Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (29 page)

Uuen’s smile was sad. “Don’t be sorry, my lady. God helped
you through these last difficult years. He’ll be there for you when you need
Him again.”

He didn’t understand.

“I survived these last few years, Uuen. I only started
living again when Connor MacKenzie arrived in Ce. When I allowed Bride to enter
my heart and show me that it wasn’t wrong to love again.”

“My lady, it was never wrong for you to love again.” He
sighed. “For years I prayed that one day your burden of guilt would lift. It
was never yours to bear.”

Aila stared at him in shock. Uuen had wanted her to find
love? Her grandmother had wanted her to find love also. Had she been wrong, all
these years, when she’d been convinced everyone expected her to remain faithful
in mind and deed to her dead, heroic husband?

“Oh. I…thank you.” She glanced at the floor, wondering how
she could possibly tell Uuen what must be said. “But you must see, Uuen. Now
I’ve returned to Bride, I can no longer believe in your God.”

“Ah,” he said. “That doesn’t matter, my lady. God always
believes in you.”

As Bride had always believed in her.

As she left the monastery, intending to return to the palace
and discover where, exactly, Connor was, she paused by a standing stone. It was
the same one she’d stumbled against when Bride had sent her the vision of
bloodshed and death.

Birdsong drifted on the breeze. It was hard to imagine so
much had changed in so short a time when all around her the mountains and
valleys remained as they had for years without number.

Slowly she reached out her hand and flattened her palm
against the ancient carvings.
Show me what I must do, Bride.
She held
her breath, tensed her muscles, but her goddess sent no message.

She frowned, trailed her fingers over the sacred symbols.
Why wouldn’t Bride show her the future? Why wouldn’t she give her a sign, warn
her of what was to come?

A shiver scuttled over her arms and her fingers stilled
against the stone.
Warnings
.
As if a torch had been lit inside
her brain, illumination flooded through her.

The massacre she had foreseen had not been a useless, empty
vision. Its purpose had not been for her to rage against what could not be
altered.

It had been a warning. And instinctively she had utilized
that warning by ensuring her mother and sister did not travel to Dal Riada. How
much worse would this be, if Finella had seen their father’s murder? If Finella
and their queen had also been taken hostage?

Her breath rushed from her lungs and she pressed her
forehead against the stone. The world was changing. As the new God’s religion
spread, the old gods fought for survival. Acolytes born with the gift dwindled
with each passing generation. When there was no one left alive to remember the
gods of antiquity, would they die?

“Aila.”

She turned, still leaning against the stone, and saw her
mother and grandmother approaching, surrounded by their ladies and guards. She
pushed herself upright, finally understanding the power and fragility of her
gift. The legacy of her forebears and, she now hoped, one she might pass on to
her descendants.

For a moment the three of them looked at each other in
silence. Then her mother took her hand.

“Connor MacKenzie left for Fidach at dawn.”

“What?” She snatched her hand back, glared at her mother.
“Why didn’t you allow him to stay?
Fidach
?
” Why would Connor
travel north into Fidach? It made no sense.

“I left him in no doubt he was welcome to our hospitality.
But he declined the offer of sharing your chamber and insisted he and his men
would depart at first light.” Her mother glanced at the dowager queen before
adding, “He asked me to ensure you were made aware of his deepest regard.”

His regard? She didn’t want his regard.

“Aila,” her grandmother said. “He will return to you.”

“Yes,” her mother said. “He did say he would return to Ce
before continuing back to Dal Riada.”

Was this the real reason for Connor’s journey? Was he,
unknown to her, on a mission for MacAlpin in Fidach and he’d decided to bring
her along so she might see her kin?

It made sense. Yet she didn’t believe it.

“Very well.” She began to march back toward the palace, her
mother and grandmother hurrying to keep up. “But he needn’t think I’m going to
be waiting here patiently until he deigns to return. I shall meet with him in
Fidach.”

“You will do no such thing.” Her mother sounded scandalized.
“You will remain here where you’re safe.”

“I shall be safe enough in Fi-eviot.” The palace of
Fi-eviot, royal stronghold of Fidach and childhood home of Onuist. If Connor
was traveling to Fidach, where else would he go but to the king?

* * * * *

It was the following midmorning before Aila and her small
contingent of warriors arrived at the palace of Fi-eviot. Her mother hadn’t
stood a chance of keeping her in Ce-eviot, especially when her grandmother had tacitly
taken her side.

There was, she was starting to realize, much power in her
adult status as a Chosen One of Bride.

Onuist’s kin greeted her with great warmth. Yet she saw no
Scot warriors. But surely Connor had intended to come here? Where else would he
go? The Pictish nobles she’d stayed with last night knew nothing of the Scots’
journey, but that hadn’t concerned her. After all, Connor was not hindered by a
weak stomach or the need to travel at a sedate pace. He had likely reached his
destination before night fell and had no need to detour to any hill fort
enroute.

Finally she was alone with Onuist’s eldest sister and her
husband, the King of Fidach. Due to a hunting injury, he’d been unable to
travel to Dal Riada and as such was the only Pictish king not held hostage or
murdered in Dunadd.

“You have heard of my marriage to Connor MacKenzie.” It was
not a question. News traveled fast in the Highlands. “I had reason to believe
he was traveling this way.” She tried not to let her panic show. Because if Connor
hadn’t come this way, where else could she look? She would have to return to Ce
and await him there. And somehow, that outcome scraped along her nerves.

“He did.” The king’s tone was harsh and panic of another
sort entirely flooded through her. “Bastard had the audacity to pay us his
respects.” The king narrowed his gaze. “Forgive me. He is your husband. But
under duress, I know.”

Aila looked at Onuist’s sister then back at the king. These
people had once been her kin through marriage and would forever hold a place in
her heart. But she would allow no one to scorn Connor.

“He is my husband. But not under duress. And yes, he is a
Scot but know this. I will defend his honor with my last breath.”

Silence reverberated around the chamber. Eventually Onuist’s
sister spoke.

“I hope he deserves your loyalty, Aila. But we fear his king
plans to betray us yet further. Why else would MacKenzie plan on meeting with
the Vikings in the north of our kingdom?”

“The Vikings?” That couldn’t be true. They were mistaken. Why
would Connor enter Viking territory? She would not believe he planned on
betraying this alliance. However much she despised MacAlpin, she knew he wanted
this alliance between Pict and Scot to flourish.

“However,” there was grim amusement in the king’s voice,
“we’ve negotiated a tenuous truce with the jarl over the last few years.
Olafsson sent word scarcely an hour ago that he would hold the Scots hostage if
that is our desire.”

She was not ignorant of politics. She’d known Thorstein
Olafsson was now jarl of the lands the Vikings had annexed from Fidach nine
years ago. She knew of the truce. Knew also how easily it could be broken,
should the Viking kings decide they wanted more of Pictland for their own.

“Have you replied?” Despite her best intentions, terror
threaded through every word. She didn’t believe Connor was here on his king’s
orders. She was the reason he had traveled north and while she couldn’t fathom
why he had continued into Olafsson’s territory, if he was taken hostage why
would MacAlpin have any inclination to preserve Connor’s life?

“Not yet.” The king regarded her then looked at his wife.

“We thought you might be able to enlighten us as to his
mission,” the queen said. “But as you cannot, all we can rely upon is your word
that MacKenzie can be trusted.”

“And there is something else.” The king sounded reluctant.
“Even if we tell Olafsson we don’t require the Scots to be taken there’s always
the possibility the Vikings will hold them regardless. You know what they’re
like.”

Yes, she knew what they were like. They could come upon a
battle that had nothing to do with them and join the losing side. Simply to
vanquish the presumed victors for no other reason than they could.

She blanked the image of his dripping broadsword from her
mind and tried, with less success, to push aside the panic that clawed her. She
focused on what she had to say. “Olafsson is an honorable man, for all that
he’s a Viking. If you asked for the Scots’ release, surely he would honor your
request?”

“I imagine,” the queen said with a hint of frost, “that
would depend not only on his mood at the time but how persuasive the request
was. And I fear, Aila, that should Olafsson not be in a particularly
accommodating frame of mind, we may not possess adequate methods of persuasion.”

Do what you know in your heart is right.

Horror gripped her as her grandmother’s words, the message
from Bride, echoed in her mind.

She couldn’t face going back there. Not to the place where
Onuist had died. Where she had lost the innocence of her youth in that
blood-soaked hell.

There had to be another solution. But there was no other
solution. No one else in Fidach cared if Connor lived or died. They were only
concerned for the welfare of the Pictish hostages MacAlpin held. That was the
reason Connor could travel with relative safety throughout Pictland. But if
Connor was here without his king’s knowledge then would the Scot upstart be
mindful of Connor’s safety? And if not, why should the King of Fidach negotiate
for the release of Viking-held hostages?

MacAlpin was single-minded in his determination to exert the
full extent of his power. She had no doubt he would sacrifice Connor if it
suited him, as a warning to others not to go against his will.

She had lost too much. She would not lose Connor as well.
She would follow him into hell if it could help secure his release, because
what would her life be but hell without him? Before the fear could fully claim
her and render her immobile, she stood. “I will personally ask Olafsson for the
Scots’ release.”

“Absolutely not,” the king said. He spoke as though she was
still fifteen years old, when she had been a young bride and in awe of her
husband’s brother-through-marriage.

But she was no longer a girl who could be dictated to. She
was Connor MacKenzie’s wife, she nurtured his child in her womb and she was a
priestess of Bride.

A strange calm washed through her as she accepted her
destiny. And it was only that destiny that would sway the king’s mind.

“My lord,” she said, “the goddess is with me.”

Neither king nor queen moved, but there was a subtle shift
in the balance of power in the chamber. They both knew of her gift. Both also
knew how she had repudiated it nine years ago. But as they looked at her, she
saw the dawning realization on their faces. That she spoke the truth.

Even a king could not easily dismiss a direct imperative
from a goddess.

The face of Connor MacKenzie was scorched into Thorstein
Olafsson’s mind. How could it not be, when the Scot had claimed the broadsword
of his ancestors in that bloody battle four years ago?

And now the Scot was here, in Thorstein’s territory,
requesting an audience. The temptation to hold him hostage, in return for his
sword, was great. But irrelevant. MacKenzie had won the sword that day and for
that, and his prowess in battle, he had Thorstein’s respect.

It hadn’t stopped him sending a message to the Fidach king
though. He knew of an alliance between Pict and Scot, but it would be
interesting to discover how loyal Fidach was to MacAlpin’s men when they were
so far from Dal Riada.

Standing outside his longhouse, he fingered the hilt of his
personal broadsword. It was of top quality, as befit his status, and had
decapitated more than one man who had dared challenge his right to rule the clan.
But it wasn’t the sword of his forefathers. And the loss was a constant thorn
in his heart.

He narrowed his eyes as he surveyed his considerable estate.
Some distance to the southeast the Scots were camped, awaiting his response.
And while he’d very much like to make them wait a lot longer, his own curiosity
as to what had brought MacKenzie into his domain refused to be ignored.

“Hakon.” He jerked his head at the warrior who was like a
brother to him. “Have MacKenzie sent to me in the hall.”

Thorstein sat on the only chair in the hall as the Scot,
flanked by Norse, entered. Curious eyes followed their passage along the length
of the building. It appeared the entire populace of his estate had found a
reason to be inside at this particular moment.

MacKenzie, devoid of weapons, extended formal greetings in
stilted Norse. Thorstein returned them with equal respect in somewhat more
fluent Gaelic.

And then he got straight to the heart of the matter. “What
message do you bring from your king, MacKenzie?”

“None,” MacKenzie said, reverting to his own language. “I’m
here on my own mission. And therefore of no use as a hostage to my king’s
favor.”

Thorstein kept his face impassive while his brain analyzed
that intriguing information. If one of his own warriors went into Dunadd
without direct orders, Thorstein might consider it treason.

“For what purpose do you enter my territories?” He spoke in
Gaelic. It offered a degree of privacy since only a few of those present
understood the language.

“A matter of honor.” MacKenzie hesitated, clearly irked by
the crowded hall. Thorstein waited. The Scot would not dictate the conditions
under which they conversed. “Regarding an incident that occurred here nine
years ago. Involving the eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce.”

He held the Scot’s unwavering gaze as he plunged back nine
years in time. To his first raid, when he’d been a raw boy of fifteen. It
should have been straightforward, a claiming of windswept land without undue
bloodshed.

The scarce inhabitants had not put up much resistance. But a
royal presence had proved an unexpected obstacle, although eventually defeated.

MacKenzie did not refer to the raid. Nor the slaughter of
the royal guard. He referred to the young girl Thorstein had stumbled across,
being violently raped by two of his own countrymen.

She’d reminded him of his younger sister. Rage and disgust
had turned his stomach. This wasn’t a raid for plunder and enslaving. They
wanted this land to settle and farm.

That was the day he had, unknown to most present, first earned
the nickname he was now known by.

Thorstein the Beheader.

He stood. Gestured. His people, with clear reluctance, began
to leave the hall until only Hakon and a few of his most trusted warriors
remained.

He turned to Connor MacKenzie and using the knowledge
gleaned from his spies made an educated guess. “The princess of Ce is your
wife?”

“Aye.” MacKenzie’s voice was uncompromising. “For what
happened that day I owe you a debt of honor.”

By Thor. This wasn’t merely a marriage to unite Pict and
Scot against the Norse. MacKenzie loved his princess.

Loved her enough to defy his king and enter enemy lands.

“Have no doubt,” he said, “that one day I shall claim that
debt.”

“I have a proposition,” the Scot said, as if they were on
equal footing and he was not in a precarious position both politically and
geographically. He would, Thorstein conceded, make a worthy Norseman. “And a
request.”

“Name them. I make no promises.”

“I possess something I’m willing to return to its rightful
owner.” MacKenzie’s gaze did not waver. “As full discharge for my debt. And in
exchange for something of equal value in your possession.”

MacKenzie was offering to return his broadsword. The chances
were high he had brought it north with him. He could order his warriors to
ransack the Scots’ camp until it was found. And risk great bloodshed on both
sides.

Or he could negotiate.

“I’m listening.”

“Nine years ago, you took something of great personal value
from the princess. In exchange for your broadsword, I request the return of the
Columba casket.”

Silence thundered in the charged air. He’d taken that casket
as a trophy, recognizing its great antiquity. And while he could have exchanged
it for untold treasures, he’d held on to it. It intrigued him. It was
exquisitely crafted yet something was missing. And while he knew the chances of
ever reuniting the two pieces of the casket was remote, he had refused to sell.

But compared to the return of the sword of his ancestors its
value was of no consequence.

“You took a great risk, Connor MacKenzie, entering my lands
with such a proposition. There’s nothing to stop me running you through and
claiming what is mine by force.”

MacKenzie didn’t move a muscle. “Only your honor, Thorstein
Olafsson. Even enemies on the battlefield can recognize such in their
opponent.”

Thorstein took a step toward his enemy. A man who, under
other circumstances, he would welcome as a friend.

“I will exchange the casket in return for my sword. All
debts are repaid.” He’d even let the Scots leave. Too bad if the King of Fidach
wanted them kept as hostage. The Princess of Ce was MacKenzie’s wife and he,
Thorstein Olafsson, would not be responsible for keeping the man who loved her
from her side.

Before MacKenzie could adequately express his gratitude, the
great door opened and a warrior strode up the hall toward him. Thorstein
glared. He didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

“My lord,” the warrior said. “Forgive me.” He stood some
distance from MacKenzie and clearly wanted Thorstein to go to him so he could
speak with a degree of privacy.

“This,” Thorstein said so only the warrior could hear, “had
better be good.”

“It is.” The warrior glanced at MacKenzie. “The eldest
princess of Ce has just arrived and requests audience with you.”

Odin’s balls. This day was turning into an entertaining
saga.

“Have her taken to my private domain.” He glanced at the
Scot and pitched his voice low. “Keep MacKenzie in here for now. I don’t want
him knowing his princess has arrived.”

Accompanied by one disarmed warrior from Ce, Aila followed one
of the Vikings who had accosted her party before they had reached the Scots’
camp. He showed her into a small room at the rear of the long building and
informed her, with surprising civility, that the jarl would be with her
shortly.

She tried to ignore the flutter of nerves in the pit of her
stomach. Since leaving Fidach yesterday afternoon she had existed in a cocoon
of calm but now, when she needed it most, it was starting to crack.

The door swung open and in strode an enormous blond Viking.
For a second, terror paralyzed her as that long-ago day flooded back. But this
was not the boy who had loomed over her with fury etched on his young face.

This was a full-grown man, a seasoned warrior with whom
Connor had fought, and although both facts should serve to increase her fear,
oddly they managed to calm her.

“Princess, I welcome you.” He gave a formal bow.

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. She was Aila, the
eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce, and Bride was with her. Even if her head
screamed she was insane to cross into Viking territory her heart knew she was
right.

“You know why I am here.”

“Enlighten me.”

Was it her imagination or did he sound amused? What chance
did she stand of securing Connor’s freedom if Olafsson found her amusing?

“You sent word to the King of Fidach that you would take the
Scots hostage if it so pleased. I am here with the king’s response.”

Olafsson didn’t answer but neither did he break eye contact.

“The king,” she said, allowing no hint of her rising
trepidation to color her voice, “requests the Scots be allowed to leave
unhindered.”

“I’m not interested in what the King of Fidach wants,”
Olafsson said and Aila’s heart thudded painfully. He was going to keep Connor
hostage. “What do you want, Princess, for the warrior known as Connor
MacKenzie?”

He had heard of their marriage. Of course he had. Spies were
everywhere.

Should she pretend indifference? It was impossible to know
what was behind the Viking’s question. Yet she wasn’t indifferent. And there
was no guarantee that by pretending she was would be of any help to Connor’s
situation.

There was nothing she could say but the truth.

“I want his freedom.”

There was a silence as Olafsson stared at her. He was a
Viking, her enemy, and yet she did not find his scrutiny abhorrent.

Because he had once served justice on her behalf.

“Tell me,” he said. “What is MacKenzie’s freedom worth to
you?”

Everything.

“I will give you my bride price.” Everything she had taken
into Dal Riada had returned with her to Ce-eviot. It might diminish her status
in Connor’s eyes, but what did that matter to her if it guaranteed his freedom?

Olafsson’s eyes glinted in obvious interest and for a moment
she thought she had won. And then a regretful smile quirked his lips.

“I have no interest in your bride price. I asked you what
your husband’s freedom is worth to you. What would you be willing to
sacrifice?”

She was aware of the Ce warrior tensing by her side, clearly
offended by the Viking’s words. But there was no lustful overtone in Olafsson’s
question. And yet she knew that, for some reason, Connor’s future hung on her
answer.

She would forever love Onuist. He was a part of her
childhood, her girlhood; her first love. He would live on, in a tender corner
of her heart, but she would not sacrifice Connor MacKenzie, the man she loved
as she had loved no other, for the sake of misplaced guilt and old regrets.

“Nine years ago,” she pushed the words past the obstruction
in her throat, hoped the Viking couldn’t see the way her fingers clutched at
the folds of her gown, “you took a relic of Saint Columba. A casket.” Goddess,
please let him remember. Please let him not have sold or discarded it during
the intervening years. “In exchange for the freedom of my husband and his men,
I will give you the cross that completes the artifact.”

With shaking fingers, she pulled the chain over her head and
laid the cross on her palm to show him.

Olafsson appeared dumbstruck. A thread of panic inched
through her. He had to accept. She had nothing else of worth to offer.

“Individually they are of great value. But together they are
beyond price.”

She shouldn’t have said that. He was a Viking, he needed to
know the price of everything. What use to him was something that could not be
valued?

For a moment she didn’t think he was going to accept. Then
he reached out and took the cross from her. Finally he looked up at her and
there was an odd expression on his face. As if, at last, he was seeing her not
as the girl he had once rescued but as the woman she had so recently become.

“I accept your exchange.” His fingers curled around his
prize. To her confusion amusement now glinted in his eyes. “Although I would
equally have accepted had you simply told me you would sacrifice anything for
the man you loved.”

He would? Yet no regret speared through her at the knowledge
she had given up her beloved cross. Olafsson turned to the warrior who had
followed him into the room.

“Hakon, bring MacKenzie in.”