“Why so grim?” MacAlpin slapped him on the shoulder, clearly well pleased. “Events are proceeding exactly as planned.”
That was the problem.
“I have reservations.” The words were out, stark and uncompromising. He’d had more than two weeks to perfect this speech and still the right damn words eluded him.
MacAlpin raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise. “Reservations?”
“Aye.” His mouth dried. Christ, now what? From nowhere, his brain hooked on to the image of Aila with her father. The questions the Ce king had demanded Connor answer before agreeing to this alliance. “I’ve had time to watch the King of Ce. He is devoted to his daughter. I fear once he discovers Fergus’ true nature toward women and fidelity, he’ll demand a retraction of the betrothal.”
MacAlpin didn’t appear overly concerned. “And are you the King of Ce’s mouthpiece? Did he send you here with this…threat?”
Threat? “No, my liege. I speak only from my personal observations.” He spoke for Aila. Because she refused to speak for herself.
MacAlpin gave a short laugh devoid of mirth. “MacKenzie, all fathers are devoted to their daughters. We want them to make successful marriages and strengthen our alliances. The fidelity of their chosen husband is, I assure you, of little significance to us.”
Sweat trickled along Connor’s spine. He knew, without question, had he told the King of Ce about Fergus’ predilection for young slave girls, his aversion to matrimony and distaste for tying himself to a wife, the king would never have agreed to the alliance.
“My liege, the Picts are different in the way they—”
“No, Connor.” MacAlpin took one step toward him. “The Picts are no different from us in this matter. Only you, with your idealized vision of marriage, can’t see it. And who are you to level such accusations against your brother?” MacAlpin narrowed his eyes. “Do you think me unaware of your liaisons these past four years? The married women you take to your bed? You’re no better than any other noble in my court in that regard.”
The accusation stung, but he wasn’t talking of any other noble. Wasn’t referring to any other political marriage. Impotent rage twisted through his blood. “At least I have never taken a woman against her will.”
He thought MacAlpin was going to thrust his words aside. Slaves were of no account and a wife little better. But then the king drew back, as if seriously considering the matter.
“Fergus will never harm the princess. Her well-being is our priority. No matter what your brother does outside of the marriage bed, be assured the Ce king will have no complaint as to how his daughter is treated as the wife of a Dal Riadan prince.”
Desperation clawed through Connor’s guts. There had to be something he could say that would sway his king’s mind. “My liege—”
“Enough.” MacAlpin’s command slashed through the chamber with the force of a battle-ax. “Your concern for the continuation of this alliance is commendable. However.” MacAlpin’s icy gaze froze the words of denial on Connor’s tongue. “Take a care, Connor, that you always remember to whom you owe your loyalty.”
When Aila reached her chambers, exhaustion overtook her and she sank onto the bed. Six noble ladies comprised her personal retinue and stood in a semicircle before her, awaiting instructions. They were older than was usual for a princess of her age, widowed and without young children. There were none of royal blood. Her mother, for all her influence, had failed to persuade any other king to relinquish a treasured daughter to accompany hers into an unknown future.
A feast was to be held in her honor, when she would meet MacAlpin and his cousin’s son. Her betrothed. She stifled the knot of fear and gripped her fingers together. These ladies were not strangers to her, but none of them were close confidantes. She couldn’t show her true feelings. She was their princess and they looked to her for guidance in this new life.
But who would she look to?
A knock on the antechamber door distracted her and as two of the ladies left the bedchamber, she hoped it was her dear faithful servant Floradh returning with refreshments. Floradh, who had refused to be left behind in Ce despite her advancing years.
Floradh, who was the closest thing to a friend she had in this strange new world.
Her ladies returned. “Madam,” Cailleach said. “Lady Maeve Balfour wishes to extend her greetings to you.” She paused, glanced at her companion. “She also brings refreshments.”
God, she was in no fit state to play hostess. She wanted to be left alone until the last possible moment. Until she had to attend the feast this evening and once again be subjected to endless speculation.
She inclined her head. “Of course.” She would have no Scot accuse a Pict of being ill-mannered. “Show her through.”
Receiving visitors in her bedchamber was scarcely the correct protocol, but her antechamber was crowded with her and her ladies’ traveling caskets and belongings that had yet to be sorted out.
And besides, she wasn’t sure her legs would support her if she attempted to stand. The last few days of the journey had been especially tiring. She hoped Lady Maeve Balfour wouldn’t stay long so she could try to rest before the dreaded feast.
She watched the Scot enter her chamber, and her spine stiffened further. She already knew, from the nights she’d spent in the Scot-owned hill forts, that the gowns of Scot ladies were very different from her own. It was another point of disparity between them. Another fact that made her stand out when all she wanted was to blend in.
It didn’t help that all her gowns were highly embroidered at the bodice and sleeves in threads of gold and scarlet. The Scots’ gowns were often a white plaid, with a few small stripes of black, blue and red, girdled around the waist with elaborate silver buckles and jewels.
Not Lady Maeve Balfour though. Her gown, although in the same style as the other Scot ladies Aila had already met, was a vibrant blue and her buckle and brooch were of gold, set with precious gems.
Lady Maeve sank into a curtsey. “Welcome to Dunadd, Princess Devorgilla,” she said in deeply accented Pictish. “I hope you find happiness with us.”
The simple speech eased her terror in a way the formal greeting earlier had only managed to intensify. “Thank you,” she said in her own language. And then something made her add, “I speak your tongue.”
Relief flooded Lady Maeve’s lovely face. “I’m glad, madam. I’m afraid my Pictish is very limited.”
It may have been limited but at least she’d gone to the trouble of addressing Aila in her own language. That was more than the official welcoming council had done. In itself that didn’t worry her. She could, after all, understand the Gaelic language. But it was the unshakable feeling that the Scot nobles had assumed she didn’t comprehend their words—and they didn’t care.
She’d seen the assessing glances they’d leveled her way. And because they clearly assumed she didn’t speak Gaelic she hadn’t deigned to enlighten them.
But it had done nothing to lighten her fears for the future. The fear that the rumors were true. That, with perhaps some exceptions, the men of Dal Riada did consider their womenfolk inferior in intellect.
She glanced at her ladies and they brought over a small table for the refreshments and a stool for Lady Maeve.
They passed a few pleasantries, remarking upon the length of the journey and the comfortable appointment of her chambers. Lady Maeve was even kind enough to admire the embroidery on Aila’s gown. Embroidery that Finella had painstakingly labored over during the last week before she’d left Ce.
She couldn’t think of Finella now. Couldn’t face the possibility they would never see each other again. Only when she was alone would she ever be able to unfurl her heart. Embrace her loved ones’ memories. Because when she did, she was not certain she’d be able to hold back the tears.
She had to change the subject.
“I look forward to meeting the prince tonight.” That was a lie. But she would have to get used to lying. The
rest of her life was going to be one great lie. She fixed a smile on her lips and picked up a cup of aromatic tea.
“Aye, madam. We are all very much looking forward to the alliance between our two peoples.”
Aila sipped her herbal tea so she didn’t have to keep smiling. Lady Maeve’s accent reminded her of Connor’s. Doubtless every person here possessed the same turn of phrase, the same inflection on their words.
“I know nothing of the prince.” She hoped her voice was light and didn’t sound as despairing to Lady Maeve as it did to her own ears. “He is a great warrior, I imagine?” With raven-black hair and stormy-gray eyes? She’d go insane if Fergus resembled Connor in looks as well as voice and accent.
“Indeed, madam. He’s as brave and honorable a warrior as any in Dal Riada.”
Of course he was. After all, he shared Connor’s bloodline.
Desperate hope pierced her heart. Perhaps she and the prince could come to an arrangement after their wedding. Perhaps he would be agreeable to a marriage of political convenience only.
Perhaps, if Fergus shared his brother’s sense of honor, she wouldn’t be forced to submit to another man in her bed.
It was a slender, tenuous hope. But the only hope she had.
* * * * *
Connor kept his arms folded across his chest as Fergus, dripping sweat from his training session, marched toward him across the flattened grass, broadsword still in hand.
“You’re back then?” The words were a snarl as he shoved his weapon at a servant to clean. “Fucking MacAlpin, going behind my back. Now I’m saddled with a cantankerous shrew. If he wanted me shackled, he could at least have found me a young malleable virgin.”
Connor’s hands fisted. Images of smashing his brother’s jaw flashed through his mind. So visceral he could smell the iron tang of blood as it splattered across his knuckles.
“The Princess Devorgilla is twenty-six.” Where MacAlpin had gotten his information from Connor couldn’t imagine. No one with eyes in his head could look at Aila and think her a belligerent hag.
“Fucking old woman.” Fergus glared, as if Aila’s age was a personal affront. “Why should I get something another man’s fucked? My bride should be untouched.”
Dark rage pounded through Connor’s chest, constricting the breath in his lungs, tightening his throat. And then, between one infuriated heartbeat and the next, lightning flashed across his brain, illuminating the black fog.
“You’re right.” His voice was harsh and Fergus shot him a distrustful frown at the sudden agreement. “A prince of Dal Riada deserves a virgin bride.”
“Aye.” Fergus sounded slightly mollified by Connor’s evident understanding of the matter. “Who knows what unsavory habits a woman of her age has acquired?”
Connor struggled to hold on to his unraveling threads of temper. Fergus was playing straight into his hand. All he had to do was feed his brother’s sense of injustice, stoke the fire of rebellion and Fergus would request MacAlpin extricate him from the betrothal.
“It’s likely,” he said in response to his brother’s remark, “she is as set in her ways as an elderly maiden aunt.”
The silence was broken only by the clash of sword on sword as warriors practiced on the field. Fergus watched them for a moment before turning to Connor, his eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun.
“You’ve seen her, this betrothed of mine?” He sounded as though he spoke of a plague. “Is she as hideous as rumor has it?”
Connor stared at the fighting warriors but saw Aila in his mind. To agree with his brother was pointless since no man would find the princess hideous. Instead he shrugged, as if the matter was of little account. “She’s attractive enough. But not your type.”
Silence again. Then Fergus folded his arms. “Really? Tell me, Connor. Is she your type?”
Caught in his own trap, Connor rounded on his brother, disbelief and incredulity at his own stupidity pounding through his chest. How had Fergus jumped to that conclusion? He hadn’t given any indication of how he felt. Had he?
Fergus regarded him, his face an implacable mask. Perhaps, after all, his brother only bantered and meant nothing by his pointed remark.
“I hadn’t given the matter much thought.”
“It appears to me,” Fergus said, “you’ve given the matter a great deal of thought.”
Fuck, could this day get any worse?
“You’re mistaken.” Connor glowered across the field, fingers itching to draw his sword and release some of the hellish energy that thundered through his arteries. “I’m merely agreeing with your objections to this match.”
“Aye. And that’s what I find so…” Fergus paused, considering the matter. “Interesting.”
Connor grunted. It seemed the safest answer since everything else he had uttered this day had been turned inside out and manipulated beyond all sense.
“I don’t for one moment,” Fergus said, “imagine you give a shit about my marital happiness. We both know a wife will hinder me not in the slightest in my pursuit of earthly pleasures.”
Connor’s chest constricted. Of course he knew that. And if he’d been honest with the King of Ce when answering the king’s penetrating questions, then perhaps Aila would not now be in imminent danger of shackling herself to Fergus for the rest of her life.
Fergus appeared to be enjoying himself. “Therefore, I can only conclude it’s the happiness of the princess that concerns you. Do you desire her for yourself?”
Connor glared at his smirking brother. He could deny the accusation but there was no point. Fergus would believe whatever he wanted to believe whether it was the truth or not.
“You don’t want this marriage. You don’t want the princess. Tell MacAlpin, Fergus. He’ll find a way to free you from the obligation.” He was clutching at insubstantial fantasies. But even the slenderest of hope was better than nothing.
“I didn’t want this marriage,” Fergus said. “But there’s no way I’ll ask MacAlpin to free me from this betrothal now.” He laughed. “Fuck no. You want this princess, don’t you? And she is destined to be my bride. Destined to bear my sons. And all you can do is stand by and watch.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Connor had never seen so many bodies pressed into the great hall. A lower high table had been set up for the many royal guests, leaving the high table for MacAlpin’s intimates and the immediate kin of Aila.
And now his king entered, leading the distinguished party that included his brother and his bride-to-be.
As she followed mac Lutin, a ripple of interest spread throughout the hall. Heads craned for a better look at this foreign princess, breath inhaled, whispers echoed. She looked as regal as the queen she might one day become as she sat on a carved chair, the sumptuous gold of her gown a stunning contrast to the scarlet embroidery at her bodice and along her sleeves. Her veil too was scarlet and once again she wore the gem-encrusted crown.
She could have been one of the mystical fae folk from ancient tales, who had stumbled by accident into the drab world of mortals.
He couldn’t drag his wretched gaze from her.
MacAlpin’s speech of welcome droned through Connor’s brain, meaningless. Aila did not glance to her left or right, merely looked at some indefinable point in the distance, as if the purpose of this feast meant nothing to her.
And then mac Lutin responded, taking Aila’s hand in a gesture of clear pride. Offering his daughter to Fergus MacKenzie in an alliance to bond both peoples of Pictland.
It was done. The cheering and stamping of feet pounded against Connor like waves in a storm. Yet unlike when navigating a stormy sea, he possessed no learned wisdom on how to deal with the acidic energy firing through his blood.
“The princess is quite beautiful,” Maeve said as they finally sat and extravagant dishes were brought in. He couldn’t fathom why she’d decided to sit next to him when he’d broken their liaison. “At least Fergus no longer looks as if he wishes to rip the king’s
head off.”
Unwillingly Connor glanced at Fergus. Although seated at the other end of the table from Aila he obviously liked what he’d seen of her, if the self-congratulatory grin on his face was anything to go by. But then, it no longer mattered to Fergus whether he liked the look of Aila or not. All that mattered was he had taken what Connor wanted.
He couldn’t trust himself to answer. Instead he downed a tankard of mead, refusing to look in Aila’s direction.
“I took it upon myself,” Maeve said, “to visit the princess this afternoon.”
Wariness prickled along his skin as he turned to look at her. Maeve had a smile on her lips as she toyed with the stem of her goblet, but he knew her too well. She was hiding something.
“And how did you find her?” He jerked his head at a slave for more mead, tried not to glare at Maeve nor glance at Aila. He only succeeded by draining his tankard once again.
Maeve hesitated before taking a deep breath. “I found her most courteous. I hope your brother appreciates how fortunate he is to wed such a princess. For all that she is a foreigner.”
He grunted, considered downing a third tankard within as many minutes and decided against it. “Fergus appreciates nothing of true value.”
Even as the words spilled from him, he knew it was a lie. There was one thing Fergus valued above his royal blood. Something that had nothing to do with power and prestige.
He thrust the thought aside. Fergus had made him pay bitterly for such jealousies when they had been children. And now, when he’d thought his brother’s power over him had long since faded, Fergus was taking the woman Connor loved.
“She’s not at all how I imagined. How any of us imagined.”
Maeve had no idea. He couldn’t even summon the energy to grunt in response and instead stared blindly into his tankard.
Silence hummed between them, a silence punctuated by the incessant, bawdy conversation thudding against his ears from seemingly every person in the hall.
“Does she know?”
Maeve’s low words pierced his mead-induced fog and he gave her a wary look. “Know what?”
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 19