Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  She did not acknowledge the Scots who bowed as she walked the length of the chamber. It took every shred of willpower she possessed to keep her gaze on MacAlpin, and not stray to Connor MacKenzie.

  Yet it didn’t matter where she focused. MacKenzie filled her vision regardless.

  “Princess Devorgilla.” MacAlpin spoke her language and bowed, as if this was a perfectly normal meeting. Her glance flickered, unwillingly, to the flagstone floor where remnants of bloodstains lingered. “I deeply regret these tragic circumstances.”

  Hatred flared. She doused it, with difficulty. But managed to keep all such emotion from showing on her face.

  “As do I.” Her voice was chilly and she replied in Pictish, unwilling to reveal she understood Gaelic although his physician was only too well aware of her fluency in the barbaric tongue.

  “On behalf of all the people of Dal Riada,” MacAlpin continued, “I want you to know none of us bear you any ill will for the events that transpired within these walls.”

  Goddess, strike him down.

  The curse surged up from the core of her soul. The curse of pagans, a curse she meant with every fiber of her being.

  The civilized veneer she had worked so hard to embrace during the last nine years shattered. Uuen’s teachings fled and primal instinct cascaded through her blood.

  She didn’t forgive him. She would never forgive him. And if ever the chance presented itself for vengeance, she would grab it with both hands and revel in the bloodied outcome.

  MacAlpin remained central to her unwavering gaze, but she saw Connor stiffen at the king’s words. She had to stop looking at Connor. Except she wasn’t, yet she remained vitally aware of every breath he took.

  “My lady,” Connor said and his voice wrapped around her like a mantle of fur. She spared him only a fleeting glance but enough to see him grip a heavy, carved chair and bring it to her side. “Please be seated.”

  She maintained eye contact with the king. The bastard didn’t even have the decency to lower his lying gaze.

  “I prefer to remain standing.” Did they think to intimidate her further by making her sit when they all towered over her? Why did Connor MacKenzie continue to stand so close to her? Did he think her unaware of his scrutiny?

  For a second she forgot where she was, why she was here. All she could see, in her mind, was Connor. Looking at her as he had looked at her when she had conceived his child.

  Heat washed through her. What would MacAlpin do if he discovered whose child she carried? Would it be Connor’s death sentence as well as her own?

  Connor tightened his grip on the back of the chair. Aila had spared him scarcely a glance since she’d entered the chamber. It seemed his presence meant nothing to her, that she was barely aware of his existence.

  She looked at MacAlpin with chilly indifference. He’d expected her to be distraught, perhaps accusatory. MacAlpin had certainly thought the reason Aila had insisted upon an audience was so she could level vitriol his way.

  But Connor should have known better. Aila could hide her emotions if she chose to. But it twisted his guts that she needed to hide her emotions from him.

  It would be different once they left Dunadd. Once she was free of the stench of betrayal that clung to every stone and lurked in every crevice of the hill fort.

  “I have given great thought to your position here, madam,” MacAlpin said. If Connor didn’t know otherwise, he would have thought his king showed both deep respect and concern for Aila. But all MacAlpin wanted was to keep Aila’s bride price and her potential heir to the kingdom of Ce within his realm.

  “So have I, my lord,” Aila said. “The terms of the marriage contract between Ce and Dal Riada have been fulfilled. The alliance ratified.”

  She sounded so sincere. But he remembered the blood on her gown, the savage gleam in her eyes as he’d burst into Fergus’ bedchamber.

  God damn MacAlpin. He ached to take her in his arms, to rip the burden of grief from her shoulders. But all he could do was offer her his silent support. Yet if she so much as glanced his way, he’d offer her so much more than that.

  “My lady.” MacAlpin approached and instinctively Connor stepped closer to Aila’s side. If MacAlpin noticed, he chose to ignore the gesture. Aila didn’t appear to notice at all. “Your courage and honor humbles me. A strong alliance between your people and mine is all I crave. Yet for that, we need more than blood oaths. We need physical union.”

  Aila’s expression did not alter, but Conner had the uncanny sensation that ice spiked from her, freezing the air. “Physical union?” She made the words sound obscene yet her voice remained as even as ever.

  “Between Scot and Pict,” MacAlpin elaborated. Did he imagine Aila had not understood his meaning? “Under other circumstances you would, naturally, return to your kingdom. But these are unsettled times, my lady. We must work together to ensure peace prevails.”

  Connor saw Aila’s lips flatten. But instantly she recovered herself. So instantly, Connor wondered whether MacAlpin had even noticed the offense he’d given.

  “In Ce, I shall work tirelessly toward such end.”

  MacAlpin inclined his head. As if he intended to give her words serious consideration. Connor clenched his jaw, shot Aila a sideways glance. Why was MacAlpin playing with her emotions like this? If his king didn’t spit it out soon, then God help him, he’d tell Aila himself.

  “I hope, my lady,” MacAlpin said, “you will continue to work tirelessly to such end despite remaining in Dal Riada.”

  “My lord,” Aila said and Connor saw the way her fingers gripped the golden material of her gown, hidden from sight from his king but plainly visible to him. “You have no need to keep me as a hostage. You have my brother Talargan, royal prince of the kingdom of Ce.”

  “And he shall be treated as such, madam. But, alas, I cannot allow you to leave and it would be remiss of me not to ensure you are suitably protected.”

  Connor saw her swallow, saw her fingers convulse within the folds of her gown. His patience unraveled. “My liege.”

  MacAlpin raised his hand without taking his gaze from Aila. “Your continued safety and happiness is our prime consideration. That is why I have arranged another marriage for you, to a warrior whose status befits your blood.”

  All hint of color drained from Aila’s face and for one heartwrenching moment he thought she was going to faint. He slung an infuriated glare at his king, but MacAlpin appeared oblivious to anything but Aila.

  “I will not—” Her voice was no longer cool, no longer even. Without thinking he slid his fingers between hers, disengaging her death grip on her gown, and pressed his arm against hers for any support she might require.

  Her cold fingers remained lifeless within his grip but she didn’t try to pull away.

  MacAlpin smiled, well satisfied. “Already your future husband is eager to comfort you, madam. Tomorrow you will wed Connor MacKenzie, lord of the royal stronghold of Dunfodla and lord of Duncadha and of Dunbrae.”

  His king faded into oblivion and he and Aila might have been the only two people in the chamber as she slowly turned to look at him. He began to smile, hoping to reassure her that once this day was over he would do everything in his power to heal her pain. To promise she would never have to set foot in Dunadd again.

  The smile froze on his lips. She looked at him not with relief or pleasure or even a wary uncertainty. For a second his brain could not comprehend the look in her eyes, the expression on her face.

  But his brain didn’t need to comprehend, because his heart recognized instantly. Bleak despair filled her eyes as if he had just plunged a sword through her breast and betrayed the fundamental core of her being.

  As if the knowledge she was to be his wife wrenched open her soul.

  Chapter Thirty

  This could not be happening.

  Even as MacAlpin officiated the joining, a section of Aila’s mind refused to believe she was standing by Connor’s side. Becoming his wi
fe.

  But of course it was true. She’d been unable to think of anything else all through the tortuous night. And what made it all worse was the humiliating knowledge that a despicable part of her craved this unholy alliance with a desperation that shamed her.

  Back in Ce she had harbored foolish dreams of a lifetime together with her Scot.

  Now, once again, her deepest wish had been granted. Truly Bride’s viciousness in her vengeance was horrific. What more could the goddess take from her, manipulate to her twisted will and fling back in her face, crushed beyond salvation?

  Connor turned to her, raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. She remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the gold brooch pinned to the plaid slung over his shoulder.

  She knew the answer. Bride had no need to do anything else. She had sown the seeds already.

  Her unborn child.

  What rights did a mother have in Dal Riada? As the father, as her husband, would Connor take the babe from her if his king ordered it? Another hostage to ensure her continued compliance?

  It didn’t matter if the rest of the world assumed the child was Fergus’. Connor would know the truth.

  The horror of the extent of power he wielded over her heart, over her sanity, blazed through her and for a moment reality blurred. How could she survive, living with a man she loved as much as she despised his king, a man who could believe such vicious lies about her people without a shred of proof?

  “Be strong for just a little longer.” The whispered words caressed her ear as Connor drew closer. His evocative scent of savage Scot and foreign spices invaded her senses, tainted her blood and speared with desperate longing between her thighs. He cradled her hand against his chest; his body shielded her from view. As though he was her protector.

  She stiffened, battling the urge to surrender to her body’s treacherous need for Connor’s touch. She would show no emotion in front of the Scots. They would not bear witness to her total degradation. She was a princess. The honor and pride of Ce, of Pictland herself, rested on her shoulders.

  She turned her head very slightly. Tried to ignore how his strong jaw remained unyielding against her cheek.

  “You may be assured no Scot will ever have justification for calling me weak.”

  “Aila.” How could she still find the way he said her name so distressingly seductive? His lips grazed her earlobe and jagged tremors heated her blood. But she remained immobile, refusing to react. Despite how she ached to sink into his arms, how she desperately wanted to hear him admit her people were innocent of the accusations leveled against them. “You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

  Damn him. How could she keep an emotional distance from him when he could penetrate her defenses with just a few whispered words?

  In memory of the slain, she could never allow him to guess how much she still cared.

  “Yes.” She drew back so their faces were no longer touching. “How fortunate I am not prone to hysterics. It appears, after all, there was a reason for my past.”

  At fifteen, she hadn’t possessed the ability to hide her feelings. At seventeen, she had wanted to die rather than confront her feelings.

  But nine years of living with her memories, of battling with her guilt, had taught her one thing at least.

  How to hide from the world behind a veneer of ice.

  His gaze sharpened on her, as if he had no intention of letting that comment remain between them, but MacAlpin intervened. Hurrying the proceedings onward.

  Another feast. But this time Connor sat by her side. This time, as goblets and tankards were raised, she felt his eyes upon her. As if she was the only one in the hall. The only one who mattered.

  Beneath the table, she fisted her hands. If she wanted to retain the strength to survive this marriage, she had to face the fact Connor’s loyalties were, and would forever remain, with his treacherous king. She could not afford to trust him no matter how her foolish heart ached to.

  And she had to be strong. For her child.

  Connor glanced at Aila, where she sat beside him on a carved chair. She looked beautiful, regal and so remote she might as well be residing on the moon itself.

  But she was his wife. His chest tightened at the knowledge that, against all logical possibility, he had achieved this miracle.

  He watched Aila imperiously wave another serving slave aside. Her plate remained empty. Had she eaten anything at all?

  He leaned toward her. “Is there nothing I can tempt you with, my lady?”

  When she turned to him, he offered her a smile. The look on her face suggested he had just offered her the contents of a chamber pot.

  “Nothing at all.” Her voice was polite, but chilled. And clearly intended to convey it wasn’t only the food that failed to tempt her.

  He couldn’t even begin to imagine how she felt, once again sitting at the high table. Once again a bride.

  In the hill fort where her kin had been murdered.

  The sooner they left the better. First thing in the morning. But first, he had to get her out of here. He turned to his king.

  “My liege.” He waited until MacAlpin turned to him. “My wife is fatigued by recent events. I beg leave to retire for the night.”

  MacAlpin grinned in clear approval. “An eager bridegroom.” He glanced at Aila before returning his attention to Connor. “She’s reluctant, that’s to be expected. But she’ll come round in time. Once there’s a child filling her belly her thoughts will be more usefully occupied.”

  “Aye.” Connor forced the word between gritted teeth. He had no intention of impregnating Aila. And if she was already…that was something he’d have to face. “We’ll be leaving for Dunbrae in the morning.”

  The king jerked his head in approval. “She’ll be safe enough there. I’ve no need to remind you she remains our most valuable hostage. Ce will not dare rise against us while we hold the heirs to their kingdom.”

  Connor beckoned a servant, gave orders for an intimate banquet to be served in Aila’s chambers. Finally he returned his attention to Aila. “Shall we retire?”

  She looked at him. Her eyes were curiously blank, as though she had buried her emotions so deeply they no longer disturbed her. But as soon as they were alone, she would no longer feel the obligation to present this perfect facade.

  With him she could be herself.

  “If you wish.” Again perfectly polite. And edged with ice that scraped his nerves raw.

  He stood, held her chair as she rose. Lascivious remarks and knowing laughs filled the hall and Aila froze. For one agonizing second he saw the pain, the shame, flood her face before she straightened her shoulders, tilted her head and prepared her regal exit.

  All newlywed couples were subjected to such irreverence. But this time Connor found no humor in the tradition. For God’s sake, were his countrymen so drunk they couldn’t appreciate how Aila must be feeling?

  He swept a black glare around the hall. A fleeting glare of condemnation but it was enough. Not one of the warriors who had traveled with him to Ce, nor those who had fought by his side so recently in Northumbria, were among the foul-mouthed revelers.

  To hell with tradition. He didn’t take her hand as custom expected. Instead he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the crowd with his body, and escorted her from the hall.

  She didn’t pull away from him. But neither did she relax against him. God, they needed to be alone so she could drop this pretense before she shattered.

  In silence they returned to her chambers, her ladies following. But she would have no need of her ladies tonight. He intended to administer to her every wish himself. And then, when she was safely in his arms and soft and glowing after their loving, he would admit she had been right.

  She walked through the antechamber and stood by the fire in the bedchamber and he watched the flames turn her hair into fascinating ribbons of fiery sunsets and golden sunrises. Her ladies fluttered around her, removing her cr
own and veil, but Aila appeared as unaware of them as she had of him. As servants filed in with covered platters and placed them on the small table, he followed her into the bedchamber.

  “The princess does not require your assistance tonight, ladies.”

  Her ladies spun around, looked confused and glanced from Aila to him, as if wondering to whom they owed allegiance. But since Aila didn’t object they finally departed in a flurry of curtsies and anxious glances to their silent mistress.

  Before he could move toward her, an elderly servant rose from a stool on the far side of the fire. He hadn’t even noticed her sitting there. In her arms was the tiny black kitten.

  Aila roused from her reverie to cast a glance at the kitten before she jerked her attention back to the fire. Unease snaked through his gut. If she wanted the creature to remain, why didn’t she say so?

  But she didn’t say a word. And the old woman shuffled toward the door, clearly reluctant to leave her princess alone with him.

  He reached out and took the kitten and the woman shot him a startled glance before hurrying from the chamber.

  Finally they were alone. Now she could turn on him, tell him what she thought of his king, his people, this cursed land he had brought her to. Finally she could grieve and he would comfort her. In time he’d ease her heart. Make her smile. Remind her of the love she bore for him, no matter how deeply she had buried it.

  “Aila.” He trailed his knuckles along the silk of her face, outlined her jaw with the back of his fingers. Desire stabbed through his groin, hot and hard, and he recalled just how long it had been since she had been in his bed.

  Five weeks. It felt like five months. But now, now she was his wife and she would share his bed every night.

  Blood thundered through his veins and his engorged cock ached for her touch, her heat, the exquisite sensation of sinking into her welcoming body. He tilted her face toward him, lost his soul in the haunting depths of her glittering eyes.

  “Aila, Princess Devorgilla of Ce.” His hand cradled her jaw, his fingertips grazed the her bound tresses. “Lady Mistress of Duncadha and Dunfodla.” She was mistress of Dunbrae also, but it felt wrong to grant her that title. She did not need it, anyway. “My wife.” The words were raw and a flicker of some emotion heated her eyes, caused the breath to hitch in her breast. It was a small respons but enough to reassure him. His fingers tightened and a mewl of protest emerged from the direction of his hip.