Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (23 page)

“The Picts didn’t attack first?”

“Only the nine nobles who claimed matrilineal rights to
Fortriu were summoned to the war chamber.” Fergus gripped Connor’s hand, but it
was involuntary, as his entire body convulsed in spasms of pain. “MacAlpin’s
orders. A warrior obeys his king.”

Pictland needs a strong leader
, MacAlpin’s angry
words echoed in his mind.
One to bring all the kingdoms together.

And this was the first step.

“MacAlpin planned this. From the start.” Bitter rage roiled
through him at the knowledge he’d been so deceived. At the realization his
unformed suspicions had been true.

“Eliminate all rivals to the kingdom.” Fergus gasped for
breath as his convulsions ceased. “Fortriu first. The others will follow.”

Connor glared down at his brother, but the anger wasn’t for
Fergus. It was for his king, for his advisers, for the way they had gone about
eradicating all threat of a Pictish succession.

“And what of the princess?” His voice was harsh. “Why drag
her into this when he had no intention of ratifying an alliance?”

Fergus’ eyelids drooped as if he no longer had the energy to
keep them open. “But he does need this alliance.” The words were slurred, as
Fergus hovered on the precipice of unconsciousness. “She’s the bridge between
our peoples. Through this alliance her son will inherit Ce, and the northern
stronghold becomes a Scot-held territory.”

Fergus was so sure he’d got Aila with child on their wedding
night. But for the moment, that was a secondary concern. Because when Fergus
died—and he would die, Connor knew the signs only too well—Aila would be
vulnerable.

Of all the hostages held in Dunadd, she was the most
valuable. The one MacAlpin would use ruthlessly in order to gain advantage with
the wealthy kingdom of Ce.

He’d watched her slip from his grasp once. But this time
he’d do everything in his power—lie, flatter and sell his soul to the fucking
devil—to persuade MacAlpin that the only logical answer for the problem that
was the princess was for her to marry Connor MacKenzie.

Connor stood by Aila’s side as the monks chanted in the
tongue of Rome over Fergus’ prostrate body. As they anointed his brother with
oil in the name of the Lord, Connor risked a sideways glance.

Her fierce glare did not waver from the scene before them.
She believed the healing ritual would work and Fergus would once again rise in
full health.

He wished he shared that faith. But he knew of no one who’d
survived the extreme unction. As far as he was concerned it was merely a
prelude to death, despite how the monks believed otherwise.

Yet if Fergus survived, he would no longer be a true husband
to Aila. He would be required to give up the pleasures of the flesh, dedicate
his life to God. Not a life Fergus would relish.

And Aila would be tied to a husband who wasn’t a husband,
and still beyond his reach.

When, finally, MacLeod pronounced the inevitable, grief
seared Connor’s heart. For the brother he had hero-worshipped as a child, the
brother he’d tolerated as a man.

Instinctively he turned to Aila to offer her comfort. He
didn’t know how or why and it no longer mattered, but since her marriage she’d
grown close to Fergus. Her determination that he should live proved that.

Not that Connor had any intention of letting that stand in
his way. Aila had loved him once and she would love him again. And now when she
entered Dunbrae it would be as
his
bride.

“My lord,” MacLeod said.

Connor barely glanced at him. “Wait for me outside. I will
be with you directly.”

MacLeod offered a stiff bow, clearly offended, but Connor
knew he would wait. Connor was Fergus’ closest blood kin and as such was
entitled to accompany the physician when he informed the king of Fergus’ death.

Only when the door between bed and antechamber closed did
Aila finally turn toward him. She looked deathly tired. So fragile he wanted to
wrap her in his arms and never let her go.

But the fury in her eyes rendered him immobile.

“I did everything within my power to keep him alive.” Her
voice was low and trembled with emotion.

“I know.” Her people had been betrayed but Aila’s honor had
never faltered. Shame crawled over his skin at what she had endured at the
hands of his king. He owed her an apology for accusing her kin of attacking
MacAlpin without provocation, for doubting her word and, damn it, for bringing
her here in the first place.

Always remember to whom you owe your loyalty.
MacAlpin’s thinly veiled threat echoed in his mind. Until this week there had
never been a doubt in his heart as to the strength of his loyalty to his king.

He no longer trusted his king.

It was tantamount to treason. Yet the conviction remained.
MacAlpin was his king but Aila claimed his loyalty. As soon as he and Aila were
wed, he would tell her the truth. As his wife, she would never betray his
confidence. But until then he couldn’t risk it.

“I’m sorry.” The words sounded awkward. As if he didn’t mean
them. Yet he did and in so many ways she could not yet fathom. He gestured to
the bed. “Do you want me to send your ladies in so you can attend to Fergus?”

She drew herself up even more regally, although he couldn’t
imagine how such a thing was possible. “Will my performing those rites ensure
my brother lives?”

He stared at her, suddenly fearful this final tragedy had
turned her brain. “Your brother?”

“Yes. My brother.” The look she leveled his way suggested
she thought he was being deliberately obtuse. “Talargan mac Bredei of Ce.”

He tried to make sense of her question but failed. “Why
would preparing Fergus’ body have anything to do with your brother?”

His response obviously wasn’t what she’d expected. “Do you
truly not know?” Uncertainty threaded her voice.

“Aila.” He gripped her shoulders and tugged her toward him.
“What are you talking about?” She was not ignorant of politics. She knew how
the hostage system worked. Why then did she imagine her brother to be in
danger?

“Do you promise to guarantee his safety?” There was an
undercurrent of desperation in her voice, as though she possessed no faith in
his king’s political machinations. Not that he could blame her for that.

“Aye.” He infused the word with all the conviction he could.
Talargan was valuable, but only as long as he was alive.

“Even though your brother died?”

“I don’t see the connection. Prince Talargan is safe and
will remain safe. You know how it is with royal hostages.” She was one herself.
He hoped, without conviction, she hadn’t made that connection.

Her glance flickered to the bed then back to him.

“So he will be accorded the rights his status demands?” She
sounded less despairing, as if his assurances eased her mind. “The death of
Prince Fergus will not impact on my brother at all?”

What the hell had Fergus told her? His hands slowly slid
from her shoulders, along her arms and clasped her limp fingers.

“I give you my word,” he said. “Talargan will not be harmed
because of anything that happened in this chamber.”

She stared at him, considering the worth of his word. Then
she gave a small jerk of her head, accepting his guarantee, and pulled free
from his grasp.

MacAlpin took the news of Fergus’ death in thunderous silence.
He glared at MacLeod as if he held him personally responsible and the physician
withdrew as hastily as protocol allowed.

Connor watched his king clench his fists before rounding on
his advisers and ordering them from the chamber. An unexpected bonus. Now the
only one Connor had to face was MacAlpin when he put forth his outrageous
suggestion.

Yet not so outrageous. Without a legitimate living heir,
Fergus’ property would go to Connor. Not only the hill fort of Duncadha but
also Dunfodla, the stronghold his brother had inherited from his royal mother.

If Fergus was right and MacAlpin genuinely craved an
alliance with the royal clan of Ce, then he needed to find a powerful husband
for Aila.

And with his brother’s death, Connor was now a noble of
significant wealth. And precedent had been set.

His own father had once married a princess.

“My liege.”

MacAlpin rounded on him, eyes blazing. He smashed his fist
onto his desk, on top of the marriage contract. “This will not deflect my
purpose.” His voice was eerily calm, at startling odds with the fury emanating
from him. “Do you understand, MacKenzie?”

“Aye.” He understood more about his king now than he wanted
to. But MacAlpin was still his king. His word was law. Just because the
slaughter of the Picts sickened Connor was irrelevant.

“The princess could be carrying Fergus’ child.”

It was possible. It was a fact he had to face, no matter how
much the thought of it curdled his guts. But no matter how easily his brother
had sired offspring with a multitude of women there was always a chance he had
failed to impregnate Aila.

“The continuation of her line is imperative.” MacAlpin
glared at him. “Her child will inherit Dunfodla and Duncadha from his father
and by Pict law have claim on Ce.” He flattened his palms on his desk and
leaned toward Connor. “I will not allow anything to interfere with that
outcome.”

Ice chilled Connor’s blood. “What if the princess is not
with child?”

“Aye.” The word was low, the king’s stare intense. “That’s
the question, isn’t it? If Fergus didn’t succeed in planting his seed. She’s
too valuable to be unwed, yet if another man sires her child within a month,
its parentage will forever be in doubt.”

Connor fought against the urge to grasp MacAlpin by his neck
and thrust him up against the wall. He spoke of Aila as though she were a prize
mare; that her only worth was what her womb may or may not be nurturing.

He fisted his hands, stood his ground and attempted to cool
his thoughts sufficiently so MacAlpin would favorably consider his proposal.
“My liege. The princess requires the protection of a strong husband, one who—”

“I’ve no intention,” MacAlpin said, “of allowing Dunfodla to
pass on to a child whose claim to Kenzie’s blood is in doubt. You don’t have
the royal lineage of Fergus but you did share a father. Kenzie was like a
brother to me.” MacAlpin straightened, narrowed his eyes. “You’ll wed the
princess tomorrow. And by God, if she isn’t already with child then ensure she
is before the month ends.”

Once more in her own bedchamber, Aila stared blindly through
the narrow window to the gray sea in the distance while her ladies whispered
together in the antechamber. She knew they were fearful of the future now that
their princess was, once again, a widow.

But this time she felt no overwhelming grief. No desire to
follow her husband into whatever Otherworld he might travel to.

She didn’t even feel grim pleasure that one of the cursed
Scots who had lured and slaughtered her kin had received justice.

Because something else, something that even managed to
paralyze the pain of seeing her father murdered, crippled her mind.

Gingerly she brushed her fingertips over her belly, ensuring
her action could not be seen by her ladies.

It wasn’t possible, of course. Her constant fatigue, her
inability to keep food in her stomach, the tenderness of her breasts—all could
be logically explained.

For two years she and Onuist had tried to conceive. She had
used every pagan ritual and spell she knew, had offered sacrifice and tears but
not once had there been even a hint of the longed-for babe.

Despite the tantalizing glimpses Bride had so often shown
her of a future filled with beloved children, Aila had convinced herself she
was barren. It had scarcely crossed her mind the fault might lay with Onuist.

She released a quivering breath and rested her forehead
against the rough stone wall.

One night with Connor MacKenzie was all it had taken to
shatter the foundations of her existence.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She was tired because of the
long journey, the events that had unfolded since, the grief she had suppressed.
She was sick because the food here choked her. And her breasts were tender
because…

Bride turned, looked at her and smiled the unmistakable
smile of victory
.

Her eyes jerked open. No. It couldn’t be. But her heart
pounded and stomach churned as a memory hammered through her mind.

That night, she had wished with all her heart to conceive
Connor’s child. Knowing it could never happen, still she had longed for such a
miracle. But more than that. She remembered now. Remembered how she would give
anything to conceive his child.

Bride had been there. Bride had heard.

And Bride had granted her deepest wish.

For a price.

The nausea rose and she battled against it, refusing to succumb
to her body’s weakness. For nine years she had shut out the goddess, refused to
worship the ancient ways. Had tried to live with the constant guilt of having
watched Onuist die. The knowledge she was destined to never hold her own babe
in her arms.

In one moment of fractured concentration, Bride had entered.
Witnessed her night of illicit passion. And, like all pagan gods throughout the
history of mankind, she had exacted her own twisted revenge.

How better to punish a lapsed chosen one of the ancient gods
than by using the seed of Aila’s bitterest enemy to fill her womb? What
exquisite vengeance Bride had bestowed. She had embraced Aila’s deepest desire,
had answered her most fervent prayer.

By using the man whose kin might personally be responsible for
slaughtering Aila’s own beloved father.

Instinctively her fingers curved protectively against her
belly. Guilt ate into her soul, but instead of accepting it, as she had
accepted the guilt that had consumed her after Onuist had died, she fought
against it.

It didn’t matter who the father was. She was this child’s
mother and she would do everything to protect its fragile existence. Bride
might laugh at the knowledge she had so cleverly distorted Aila’s dearest wish.
But Aila would take the tarnished gift. Take it and embrace it and love it with
her entire heart.

She glanced over her shoulder but her ladies were still
distracted. Once again she focused through the window, her mind no longer numb
with grief. She couldn’t afford to cocoon herself in such self-indulgent
misery.

Not if she wanted her child born in freedom.

Now she was widowed, there was a chance—no matter how
slender—that she might be allowed to return to Ce. But there was no mistaking
that if the Scot king discovered she was with child, freedom was the last thing
she would ever be granted.

And should his physicians discover the unlikelihood of
Fergus having fathered the babe the chances of her surviving pregnancy, let
alone childbirth, were remote.

With reluctance, she forced her hand from her belly and
beckoned to her ladies. If she intended to confront MacAlpin, she would look
every regal inch the princess of Ce she was.

MacAlpin, to her surprise, agreed to see her directly. She
had expected him to be evasive, reluctant to face her. That he was not only
reinforced the truth of his barbaric nature and lack of conscience.

She wore the gown of gold she’d worn to the betrothal, with
the scarlet veil and royal crown of Ce. If MacAlpin expected to find her cowed
and broken by his betrayal, he would be grievously disappointed.

Accompanied by her ladies and the Scot guard, she followed
MacAlpin’s messenger to the war chamber. She would not recall the last time she
had entered this chamber. Brutally she pushed the memories aside. She couldn’t
think of her father or the other nobles. She had to be strong. For the sake of
her child.

She buried her hatred of MacAlpin. Of all Scots. Buried it
deep so when the upstart king looked at her all he would see was a princess
with a thousand-year lineage. A royal lineage that put his own paltry
three-hundred-year heritage in Pictland to shame.

The second she was ushered into the chamber, she saw Connor
standing by his king. For a moment, she remained paralyzed, disbelieving,
unable to move let alone think.

Of every scenario that had played through her mind during
the last hour, the possibility of Connor being present when she confronted
MacAlpin had never occurred to her.

She’d tried not to think of Connor MacKenzie at all. Because
whenever she did, her head warred with her heart and now, knowing she nurtured
his child in her womb, all her carefully constructed walls of defense
threatened to crumble.

She forced one foot in front of the other. Her spine was so
rigid she feared it would snap. But better that than to sag with defeat, awash
in the despicable knowledge that just one glance at MacKenzie could cause her
heart to ache with hopeless love.

She did not acknowledge the Scots who bowed as she walked
the length of the chamber. It took every shred of willpower she possessed to
keep her gaze on MacAlpin, and not stray to Connor MacKenzie.

Yet it didn’t matter where she focused. MacKenzie filled her
vision regardless.

“Princess Devorgilla.” MacAlpin spoke her language and
bowed, as if this was a perfectly normal meeting. Her glance flickered,
unwillingly, to the flagstone floor where remnants of bloodstains lingered. “I
deeply regret these tragic circumstances.”

Hatred flared. She doused it, with difficulty. But managed
to keep all such emotion from showing on her face.

“As do I.” Her voice was chilly and she replied in Pictish,
unwilling to reveal she understood Gaelic although his physician was only too
well aware of her fluency in the barbaric tongue.

“On behalf of all the people of Dal Riada,” MacAlpin
continued, “I want you to know none of us bear you any ill will for the events
that transpired within these walls.”

Goddess, strike him down
.

The curse surged up from the core of her soul. The curse of
pagans, a curse she meant with every fiber of her being.

The civilized veneer she had worked so hard to embrace
during the last nine years shattered. Uuen’s teachings fled and primal instinct
cascaded through her blood.

She didn’t forgive him. She would never forgive him. And if
ever the chance presented itself for vengeance, she would grab it with both
hands and revel in the bloodied outcome.

MacAlpin remained central to her unwavering gaze, but she
saw Connor stiffen at the king’s words. She had to stop looking at Connor.
Except she wasn’t, yet she remained vitally aware of every breath he took.

“My lady,” Connor said and his voice wrapped around her like
a mantle of fur. She spared him only a fleeting glance but enough to see him
grip a heavy, carved chair and bring it to her side. “Please be seated.”

She maintained eye contact with the king. The bastard didn’t
even have the decency to lower his lying gaze.

“I prefer to remain standing.” Did they think to intimidate
her further by making her sit when they all towered over her? Why did Connor
MacKenzie continue to stand so close to her? Did he think her unaware of his
scrutiny?

For a second she forgot where she was, why she was here. All
she could see, in her mind, was Connor. Looking at her as he had looked at her
when she had conceived his child.

Heat washed through her. What would MacAlpin do if he
discovered whose child she carried? Would it be Connor’s death sentence as well
as her own?

Connor tightened his grip on the back of the chair. Aila had
spared him scarcely a glance since she’d entered the chamber. It seemed his
presence meant nothing to her, that she was barely aware of his existence.

She looked at MacAlpin with chilly indifference. He’d
expected her to be distraught, perhaps accusatory. MacAlpin had certainly
thought the reason Aila had insisted upon an audience was so she could level
vitriol his way.

But Connor should have known better. Aila could hide her
emotions if she chose to. But it twisted his guts that she needed to hide her
emotions from him.

It would be different once they left Dunadd. Once she was free
of the stench of betrayal that clung to every stone and lurked in every crevice
of the hill fort.

“I have given great thought to your position here, madam,”
MacAlpin said. If Connor didn’t know otherwise, he would have thought his king
showed both deep respect and concern for Aila. But all MacAlpin wanted was to
keep Aila’s bride price and her potential heir to the kingdom of Ce within his
realm.

“So have I, my lord,” Aila said. “The terms of the marriage
contract between Ce and Dal Riada have been fulfilled. The alliance ratified.”

She sounded so sincere. But he remembered the blood on her
gown, the savage gleam in her eyes as he’d burst into Fergus’ bedchamber.

God damn MacAlpin. He ached to take her in his arms, to rip
the burden of grief from her shoulders. But all he could do was offer her his
silent support. Yet if she so much as glanced his way, he’d offer her so much
more than that.

“My lady.” MacAlpin approached and instinctively Connor
stepped closer to Aila’s side. If MacAlpin noticed, he chose to ignore the
gesture. Aila didn’t appear to notice at all. “Your courage and honor humbles
me. A strong alliance between your people and mine is all I crave. Yet for
that, we need more than blood oaths. We need physical union.”

Aila’s expression did not alter, but Conner had the uncanny
sensation that ice spiked from her, freezing the air. “Physical union?” She
made the words sound obscene yet her voice remained as even as ever.

“Between Scot and Pict,” MacAlpin elaborated. Did he imagine
Aila had not understood his meaning? “Under other circumstances you would,
naturally, return to your kingdom. But these are unsettled times, my lady. We
must work together to ensure peace prevails.”

Connor saw Aila’s lips flatten. But instantly she recovered
herself. So instantly, Connor wondered whether MacAlpin had even noticed the
offense he’d given.

“In Ce, I shall work tirelessly toward such end.”

MacAlpin inclined his head. As if he intended to give her
words serious consideration. Connor clenched his jaw, shot Aila a sideways
glance. Why was MacAlpin playing with her emotions like this? If his king
didn’t spit it out soon, then God help him, he’d tell Aila himself.

“I hope, my lady,” MacAlpin said, “you will continue to work
tirelessly to such end despite remaining in Dal Riada.”

“My lord,” Aila said and Connor saw the way her fingers
gripped the golden material of her gown, hidden from sight from his king but
plainly visible to him. “You have no need to keep me as a hostage. You have my
brother Talargan, royal prince of the kingdom of Ce.”

“And he shall be treated as such, madam. But, alas, I cannot
allow you to leave and it would be remiss of me not to ensure you are suitably
protected.”

Connor saw her swallow, saw her fingers convulse within the
folds of her gown. His patience unraveled. “My liege.”

MacAlpin raised his hand without taking his gaze from Aila.
“Your continued safety and happiness is our prime consideration. That is why I
have arranged another marriage for you, to a warrior whose status befits your
blood.”

All hint of color drained from Aila’s face and for one
heartwrenching moment he thought she was going to faint. He slung an infuriated
glare at his king, but MacAlpin appeared oblivious to anything but Aila.

“I will not—” Her voice was no longer cool, no longer even.
Without thinking he slid his fingers between hers, disengaging her death grip
on her gown, and pressed his arm against hers for any support she might
require.

Her cold fingers remained lifeless within his grip but she
didn’t try to pull away.

MacAlpin smiled, well satisfied. “Already your future
husband is eager to comfort you, madam. Tomorrow you will wed Connor MacKenzie,
lord of the royal stronghold of Dunfodla and lord of Duncadha and of Dunbrae.”

His king faded into oblivion and he and Aila might have been
the only two people in the chamber as she slowly turned to look at him. He
began to smile, hoping to reassure her that once this day was over he would do
everything in his power to heal her pain. To promise she would never have to set
foot in Dunadd again.