Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors)

by Phillips, Christina

  Another wave of panic flooded her. “No, Mamma will stay here also. I must—”

  “Of course I shall accompany you.” Her mother sounded as outraged as Finella. “How you can think I would allow you to make such a journey—such a sacrifice—without me by your side—”

  “Devorgilla.” Her grandmother’s voice was low but vibrated with leashed power. “This journey is for Aila alone.”

  Her mother’s lip trembled. She looked from the dowager to Aila and finally Elise. “Is that your opinion also?” Her voice was chilly.

  “Yes, madam.” Elise sounded as if she wished otherwise.

  “How odd,” her mother said and now there was a trace of bitterness in her tone. “That finally the three of you are in accordance.”

  “Mamma, it’s not like that.” Aila tried to shake free of the sensation of devastation that continued to dig relentless claws into her soul. “I just—I think—” She caught sight of the confusion on Finella’s face and desperately searched for a rational explanation for her behavior. “Drun needs you here, Finella. His heart will break if we both leave him.” As her heart would break when she left him behind. But Drun was too old for such a journey. Better he stay with those who loved him than face an uncertain future in a strange land simply because his familiar presence would make her feel better.

  Her mother gave a mirthless laugh. “Pray do not patronize me in such a manner. For fifteen years until your marriage to Onuist I was privy to your insights. Just as, when I was a girl, I was used to my mother’s.”

  “This is not an insight.” Aila fought against the renewed wave of panic that threatened to swamp her. This was not an unwelcome message from an unwanted goddess. It was just a…feeling.

  “My sister Clodrah and I both dearly wished the goddess had blessed us so. But not one of our cousins received the gift either. Our entire generation was ignored.”

  “The world is changing, Devorgilla.” Her grandmother sounded wistful. “I remember my own great-grandmother telling me how three of her sisters and two brothers were so blessed, as well as countless cousins. But now…” Aila felt her face burn at the unspoken reproach.

  “Clodrah was beside herself when it became clear Aila had inherited the gift.” Her mother sighed. “She was the elder sister and already had four daughters.” Her gaze shifted to Elise. “And then you were born. My eldest and her youngest.” She looked back at Aila. “The three of you warn me not to travel to Dal Riada, and you think it has nothing to do with Bride?”

  “Aila.” Finella’s fearful whisper intruded into the taut silence. “Is something bad going to happen at Dal Riada?”

  With clear impatience, her mother beckoned over a servant. “Take Princess Finella into the royal garden. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Despite her protests, Finella went. And only then did her mother once more face Aila.

  “Well? Is that true?” Her glance swept from the dowager to Elise and back again. “Is that why you don’t want your sister or mother to accompany you?”

  Unnamed fear clogged her throat. She surged to her feet and then didn’t know where she wished to go. Only that Dal Riada, whether she wanted it or not, was her destination.

  “I don’t know.” The admission tore from her against her will. “I just don’t want you and Finella to see me joined to a stranger. A man I have never even met before in my life.”

  But that was a lie. She did want her mother there. And yet a terrible foreboding knotted her stomach at the thought of the queen entering Dal Riada.

  Her mother stood, took her hands. The familiar touch did nothing to soothe Aila’s jagged nerves. “What else do you see, Aila?” It was a demand, yet so much anguish threaded each word it was a plea for reassurance. But she had no reassurance, for she saw nothing.

  Why wouldn’t her mother believe her?

  “Devorgilla.” The dowager queen also stood and curled her fingers around their joined hands. “There is nothing else, my daughter. Only the knowledge Aila must make this journey alone, despite our personal objections. That from this darkness that clouds our view, a new alliance will be born. But like all births, pain is inevitable.”

  The Vikings would be defeated. Her heart was a small price to pay. And while she would pledge her loyalty to her unknown husband, she knew it would never stop her longing for what could never be hers.

  * * * * *

  Uuen swung a casket onto the desk she used to teach her students. He had been uncharacteristically silent since she’d informed him of her imminent departure, and yet she also had the impression he wasn’t surprised by the reason that had brought the Scots to Ce.

  They packed vellum, her paints and the unfinished illuminated history of her people. Would Prince Fergus allow her to continue with her artistic passion? The Scots were not Picts. She’d heard the status of a wife in Dal Riada was little above that of a slave.

  But then, she had also once thought all Scots were savages. And then she had met Connor. Perhaps her people misjudged the Scots. Perhaps there was not so much difference between them at all.

  The possibility didn’t make her feel any better.

  “I hope,” Uuen said, finally turning to look at her, “that one day I will have the honor of seeing the finished manuscript, my lady. And that you’ll be able to place it in our library with your own hands.”

  Aila closed the casket and placed her palm on the carved lid. “So do I.” And then she couldn’t help herself. “Will I ever return to Ce, Uuen?” But why was she asking him? He was a servant of God, but this God did not send obscure messages by way of incomprehensible visions to those who worshipped at his feet.

  “That’s not for me to know.” There was no trace of Uuen’s usual joviality. “I confess, my princess, I had hoped for a different outcome for you this week. But the ways of God are mysterious and not for us to question.” His gaze locked with hers. “Have faith in Him, my child. He’ll show you the way.”

  His words, intended to comfort, stabbed through her heart. Never lose faith in him. She’d imagined, foolishly, her grandmother was referring to Connor. But that was before she’d been given the ultimatum of marriage or the possible annihilation of her people. When she had still harbored, in the secret core of her heart, the impossible dream of a future with her Scot.

  But her grandmother hadn’t been speaking of Connor at all. It had been a timely rebuke from the God she now followed, a reminder she was no longer beholden to the goddesses of old.

  Only when one of the royal guards took the casket from her did the incongruity strike her. No matter that she no longer listened to the ancient ones. Her grandmother believed. Her grandmother was still a conduit.

  Why would her grandmother urge such a thing?

  Chapter Twenty

  Aila flexed her fingers and dropped her embroidery onto her lap. For three days she and all the noble ladies in Ce-eviot had gathered in the queen’s private chambers and sewed as if their lives depended on it.

  Her mother was determined Aila’s gowns would be a source of great envy among the Scots ladies once she arrived in Dal Riada.

  Surreptitiously she glanced around the chamber. Every head was bent, every needle busy. It appeared no one wanted the eldest princess Devorgilla to be outshone in her new home.

  Aila knew she should care. She was the first to make such a marriage and there was little doubt in her mind that others would follow. It was her duty to make a good impression. To foster harmony and trust between her people and those of her husband.

  But every time she thought of her unknown husband, acrid fear gripped her heart.

  It was one thing to know she could make love with a man who was not Onuist. It was another thing entirely when that man wasn’t Connor.

  Connor.

  It had been three days since she had last seen him.

  Since the betrothal, she’d been watched as though she were a highly prized hostage. A royal guard of four shadowed her every move. Yet every moment of her waking day was
spent with her mother, her grandmother, sister and cousins and various other ladies.

  Only now, when her life was about to change so drastically, did she truly appreciate how much freedom she had enjoyed over the last few years.

  She’d all the privileges of her rank, but none of the usual responsibilities that went with it. No husband, no household to run, no servants or slaves to supervise. No children to worry about.

  She had poured her passion into her art, into her teaching, as if by so doing she was somehow keeping the memory of Onuist alive. But Onuist would never completely die, not as long as he was remembered. And she had ensured, nine years ago, his memory would live on, honored and revered.

  Drun gave a heavy sigh, his head across her feet. Ah, Drun. She thought of her true, unspoken hero. But some things could never be shared and Drun would never condemn her for her silence.

  * * * * *

  Chest heaving, Connor acknowledged his opponent with a jerk of his head. For three hours he’d fought one warrior after another, broadswords clashing in this field so distant from his home, sweat dripping into the ancient Pictish earth.

  It had been three days since he’d last spoken to Aila by the stream. And since then she’d been guarded as if she was—

  A bitter laugh escaped. As if she was a princess.

  Hands braced against his thighs he sucked in air, only half listening to the conversation of a group of warriors behind him.

  “How much longer will that damn princess make us stay in this heathen land?” MacGregor said.

  “I doubt the princess has anything to do with it,” he heard Cam say. If he wasn’t so twisted with fury about the entire situation, he might find wry amusement in the notion of Cam, of all people, defending a Pictish princess against slander. “They’re still waiting for the messengers to return from the other Pictish kingdoms.”

  “I’m reliably informed,” said a third voice, MacIntosh, “that the princess intends to take with her three wagonloads of personal possessions.”

  Connor turned and glared. Only Cam looked uncomfortable. Which just proved how well his relationship with Aila had been concealed from his men.

  “Fuck, Connor,” MacGregor said, slapping his shoulder, as if oblivious to how his insult against Aila rankled. “You look like shit. How about we find some willing Pictish maids to entertain us this afternoon? The ladies are all otherwise engaged in an attempt to make the princess less hideous to her bridegroom but some of the serving wenches are—”

  “Shut it, MacGregor,” Cam said with his ever-present glower.

  “Aye, you could do with a fuck as well, MacNeil,” MacGregor said without rancor. “Might loosen some of that aggression.”

  “I’ll wait,” Cam said between his teeth, “until I’m back among my own kind.”

  “Connor,” MacIntosh said under his breath. “Is there a problem you’ve not shared with us? Did mac Lutin stipulate clauses you doubt MacAlpin will consider?”

  With an effort, Connor dragged his attention from the other two. From the enticing notion of smashing their skulls together.

  “No, mac Lutin agreed to all the major clauses in principle. He intends to finalize the contract in person.”

  “I heard he had strong views over the bride price.”

  His views over the bride price had been immovable. Everything Aila took into her marriage remained hers and, should the marriage for any reason be dissolved, returned to her. But since MacAlpin had foreseen such possibility, he and Ewan had been given permission to concede on this point, if it was raised.

  Ewan had conceded. Connor had been excluded from the subsequent meetings. But he hadn’t been dragged before mac Lutin nor questioned. And surely if they suspected he had so much as touched their princess, let alone had her in his bed for one glorious night, his head would already be impaled on a spike.

  “Everything is going to plan, MacIntosh.” Bitterness scorched his voice. Already the messengers that mac Lutin had sent to Fidach, Circinn and Fotla had returned. When the last three reported back, there would be no further reason to delay their departure. “We’ll be leaving by week’s end.”

  * * * * *

  Finally word came. They were to leave Ce the following morning. Twelve days after they had first entered the kingdom.

  It had been five days since he’d last spoken to Aila. Five days since he had even seen her. Now, when he knew how false the rumors surrounding her were, she became as elusive as he had ever accused the eldest Princess Devorgilla of being.

  Tonight’s feast was a great celebration. A farewell. A fucking travesty. And yet to refuse to attend would be an insult.

  Aila would be there. Like a love-struck youth, he ached to see her, even if only from a distance. Even if seeing her stoked the insanity churning his mind, fueled the fury incinerating his heart.

  Aware of the furtive glances he drew as they waited for the royal arrival in the feasting hall, his glower intensified. He knew he looked formidable. Days of drinking and fighting to excess and then the inability to fall into oblivion at night did not make a man look his best.

  The senior royals entered the hall. His gaze fixed on the slender figure of Aila as she followed the dowager queen. She was dressed in a forest-green gown with matching veil. Her beautiful hair glowed like ethereal flames in the flicker of the lamplights. Even from this distance, he could see jade, or perhaps emeralds, threaded through her plaits at each point of every lock.

  She looked every inch a princess. A royal bride-to-be.

  The woman he loved.

  As the royal party sat, her gaze caught his. Her veil framed her face, sweeping beneath her chin and draping over her shoulder, and the heavy gold band upon her head glittered with precious jewels. A sacrificial innocent, to appease the bloodthirsty greed of men.

  The king’s speech, on the benefits of an alliance between Ce and Dal Riada, on the marriage of his beloved daughter to a prince of the Scots, seared through his gut like acid.

  Only Ewan’s remorseless hand on his shoulder forced him to sit when everyone else did. Only Ewan’s solid presence by his side forced him to remain seated when every fiber of his being demanded he march up to the high table and claim Aila for his own.

  Claim her. And risk her reputation, his head and another blood-drenched war.

  The feast was interminable. One magnificent dish after another and every one tasted of ashes. Slivers of conversation penetrated his black fog.

  “Damn, the princess is a beauty,” said MacGregor, sounding torn between astonishment and rising lust.

  “Fergus will find it no hardship bedding this bride,” MacIntosh agreed.

  All his men cared about was the fact Aila wasn’t a repellent hag. That Fergus would find her desirable. That within a month, two at most, she would be with child.

  He stifled the rage that demanded he challenge them. How dare they speak so of her? Yet all the while, bitter knowledge curdled in his mind. For less than two weeks ago, his opinion had been no different from theirs.

  When, hours later, the two long tables were pushed back to the walls to allow space for the entertainment to begin, his patience frayed.

  He’d go insane listening to bards and their endless songs of true love. He needed air. Deliberately not glancing in Aila’s direction, he marched from the hall.

  Unlike the last time he’d escaped the confines of the hall, he was alone outside, apart from the requisite Pictish guards. Unable to remain still, he walked on toward the outer edge of the bright glow thrown by the dozens of torches that surrounded the palace.

  Haunting fragments of harp music floated on the breeze and with a muttered curse, he walked farther from the source, around the side of the palace, where silence enveloped him like a malignant savior.

  This was only a taste of what was to come. When they reached Dal Riada, when the clauses in the marriage contract had been settled to both kings’ satisfaction, there would be a formal betrothal. And then the wedding itself.

&nb
sp; Not if he had anything to do with it.

  As if summoned by his frenzied thoughts he watched her emerge from stone shadows, accompanied by Elise. Somehow she’d escaped her royal guard, had used a different exit to the main doors that were so heavily guarded. She hesitated in a pool of light, as though unsure of his reaction.

  Desperate hope surged. There could be only one reason why she sought him out, and he marched toward her, scarcely acknowledging how Elise vanished back into the palace.

  “Aila.” How good it felt to say her name once again. To see her gazing up at him. To touch—

  She held out a hand, warning him against such action. “Douse the torches,” she whispered. “No one must see us, Connor. It’s too dangerous.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  He wrenched a couple of torches from their iron supports and rammed the flames into the ground. It gave them a degree of privacy. From a distance no one would be able to distinguish she was the princess.

  She’d removed the distinctive crown and already her veil slipped over her silken hair. But she didn’t appear to notice.

  “I can’t stay long.” Her whisper was so low he had to bend toward her to catch her words. No hardship. He breathed in deep, savoring her fresh, evocative fragrance. “But I had to see you. I had to tell you how wrong you are.”

  He stilled. “Wrong?”

  She shivered. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, trying to transfer his body heat to her. God knew, his blood was hot enough for the both of them.

  She sank against him. He brushed his lips across the top of her head, her hair silky-soft, and one hand slid the length of her back to curve around her waist.

  She had come to him. She intended to sever the contract. And although she would be disgraced, at least she would be free.

  Right now, he couldn’t think further than that. But so long as she remained free, there was hope for them both.

  Then she straightened and a chill invaded where only seconds before her soft body had shared his warmth. Yet he kept his arms around her, despite the way she stiffened as though his touch no longer pleased her.