Aila jerked back and looked down, bemusement clear on her features. He gave a laugh, half rueful, half frustrated, and lifted the indignant kitten.
“Don’t make me regret allowing you to stay,” he told the oddly endearing creature before placing it into a basket by the fire.
“I didn’t ask you to allow it to remain.”
No longer encumbered by the kitten, he cupped Aila’s face with both hands, drawing her into his warmth, reveling in the sensation of her body nestling against his.
Where she belonged.
“You didn’t have to.” It had been evident in the way she had glanced at it when until that moment she had ignored every other living creature. His thumbs stroked the soft skin of her cheeks. She was his. He could scarcely believe it. “What did you call it?”
She blinked twice, as if his question made no sense. And it didn’t make sense, because why was he speaking of an animal when he had Aila in his arms?
But he knew why. It was because it didn’t matter of what they spoke. So long as they spoke. So long as Aila said anything to break the strained silence she had maintained since being informed of their marriage.
“Hope.” She sounded reluctant to tell him.
Hope. He translated the word into Gaelic and decided he liked it. It gave him hope, also, that he and Aila could build a future together despite the tragedy of these past days.
His fingers trailed against her throat, pausing against the erratic flutter of her pulse. Her breath teased his jaw and he captured her lips in an open-mouthed kiss, a kiss he had feared he might never again savor.
She tasted of honey, of spices, of sunlight from heaven.
Feverishly his fingers tugged at the ties of her bodice. But they refused to comply and with a growl of frustration, he ripped the material from her breasts.
He felt her gasp in his mouth and it was darkly erotic. An exchange of breath, of life. He tore his lips from her and trailed kisses along the column of her throat as she arched in his embrace, offering herself to him.
Exposed by the ruins of her gown, her breasts taunted him, the rosy nipples erect. One hand splayed between her shoulders he cupped one breast in his other and flicked his thumb over her tempting nipple.
“I’ve ached for this.” He sounded parched, as though he had barely survived a devastating drought and she was his only hope of sustenance. “For you.” For five weeks. And yet it seemed he had hungered for her love for years.
He caught her gaze and her eyes were glazed with passion yet they did not flicker from his. As if in the sea of desire, he was her anchor.
As she was his.
He swept his tongue over her nipple, licking, tasting and she trembled in his arms. Impatient for her touch he pulled her gown from her shoulders, over her hips and it slid unceremoniously to the floor.
She was as beautiful as he recalled, although she seemed a little thinner. Damn, he had meant to feed her before he seduced her but there would be plenty of time to tempt her with delicacies afterward.
After he had claimed her as his wife.
With fingers that shook, he unknotted the ribbons in her hair and began to unbraid the silken threads. Dimly, far beyond the pounding that filled his brain, he wondered why she didn’t drag his plaid from his body. Rip his shirt over his head. But it was a vague, unformed thought, a whisper in the thunder of his need, and his need in this moment consumed reason.
It didn’t matter. She wanted him and that was everything.
Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and he dragged his fingers through the rippling silk, caressing her partially concealed breasts. He molded his hands around her waist, moving down to the curve of her hips then knelt before her and pressed his lips against her belly.
She trembled but her arms remained by her sides. He cupped her rounded buttocks, teased her navel with the tip of his tongue and another tremble rode her.
“Are you cold?” His voice was raw and he looked up at her. A naked vision of pale flesh and vibrant hair, and she was looking at him but there was not enough light to see the glorious color of her eyes.
She shook her head once. He knew she wasn’t cold. Her body was warm, inviting, yet he’d wanted to hear her speak.
He inched lower, aching to taste the evocative muskiness that tempted him to the edge of sanity.
“Do you want to lie down?” God, what was he saying? He doubted she cared whether they fell onto the bed or remained upright. It made no difference to him. But why wouldn’t she answer him?
Again she shook her head. Just one brief shake. As though words were beyond her.
Odd relief surged through him. Of course that was the reason. Like him she had wanted and waited and dreamed of this moment. Thinking it would never happen. And now that it had why was he consumed with the need to hear her tell him what she wanted?
It was obvious what she wanted.
He slid one hand from her bottom, over her hip and caressed the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. She didn’t make a sound but her legs parted.
Encouraged, he slipped one finger between her pouting lips. She was hot, wet and a strangled groan escaped his throat.
“Aila, my love.” His tongue flicked the hood of her clit, and her fingers rammed into his skull, shocking, painful and deliriously arousing. He dragged his finger from her tight warmth and slid his tongue into her. Tasting her essence, and she tasted of heaven.
He kissed her, deep, plunging, mimicking with his tongue what he soon intended to mirror with his cock. Her hips arched and fingernails tore his head.
He wanted her up against a wall but the bed was nearer. Tearing his mouth from her succulent pussy, he stood and kissed her, wet and hungry, allowing her to taste herself on his tongue and breath and lips. Cradling the back of her head to keep her angled for his continued penetration, he walked her backward toward the bed.
Flat on her back on the furs, he continued to worship her with his mouth while he struggled to discard his shirt and plaid. But when her hand trailed over his naked chest, reason fled.
To hell with his fucking plaid. He hiked the offending material up, kneed her thighs open and thrust into her.
She reared against him, her breath hot and erratic against his mouth. With a primal growl, he plunged his fingers through her shining hair, spilling the silken tresses across the pillows.
“My wife.” Not Fergus’. He rammed into her, harder, deeper, as if he could erase all lingering trace of the last five weeks. Eradicate the memory of his brother. Annihilate the betrayal of his king. “Tell me, Aila. Tell me who I am.”
Her fingers tangled in his hair. But she didn’t reply. Didn’t say, “You are my husband.”
Bracing his weight on one hand, he cradled her head and captured her passion-filled gaze.
“Tell me.” It was a demand. Her tight sheath quivered around him and his hand fisted in sweet agony on the pillow.
“You,” her voice was hoarse, “are a savage Scot, MacKenzie.”
Her savage Scot. The tattered remnants of his control fled. Sensation flooded and beyond the thunder of his heart, he savored her choked gasps as she convulsed around his engorged cock.
With a roar of frustration, he pulled from her slick pussy. His hard balls slammed in rhythmic fury against her wet slit, her juices sliding over his heavy sac.
He wanted to be inside her. But at least she was beneath him, her hands in his hair, her legs tangled with his. Her musky scent entranced him, her heat enslaved him and he savaged her willing mouth as he spilled his reckless seed.
He panted in her open mouth, body shuddering, satisfied yet not fully sated. Slowly he raised his head and stared at her. Thank God she was with him. This time nothing could take her from him.
No breath to speak, he offered her a grin before reaching for his shirt. Somehow he managed to clean her without having to break bodily contact. She didn’t attempt to assist, just lay there as her erratic gasps gradually slowed.
He tossed the soiled shirt a
side. Hell, his damn plaid was in the way. Yet he couldn’t find the energy to dispose of it just yet. But next time he wanted nothing between their bodies to hinder the feel of her skin against his.
He wound errant strands of her hair around his finger. “That was an enjoyable start to our married life, my lady.”
She didn’t answer but she shifted beneath him. Instantly he braced his weight on his free hand, allowing her room to breathe more easily.
“Better?” He traced the line of her face. Still she didn’t answer. And finally a thread of unease stirred. “Aila? Is something wrong?” Had he hurt her? Surely not. But why wouldn’t she speak to him? He’d enjoyed their flirting, that one night they had spent together in Ce. It had never occurred to him she wouldn’t continue after they were wed.
“No.” She shifted again and with reluctance, he rolled onto his side and lay on the bed facing her. “Of course there’s nothing wrong.” Then she looked directly at him and the shadows cast by the flickering flames of the fire gave her a strange, otherworldly expression.
Inexplicably a chill crawled along his spine. And then she drew in a deep breath and said, “I’ve been married enough times, Connor, to understand the importance of consummating such unions.”
Silence roared through his head, punched through his chest. Words failed and all he could do was stare at the woman he loved. The woman he had assumed, in his ignorance, might still love him.
The woman who had, by a few cold words, reduced their loving this night to nothing more than a necessary act, in order to seal a contract between Scot and Pict.
Chapter Thirty-One
Aila tightened her grip on the reins as Connor rode toward her. They had been traveling since yesterday morning at a slow, leisurely pace, as if he didn’t want to exhaust her.
She braced herself as he drew alongside her mount. Perhaps he didn’t want to overtire her. No matter how many times she reminded herself he was a Scot and his people were her enemy, he had yet to treat her with anything less than utmost consideration.
“We approach Dunbrae, my lady.” He might have been addressing a respected stranger for all the warmth in his voice.
She inclined her head, not trusting herself to speak. Dunbrae, she had learned, was the hill fort Connor had acquired through marriage to Fearchara. And Fearchara’s mother and Connor’s mother both resided at Dunbrae.
Aila doubted either lady would take kindly to her presence. A foreign princess and usurper. They would have heard everything that had happened from the messenger Connor had sent on ahead to warn them of their arrival.
She stifled a shudder, refusing to face the thread of terror that wound through her heart. All she had ever wanted was a husband she loved and children to cherish.
She had a husband she loved. She would soon have a child she already cherished. How bitterly wishes could come to pass.
Connor rode off without a backward glance and despite her best intentions, she couldn’t drag her gaze from him. On their wedding night it had taken every shred of willpower she possessed to keep her distance.
Why was she lying? She hadn’t been able to keep any distance at all. When he had taken her, all her suppressed love had flooded through her and overfilled her heart.
If she had been a young, naive maid, she could have imagined he loved her that night. But it was lust. And a woman could feel lust, just as a man. Her dream-lover had taught her that. Her lust for Connor was something she could face him knowing. If he guessed the depth of her love, it would destroy her.
Dunbrae loomed ahead. Nerves gripped the pit of her stomach. Last night they had stayed in a small hill fort. Connor had shared her bed but he hadn’t said a word. And although his mouth and tongue and hands had thrilled her body, his silence had flayed her heart.
Afterward, when all she’d wanted was to curl into his embrace and weep for everything she’d lost, he had rolled off her. Turned his back.
And gone to sleep.
Connor helped her dismount, as though she was infinitely precious. Of course she was precious. She was an invaluable hostage. Naturally he wouldn’t wish any harm to befall her.
When she attempted to pull from his grasp, his fingers tightened around hers. Reminding her they were in public and protocol would be observed.
It was hard enough to remain aloof whenever Connor was near. But with him holding her hand how was she supposed to act as if none of this touched her at all?
The same as she always did. She straightened her shoulders and hid behind the regal facade of her Pictish heritage.
A raven-haired lady stepped forward to greet her on the threshold.
“Welcome, Princess Devorgilla.” She spoke in Pictish and dipped a respectful curtsy. “I hope you’ll be very happy with us.”
“My lady Aila,” Connor said, still holding her hand. Did he think she would run if he relinquished his grip? Where could she run? “This is my mother, Lady Ealasaid.”
“My lady. I thank you.” The words sounded stilted. But she couldn’t help it. They all knew she was here against her will. That her kin had been murdered by their king.
And yet, to survive they would all present a mask of civility.
“And this is Lady Nighean, mother of my first wife, Fearchara.”
She smothered the nervous churn of her stomach, forced a polite smile and inclined her head as Lady Nighean welcomed her into her home.
Connor’s home. Her home now.
As they entered the hill fort, the conversation battered against her shields. But it didn’t matter. They spoke to Connor, not her. Telling him the master chamber had been readied, that a feast—Not another feast—had been prepared in their honor. That whenever the princess was ready she would be shown around her new domain.
“I’ll show Lady Aila to our chambers so she can rest before the feast,” Connor said. “There’s time enough for her to explore Dunbrae.”
He spoke as though she wasn’t present. Yet what did it matter? She did need to rest. She could explore Dunbrae another time. But still, it stung that he didn’t consider her worthy enough to consult.
She preceded him up the stairs and then he led her to their chambers.
“It’s not as grand as you’re used to.”
She walked through the small antechamber into the bedchamber. Faded tapestries hung on the walls, two carved chairs were on either side of the large fireplace, and a plain chest was under the window. Had he shared these chambers with Fearchara?
“It’s perfectly serviceable.” She turned to look at him and saw the way he clenched his jaw, as though her answer had irritated him immensely.
“Yet hardly fit for a princess.”
“Is there anywhere in Dal Raida fit for a princess of Pictland?” The words escaped before she could prevent them. Damn. She didn’t want him to know he had the power to rouse her temper. She swung away from him, before she saw triumph in his eyes. Before he saw the despair in hers.
“No.” There was an odd note in his voice, as if far from triumph he was the one filled with despair. “We had to come here first, Aila. But our permanent home will be Duncadha, the hill fort of my forefathers. “It’s…” he paused, as though considering his words. She refused to glance over her shoulder at him. Despite how deeply she wanted to. “It’s grander than Dunbrae. More suited to your status.”
Her status?
“As a hostage, you mean?” She did turn then and offered him a brittle smile. Let him think she didn’t care one way or the other that the only reason they were here together was because his king had commanded it.
He glared at her and she saw fury glinting in his eyes. Shock speared her at the realization of how deeply he hated the position into which his king had plunged her.
“You’re not—” She thought he was going to deny she was a hostage although they both knew the truth. But then he appeared to realize how futile such a claim would be. “I wanted you to know you won’t be expected to share your household with another woman. In Dunca
dha you will be the sole mistress.”
Pain lanced her heart at how hard he was trying to make this marriage tolerable. How easy it would be to reach out her hand, thank him for his consideration and allow her love to blossom. Instead she gave a disdainful shrug. “If that is your wish.”
Even from this distance, she heard the angry hiss of breath between his teeth. “Yes, madam.” His words were brutal. “That is my wish. That you be mistress of my hill fort in Duncadha. But we will remain here for the present. Is that acceptable to you?”
Despite their difference in height, she managed to look down her nose at him.
“Quite acceptable, my lord.”
For a moment she thought he was going to take issue with her compliance, but he appeared to decide it wasn’t worth the effort. “I will send your ladies in to attend to you.” With that, he offered her a stiff bow and marched from the chamber.
* * * * *
The feast that night turned out to be an intimate gathering of only the other two Scot ladies and Connor. They did not even sit in the hall but a small chamber that looked to be the private domain of Lady Ealasaid.
Aila hid her relief as effectively as she hid her trepidation. The entire populace of Dal Riada might consider her people treacherous, but no Scot she encountered would be able to fault her countenance.
“My lady,” Connor’s mother said as Connor held the carved chair for Aila. “We planned a great feast for your arrival, but Connor felt you would prefer something less public tonight. I hope you are not offended?”
Connor had requested this? She struggled not to shoot him a thankful glance.
“I appreciate your concern.” She spoke in Gaelic since it was obvious Lady Ealasaid wasn’t as fluent as her son in Pictish. “I am a little fatigued after recent events.”
Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 25