.

Maeve hesitated before taking a deep breath. “I found her
most courteous. I hope your brother appreciates how fortunate he is to wed such
a princess. For all that she is a foreigner.”

He grunted, considered downing a third tankard within as
many minutes and decided against it. “Fergus appreciates nothing of true
value.”

Even as the words spilled from him, he knew it was a lie.
There was one thing Fergus valued above his royal blood. Something that had
nothing to do with power and prestige.

He thrust the thought aside. Fergus had made him pay
bitterly for such jealousies when they had been children. And now, when he’d
thought his brother’s power over him had long since faded, Fergus was taking
the woman Connor loved.

“She’s not at all how I imagined. How any of us imagined.”

Maeve had no idea. He couldn’t even summon the energy to
grunt in response and instead stared blindly into his tankard.

Silence hummed between them, a silence punctuated by the
incessant, bawdy conversation thudding against his ears from seemingly every
person in the hall.

“Does she know?”

Maeve’s low words pierced his mead-induced fog and he gave
her a wary look. “Know what?”

Maeve was no longer smiling. She looked oddly haunted. “The
princess, Connor. Does she know how you feel about her?”

Alarm whipped through him, instantly eliminating the
encroaching fog. “I feel nothing for her.” He’d spoken too swiftly. He
struggled to sound less rabid. “Only a measure of sympathy that she’s soon to be
shackled to my faithless half brother.”

“Aye.” Maeve’s voice was soft. “I’m truly sorry, Connor.”

Denial thundered through his brain. Maeve couldn’t have
guessed his true feelings. It was bad enough that Fergus knew. “There’s nothing
to be sorry about. I feel nothing for Aila. She’s just a means to the end.”

“Aila.” Maeve said nothing else, simply looked at him, and
he realized his fatal blunder.

Again the silence stretched between them and he knew that
whatever he said, whatever he did, would make no difference. Maeve knew.

He released a tortured breath. “By the time I discovered who
she truly was, it was too late.”

Maeve’s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet.
“Perhaps,” she hesitated, appeared to be struggling with her thoughts. “Did you
consider the possibility of taking her as your mistress after she is wed?”

No, he hadn’t considered it, because he’d spent the last
weeks denying the possibility that this cursed marriage would go ahead. But
barring an act of divine intervention, or Aila finally coming to her senses, it
appeared she was destined to belong to his half brother.

“Her sense of honor,” his voice was bitter and he couldn’t
help it, “would never allow her to be unfaithful to Fergus.”

“Perhaps not at first. But after a while…”
After she had
produced a legitimate heir.
The unspoken words hovered like a specter
between them. “She may. If she loves you, Connor, why wouldn’t she?”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “Aye. But this is Lady Aila we’re
talking about. She stood in front of me and said she loved me. And then told me
she was going to marry my half brother.”

Confusion flashed over Maeve’s face. “You hold that against
her? But she had no choice once her father made the decision.”

The rage he’d managed to suppress beneath his own frantic
plans heaved, like a volcano stirring from a restless slumber. “No. It’s
different in the Pictish kingdoms, Maeve. Women have more freedom than in Dal
Riada.” The kings might rule the lands, but their queens were not merely
chattels to produce royal heirs. He’d soon discovered the Queen of Ce had taken
it as a personal insult against her honor when he had refused to divulge his
purpose to anyone but the king.

And mac Lutin hadn’t agreed to the match until after he’d
spoken with Aila. If she had declined, there was no doubt in Connor’s mind her
father wouldn’t have demanded her compliance.

But Aila had agreed. Despite the night they’d shared
together. Even though she knew how he felt about her.

Even though she loved him.

“But a royal marriage—”

“She put duty above her own feelings.” He glared at Maeve
but saw Aila that night as she’d stood before him and thrown his love, his
heart, back in his face.

“And because she’s a woman, you find that incomprehensible.”
Maeve’s voice was soft but a thread of censure scraped against his flayed
senses.

“Aye.” He couldn’t help a fleeting glance at Aila. She
looked as remote and untouchable as an ice maiden. “She wasn’t forced.” Unlike
so many noblewomen of Dal Riada who had no choice in the man they married, he
knew—in his gut—Aila had been offered such a choice.

It didn’t matter that, fundamentally, he respected her
integrity. Because it didn’t change the raw burn of rejection that, without
even a semblance of a fight, she had chosen Fergus over him.

Finally the feast ended. Aila smothered a sigh of relief and
struggled not to let her facade crumble. People still glanced her way.
Continued to assess her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the way she
had been on display tonight, and every nerve in her body was stretched so taut
she feared at any moment she would shatter.

The long tables were shoved back to the walls and despair
knotted her stomach as musicians took their playing positions and fine-tuned
their harps. Beneath the high table, she gripped her fingers together and
searched frantically for an elusive remnant of calm.

But instead her glance fell upon Connor. The one man she’d
spent all night desperately trying to avoid looking at. Even though she knew
exactly where he sat, how many tankards of mead he consumed and how animatedly
he conversed with Lady Maeve Balfour by his side.

They stood together now. A striking couple and she couldn’t
shake the feeling that they were more than mere acquaintances. Acidic jealousy
seared her gut, twisting like poisoned serpents. Would Connor take Lady Maeve
to his bedchamber tonight? Did she have any right to condemn him if he did?

She knew she had no right at all. And yet she would condemn
him for taking another woman when all she wanted was for him to take her.

Her thoughts pounded against her temples, escalating the
headache that had plagued her all night. Did she expect Connor to remain
celibate for the rest of his life? Never look at another woman much less find
pleasure in one?

No. Dear God, she wanted him to be happy. But even as she
wanted that, the thought of him finding happiness with another tore her heart
to shreds.

“Princess Devorgilla.” The deep voice pulled her from her
thoughts and she realized Prince Fergus was by her side, smiling down at her,
extending his hand. And speaking her language. “May I have the honor of the
first dance?”

Panic churned through her. They had already been introduced,
a brief cursory introduction before the feast. And the fear that had gripped
her then returned in force.

Fergus looked nothing like Connor. For which she should be
grateful. He possessed, like his brother, a hard warrior body, towered over
her, and his face was handsome enough to make any maiden swoon. But his hair
was blond, his eyes were blue and all she saw when she looked at him was the
personification of every Viking she had ever encountered.

Only years of successfully hiding her true feelings
prevented her from flinching. Instead she placed her hand in his and mentally
gritted her teeth against the revulsion that crawled from the tips of her
fingers and along the length of her arm at his touch.

“Thank you.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I fear the
journey has tired me. Would it please you to sit with me instead?”
And
release his predatory hold on her hand
.

He looked momentarily surprised, as though her refusal to
accede to his wishes was unexpected. But he motioned a slave, who brought his
chair over, then Fergus sat beside her without attempting to change her mind.

He still held on to her hand.

“The journey must have been arduous for a lady such as
yourself.” He smiled at her again. There was nothing evil or distasteful about
his smile and yet she found nothing comforting in it. “I hope you manage to
rest sufficiently between now and our upcoming wedding.”

She tried to withdraw her hand but Fergus’ grip was
unrelenting. It appeared he intended to ensure her hand, at least, remained
within his power even if she had refused him the right to hold her more
intimately while dancing.

“I’m sure I will.” Fergus would never guess how her stomach
pitched at his words. At the look in his eyes. Her fragile hope that her future
husband might be agreeable to a marriage in name only vanished like morning
mist.

“Connor.” Fergus beckoned with his free hand and Aila didn’t
dare follow his glance. “It appears you’ve exhausted my bride-to-be in your
haste to return to Dal Riada.”

She knew Connor was standing at the other side of the table.
His body blocked out the rest of the hall. If she gave in to her weak desire to
look at him, he would block out the rest of the world.

“I’ve no doubt,” Connor said as she struggled against the
overwhelming need to look at him. Feast upon him, “the Princess Devorgilla will
recover.”

Fergus raised her hand to his lips, skimmed kisses over her
knuckles.

“She is a delectable piece, isn’t she?” He continued to look
at her but spoke to his brother. In Gaelic. Clearly he was as ignorant as his
king’s advisors as to her ability to understand his language.

“Fergus.” Connor’s voice was feral. She dared not look his
way. If she did, she’d crumble.

Fergus finally released her hand and she buried it in her
lap before he could change his mind.

“My preconceived notions were wrong.” Fergus flashed Connor
a grin that left her in no doubt as to what his preconceived notions might have
been. “I think I’ll enjoy having this princess warming my bed at nights. I’ll
be sure to let you know whether she pleases me or not.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Connor’s hand fist
against his thigh. Briefly she closed her eyes, but still it seemed the hall
spun around her.

A legacy of how she’d been unable to swallow more than a few
mouthfuls of the mighty feast.

When she once again opened her eyes, Fergus was regarding
her as if she were a prized warhorse.

“You do look a little fatigued, madam.” He spoke in Pictish
and sounded solicitous. “Perhaps you should retire, conserve your strength.”
Then he smiled. She was likely the only woman in Dal Riada who found nothing
seductive about it. “I wish you to be fully rested in order to enjoy our
wedding night as much as I.”

She wouldn’t think of the wedding night. She’d focus on the
fact he’d given her an excuse to leave the hall.

To leave Connor.

She allowed Fergus to take her hand to help her rise from
her chair.

“You’re too thoughtful.” She sounded as though she implied
the opposite. Fortunately Fergus didn’t appear to notice.

“My thoughts are all for you, my princess.” He sounded
sincere and yet she didn’t believe a word. “I trust you will sleep well.” He
bowed over her hand, a lavish, practiced gesture, and she was unable to respond
in the accepted manner because all she could feel were Connor’s eyes burning
into her.

Without a backward glance, she walked to the door, her
ladies surrounding her in a protective cocoon. But at the door, her resolve
faltered and she paused and glanced over her shoulder.

In that fleeting instant she saw Fergus, her future husband,
the man whose thoughts were all for her, grab a young slave girl and haul her
toward the outside doors. And she saw Connor, standing where she had left him
and looking at her across the hall as if they were the only two people alive.

* * * * *

“I don’t trust MacAlpin or any of his advisers.”

Aila sighed and glanced at Talargan as he sat beside her on
the hill. Her ladies were some distance from them, for privacy, as were the
royal guard who shadowed her every move.

It had been three days since they had arrived in Dunadd. It
felt like three years.

She stroked the tiny black kitten that slept on her lap. “I
doubt any of them trust us either.”

Her brother looked at her. “He seems to think the kingdom of
Fortriu is his by rights. That his coronation at Forteviot is a foregone
conclusion.” He took her hand. “I fear your sacrifice might not be enough to
avert another battle between Pict and Scot, Aila.”

“It has to be.” What good was this marriage if it didn’t
bring the people of Pictland together? “We can’t fight each other, Tal, if we
want to vanquish the Vikings.”

Instead of replying, Talargan’s gaze slid beyond her and his
glare intensified. Without turning she knew who approached. Her skin prickled
in awareness and her chest tightened, constricting her lungs. It took every
particle of willpower she possessed not to follow her brother’s gaze and watch
Connor stride toward them.

He stopped some distance from them and bowed. A stiff,
perfunctory gesture that acknowledged their royal status. There was none of the
graceful flourish he had exhibited before. No devastating smile that could melt
her heart. But despite his cold stance, her heart still melted.

His black hair was tousled from the wind, his eyes as stormy
as the first day they had met. Beneath his length of plaid, his linen shirt
molded his muscled chest, and a tantalizing glimpse of tawny flesh beckoned
where his shirt fastenings were undone.

Her fingers curled against the kitten and it wriggled in
protest before burrowing its nose between her thighs. Connor’s glance dropped
to her lap before clashing with hers for one brief, agonized second.

And then he focused on Talargan.

“My lord. My king and yours request your presence as a
matter of urgency in the war chamber.”

“The war chamber?” She couldn’t help the alarm in her voice
and instinctively clutched at the kitten. Surely Pict and Scot were not
planning war? “Why?”

With clear reluctance, Connor transferred his attention to
her. “The Northumbrians require reminding as to the limits of their borders.”

“You’re going into battle against the Northumbrians?”

He was a warrior. She knew that. Fighting was his life. But
she didn’t want him riding into battle. Didn’t want the agony of not knowing
whether he would return or not.

“Aila.” Her brother’s low voice, speaking in Pictish,
penetrated her rising distress. “The Scots don’t believe in sharing such
information with their women.” His disdain was palpable. “I’ll tell you of the
plans when I return from this meeting.”

As Talargan stood and helped her to her feet, she glanced at
Connor. His jaw was rigid with fury and he looked as if he’d like nothing more
than to throttle Talargan.

Oblivious, her brother marched back toward the hill fort.
Connor didn’t move.

She held the kitten close, drawing poor comfort from its
warmth. It wasn’t Drun, but like her beloved deerhound, it had been cruelly
treated.

Except unlike Drun, the kitten’s pain hadn’t been her fault.

“I see you have a new companion.” His words were perfectly
civil. And yet she detected censure in his tone, an accusation of abandoning
Drun and taking another in his place.

Yet even that was untrue. She knew what he really accused
her of. But she didn’t want to argue with him. Didn’t want bad blood between
them. She hadn’t even seen him since that first night after arriving in Dunadd.
She’d pleaded exhaustion, feminine indisposition, anything that had excused her
from attending another excruciating feast.

And now, when he prepared to ride south to engage the
Northumbrians, she wanted desperately for him to look at her the way he had
looked at her that morning in his bedchamber.

“Some boys thought it great sport to torture her with flame
and water. They’d already drowned her two litter-mates. But at least I saved
this one from such a fate.”

She’d hoped to soften the glare directed her way with her
attempt at conversation. Instead his glower intensified. “Not all Scots are barbarians,
Aila. You can’t judge an entire people by the actions of a few children.”

Her hope withered. “I wasn’t aware I had.”

His gaze roved over her face, as if he couldn’t help it but
hated himself for such weakness. “Are you ill?” The words were harsh. “You
haven’t attended the feasts held in your honor.”

“I’m quite well.” Did he ask because he cared? Or only
because he thought her bad-mannered to snub his countryfolk? “Merely tired.”

“Still?” It was a growl, but with an unmistakable
undercurrent of concern.

“It’s been many years since I’ve undertaken any journey of
significance. My exhaustion is to be expected.” But she knew her exhaustion had
nothing to do with the journey. It was the incessant nightmares that ravaged
her every time she closed her eyes. The constant feeling of dread that gripped
her as soon as the candles were doused.

The salt-tinged breeze rustled through the grass and whipped
raven-black strands of hair across Connor’s face. She clutched the kitten to
her breast and foolishly imagined its silky-soft fur was her Scot’s wild hair.
And still his stormy gaze didn’t waver from her.

She knew they were surrounded by a dozen people, every one
of them engaged to attend and protect her. But none of them mattered. She might
just as well be alone on this windy hilltop with Connor MacKenzie because when
he looked at her nothing else existed.

He moved toward her then hesitated as if recalling where
they were. Silently her heart wept for a touch she would never again enjoy. A
touch she would never again have the right to expect.

“I wish you happiness, Aila.” He sounded as though the words
choked him, as if the world were ending. “But if you ever need me, I’ll be
there for you.”

With that he swung on his heel and marched after her brother
and storm clouds blotted out the sun.