“Is there anything else you require?” His voice was little more than a growl.
He didn’t want a child. That was his choice. But the outcome of that night in Ce was the responsibility of them both. Not just her. And yet he behaved as if it was entirely her doing. “Besides my mother?” Her voice dripped scorn. “No, I don’t believe so.”
He looked at her then. And the bleak despair she saw in his eyes pierced her heart. “Aila, are you happy about this?” He sounded oddly uncertain. “Do you want this child?”
She bit back her instant response. I want this child more than anything else in the world. As much as I want your love.
“I do.”
He jerked his head and a modicum of tension seeped from him, as if until this moment he honestly hadn’t been certain how she felt about it.
“There’s no need to attend the feast. I’ll make your excuses.”
Rage heated her blood, but it was more than rage. Deadlier than rage. Rejection.
“So now you are so ashamed of me you’ll hide me away? What do you intend to do, Connor, keep me hidden until this babe is born?”
“I thought you would prefer not to attend the feast.” He scowled at the floor. “Of course I’m not ashamed of you. I’m…proud of you.”
A bitter laugh escaped. She couldn’t help it. “How gracious of you, my lord. I fear I cannot extend the same sentiment to you.”
He stiffened at the insult to his integrity and finally caught and held her contemptuous gaze. “I’m sorry.” His voice was as harsh as his glare. “For everything you’ve been through. But I can’t change the past, Aila. I can only offer you a future.”
“A future that includes this child.” To emphasize her words she splayed her fingers over her belly, daring him to ignore the fruit of their pleasure that night.
For a fleeting moment, anguish gripped his features.
“Aye. Of course I include the child. Did you think I would forsake him? Forsake you?” He appeared unaware of how she glared at him. “You’re my wife, Aila.”
Fury propelled her forward until she was standing so close to him she could feel the heat of his body radiating from him. “And this babe is of your blood.” She fisted her free hand and battled the urge to hit him for his cruel coldness toward a child of his flesh.
’“I know the babe is of my blood.” His gazed raked over her face and then he stepped back as though he could no longer bear to be so close to her. “His heritage is not in question.” He had the nerve to sound offended. “If it’s a boy he will inherit Dunfodla. His bloodline will be unchallenged.”
Did Connor really think she cared which primitive Scot hill fort her child would inherit?
She stiffened her spine and drew the pride of her ancestors about her like a protective cloak. “My child,” she said with deliberate emphasis, “will inherit one thousand years of Pictish heritage and have claim on the kingships of Ce and Circinn.” She paused for one moment to allow her words to fully penetrate. “And isn’t that what is really important here, Connor? How my child serves to strengthen MacAlpin’s claim on my ancient lands?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
It had been three weeks since Connor had discovered, and rejected, she carried his child. Aila attempted to ignore the dull ache in her lower back, knowing if she so much as stretched, word would get back to Connor. And he would insist they immediately make camp for the night.
They were only hours from Ce-eviot.
She still couldn’t fathom it. After her last deadly thrust in their chambers, Connor had made no attempt to defend his king. He’d just looked at her as if she’d plunged a broadsword through his heart before he’d offered her a bow and left.
He had never returned.
Two days later he had informed her, with utmost civility, that he intended to return her to Ce to await the birth of her child.
Her child. Not theirs. But she’d been so astonished by the knowledge she would soon see her kin she’d failed to correct him on that fact. Or enquire what would become of her once their child was born.
Before they had left Dunbrae, he’d gathered a band of warriors to accompany them. She recognized many of them. They had accompanied Connor on his first visit to Ce.
He needed them. It was clear the nobles of Pictland would relish nothing more than to run through any Scot they encountered. Only the advance knowledge that Talargan and many of their young noble warriors were held hostage at Dunadd, and that the eldest Princess Devorgilla was being escorted to the land of her kin, prevented bloodshed and ensured a roof over their heads.
Her ladies, riding by her side, were fairly glowing with excitement at the thought of returning home. And she too could not wait to see her mother and sister, grandmother and cousins. The realization she wouldn’t be alone among strangers when her time came reassured her beyond measure. And yet dark discontent gnawed through her soul.
For three weeks, Connor had been solicitous for the state of her health. Had ensured her comfort in every way he could. Had treated her with the respect her status demanded.
But he hadn’t shared her bed. As though, upon discovering she nurtured his child, his desire for her had withered.
Yet she saw the furtive glances he arrowed her way when he thought no one aware. The raw hunger in his eyes, the leashed passion in his bearing. And as the journey progressed, and his reined desire became ever more apparent, a strange certainty coalesced.
Did Connor avoid her because he thought that was what she wanted? Was he concerned not so much that she was with child, but that the fact she was might lessen her desire for him?
As her beloved Ce-eviot finally came into view, her conviction strengthened. There was more to his strange attitude than him simply not wishing her to bear his child. Tonight she would ensure they shared the same chamber. Tonight she would insist he explained his reasons for not wishing her to conceive.
Somehow she would get through to him. Somehow she would convince him. Because despite how he’d withdrawn from her, how could she possibly believe he did not care for her?
She was MacAlpin’s prized hostage. Her place was in Dal Riada, a guarantee that her people would not rise up and slaughter the treacherous Scots.
But Connor had brought her home. Because he knew how dearly she wanted to be with her kin for the birth. He’d brought her home without his king’s knowledge and she could scarcely comprehend what MacAlpin’s fury would be when he discovered it.
If those weren’t the actions of a man who cared, then what were?
Exhaustion all but crippled her and dusk had fallen as they reached Ce-eviot, and the contingent of warriors who met them radiated a potent force of welcome and antagonism. In the blazing torchlight she saw her mother and grandmother waiting on the threshold, their personal guard triple what it had been before she left.
Connor helped her dismount, his hand steady and sure in hers. She would have clung on to him, brought him with her to greet her kin, but as soon as she was safely on the ground, he broke contact. Stepped back. Allowed her to precede him, as befit her royal status.
Except Connor was her husband. He had the right to walk by her side in Ce. And yet she had no time to confront him because her mother and grandmother were there, holding her hands, their silence in the presence of their enemy piercing her heart.
For long moments nobody spoke. Nobody moved. And then her mother gave her hand a squeeze before releasing her and turning to Connor.
“Are you here to claim the kingdom of Ce by force?” Her voice was cold, regal. Yet Aila knew, as acutely as all of them present, how depleted of warriors Ce were. So many of them remained hostage to MacAlpin.
Connor bowed. Aila ached to go to him, to show her support, but her grandmother clung to her hand as though she would never let her go.
“Devorgilla, Queen Brilicie of Ce,” he said, giving her mother her full title. Even now, in such dire circumstances, his accented Pictish still sent a tremor along Aila’s spine. “Please accep
t my heartfelt sorrow at your loss.” He glanced at Aila before once again focusing on her silent mother. “We have returned Aila, Princess Devorgilla of Ce to her homeland.”
He made it sound as though MacAlpin had allowed her return. She would be sure to inform her mother of the truth.
“For that,” the Queen of Ce said, “we are duly grateful.” She cast a disdainful glance over the Scot warriors. “We are in mourning for the murder of my king. There will be no celebratory feasts for your men.”
“We did not expect such, madam. Will you allow us to make camp within your ramparts this night?”
“Certainly.” The queen’s voice was pure ice. Aila knew, as well as her mother, the request was a formality. And yet, unlike her mother, Aila knew if the request was denied, Connor would ensure his men camped outside the ramparts of Ce-eviot.
The queen turned her back and entered the palace. For one agonizing moment, Aila looked at Connor, wanting to tell him to follow them. But her grandmother dragged her away, and besides she would not invite him in without her mother’s permission. In any case, Connor needed to supervise his men. There would be time enough for her mother to officially welcome him as her son-through-marriage.
She heard her mother order one of her guards to organize an all-night watch on the Scots. It did not surprise her. The Scots would do the same, keeping a distrustful eye on their reluctant hosts.
Finally they were alone in her mother’s private chamber and the three of them clung together in silent sorrow. Her grandmother pulled back first, her eyes wet, a look of wonder on her face.
“Aila,” her voice was hushed. “You are with child.”
Her mother jerked back. “With child?” She glanced at Aila’s belly then back at her mother. “So it has come to pass as you foretold.”
You are the founding stone. For the bridge that will one day unite all our kingdoms.
Aila recalled the words as clearly as if they had been spoken only yesterday. But her grandmother had said them the morning after she had spent the night with Connor. Before she knew she had conceived his child. At the time she’d hugged the words to her heart, thinking perhaps her dreams were not impossible after all. That it was acceptable to love again.
But it had meant so much more than that. How could she not see the words for what they truly were? A message from Bride. Telling her, with absolute clarity, that her child would bridge the divide between Pict and Scot.
She gasped, pulled away, pressed both hands against her belly.
Until the Viking raid of Fidach, she had imagined her goddess showed her tantalizing visions of the children of Onuist. And then, as she recovered from her injuries, she saw only the goddess’s malevolence. In taunting her with a family she knew would never be hers.
Yet Bride had always known. And Aila had refused to see beyond her own pain and disillusionment. Had turned her back and cast the goddess from her heart. Bride—who was part of her heritage. An intangible, essential part of her soul. It didn’t matter whether Aila accepted her or not. But by denying her existence, the frost of rejection had consumed the core of her being. Only with the arrival of Connor had the goddess finally found her way back into Aila’s heart. Yet even before that, Bride had prepared her to once again open her mind to the wonder of physical love. By sending a mystical dream-lover.
“What is it?” Her mother’s urgent voice catapulted her back to the present. “Aila, is it true? You were only wed to that—to the prince for such a short time.”
“It’s true.” She looked at her grandmother, saw the wariness in her eyes. “This child is my husband’s. Connor MacKenzie’s.”
“Connor MacKenzie’s?” Her mother sounded horrified. “But how—Aila.” She gripped her hand, agitation clear on her face. “Did he force you, my love? On the journey to Dal Riada?”
“No.” Her voice was harsher than she intended. She knew why her mother was so confused. She had been married to Connor for less than a month. That was scarcely time for her to realize she had conceived. “Mamma, you should know that MacAlpin thinks I am still in Dal Riada. Connor brought me home to you so I might have our child surrounded by my kin.”
“He disobeyed his king?” Her mother looked as if she might collapse. “For you?”
“It was always him,” her grandmother said softly. “From the first time I saw him, I knew it was him. Devorgilla,” she turned to her daughter, “Connor MacKenzie was chosen by the goddess long ago. He fulfilled his destiny by coming to Ce, but he was just as deceived by his king as we were.”
Aila remembered her grandmother’s gentle teasing in that week before her father had returned to Ce. As if she had known of Aila’s secret rendezvous—and far from being furious she approved the liaison.
“Mamma.” She waited until her mother’s bemused gaze rested upon her. “My husband is an honorable man. Please welcome him as your son-through-marriage. For the sake of our child.”
The Queen of Ce, widowed at the hand of Scots, relaxed her grip of Aila’s hand. “He brought you to me, risking the displeasure of his despicable king. I will welcome him as your husband, Aila.”
* * * * *
Aila stirred, waking slowly, reveling in the notion she was in her own bed. And then she frowned, rolled onto her side and squinted at the untouched half of her bed.
Connor had not joined her last night after his audience with her mother.
She sighed and absently tickled the kitten. Last night she’d been so weary she’d retired before seeing Connor again. But her mother had promised he would be made welcome. Promised he would be allowed to join her as was his right as her husband.
He had decided not to. Goddess, this had gone far enough. If he needed to hear her tell him that she still desired him, then she would tell him. And perhaps, in time, she would even tell him once again how very much she loved him.
The early morning breeze was fresh as she left the palace, four guards tailing her. But she had no need of her cloak. Nor even her shawl. Because, since re-embracing Bride, her soul was no longer fractured and the chill in her bones that had been her constant companion for the last nine years had finally thawed.
Frowning, she scanned the surrounding area but could see no sign of a camp. Perhaps Connor had pitched farther away from the palace than she’d thought. With a sigh she turned toward the monastery. She had to see Uuen.
It was odd, walking such familiar ground without her faithful shadow, but Drun spent his nights with Finella now. She hadn’t wanted to disturb her sister so early in the day.
She paused by one of the sacred standing stones and looked toward the monastery. It had been built more than two hundred years ago but compared to these stones that surrounded it in a gigantic circle, it was but a babe. As the new religion was just a child when compared to the gods of antiquity.
Uuen made no secret of his delight at her return. She might never have been away, except for the fact her father was now dead, she had been married twice and she was now with child.
“The queen is filled with bitterness at the death of our noble king,” he said. “But now you’re here I pray her pledges of vengeance will subside.”
Instinctively Aila’s hand covered her belly. “I also wish for vengeance.” She recalled MacAlpin’s arrogance in his war chamber and renewed fury flooded through her. “I won’t rest until I see that upstart king slain, drowning in his own blood.”
There was a silence and then Uuen sighed. “My lady, sometimes the only way forward is to extend forgiveness to our enemies.”
No. She would not forgive. The ancient ways of her people did not forgive such outrage.
Her feelings must have shown on her face as Uuen, after a swift glance at her hand cradling her belly, said, “Not because MacAlpin deserves your forgiveness, my lady. But because living with the desire for vengeance will corrode your soul. Is that the legacy you want to leave your future generations? A blood feud?”
A blood feud? No, she didn’t want that for her child. Her chil
d, who was as much a Scot as a Pict. Did she want her child to hate his Scots heritage?
Much as she loathed the Dal Riadan king, she did not hate all Scots. And she didn’t want her child nurtured in an atmosphere of bitterness and dark plots of retribution.
Grudgingly she conceded Uuen and his ceaseless calls for forgiveness might have a point. And as he changed the subject, and began to tell her of local gossip she had missed, she slowly relaxed.
Until he began to make plans for her to resume her teaching.
“Uuen, I was wrong. My goddess lives. I was only half alive while I denied her. I’m sorry.”
Uuen’s smile was sad. “Don’t be sorry, my lady. God helped you through these last difficult years. He’ll be there for you when you need Him again.”
He didn’t understand.
“I survived these last few years, Uuen. I only started living again when Connor MacKenzie arrived in Ce. When I allowed Bride to enter my heart and show me that it wasn’t wrong to love again.”
“My lady, it was never wrong for you to love again.” He sighed. “For years I prayed that one day your burden of guilt would lift. It was never yours to bear.”
Aila stared at him in shock. Uuen had wanted her to find love? Her grandmother had wanted her to find love also. Had she been wrong, all these years, when she’d been convinced everyone expected her to remain faithful in mind and deed to her dead, heroic husband?
“Oh. I…thank you.” She glanced at the floor, wondering how she could possibly tell Uuen what must be said. “But you must see, Uuen. Now I’ve returned to Bride, I can no longer believe in your God.”
“Ah,” he said. “That doesn’t matter, my lady. God always believes in you.”
As Bride had always believed in her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
As she left the monastery, intending to return to the palace and discover where, exactly, Connor was, she paused by a standing stone. It was the same one she’d stumbled against when Bride had sent her the vision of bloodshed and death.
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 29
