Maeve was no longer smiling. She looked oddly haunted. “The princess, Connor. Does she know how you feel about her?”
Alarm whipped through him, instantly eliminating the encroaching fog. “I feel nothing for her.” He’d spoken too swiftly. He struggled to sound less rabid. “Only a measure of sympathy that she’s soon to be shackled to my faithless half brother.”
“Aye.” Maeve’s voice was soft. “I’m truly sorry, Connor.”
Denial thundered through his brain. Maeve couldn’t have guessed his true feelings. It was bad enough that Fergus knew. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. I feel nothing for Aila. She’s just a means to the end.”
“Aila.” Maeve said nothing else, simply looked at him, and he realized his fatal blunder.
Again the silence stretched between them and he knew that whatever he said, whatever he did, would make no difference. Maeve knew.
He released a tortured breath. “By the time I discovered who she truly was, it was too late.”
Maeve’s fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet. “Perhaps,” she hesitated, appeared to be struggling with her thoughts. “Did you consider the possibility of taking her as your mistress after she is wed?”
No, he hadn’t considered it, because he’d spent the last weeks denying the possibility that this cursed marriage would go ahead. But barring an act of divine intervention, or Aila finally coming to her senses, it appeared she was destined to belong to his half brother.
“Her sense of honor,” his voice was bitter and he couldn’t help it, “would never allow her to be unfaithful to Fergus.”
“Perhaps not at first. But after a while…” After she had produced a legitimate heir. The unspoken words hovered like a specter between them. “She may. If she loves you, Connor, why wouldn’t she?”
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Aye. But this is Lady Aila we’re talking about. She stood in front of me and said she loved me. And then told me she was going to marry my half brother.”
Confusion flashed over Maeve’s face. “You hold that against her? But she had no choice once her father made the decision.”
The rage he’d managed to suppress beneath his own frantic plans heaved, like a volcano stirring from a restless slumber. “No. It’s different in the Pictish kingdoms, Maeve. Women have more freedom than in Dal Riada.” The kings might rule the lands, but their queens were not merely chattels to produce royal heirs. He’d soon discovered the Queen of Ce had taken it as a personal insult against her honor when he had refused to divulge his purpose to anyone but the king.
And mac Lutin hadn’t agreed to the match until after he’d spoken with Aila. If she had declined, there was no doubt in Connor’s mind her father wouldn’t have demanded her compliance.
But Aila had agreed. Despite the night they’d shared together. Even though she knew how he felt about her.
Even though she loved him.
“But a royal marriage—”
“She put duty above her own feelings.” He glared at Maeve but saw Aila that night as she’d stood before him and thrown his love, his heart, back in his face.
“And because she’s a woman, you find that incomprehensible.” Maeve’s voice was soft but a thread of censure scraped against his flayed senses.
“Aye.” He couldn’t help a fleeting glance at Aila. She looked as remote and untouchable as an ice maiden. “She wasn’t forced.” Unlike so many noblewomen of Dal Riada who had no choice in the man they married, he knew—in his gut—Aila had been offered such a choice.
It didn’t matter that, fundamentally, he respected her integrity. Because it didn’t change the raw burn of rejection that, without even a semblance of a fight, she had chosen Fergus over him.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Finally the feast ended. Aila smothered a sigh of relief and struggled not to let her facade crumble. People still glanced her way. Continued to assess her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the way she had been on display tonight, and every nerve in her body was stretched so taut she feared at any moment she would shatter.
The long tables were shoved back to the walls and despair knotted her stomach as musicians took their playing positions and fine-tuned their harps. Beneath the high table, she gripped her fingers together and searched frantically for an elusive remnant of calm.
But instead her glance fell upon Connor. The one man she’d spent all night desperately trying to avoid looking at. Even though she knew exactly where he sat, how many tankards of mead he consumed and how animatedly he conversed with Lady Maeve Balfour by his side.
They stood together now. A striking couple and she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were more than mere acquaintances. Acidic jealousy seared her gut, twisting like poisoned serpents. Would Connor take Lady Maeve to his bedchamber tonight? Did she have any right to condemn him if he did?
She knew she had no right at all. And yet she would condemn him for taking another woman when all she wanted was for him to take her.
Her thoughts pounded against her temples, escalating the headache that had plagued her all night. Did she expect Connor to remain celibate for the rest of his life? Never look at another woman much less find pleasure in one?
No. Dear God, she wanted him to be happy. But even as she wanted that, the thought of him finding happiness with another tore her heart to shreds.
“Princess Devorgilla.” The deep voice pulled her from her thoughts and she realized Prince Fergus was by her side, smiling down at her, extending his hand. And speaking her language. “May I have the honor of the first dance?”
Panic churned through her. They had already been introduced, a brief cursory introduction before the feast. And the fear that had gripped her then returned in force.
Fergus looked nothing like Connor. For which she should be grateful. He possessed, like his brother, a hard warrior body, towered over her, and his face was handsome enough to make any maiden swoon. But his hair was blond, his eyes were blue and all she saw when she looked at him was the personification of every Viking she had ever encountered.
Only years of successfully hiding her true feelings prevented her from flinching. Instead she placed her hand in his and mentally gritted her teeth against the revulsion that crawled from the tips of her fingers and along the length of her arm at his touch.
“Thank you.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I fear the journey has tired me. Would it please you to sit with me instead?” And release his predatory hold on her hand.
He looked momentarily surprised, as though her refusal to accede to his wishes was unexpected. But he motioned a slave, who brought his chair over, then Fergus sat beside her without attempting to change her mind.
He still held on to her hand.
“The journey must have been arduous for a lady such as yourself.” He smiled at her again. There was nothing evil or distasteful about his smile and yet she found nothing comforting in it. “I hope you manage to rest sufficiently between now and our upcoming wedding.”
She tried to withdraw her hand but Fergus’ grip was unrelenting. It appeared he intended to ensure her hand, at least, remained within his power even if she had refused him the right to hold her more intimately while dancing.
“I’m sure I will.” Fergus would never guess how her stomach pitched at his words. At the look in his eyes. Her fragile hope that her future husband might be agreeable to a marriage in name only vanished like morning mist.
“Connor.” Fergus beckoned with his free hand and Aila didn’t dare follow his glance. “It appears you’ve exhausted my bride-to-be in your haste to return to Dal Riada.”
She knew Connor was standing at the other side of the table. His body blocked out the rest of the hall. If she gave in to her weak desire to look at him, he would block out the rest of the world.
“I’ve no doubt,” Connor said as she struggled against the overwhelming need to look at him. Feast upon him, “the Princess Devorgilla will recover.”
Fergus raised he
r hand to his lips, skimmed kisses over her knuckles.
“She is a delectable piece, isn’t she?” He continued to look at her but spoke to his brother. In Gaelic. Clearly he was as ignorant as his king’s advisors as to her ability to understand his language.
“Fergus.” Connor’s voice was feral. She dared not look his way. If she did, she’d crumble.
Fergus finally released her hand and she buried it in her lap before he could change his mind.
“My preconceived notions were wrong.” Fergus flashed Connor a grin that left her in no doubt as to what his preconceived notions might have been. “I think I’ll enjoy having this princess warming my bed at nights. I’ll be sure to let you know whether she pleases me or not.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Connor’s hand fist against his thigh. Briefly she closed her eyes, but still it seemed the hall spun around her.
A legacy of how she’d been unable to swallow more than a few mouthfuls of the mighty feast.
When she once again opened her eyes, Fergus was regarding her as if she were a prized warhorse.
“You do look a little fatigued, madam.” He spoke in Pictish and sounded solicitous. “Perhaps you should retire, conserve your strength.” Then he smiled. She was likely the only woman in Dal Riada who found nothing seductive about it. “I wish you to be fully rested in order to enjoy our wedding night as much as I.”
She wouldn’t think of the wedding night. She’d focus on the fact he’d given her an excuse to leave the hall.
To leave Connor.
She allowed Fergus to take her hand to help her rise from her chair.
“You’re too thoughtful.” She sounded as though she implied the opposite. Fortunately Fergus didn’t appear to notice.
“My thoughts are all for you, my princess.” He sounded sincere and yet she didn’t believe a word. “I trust you will sleep well.” He bowed over her hand, a lavish, practiced gesture, and she was unable to respond in the accepted manner because all she could feel were Connor’s eyes burning into her.
Without a backward glance, she walked to the door, her ladies surrounding her in a protective cocoon. But at the door, her resolve faltered and she paused and glanced over her shoulder.
In that fleeting instant she saw Fergus, her future husband, the man whose thoughts were all for her, grab a young slave girl and haul her toward the outside doors. And she saw Connor, standing where she had left him and looking at her across the hall as if they were the only two people alive.
* * * * *
“I don’t trust MacAlpin or any of his advisers.”
Aila sighed and glanced at Talargan as he sat beside her on the hill. Her ladies were some distance from them, for privacy, as were the royal guard who shadowed her every move.
It had been three days since they had arrived in Dunadd. It felt like three years.
She stroked the tiny black kitten that slept on her lap. “I doubt any of them trust us either.”
Her brother looked at her. “He seems to think the kingdom of Fortriu is his by rights. That his coronation at Forteviot is a foregone conclusion.” He took her hand. “I fear your sacrifice might not be enough to avert another battle between Pict and Scot, Aila.”
“It has to be.” What good was this marriage if it didn’t bring the people of Pictland together? “We can’t fight each other, Tal, if we want to vanquish the Vikings.”
Instead of replying, Talargan’s gaze slid beyond her and his glare intensified. Without turning she knew who approached. Her skin prickled in awareness and her chest tightened, constricting her lungs. It took every particle of willpower she possessed not to follow her brother’s gaze and watch Connor stride toward them.
He stopped some distance from them and bowed. A stiff, perfunctory gesture that acknowledged their royal status. There was none of the graceful flourish he had exhibited before. No devastating smile that could melt her heart. But despite his cold stance, her heart still melted.
His black hair was tousled from the wind, his eyes as stormy as the first day they had met. Beneath his length of plaid, his linen shirt molded his muscled chest, and a tantalizing glimpse of tawny flesh beckoned where his shirt fastenings were undone.
Her fingers curled against the kitten and it wriggled in protest before burrowing its nose between her thighs. Connor’s glance dropped to her lap before clashing with hers for one brief, agonized second.
And then he focused on Talargan.
“My lord. My king and yours request your presence as a matter of urgency in the war chamber.”
“The war chamber?” She couldn’t help the alarm in her voice and instinctively clutched at the kitten. Surely Pict and Scot were not planning war? “Why?”
With clear reluctance, Connor transferred his attention to her. “The Northumbrians require reminding as to the limits of their borders.”
“You’re going into battle against the Northumbrians?”
He was a warrior. She knew that. Fighting was his life. But she didn’t want him riding into battle. Didn’t want the agony of not knowing whether he would return or not.
“Aila.” Her brother’s low voice, speaking in Pictish, penetrated her rising distress. “The Scots don’t believe in sharing such information with their women.” His disdain was palpable. “I’ll tell you of the plans when I return from this meeting.”
As Talargan stood and helped her to her feet, she glanced at Connor. His jaw was rigid with fury and he looked as if he’d like nothing more than to throttle Talargan.
Oblivious, her brother marched back toward the hill fort. Connor didn’t move.
She held the kitten close, drawing poor comfort from its warmth. It wasn’t Drun, but like her beloved deerhound, it had been cruelly treated.
Except unlike Drun, the kitten’s pain hadn’t been her fault.
“I see you have a new companion.” His words were perfectly civil. And yet she detected censure in his tone, an accusation of abandoning Drun and taking another in his place.
Yet even that was untrue. She knew what he really accused her of. But she didn’t want to argue with him. Didn’t want bad blood between them. She hadn’t even seen him since that first night after arriving in Dunadd. She’d pleaded exhaustion, feminine indisposition, anything that had excused her from attending another excruciating feast.
And now, when he prepared to ride south to engage the Northumbrians, she wanted desperately for him to look at her the way he had looked at her that morning in his bedchamber.
“Some boys thought it great sport to torture her with flame and water. They’d already drowned her two litter-mates. But at least I saved this one from such a fate.”
She’d hoped to soften the glare directed her way with her attempt at conversation. Instead his glower intensified. “Not all Scots are barbarians, Aila. You can’t judge an entire people by the actions of a few children.”
Her hope withered. “I wasn’t aware I had.”
His gaze roved over her face, as if he couldn’t help it but hated himself for such weakness. “Are you ill?” The words were harsh. “You haven’t attended the feasts held in your honor.”
“I’m quite well.” Did he ask because he cared? Or only because he thought her bad-mannered to snub his countryfolk? “Merely tired.”
“Still?” It was a growl, but with an unmistakable undercurrent of concern.
“It’s been many years since I’ve undertaken any journey of significance. My exhaustion is to be expected.” But she knew her exhaustion had nothing to do with the journey. It was the incessant nightmares that ravaged her every time she closed her eyes. The constant feeling of dread that gripped her as soon as the candles were doused.
The salt-tinged breeze rustled through the grass and whipped raven-black strands of hair across Connor’s face. She clutched the kitten to her breast and foolishly imagined its silky-soft fur was her Scot’s wild hair. And still his stormy gaze didn’t waver from her.
She knew they were surrounded by
a dozen people, every one of them engaged to attend and protect her. But none of them mattered. She might just as well be alone on this windy hilltop with Connor MacKenzie because when he looked at her nothing else existed.
He moved toward her then hesitated as if recalling where they were. Silently her heart wept for a touch she would never again enjoy. A touch she would never again have the right to expect.
“I wish you happiness, Aila.” He sounded as though the words choked him, as if the world were ending. “But if you ever need me, I’ll be there for you.”
With that he swung on his heel and marched after her brother and storm clouds blotted out the sun.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Six days later, she stood before her father and the King of the Scots and the official marriage contract was signed. No earthquake split the land. No lightning forked from the heavens.
And no beloved Scot warrior tore her from Fergus’ side and swept her into his eternal embrace.
Connor, Talargan and many other warriors both Pict and Scot had departed five days ago to subdue the Northumbrians. It was, all the kings agreed, a timely message to send their mutual enemies that Pict and Scot would now act as one.
Aila focused on maintaining her facade of calm. Her new husband took her hand and she forced herself to acknowledge the well-wishes of the nobles who had witnessed the joining.
There weren’t many. Only the Pictish kings and the more senior nobles had remained behind with minimal warriors. The rest had accompanied a contingent of Scots. Although it seemed a great many Scot warriors remained in Dunadd.
A strange disconnect caused her stomach to heave. As if there was a deadly significance to the number of Picts who went with the Scots versus who stayed behind.
“Are you cold, my lady Devorgilla?” Fergus appeared not to have grasped the fundamental fact her personal name was Aila. Not that she’d corrected his assumption. She didn’t care what he called her, because whatever he called her meant nothing. He raised her hand, brushed kisses across her knuckles. She tensed so he couldn’t feel her shudder. “Tonight, my beloved wife, I shall warm you up most satisfactorily.”
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 20