Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Aila stirred, sighed and then realization rushed through her like the northerly wind on a winter’s night in Fidach. Why was she in the bed?

  Last night she had huddled in the freezing garderobe, attempting to quell the foolish tears and hopeless thoughts that continued to haunt her. Eventually, praying Connor had long since fallen asleep, she’d gone back to the bedchamber and curled up with a fur on one of the chairs.

  It had reminded her, bleakly, of her wedding night with Fergus.

  Gingerly she opened one eye, but Connor wasn’t beside her. She remembered now. At the time she had thought it nothing more than a fragmented dream.

  But he really had scooped her up in his arms. Put her back to bed. And not attempted to seduce her.

  She covered her eyes with her arm. She still wore the gown she had pulled on in the night. And now it was time to face another day. Face the man whose babe she carried, the man who could not have made it clearer to her that the thought of her bearing his child was abhorrent to him.

  * * * * *

  Later that afternoon Connor discovered Aila and her ladies with his mother and Nighean in his mother’s private chamber. They were embroidering and the sight of Aila with a needle and a pained expression on her lovely face twisted his guts.

  But she would have no further need of sewing. Not unless she wanted to. And Aila, he knew, possessed talents that lay elsewhere.

  “Ladies.” He entered the chamber and wondered if he would ever get used to how Aila was always surrounded by her ladies. It had not been so in Ce. He often wished they had never had to leave Ce. “I have need of my wife.”

  When nine pairs of eyes pinned him to the spot, he realized how his words might be interpreted. And the look on Aila’s face suggested the thought did not thrill her.

  But just as any dutiful wife might, she didn’t question him. She simply stood, placed her embroidery on her stool and excused herself.

  He stared in disbelief when her ladies followed suit.

  “My lady has no need for your services,” he said hastily, which only served to earn him another look from all present. Christ, could he be any more gauche if he tried? He glanced at Aila but she refused to meet his eyes and so he merely allowed her to precede him before closing the door behind him.

  He heaved a sigh of relief. Relief that evaporated when he glanced at Aila. She was staring along the stone corridor as if he wasn’t even there.

  “I want to show you something.” His voice was harsh when he had wanted to be gentle. But he couldn’t be gentle with her when he wanted to grab her shoulders and shout at her. Shake her even. Fuck, he’d do anything to get a reaction out of her. To understand what he had done last night that had caused her to once again retreat within her shell.

  He’d thought finally she was thawing. She’d answered him back, taunted him and then taken him with such mind-blowing intensity he had almost come inside her.

  Then she had disappeared to the garderobe. And stayed there so long he’d become alarmed and had gone to see if she was all right.

  But he didn’t get the chance to ask her. He had heard the stifled sobs, the muffled sniffles, the heartrending agony of a woman who wanted no one to hear how she suffered.

  So he had gone back to bed. And faced the bleak fact that, no matter how eager Aila was in the marriage bed, she still didn’t trust him enough to open her heart.

  In silence he led her toward his private chambers. He’d spent the morning clearing out and rearranging the antechamber, but now the moment had arrived to show Aila, he realized the odd sensation in the pit of his stomach was nerves.

  He glowered at the door as she waited with entire indifference by his side. She clearly had no interest in why he’d summoned her from her needlework or taken her to a part of the dwelling where no woman had any reason to be.

  Over the last nine years, he had faced down Viking, Northumbrian and Pictish warriors. But none of them had managed to cause him such trepidation as the anticipated reaction of this one fragile female when he opened this damned door.

  With a silent curse, he pushed it open and indicated for her to precede him. A part of him knew he was setting himself up for yet more heartache. But even if she turned up her nose, even if she merely inclined her head with regal thanks, he wouldn’t regret it.

  And there was always the chance that this would finally break through her icy reserve.

  He heard her sharp gasp as she stepped into the small chamber. He glanced at his handiwork, hoped he hadn’t inadvertently damaged anything. But he’d wanted to leave her in no doubt that, while in Dunbrae, she could consider this her own private domain.

  Almost private.

  “My illuminations.” She sounded stunned. Then she looked at him and her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “You have unpacked my illuminations.”

  “Aye.” It came out as a growl. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands so he folded his arms across his chest. “This chamber is for your use while we remain in Dunbrae. I thought you would prefer spending your time working on your people’s history rather than embroidering gowns.”

  Her bottom lip trembled and she hastily turned from him, walking toward the table he had dragged to the small window. She fingered the various implements he had placed on it as if reassuring herself they were real.

  “Why?” Her voice was low, choked, and he stared at her, unsure how to respond. He hadn’t expected her to ask why.

  “Because…” He hesitated, unable to find the words to tell her that he had done this because he wanted to see her smile again. Wanted to prove to her not all Scots were treacherous bastards. That, in truth, he would do anything for her.

  He couldn’t tell her. He didn’t know how.

  “Because I thought it would please you.”

  “Oh.” A small word. Filled with tears. He shifted uncomfortably and wrestled the need to go to her, to embrace her. It was obvious she didn’t want him to do any such thing.

  After all, it was not night. They were not in their bedchamber. Yet the urge to comfort her gnawed through his soul.

  As the silence lengthened and she didn’t move, he chanced taking a couple of steps toward her. “Does it please you?”

  She straightened her shoulders and turned to him, holding a length of vellum in one hand. “Yes. Thank you, Connor. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  He did now. But she would never know how much her calling him Connor meant to him. Since their marriage, she had avoided calling him by his first name, unless she also affixed his second.

  “I know you were,” he swallowed, struggled to continue, “forced into this union, Aila. But the last thing I want is for you to be unhappy.” His king had murdered her father. How could she not be unhappy?

  But that wasn’t what he meant. Yet how could explain what he meant?

  Her gaze dropped and fixed upon her vellum. “Do you…,” She hesitated and he watched her bite her lip. Then she appeared to reach a decision and looked at him. “Do you truly believe in this alliance between our people?”

  Despite everything that had happened, he did still believe. He couldn’t see how Aila could, but he wouldn’t lie to her.

  “Aye.” He saw her pain, her loss, in her beautiful eyes, but she didn’t look away. Didn’t condemn him for his answer. “We need a strong alliance if we want to defeat the Vikings. But I would never have wished this on you or your people. There had to have been another way.”

  His words were tantamount to treason. But his faith in his king was shaken and Aila was his wife. And he had promised himself she deserved an apology, even if an apology could ultimately do nothing.

  Yet until this moment, the words had always paralyzed his throat. He took another step toward her, cradled her hands. “I’m sorry. You were right. I only discovered the truth afterward. Your people were betrayed by mine.”

  She didn’t move. For an endless moment he stared into her eyes but had the eeriest sen
sation she couldn’t see him at all. Then she shuddered, but didn’t pull away from him.

  “You admit…your king betrayed mine?” She sounded as though she could not quite believe his confession. That she’d expected him to take such knowledge with him to the grave.

  “Aye.” Did he dare confess his traitorous thought? “I don’t know what I could have done if I’d been in Dunadd, Aila, but hell. I would’ve tried to stop the massacre somehow.”

  “What?” The word was barely audible. And even though she hadn’t moved, he felt her retreat within herself.

  “It was your brother, Prince Talargan, who insisted we return that night. He felt something was—amiss.” In truth, Talargan had insisted they continue onward to Dunadd because he was convinced his sister was in danger. And, shit tactics or not, that had been the deciding factor in Connor’s decision to back Talargan’s demand.

  “Talargan?” She sounded confused.

  “There was nothing we could do, Aila. It was over by the time we returned. Your brother was taken hostage, but…” Hell, why stop now? He had already told her enough to get himself hanged should MacAlpin ever hear of his words. “None of us who had fought by his side in Northumbria assisted.”

  She looked at him as though he spoke the barbaric tongue of the Norsemen. Except, since she was Aila, he wouldn’t be surprised if she could understand that language as well as she could his own.

  He took her hand and pulled her toward the door to his inner sanctum. “When we arrive in Duncadha, you’ll have your own chamber for your illuminations.” He couldn’t promise her she could work in the monastery. The monks would likely refuse to even consider the thought of a woman, even a princess, doing such sacred work within their hallowed halls. “But while we’re here I fear you’ll have to suffer my presence in the adjoining chamber.”

  It would be no hardship for him. And to hell with those who would be scandalized by the fact he’d installed his wife in his antechamber. A foreign wife who instead of spending her days with her needle spent them with vellum and paints.

  A Dal Riadan wife had no business entering her husband’s inner sanctum. But Aila was no ordinary wife. And there was something he wanted her to see. Something that would, perhaps, prove to her he was worthy of her hand despite his lack of royal blood.

  He’d show her Thorstein Olafsson’s broadsword. Tell her how he had beaten the Viking four years ago and claimed the warrior’s most prized possession. She would appreciate that. She would be sure to know how inextricably a Viking’s pride and sword were entwined.

  He would omit the fact that, in that fleeting second when the Viking had stumbled and Connor had claimed his sword, mutual respect had flared between them. Connor knew, as well as Olafsson, that if the battle hadn’t ended at that precise moment they would have continued their fight until one of them had slain the other.

  But the battle had ended. The battle that he survived yet had claimed the lives of his and Ewan’s fathers.

  He pushed open the door.

  Aila followed, her fingers clasped in Connor’s, her gaze fixed on his face but she was no longer in this antechamber. She was back in the bedchamber at Dunadd when the image of Connor had soothed her agitated soul.

  In the hall that night, she had struggled against the compunction to open the main doors. If she had, would she have witnessed Connor’s return? Known, from the start, he had not been in the hill fort when the massacre had occurred?

  She could ignore the implications. Close her mind to the truth and her eyes to the inevitable. But that time had passed.

  She had tried to turn her back on her heritage. Bury the old ways when they had no longer suited her purpose. But Bride had never left her. Bride had not forsaken her.

  When she had needed proof, Bride had spoken. And Aila had ignored her.

  As she had ignored her for so many years.

  She had blamed Connor, irrationally, for not preventing the murder of her father. He might have been coerced into this marriage. He might not want her to bear his child. But he had not compromised his honor nor tarnished his integrity by failing to save her kin.

  Connor was a Scot, but she would no longer condemn his blood for the actions of his barbarous king.

  Bittersweet relief flooded her senses and she tightened her grip on his fingers as he led her into the chamber. He might not love her, but now she knew the full truth of that bloodied night she allowed herself to accept he cared.

  It was obvious in the way he’d protected her from the jeering at their wedding feast. His consideration in setting the leisurely pace of their journey from Dunadd to Dunbrae. His thoughtfulness in rescuing her from attending yet another feast after arriving at his home.

  The way he had given her his own antechamber so she could continue with her beloved illuminations.

  Tenderly she pressed her knuckles against her belly. In time surely he would come to love their child. Now she could love him, without hating herself for loving her enemy, she would do everything in her power to rekindle the relationship they had barely begun in Ce.

  He was speaking to her, but the words flowed over her, inconsequential. Tonight, after she had made love to him the way she had made love to him before he knew who she was, she would tell him of their babe.

  Bride would not have brought her so far to have Connor fail them now.

  Connor turned to her, still speaking, and she smiled up at him. For a moment he faltered. “Is that an agreement?” He sounded unsure.

  “Agreement to what?” She would agree to anything. The knowledge made her smile even more.

  He offered her a guarded smile, clearly confused. “About the Halls of Valhalla. No Viking is allowed entrance without his broadsword in his hand. Is that true?”

  Her smile wavered. Why was he talking about Vikings? She had no interest in their barbaric beliefs and savage religious rituals.

  Then Connor moved closer to her, looking intently at her as if he had suddenly realized something fundamental had changed. And from the corner of her eye, she saw something displayed on the wall behind him.

  Time froze, splintered and then rushed at her with the force of a stampeding horse. On the wall was a Viking broadsword. Its distinctive pommel, handle and quillion were ornately decorated with gold accents and inlays.

  She knew that sword. It had haunted her nightmares for years, but in her dreams it did not gleam and glitter. In her dreams, it sliced through flesh and bone, dripped scarlet, delivered death.

  In her nightmares, the owner of this broadsword bent over her, blue eyes searing into her ravaged soul, blond hair hanging in matted tangles over his shoulders.

  The vellum dropped from lifeless fingers as her throat closed, her lungs contracted and her heart hammered. Nine years. But she recalled every intricate detail of this broadsword. Every bloodied moment of that day.

  Everything.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Connor wrapped his arms around her, forced her backward and shoved her down on a stool. “What is it?” He gripped her hands and knelt before her. Stormy-gray eyes bored into her and raven-black hair filled her vision, obliterating blue and blond.

  But still the putrid memories surged upward, swamping her reason, shattering the final fragments of her facade. She dug her nails into Connor’s hands. Connor. She was with Connor now and there was no need to relive that day, those moments. But the images hammered through her mind, an incessant refrain, and to her horror, a terrified moan escaped.

  “Aila.” Connor sounded unnerved and glanced toward the door as if he hoped help might miraculously appear. But no one had miraculously appeared that day. Except the owner of that broadsword.

  “How—why do you have Olafsson’s sword?” Her voice sounded raw, as though she hadn’t spoken in a year. Nine years. She forced herself not to drop her gaze, not to push Connor away, not to curl up into a ball and allow the screams in her head to escape between her lips.

  “Olafsson’s?” He sounded shocked that she knew
the name. “I took it from him four years ago, bare seconds before the horns sounded to end the battle.” His fingers tightened around hers. “How do you know of him?”

  She didn’t want to go through it again. Didn’t want to think of it. Couldn’t speak of it.

  And yet the words seared her tongue.

  “He was there. In Fidach. Nine years ago.”

  Comprehension dawned across Connor’s face. Comprehension—and then horror.

  “Olafsson killed Onuist?” He leaned closer to her. “If I’d known, I would have run him through with his own sword, battle over or not.”

  She was shivering. She couldn’t stop herself. Still holding her hands he wrapped one arm around her, rubbing her shoulder, trying to infuse her with heat.

  “No.” Her teeth were chattering. “Onuist had already been murdered.”

  The Viking raid that day had been swift, unexpected and brutal. Caught unawares Onuist had attempted to defend them both, but had been cut down within seconds.

  And then the two leering Vikings had turned on her.

  She closed her eyes, leaned against Connor’s solid strength. Felt his hands holding her, his breath warming her. His anger sank into her wounded soul, a perverse healing.

  But no matter what Olafsson had taken from her that day, he had still saved her.

  “The bards sing of my Onuist’s great bravery.” She felt Connor stiffen, but he did not pull away. “He was scarcely nineteen, Connor, and had never been in battle. He was the youngest prince of Fidach—an artist. Not a warrior. Although he defended me with everything he was.”

  “I know.” His words were muffled against her neck. “He killed those who would have dishonored you before he succumbed to his injuries.”

  “Yes.” She breathed in the evocative essence of Connor, felt the roughness of his jaw against her cheek, the silk of his hair falling across her brow. “That’s what I told everyone. So Onuist would be forever remembered and revered.”

  “Aye.” He sounded oddly resigned. “He is a worthy hero, Aila.”

  Slowly she pulled back. There was a bleak look in Connor’s eyes and his hand slid from her shoulder to once again clasp hers on her lap.