Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (22 page)

He stared at her with stormy-gray eyes that threatened to
destroy the hastily erected barriers around her heart. Barriers that, once
before, he had so easily demolished.

She would not crumble before him. But she couldn’t drag her
gaze from him. Couldn’t prevent seeing the shadows beneath his eyes, the
overnight beard that darkened his jaw. The way he looked at her as if, even
with everything that now lay between them, he battled the urge to take her in
his arms and hold her close.

She had craved his love, even when she knew it would bring
him nothing but heartache. And now she was paying for those selfish, pagan
wishes.

But even that wasn’t why nausea rose and the world spun. It
was because, even now, despising his people as she did, her foolish love for
him would not die.

Connor found his brother leaning against the western wall of
the hill fort, engaged in bawdy banter with another couple of warriors. Raucous
laughter split the air. One of the warriors clapped Fergus on the shoulder.

Impotent rage churned Connor’s gut. He pulled up short and
attempted to batten down the feral urge to smash his fist into his brother’s
foul mouth.

Aila was Fergus’ wife. But not just his wife. She was a
princess, destined to be a queen, and deserved more respect than to be talked
about like a common whore.

“Connor,” one of the warriors said. “Your royal brother is
mightily pleased with his new bride.”

“Aye,” said the one who’d clapped Fergus’ shoulder. “You’d
never think by looking at her she possessed so wild a nature beneath the furs.”

Fergus said nothing, merely smirked in clear satisfaction of
his night’s work. Sudden nausea gripped Connor, dousing the rage, as the image
of Aila submitting to his brother rammed through his mind.

An image that had plagued him through the endless night. An
image he’d tried—and failed—to eradicate with mead.

An image he knew would haunt him until his dying day.

“Guard your tongue.” His voice was harsh. “The Princess
Devorgilla deserves our respect even if her kin do not.”

“My sainted brother speaks the truth.” Fergus shifted his
weight as he leaned one shoulder against the wall. “My royal wife is innocent
of treason. And God willing, after our lively bed-sport last night, she’s also
with child.”

The two warriors grinned salaciously but said nothing.
Connor tried to block his brother’s last words, but they remained firmly
embedded in his mind.

He turned to Fergus. “I need to speak to you alone.”

Fergus flapped his hand at the two warriors and they
sauntered off. “What do you want to know?” His eyes glittered with malice. “How
many times I took my wife last night? How she screamed my name as I fucked her
up against the wall?”

Again the rage surfaced. Black and scarlet, clouding his
vision, fogging his brain. Involuntarily his muscles tensed and fists clenched
but still Fergus’ mocking words echoed through his mind.

He gritted his teeth and fought the overpowering urge to
wrap his hands around his brother’s throat and squeeze the life from him. “Just
tell me what happened in the war chamber last night.”

Fergus rubbed his hand over his mouth and jaw, and the
section of Connor’s mind that didn’t crave murder noted the sheen of sweat that
covered his brother’s face. Yet the day was cool.

“The Picts wouldn’t acknowledge MacAlpin’s uncontested right
to Fortriu.”

“So they attacked?” Something still didn’t feel right. He
knew, as they all knew, the seven Pictish tribes had a violent history of
warring among themselves when a kingdom’s ruler was in dispute. But it was old
history, from generations long since dead.

They had traveled to Dunadd to ratify an alliance. If they
wanted war with the Scots, to attack while in MacAlpin’s war chamber—when a
good portion of their own warriors were absent—made no strategic sense at all.

“Aye.” Fergus’ belligerent tone had vanished and he tugged
at the neck of his shirt, as though it constricted his breathing. “We had no
choice. We had to kill them or they would have killed MacAlpin, simply to
remove his claim to their supreme kingdom.”

“What the hell was—” Shit. He had almost called her Aila.
“The princess doing there? Watching the massacre of her people could have
turned her mind.”

Fergus expelled a harsh breath. “She appeared out of
nowhere. Went into hysterics. I had to carry her back to our bedchamber.”

She’d been covered in blood. The blood, most likely, of her
father.

No wonder she’d become hysterical. Except when he’d stormed
in on them she looked far from hysterical. She’d looked coldly furious. Regal.

“Soon.”

He forced his attention back to Fergus. “What?”

“I said MacAlpin wants me to take the princess home. She’ll
be guarded well enough at Duncadha as she will here.”

Duncadha. The hill fort of his forefathers. The place he’d
grown up.

The future home of Aila.

He couldn’t trust himself to answer. Fergus shifted again
but didn’t move away from the support of the wall. “You’ll be returning to
Dunbrae shortly?”

Where else would he go? Dunbrae had been his home for the
last six years. “Aye.”

Another silence. Fergus wiped his brow as if they were
suffering a scorching southern summer. “I’ve a mind to accompany you. Introduce
my bride to my lady mother.”

Chills crawled over Connor’s scalp at the notion of Aila
coming to Dunbrae. Being introduced to
his
mother, as the wife of her
husband’s eldest son, Fergus. Sleeping beneath Connor’s roof. With Fergus.

It all fucking came back to Fergus.

Their father’s blood flowed through both their veins, but in
this moment all he saw when he looked at his brother was a man who had the one
thing Connor most craved.

He turned away. He’d not give Fergus the satisfaction of
seeing how badly the thought affected him. “You’re always welcome at Dunbrae.”

It was nothing less than the truth. His mother enjoyed
Fergus’ visits. Sometimes Connor wondered why she had moved from Duncadha after
his father’s death four years ago. Fergus had made it clear he had no objection
to her remaining.

“I’ll inform my wife to prepare for our departure,” Fergus
said. “As soon as possible. I sicken of Dunadd.”

* * * * *

Fergus wasn’t at the feast the following night. It didn’t
take much imagination as to what otherwise occupied his time. Savagely Connor
bit into a chicken leg and ignored the seductive glances and attempts at
flirtation from the young noblewoman by his side.

But what the hell? Maybe he’d take Ewan’s advice. Maybe a
mindless fuck would help cool his blood, balance his mood, eradicate Aila from
his thoughts.

He turned to her and watched her face brighten at his sudden
interest. She was pretty enough but her eyes weren’t green, her hair wasn’t an
intriguing combination of gold and auburn and her voice held none of Aila’s
exquisitely enchanting accent.

Beneath the furs, none of that mattered. He didn’t need to
look in her eyes or spread her hair across his pillows. Didn’t need her to open
her mouth to talk.

All she had to do was part her thighs.

His cock remained entirely unmoved by the prospect.

“My lord.”

The unfamiliar feminine voice from behind him pulled him
back to the present. He turned and recognized one of Aila’s ladies. Instantly
all thoughts of how to rouse his cock’s interest in a night of unbridled
passion vanished.

“What is it?” His voice was sharp. Had something happened to
Aila? “Is the princess unwell?” But if she was unwell, why would one of her
ladies seek him out?

“The princess is well.” The woman’s voice was scarcely above
a whisper. “But she asks that you accompany me to her chamber.”

His heart kicked against his ribs. It didn’t mean what he
wanted it to mean. Aila wouldn’t arrange an assignation with him on the third
night of her marriage. But logic made no difference to his cock, as it jerked
to attention against his thigh in agonized anticipation.

“She fears,” the woman said, her voice so low he had to
strain to hear her words, “for the prince’s state of health.”

Fergus. Again. He stood up, followed the woman from the hall
but even knowing an illicit liaison was the last thing on Aila’s mind did
nothing to diminish the extent of his erection.

Torches blazed and common-rank warriors guarded every door.
Even though all the noble Pictish warriors were locked up, MacAlpin was taking
no chances. “What ails the prince?”

The woman gave a small shrug. He couldn’t tell whether she
meant she did not know, or she didn’t care. Either way it was plain she had
conveyed her message and had no intention of sharing anything else with him.

He marched through the antechamber into the bedchamber. Aila
stood stiffly by the bed, where Fergus lay propped up against pillows, his face
flushed and sweaty.

“Fergus?” Connor hovered over his brother as dread clamped
deep in his chest. His brother didn’t appear to hear him as his breath rasped
unevenly and his eyes remained half closed.

Connor turned to Aila. She met his gaze but there was no
warmth. Instead she jerked her head, as if he were a menial, before turning on
her heel and going to the window.

With another glance at his brother, Connor followed her.
“Aila, what—”

“My husband is not responding to treatment.” Her voice was
as icy as the glare she leveled his way. “I called you here to ask if you know
of any other physician aside from MacLeod who can help him.”

“MacLeod’s MacAlpin’s own physician.” And if MacLeod was
treating Fergus, that meant the king knew. And if the king knew, why hadn’t he
been informed of his brother’s condition?

“Indeed.” Aila sounded entirely unimpressed. “The fact
remains your half brother worsens by the hour.”

“But what happened? He was all right yesterday.” Yet even as
he said the words, doubt prickled.

Fergus hadn’t been all right. He’d been sweating. And unable
to stand upright.

Only then did he recall the trickle of blood along Fergus’
leg two nights ago. Fergus had said it was only a scratch. Connor hadn’t
thought twice about the injury since.

“His blood is poisoned.” Aila glanced at the bed and just as
swiftly glanced away. “Your MacLeod has bled him several times, but the wound
remains noxious.”

To die in battle was a clean death compared to the drawn-out
agony of having your own body rot from the inside out. There had been times in
his life when he’d wanted to kill Fergus. But he would never have raised his
sword against him. And he would never have wished this fate upon him.

“Where’s MacLeod now?” Aila might not think much of him, but
he was the royal physician, the most learned of all. MacAlpin would allow no
other to touch a member of his kin.

“Reporting to his master.”

The scathing note in her voice pierced his tortured thoughts
and he shot her a sharp look. She wasn’t looking at him. She was looking over
his shoulder at the wall beyond.

MacLeod entered the bedchamber, scarcely glanced at him or
Aila, and went directly to Fergus and pulled back the linen sheet. Connor
watched MacLeod pluck three fat leeches from Fergus’s thigh and drop them into
a bowl.

Fergus gave a rasping groan and instantly Aila was by his
side. As a good wife should be. Connor flexed his fingers before following her
over.

“Is he improving?” Aila’s voice was haughty as she addressed
MacLeod.

“I’ve done all I can, madam,” MacLeod said, but not before
he’d shot her a glance of intense dislike. “We must put our trust in the Lord
now.”

Fergus opened his eyes. “Connor.” His voice rasped. “Never
thought it would end like this.”

Chest tight, Connor gripped his brother’s limp hand.
“Nothing has ended, Fergus.”

Aila was so close her scent invaded his jagged senses. But
she didn’t look at him. She was focused on Fergus.

“You are not going to die.” Rage threaded her words as if
the thought of Fergus dying ripped her soul in two.

“My lords,” MacLeod said. “I will fetch the monks.”

Fergus shifted his glazed gaze to Aila. “Leave us.”

Aila stiffened, clearly offended at the dismissal. But she
didn’t say anything. She turned and regally stalked into the antechamber, her
ladies closing the door behind her.

Fergus stretched his lips in a parody of a smile. “Does a
man’s heart good to know how much his wife loves him.”

Did Aila love Fergus? A dull pain twisted his gut. “Aye.”

“Always envied you that.” Fergus hitched in a strained
breath. “With Fearchara.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Fergus’ eyes flickered. “She worshipped you. I wanted that.”

For once Connor was speechless. Fergus had never shown any
sign of wanting to settle down with one woman.

“Never found a woman I wanted that way. Not how you found
Fearchara.”

Connor shifted uneasily. Fergus had never spoken of such
things before. He knew it was the fever loosening Fergus’ tongue but
nevertheless, Connor didn’t want to hear it.

“I was lucky.” The words were little more than a growl.
Because right now he felt anything but lucky.

“Aye.” Fergus’ breath rattled. “You always were a lucky
bastard. I hated you from the day you were born. The day you took my mother’s
love from me.”

Heat speared through Connor’s temples. As a child, he hadn’t
understood his beloved half brother’s rages. Only as he’d got older had he
realized how deeply Fergus resented not being the true blood son of Connor’s
own mother.

Connor’s mother was the one thing in the world Fergus adored
more than his own royal lineage.

“I took nothing from you.” Was he really having this
conversation? And yet as much as he wanted to change the subject, speak of less
torturous issues, he knew, in his heart, Fergus was dying. And Fergus wanted to
speak of their mother. “She’s always looked upon you as her own son.”

“I shamed her.” Fergus’ eyes lost focus, as though he looked
at something beyond mere mortal vision. “If she knew, she would forever turn
her back on me.”

“There’s nothing you could do that would make our mother
forsake you.”

Fergus began to shiver, although his skin was burning.
“MacAlpin knew the Picts would never willingly acquiesce.”

MacAlpin? Fuck, Fergus was sinking into delirium. But then
his words penetrated, took on significance. “You mean MacAlpin’s claim to the
kingdom of Fortriu?”

“If they refused to acknowledge his right,” Fergus said,
“they were to be slaughtered without mercy. Without warning.”