Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (24 page)

The smile froze on his lips. She looked at him not with
relief or pleasure or even a wary uncertainty. For a second his brain could not
comprehend the look in her eyes, the expression on her face.

But his brain didn’t need to comprehend, because his heart
recognized instantly. Bleak despair filled her eyes as if he had just plunged a
sword through her breast and betrayed the fundamental core of her being.

As if the knowledge she was to be his wife wrenched open her
soul.

This could not be happening.

Even as MacAlpin officiated the joining, a section of Aila’s
mind refused to believe she was standing by Connor’s side. Becoming his wife.

But of course it was true. She’d been unable to think of
anything else all through the tortuous night. And what made it all worse was
the humiliating knowledge that a despicable part of her craved this unholy
alliance with a desperation that shamed her.

Back in Ce she had harbored foolish dreams of a lifetime
together with her Scot.

Now, once again, her deepest wish had been granted. Truly
Bride’s viciousness in her vengeance was horrific. What more could the goddess
take from her, manipulate to her twisted will and fling back in her face,
crushed beyond salvation?

Connor turned to her, raised her hand and brushed his lips
across her knuckles. She remained motionless, her gaze fixed on the gold brooch
pinned to the plaid slung over his shoulder.

She knew the answer. Bride had no need to do anything else.
She had sown the seeds already.

Her unborn child.

What rights did a mother have in Dal Riada? As the father,
as her husband, would Connor take the babe from her if his king ordered it?
Another hostage to ensure her continued compliance?

It didn’t matter if the rest of the world assumed the child
was Fergus’. Connor would know the truth.

The horror of the extent of power he wielded over her heart,
over her sanity, blazed through her and for a moment reality blurred. How could
she survive, living with a man she loved as much as she despised his king, a
man who could believe such vicious lies about her people without a shred of
proof?

“Be strong for just a little longer.” The whispered words
caressed her ear as Connor drew closer. His evocative scent of savage Scot and
foreign spices invaded her senses, tainted her blood and speared with desperate
longing between her thighs. He cradled her hand against his chest; his body
shielded her from view. As though he was her protector.

She stiffened, battling the urge to surrender to her body’s
treacherous need for Connor’s touch. She would show no emotion in front of the
Scots. They would not bear witness to her total degradation. She was a
princess. The honor and pride of Ce, of Pictland herself, rested on her
shoulders.

She turned her head very slightly. Tried to ignore how his
strong jaw remained unyielding against her cheek.

“You may be assured no Scot will ever have justification for
calling me weak.”

“Aila.” How could she still find the way he said her name so
distressingly seductive? His lips grazed her earlobe and jagged tremors heated
her blood. But she remained immobile, refusing to react. Despite how she ached
to sink into his arms, how she desperately wanted to hear him admit her people
were innocent of the accusations leveled against them. “You are the strongest
woman I’ve ever known.”

Damn him. How could she keep an emotional distance from him
when he could penetrate her defenses with just a few whispered words?

In memory of the slain, she could never allow him to guess
how much she still cared.

“Yes.” She drew back so their faces were no longer touching.
“How fortunate I am not prone to hysterics. It appears, after all, there was a
reason for my past.”

At fifteen, she hadn’t possessed the ability to hide her
feelings. At seventeen, she had wanted to die rather than confront her
feelings.

But nine years of living with her memories, of battling with
her guilt, had taught her one thing at least.

How to hide from the world behind a veneer of ice.

His gaze sharpened on her, as if he had no intention of
letting that comment remain between them, but MacAlpin intervened. Hurrying the
proceedings onward.

Another feast. But this time Connor sat by her side. This
time, as goblets and tankards were raised, she felt his eyes upon her. As if
she was the only one in the hall. The only one who mattered.

Beneath the table, she fisted her hands. If she wanted to
retain the strength to survive this marriage, she had to face the fact Connor’s
loyalties were, and would forever remain, with his treacherous king. She could
not afford to trust him no matter how her foolish heart ached to.

And she had to be strong. For her child.

Connor glanced at Aila, where she sat beside him on a carved
chair. She looked beautiful, regal and so remote she might as well be residing
on the moon itself.

But she was his wife. His chest tightened at the knowledge
that, against all logical possibility, he had achieved this miracle.

He watched Aila imperiously wave another serving slave
aside. Her plate remained empty. Had she eaten anything at all?

He leaned toward her. “Is there nothing I can tempt you
with, my lady?”

When she turned to him, he offered her a smile. The look on
her face suggested he had just offered her the contents of a chamber pot.

“Nothing at all.” Her voice was polite, but chilled. And
clearly intended to convey it wasn’t only the food that failed to tempt her.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine how she felt, once again
sitting at the high table. Once again a bride.

In the hill fort where her kin had been murdered.

The sooner they left the better. First thing in the morning.
But first, he had to get her out of here. He turned to his king.

“My liege.” He waited until MacAlpin turned to him. “My wife
is fatigued by recent events. I beg leave to retire for the night.”

MacAlpin grinned in clear approval. “An eager bridegroom.”
He glanced at Aila before returning his attention to Connor. “She’s reluctant,
that’s to be expected. But she’ll come round in time. Once there’s a child
filling her belly her thoughts will be more usefully occupied.”

“Aye.” Connor forced the word between gritted teeth. He had
no intention of impregnating Aila. And if she was already…that was something
he’d have to face. “We’ll be leaving for Dunbrae in the morning.”

The king jerked his head in approval. “She’ll be safe enough
there. I’ve no need to remind you she remains our most valuable hostage. Ce
will not dare rise against us while we hold the heirs to their kingdom.”

Connor beckoned a servant, gave orders for an intimate
banquet to be served in Aila’s chambers. Finally he returned his attention to
Aila. “Shall we retire?”

She looked at him. Her eyes were curiously blank, as though
she had buried her emotions so deeply they no longer disturbed her. But as soon
as they were alone, she would no longer feel the obligation to present this
perfect facade.

With him she could be herself.

“If you wish.” Again perfectly polite. And edged with ice
that scraped his nerves raw.

He stood, held her chair as she rose. Lascivious remarks and
knowing laughs filled the hall and Aila froze. For one agonizing second he saw
the pain, the shame, flood her face before she straightened her shoulders,
tilted her head and prepared her regal exit.

All newlywed couples were subjected to such irreverence. But
this time Connor found no humor in the tradition. For God’s sake, were his
countrymen so drunk they couldn’t appreciate how Aila must be feeling?

He swept a black glare around the hall. A fleeting glare of
condemnation but it was enough. Not one of the warriors who had traveled with
him to Ce, nor those who had fought by his side so recently in Northumbria,
were among the foul-mouthed revelers.

To hell with tradition. He didn’t take her hand as custom
expected. Instead he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, shielding her from
the crowd with his body, and escorted her from the hall.

She didn’t pull away from him. But neither did she relax
against him. God, they needed to be alone so she could drop this pretense
before she shattered.

In silence they returned to her chambers, her ladies
following. But she would have no need of her ladies tonight. He intended to
administer to her every wish himself. And then, when she was safely in his arms
and soft and glowing after their loving, he would admit she had been right.

She walked through the antechamber and stood by the fire in
the bedchamber and he watched the flames turn her hair into fascinating ribbons
of fiery sunsets and golden sunrises. Her ladies fluttered around her, removing
her crown and veil, but Aila appeared as unaware of them as she had of him. As
servants filed in with covered platters and placed them on the small table, he
followed her into the bedchamber.

“The princess does not require your assistance tonight,
ladies.”

Her ladies spun around, looked confused and glanced from
Aila to him, as if wondering to whom they owed allegiance. But since Aila
didn’t object they finally departed in a flurry of curtsies and anxious glances
to their silent mistress.

Before he could move toward her, an elderly servant rose
from a stool on the far side of the fire. He hadn’t even noticed her sitting
there. In her arms was the tiny black kitten.

Aila roused from her reverie to cast a glance at the kitten
before she jerked her attention back to the fire. Unease snaked through his
gut. If she wanted the creature to remain, why didn’t she say so?

But she didn’t say a word. And the old woman shuffled toward
the door, clearly reluctant to leave her princess alone with him.

He reached out and took the kitten and the woman shot him a
startled glance before hurrying from the chamber.

Finally they were alone. Now she could turn on him, tell him
what she thought of his king, his people, this cursed land he had brought her
to. Finally she could grieve and he would comfort her. In time he’d ease her
heart. Make her smile. Remind her of the love she bore for him, no matter how
deeply she had buried it.

“Aila.” He trailed his knuckles along the silk of her face,
outlined her jaw with the back of his fingers. Desire stabbed through his
groin, hot and hard, and he recalled just how long it had been since she had
been in his bed.

Five weeks. It felt like five months. But now, now she was
his wife and she would share his bed every night.

Blood thundered through his veins and his engorged cock
ached for her touch, her heat, the exquisite sensation of sinking into her
welcoming body. He tilted her face toward him, lost his soul in the haunting
depths of her glittering eyes.

“Aila, Princess Devorgilla of Ce.” His hand cradled her jaw,
his fingertips grazed the her bound tresses. “Lady Mistress of Duncadha and
Dunfodla.” She was mistress of Dunbrae also, but it felt wrong to grant her
that title. She did not need it, anyway. “My wife.” The words were raw and a
flicker of some emotion heated her eyes, caused the breath to hitch in her
breast. It was a small respons but enough to reassure him. His fingers
tightened and a mewl of protest emerged from the direction of his hip.

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.