Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  She would not think about tonight. And she most certainly would not speak of it.

  Fergus obviously misunderstood her silence, as he pulled her close to his side. “Don’t worry.” His whisper against her ear was predatory. “I understand your reticence. After so many years without a man you are likely as fearful of our marriage bed as a virgin.” He sounded as though the notion pleased him immensely.

  Aila gave him her most regal glance. “Indeed, my lord, I am certainly no virgin and do not fear the marriage bed as if I were one.”

  A frown of irritation at her response carved his forehead but there was no time for his reply. Another interminable feast loomed where she was, yet again, to be on display like a rare acquisition from the Eastern Empire.

  * * * * *

  Late that evening, after her ladies had washed her and re-braided her hair in readiness for her wedding night, she sat on a stool before the blazing fire, hugging her cloak about her with one hand and cradling the kitten with her other.

  She didn’t know how much longer she would have to wait for Fergus. He’d informed her, with barely concealed incredulity, that his king required his presence in the war chamber.

  Fergus had been furious at the delay in claiming his rights. And instead of relief at the postponement, Aila battled against a rising sense of dark unease.

  All day a suffocating fog of dread had clouded her mind. At first she’d imagined it was because of the coming night. But it was more than that. And separate from it. An intangible certainty that was, somehow, inexplicably entwined with the terrifying dreams she’d suffered since arriving in Dunadd.

  Clutching the kitten, she stood, her cloak tumbling to the floor. She didn’t know why but she couldn’t remain in the chamber.

  “My lady.” Floradh hurried over to her. Her ladies had already retired for the night. “Can I get you anything?”

  The image of Connor with his black hair tousled from the Highland wind invaded her mind. She hesitated as the seductive memory flowed through her senses, momentarily calming her unease.

  His stormy-gray eyes captivated her. His devastating smile ensnared her. She blinked rapidly, attempting to dispel the illusion and thrust the kitten into her servant’s arms. The need to escape this chamber overrode every other thought and she hurried to the door. “I need to speak to my father.”

  “But why, my lady?”

  She didn’t know why. She had left it far too late to change her mind about this marriage now. And yet she needed to find him. “Because I must.”

  She stealthily descended the main spiral staircase, keeping to the wall, peering into the gloom below, where only a solitary lantern glowed. Although she wore only a light linen undergown—her bedgown—unnatural warmth pounded through her body and sweat slicked her palms.

  The hall was empty. She took a few cautious steps and glanced toward the entrance of the great hall but it too appeared deserted.

  Even the dogs that normally prowled had vanished.

  She had to go outside.

  The thought came from nowhere and she glanced uncertainly at the main doors, barred against the outside world.

  It made no sense. She had to find her father. But she couldn’t drag her fascinated gaze from the main doors. As if they were waiting for her to throw back the bolts, run into the night and—

  Into Connor’s arms.

  It took all the willpower she possessed to turn her back on the doors. Pain wrenched through her breast, compressed her lungs, but she gritted her teeth and forced her reluctant feet forward.

  Connor wasn’t here. And even if he were, she could never run into the comfort of his arms.

  And then the muted sounds of battle hit her. She froze, terror skating through her. Had the Vikings penetrated Dunadd’s defenses? Was that why the hill fort was deserted? Because everyone had been slaughtered in their beds?

  Primeval warning pounded through every beat of her heart, every erratic gasp of her breath. A warning she didn’t want to understand. A warning she couldn’t comprehend. And yet a warning she could no longer disbelieve.

  Images of slaughtered warriors seared her mind, scarlet blood spraying; the stink of betrayal twisting her stomach. She was back at the sacred standing stones, the day before she’d met Connor, battling the vision that wasn’t a bad dream or suppressed memory.

  It had been a premonition.

  Heart hammering, she ran along the passageway, rejecting her thoughts, until she stumbled to a halt by an open door. The stone walls contracted, pressed onto her, squeezed the air from her lungs. Her brain fought to deny the carnage unfolding but the nightmare was reality. Scot fought fallen Pict, swords flashed in the flickering glow of lamps and blood drenched the straw-covered floor.

  “Father.” Her terrified scream ripped from her throat as she saw him knocked to the ground, defenseless against the armed Scot who loomed over his prone body. Heedless of the danger she staggered into the chamber, the sodden straw clinging to her bare feet in silent condemnation.

  She flung herself at the Scot, using her body weight to push him off balance, before sinking to her knees and cradling her father’s face between her hands. Dimly she was aware of the Scot’s shocked curse at her appearance, his obvious reluctance to plunge his sword through her as he had so easily through her father.

  The angry yells faded. All she could hear were the shuddering gasps as her father attempted to drag air into his lungs. All she could see was his beloved face and his eyes that tried to tell her what his voice could not.

  “Be strong,” she whispered against his blood-stained lips. “We will return to Ce, avenge this outrage.” Scalding tears blurred her vision but she would not allow them to fall. Not allow her father to see how hopeless vows of vengeance were. Because hope was all she could offer him in these last, futile moments.

  “We were betrayed.” His whisper drifted across her cheek. “Forgive me, my daughter. For bringing you here.”

  Corrosive guilt coiled around her weeping heart. This was her fault.

  Rough hands grasped her arms and hauled her to her feet. Reacting on an instinct she had not relied on for more than nine years, she snatched the dagger from the Scot’s belt.

  “Fuck. Devorgilla.” Fergus dragged her sideways and she stumbled over another dead Pict before she could use Fergus’ own weapon against him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Blood streaked his face and there was a savage gleam of madness in his eyes. She reared back, dagger glinting, prepared to plunge the blade into his exposed throat. Instead his fingers gripped her wrist, holding her arm above her head in a merciless vise.

  “Get her out of here, Fergus.” The roar vibrated the stone walls. “Do your duty. The marriage is still valid.”

  Aila swung around, her arm imprisoned by Fergus’ grip, and saw the Scot king glaring across the chamber.

  “The marriage is void.” She scarcely recognized her own voice. “Do you think I’ll allow this treachery to go unchallenged?” Words and images tumbled through her mind, making it hard to think, hard to speak. “The King of Ce’s murder will be avenged. Our people will never—”

  Her promise of retribution was swiftly severed as Fergus dragged her bodily from the chamber, as if she were a slave, a woman without rights. His chattel.

  Rage pumped through her and a distant thundering barely registered, except as a counterpoint to the thundering of blood pounding at her temples and hammering through her heart.

  He released her as soon as they reached an unfamiliar passageway and stumbled back against the wall as if the exertion had exhausted him. But his eyes never left hers.

  “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

  Her father’s lifeless body flashed through her mind. The blood. The stench of betrayal. Renewed rage flared through her, smothering the rising horror, the hovering specter of madness on her horizon.

  “And that would make the slaughter acceptable?” She jabbed Fergus’ dagger in his direction.

  Fergu
s warily pushed himself upright. “We defended ourselves, Devorgilla. Your countrymen were defeated.”

  “You lie. My people would never attack their hosts in such a manner.” She tried to calm her tangled thoughts, make plans. Strategize.

  Escape. Before the cursed Scots murdered her as they had all her kin.

  “This changes nothing.” Fergus took an unsteady step toward her. “We still have an alliance between our two peoples.”

  Breath rasped in her throat. “You’ve murdered all my people.” Fresh terror threatened to undo her. “I won’t let you murder my brother.” She had to warn him. Had to…

  Get outside.

  Find and warn the other Pictish nobles and warriors that they returned to certain death.

  Connor.

  He hadn’t been a part of this. And despite everything a tiny flicker of hope glowed deep in the pit of her soul.

  “Your brother is safe.” Fergus sounded as if every word was an effort. “He’s been taken hostage. Along with all the others. Only a handful of Picts died, my lady. As long as I remain alive your brother lives.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After hammering on the thick timber doors for what seemed eternity, Connor bit back an impatient curse when they finally opened. It wasn’t usual to arrive so late, but Aila’s brother had insisted they continue on to Dunadd instead of camping for the night. And because Connor had grown to respect the younger man over the last few days, he’d thrown his weight behind the request.

  For one incredible moment as he and the other nobles stepped inside, Connor thought they were being attacked. Chaos reigned, or so his momentarily frozen mind assumed. But within a second, the impression of chaos vanished and he realized what was truly happening.

  The Picts he’d so recently ridden into battle with, men he’d begun to know, were now surrounded by MacAlpin’s warriors who had stayed behind to guard Dunadd.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” he demanded, grabbing the nearest warrior by the throat and shoving him backward. “The Picts are our allies.”

  The warrior knocked his arm aside. “We’ve orders to take the Picts hostage. And take your fucking hands off me.”

  Ice stabbed through his gut. “All the Picts?”

  “Aye.” The warrior frowned. “Some of their kings turned on MacAlpin. That’s all I know, MacKenzie.”

  Connor glanced at Ewan, who was glaring at the scene as if he’d very much like to pitch in with the Picts. None of the men who’d just returned were lifting a finger to help their fellow Scots.

  He pushed his way through the mass of bodies. One thought thundered through his head.

  What had happened to Aila?

  The stench of spilled blood hit him first. Another step and the sight of slaughtered bodies rammed into his brain, halting his advance. He stood by the door and stared at the carnage and incomprehension battered the edge of his mind.

  “MacKenzie.” The harsh voice hammered through his fractured thoughts and he turned to see his king striding toward him. “Thank God you’re back.”

  “My liege.” He bowed his head then looked back at the bloodied scene. “What happened?”

  MacAlpin stood by his side. “Foul betrayal. We were attempting a civilized ratification of the line of succession of Fortriu and the Pictish nobles turned on us.” He turned from the scene, clearly sickened. “Fortunately the attack was contained. So long as the rest of the Pictish kingdoms accept my rule of Fortriu, I won’t rescind on our alliance.”

  He believed his king. But suspicion coiled in his gut. There was something wrong about the position of the bodies. The lack of Scots fatalities.

  Something. But he couldn’t fathom what.

  And then MacAlpin’s assertion hit him.

  “The alliance stands?”

  “Aye. I haven’t gone to all this trouble to let this,” he jerked his head toward the war chamber, “stop me. Pictland needs a strong leader, MacKenzie. One to bring all the kingdoms together. And this is the first step.”

  “Has the princess been told?” He’d recognized the King of Ce as one of the dead. No matter what mac Lutin had said or done in the war chamber, his daughter didn’t deserve to shoulder any blame. “She’s not being held responsible for this?”

  “Fuck no.” MacAlpin shot him a dark glare. “She’s our jewel. It’s unfortunate she saw the aftermath of the massacre but Fergus took care of her. At least I assume he’s taking care of her.”

  Aila had witnessed this? God Almighty. And then his king’s last flippant comment pierced his rising disgust.

  Fergus was taking care of her? That meant only one thing. Black rage seared his reason and without another word to MacAlpin he turned and stormed toward his half brother’s bedchamber.

  The balance had shifted. The King of Ce could no longer object to his daughter marrying a commoner. The alliance could still stand. This time he would convince MacAlpin to allow him to wed Aila, and Fergus could damn well take another princess of Pictland.

  His brother had no right to drag her into his chamber. No right to force her to submit to his will.

  No fucking right to have her.

  He didn’t even bother knocking, just kicked the door open and marched inside the antechamber. Fergus sprawled on a chair by the blazing fire, his leg propped on a stool, and Aila stood by his side.

  Aila.

  His heart slammed as his throat tightened in horror. Her white gown was soaked with crimson.

  How could she have lost so much blood and still be standing?

  “You’re injured.” It wasn’t a question. Every instinct he possessed thundered for him to go to her, drag her into his arms, tell her everything would be all right. But he remained frozen to the spot, unable to move a muscle.

  “Just a scratch,” Fergus said. “I’ll live.”

  Connor dragged his gaze from Aila and stared blankly at his brother. Only then did he see the blood staining his leg.

  Aila held a Scot-made dagger. Had she attacked Fergus? But if so, why was she standing by his side? Why hadn’t she escaped his chamber?

  Why was she looking at him as though she wanted to plunge her dagger into his flesh?

  “You’re not hurt?”

  Her lip curled. The depth of derision in that one small gesture was as powerful as if she had spat in his face.

  “There is nothing wrong with my wife, Connor,” Fergus said with gloating emphasis. “And much as I appreciate your brotherly concern as to my welfare, I don’t appreciate your company for my wedding night.”

  Fergus was playing a dangerous game. “The wedding is tomorrow.”

  “Was tomorrow.” Fergus shifted on the chair. Connor glared at him, unwilling to believe yet knowing, in his heart, his brother spoke the truth. He was too late. “It was brought forward. Now.” Fergus shot Aila a lascivious glance. Even now the stupid bastard had no idea his wife could understand every word he uttered. “I’d like to be alone with my princess.” He looked back at Connor. “Watch her unbind her hair for me and strip for my pleasure.” He paused, allowing that image to burn itself into Connor’s mind. And then he gave a slow, satisfied smile and thrust the blade in up to its hilt. “A good fuck will improve my mood.”

  * * * * *

  Huddled within the furs she’d taken from the bed last night, Aila sat on the chair before the dying fire, her gaze fixed on the figure of her husband. Like her, he had not had a restful night, tossing and turning in the bed as if demons stalked his black soul.

  Beneath the furs, she gripped his dagger. How many times had she imagined plunging it into Fergus’ heart as he snatched a few moments of sleep? And each time his words came back to haunt her.

  Her brother would remain alive as long as Fergus lived.

  And so she had washed and bound the wound in his thigh as a good wife should. And that had been the entire extent of wifely duties she had performed.

  She tried to focus on Fergus. Because when she thought of him, she could keep other thoughts at b
ay.

  But it was no good. Images of her slain father and the other nobles flickered through her mind, tormenting her with the knowledge she had seen their deaths foretold weeks ago. Had dreamed of the bloody massacre night after night and still not understood what she was being shown.

  And this was why she loathed Bride. For cursing her to foresee events without the ability to comprehend what she was seeing. Without the means to prevent what was to unfold.

  Fergus stirred on the bed. Turned and caught her staring at him. After a moment he heaved himself up, gritting his teeth.

  She hoped his wound gave him great discomfort. She hoped it had been her father who had given him the injury. But much as she craved his death—the death of all Scots—she had to keep this one alive.

  For Talargan.

  He regarded her across the chamber, assessing her mood. “You could have shared my bed, Devorgilla,” he said at last in Pictish, still laboring under the delusion she was ignorant of his language. “I gave you my word last night I wouldn’t claim my rights.”

  Only because he feared reopening his wound with such exertion. “Your word means nothing to me.”

  His jaw clenched. “I don’t blame you for your countrymen’s treachery. How can you blame me for merely defending my king?”

  They had already had this conversation. It didn’t matter how many times Fergus told her how her people had betrayed his. She didn’t believe a word.

  He winced as he made to rise from the bed. “There’s one other stipulation in return for your brother’s continued good health.”

  She refused to acknowledge him. After a moment he appeared to realize.

  “You will tell no one our marriage is as yet unconsummated.” His voice was harsh. “If this marriage is declared void, I can’t answer for your safety. Or that of your brother.”

  * * * * *

  Aila and her ladies were not, as she had feared, prisoners confined to their chambers. It appeared she was allowed the same freedom she had enjoyed during the last week with one exception.