Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  “Aye.” Fergus’ breath rattled. “You always were a lucky bastard. I hated you from the day you were born. The day you took my mother’s love from me.”

  Heat speared through Connor’s temples. As a child, he hadn’t understood his beloved half brother’s rages. Only as he’d got older had he realized how deeply Fergus resented not being the true blood son of Connor’s own mother.

  Connor’s mother was the one thing in the world Fergus adored more than his own royal lineage.

  “I took nothing from you.” Was he really having this conversation? And yet as much as he wanted to change the subject, speak of less torturous issues, he knew, in his heart, Fergus was dying. And Fergus wanted to speak of their mother. “She’s always looked upon you as her own son.”

  “I shamed her.” Fergus’ eyes lost focus, as though he looked at something beyond mere mortal vision. “If she knew, she would forever turn her back on me.”

  “There’s nothing you could do that would make our mother forsake you.”

  Fergus began to shiver, although his skin was burning. “MacAlpin knew the Picts would never willingly acquiesce.”

  MacAlpin? Fuck, Fergus was sinking into delirium. But then his words penetrated, took on significance. “You mean MacAlpin’s claim to the kingdom of Fortriu?”

  “If they refused to acknowledge his right,” Fergus said, “they were to be slaughtered without mercy. Without warning.”

  “The Picts didn’t attack first?”

  “Only the nine nobles who claimed matrilineal rights to Fortriu were summoned to the war chamber.” Fergus gripped Connor’s hand, but it was involuntary, as his entire body convulsed in spasms of pain. “MacAlpin’s orders. A warrior obeys his king.”

  Pictland needs a strong leader, MacAlpin’s angry words echoed in his mind. One to bring all the kingdoms together.

  And this was the first step.

  “MacAlpin planned this. From the start.” Bitter rage roiled through him at the knowledge he’d been so deceived. At the realization his unformed suspicions had been true.

  “Eliminate all rivals to the kingdom.” Fergus gasped for breath as his convulsions ceased. “Fortriu first. The others will follow.”

  Connor glared down at his brother, but the anger wasn’t for Fergus. It was for his king, for his advisers, for the way they had gone about eradicating all threat of a Pictish succession.

  “And what of the princess?” His voice was harsh. “Why drag her into this when he had no intention of ratifying an alliance?”

  Fergus’ eyelids drooped as if he no longer had the energy to keep them open. “But he does need this alliance.” The words were slurred, as Fergus hovered on the precipice of unconsciousness. “She’s the bridge between our peoples. Through this alliance her son will inherit Ce, and the northern stronghold becomes a Scot-held territory.”

  Fergus was so sure he’d got Aila with child on their wedding night. But for the moment, that was a secondary concern. Because when Fergus died—and he would die, Connor knew the signs only too well—Aila would be vulnerable.

  Of all the hostages held in Dunadd, she was the most valuable. The one MacAlpin would use ruthlessly in order to gain advantage with the wealthy kingdom of Ce.

  He’d watched her slip from his grasp once. But this time he’d do everything in his power—lie, flatter and sell his soul to the fucking devil—to persuade MacAlpin that the only logical answer for the problem that was the princess was for her to marry Connor MacKenzie.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Connor stood by Aila’s side as the monks chanted in the tongue of Rome over Fergus’ prostrate body. As they anointed his brother with oil in the name of the Lord, Connor risked a sideways glance.

  Her fierce glare did not waver from the scene before them. She believed the healing ritual would work and Fergus would once again rise in full health.

  He wished he shared that faith. But he knew of no one who’d survived the extreme unction. As far as he was concerned it was merely a prelude to death, despite how the monks believed otherwise.

  Yet if Fergus survived, he would no longer be a true husband to Aila. He would be required to give up the pleasures of the flesh, dedicate his life to God. Not a life Fergus would relish.

  And Aila would be tied to a husband who wasn’t a husband, and still beyond his reach.

  When, finally, MacLeod pronounced the inevitable, grief seared Connor’s heart. For the brother he had hero-worshipped as a child, the brother he’d tolerated as a man.

  Instinctively he turned to Aila to offer her comfort. He didn’t know how or why and it no longer mattered, but since her marriage she’d grown close to Fergus. Her determination that he should live proved that.

  Not that Connor had any intention of letting that stand in his way. Aila had loved him once and she would love him again. And now when she entered Dunbrae it would be as his bride.

  “My lord,” MacLeod said.

  Connor barely glanced at him. “Wait for me outside. I will be with you directly.”

  MacLeod offered a stiff bow, clearly offended, but Connor knew he would wait. Connor was Fergus’ closest blood kin and as such was entitled to accompany the physician when he informed the king of Fergus’ death.

  Only when the door between bed and antechamber closed did Aila finally turn toward him. She looked deathly tired. So fragile he wanted to wrap her in his arms and never let her go.

  But the fury in her eyes rendered him immobile.

  “I did everything within my power to keep him alive.” Her voice was low and trembled with emotion.

  “I know.” Her people had been betrayed but Aila’s honor had never faltered. Shame crawled over his skin at what she had endured at the hands of his king. He owed her an apology for accusing her kin of attacking MacAlpin without provocation, for doubting her word and, damn it, for bringing her here in the first place.

  Always remember to whom you owe your loyalty. MacAlpin’s thinly veiled threat echoed in his mind. Until this week there had never been a doubt in his heart as to the strength of his loyalty to his king.

  He no longer trusted his king.

  It was tantamount to treason. Yet the conviction remained. MacAlpin was his king but Aila claimed his loyalty. As soon as he and Aila were wed, he would tell her the truth. As his wife, she would never betray his confidence. But until then he couldn’t risk it.

  “I’m sorry.” The words sounded awkward. As if he didn’t mean them. Yet he did and in so many ways she could not yet fathom. He gestured to the bed. “Do you want me to send your ladies in so you can attend to Fergus?”

  She drew herself up even more regally, although he couldn’t imagine how such a thing was possible. “Will my performing those rites ensure my brother lives?”

  He stared at her, suddenly fearful this final tragedy had turned her brain. “Your brother?”

  “Yes. My brother.” The look she leveled his way suggested she thought he was being deliberately obtuse. “Talargan mac Bredei of Ce.”

  He tried to make sense of her question but failed. “Why would preparing Fergus’ body have anything to do with your brother?”

  His response obviously wasn’t what she’d expected. “Do you truly not know?” Uncertainty threaded her voice.

  “Aila.” He gripped her shoulders and tugged her toward him. “What are you talking about?” She was not ignorant of politics. She knew how the hostage system worked. Why then did she imagine her brother to be in danger?

  “Do you promise to guarantee his safety?” There was an undercurrent of desperation in her voice, as though she possessed no faith in his king’s political machinations. Not that he could blame her for that.

  “Aye.” He infused the word with all the conviction he could. Talargan was valuable, but only as long as he was alive.

  “Even though your brother died?”

  “I don’t see the connection. Prince Talargan is safe and will remain safe. You know how it is with royal hostages.” She was
one herself. He hoped, without conviction, she hadn’t made that connection.

  Her glance flickered to the bed then back to him.

  “So he will be accorded the rights his status demands?” She sounded less despairing, as if his assurances eased her mind. “The death of Prince Fergus will not impact on my brother at all?”

  What the hell had Fergus told her? His hands slowly slid from her shoulders, along her arms and clasped her limp fingers.

  “I give you my word,” he said. “Talargan will not be harmed because of anything that happened in this chamber.”

  She stared at him, considering the worth of his word. Then she gave a small jerk of her head, accepting his guarantee, and pulled free from his grasp.

  MacAlpin took the news of Fergus’ death in thunderous silence. He glared at MacLeod as if he held him personally responsible and the physician withdrew as hastily as protocol allowed.

  Connor watched his king clench his fists before rounding on his advisers and ordering them from the chamber. An unexpected bonus. Now the only one Connor had to face was MacAlpin when he put forth his outrageous suggestion.

  Yet not so outrageous. Without a legitimate living heir, Fergus’ property would go to Connor. Not only the hill fort of Duncadha but also Dunfodla, the stronghold his brother had inherited from his royal mother.

  If Fergus was right and MacAlpin genuinely craved an alliance with the royal clan of Ce, then he needed to find a powerful husband for Aila.

  And with his brother’s death, Connor was now a noble of significant wealth. And precedent had been set.

  His own father had once married a princess.

  “My liege.”

  MacAlpin rounded on him, eyes blazing. He smashed his fist onto his desk, on top of the marriage contract. “This will not deflect my purpose.” His voice was eerily calm, at startling odds with the fury emanating from him. “Do you understand, MacKenzie?”

  “Aye.” He understood more about his king now than he wanted to. But MacAlpin was still his king. His word was law. Just because the slaughter of the Picts sickened Connor was irrelevant.

  “The princess could be carrying Fergus’ child.”

  It was possible. It was a fact he had to face, no matter how much the thought of it curdled his guts. But no matter how easily his brother had sired offspring with a multitude of women there was always a chance he had failed to impregnate Aila.

  “The continuation of her line is imperative.” MacAlpin glared at him. “Her child will inherit Dunfodla and Duncadha from his father and by Pict law have claim on Ce.” He flattened his palms on his desk and leaned toward Connor. “I will not allow anything to interfere with that outcome.”

  Ice chilled Connor’s blood. “What if the princess is not with child?”

  “Aye.” The word was low, the king’s stare intense. “That’s the question, isn’t it? If Fergus didn’t succeed in planting his seed. She’s too valuable to be unwed, yet if another man sires her child within a month, its parentage will forever be in doubt.”

  Connor fought against the urge to grasp MacAlpin by his neck and thrust him up against the wall. He spoke of Aila as though she were a prize mare; that her only worth was what her womb may or may not be nurturing.

  He fisted his hands, stood his ground and attempted to cool his thoughts sufficiently so MacAlpin would favorably consider his proposal. “My liege. The princess requires the protection of a strong husband, one who—”

  “I’ve no intention,” MacAlpin said, “of allowing Dunfodla to pass on to a child whose claim to Kenzie’s blood is in doubt. You don’t have the royal lineage of Fergus but you did share a father. Kenzie was like a brother to me.” MacAlpin straightened, narrowed his eyes. “You’ll wed the princess tomorrow. And by God, if she isn’t already with child then ensure she is before the month ends.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Once more in her own bedchamber, Aila stared blindly through the narrow window to the gray sea in the distance while her ladies whispered together in the antechamber. She knew they were fearful of the future now that their princess was, once again, a widow.

  But this time she felt no overwhelming grief. No desire to follow her husband into whatever Otherworld he might travel to.

  She didn’t even feel grim pleasure that one of the cursed Scots who had lured and slaughtered her kin had received justice.

  Because something else, something that even managed to paralyze the pain of seeing her father murdered, crippled her mind.

  Gingerly she brushed her fingertips over her belly, ensuring her action could not be seen by her ladies.

  It wasn’t possible, of course. Her constant fatigue, her inability to keep food in her stomach, the tenderness of her breasts—all could be logically explained.

  For two years she and Onuist had tried to conceive. She had used every pagan ritual and spell she knew, had offered sacrifice and tears but not once had there been even a hint of the longed-for babe.

  Despite the tantalizing glimpses Bride had so often shown her of a future filled with beloved children, Aila had convinced herself she was barren. It had scarcely crossed her mind the fault might lay with Onuist.

  She released a quivering breath and rested her forehead against the rough stone wall.

  One night with Connor MacKenzie was all it had taken to shatter the foundations of her existence.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She was tired because of the long journey, the events that had unfolded since, the grief she had suppressed. She was sick because the food here choked her. And her breasts were tender because…

  Bride turned, looked at her and smiled the unmistakable smile of victory.

  Her eyes jerked open. No. It couldn’t be. But her heart pounded and stomach churned as a memory hammered through her mind.

  That night, she had wished with all her heart to conceive Connor’s child. Knowing it could never happen, still she had longed for such a miracle. But more than that. She remembered now. Remembered how she would give anything to conceive his child.

  Bride had been there. Bride had heard.

  And Bride had granted her deepest wish.

  For a price.

  The nausea rose and she battled against it, refusing to succumb to her body’s weakness. For nine years she had shut out the goddess, refused to worship the ancient ways. Had tried to live with the constant guilt of having watched Onuist die. The knowledge she was destined to never hold her own babe in her arms.

  In one moment of fractured concentration, Bride had entered. Witnessed her night of illicit passion. And, like all pagan gods throughout the history of mankind, she had exacted her own twisted revenge.

  How better to punish a lapsed chosen one of the ancient gods than by using the seed of Aila’s bitterest enemy to fill her womb? What exquisite vengeance Bride had bestowed. She had embraced Aila’s deepest desire, had answered her most fervent prayer.

  By using the man whose kin might personally be responsible for slaughtering Aila’s own beloved father.

  Instinctively her fingers curved protectively against her belly. Guilt ate into her soul, but instead of accepting it, as she had accepted the guilt that had consumed her after Onuist had died, she fought against it.

  It didn’t matter who the father was. She was this child’s mother and she would do everything to protect its fragile existence. Bride might laugh at the knowledge she had so cleverly distorted Aila’s dearest wish. But Aila would take the tarnished gift. Take it and embrace it and love it with her entire heart.

  She glanced over her shoulder but her ladies were still distracted. Once again she focused through the window, her mind no longer numb with grief. She couldn’t afford to cocoon herself in such self-indulgent misery.

  Not if she wanted her child born in freedom.

  Now she was widowed, there was a chance—no matter how slender—that she might be allowed to return to Ce. But there was no mistaking that if the Scot king discovered she was with child, freedom was the last thing
she would ever be granted.

  And should his physicians discover the unlikelihood of Fergus having fathered the babe the chances of her surviving pregnancy, let alone childbirth, were remote.

  With reluctance, she forced her hand from her belly and beckoned to her ladies. If she intended to confront MacAlpin, she would look every regal inch the princess of Ce she was.

  MacAlpin, to her surprise, agreed to see her directly. She had expected him to be evasive, reluctant to face her. That he was not only reinforced the truth of his barbaric nature and lack of conscience.

  She wore the gown of gold she’d worn to the betrothal, with the scarlet veil and royal crown of Ce. If MacAlpin expected to find her cowed and broken by his betrayal, he would be grievously disappointed.

  Accompanied by her ladies and the Scot guard, she followed MacAlpin’s messenger to the war chamber. She would not recall the last time she had entered this chamber. Brutally she pushed the memories aside. She couldn’t think of her father or the other nobles. She had to be strong. For the sake of her child.

  She buried her hatred of MacAlpin. Of all Scots. Buried it deep so when the upstart king looked at her all he would see was a princess with a thousand-year lineage. A royal lineage that put his own paltry three-hundred-year heritage in Pictland to shame.

  The second she was ushered into the chamber, she saw Connor standing by his king. For a moment, she remained paralyzed, disbelieving, unable to move let alone think.

  Of every scenario that had played through her mind during the last hour, the possibility of Connor being present when she confronted MacAlpin had never occurred to her.

  She’d tried not to think of Connor MacKenzie at all. Because whenever she did, her head warred with her heart and now, knowing she nurtured his child in her womb, all her carefully constructed walls of defense threatened to crumble.

  She forced one foot in front of the other. Her spine was so rigid she feared it would snap. But better that than to sag with defeat, awash in the despicable knowledge that just one glance at MacKenzie could cause her heart to ache with hopeless love.