Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  How had he and Ewan gotten onto the subject of matrimony? It was one thing to talk about feminine conquests. Quite another to speak of something as serious as wedlock.

  “The thought of remarriage has never crossed my mind.” He focused on some indeterminate point in the distance. “Maeve and I are no longer together.”

  Ewan made a gruff noise in the back of his throat and for a few seconds there was a strained silence. Finally Ewan glanced in his direction once again.

  “In that case, it’s my duty as your friend and blood brother to ensure that tonight you are well and truly fucked.” There was no trace of the fierce awkwardness of a moment ago.

  “I don’t need your assistance for that.” Although he could likely do with some of Ewan’s easy charm when it came to seduction, since his own technique was sadly lacking.

  Ewan snorted with derisive laughter. “As last night testifies. You’ll be doing me a favor. The ladies I entertained would, I believe, be more than eager to join a small party tonight. What do you say? Are you up for it?”

  He imagined the two nubile young women Ewan had been with the previous day. Imagined their lithe, naked bodies sliding against his, warm and willing and uninhibited. His cock thickened, breath constricted. Why the hell not? He wasn’t beholden to any woman and it had been seven years since he’d enjoyed such multiple bed sport.

  “I’ll think about it.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the stone monastery. And as swiftly as that, the frolicking females in his mind transformed into Aila, her mesmeric eyes condemning his fantasies even as her naked body wrapped around him.

  “Good.” Ewan slung his arm around his shoulder. “We can imagine, for one night, we’re both nineteen and carefree once more.”

  A futile dream. He pulled from Ewan’s embrace, gripped his biceps. “I’ll meet with you later. There’s something I need to do.” He strode toward the monastery, even though common sense warned him to retreat, to remain with Ewan, to make unbreakable plans with the noblewomen for that night.

  “What the fuck?” Ewan sounded astonished. “You’re going to the monastery? Do you pray for forgiveness for your sins before you even commit them now?”

  Heart thudding, Connor opened the arched timber door. The stone interior was cool, dim and tranquil and the inexorable passage of the ages clung to the ancient walls and permeated the faintly incense-scented air.

  It was like stepping into any one of the centers of learning in Dal Riada. And yet, somehow, entirely different.

  Slowly he advanced toward the chancel, where the altar stood. He wondered what heathen sacrifices the Picts used it for before thrusting the images from his mind. It was hard to reconcile the stories he’d learned of the Picts with the reality facing him. Until yesterday he’d thought them a savage race without any finer accomplishments, thirsting only for war.

  Movement in the doorway ahead caught his eye and he paused as a man entered from the room beyond. Only the large cross hanging from a chain around his neck gave Connor a clue that he was a monk. There was nothing in the brightly colored tunic that fell to his ankles nor his deep-red hair that flowed well below his shoulders to indicate he was a man dedicated to God.

  “Good morning, my son.” As had everyone he’d met in Ce, the man spoke his language perfectly. Connor dipped his head in respect. “Your eagerness does you credit.”

  Connor jerked upward. He had entered this sacred place with only one thought in his head. To see if Aila was here. And that wasn’t the kind of eagerness a monk—even a Pictish monk—would appreciate.

  Or even understand.

  “Who is it, Uuen?” Summoned from the fevered pit of his imagination, Aila’s voice floated from behind the monk. Uuen strolled into the chancel and Connor received the distinct impression that avid curiosity gleamed in the monk’s eyes.

  He didn’t care what glowed in the monk’s eyes. Because Aila now appeared in the doorway, her cloak slipped to her waist and draped across her forearms, displaying a captivating hint of cleavage above the exquisitely embroidered bodice of her sky-blue gown. And his previous night’s fantasy thundered through his mind in glorious, graphic detail.

  Aila stared at Connor and tried to ignore the way her heart galloped. What was he doing here? At this hour? Hadn’t he found more earthly pursuits to enjoy after she’d left him last night? And if so, why wasn’t he still enjoying them?

  “Lady Aila.” He offered her a formal bow, as foreign and exotic as the way he wore his plaid. He sounded entirely unmoved by her appearance and yet despite his indifference his voice curled around her, deep and dark and dangerous.

  “Ah. Lady Aila.” Uuen’s whisper vibrated with a hint of intrigue. Aila hoped he wouldn’t reprimand Connor on his incorrect use of title. She didn’t feel up to explaining why she’d deliberately misled him yesterday. Considering the outcome, her reasons now seemed excruciatingly pathetic.

  “Connor MacKenzie.” Thankfully her voice sounded as uninterested as his. She hoped. “Are you here to pray for your sins?”

  His lips twitched, as if he found her comment amusing. Not that she had intended it to be.

  Perhaps she had.

  “I wouldn’t burden your monks with the list of my transgressions.”

  “Oh.” Uuen stirred against the altar. “It would be a pleasure to hear your confession, Connor MacKenzie. I hear the Scots are veritable propagators of sin.”

  Illicit tremors of desire curled through her core. Connor was built for sin. She had half expected her shameless imagination to use his face for her dream-lover last night, but if she had dreamed at all, she remembered nothing.

  “A weighty charge.” Connor didn’t appear in the least offended by Uuen’s remark. “I trust a longer acquaintance will prove you wrong.”

  Uuen leaned over the altar, clearly prepared for a lengthy conversation. And of course he was. He loved meeting new people, baiting them, testing their limits. Sometimes she wondered why he’d entered the church when he could have indulged his passion for gossip and by becoming a traveling bard.

  “What can we assist you with, Connor?” Aila injected a polite note in her voice and hoped her expression was merely neutral and not covetous. She studiously avoided glancing at Uuen. He could be annoyingly perceptive at the most awkward of moments.

  Connor returned his attention to her. Damn him for invading this private sanctuary. Now, when he left, she would even be reminded of his presence during the hours she devoted to her work.

  She ignored the probability that she would have thought of him regardless.

  Perhaps something of her feelings did show on her face, after all. His half-smile faded and his eyes clouded. She told herself she hadn’t noticed. That it was a trick of the light. Her fingers clenched in the folds of her cloak. The cloak that was stifling her even though it had slipped to the small of her back and scarcely covered her.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  How could he do anything but intrude? He was a stranger, a foreigner and his very nationality ensured he could not be trusted. And yet even now, deep in a long-buried corner of her being, her lonely heart cried out to trust him.

  It made no sense.

  “Of course you’re not intruding, Connor MacKenzie.” Uuen sounded as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. “If you have no wish to avail my services and unburden your sinful conscience, then perhaps Lady Aila will condescend to give you a tour of our humble establishment?” His emphasis on her personal name was slight but meaningful as he shot her a sideways glance. She hoped Conner had noticed neither.

  Aila glared at the monk, who was now smiling at Connor in a bland and unassuming manner. How false. Uuen was many things, but bland and unassuming were not among them.

  “I’d like that.” Connor sounded sincere but he probably didn’t want to offend Uuen by refusing. She couldn’t imagine why looking round an old monastery should interest him in the slightest.

  It isn’t the monastery that interests
him.

  She lingered on the seductive thought before discarding it in disgust. She had no intention of showing him around. Last night’s enforced intimacy had been bad enough and she had no desire to repeat it.

  Fully resolved, she looked back at Connor. And the words turned to ashes on her tongue.

  Everything about him, from his black hair down to his plain leather boots, enticed her. It wasn’t a comfortable realization but that didn’t make it any less true. And the truth was—she wanted to spend time with him, no matter how agitating she found him.

  He would be gone from Ce soon enough. And then she would never have to endure his intoxicating presence again.

  With a long-suffering sigh designed for both men to hear, she turned on her heel. “Very well.” Absently she brushed her fingers across Drun’s head as she reentered the hall of learning. Their monastery, although not large, was renowned in Pictland for its incomparable library.

  She heard his sharp intake of breath as he followed her, and turned to see him staring, spellbound, at the stone-and-timber shelves full of books.

  “Did you think us illiterate savages, Connor?”

  “No, of course not.” He dragged his gaze from the library to focus on her and she saw the truth in his eyes.

  “No matter.” She struggled to keep the smile from her lips because what was there to smile about? And yet she couldn’t quite succeed. “I was taught Scots were illiterate savages but I’m willing to accept you can read as well as I.”

  “I believe,” he said, “there’s a great deal we can learn from each other, Aila.”

  Her mouth dried at the bone-melting smile he directed her way. Before her marriage—ah, why did she lie? Even after her marriage she had adored flirting. Adored the doublespeak, the look in a man’s eyes when he admired a woman. But she hadn’t indulged in such pastimes for years. Hadn’t wanted to.

  Until yesterday by the stream when she had made a humiliating error in judgment. And she was on the verge of making another now.

  Connor meant exactly what he said. There was no secret code to decipher. Any other, more personal, impression she gained from his words existed entirely in her own ripe imagination.

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Break eye contact. Yet she couldn’t. But if she didn’t, he would see she meant more, wanted more, than he offered.

  She wrenched her gaze from his and focused on the rows of antiquated books. Without success, she tried to smother the thoughts that now seethed in the dark recesses of her mind. Yesterday all she had wanted was a dangerous flirtation. But now she couldn’t hide the truth from herself. She wanted an illicit liaison.

  “We have a glorious history.” Her voice was breathless as erotic images, far more potent than her heathen dreams, flooded her mind. She would surely go to hell. “Our records go back centuries.”

  She was aware he moved to her side. Far too close for propriety or comfort. Despite her good resolve, she shot him a glance and saw the look of awe on his face as he stared at the repository of the entire heritage of her people.

  “We have nothing to equal this in Dal Riada.” His voice was hushed. It was clear that, far from dismissing the learning of ages as some warriors did, he understood the magnificence of what she showed him.

  “Perhaps when you’ve lived in the Highlands for more than a thousand years your people too will have something worth preserving.”

  He caught her eye. Amusement glinted. “Is that a veiled insult, my lady?”

  She hadn’t intended it as such but now saw how it could have been received. And yet Connor had chosen not to take offense.

  A silent sigh quivered through her heart. He was pleasant to talk with. He made it so easy to forget this was simply his natural charm and had nothing to do with him finding her desirable.

  How tragic she still harbored the wish that he found her desirable.

  “No. Only the truth. My people have been a part of this land forever.”

  For a moment there was silence, but it wasn’t strained. He appeared to genuinely contemplate her words.

  “Isn’t this land able to embrace the cultures of two different peoples, Aila?”

  She would not look at him even though he turned toward her. Even though every fiber of her being screamed at her to look his way.

  She looked at him. How could she not? His stormy-gray eyes captivated her, as if they pierced her fragile facade of nonchalance and saw into the heart of her soul.

  “I believe this land could embrace anything. But can a Scot embrace a Pict?”

  His eyes darkened, as though her words held hidden meaning. But they didn’t. She meant them politically, not personally.

  Except that was a lie. Even as the words formed on her tongue they had taken on an entirely intimate implication. And still she had voiced them.

  “Perhaps,” his voice had a husky timbre. “That’s the only way two peoples can ever live in peace together.”

  It was hard to draw breath into her lungs. Her heart skittered, pulse raced and liquid heat swirled between her thighs. Every word, every glance indicated this conversation seethed with heated undercurrents. But suppose she was wrong? Suppose it all existed in the confines of her mind?

  “I would do a great deal to ensure peace in this land.” She caught a seductive trace of Connor’s exotic, masculine scent and for a moment coherent words fled. “And anything within my power to vanquish the Vikings’ insidious advance.”

  “The Vikings,” he said. God help her. He spoke of her deadliest enemies and yet his words were a smoky caress along her jagged nerves. “I too would do anything to vanquish them from our land.”

  He was no longer smiling. His face was tense, watchful, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Would you?” It was a husky whisper and she scarcely knew what she asked. Only knew she never wanted this moment to end, when Connor looked at her as if she was the only woman in the world.

  “Aye.” His gaze flicked over her face, hesitated on her parted lips. “They killed my father in the battle of ’39.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her fingers tightened on the folds of her cloak to prevent her from reaching out and offering comfort. “We also suffered heavy losses in ’39.”

  Heavy losses? They’d suffered a brutalizing defeat four years ago. As had the Scots.

  Connor’s gaze meshed with hers. Lightning coursed through her, prickling across her skin and coiling around her aching nipples. “It would appear to me there’s only one enemy in Pictland. And they aren’t standing in this room.”

  Connor stared into Aila’s wide eyes and battled the overwhelming urge to fling caution to the wind and drag her into his arms. What if she were a widow? What if by desiring her he was going against every conviction he’d lived by for the last few years?

  What if they were in the house of God?

  The last thought slithered like a serpent across his mind. He’d forgotten where they were. But whenever he was with Aila he forgot where he damn well was.

  “Pict and Scot.” Her words were low, breathless. Was she as affected by their closeness as he? “Allies?” There was a questioning wonderment in her tone, as if such a thing had never seriously occurred to her before.

  And why should it? Until six days ago, such a thing had never occurred to him either.

  “It has merit.” Her head was bare again and as the sun streamed in through the surprisingly large arched windows, the light bathed her in a golden glow. He ached to take her. And not just into his arms.

  “Is that why you’re here? To negotiate terms of lasting peace?”

  While he could think of nothing but seducing Aila, she clearly thought nothing of the kind. With difficulty he shoved his licentious thoughts aside.

  “My king would have my head on a spike if he discovered I broke my oath of discretion.” He offered her his disarming smile, the one that hadn’t affected Elise last night. But last night he hadn’t especially wanted it to.

  Aila’s smile slid from her lips an
d although she didn’t move a muscle, he could feel her retreat with every sense he possessed. Christ. He’d never had that reaction before.

  “I certainly don’t want that on my conscience.” She attempted to smile at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes, didn’t fool him for a second that something had badly shaken her.

  “My lady, are you unwell?” He extended his hand as a gesture of assistance, taking care not to touch her. “You’ve gone—pale.” He could hardly tell her she looked as if she was about to faint.

  She flicked her hand at him, dismissing his concern. “I’m quite well. I’m sorry. It’s nothing.” She turned from him and stared at the astonishing library, offering him an unhindered view of her delicate profile.

  Tension vibrated in the air surrounding them. He could tell she was a hairsbreadth from fleeing. He scoured his mind for the reason why she had suddenly withdrawn from him. Why she looked as if she had just pulled back from the grasping jaws of hell.

  Something flickered. Had he, by his careless words, given her the impression his king was a barbarous heathen?

  “Aila, forgive my depraved humor. I meant only to jest, not offend.”

  Again she gave that dismissive gesture. “I know. It’s just…” she hesitated and bit her lip and a sense of dread uncoiled in his gut.

  “Just what?” Without thinking he gently touched her shoulder, felt the heat of her flesh through the soft fabric, but the sensation registered in only a corner of his mind.

  There was something wrong with Aila, something that he’d caused, and he had to discover what.

  She expelled a sigh that vibrated through her bones and echoed along his fingers. He could feel the effort she made to remain calm. In control.

  “My husband was murdered by Vikings.” Her voice was low but steady. The dread in his gut seeped into his blood as a horrific suspicion formed. “They impaled his head on a spike. It’s—it’s the last image I have of him.”