And for the second time that afternoon, she smothered the guilt. Time enough to repent for her moments of pleasure after Connor had left Ce.
For the first time in nine years, she was looking at a man who was looking at her with desire in his eyes. She knew her behavior was unforgivable. She should declare her status, shatter this enchanting spell, but the words lodged in her throat.
Because the truth was, she wanted to hear him say he desired her. Wanted unbiased proof that someone—a stranger—could look at her and see the woman beneath this chilly facade, the woman who yearned to live once more.
“What’s on my mind?” He repeated her question and the breath stilled in her breast as anticipation scrambled through her stomach. This was madness; she was behaving like a thirteen-year-old maid, yet she couldn’t help herself.
“Yes.” Was that really her voice? He would think her shameless. And she didn’t care. She had not enjoyed herself so much since—she couldn’t even recall.
Connor offered her a smile that looked more pained than passionate. “I’m wondering what it is you do in the monastery, Aila.”
She continued to stare at him until the meaning of his words lodged into her brain with the force of a newly crafted arrow. Heat rose in her cheeks, a humiliating burn that radiated throughout the rest of her body.
She had misinterpreted his interest. Mortification paralyzed her and the overwhelming desire to flee flooded her senses.
But she was a princess. With grim determination, she remained motionless, desperate not to show how badly her error had shaken her confidence. Pride, forged through countless generations and refined to an art form during the last few years, surged through her. Rescuing her and preventing any from seeing even a hint of her true thoughts.
Thoughts she had no right harboring in the first place. But that knowledge did nothing to soothe her wounded feelings.
“I’m an artist.” He would never guess the wretched turmoil beneath her calm facade. Obviously she had been too long on her own, ensconced within the familiar love of her family, to judge with any accuracy a man’s intent.
While her mind imagined they had played a double-edged game of words, Connor had imagined no such thing.
Connor saw the fiery blush sweep her pale cheeks before it faded just as rapidly. It was the only indication she gave of understanding, in humiliating detail, the reason for his tactical withdrawal.
If he had any sense of honor, he’d make some godforsaken excuse and leave. They both knew attraction sizzled between them. Both knew that, up until mere minutes ago, he would have acted on that attraction had she given him the slightest encouragement.
She had. And he, with as much finesse as a blundering ox, had retreated.
His arse remained rooted to the ground, his gaze remained fixed on her averted face. And his cock, damn it, refused to accept she was forbidden fruit by virtue of her widowed status.
“An artist?” Why was he prolonging this torture? It was clear she wished him gone. Any woman would wish him gone after having rebuked so gentle an advance. He should seek out one of the married women in the palace; one whose warrior husband accompanied their king, and slake the fire in his blood. The lust-fueled fire that was blinding his good sense when it came to Aila.
She looked at him and inclined her head in a regal manner. “An illuminator, to be precise.” There was no residual hint of breathlessness in her voice. No censure. She was coolly polite, as if the libidinous undercurrents of their previous conversation had existed only in his lascivious mind.
Her cloak slid down her arms to pool around her waist and her vibrant emerald gown exposed her slender frame. Without her protective cloak, the extent of her fragility was potently obvious. She looked as though one robust gust of the famed Highland wind could sweep her away.
Something tightened in his gut. Linked to the lust that still seethed through his blood and yet, somehow, apart.
He ignored it. With more success than he managed to ignore his cursed erection.
“An illuminator?” Mentally he cringed. Was he condemned to repeat every word she uttered? But not only was he finding it difficult to concentrate on her side of the conversation, what he did manage to focus on didn’t make sense.
Women, to his knowledge, simply did not undertake the craft of illumination. Clearly they were at cross-purposes.
She offered him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her stunning green eyes, that no longer sparkled with mirth.
“My husband taught me the art while I was still a child. I do what I can to ensure the memory of his many achievements lives on.”
He watched her as she absently caressed the dog, as her disinterested gaze shifted from him and focused on the trees on the far side of the stream.
Not for the first time her words confused him. Had she not been married to a warrior? The thought gnawed at him. It was scarcely comprehensible. She was of noble blood. She would, undoubtedly, have married one of similar status.
The art of illumination was a craft held sacred by learned monks. How, then, had she ended up with a man of the church? He’d heard of such couplings where husband and wife regarded each other as brother and sister. A marriage devoid of earthly passion, dedicated to the worship of pure, spiritual love.
Not only was she widowed, she was probably a virgin widow. Double the reason to make good his escape. Yet he remained, unable to tear his fascinated gaze from her.
“And you teach others this craft?” But why did she teach? And again he couldn’t imagine why her father or king hadn’t arranged a more suitable second marriage for her.
Once more she inclined her head. As if she were a queen and he a lowly subject undeserving of verbal response.
It was glaringly obvious she wished him to leave. His gaze dropped to the dog, who was staring at him with glazed brown eyes. It began to slowly thump its tail on the ground, fully aware of Connor’s regard.
Aila gave a scarcely smothered sigh and flattened her hand on the dog’s head, clearly willing it to be still. “Time to go, Drun,” she said and as the dog laboriously raised its great head and struggled to its feet, he rose and went toward her.
She stared at his proffered hand as if he offered her a writhing snake. After another second’s hesitation, she gripped the gaping edges of her cloak together in one hand and placed her other in his.
Her hand was small, fine-boned, her fingers slender and faintly stained by the tools of her trade. But as her skin brushed his palm, awareness sizzled in his blood, thundered through his chest. As if, instead of a touch as light as a butterfly, she had wrapped her naked body around him and knocked him forcefully to the ground.
Slowly he curled his fingers around hers. Never before had his hand so utterly dwarfed that of a woman. His sun-darkened skin stood out in stark relief against the paleness of hers as though she rarely ventured into the outside world, never mind spent any time enjoying the warmth of the sun.
He risked glancing at her face as with utmost care he pulled her to her feet, but her lashes were lowered, shielding her eyes. She clasped her cloak about her at her breast and appeared not in the least affected by their touch.
“Thank you.” Her voice was cool as she withdrew her hand, and he flexed his fingers, trying to eradicate the lingering awareness that clung to his flesh.
“With your leave, I’ll escort you back.” Aye, because it made perfect sense to spend as much time as he could in the company of this woman. A woman who was not only out of bounds for a brief sexual fling but happened to arouse him to agonizing heights with the slightest touch of her hand.
She didn’t even glance at him. “As you wish.”
He stared at her retreating back as she made her way up the gentle slope. As dismissals went, it was blatantly clear. Why then was he compelled to follow her? After all, he was the one who no longer wished to continue with a liaison. Wasn’t he?
It was a good question but he couldn’t answer it. And instead of turning in the o
pposite direction, which was the logical course of action, within a few strides he was by her side.
She shot him an oddly furtive glance. The confusion in her eyes, in that one fleeting second as their gazes meshed, sliced into him like a blade. It was obvious she found his continued presence inexplicable.
That made two of them. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed self-torture.
The silence screamed between them. He might not be a seasoned seducer of women, but he’d never before been tongue-tied around one. He might have been thirteen years old again, and in the presence of a temptress from one of his night-fevered fantasies.
Breath hissed between his teeth. Never had his fantasies involved a virgin widow. He’d be damned if he’d start now.
“Hey, boy.” He offered his fingers for the dog to sniff. Aila shot him another glance, but there was no confusion in her look this time. It was clearly disapproving. He ignored her obvious wish for him to remain mute. “He’s a great age for a deerhound.” He’d never seen a dog with so much gray fur and rubbed the creature behind his ears.
“Drun is eleven.” Aila glanced at his hand and frowned, clearly wishing Drun might savage him. “I’ve had him since he was eight weeks old.”
“And no doubt he was a great hunter until he retired.” He glanced at the dog’s ungainly back leg. It looked as if it had been broken in several places.
Aila sighed and one arm escaped her cloak to wrap with loving protection around the dog’s neck. “He would have been the best.” She could have been speaking of a favored child, such was the heartbreaking pride in her voice. “But he was never given the chance.” She stopped walking and kissed the top of the dog’s head. “Were you, my love?” Her voice was soft, gentle, as though she spoke not to an animal but to her beloved.
With a stab of unease, he recalled how Maeve used to call him “my love”. And immediately wondered how it would feel to have Aila look at him with desire in her eyes, to hear her whisper those words as he held her in his arms.
This was madness. She had looked at him with desire. And he’d rejected her. He wasn’t so arrogant as to assume she would offer herself a second time. And even if she did, it would make no difference.
He only fucked married women.
Chapter Four
As Aila threaded a length of glittering blue stones through her cousin Elise’s golden hair, she tried to ignore the tremors of agitation that twisted through her stomach every time she thought of how she’d flirted with Connor MacKenzie.
Her only comfort was the knowledge that he was clearly oblivious to her attempts at flirtation. Had he guessed her intense mortification, he surely would not have insisted on accompanying her back to the palace or continued to speak with her as though nothing was amiss.
He had spoken of Drun. Of Ce-eviot’s numerous forges. The impressive size of their villages and the palace’s incomparable location. It had been a relief to leave him at the palace’s gates so she didn’t have to continually respond to his questions or see the half-smile that quirked his lips whenever she happened to glance his way.
“Lady Aila.” Floradh, her elderly servant who sat on the ancient oak chest, its intricate carvings hidden beneath many embroidered coverings and cushions, paused in her task of mending a gown. “Why don’t you attend the feast this eve? See how many savage Scots Lady Elise can tame with her wondrous smile?”
Aila caught her cousin’s reflection in the oval polished-silver mirror and Elise flashed Aila a smile, the smile that could halt a warrior at ten paces and cause him to forsake any good sense he might once have possessed.
Would Connor fall for Elise’s charms? Aila didn’t doubt it. Elise, unlike her, knew exactly how to enchant a man.
“At least watch from the hidden staircase,” Elise said. “The Scots are well worth watching, I assure you.”
“I have no desire to watch a pack of Scots make fools of themselves with my countrywomen.” Specifically Connor MacKenzie. Although she had no problem watching other guests embarrass themselves. Indeed the more foolishly they behaved the more entertaining the night.
For one brief moment, she remembered how much she’d once enjoyed participating in such festivities. But that was long ago. So long ago that the thought of once again joining a feast and having dozens of curious eyes glance her way, of having to make light, inconsequential conversation with strange men, caused her stomach to contract with unformed terror.
And because of her widowhood, because her health had been compromised for so long in her past, her parents didn’t insist on her attendance.
She glared at the rich tapestries adorning the walls of her chamber, for once not admiring the vibrancy of the hunting scenes, the delicacy of the details. All she could see were Connor’s stormy-gray eyes and his black hair whipping across his face as he stood looking down at her, holding out his hand.
Elise turned to look at her and, with difficulty, Aila dragged her attention from the memory of how Connor MacKenzie’s touch had caused illicit desire to streak through her. How degrading. She hoped she never saw him again.
“I, on the other hand,” Elise said, “will find great delight in watching the Scots make fools of themselves.” She stood up and twirled in front of the mirror, her sapphire-blue gown a perfect match for her eyes. In the glow from the fire, she looked younger than her twenty-one years, as if she had not a care in the world.
But then Elsie always did look happier when apart from her elderly husband. To know her cousin was shackled to a man where there was not only a lack of love but also mutual respect grieved Aila to the core of her soul.
She hoped Elise did make a magnificent conquest this eve. Just so long as it wasn’t Connor MacKenzie.
“I intend to enjoy my six months here without my mother’s eye upon me,” Elise said and then leaned in close to whisper in Aila’s ear, “or having to undertake the onerous duties expected of a wife.”
Aila smiled, as Elise clearly expected, but not once had she found the duties of a wife to be onerous. And although for the last nine years the thought of ever taking another man into her body had filled her with a nauseous combination of alarm and terror, her strange, erotic dreams did not frighten her at all.
They had shocked her at first when they started last midwinter. But now she shamefully craved those dreams, not only for the sensory pleasure but also because her dream-lover fascinated her.
Her dark-haired, stormy-eyed dream-lover.
The comb slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Hastily she sank to her knees onto the exquisite Persian rug, hiding her face so Elise could not see the blood that rushed to her cheeks.
It was only sheer coincidence. She was superimposing Connor’s looks on her shadowy stranger and it did not mean a thing.
She had to change the subject. Her mind had been occupied with Connor ever since she had left him at the palace gates and it was infuriating. Not least because she knew he wouldn’t have spared a second thinking of her.
“I’m glad you are here, Elise.” They had virtually grown up together and despite the five year difference in their ages, had always been close. “It’s been too long since you last stayed in Ce.”
“Four months and three days. How fortunate the lure of the sea entices my husband more than I could ever hope to do.”
Aila caught her cousin’s gaze. Elise did not look unduly concerned by the knowledge. After all, she wasn’t the only one of their friends tied to a man where love did not factor into the arrangement. But even so, it didn’t prevent Aila’s sense of injustice at the unpleasant choice of mate her cousin had been given. How different Elise’s marriage was from her own brief one to Onuist.
“There.” Elise straightened her veil. “Now I’m ready to show our barbarous guests an eve of Pictish refinement.”
“Tell me every detail when you return tonight.” Unless the details involve… She strangled the thought before it could take hold. She didn’t care if Connor fell under Elise’s spell. He could fall under a
charging horse for all the difference it made to her.
* * * * *
After Aila had eaten her solitary meal in her antechamber, she stood in front of the fire, warming her hands that did not need warming and attempting to ignore the rising sensation of frustration flooding through her.
She had not been this restless since she’d been a young maid. She had the inexplicable desire to do something, go somewhere, and yet her thoughts were tangled and nothing made sense.
“My lady?” Floradh’s voice pulled her back to reality and she turned to her servant, who was looking at her with an odd expression on her face. “I didn’t wish to say anything in front of Lady Elise, but did the Scot offend you earlier this day?”
Aila smothered a groan. She should have guessed her oldest servant would discover a Scot had escorted her back to the palace. Like Uuen, Floradh did not miss much that occurred in Ce-eviot.
There was no point denying or pretending ignorance. Either would only cause Floradh to assume something illicit had transpired. “No. He merely accompanied me back to the palace.”
“Because, my lady, no Scot can be trusted.” Floradh’s voice rose in agitation. “You shouldn’t walk alone while they infest our land.”
She had no intention of allowing Connor—of allowing the visiting Scots—to dictate her movements. But Floradh thought only of her safety, and so she battened down her resentment.
“It’s been nine years since we last fought the Scots,” she reminded the old woman. “They are not our enemy.” At least not at the moment. But peace between various clans and peoples was so tenuous in Pictland, who could say how long it might last?
Floradh didn’t look convinced but appeared resigned to allowing the matter to rest. “Shall I warm the bed for you, my lady?”
Aila glanced at her bed and another wave of restlessness swept through her, fueling her simmering resentment. “No.” The decision came instantly and she swung away from the fire. “I’m going to watch the feast.”
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 4