Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  “Never lose faith in him.” Her grandmother’s voice held a strange, otherworldly note. “Do what you know in your heart is right.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Her father received her in his inner sanctum, but Aila knew even before she entered the chamber something was amiss. Why else would he choose this chamber? And why had her mother and grandmother been summoned but not Finella?

  “Aila.” He embraced her, a huge hulk of a man, his long red hair tied back into a thick braid. “We have a grave situation to discuss, daughter.”

  She inclined her head and attempted to push Connor from her mind. It didn’t feel right, to be dreaming of her wild Scot lover while in the presence of her father. But no matter how she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking of her grandmother’s last intriguing words.

  Never lose faith in him.

  She had to mean Connor. Who else could he possibly be?

  But she still couldn’t imagine what the cryptic comment was meant to convey.

  “Bredei.” Her mother sounded scandalized. “You told me this morning you had little intention of pursuing that matter further.”

  Instantly her attention snapped back to the present. Her mother had taken her place beside the king, where he now sat on his carved throne. Her younger brother Talargan stood with his back to the window, arms folded, a dark scowl distorting his features.

  “Circumstances have changed since we last spoke, my queen.”

  The formality of his address sent skitters of alarm along Aila’s spine. She glanced at her grandmother, seated on the queen’s left, and the dowager gave a barely discernible shrug. It was clear she did not know to what the king referred.

  “Circumstances,” her mother said and Aila could almost see the icicles forming in the air around her, “most certainly have not changed, my lord.”

  “Devorgilla,” the king said. “The Scots’ proposals change everything.”

  “Then perhaps you could enlighten us.” The queen’s tone suggested there was nothing on this earth the Scots could propose that would change her mind on the matter.

  Whatever the matter was.

  Her father beckoned her forward and she gave him her hand. She loved both parents dearly and it hurt to know they had never shared the kind of love she and Onuist had.

  The love she bore for Connor.

  “The High King Wrad’s death has left potential disarray in the kingdoms,” he said. “But you know this, of course.”

  “Yes.” It was the reason her father and brother and many of their warriors had traveled to Fortriu, supreme kingdom of Pictland. “Who was chosen to succeed?”

  “The lineage is fractured.” Her father tightened his grip on her hand before releasing her and casting a swift glance at Talargan’s stony countenance. “There is only one living princess of Fortriu and she remains childless. Until such time as she produces an heir—an uncontested direct descendant of the crown—there are eight nobles besides me who claim matrilineal rights.”

  “Not including that bastard upstart, MacAlpin,” Talargan said, the fury clear in his voice.

  Aila stared at her brother. “The Scot? How can a Scot claim such a blood tie?”

  “His mother,” Talargan said, “was Wrad’s first queen’s younger sister.”

  She had never heard of such sister. This, then, was the news Connor had delivered from Dal Riada.

  “Ah, Clodrah.” Aila’s grandmother sounded oddly sentimental. “Your sister, Devorgilla, is named after my dear childhood friend, Clodrah.”

  “I know nothing of this other Clodrah, Mamma.” An irritated frown creased the queen’s forehead. “So it’s true? The Scot’s claim is valid?”

  “Oh, it’s true. Clodrah was always headstrong and when she decided she wanted to wed the barbaric Scot Alpin, there was no talking sense into her.”

  Talargan finally joined them. Rage emanated from him in an almost palpable fog. “If Mairi had wed a warrior who could have filled her womb instead of that feeble old man she was forced to accept, the lineage would be secure.”

  Sympathy streaked through Aila. Even after all these years her brother still loved the princess Mairi of Fortriu. She reached out and took his hand and, great warrior or not, he allowed her to. There were only eighteen months between them and their bond of blood went deep.

  “I’m surprised,” the queen said, after a soft glance in her son’s direction, “her father didn’t marry her to a suitable Pictish prince. Didn’t he know of her infatuation?”

  “It was during the summer of ’95, Devorgilla.” The dowager sighed, appeared lost in her memories. “The Vikings raided the west coast for the first time. The balance was unsettled. Clodrah, scarcely fourteen years old, took advantage and eloped with her handsome Scot.”

  Aila imagined abandoning all responsibility and eloping with her handsome Scot. But of course, she never would. Not only was she not a rebellious maid of fourteen, but Connor had never suggested he wanted anything more than a fleeting liaison with her.

  But how dearly that long-ago Clodrah must have loved her foreign prince. To give up everything she had ever known in order to follow him into his strange land. Without the blessing of her kin.

  “When the high king, her father, discovered Clodrah’s betrayal he cast her from his heart. Erased her name from the annals of Fortriu. Forbade any to speak of her again.” Her grandmother sighed. “Yet her impetuous nature comes back to haunt us forty-three years after her death.”

  Poor, reckless Clodrah. She had enjoyed only five years with her Scot. Yet long enough to bear the son who now claimed his mother’s heritage as his own.

  “If this knowledge hadn’t been suppressed so effectively,” her father said, “the Scot’s claim could have been deflected years ago with strategic alliances.”

  “How?” the dowager said. “Clodrah’s elder sister inherited, but produced only one frail daughter who, in turn, produced the equally fragile princess Mairi. It grieves me to admit, but the female line of Fortriu is fundamentally flawed.”

  “Nevertheless,” the king said, an edge in his tone, “when the Scots presented MacAlpin’s credentials we were disadvantaged in our own kingdom by such ignorance.”

  “Indeed you were not.” The queen briefly covered his hand with hers. “I know you wouldn’t have given them the satisfaction of showing your true feelings.”

  The king was silent for a moment. Then he looked directly at Aila. “During the council meetings at Fortriu, there was much discussion as to the future of Pictland.”

  Now they were coming to the matter her mother so vehemently opposed. The matter that MacAlpin’s disclosure had somehow managed to change.

  “Yes, my lord.” Dread coiled in the pit of her belly and she knew her future hung in the balance. She tried to ignore it, brush it aside, but still it lingered.

  Because if it wasn’t her future at stake here, then why had her father summoned her to his war chamber? Why did he have that look on his face, as though he were about to betray her in the worst possible fashion?

  “Bredei.” Her mother went unacknowledged. Her father continued to stare at her, as if she were the only one in the chamber.

  “The battle of ’39 decimated our ranks of strong, noble warriors. Our young noblewomen are, from necessity, wedded to men who are one if not more generations their senior.”

  Why was he telling her this? She knew how difficult it was for a young woman of noble birth to wed a man similar in age, who was not also a blood relation. Many of her friends, like Elise, were shackled to aged husbands simply because the choice was so limited.

  “You know,” he said, “how intimately all seven royal families of Pictland are related.”

  “It has always been so.” How else could alliances be made except by intermarriage? She had first and second cousins in all the royal clans.

  But with the steady advance of the Viking devils, with the bloody massacres of ’34 and ’39, the available pool of strong, suitable warriors had dried
to a trickle.

  What they needed was fresh blood. But until the next generation matured, and assuming many males survived into adulthood, how could they—

  An unformed thought teased the edges of her mind. Fresh blood.

  “My daughter, I say this not to distress you but because I know your strength of mind.” Her father drew in a deep breath and Aila held hers as sudden panic gripped her. “If the Vikings attack us in such force as they did before—and should the Scots decide to back them—Pictland will be annihilated in rivers of blood.”

  Talargan tightened his hold on her hand, silently offering her the strength she had so recently offered him.

  “And what did the council decide?” Her voice did not betray the fear knotting her stomach at the vision of Vikings ravaging her beloved homeland the way they had ravaged the northern border of Fidach.

  “It was propositioned that we approach the Scots and offer an alliance against our common enemy.”

  The dread seeped into her blood, chilling her from the inside out. “Political marriages.”

  It was no revelation. For centuries such strategy had been used. But until now only between the seven royal clans of Pictland, to prevent the otherwise incessant battles that raged between one kingdom and the next, without such bonds of blood.

  “The council was divided. To approach the Scots would give them the bargaining advantage. Something I and my fellow supporters find abhorrent.”

  The fear compressing her lungs and suffocating her chest eased. Perhaps, after all, her father wasn’t intimating her name had been mentioned as the sacrificial bride. Even if her mother’s previous reaction suggested otherwise.

  “Were no other strategies put forward?”

  “Aila.” Her father’s gaze bored into her and her fear expanded, consuming the tenuous threads of relief. “Fidach has never recovered from the raids of nine years ago. The Vikings press farther across the border with every passing year. If they realized, even for one moment, the true extent of our vulnerability, they would swarm into our lands without a second’s hesitation.” His hand fisted on the carved armrest of his throne. “It sickens me to confess, but we need the Scots if we want to defeat the Vikings.”

  “Bredei, there are other princesses of Pictland.” There was an undercurrent of pleading in her mother’s tone. Her mother, who never begged, whose pride forbade such base emotion to ever blight her existence.

  But even as the words lingered in the air, Aila knew her mother realized their futility. There were, of course, many princesses of Pictland. But most of them were married, except for those too young for the marriage bed.

  “Yes.” Her father’s voice was heavy and he spared his queen a compassionate glance. “But we are no longer contemplating long betrothals, Devorgilla. And would it be less cruel to offer Finella?”

  “No.” The denial sprang from Aila, repugnance shredding her heart at the thought of her little sister being sent from Pictland. “Not Finella.”

  “Nor Aila.” The queen rose, glared down at her king. “You told me this morning you had informed the council you wouldn’t countenance our daughter being offered to the Scots. What happened to the suggestion of holding a lottery of all suitable noblewomen? It’s unfortunate for whomever loses but at least there is a semblance of fairness to the matter.”

  “Because,” the king said, “the Scots came to Ce with not only the revelation MacAlpin intends to contest the kingship of Fortriu. He also proposes a royal marriage to seal our two peoples into an allegiance against our common foe. He offers the son of his first cousin for our eldest princess Devorgilla.”

  Her father’s words hammered into her brain, battered against her heart. Her brother’s grip on her hand tightened, anchoring her to the moment, to the nightmare scenario pounding through her numb mind.

  Marriage to an unknown Scot. In return for an allegiance against her bitterest of enemies.

  “I forbid such marriage.” Her mother hissed the words at the king before turning to look at Aila. “Tell the Scots the eldest princess Devorgilla is an invalid, unable to travel and most assuredly unable to consummate such a union. Tell them we will present them with alternatives in due course.”

  “Is that true, Aila?” her father said, never taking his steady gaze from her. “Do you consider yourself unable to consummate such a union?”

  She wanted to scream yes. Yes, she was unable. Because that would negate any form of marriage contract. A week ago, there would have been no doubt in her mind that she could never take another man into her body. But now—oh God. Now she knew better.

  There was nothing physically preventing her from consummating such a marriage.

  The knowledge seared her soul. She had fallen in love with Connor, enjoyed one night of exquisite pleasure in his bed. And for that, she had proved beyond doubt she was ready to resume the duties required of a royal wife.

  Except she was barren.

  No prince wanted a barren princess. It was a more than adequate excuse to relinquish her place in this alliance. Another would be found and because of the circumstances without causing insult to the Scots.

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Her brother glared as though her pain was his own. The king’s expression remained grim, the queen outraged. And her grandmother aged twenty years between one breath and the next.

  Nine years ago, her world had shattered. When she had recovered, when she realized Bride had ignored her desperate pleas to join Onuist in the Otherworld, she had pledged vengeance. In reality she had always known there was little she could do. But always, in her heart, the flame had slumbered. The flame that promised she would do anything within her power to prevent further bloodshed and devastation at the hands of the Viking invaders.

  Here was her opportunity. How could she even think of trying to escape this fate, even if her barrenness gave her the perfect opportunity to do so? It was cowardly. She wasn’t a coward. She was a princess of Ce, of Pictland, and it was her duty to do whatever she could to protect her people—to protect her sister.

  To honor the memory of Onuist.

  His name tore through her mind, shredding her fragile veneer of calm. For one terrifying moment she thought she would fall, allow the agony crushing her heart to consume her.

  She had thought, for a few wild, exhilarating days, she had paid her penance. That it wasn’t a sin to love another man. To envision a future with him, even though she had always known such a life was only a dream.

  But she had been wrong.

  Her penance was not paid. She’d had no right to fall in love again. And now she was faced with duty, the prospect of a lifetime locked in a loveless political marriage, she dared to even consider trying to evade her destiny?

  Connor had been an interlude. It wasn’t his fault she had fallen in love with him or harbored foolish hopes of a life together. He had never suggested anything more, had never attempted to coax promises or an oath of fidelity from her.

  She would bury the memory of his touch, of his voice, of the look on his face as he held her in his arms, deep in her soul. Her beloved savage Scot. The man who owned her heart even though she gave her body to another for political stability.

  Her father was giving her a choice. Yet there was no choice.

  She stiffened her spine, gripped Talargan’s hand and sealed her fate.

  “I am able to consummate the union. I accept MacAlpin’s proposal.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  With unconcealed impatience, Connor squinted at the sun. It was directly overhead.

  Where the hell was Aila? How long did it take for a father to greet his daughter, even a dearly beloved daughter? And yet he couldn’t leave in case she arrived while he searched elsewhere.

  This was madness. The longer he waited for her to appear, the less confident he became of her response to his proposal. Yet surely she must have some inkling of his feelings? He’d given her enough clues during the night.

  He resumed pacing along the bank of the stream,
methodically recounting his arguments as to why they should wed. There was only one matter he had failed to address and that was the issue Lady Elise had mentioned earlier.

  To what she referred, he couldn’t imagine. Marriage was the only insurmountable obstacle he could foresee and Elise had assured him that wasn’t the case.

  What could Aila possibly be hiding from him?

  He paused and frowned across the stream into the copse. This morning, before she had rushed from his chamber, she had been agitated. He’d assumed it was because she was afraid of being seen. Of ruining her reputation. But now he thought about it, hadn’t she said they needed to talk? Maybe that had been the reason for her flustered air.

  “Fucking hell, Connor.” Ewan’s exasperated yell bit through his skull and he turned to see his friend glaring down at him from the ridge. “Mac Lutin’s summoned us and nobody knew where you were.”

  Connor snorted in disgust. The Pictish king certainly didn’t waste any time. This day was turning into a farce.

  He marched up the slope toward Ewan and scanned the area, but Aila was nowhere in sight.

  “I wonder if we’ll have the honor of meeting the eldest princess this time?” Ewan said as they made their way toward the palace.

  Connor wasn’t interested in the eldest princess. “When a woman holds a secret close, what would it be?”

  Ewan brightened considerably. He always enjoyed talking about one of his favorite subjects. Women. “Usually, my friend, they keep their age a close secret. As if revealing it would initiate a great catastrophe.”

  He already knew how old Aila was. “No. What else?”

  Ewan slung his arm around Connor’s shoulder. “How many lovers they have entertained over the years. That’s always a popular one.”

  Aila had told him she had known only her husband. He believed her.

  “No. Not that.”

  Ewan shot him a calculating glance. It appeared he was going to make a personal remark, but then he clearly thought better of it. “I’ve had ladies keep secret the extent of their experience, the true color of their hair—God, that one was a shock.” For a second he appeared lost in salacious memories. “On occasion they omit to reveal their true marital status or even the number of offspring they’ve birthed. Once—”