Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  Ewan slammed his tankard onto the timber table, clearly irked by Connor’s lack of interest in his exploits. “Do you ever intend to fuck this elusive Lady Aila or not?”

  Connor’s frown slid into a glower. “Watch your mouth.” Aila wasn’t a woman about whom he would talk in taverns.

  Ewan leaned back against the stone wall and eyed him. “So that’s how it is.”

  Connor drained his mead but it didn’t help the throbbing pain inside his skull. “No.” Thinking of Aila wasn’t like anything he’d experienced before and he was damn sure it was nothing like Ewan had. So how could his friend say that was how it was when neither of them knew what the fuck it was?

  “No?” Ewan sounded caustic. “Then let me enlighten you. First, you refuse to introduce this lady to me. I can only assume it’s because you fear my natural charm will blind her to yours.”

  Connor snorted. Ewan ignored him.

  “Second, you swear me to silence. God, man. I could have discovered her entire history by now. These ladies love nothing more than to gossip about their fellow nobles.”

  “I know her history.” They had spoken of many things over the last few days. She had told him of her younger brother and sister. In turn, he’d shared a few anecdotes about his childhood with Fergus. And while he didn’t know the precise details of her kin he knew her father was away with the king, and her mother was close to the queen. Within the royal circle, had been her exact words.

  “Third,” Ewan said, pushing off from the wall and resting his forearm along the table. “And most interestingly if you ask me, not only have you yet to bed the lady but you refuse to fuck any other in the meantime.”

  Connor glared into his tankard, but it was empty. Unlike his balls. Ewan had presented him with ample opportunity to slake his lust over the last few nights and while all the ladies had been enchanting in their own ways, they hadn’t been Aila.

  Aila was the one he wanted. And the one woman in Ce, it would appear, who had no intention of taking a Scot as her lover.

  “Any other,” he growled, wondering if the tankard connecting to Ewan’s thick skull would manage to shut his friend’s mouth, “would fail to satisfy me.”

  “And there’s your problem.”

  With difficulty Connor unclenched his fingers from the tankard’s handle. Smashing it against Ewan’s head might give him temporary satisfaction but wouldn’t touch the root cause of his current frustration.

  He gave his friend another dark glower. “The problem is I’m a Scot and she’s a Pict.”

  To his intense irritation, Ewan smirked. Perhaps he’d use the tankard after all.

  “Trust me, Connor. There’s no problem at all between a Scot and a Pict in the bedchamber.”

  “That,” Connor said, “is not the problem.”

  The silence hung between them, heavy with meaning. Finally Ewan frowned.

  “Do you want to take her back to Dal Riada as your mistress?” He sounded torn between astonishment and disbelief. “A woman you haven’t even tasted?”

  Hell, aye. But reason blocked his want. A hard, relentless reason wrapped in the fragile figure of Aila herself. “She would never leave Ce.”

  “How do you know? Have you asked her?”

  There was no need to ask. He already knew. “And her status is such that she would never consider becoming any man’s mistress.”

  “Fuck.” Ewan sounded shaken. “Are you saying you wish to wed the lady?”

  Was that what he was saying? Was that what he wanted? Marriage?

  He dragged a hand through his hair, gripped the nape of his neck and leaned back against the wall. Since Fearchara’s death, he’d never seriously considered the thought of taking another wife. A welcoming mistress for whenever he required a woman’s soft touch had been enough.

  But the thought of Aila becoming his mistress didn’t, for an obscure reason he couldn’t fathom, entirely appeal. Yet what did it matter? She would never leave her beloved Highlands.

  And his place was with his king, in Dal Riada.

  He heaved himself upright as Cameron MacNeil headed toward their table. Since talking to the younger man the other day, MacNeil had buried his loathing of the Picts and curbed his tendency to respond to taunts with his fists instead of his wit. But he still gave the impression of tethered fury.

  Today, that fury looked somewhat appeased.

  He pulled out a stool and sat. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Ewan said.

  “The Pictish king returns in the morn.” Satisfaction gleamed in Cam’s eyes. “Then we can leave this heathen place and return to civilization.”

  “There’s still the small matter of negotiations.” Ewan flicked his forefinger against the side of his tankard. “I confess I’ll miss the sweet comfort of these Pictish ladies.”

  Cam made a sound of disgust in his throat. Ewan shot him a glance.

  “Come on, Cam,” Ewan said. “Don’t try telling us none of them have caught your eye. When you’re not scowling, you’re not so very ugly. I’ve seen the way some of the Pictish ladies bat their lashes at you.”

  Connor knew their time in Ce had always been short. But now the end was in sight. And instead of thinking with pleasure of returning to his home, all he could think was he might never see Aila again.

  “I’d rather go blind,” Cameron MacNeil said between gritted teeth, “than fuck a Pictish whore.”

  Connor reared to his feet, pushed Cam from his path and shoved his way through the crowded tavern. He needed air. And to get away from MacNeil before he slammed his fist in his face.

  He didn’t want to leave Aila behind when he returned to Dal Riada. Would she consider leaving Ce for him? He knew how much she loved her homeland. But if he gave her the choice—would she choose to stay?

  Or would she choose to embrace a new life?

  As his wife?

  Connor was waiting for her by the stream, as he had been waiting for her every afternoon. Her heart lurched in her breast, a painful reminder that soon he would no longer be here waiting for her.

  Because soon he would return to Dal Riada. And she, once again, would embrace her solitary existence, despite how the love of her kin encircled her.

  He took her hands, as he always took her hands, but this time he pulled her close. The heat of his body sank into her soul, his masculine scent tantalized her senses. He rested his forehead against hers and his uneven breath drifted across her face.

  Her lips parted to ease her breathing. He had never held her so before. Had he heard of her father’s return? Did he feel, as she did, that this might be the last time they ever met this way?

  Tomorrow she would have to tell him who she truly was. And while it would change nothing between them, in the end that didn’t even matter. Because once Connor’s business with her father was concluded, he would leave Ce-eviot.

  “Each afternoon,” he said, and his words whispered against her lips, “I fear you may not come to me.”

  “I promised I would.” Their lips were so close. Did she dare steal a kiss? “I never break my word, Connor.”

  “I cherish your loyalty, Aila.”

  He had so much more than her loyalty. In the silence of the night, during the quiet moments of the day and whenever she was with him, she faced the truth of her feelings. He filled her heart with joy, her soul with sunshine. She no longer woke each morning with a sense of resignation. Instead she couldn’t wait to arise, couldn’t wait for her students’ lessons to finish. Couldn’t wait until the moment when it was time to meet by the stream.

  She lifted her head and Connor’s lips brushed hers. A fleeting, tantalizing touch. A touch that seared her core with a wild, reckless longing.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first moment I saw you.”

  His ragged whisper scorched her parted lips. She hadn’t been mistaken. “I thought you far from interested that first day. You surely didn’t give any indication of your thoughts.”

  He
moved closer. The breadth of his shoulders blocked out the rest of the world, his white linen shirt sculpted his impressive chest. And the weave of his plaid branded her through the softness of her gown.

  “How could I? You were an aloof Pictish lady and I a mere savage Scot.”

  She leaned into him, soaking up the hard ridges of his chest, the fresh scent of his hair, the faint sweetness of mead on his breath. “So what has changed?”

  “Nothing.” His fingers tightened around hers and his eyes enslaved her. “Yet everything.”

  His words curled through her heart, shimmered in her blood. Nothing. Yet everything. The chance of them having a future together was remote. And yet she had been given this time with him. Moments to savor, to cherish. To remember for the rest of her life.

  She would not hold back through fear of ridicule or the possibility he did not feel as strongly as she.

  “I never imagined,” she whispered, superstitiously afraid her words might be overheard by a vengeful goddess, “I would ever feel this way again, Connor. You’ve shown me the way back into the world I once knew.”

  He swallowed, as if words lodged in his throat. But that was all right. She hadn’t expected him to feel the same. It was enough to know her words affected him sufficiently for such a reaction at all.

  “Aila.” His voice rasped and his grip on her fingers became painful. “God, there’s something I—”

  Drun, lying at their feet, lifted his head and growled softly. Connor hesitated and at the same moment, she became aware of movement on the ridge.

  Instinctively she pulled back and Connor didn’t attempt to restrain her. Turning, she saw another Scot bearing down upon them and stiffened at the cold glance he shot her way.

  “Connor.” After that one look, he behaved as if she wasn’t even there.

  “What is it, Cam?” Connor sounded as though he was struggling not to throttle the other man. Aila wrapped her arm around Drun’s neck. Fighting was second nature among men, especially warriors, and rarely meant anything. But she hoped they would settle whatever differences they had without resorting to fists or swords. Violence tarnished and she didn’t want anything to tarnish this moment.

  “Devorgilla, Queen Brilicie of Ce, commands your presence.” There was unmistakable derision in his tone and Aila bristled in affront. How dare he speak her mother’s name in such a manner?

  Connor looked on the point of declining. Then he exhaled an impatient breath. “I’ll come directly.” But he didn’t move a muscle. Neither did the other Scot. Connor glared. “Thank you for delivering the message, MacNeil.”

  MacNeil jerked his head at Connor and without so much as a glance in Aila’s direction marched back up the ridge.

  “Your queen,” Connor said and there was a trace of the same derision in his tone as the other Scot had used when speaking of her mother, “has excellent timing.”

  “I love my queen.” She traced her fingertips over the corded muscle of his chest, imagined no linen lay between them. Naked. How strange that, since meeting Connor, no fevered dreams had enslaved her nights. He covered her fingers with his, pressing her hand against his heart. She dragged her mind back to the present, but only partly succeeded as she realized how much she missed those heated encounters. Especially when now she could imagine her shadowy lover possessed Connor’s face. “You can’t blame her for not trusting the Scots.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “It’s not your queen I care about.” He hesitated. “I haven’t pressed you before, Aila, but I would like to know. Is it the eldest Princess Devorgilla who prevents you from attending the nighttime feasts?”

  Her heart, already galloping at the way he’d so casually intimated that he cared about her, slammed against her ribs. Now was, perhaps, the perfect time to tell him of her true identity. But the faintest whisper of an idea, an outrageous, scandalous idea, flickered on the edges of her consciousness.

  An idea that depended on her concealing her true heritage for just one more night.

  “Yes.” The word was breathless. And it was the truth. She hoped he wouldn’t press further.

  “I should like to have words with this elusive princess.” He sounded irritated and she had to smother a nervous giggle.

  “I’m sure you’ll be given the opportunity to tell her exactly what you think of her.”

  “I’m sure I will.” He raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. His eyes never left hers. “But I doubt I’ll waste my breath.”

  Illicit excitement surged. She now knew exactly when she was going to tell him her true name, and if all went well he would not possess the breath to speak, let alone condemn her for her mild subterfuge.

  “I believe I may cancel my lessons in the morning.” He had no idea how rarely she canceled lessons, but that wasn’t important. Tomorrow might be the last time they would ever see each other. “I believe I may spend the entire day here, by the stream.”

  Even though her father was returning in the morning, it would be hours before he was ready to greet his daughters. And he certainly wouldn’t grant an audience with the Scots straightaway.

  Connor smiled. It was a smile that reached deep into her heart, warming her, reassuring her that her half-formed plans of intrigue for tonight would be more than welcomed.

  “I believe so shall I.” His smoky whisper stoked her senses, igniting a slow burn that curled deliciously between her thighs.

  Chapter Twelve

  As Aila peered through the spyhole onto the feast below, her stomach twisted, as if giant fingers clenched her insides. Elise, sitting next to Connor, made her excuses and as she left the table, she pulled a heavy cloak over her head, hiding her face and gown.

  Aila straightened and in her haste to meet her cousin, she stumbled over Drun. She grimaced and only just managed not to glance over her shoulder at her bodyguard. It was imperative she give him no cause for suspicion. And rushing down the stairs, falling over Drun, would alert him that his princess was anything but her normal, calm self.

  Slowly she descended the curved steps, breathing through her mouth. She had to regain control. If she was this nervous now, how would she fare later?

  Fortunately her mind had no time to dwell on the enticing vision of later as Elise appeared. Her face was entirely obscured by the woolen cloak.

  “Aila.” Elise’s voice was strangled. One hand clutched her face through the folds of the cloak. “I have the toothache. I can scarcely speak for pain.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” Aila hoped she sounded more sincere to her bodyguard than she did to herself. “Come, I’ll—I’ll soothe your pain.”

  In the flickering glow from the torches, she saw Elise hook a finger into the folds of the cloak and pull it from her face. She appeared on the verge of giggling. Aila glared. Just because she was hiding Elise from her bodyguard’s sight didn’t mean he might not suddenly approach.

  “Please do.” Elise, still grinning, emitted a mournful moan that echoed off the stone walls.

  Aila closed her eyes and attempted to stifle the bubbles of laughter that tangled with the nerves twisting through her stomach. She had to control herself. Hastily she adjusted Elise’s disguise, slung her cousin a stern glare, turned and led the way upstairs.

  Once inside her antechamber Aila leaned back against the door and pressed her hand to her mouth. Floradh stood by the door to the bedchamber, clearly ill at ease with Aila’s plans. But she had raised no objection and Aila knew she could trust her to remain silent forever on the events of this night.

  Elise slung the cloak onto the bed and began to unfasten her gown.

  “Hurry, Aila.” Her whisper was urgent; her eyes sparkled with mirth. “I gave strict instructions to Berthe on how long to wait before passing my message onto Connor, but you know how dreamy she is.” Elise stepped from her gown. “You don’t want him to reach his bedchamber before you.”

  Aila fumbled with her bodice but her fingers refused to work. In silence Floradh br
ushed her fingers aside and began to unfasten the ties.

  Shouldn’t she be feeling guilty? She was about to seduce a Scot. This was no heat-of-the-moment indiscretion. This was a carefully executed plan.

  And yet guilt was the last emotion tumbling through her breast. What she was about to do wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t betraying Onuist. And even if her church frowned on such things, it was only for tonight.

  She deserved one night with Connor. One night to cherish close within her heart, forever, after he had left Ce.

  “My lady.” Floradh’s ancient, beloved face was creased with concern. “You have made suitable preparations for this night, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” Aila avoided eye contact. Floradh had accompanied her to Fidach when Aila had wed. She loved her servant but there was one thing she had not confided.

  Aila’s childlessness was put down to the fact her marriage had been so brief. Nobody knew how desperately she had tried to conceive during those two years. Nobody ever would.

  Let them all imagine she had taken feminine precautions. As she would allow Floradh and Elise to believe she had done this night.

  Elise let out a relieved breath. “The Scots are good company, but it would be disastrous to bear their bastards.” She took Aila’s gown. “Although doubtless in nine months there will be several half-blood slaves born.” Resignation tinged her voice.

  Aila took Elise’s discarded gown. While she sympathized with the female slaves’ lack of choice when it came to servicing visiting warriors—God, she sympathized more than any of them would ever imagine—a shard of envy sliced through her. Bastard or not, she’d do anything to conceive Connor’s babe this night.

  But unlike Elise, she didn’t believe any half-Scot slaves had been conceived this week. Their unexpected visitors possessed both charm and good looks and coupled with their exotic accent and clothing, they hadn’t been lacking for willing noble-born bed partners.

  For a moment she hesitated, her hand clasped around her cross. And then, before she could change her mind, she pulled the chain over her head and slid the cross beneath her pillow.