Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  “I didn’t want you to think the night we shared didn’t mean everything to me.”

  “I didn’t think that.” Everything to her? That was more than he’d hoped. But he’d never truly believed all he had meant to her was warm memories.

  In the shadows it was hard to see her clearly, but he saw the way her lip trembled, as if his reply touched her deeply.

  “It was…” she hesitated for a moment. “It was truly the most beautiful night of my life.”

  He rested his forehead against hers. Bone-deep relief streaked through him. Somehow she would be his, and they could spend a lifetime creating such nights together. “I’m glad.” His voice was rough with need.

  Inexplicably she pulled back, and his fingers relaxed, allowing her to break free. Because the only thing she was breaking free from was that cursed marriage contract.

  Not him.

  She stared up at him, as if she was committing his features to memory. But she had no need because he would always return to her no matter where his king sent him.

  Damn the poor light. He wanted to see the mesmeric green of her eyes, the extraordinary glow of her hair. But most of all he wanted to take her in his arms, carry her off to his bedchamber and show her without the need for awkward words everything she meant to him.

  “It would break my heart,” her voice was soft, “to think you believed I only used you.”

  “Hell, Aila.” He ached to hold her, but something in the way she continued to look at him stayed his hands. But no matter. There would be plenty of time to hold her later. “I only said that because I was angry. Don’t dwell on it. My words in the heat of the moment mean nothing.”

  An odd expression flickered over her face. As if, far from comforting her, his reassurance had somehow wounded. But it vanished in an instant and he wondered if he had imagined such a fanciful notion.

  “I know.” Infinite sadness threaded through her words, belying the smile she offered. “I wasn’t going to tell you. But then I thought, why not? It’s the truth. And I would rather you know the truth than ever have any doubt as to how much you mean to me.”

  Unease flickered deep inside although he couldn’t fathom why. “The truth?”

  She gripped her fingers together. “Yes. I love you. It’s the reason I came to your bedchamber. The reason I shared your bed. I will always love you. And if you ever think of me, please always remember that.”

  If he ever thought of her? He would never cease to think of her. Would never forget this night when she had given him what he so desired.

  A laugh rumbled deep inside and he claimed the small step that separated them. Strangely she retreated a corresponding step that brought her back against the stone wall of the palace.

  “I promise,” he said, again wishing there was more light so he could see every detail of her lovely face. “I will always remember.”

  Another uneven sigh whispered from her lips, as though his promise reassured her. Had she truly been concerned he could ever think of her with anything but pleasure?

  “Then I should go.” But her words lacked conviction and where did she think she was going anyway? He cradled her chilled face, pressed his body against hers. Even through his plaid and her gown she would feel the extent of his arousal.

  “You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.” Before she could respond, his mouth claimed hers and his tongue invaded her parted lips. He thrust into her and her wet heat embraced as he angled himself more thoroughly against her, his cock hard as iron. Wanted, needed, to penetrate her more intimately. To prove to her, beyond reason, how much he returned her love.

  Still holding her face with one hand, his other trailed the length of her jaw, her neck, and molded the curve of her breast. God, this was torture. His blood was on fire, his cock in agony. Her scent invaded his senses, her skin entranced him. Her tiny moans of pleasure sent him spiraling into insanity.

  His thumb caressed the hard peak of her nipple. He imagined ripping her gown from her, taking her succulent nipple into his mouth. Lifting her skirts and impaling her where she stood.

  He dragged his mouth from her, panted into her face. He might want her up against a wall, but it wouldn’t be an outside wall. Wouldn’t be where anyone might pass by and see them. See her. Hell no. She was his and her body was for his eyes only.

  “Aila.” His voice was ragged. “I want you.” He was incapable of explaining further, but it didn’t matter. She knew how he felt. Knew what he meant. They needed privacy, so he could show her in ways that words never could.

  With surprising force, she flattened her palms against his chest and shoved. He didn’t relinquish her face or her breast but he eased back a fraction, an unwilling concession to her obvious demand.

  “Don’t.” Her voice was breathless. Shock stabbed through him. She sounded on the verge of tears. “Don’t tarnish what we had by doing this.”

  Tarnish? Did she think he was going to ravish her as though he were an undisciplined bastard and she a common slave?

  “I’d no intention of taking you out here.” Damn, but it was hard to speak when all he could think about was parting her thighs and sinking into her beautiful, welcoming body.

  She curled her fingers around his wrist and attempted to tug his hand from her breast. And because he had no idea why she was doing it, he allowed her to.

  “I have to go.” There was a tremble in her voice, yet she still managed to sound immovable. And despite his lust, he knew she was right. She had to go back. Had to see out the rest of the night. But later—later she would find a way to come to him.

  Something occurred to him. He struggled to batten down his need, focus on facts.

  “Have you told your father yet?” His thumb stroked her heated cheek. “Do you want me with you when you do?” He risked his neck, but if she wanted him by her side when she confronted the Pictish king, then nothing would keep him away.

  Her eyes widened in horror. “Of course I haven’t. I never will. I’d never put your life in such danger.”

  He managed a halfhearted grin. “Aye, well I didn’t mean go into the details of the other night.” He wound his fingers around one plait and let the silken rope slide against his palm. “I meant when you tell him—if you haven’t already—that you’re breaking the betrothal.”

  The silence after his words was more than a pause. It sank into the night around them, blacker and deeper than any abyss. A silence that shrieked louder than any scream of protest.

  He stared into her eyes. Refused to acknowledge the insidious whisper of truth that gnawed through his mind. Refused to even contemplate the possibility.

  Thrust the kernel of doubt aside.

  “Well?” His demand was harsh.

  She stiffened. “Why do you assume I’m breaking the betrothal?”

  He refused to think. Refused to analyze. Focused entirely on this moment.

  “Because you’re here.”

  “Yes, I’m here. Because I had to see you. To make sure you understood what you mean to me.”

  She was speaking his language, as she had since the first time they had met. There was no misunderstanding between them. Her words were clear. But they made no sense. How could she stand there, tell him she loved him, and not be prepared to break the betrothal?

  “I understand what I mean to you.” It would do no good to vent his impatience on her. She was clearly confused by events. “That’s why you can’t marry Fergus.”

  “I’ve given my word.” Her voice was low, yet so regal, as if she were a queen explaining something fundamental to a mere peasant.

  The analogy stung and he braced his palms on the wall on either side of her shoulders, a blatant reminder she was out here alone with him. So close he could feel her breath on his face and yet the icy conviction gripped him that she was as distant as she had been for these last five days.

  Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his body against hers, and her curves molded to him as if they belonged together. Because they did belon
g together. And why she couldn’t see that was beyond him.

  “You’re a woman.” Their lips almost brushed. He slid one knee between her legs, exerted pressure against the tempting juncture of her thighs. Felt her startled gasp caress his mouth. Desire thrummed in his blood, clouded his reason. The thought of her pledging her loyalty to Fergus knotted his guts. “Tell your father you’ve heard sick tales of the prince.” Her father loved her. That was the reason he had asked so many questions of the proposed bridegroom. And Connor had told him what he had wanted to hear. The knowledge that he was responsible for mac Lutin accepting Fergus for his daughter enraged him. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

  Her hands curled around his biceps. But she didn’t try to push him away. It was as if she needed his strength.

  God knew, she had it.

  “Would you go back on your word to your king?”

  He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Why would I do that?” He was a warrior. A warrior didn’t break his word to his king. “We’re not talking about me, Aila. This is about you. Your future. Your life.”

  Her hands slid from his biceps, inched between their melded bodies and flattened against his chest.

  “My love.” Her voice was gentle and the words he’d fantasized her saying to him eased his battered heart. At last, she had seen sense. He allowed the smallest smile of relief to touch his lips. “Is a woman’s integrity worth less than a man’s?”

  And froze.

  “What?” The word scraped between his teeth, incredulous. How could she ask him such a thing? How could she insinuate that he somehow thought her lacking simply because she didn’t possess the honor of a warrior?

  Her bottom lip trembled. But shadows or not, he couldn’t see a hint of tears.

  “How could I hope to keep your respect if I break my word so easily?”

  “My respect?’ He could scarcely articulate the word. “It’s not my respect I’m offering you.”

  Except it was. He offered her everything. But unless she broke her word, there would never be even a chance of his offer being accepted.

  “You once admired my loyalty.”

  His hands fisted, knuckles grazed against the unyielding stone. “So now you throw my words back in my face.” Of course he admired her loyalty—but this was different. “He’s my half brother, for God’s sake. You don’t have the first idea what he’s like.”

  Fergus would never be faithful to her. And while he might never hurt her physically, Aila would fade beneath his brother’s brash insensitivity.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Raw pain vibrated through every word. And instead of victory that he’d finally touched her, all he felt was despair. “I’ll spend the rest of my life knowing I’m with the wrong brother.”

  He seized on her confession. “Then end it now. It will cause a storm, but it’ll soon pass. MacAlpin knows of your reputation as a recluse. Offense can be averted. There are ways around this, Aila, if you will just—”

  “Just what? Compromise my honor?”

  Frustration ripped through him. “No man will dare question your honor within my hearing.”

  She looked at him but didn’t respond. Her expression showed she knew he had subtly altered her interpretation of honor to suit himself.

  He knew, as well as she, that her integrity would be questioned. Her reputation damaged.

  But at least she wouldn’t be wedded to Fergus.

  He recalled the night they had shared. His reckless behavior. And seized on the one possibility that might—that had to—possess the power to change her mind. Even if that very possibility sent shards of terror deep into his soul.

  “What if you’re wrong?” His voice was harsh, racked between hope and fear that he was right. “About the other night? You could have conceived my child, Aila. You could be carrying my babe as we speak. Would you truly marry another man, knowing that’s a real possibility?”

  “I’m not with child.” Her voice was strangely devoid of emotion.

  “You can’t know for certain.” God knew, he didn’t want her to be with child, but if it was the only way she would see sense—Christ, how could he wish this on her? But how could he not?

  “I do. And I am not going to bear your child.”

  Wretched despair snaked through him. There was only one reason why she could be so sure. Her body had cleansed her womb of his seed with her blood.

  “I may not be a warrior.” Pain clouded her voice, but once again that regal resolve underpinned every word. “I don’t ride into battle with broadsword and shield. But I made a vow on the memory of my husband Onuist that I would do whatever I could to help rid this land of the Viking invaders.” She paused for one heartbreaking moment. “Would you have me break that oath simply because I find the means not to my liking?”

  Her question, her accusation, thundered between them, opening a chasm impossible to breach with words or blood or even his heart laid at her feet.

  She loved him. But she loved her dead husband more. The husband who had sacrificed his life for hers. Who had died a hero and about whom bards sang.

  He dragged himself upright, arms dropping to his sides. There was nothing else he could say to her. Aila was a woman, but her honor and integrity were as much a part of her as the color of her eyes or shade of her hair. If she sacrificed either, her worth would be diminished in her eyes, if not in his own.

  Yet he loved her because of who she was. And she was Aila.

  But he’d be damned if he’d stand by and watch her marry his half brother.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Aila kept her gaze straight ahead and tried to ignore the nervous churn of her stomach. Soon they would reach Dunadd, the royal stronghold of Dal Riada, and while she longed for this interminable journey to end, she dreaded its inevitable outcome.

  For two weeks, they had traveled through glens and mountain passes. At night they’d stayed in various Pictish hill forts and palaces. And their numbers had increased as kings and nobles and warriors joined their progress.

  The last few nights, after entering the Scots territory within Pictland, had been spent in foreign property. While they had been treated with nothing but respect she’d felt like an oddity, an exhibit on display. She knew it would only get worse after arriving at Dunadd.

  Connor kept his distance. His message couldn’t be plainer. If he couldn’t have her the way he wanted her, then he didn’t want any part of her at all.

  Drawn by an invisible thread her gaze tugged to the left. Connor and a group of Scots warriors were overtaking the ambling pace of the massively extended train. Again her stomach pitched, although whether it was the sight of Connor on horseback or the knowledge that he was riding ahead in order to announce their imminent arrival at Dunadd, she couldn’t say.

  He didn’t glance her way. He might have been entirely oblivious to her presence.

  Her fingers tightened on the reins as she forcibly dragged her gaze from his retreating back. She knew the thought of her marrying his brother disgusted him. Would he be so enraged if her proposed husband was a different prince? Or was it the thought of her marrying—no matter whom—that so infuriated him?

  But what did he expect from her?

  It wasn’t as though he’d ever spoken of his plans for the future to her. He’d taken the night she’d offered without any indication afterward of wanting to prolong their liaison. And while she cherished the words he’d whispered in the throes of passion, words that hugged her heart and filled her lonely soul, she knew it highly likely he didn’t even remember them.

  Hadn’t he told her, that last night they had spoken, that what he said in the heat of the moment meant nothing?

  As Dunadd became visible in the distance, on top of a mighty hill on the west coast of Pictland, a dark despair dug in poisoned claws. And lurking beneath the flimsy facade of piousness instilled over the last nine years she glimpsed the raw truth.

  She wanted his love, even if she could never accept it. E
ven if it meant Connor, the man whose happiness she craved above all else, suffered agonies because of that love.

  She tried to retract the thought, smother it. Pretend it had never touched her mind because it was selfish, cruel. Pagan.

  But it made no difference. Whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not, ancient pagan blood ran through her veins and in this moment of clarity, she saw the unvarnished truth.

  If given the choice between Connor loving her or having simply used her because she was available, she’d take his love.

  Despite the pain it caused him.

  * * * * *

  Three hours later, after having arrived at Dunadd, Connor watched Aila as the royal party was greeted by a noble council. For two weeks he’d avoided her, yet been excruciatingly aware of her every movement. For two weeks he’d formed plans and strategies only to discard them in disgust. And now the moment had arrived he was no clearer in his mind as to how he was going to persuade his king against this disastrous marriage.

  “Connor.” Ewan gripped his arm. “You aren’t truly going to speak to MacAlpin about this matter, are you?”

  In a moment of madness during the journey, Connor had confided in his oldest friend. And been offended by Ewan’s horror of his intention to confront their king. He wrenched his arm free and sent Ewan a dark glare.

  “What would you have me do? Stand by while Aila marries my brother?” Far from diminishing, the revulsion at such a future had magnified beyond endurance. “If she refuses to save herself, then I have no choice.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you if your head ends up on a spike.”

  Connor turned on his heel and marched off. There was a chance he might infuriate the king but he was sure his head was in no danger.

  At least, as long as MacAlpin remained in ignorance of the night Connor had shared with the princess.

  * * * * *

  “My liege.” Connor rose from his knee as MacAlpin beckoned him forward. They were in the war chamber and, miraculously, MacAlpin was not surrounded by his advisors.