“He is.” Her voice was faint as she tried not to recall how one of the savage devils had impaled Onuist’s severed head on a spike while the other—
Her mind closed down.
“Connor.” She waited until he looked at her. “He didn’t kill them. After they murdered him, Drun attacked. They threw him against the wall, kicked him senseless. He almost died.”
Understanding flickered across his face. Now he knew the origin of her beloved Drun’s injuries. Drun, who had tried to defend her against the indefensible.
And then Connor began to frown as if, finally, he realized her words did not make sense. “Onuist didn’t kill those Vikings?” The words were guarded. He obviously wasn’t sure how she might react to his question.
She started to shake again, although she wasn’t cold in the depth of her soul. She hadn’t been truly cold since Connor had entered her life.
“Olafsson found us.” She couldn’t tell Connor what had been happening when the Viking had found her. Some things could never be said aloud. “He—he decapitated both his countrymen without a second’s hesitation. And then—”
Then he had knelt over her, blue eyes furious, blond hair hanging over his shoulders. He had looked younger than she and instead of brutalizing her as his slain compatriots had, he’d straightened her torn gown while his broadsword dripped with Viking blood.
She swallowed. “He took my wedding casket.”
Connor stared at her, his eyes dark with new knowledge. He had obviously guessed the entire sordid truth.
She’d told no one, but her mother, grandmother and the healers who had dragged her back to health knew what had happened without the need for explanations. Her father, she suspected, had guessed but he had never questioned her on details she had failed to clarify.
And so her version of events went into the annals. Onuist had died a hero’s death while saving her from certain degradation. He had died at the hands of Vikings and she forever had to hide the fact she had survived only because of the actions of another Viking.
“Your wedding casket.” He sounded grim and his words were so unexpected she merely stared at him in confusion. “The casket your cross completes.”
“Yes.” Of everything she had just confided, he questioned her on that?
He stood up, pulling her to her feet. “You look weary.” He reached for her to cradle her face and then his hand dropped to his side, as if he’d thought better of it. “Perhaps you should rest before this evening’s entertainment.” His jaw clenched. “I couldn’t put off the welcome feast for another night. I’m sorry.”
She did not relish being the center of attention at yet another feast, but the very fact Connor knew that, that he had tried to prevent such a happening, somehow made it entirely bearable.
“I have no wish to cause your mother or Lady Nighean offense.” She attempted to smile at him, but his distracted countenance and the now-familiar waves of nausea that rocked her stomach caused the smile to fade almost instantly. “But thank you for trying.”
He didn’t answer, but he did take her hand and lead her out of the chambers.
Away from Olafsson’s sword. And despite her best efforts to hide it, a relieved sigh escaped.
* * * * *
Arms crossed, wind rippling the grasses at his feet and hair about his face, Connor glared across the glen. He was some distance from the hill fort, but still within sight of it. And although he wanted to leap on his horse and ride until his limbs ached and brain was numb, he knew he wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t leave Aila. In case she needed him.
Even if he knew, in his heart, she would never need him the way he wanted her to.
Just moments ago, he’d left her in their chambers. She hadn’t argued about having a rest before that evening, which gnawed at him. No matter how he’d tried to ignore it over the last few days, she had an indefinable air of exhaustion about her.
He would get a physician to look at her. But he knew what she really needed. And he couldn’t face it. Couldn’t think of it.
Wouldn’t contemplate it.
Besides, whether he liked it or not, Aila was a hostage and returning her to Ce was out of the question.
Finally his rigid control shattered. Blood sizzled in his veins, volcanic and deadly. Leashed fury pounded against his temples. He tried to block the thoughts, suppress the images, but they were there. In his head. Driving him to the brink of insanity.
His beautiful, brave Aila, the woman whose facade of serenity had infuriated him over the last few days, had not only seen her husband murdered when she was a young bride.
She had been raped by his murderers. And he, Connor MacKenzie, who knew only too well the brutalities of war, hadn’t managed to work out that fundamental fact.
But he should have. Things had not added up. The songs of the bards, the heroic acts of Onuist. Yet Aila had told him, weeks ago, that she had seen Onuist’s head on a spike. How could she have if her young husband had killed their would-be attackers?
His fists clenched. The thought of her being so brutalized sickened him to the core. Now he understood her reserve. Now he understood why she retreated behind that icy facade whenever she felt threatened.
Now he understood why she had withdrawn from the world, why she had the erroneous reputation of being a recluse.
And because of his king’s thirst for power, she had been wrenched from her home. Her sanctuary. She had agreed because she believed, with all her heart, that Scot and Pict had to unite to defeat her bitterest enemy.
In return for her sacrifice, his king had betrayed her as brutally as any Viking.
“Connor.”
His mother’s voice penetrated his black thoughts and he hissed out a breath before turning to her. “My lady.”
She smiled, a sad, wistful smile, and placed her hand on his folded arm. They had spoken in private only once since his return and he knew she grieved for the loss of Fergus. And to ease her pain, and in memory of the boy he had once worshipped, Connor hadn’t revealed his half brother’s involvement in MacAlpin’s betrayal.
“My son.” The words were soft. “Connor, I loved Fergus as my own. But you were always first in my heart.”
The confession shook him. He didn’t know how to respond. And so he merely grunted and glowered across the glen once more.
“I always believed you knew.” His mother sighed, patted his arm and relinquished her hold on him. “But it only occurred to me today that perhaps—you did not realize.”
No, he hadn’t realized. Fergus had idolized their mother, often claiming her as his own despite his innate pride in his maternal royal heritage. And his mother had lavished her love upon her husband’s firstborn son.
But not at the expense of her own. He had always known that. And yet, as he had grown older, deep in his heart he’d often suspected Fergus was her favorite.
“It’s hardly of importance now.” He shot her a dark glare, because he didn’t know how to tell her how much her words meant to him.
“Aye, it is.” She ran her finger over his brooch, his father’s brooch that she had given him, not Fergus, upon their father’s death. “Sometimes things have to be said, no matter how unnecessary we believe them to be.”
Not more confessions. He was a warrior, not a priest, and he was still struggling with the revelation of how much Aila had suffered in the past. And far from extending forgiveness to her rapists, he raged at the knowledge he could never exact retribution on her behalf.
Olafsson had seen to that. And for that, Connor owed him a debt no Scot should owe a Viking.
“There’s no need.” He wanted to be alone. But he could not tell his mother that. Within weeks, he would leave for Duncadha and his mother, despite her status and right to live there, would remain in Dunbrae. Because he had promised Aila she would be the only mistress of his hill fort.
“You care for this princess, don’t you?”
“What?” He stared at her in disbelief. This conv
ersation was becoming more torturous by the second. “I don’t…” Want to discuss it.
“Connor.” His mother’s voice was gentle. “It’s all right to love again. And when I see the way you look at the princess, it gives me hope that, at last, you’ve opened your heart to another.”
Heat seared through him. Was he as transparent as that? He thought he’d managed to hide his love. But this was his mother. Not Aila. And his mother, unlike Aila, would never throw his confession back in his face.
“It doesn’t matter how I feel.” He gave a bitter smile. “She was forced into this marriage.”
She gave him an odd look, as if that fact was scarcely relevant. And of course it wasn’t. Most marriages were arranged to strengthen alliances but he wasn’t talking about most marriages. He was talking about his marriage to Aila.
“Did she care for Fergus?”
Did she? Once he’d thought so. But after Fergus’ death he’d gotten the strongest suspicion Aila had loathed his half brother. “I don’t know.”
“I know you’re planning to return to Duncadha shortly.” His mother drew in a deep breath and Connor braced himself. Hell, did she think to accompany them? “But I believe it may be wise to remain here for the summer. And the winter.”
She wanted him to remain for almost another year.
“I can’t do that to Aila. MacAlpin looks on her as nothing but a hostage but she’s a princess. She deserves to administer her own…”—palace—“hill fort at least.”
“I understand.” His mother stroked the length of plaid that hung over his shoulder, an oddly nervous gesture. “But I am thinking of the princess’s health, Connor. And if you don’t wish to remain here, then allow me to return with you to Duncadha.”
Her words thundered through his brain. “Her health?” What did his mother know that he did not? “Has she spoken to you?” But he knew Aila would have done no such thing. She did not confide easily.
“No.” Finally his mother stopped fiddling with his plaid and looked up at him. Sorrow wreathed her face. “Connor, I may be wrong and the princess has been very circumspect. And yet I suspect she is with child.”
With child. The words thudded in his head. Knocked the air from his lungs. He stood on the hilltop with his mother by his side, but all he could see was Aila wincing when he touched her breasts. How she had stopped eating.
How she had been gut-wrenchingly sick after leaving his chambers earlier.
He wanted to deny it. With every enraged particle of his being. And yet he couldn’t. Because, in his heart, he knew the truth.
His mother flattened her hand against his chest. “I know you haven’t been married long enough for the babe to be yours.” Her voice was soft, as if she knew how much, how selfishly, desperately, he wanted that child to be his. “But if she is with child, then this is the last link we will have with Fergus.” She clutched his shirt, as though she feared he might storm off. “I should be there for the birth. And Connor…” She paused, forcing him to look at her. Forcing him to remain silent when he wanted to roar his despair to the heavens. “The child will still be linked to you by blood. You must always remember that.”
“Aye.” His voice was bitter. Did Aila know? How could she be feeling, knowing she bore the child of one brother while married to the other?
When she had been forced into both marriages? Had Fergus forced himself on her that night?
“I know how deeply you desire a son of your own.” His mother’s voice penetrated his thoughts and he wanted to tell her he desired no such thing. After that first reckless night he’d done everything he could to ensure Aila would not conceive. He knew she hadn’t fallen in Ce—she’d told him that in no uncertain terms the following day. And even if, in a dark corner of his soul, he did crave a child with her, he would never put her through such a deadly ordeal.
But it was too late. Fergus had already planted his seed. Fergus had already set Aila on the perilous path of childbirth.
“The princess is strong,” his mother continued. “You and she will have your own children. Afterward.”
But suppose Aila did not survive birthing Fergus’ child?
His mother gripped his hand, as if something in his expression chilled her. “Connor.” Her voice was urgent. “Do not think of it. Not all women die in childbirth.”
He knew that. But it made no difference. Because all he could see in his mind was Aila in pain. Struggling to give birth to the child whose existence forged the future of this bloodied alliance.
And she would struggle in a foreign land, surrounded by people she considered her enemy. Far from the land she loved.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Aila sat on a stool in front of her mirror as Cailleach brushed her hair in preparation for the feast. She felt refreshed, strangely invigorated, and knew it had little to do with the rest she had taken.
It was because Connor had not been in Dunadd as the massacre had occurred. It was because he respected her enough to apologize for the despicable actions of his barbarous king. It was because he had taken the trouble to give her a chamber of her own where she could once again enjoy her illuminations.
He was the Connor she’d fallen in love with in Ce and his blood was not tainted by the same duplicity that corroded the honor of his countrymen.
Unheeding of what Cailleach might think, she gently caressed her belly. Now she’d had a few hours to consider it, she could think of Olafsson’s broadsword without seeing it dripping in blood. Could see it the way Connor had naturally assumed she would.
As a magnificent trophy of war.
Vikings did not relinquish their swords easily. To claim one in battle, from a Viking not even dead, was an astonishing feat.
No wonder Connor displayed it on his wall in pride of place.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Connor entered the chamber. Her ladies, as always, fluttered in agitation, unsure whether they should treat him with courtesy or disdain.
Connor didn’t give them the chance to make up their minds this time. “Leave us.”
She turned on the stool and watched her ladies depart. Connor waited until the door shut behind them before he faced her.
“Are you feeling any better, my lady?” His tone was oddly formal and unease rippled through her stomach. Or perhaps it was simply a symptom of her condition.
“Much better, I thank you.” She stood up, somehow not liking the distance between them. But the strangely shuttered look on his face prevented her from moving toward him.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He could have been speaking to a stranger, not his wife. Not the woman he shared his bed with. The woman who carried his child.
The unease magnified. She clawed through her mind for something to say to him and could think of only banalities.
“I fear I’m not yet ready for the evening.” She raked distracted fingers through her unbound hair and saw the way his eyes followed her action. “I did not realize the hour was so late.”
“It’s not late.” He dragged his gaze from her hair to look her in the eyes. “My lady, there is something I have to ask you. Please forgive me.”
Ask her? Forgive him? Her stomach churned and it had nothing to do with her condition and everything to do with the sick unease that clenched her heart.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him flex his fingers before he folded his arms across his chest. And although he didn’t move away from her, an invisible mountain loomed between them.
She hoped her anxiety did not show on her face. “Of course.” Or in her voice.
He remained silent, staring at her, his eyes dark as though he battled the urge to take her in his arms and to hell with the feast.
She hoped he would. She needed his arms around her. Wanted to shatter this unnatural formality. But most of all she wanted to confide in him. Tell him of their babe.
“Are you with child?” The question hit her with the force of a fist, punching through her mind, his harsh tone leaving no doubt as to wh
at he hoped her answer would be.
The kernel of hope in her breast shriveled but she refused to crumple. And perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Connor only looked as if her being with child was the worst catastrophe he could imagine. Perhaps, in reality, when she confirmed his suspicion he would be elated.
“I am.” She infused each word with pride. No matter what Connor’s feelings might be, she wanted this child. She loved this child. And her child’s father would know that from the start.
He didn’t move. And yet she felt his entire body flinch at her words, his eyes darkened, jaw clenched and muscles flexed beneath his shirt. He didn’t say a word and he didn’t have to. In that fleeting moment, his involuntary response said everything.
This wasn’t how it was meant to be. The denial screamed through her mind but what did it matter? This was the reality. And the reality could not be clearer.
“Are you sure?” The words were stilted.
“Yes.” Pride would sustain her until Connor left the chamber. “Do you require a catalogue of my symptoms?” Her voice grew colder with every word. It was the only way she could keep the scalding tears at bay.
“No.” He sounded horrified by the idea that she might tell him of the physical manifestations his child had wrought. “Your word is enough for me.” He swallowed and appeared transfixed by the kitten she held in one hand. “I will arrange for a physician to attend you.”
“I don’t require a Scot physician to tell me what I already know.” But what did she expect? And what would happen when the babe was born? There were no Pictish healers here. Her mother and grandmother, her sister and cousins would not be in attendance.
She would be surrounded by strangers. And only now, as Connor refused to meet her eyes, when it became excruciatingly plain that he wanted no part of their child, did the full force of that fact hit her.
The silence screeched along her nerves. Her legs began to shake but she wouldn’t show any weakness before him. Finally he glanced briefly up at her face before once again fixing on the kitten.
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 28
