Shock stabbed through him. Offspring.
Was that the secret Aila kept? That she had a child? But why would she keep that from him?
It was the one thing he hadn’t contemplated. But as Ewan continued to divulge the many and varied secrets ladies apparently kept, the idea clung, refused to be ignored.
It explained her violent reaction when he’d spoken of Fearchara’s death. Made sense of how she’d defended a woman’s right to choose the pain of childbirth for herself and not simply for producing an heir for her lord.
She had a living reminder of the husband she had lost. For that, he was happy for her. Happy she had a child, that she had traversed the perilous journey and survived.
As they approached the palace, he attempted to batten down the treacherous image that crawled through his mind. An image he had no right conceiving. Because, no matter her past, such selfish thoughts still put her future in jeopardy.
Thoughts of Aila nurturing his child within her womb.
“You’ve yet to tell me,” Ewan said under his breath as they entered the inner sanctum of the Pictish king, “what you’ve decided to do about your Lady Aila.”
“One way or another,” Connor said, “she’ll return to Dal Riada with me.”
There was no time for further conversation. As Connor swept into a bow before the king, prickles of alarm scuttled over the back of his neck. The war chamber wasn’t crowded, but in the moment between the doors opening and his show of respect, his brain registered several royal figures seated on either side of the king.
But something was wrong. His senses were on full alert, yet the Pictish warriors who stood guard over the royal presence didn’t emanate especial hostility.
Connor straightened. And saw Aila, sitting at mac Lutin’s right hand.
He stared, seeing yet not comprehending. What the hell was Aila doing there? Her face was so white she looked ill but her eyes, her beautiful eyes, locked on him as though he were her only salvation.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, but perhaps it was only in his head. The king was speaking but the words were muffled, outside his comprehension. And then, without warning, clarity speared through his brain.
“My daughter,” the king said, taking Aila’s hand. “Aila, the eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce.”
No.
Denial pounded against his temples, disbelief hammered against his ribs. Words lodged in his throat, choked his vocal cords. And still he couldn’t drag his eyes from Aila.
Silence vibrated throughout the chamber, an ominous, ugly silence, a silence that clamored against the restrictive confines of his skull.
Hands fisted, his fury mounted. There was a mistake. Aila was not the eldest princess Devorgilla. Aila was not betrothed to his half brother Fergus.
He heard Ewan respond to mac Lutin, saw the subtle shift in the stance of the Pictish warriors, as if they suspected Connor of some treachery.
Treachery? He’d give them fucking treachery.
But he couldn’t vocalize his thoughts. Because, God damn it, he couldn’t understand his fucking thoughts.
Why hadn’t she told him?
Aila belonged to him. He’d be damned if he’d allow his brother, of all people, to lay claim to her. The idea was repellent. Curdled his guts. Fergus.
As if sensing the insanity twisting Connor’s brain, Ewan clamped his hand around Connor’s biceps. The Pictish warriors were no longer being subtle and more than one dagger had been drawn.
He shot Aila one last, infuriated glance. This wasn’t over. He saw her eyes widen, knew she understood. Knew that, if she didn’t seek him out, he would find her. Demand to know why.
The doors slammed behind them. He had no recollection of leaving the chamber. Only knew that Ewan gripped his arm as if he suspected Connor might ram the doors and violate the inner sanctum.
“Keep walking.” It was a harsh command and because he needed air, needed to get out of this cursed Pictish palace, he didn’t argue. Just marched outside into the mocking spring sunlight.
And all but collided into Cameron MacNeil.
“Fuck,” Cam said, glancing from him to Ewan. “So mac Lutin turned MacAlpin down after all.”
“No.” Ewan continued walking, clearly wanting to put as much distance between the palace and them as possible. “He agreed. The betrothal is official.”
The hell it was.
“So why are you looking so fucking pissed, Connor?”‘ Cam fell into step beside him. “Did you finally get to see the elusive princess? Is she such an ugly whore even Fergus won’t be able to fuck her?”
Connor’s fist connected to Cam’s face, shoving the other man off balance. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
Cam responded and the sensation of knuckles crushing against his jaw sent morbid satisfaction splintering through Connor’s jagged nerves.
By the time Ewan and another three warriors had parted him and MacNeil, his fists were raw and his face on fire.
“Feel better?” MacNeil asked, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and flicking blood onto the ground.
Connor wrenched free, spat blood. “God help me, open your filthy mouth again and I’ll break your neck.”
The leer on Cam’s face slowly faded. “The princess,” he said. “Fuck, Connor. She’s not—”
“Enough.” Ewan said sharply, jerking his head at the other warriors and crowd of locals who’d gathered in anticipation of an extended round of entertainment. Only when they were once again alone did he turn back to Cam. “This goes no further, do you hear? Whatever you know, or think you know, keep to yourself.”
“Christ.” Cam sounded shaken. “None of us will crawl out of here alive if mac Lutin discovers you’ve been fucking his daughter.”
“Worse than that.” Ewan sounded grim. “MacKenzie hasn’t even bedded the lady.”
Erotic images seared Connor’s mind of Aila in his bed last night. Her glorious hair caressing him. Her sweet cries of passion enflaming him.
Her tight sheath welcoming him, as though she had been made solely for their joining.
“You haven’t?” Cam frowned, clearly lost. “How’s that worse?”
His question hung in the air. Cam’s frown finally slid into disbelief.
“Aye.” Ewan’s voice was hard. “So keep your counsel and mouth to yourself. This isn’t about a warrior’s pride.” He was no longer speaking to Cam. Connor gritted his teeth and continued to glare toward the far village. “It’s the difference between forging peace and initiating war.”
He returned to the stream. It was the only place he could think to go. To return to the palace caused his guts to knot and besides he didn’t trust himself not to storm the inner sanctum and demand audience with the Pictish king.
Recant the offer of marriage. Discard the offer of allegiance.
Risk the fury of mac Lutin and the wrath of MacAlpin.
Initiate war.
He swung around. Aila stood on the ridge, looking down at him, Elise by her side. Slowly she made her way toward him and this time he didn’t help her. Didn’t trust himself to touch her. Because to touch her would recall the previous night, the early hours of this morning. How could he touch her without embracing her? Kissing her? Demanding to know what she thought she was doing?
“Connor.” Her whisper sank into his heart, savaged his soul. Her face was as pale as it was the first day they had met. Her eyes huge, haunted. Her glance flickered over his battered face and it was obvious the knowledge he had been fighting did not surprise her. “I’m sorry. I meant to tell you who I truly was last night.”
“The eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce.” How he had despised that seemingly elusive lady.
How he damn well wanted her.
Her fingers clutched the edges of her shawl. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. Although… I did.” Briefly she closed her eyes. “I’ve no excuse. But I never thought you would discover my true identity in such a…” She hesitated, clearly unable to find words
adequate to describe the scene he’d just endured. “Manner.”
Unable to help himself, he stepped toward her. She gazed up at him, as if he was her world, her lord. God Almighty, surely she would see she couldn’t go through with marriage to Fergus?
Only now did he acknowledge the true reason he wanted to marry her. He loved her. He needed her. After she’d left him this morning, during the hours he’d waited for her perfecting his suit for her, the certainty had solidified. It wasn’t just because she intrigued him. It wasn’t just because he knew she would not contemplate becoming his mistress. It was more than mere lust, more than simple affection.
With Maeve, he felt both. But while the thought of never seeing her again caused regret, the notion of never seeing Aila again ripped holes through his gut. His heart.
A sorry circumstance for a warrior.
“Why did you agree?” His voice was harsh and he saw the way her lip trembled as though she battled for calm. Let her battle. It could never match the battle currently tearing his reason to shreds.
“What would you have me do?” The question was soft yet threaded through with regal pride, as if she were a royal princess and he a mere commoner.
The knowledge that that was exactly the situation stoked his simmering temper. He closed the distance between them until he could feel her ragged breath graze his face. Until he could wind his arms around her and drag her into his waiting embrace.
He clenched his fists by his sides.
“What would I do?” Their lips almost brushed. He could see eternity in her eyes, yet it was an eternity hovering just beyond his desperate grasp. “I would have you in my bed every night, Aila. My bed.” He scarcely kept the rabid need from his voice. Or the revulsion that, unless she revoked her promise, it would be his brother’s bed she shared. “I’d have you under me, on top of me, taking me deep inside your body. Night after fucking night.”
“Connor, don’t.” She looked at him, but she didn’t see him. She couldn’t see him, otherwise how could she not fall into his arms? Promise to break the betrothal? Tell him that even if she didn’t love him the way he loved her she still wanted him? Needed him?
“Why not?” His whisper was feral. He knew Elise watched from the ridge but it made no difference. If Aila did not succumb to his will within the next few moments, then God help him. He’d carry her into the forest and seduce her into submission.
“It was just one night.” Her voice was low, as though she were afraid of being overheard. But there was only Elise and she was too far away to hear their conversation. “We both knew it meant nothing more than that. How could it? We’re from different worlds, Connor. I never expected anything more from you than…warm memories.”
Warm memories? Outrage pumped through his blood, igniting with the fury, the frustration and the ever-present horror at the prospect of Aila becoming his brother’s wife. Of knowing she had no choice but to submit to Fergus’ every salacious demand within the bedchamber.
“So I was just a convenient body to satisfy your long-neglected desires, is that it?” What the hell was he saying? He knew he was more to Aila than that. But the truth was stark. She was of royal blood and he was not.
She had always been a princess, even when he thought them equal. And no matter what she may or may not feel for him, she had always been aware of the difference in their status.
For one torturous moment, all his original reasons as to why he shouldn’t embark in a liaison with Aila taunted him. She was a widow. She may expect more from him than he was willing to give.
Aye, she was a widow. But not once would she have expected more from him than he was willing to give. An elder princess did not marry a commoner, even if love was part of the equation.
And now, when he wanted to give her everything that he was, everything that he possessed, she wasn’t even in the position to reject him. Because she had already accepted the proposition from his king.
“No.” She sounded as if tears choked her throat. “You were never only that.”
“Then what was I?” He wanted to damn her for concealing her true identity. Damn her for slipping so effortlessly beneath the armor that had shielded his heart for four long years.
But even as his fingers itched to shake sense into her, his arms ached to hold her. To never let her go. To somehow persuade her that despite the great gulf between them, they could find a future together.
Her hand reached toward him then fell back to clutch her shawl. “You were—”
“Aila.” Elise’s breathless voice interrupted as she hurried down the slope toward them. Connor clenched his jaw and somehow managed to hang on to the unraveling threads of his temper. “The royal guard approaches.”
“Huh.” The word was bitter. “So now you have a royal guard to protect your person, Princess Devorgilla. How did I manage to miss them for this last week?”
“A royal guard?” Aila sounded faint, as if this was news to her also.
Elise glanced between them, an agonized look on her face. “Things are different now. You—you’re betrothed to a prince of Dal Riada.”
When Aila said nothing, only looked more fragile and untouchable than ever, the last thread snapped. He hissed out a breath and glared into her pale, lovely face.
“Aye, a prince of Dal Riada. My half brother, Fergus.”
Chapter Nineteen
Aila sat on the edge of her bed, a paralyzing numbness seeping through her limbs. Connor’s face, carved into a mask of furious disbelief as he had caught sight of her in the war chamber, haunted her fractured mind. She hadn’t expected his reaction to be so…primitive.
She dug her fingernails into her palm and tried to ignore the crushing pain in her heart. Her heart that ached with every ragged beat, every shallow breath, every anguished thought.
When she had seen him waiting for her by the stream, it had taken every last shred of resolve she possessed to stop from rushing into his arms. He’d been enraged and she’d said—God, she had said the stupidest things. She didn’t mean them. Everything had become twisted and instead of improving an impossible situation, she’d made things worse.
But nothing she had said could compare to Connor’s brutal parting shot.
Her betrothed was his half brother.
Connor had mentioned his brother, during one of their many conversations. And while his anecdotes had made her giggle, as she knew had been his intention, she had also been aware of words left unsaid. Of the thread of cruelty in the older brother toward his younger half sibling.
She’d dreaded the marriage before. But now it revolted the fundamental core of her soul, as though by taking Connor’s brother as her husband she was somehow committing an act of incest.
“But why does Aila have to move so far away?” Finella’s plaintive voice penetrated her thoughts and she dragged her attention back to the present. As Floradh and a couple of other servants went through her clothes and the personal effects she would be taking with her to Dal Riada, her grandmother and Elise sat with her on her bed, while her mother sat on a stool beside Finella, who curled around Drun on the floor.
“Because,” their mother said, showing no signs of her true feelings on the matter, “that is where the Scot prince lives. Just imagine. Your sister will help civilize their savage ways.”
Her grandmother leaned toward her, clearly not wishing Finella to overhear. “This feels wrong, Aila. Something is terribly amiss. But I cannot fathom what.”
Aila stared at their entwined hands. She, her grandmother and Elise. “You said yourself I was a founding stone.” The words mocked her. What a different meaning she had placed upon them earlier that day. “It seems you were right.”
“You are. But this doesn’t sit well with me. The goddess—retreats.”
Elise also leaned forward. “Grandmamma, I feel this too.” She sounded relieved. “I thought it was only because of—of the circumstances.” She shot Aila an anxious glance. “But the darkness has returned. It hovers over the Sc
ots and now Aila too—yet doesn’t touch any of them.”
Eerie shivers prickled over Aila’s arms and she snatched her hands free from her cousin and grandmother.
“Of course there is darkness,” she hissed, glancing at Finella to ensure she was still occupied with both Drun and arguing with their mother. “A political marriage is the last thing I desire. Mamma is incensed, Father wearied. And Talargan wishes only to murder every Scot in Ce.” She glared at her beloved kin. Kin she would soon be leaving. Perhaps, after her marriage, she would never see them again. The knowledge squeezed her heart. “It would be more extraordinary if darkness didn’t linger over Ce-eviot this day.”
“I look forward to seeing Dal Riada,” Finella said, looking at Aila. “But I don’t want to leave you there all alone, Aila.”
Finella’s sweet face faded as an ethereal mist swirled, obscuring her features. And then the chamber darkened, as if storm clouds hugged the sun, and from the shadows loomed bloodied warriors, their presence permeating the air with the stench of battle, the reek of decay.
She hitched in a sharp breath and dug her fingernails into her palms. Instantly the memory vanished. Because that was all it was. A memory from nine years ago.
Except it wasn’t a memory from nine years ago.
She knew it, yet refused to face the truth. She no longer had visions.
It was her exhausted mind playing tricks with the shadows in her chamber. It meant nothing. Yet despite the logic of her argument, an overpowering conviction gripped her. Without attempting to analyze it, she held out her hand and waited for Finella to come to her.
“No, my love,” she said as gently as she could, hoping the irrational panic stampeding through her was not evident in her voice. “You must stay here, in Ce-eviot.”
“No, I won’t.” Finella looked outraged. “I will come with you. Mamma said I should.”
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 16
