Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  Her royal guard now comprised of Scot warriors, not those from Ce.

  She walked aimlessly, holding her kitten close to her breast, her thoughts in turmoil. Lowborn Pictish warriors retained their freedom, if not their weapons, but she had yet to encounter any Pictish warrior of noble blood.

  But then she hadn’t expected to. Any noble who hadn’t been murdered would be a hostage to their people’s good behavior.

  How many hostages were held? She had only Fergus’ word that Talargan was among them and she trusted his word as little as she trusted his king’s. Suppose in reality he had been one of the slain?

  Yet she couldn’t risk the possibility that he was still alive.

  Awareness prickled over her skin and she stopped dead as Connor rounded a corner of the hill fort not four feet away. Impossible longing washed through her, tightening the breath in her breast, causing her heart to thud violently. He was the one man she had refused to think of. The only man she wanted to think of.

  He also stopped dead when he saw her and an incomprehensible expression flashed over his face. As if she was the last person he wanted to see. And yet the only person he wanted to see.

  “My lady.” His voice was low and despite everything she knew about his people, the pit of her stomach still fluttered in response to that darkly seductive accent.

  His hair tangled about his shoulders as if he too had suffered a sleepless night. But she wouldn’t think of his hair. Wouldn’t recall how soft and silky it felt beneath her fingers, nor think of how she had once buried her face in that black mass and breathed his masculine essence into the soul of her being.

  She wouldn’t think on any of it. Because there lay true madness.

  Raw silence screamed between them and in her peripheral vision she saw her ladies retreat, allowing them a degree of privacy.

  “Lady Aila.” His voice dropped even lower, a dangerous caress along her savaged senses. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Her spine was so rigid she feared it would splinter. “I don’t require your sympathy, MacKenzie.” Unlike him, she spoke in Pictish and infused every word with the thousand years of her royal lineage. She couldn’t let him see beneath her facade. Couldn’t let him see just how desperately she craved his arms around her. His people had murdered hers and for that, how could she forgive?

  “Whatever happened last night,” he said, his accent twisting through her as he responded in her language, “I deeply regret you saw any of it. You didn’t deserve that, Aila. If I could take it back, I would.”

  In her heart, she knew he meant every word. But why hadn’t he stopped the massacre last night? Why hadn’t he stood up to his treacherous king and saved her father?

  She ignored his words of sympathy, as if by acknowledging his kindness she would, somehow, be desecrating the memory of her slain countrymen. Irrational hammered through her mind but she ignored that too. “Is it true my brother is held hostage by your king?”

  His jaw clenched. “Aye.” He sounded as though he battled his temper, that the knowledge Talargan was being held offended his honor.

  “I see.” She did not believe a word Fergus told her, but Connor would tell her the truth. “So he is held to ensure my cooperation in this farce of an alliance.”

  Connor’s gaze didn’t waver. “There are many hostages, Aila. In these situations there always are.”

  Her stomach roiled, her heart squeezed with pain. His people were treacherous barbarians and yet she couldn’t hate Connor for what had happened. Only blame him for not somehow possessing the means to stop it. She knew he hadn’t been in the war chamber when she’d stumbled into the carnage. He wasn’t a participant of the massacre against her kin.

  But he had already returned to Dunadd from Northumbria when the outrage occurred. How else had Talargan been taken hostage? How else had Connor stormed Fergus’ bedchamber?

  She attempted to offer him an icy smile, but failed. “So the Scots often extend the hand of friendship only to betray that trust in the foulest manner?”

  “Christ, no.” He appeared to forget who they were, where they were, as he took a step toward her. It couldn’t be possible and yet she felt the heat of his body reach for her, as though he wanted to cocoon her from the horrors of last night. “Aila, that isn’t what happened. We defended ourselves against attack. But no one holds you accountable.”

  Blackness engulfed her soul. Connor was defending the Scots’ act of cowardice by perpetrating the lies already fed to her by his half brother.

  She tilted her jaw at a regal angle, grateful for the soft fur of the kitten that hid the way her fingers trembled. “I am accountable, Connor MacKenzie. Never forget that. And no matter how your king attempts to manipulate the events of last night I will never believe my people attacked.”

  He stared at her with stormy-gray eyes that threatened to destroy the hastily erected barriers around her heart. Barriers that, once before, he had so easily demolished.

  She would not crumble before him. But she couldn’t drag her gaze from him. Couldn’t prevent seeing the shadows beneath his eyes, the overnight beard that darkened his jaw. The way he looked at her as if, even with everything that now lay between them, he battled the urge to take her in his arms and hold her close.

  She had craved his love, even when she knew it would bring him nothing but heartache. And now she was paying for those selfish, pagan wishes.

  But even that wasn’t why nausea rose and the world spun. It was because, even now, despising his people as she did, her foolish love for him would not die.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Connor found his brother leaning against the western wall of the hill fort, engaged in bawdy banter with another couple of warriors. Raucous laughter split the air. One of the warriors clapped Fergus on the shoulder.

  Impotent rage churned Connor’s gut. He pulled up short and attempted to batten down the feral urge to smash his fist into his brother’s foul mouth.

  Aila was Fergus’ wife. But not just his wife. She was a princess, destined to be a queen, and deserved more respect than to be talked about like a common whore.

  “Connor,” one of the warriors said. “Your royal brother is mightily pleased with his new bride.”

  “Aye,” said the one who’d clapped Fergus’ shoulder. “You’d never think by looking at her she possessed so wild a nature beneath the furs.”

  Fergus said nothing, merely smirked in clear satisfaction of his night’s work. Sudden nausea gripped Connor, dousing the rage, as the image of Aila submitting to his brother rammed through his mind.

  An image that had plagued him through the endless night. An image he’d tried—and failed—to eradicate with mead.

  An image he knew would haunt him until his dying day.

  “Guard your tongue.” His voice was harsh. “The Princess Devorgilla deserves our respect even if her kin do not.”

  “My sainted brother speaks the truth.” Fergus shifted his weight as he leaned one shoulder against the wall. “My royal wife is innocent of treason. And God willing, after our lively bed-sport last night, she’s also with child.”

  The two warriors grinned salaciously but said nothing. Connor tried to block his brother’s last words, but they remained firmly embedded in his mind.

  He turned to Fergus. “I need to speak to you alone.”

  Fergus flapped his hand at the two warriors and they sauntered off. “What do you want to know?” His eyes glittered with malice. “How many times I took my wife last night? How she screamed my name as I fucked her up against the wall?”

  Again the rage surfaced. Black and scarlet, clouding his vision, fogging his brain. Involuntarily his muscles tensed and fists clenched but still Fergus’ mocking words echoed through his mind.

  He gritted his teeth and fought the overpowering urge to wrap his hands around his brother’s throat and squeeze the life from him. “Just tell me what happened in the war chamber last night.”

  Fergus rubbed his hand over hi
s mouth and jaw, and the section of Connor’s mind that didn’t crave murder noted the sheen of sweat that covered his brother’s face. Yet the day was cool.

  “The Picts wouldn’t acknowledge MacAlpin’s uncontested right to Fortriu.”

  “So they attacked?” Something still didn’t feel right. He knew, as they all knew, the seven Pictish tribes had a violent history of warring among themselves when a kingdom’s ruler was in dispute. But it was old history, from generations long since dead.

  They had traveled to Dunadd to ratify an alliance. If they wanted war with the Scots, to attack while in MacAlpin’s war chamber—when a good portion of their own warriors were absent—made no strategic sense at all.

  “Aye.” Fergus’ belligerent tone had vanished and he tugged at the neck of his shirt, as though it constricted his breathing. “We had no choice. We had to kill them or they would have killed MacAlpin, simply to remove his claim to their supreme kingdom.”

  “What the hell was—” Shit. He had almost called her Aila. “The princess doing there? Watching the massacre of her people could have turned her mind.”

  Fergus expelled a harsh breath. “She appeared out of nowhere. Went into hysterics. I had to carry her back to our bedchamber.”

  She’d been covered in blood. The blood, most likely, of her father.

  No wonder she’d become hysterical. Except when he’d stormed in on them she looked far from hysterical. She’d looked coldly furious. Regal.

  “Soon.”

  He forced his attention back to Fergus. “What?”

  “I said MacAlpin wants me to take the princess home. She’ll be guarded well enough at Duncadha as she will here.”

  Duncadha. The hill fort of his forefathers. The place he’d grown up.

  The future home of Aila.

  He couldn’t trust himself to answer. Fergus shifted again but didn’t move away from the support of the wall. “You’ll be returning to Dunbrae shortly?”

  Where else would he go? Dunbrae had been his home for the last six years. “Aye.”

  Another silence. Fergus wiped his brow as if they were suffering a scorching southern summer. “I’ve a mind to accompany you. Introduce my bride to my lady mother.”

  Chills crawled over Connor’s scalp at the notion of Aila coming to Dunbrae. Being introduced to his mother, as the wife of her husband’s eldest son, Fergus. Sleeping beneath Connor’s roof. With Fergus.

  It all fucking came back to Fergus.

  Their father’s blood flowed through both their veins, but in this moment all he saw when he looked at his brother was a man who had the one thing Connor most craved.

  He turned away. He’d not give Fergus the satisfaction of seeing how badly the thought affected him. “You’re always welcome at Dunbrae.”

  It was nothing less than the truth. His mother enjoyed Fergus’ visits. Sometimes Connor wondered why she had moved from Duncadha after his father’s death four years ago. Fergus had made it clear he had no objection to her remaining.

  “I’ll inform my wife to prepare for our departure,” Fergus said. “As soon as possible. I sicken of Dunadd.”

  * * * * *

  Fergus wasn’t at the feast the following night. It didn’t take much imagination as to what otherwise occupied his time. Savagely Connor bit into a chicken leg and ignored the seductive glances and attempts at flirtation from the young noblewoman by his side.

  But what the hell? Maybe he’d take Ewan’s advice. Maybe a mindless fuck would help cool his blood, balance his mood, eradicate Aila from his thoughts.

  He turned to her and watched her face brighten at his sudden interest. She was pretty enough but her eyes weren’t green, her hair wasn’t an intriguing combination of gold and auburn and her voice held none of Aila’s exquisitely enchanting accent.

  Beneath the furs, none of that mattered. He didn’t need to look in her eyes or spread her hair across his pillows. Didn’t need her to open her mouth to talk.

  All she had to do was part her thighs.

  His cock remained entirely unmoved by the prospect.

  “My lord.”

  The unfamiliar feminine voice from behind him pulled him back to the present. He turned and recognized one of Aila’s ladies. Instantly all thoughts of how to rouse his cock’s interest in a night of unbridled passion vanished.

  “What is it?” His voice was sharp. Had something happened to Aila? “Is the princess unwell?” But if she was unwell, why would one of her ladies seek him out?

  “The princess is well.” The woman’s voice was scarcely above a whisper. “But she asks that you accompany me to her chamber.”

  His heart kicked against his ribs. It didn’t mean what he wanted it to mean. Aila wouldn’t arrange an assignation with him on the third night of her marriage. But logic made no difference to his cock, as it jerked to attention against his thigh in agonized anticipation.

  “She fears,” the woman said, her voice so low he had to strain to hear her words, “for the prince’s state of health.”

  Fergus. Again. He stood up, followed the woman from the hall but even knowing an illicit liaison was the last thing on Aila’s mind did nothing to diminish the extent of his erection.

  Torches blazed and common-rank warriors guarded every door. Even though all the noble Pictish warriors were locked up, MacAlpin was taking no chances. “What ails the prince?”

  The woman gave a small shrug. He couldn’t tell whether she meant she did not know, or she didn’t care. Either way it was plain she had conveyed her message and had no intention of sharing anything else with him.

  He marched through the antechamber into the bedchamber. Aila stood stiffly by the bed, where Fergus lay propped up against pillows, his face flushed and sweaty.

  “Fergus?” Connor hovered over his brother as dread clamped deep in his chest. His brother didn’t appear to hear him as his breath rasped unevenly and his eyes remained half closed.

  Connor turned to Aila. She met his gaze but there was no warmth. Instead she jerked her head, as if he were a menial, before turning on her heel and going to the window.

  With another glance at his brother, Connor followed her. “Aila, what—”

  “My husband is not responding to treatment.” Her voice was as icy as the glare she leveled his way. “I called you here to ask if you know of any other physician aside from MacLeod who can help him.”

  “MacLeod’s MacAlpin’s own physician.” And if MacLeod was treating Fergus, that meant the king knew. And if the king knew, why hadn’t he been informed of his brother’s condition?

  “Indeed.” Aila sounded entirely unimpressed. “The fact remains your half brother worsens by the hour.”

  “But what happened? He was all right yesterday.” Yet even as he said the words, doubt prickled.

  Fergus hadn’t been all right. He’d been sweating. And unable to stand upright.

  Only then did he recall the trickle of blood along Fergus’ leg two nights ago. Fergus had said it was only a scratch. Connor hadn’t thought twice about the injury since.

  “His blood is poisoned.” Aila glanced at the bed and just as swiftly glanced away. “Your MacLeod has bled him several times, but the wound remains noxious.”

  To die in battle was a clean death compared to the drawn-out agony of having your own body rot from the inside out. There had been times in his life when he’d wanted to kill Fergus. But he would never have raised his sword against him. And he would never have wished this fate upon him.

  “Where’s MacLeod now?” Aila might not think much of him, but he was the royal physician, the most learned of all. MacAlpin would allow no other to touch a member of his kin.

  “Reporting to his master.”

  The scathing note in her voice pierced his tortured thoughts and he shot her a sharp look. She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking over his shoulder at the wall beyond.

  MacLeod entered the bedchamber, scarcely glanced at him or Aila, and went directly to Fergus and pulled back t
he linen sheet. Connor watched MacLeod pluck three fat leeches from Fergus’s thigh and drop them into a bowl.

  Fergus gave a rasping groan and instantly Aila was by his side. As a good wife should be. Connor flexed his fingers before following her over.

  “Is he improving?” Aila’s voice was haughty as she addressed MacLeod.

  “I’ve done all I can, madam,” MacLeod said, but not before he’d shot her a glance of intense dislike. “We must put our trust in the Lord now.”

  Fergus opened his eyes. “Connor.” His voice rasped. “Never thought it would end like this.”

  Chest tight, Connor gripped his brother’s limp hand. “Nothing has ended, Fergus.”

  Aila was so close her scent invaded his jagged senses. But she didn’t look at him. She was focused on Fergus.

  “You are not going to die.” Rage threaded her words as if the thought of Fergus dying ripped her soul in two.

  “My lords,” MacLeod said. “I will fetch the monks.”

  Fergus shifted his glazed gaze to Aila. “Leave us.”

  Aila stiffened, clearly offended at the dismissal. But she didn’t say anything. She turned and regally stalked into the antechamber, her ladies closing the door behind her.

  Fergus stretched his lips in a parody of a smile. “Does a man’s heart good to know how much his wife loves him.”

  Did Aila love Fergus? A dull pain twisted his gut. “Aye.”

  “Always envied you that.” Fergus hitched in a strained breath. “With Fearchara.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  Fergus’ eyes flickered. “She worshipped you. I wanted that.”

  For once Connor was speechless. Fergus had never shown any sign of wanting to settle down with one woman.

  “Never found a woman I wanted that way. Not how you found Fearchara.”

  Connor shifted uneasily. Fergus had never spoken of such things before. He knew it was the fever loosening Fergus’ tongue but nevertheless, Connor didn’t want to hear it.

  “I was lucky.” The words were little more than a growl. Because right now he felt anything but lucky.