Her sister shrugged. “Mamma is not inclined to be civil since they refuse to state their business to her. They’re here to see Papa.” She glanced up. “Mamma is so irate, she plans a great feast this eve to show them.” Finella raised her eyebrows, clearly not quite understanding their mother’s logic. “Will you be there, Aila?”
“No.” Her mother didn’t need her support, not with her own mother and various visiting relations as allies. If the Scots believed they could bully the queen, they were going to be gratifyingly slaughtered this night by feminine Pictish wit.
That would be worth seeing. She’d watch from the hidden staircase.
Finella heaved a sigh. “I can’t stay. I only wanted to tell you about the Scots. I had to pretend I needed the garderobe. Mamma won’t let me out of her sight.” Her eyes widened in obvious excitement. “She’s afraid the Scots will steal me away.” The possibility didn’t appear to worry her in the least.
Aila didn’t blame their mother for her concern. What honor did foreign Scots possess? As a Princess Devorgilla of Ce, Finella must always be protected, within the ramparts of the palace and beyond.
“Then you should return.” She wheeled around and pointed her sister in the direction of the palace. There were many peasants who toiled at various tasks in the immediate vicinity. Aila knew Finella would come to no harm before she was once again safely within the palace walls and under the protective mantle of her ladies. But she would take no chances. She beckoned one of the male slaves over with orders to accompany her sister back home.
Only when Finella disappeared inside did she turn and make her way toward the secluded copse tended for its vital supply of timber. None of the Picts’ round houses or forges intruded in the area. With a sigh, she sat by the edge of the nearby stream and wrapped one arm around her knees and the other around Drun.
She hoped the Scots didn’t intend on staying long after her father and brother returned. But they were not expected home for at least a week. Could she avoid their unwelcome guests for that length of time?
Drun, his head in her lap, thumped his tail on the lush grass and awareness trickled along her spine. She was no longer alone. The certainty gripped her, as tangible as the rough fur beneath her fingers.
She had been so concerned about ensuring Finella’s safety from the Scots it hadn’t occurred to her she should also consider her own. It had been years since she, as befit her status, had her every step shadowed. There was no need, when she spent her days teaching in the monastery. And since none of her people would ever dare to creep upon her unawares, that left only one scenario.
Stiffening her already rigid back, she flung a haughty glance over her shoulder, a look designed to intimidate. Instead her breath caught in her throat as an eerie shiver of familiarity prickled her skin and for one dizzying second her heart ceased beating.
He stood on a ridge just a few feet from her, a huge, towering Scot, dark hair whipping across his face in the fresh breeze. A great swathe of blue, green and black plaid wrapped around his waist and hung over his left shoulder and a broadsword was attached to his leather belt.
A foreign savage from his wild hair to his unadorned boots. And she couldn’t move a muscle to defend her territorial rights.
“Forgive me.” His deep voice with its beguiling accent shattered her paralysis, but not enough for her to regain the use of her tongue. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Her eyes widened at his breach of protocol in addressing her without invitation.
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t approach with such stealth.” Irritated by the way her heart refused to calm its erratic flutter, she angled her jaw in an unmistakable gesture of disdain.
He didn’t retreat. Instead he began to descend and even though he kept his distance, her heart kicked painfully against her ribs.
She was simply irked that he dared to approach her. But no matter how hard she tried to make herself believe that, she couldn’t ignore the sudden constriction in her breasts. It was unnerving, unexpected and not entirely…unpleasant.
“I didn’t know you were here until I almost fell over you.” He shot her a disarming smile. For one unbelievable second her lips almost curved upward in response, before she remembered who he was. Who she was. And sent him a frosty glare instead.
That didn’t appear to touch him. “Do you have any objection if I join you? I could do with a few moments of quiet.”
She most certainly did object. It was bad enough he had invaded her solitude. That her treacherous body found his company enticing. Words of dismissal trembled on the tip of her tongue as, for the first time, she caught his gaze.
The words faded, forgotten. His eyes were beautiful, a strangely captivating gray that reminded her of stormy Highland skies.
Disoriented by such a fanciful notion she watched as he sat on the bank of the stream, clearly having taken her silence as acquiescence.
Did he truly not know who she was? Was that even possible? Her fingers toyed with the delicate fringe of her silken veil and an idea formed. Once again she had forgotten to secure it with one of her gold circlets and the material had long since slipped from her head to drape around her shoulders. The Scot likely did not even realize she was a widow, never mind the eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce.
As he stretched out his long, muscled legs—had she truly noticed such a thing?—she knew she should enlighten him. It was her duty. But her tongue refused to comply.
Excitement fluttered through her stomach and then spread with illicit abandon between her thighs. Shock speared through her at the realization of how blatantly her body responded to him. But far more shocking was the knowledge she didn’t find her uninhibited attraction to the Scot disgusting.
Everything she believed in demanded she end this encounter instantly. But what did it matter if she stayed here for just a little longer or kept her identity from him? Never before had she come across someone—a man—who wasn’t fully aware of her rank. It might be…interesting to pretend, for a few short minutes, that she was an ordinary noblewoman.
She didn’t intend to join in any festivities her mother planned for their guests. He would never discover her deception.
Unnerved by the strange turn of her thoughts she buried her warm face in Drun’s rough fur. But even severing eye contact with the Scot didn’t serve to change her mind.
Connor watched the young woman nuzzle her dog and somehow couldn’t drag his fascinated gaze away. He’d told her the truth. He hadn’t known until a moment ago, she’d settled by the stream. But he had seen her vanish over the ridge. And had decided to follow her with the sole intention of making her acquaintance.
To hell with that. He was interested in more than mere conversation with this woman, although he wasn’t sure why. Several noblewomen had already made their interest in the Scots plain. Ewan was, even now, enjoying the delights of two eager young ladies. If all Connor wanted was a quick tumble, there was no need to seek out yet another woman—who might not even be searching for an extramarital fuck.
But even the veiled offers and sexually charged flirting of four of the queen’s ladies hadn’t managed to diminish the oppressive atmosphere of the royal household, and so he’d made his excuses and left. There would be plenty of time that evening during the feast the queen intended to hold to choose a willing bed partner.
God knew, he needed relief.
Yet for now, he’d wanted a moment of solitude. But something about this lone woman and her injured dog had snagged his interest in a way nothing had come close to in too many years.
So he had followed her, unaccountably more aroused by her cloak-swathed figure than any of the queen’s magnificently gowned ladies.
Forearm resting across his knee, he allowed his gaze to roam over her striking hair. He’d never seen anything like it before. An intriguing blend that looked dark gold from one angle and light auburn from another; loosely braided in two long plaits that fell over her shoulders. A vibrant green length of s
ilk concealed her neck and the richly woven cloak wrapped around her body as if they were in the midst of winter instead of an unseasonably warm spring.
She was obviously of the aristocracy. And undoubtedly married, even if she didn’t wear the traditional veil over her head as the women of Dal Riada did.
But was she loyal to her husband? Or, like many noblewomen of his acquaintance, looking for illicit excitement outside the shackles of a loveless marriage?
Yet she gave him no encouragement. No sign she was aware of why he’d followed her, why he now sat beside her. Why he waited for her response.
Had he stumbled across one of the few women at Ce-eviot uninterested in enjoying a brief affair with a visiting Scot? And then she raised her head and looked at him.
Eyes as green as her silk regarded him in frank assessment, as if far from being a reticent wife she fully reciprocated his interest. His doubt vanished as a surge of lust speared through his groin.
God, he’d not been so instantly aroused by a woman since he’d been a raw youth.
“My name’s Connor MacKenzie of Dunbrae.” He offered her a half-smile, a clear indication of his interest but not too overt to startle should he, by some grievous mischance, have misread the signs. And if that was the case he could only hope the weight of his plaid disguised his unabashed erection, since if this woman wasn’t offering what he imagined, then she’d likely swoon in horror.
Unlike his brother, he wasn’t used to seducing complete strangers. If Fergus was in his place, then this woman would be in no doubt of his intentions. And, most likely, would already be in his brother’s arms whether she was married or not.
Bizarrely, the notion irritated him. And the woman still hadn’t responded.
Neither had she looked away. Unaccountably fascinated by her open regard he stared back, noting the dark lashes that framed her exceptional eyes, the delicate features of her face, the oddly fragile air that emanated from her heavily swathed figure.
“Aila,” she said at last. She no longer sounded aggrieved. “Of Ce.”
It was hardly an invitation to share her bed but it was, at least, encouraging. “Do you live at the palace?” Although to his mind it was nothing but a glorified hill fort. “I didn’t see you there this afternoon.” There had been a dozen or more of the queen’s ladies, who all apparently had urgent need to be in her presence at the Scots’ arrival.
“No, I wasn’t there.” Her lips twitched. Clearly she was fully aware of his line of thought and found amusement at her peers’ salacious curiosity. “I teach in the monastery.”
Her casual words, so unexpected, staggered him. Everyone knew the Picts held on to the old pagan ways, despite their outward show of support for Christianity. He’d seen the stone monastery, had briefly wondered at its purpose in this far-flung heathen land. Could they have been mistaken? Had the Picts abandoned their old gods in favor of the only God?
And Aila taught in their monastery? How could a woman teach in a monastery? They were sanctuaries of learning, but no matter how intelligent she was, a woman did not teach.
A thought so horrific punched through his mind and his lust instantly evaporated. Was Aila a holy bride? Wedded to the church? Had he been contemplating seducing a virgin of the Lord?
Then she smiled at him, and it wasn’t the smile of a woman who had turned her back on the world of earthly pleasures. It illuminated her pale face, caused her eyes to sparkle with secret mirth. As if she had guessed his trail of thoughts and found them amusing.
He wished he could say the same. Her smile caused his blood to heat with renewed lust, and unwarranted anticipation thundered through him. But he still couldn’t straighten out in his mind the thought of a noblewoman teaching in a monastery. And he certainly couldn’t wrap his brain around the possibility that she was a bride of Christ.
“And your husband doesn’t object?” It was blunt. But at least it would clear up his confusion. Because no matter how desirable Aila of Ce was, he wouldn’t risk his immortal soul if she was, indeed, beyond the touch of any mortal man. Even if his damn cock had other ideas.
Her lashes swept down, hiding her eyes and the dog whined, nudging his great head against her waist. Again her hair captured his attention and he imagined loosening the shining tresses from their bindings, spearing his fingers through the auburn-gold silk, burying his shaft in her welcoming warmth.
He stealthily shifted on the uncomfortable ground. But his erection refused to diminish. Hell beckoned if Aila was, after all, wedded to the church.
And this time he wasn’t thinking only of his immortal soul.
“My husband died nine years ago.” There was a quiet pride to her voice and acidic disappointment seared his gut.
A widow. It made no difference, now, whether Aila returned his interest. He would as soon take an untouched maid to his bed as he would a widow, for either would expect more from him than he could give.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” More than she would ever know. But as she gazed toward the copse, he couldn’t help another glance. Couldn’t help but admire the delicate profile of her face. Couldn’t help but think she had been widowed while still a bride.
Why hadn’t her king arranged for a suitable remarriage? No Scot woman of noble blood would be left unattached. It was unthinkable.
The Picts couldn’t be that indifferent to the security of their warriors’ widows. Or was that why she worked in the monastery? Because she had to earn her keep?
Chapter Three
Aila risked darting the silent Scot a glance. He was staring into the trees, seemingly lost in thought, a frown darkening his brow.
Her breath quickened as she dragged her heated gaze over his profile. He was too far away for her to reach out and touch, yet he was physically closer to her than any free man, aside from her own kin, had been in nine years.
A savage Scot he might be, but he had been touched by the ancient gods when it came to beauty. Hair so black it reminded her of a raven’s wing, and although it was shorter than that of Pictish men—barely reaching his shoulders—the wind-tangled mass fascinated her.
Her fingers tightened in Drun’s fur as the outrageous notion of sliding those same fingers through the Scot’s—through Connor’s—hair whispered through her mind. And instead of strangling the thought in its infancy, she lingered over it, savoring the novel sensation. The realization that, unbelievably, the thought of touching another man no longer sent waves of revulsion plundering through her heart.
Acidic guilt speared through her, an ancient pain she’d lived with for more than a third of her life, yet now clouded by the passage of so many years. Involuntarily she sought the comforting weight of her cross. Was it so wrong to find another man intriguing? Connor would be gone soon. She would never see him again. Why shouldn’t she have a little fun while he remained? Practice her long unused skills of flirtation on him? At least he, unlike her shadowy dream-lover, would respond.
She clawed through her mind, trying to find a subject to engage his interest. At fifteen she’d had no problem talking to anyone, male or female, whatever their rank. For a second her younger self mocked her for the reclusive woman she had become. For the woman who couldn’t find a single thing to say to the man by her side.
The man who appeared more than content to remain staring into the copse. Had she misunderstood the heat of appreciation in his voice when he’d spoken to her? The gleam of approval in his eyes? Connor had told her he’d wanted quiet and she hadn’t believed him. But perhaps he’d told her the truth? Because he certainly gave the impression of a man wishing for nothing but his own company now.
The breeze rustled through the grass. If he wanted to be alone then he could leave. This was her special place and if she wished to talk—then she would. She drew in a quick breath and fancied she caught an elusive hint of wild Scot warrior on the breeze. “How long are you staying in Ce?”
He turned to her and again she was entranced by his stormy eyes. The frown vanished and
a half-smile tugged at his lips as if far from wishing to be alone he had only been waiting for her to resume the conversation.
Perhaps that was it. He’d offered his condolences on the death of her husband and had then assumed she no longer wished for his intrusion.
And up until this moment, that was exactly how she always felt.
“Until our business with your king is concluded.”
She dearly wanted to know what his business was, but if he refused to confide in her mother, the queen, he certainly wouldn’t confide in her—a woman whose rank he was entirely oblivious to.
No matter. Her father would tell them both upon his return.
“I hope,” she said, feeling daring and lightheaded and inexcusably young again, “you’re not here to provoke war, Connor.” How easily his name slipped from her tongue. How easy it was to slip back into the meaningless banter she’d so enjoyed before her premature widowhood.
His eyes crinkled, as if he found her banter equally enjoyable. “War is the last thing on my mind, Aila.” She liked the way he said her name in his strange accent. He made her name sound exotic—foreign. She tried without success to ignore the delicious tremors that quivered through her sheath and spilled, like magical stardust, into her bloodstream. But it was hard to remember why such feelings were wrong when his deep voice, hypnotic eyes and irresistible smile made her feel so right.
Had Scots always been so disarming in their manner? She’d been a child, younger than Finella, the last time any had visited Ce. And then the encounter between their two peoples had been anything but amicable.
“What is on your mind, then?” Reckless. What was she saying? But how exhilarating it felt to flirt with danger, to tease with words and a glance. Until this moment, she hadn’t even realized how much she’d missed such amusing interaction with a delectable-looking man.
Her ever-present guilt streaked through her heart. Reminding her that she was alive, and while she might no longer deserve death, she certainly didn’t deserve a second chance at happiness.
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 3