Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (9 page)

Finally they separated. Her skin tingled from their contact,
as if they had just enjoyed a far more intimate exploration of the flesh than
an innocent, everyday farewell.

There had been nothing innocent about that touch. And as she
watched Connor stride across the room, a ragged cry of caution echoed through
her heart.

If she met Connor by the stream today, she would irrevocably
alter the predestined course of her life.

Connor reined in his mount, crossed his forearms across the
pommel of his saddle and surveyed the valleys below.

“Impressive,” Ewan commented as he pulled up alongside. “And
the hill fort of Ce-eviot still towers above this mountain.”

Connor glanced across the valley toward Ce-eviot. They’d
left the formidable ramparts surrounding the lands of the King of Ce for an
uninhibited gallop across the countryside. Yet still the Pictish palace
dominated the landscape.

No wonder MacAlpin was eager to negotiate. Eager to lay
claim to this wealthy northern province through a strategic political marriage.

He glanced back at the two Ce warriors who’d accompanied
them and remained on guard some distance off. The excuse had been so no other
Ce tribe would attack the lone Scots but Connor wasn’t fooled. The Ce queen
trusted them no further than she could see them. Probably not even that.

“Still no sign of the princess?”

Ewan shrugged. “I begin to doubt her existence. I hope to
God MacAlpin is certain there is an elder one. I don’t want to bear any
responsibility in tethering that bonny little Devorgilla to your brother.”

Connor narrowed his eyes against the sun that glinted on
distant rivers in the valleys. “There’s an elder princess. And MacAlpin wasn’t
exaggerating as to her being a recluse.” Which likely meant the rest of his
description also rang true. Hard to fathom when the younger princess was such a
friendly, mischievous child. “And we can hardly demand to see her when we can’t
explain our purpose here until their king returns.”

Ewan flung him an amused look. “Maybe it’s the queen herself
who keeps the princess locked away. Maybe she’s mad as well as a hag.”

“So long as she’s capable of bearing an heir. That’s all
that’s required of her.”

“I almost feel sorry for your brother.” The grin on Ewan’s
face belied his words. He obviously believed Fergus more than deserved the
unappealing, widowed princess.

“Fergus will do his duty.” Whether he liked it or not.

“I just hope she’s malleable. I don’t relish the notion of
accompanying a fractious female back to Dal Riada.”

Connor shot the glowering Ce horsemen a glance. They were
too far away to overhear the conversation but clearly resented the fact they
were here at all. “I doubt we’ll have much to do with her. Let her entourage
deal with her tantrums.”

Ewan grunted. “Speaking of tantrums. That damn hotheaded
MacNeil started a fight this morning. Can’t get it through his thick skull
we’re trying to ally ourselves with the Picts, not assassinate them one by
one.”

“I’ll talk to him. He can’t jeopardize our mission because
of his personal feelings.” Hell, they all had personal feelings when it came to
the Picts. But sometimes a warrior had to follow orders that went against his
natural inclinations. And Cameron MacNeil had sworn, back in Dal Riada, that his
undying loyalty was Connor’s.

A certainty that went beyond fealty to his king and duty to
his people coalesced deep in Connor’s gut.

They couldn’t afford to fail in this mission.

After the last of her students left the library, Aila took
out her vellum and prepared to continue working on the histories of her people.
It was an endless task, but she enjoyed it because it absorbed her mind and
soothed her soul.

Gave her purpose.

Uuen strolled over and perched on the edge of her desk.
After a few moments when it became clear he wasn’t going to take her continued
silence and refusal to look up at him as blatant signs she didn’t want to talk,
she gave a loud sigh. “Yes, Uuen?”

“My lady.” She could tell by the tone of his voice he was in
the mood for gossip. “Your confession yesterday made no mention of a certain
Scot warrior.”

“That was because I had nothing to confess.” She kept her
eyes on her work. Her thoughts concerning Connor had been far from pure and
most assuredly required absolution. Yet, like her erotic dreams, she had no
intention of confessing such things to Uuen.

He settled more comfortably on the edge of her desk and
finally she glared up at him. He grinned back. “Excellent. That means we can
converse about him in comfort.”

“I have no wish to converse about him.”

“I have rarely,” Uuen said, “seen you so animated in the
presence of a stranger. It fills my heart with joy and felicitation.”

Aila deepened her glare then gave up. It wasn’t worth
remaining angry with Uuen because he simply failed to react. “I’m merely
extending hospitality to our guests.” Just because she never had before, was
quite beside the point.

Uuen raised one eyebrow in clear disbelief. Then he leaned
toward her. “And has our handsome Scot confided what brings his savage band to our
palace?”

“Why would he confide in me if he hasn’t in our queen?”

The monk gave a theatrical sigh, not hiding his
disappointment that she had no gossip to share on that subject. “I believe they
come in peace.”

She was sure they did. “It would be a wonderful thing if
Pict and Scot could become allies. Surely then, together, we could eliminate
the Viking threat?”

Something flared in his eyes, compassion—regret. But she
didn’t want his compassion. And she had lived with regret for too long.

Somehow she knew the coming of the Scots heralded a new
beginning. It wasn’t simply the attraction she felt for Connor—it was more than
that. A bone-deep conviction she didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.

“What do the Scots have that we Picts covet?” Uuen appeared
to consider the matter. “They live on our lands, are subject to our laws. Even
if they break them with every breath they take.”

“Yes.” She knew all that was true. “But they have strength
of numbers. If our warriors united, imagine how formidable we would be.”

“Hm.” A thoughtful expression creased his face. “That would
be worth considering. Of course, it depends what price the Scots demand for
such allegiance.”

There was no doubt in Aila’s mind. “As long as they don’t
crave human sacrifice to pagan gods, any price would be worth paying.”

* * * * *

Aila found her grandmother, Brilicie, dowager queen Eilidh
of Ce, in her favored eastern-facing garden. Grandmamma said if the wind was
right she could smell the sea, and it reminded her of her girlhood in the
neighboring kingdom of Circinn.

“Aila.” Her grandmother smiled in welcome and patted the
stone bench on which she sat. She might have been approaching her sixty-fifth
summer but her back was straight, her eyesight clear and mind as sharp as ever.

Aila sat and her cloak slid unhindered to pool onto the
bench.

“Not cold?” Her grandmother gave her a searching look. The
kind of look she hadn’t given her for years. Not since Aila had embraced the
new religion to the exclusion of their old.

She decided to ignore the look. “It’s uncommonly warm
today.”

“For spring.” She couldn’t tell whether her grandmother’s
remark was expressing agreement or not, but it scarcely mattered. The
temperature had risen quite astonishingly. “Have you had any further
interaction with your mystery Scot, Aila?”

Aila smothered a sigh. It appeared her entire family knew of
her conversation with Connor the previous day. As long as that was all they
knew. She didn’t feel up to explaining the other times they had conversed.

Or touched.

Her fingers curled against her gown and she attempted to
push the memory aside. Her grandmother, unfortunately, possessed pagan gifts
and she didn’t want her innermost secrets exposed.

“Only in passing.” She shot her grandmother a glance and saw
her lips give a twitch of amusement. “And he isn’t my Scot.” Belatedly
realization dawned. Perhaps she should have said that first?

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of her
mother who flounced into the garden accompanied by two of her ladies and her
personal bodyguard.

“Goddess.” Her mamma sounded irritated as she swept her
glance around the courtyard at the half dozen slaves who tended the garden.
“Can I believe my eyes? Are there truly no foul Scots polluting this corner of
my kingdom?”

“Calm yourself, Devorgilla,” her grandmother said. “They’ll
be gone soon enough.”

Aila tried to ignore the odd pain that twisted through her
heart at those words. The Scots would be gone soon. And so would Connor.

“Indeed.” Her mamma glowered at her mother. “And if they had
the manners to convey to me the purpose of this imposition, they could leave
this very day.”

“I fear,” her grandmother said, “their presence is required
for longer than one day. Although not for the purposes they imagine.”

Her mamma frowned, trying to make sense of the words, and
Aila stifled a resigned sigh. When her grandmother spoke in riddles people
assumed she was channeling a god.

“What do you—” Her mamma glanced at Aila and her eyes
widened in apparent astonishment. Then she returned her attention to her mother
and Aila saw a meaningful look pass between them.

“No.” Aila accompanied her denial by standing up for added
emphasis. “I am not returning to the fold as you so quaintly phrase it. I have
no use for your old beliefs so please stop trying to persuade me otherwise.”

The two women stared at her, but it was her mamma who
finally responded.

“I know that, my love. And although it grieves me you chose
to discard your gifts—gifts I would sacrifice a great deal to possess as you
know—I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“What were you thinking of, then?” She knew she was
overreacting but she couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t her kin accept her
decision? Even after all these years, she knew they still harbored the
illogical belief she would one day reopen her heart to Bride.

So many of their people now worshipped the new God without
it affecting their devotion for the ancient ways. But she couldn’t stomach the
thought of allowing Bride back into her life. Before Onuist died, she’d had no
time for the new religion. And now she had no patience for the old.

Her mamma glanced pointedly at the bench. Aila followed her
gaze and stared at her discarded cloak.

“This is the first time since you returned from the veil of
the Otherworld that I’ve seen you outside not wearing your cloak.”

Despite the heat of the day—and it truly was a hot day—a
shiver chased along her arms. Even in the height of summer she would wear a
thick shawl. She flexed her fingers, fingers that were not chilled at their
tips.

“And is this a sin?” Her voice sounded oddly hushed, mocking
her effort not to allow her mamma’s awe to affect her.

“No.” Again her mamma glanced at her mother. “It’s a
miracle.”

* * * * *

In her bedchamber Aila secured her blue silk veil with a
gold circlet embedded with three sapphires. The precious circlet had been a
wedding present from Onuist, procured at great expense from pirates
masquerading, at the time, as merchants. She shook her head but the veil
remained in place.

As it should have remained in place since her wedding day.

What was she thinking, to even consider meeting Connor by
the stream? It felt like an assignation, an illicit rendezvous. But what it
really felt like was a betrayal of Onuist.

Desperately she clawed through her memories, seeking
reassurance in Onuist’s familiar features. But all she could recall with
clarity was his deep-chestnut hair, his infectious laugh and the way they had
run, as children, hand in hand through sun-filled glens.

With every passing year his face became harder to recollect
in detail. And the details she could remember were of the boy he had once been,
not the man he had become.

Guilt flared and indecision snaked through her soul. It
didn’t matter how much she desired Connor, she had no intention of succumbing
to an affair. And instantly fevered visions of her lust-fueled dreams filled
her mind and fired her blood.

Would it really be so wrong?

Silence condemned her. Her fingers curled around the chain
at her throat and she pulled the heavy cross up from where it nestled beneath
her bodice. She stared at it in her mirror and the familiar, distressing
maelstrom of love and loathing tangled her thoughts and constricted her breath.

This cross, another gift from her seventeen-year-old
bridegroom. He had given it to her not because of its religious significance
but because of its remarkable heritage.

And nine years ago it, like she, had been wrenched from its
moorings.

She shoved the thought aside. She wouldn’t think of that
time, not now. Not when she was going to meet Connor. If he showed.

Somehow she knew he would. Just as she knew that if she met
with him today, she risked losing forever the fragile peace of mind it had
taken her so long to attain.

* * * * *

She wasn’t coming. Connor glanced up at the ridge as if he
could make her appear by sheer force of will. But the grassy slope remained
void of an enchanting Pictish lady.

Damn it, did she expect him to wait for her all afternoon?
His irritation only increased when he realized that, most likely, he would wait
here all afternoon. Just in case she changed her mind and condescended to meet
with him.

He kicked a stone into the stream and tried to recall the
last time he had been kept waiting by a woman. And couldn’t. Because Maeve
never had, his mistress before her never had and before then—

Before then he had been married. And his wife, God keep her,
had never had occasion to keep him waiting.

Aila wasn’t going to meet with him. She had never intended
to meet with him. It was the sign he needed to reinforce his certainty that by
continuing to see her he was in serious danger of compromising his convictions.

So what was he still doing here? In fact why had he ventured
this way at all? It wasn’t as though seduction was on either of their minds.