Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (27 page)

He offered her a guarded smile, clearly confused. “About the
Halls of Valhalla. No Viking is allowed entrance without his broadsword in his
hand. Is that true?”

Her smile wavered. Why was he talking about Vikings? She had
no interest in their barbaric beliefs and savage religious rituals.

Then Connor moved closer to her, looking intently at her as
if he had suddenly realized something fundamental had changed. And from the
corner of her eye, she saw something displayed on the wall behind him.

Time froze, splintered and then rushed at her with the force
of a stampeding horse. On the wall was a Viking broadsword. Its distinctive
pommel, handle and quillion were ornately decorated with gold accents and
inlays.

She knew that sword. It had haunted her nightmares for
years, but in her dreams it did not gleam and glitter. In her dreams, it sliced
through flesh and bone, dripped scarlet, delivered death.

In her nightmares, the owner of this broadsword bent over
her, blue eyes searing into her ravaged soul, blond hair hanging in matted
tangles over his shoulders.

The vellum dropped from lifeless fingers as her throat
closed, her lungs contracted and her heart hammered.
Nine years
.
But she recalled every intricate detail of this broadsword. Every bloodied
moment of that day.

Everything.

Connor wrapped his arms around her, forced her backward and
shoved her down on a stool. “What is it?” He gripped her hands and knelt before
her. Stormy-gray eyes bored into her and raven-black hair filled her vision,
obliterating blue and blond.

But still the putrid memories surged upward, swamping her
reason, shattering the final fragments of her facade. She dug her nails into
Connor’s hands.
Connor
.
She was with Connor now and there was no
need to relive that day, those moments. But the images hammered through her
mind, an incessant refrain, and to her horror, a terrified moan escaped.

“Aila.” Connor sounded unnerved and glanced toward the door
as if he hoped help might miraculously appear. But no one had miraculously
appeared that day. Except the owner of that broadsword.

“How—why do you have Olafsson’s sword?” Her voice sounded
raw, as though she hadn’t spoken in a year.
Nine years
.
She
forced herself not to drop her gaze, not to push Connor away, not to curl up
into a ball and allow the screams in her head to escape between her lips.

“Olafsson’s?” He sounded shocked that she knew the name. “I
took it from him four years ago, bare seconds before the horns sounded to end
the battle.” His fingers tightened around hers. “How do you know of him?”

She didn’t want to go through it again. Didn’t want to think
of it. Couldn’t speak of it.

And yet the words seared her tongue.

“He was there. In Fidach. Nine years ago.”

Comprehension dawned across Connor’s face. Comprehension—and
then horror.

“Olafsson killed Onuist?” He leaned closer to her. “If I’d
known, I would have run him through with his own sword, battle over or not.”

She was shivering. She couldn’t stop herself. Still holding
her hands he wrapped one arm around her, rubbing her shoulder, trying to infuse
her with heat.

“No.” Her teeth were chattering. “Onuist had already been
murdered.”

The Viking raid that day had been swift, unexpected and
brutal. Caught unawares Onuist had attempted to defend them both, but had been
cut down within seconds.

And then the two leering Vikings had turned on her.

She closed her eyes, leaned against Connor’s solid strength.
Felt his hands holding her, his breath warming her. His anger sank into her
wounded soul, a perverse healing.

But no matter what Olafsson had taken from her that day, he
had still saved her.

“The bards sing of my Onuist’s great bravery.” She felt
Connor stiffen, but he did not pull away. “He was scarcely nineteen, Connor,
and had never been in battle. He was the youngest prince of Fidach—an artist.
Not a warrior. Although he defended me with everything he was.”

“I know.” His words were muffled against her neck. “He
killed those who would have dishonored you before he succumbed to his
injuries.”

“Yes.” She breathed in the evocative essence of Connor, felt
the roughness of his jaw against her cheek, the silk of his hair falling across
her brow. “That’s what I told everyone. So Onuist would be forever remembered
and revered.”

“Aye.” He sounded oddly resigned. “He is a worthy hero,
Aila.”

Slowly she pulled back. There was a bleak look in Connor’s
eyes and his hand slid from her shoulder to once again clasp hers on her lap.

“He is.” Her voice was faint as she tried not to recall how
one of the savage devils had impaled Onuist’s severed head on a spike while the
other—

Her mind closed down.

“Connor.” She waited until he looked at her. “He didn’t kill
them. After they murdered him, Drun attacked. They threw him against the wall,
kicked him senseless. He almost died.”

Understanding flickered across his face. Now he knew the
origin of her beloved Drun’s injuries. Drun, who had tried to defend her
against the indefensible.

And then Connor began to frown as if, finally, he realized
her words did not make sense. “Onuist didn’t kill those Vikings?” The words
were guarded. He obviously wasn’t sure how she might react to his question.

She started to shake again, although she wasn’t cold in the
depth of her soul. She hadn’t been truly cold since Connor had entered her
life.

“Olafsson found us.” She couldn’t tell Connor what had been
happening when the Viking had found her. Some things could never be said aloud.
“He—he decapitated both his countrymen without a second’s hesitation. And
then—”

Then he had knelt over her, blue eyes furious, blond hair
hanging over his shoulders. He had looked younger than she and instead of
brutalizing her as his slain compatriots had, he’d straightened her torn gown
while his broadsword dripped with Viking blood.

She swallowed. “He took my wedding casket.”

Connor stared at her, his eyes dark with new knowledge. He
had obviously guessed the entire sordid truth.

She’d told no one, but her mother, grandmother and the
healers who had dragged her back to health knew what had happened without the
need for explanations. Her father, she suspected, had guessed but he had never
questioned her on details she had failed to clarify.

And so her version of events went into the annals. Onuist
had died a hero’s death while saving her from certain degradation. He had died
at the hands of Vikings and she forever had to hide the fact she had survived
only because of the actions of another Viking.

“Your wedding casket.” He sounded grim and his words were so
unexpected she merely stared at him in confusion. “The casket your cross
completes.”

“Yes.” Of everything she had just confided, he questioned
her on that?

He stood up, pulling her to her feet. “You look weary.” He
reached for her to cradle her face and then his hand dropped to his side, as if
he’d thought better of it. “Perhaps you should rest before this evening’s
entertainment.” His jaw clenched. “I couldn’t put off the welcome feast for
another night. I’m sorry.”

She did not relish being the center of attention at yet
another feast, but the very fact Connor knew that, that he had tried to prevent
such a happening, somehow made it entirely bearable.

“I have no wish to cause your mother or Lady Nighean
offense.” She attempted to smile at him, but his distracted countenance and the
now-familiar waves of nausea that rocked her stomach caused the smile to fade
almost instantly. “But thank you for trying.”

He didn’t answer, but he did take her hand and lead her out
of the chambers.

Away from Olafsson’s sword. And despite her best efforts to
hide it, a relieved sigh escaped.

* * * * *

Arms crossed, wind rippling the grasses at his feet and hair
about his face, Connor glared across the glen. He was some distance from the
hill fort, but still within sight of it. And although he wanted to leap on his
horse and ride until his limbs ached and brain was numb, he knew he wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t leave Aila. In case she needed him.

Even if he knew, in his heart, she would never need him the
way he wanted her to.

Just moments ago, he’d left her in their chambers. She
hadn’t argued about having a rest before that evening, which gnawed at him. No
matter how he’d tried to ignore it over the last few days, she had an
indefinable air of exhaustion about her.

He would get a physician to look at her. But he knew what
she really needed. And he couldn’t face it. Couldn’t think of it.

Wouldn’t contemplate it.

Besides, whether he liked it or not, Aila was a hostage and
returning her to Ce was out of the question.

Finally his rigid control shattered. Blood sizzled in his
veins, volcanic and deadly. Leashed fury pounded against his temples. He tried
to block the thoughts, suppress the images, but they were there. In his head.
Driving him to the brink of insanity.

His beautiful, brave Aila, the woman whose facade of
serenity had infuriated him over the last few days, had not only seen her
husband murdered when she was a young bride.

She had been raped by his murderers. And he, Connor
MacKenzie, who knew only too well the brutalities of war, hadn’t managed to
work out that fundamental fact.

But he should have. Things had not added up. The songs of
the bards, the heroic acts of Onuist. Yet Aila had told him, weeks ago, that
she had seen Onuist’s head on a spike. How could she have if her young husband
had killed their would-be attackers?

His fists clenched. The thought of her being so brutalized
sickened him to the core. Now he understood her reserve. Now he understood why
she retreated behind that icy facade whenever she felt threatened.

Now he understood why she had withdrawn from the world, why
she had the erroneous reputation of being a recluse.

And because of his king’s thirst for power, she had been
wrenched from her home. Her sanctuary. She had agreed because she believed,
with all her heart, that Scot and Pict had to unite to defeat her bitterest
enemy.

In return for her sacrifice, his king had betrayed her as
brutally as any Viking.

“Connor.”

His mother’s voice penetrated his black thoughts and he
hissed out a breath before turning to her. “My lady.”

She smiled, a sad, wistful smile, and placed her hand on his
folded arm. They had spoken in private only once since his return and he knew
she grieved for the loss of Fergus. And to ease her pain, and in memory of the
boy he had once worshipped, Connor hadn’t revealed his half brother’s
involvement in MacAlpin’s betrayal.

“My son.” The words were soft. “Connor, I loved Fergus as my
own. But you were always first in my heart.”

The confession shook him. He didn’t know how to respond. And
so he merely grunted and glowered across the glen once more.

“I always believed you knew.” His mother sighed, patted his
arm and relinquished her hold on him. “But it only occurred to me today that
perhaps—you did not realize.”

No, he hadn’t realized. Fergus had idolized their mother,
often claiming her as his own despite his innate pride in his maternal royal
heritage. And his mother had lavished her love upon her husband’s firstborn
son.

But not at the expense of her own. He had always known that.
And yet, as he had grown older, deep in his heart he’d often suspected Fergus
was her favorite.

“It’s hardly of importance now.” He shot her a dark glare,
because he didn’t know how to tell her how much her words meant to him.

“Aye, it is.” She ran her finger over his brooch, his
father’s brooch that she had given him, not Fergus, upon their father’s death.
“Sometimes things have to be said, no matter how unnecessary we believe them to
be.”

Not more confessions. He was a warrior, not a priest, and he
was still struggling with the revelation of how much Aila had suffered in the
past. And far from extending forgiveness to her rapists, he raged at the
knowledge he could never exact retribution on her behalf.

Olafsson had seen to that. And for that, Connor owed him a
debt no Scot should owe a Viking.

“There’s no need.” He wanted to be alone. But he could not
tell his mother that. Within weeks, he would leave for Duncadha and his mother,
despite her status and right to live there, would remain in Dunbrae. Because he
had promised Aila she would be the only mistress of his hill fort.

“You care for this princess, don’t you?”

“What?” He stared at her in disbelief. This conversation was
becoming more torturous by the second. “I don’t…”
Want to discuss it.

“Connor.” His mother’s voice was gentle. “It’s all right to
love again. And when I see the way you look at the princess, it gives me hope
that, at last, you’ve opened your heart to another.”

Heat seared through him. Was he as transparent as that? He
thought he’d managed to hide his love. But this was his mother. Not Aila. And
his mother, unlike Aila, would never throw his confession back in his face.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel.” He gave a bitter smile. “She
was forced into this marriage.”

She gave him an odd look, as if that fact was scarcely
relevant. And of course it wasn’t. Most marriages were arranged to strengthen
alliances but he wasn’t talking about most marriages. He was talking about his
marriage to Aila.

“Did she care for Fergus?”

Did she? Once he’d thought so. But after Fergus’ death he’d
gotten the strongest suspicion Aila had loathed his half brother. “I don’t
know.”

“I know you’re planning to return to Duncadha shortly.” His
mother drew in a deep breath and Connor braced himself. Hell, did she think to
accompany them? “But I believe it may be wise to remain here for the summer.
And the winter.”

She wanted him to remain for almost another year.

“I can’t do that to Aila. MacAlpin looks on her as nothing
but a hostage but she’s a princess. She deserves to administer her own…”—
palace
—“hill
fort at least.”

“I understand.” His mother stroked the length of plaid that hung
over his shoulder, an oddly nervous gesture. “But I am thinking of the
princess’s health, Connor. And if you don’t wish to remain here, then allow me
to return with you to Duncadha.”

Her words thundered through his brain. “Her health?” What
did his mother know that he did not? “Has she spoken to you?” But he knew Aila
would have done no such thing. She did not confide easily.

“No.” Finally his mother stopped fiddling with his plaid and
looked up at him. Sorrow wreathed her face. “Connor, I may be wrong and the
princess has been very circumspect. And yet I suspect she is with child.”

With child. The words thudded in his head. Knocked the air
from his lungs. He stood on the hilltop with his mother by his side, but all he
could see was Aila wincing when he touched her breasts. How she had stopped
eating.

How she had been gut-wrenchingly sick after leaving his
chambers earlier.