Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (25 page)

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 aside. 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.

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 Duncadha 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.”

As servants brought in dishes, Lady Nighean spoke directly
to her for the first time.

“It’s no wonder you are fatigued, my lady.” She spoke in her
own language, as if until this moment she had been unaware Aila could
understand. “If it will not offend, please accept my condolences on your loss.”

Aila swallowed around the constriction in her throat and inadvertently
caught the older woman’s eyes. Instead of condemnation or anger that she had
taken her daughter’s rightful place, only compassion wreathed her face.

Beneath the table, she gripped her fingers together and
struggled for some semblance of control. The only way she could function was if
she didn’t think about that night in MacAlpin’s war chamber. But now, for one
blood-soaked moment, it flooded her mind and threatened her facade of serenity.

She would not crumble. But when she managed to drag her gaze
from Fearchara’s mother and saw a sad smile of understanding from Lady
Ealasaid, pain engulfed her heart.

They were being kind. She had not expected it. Yet kindness
would undo her as cruel taunts and icy indifference never would.

Connor tossed back his third tankard of mead and tried,
without success, to stop staring at Aila. She sat beside him, so close he had
only to lean toward her to touch her, and yet she was as distant from him as if
she still resided in Ce.

His mother and Lady Nighean kept up a constant stream of
inconsequential conversation, as he knew they would, and Aila occasionally
deigned to answer them. She hadn’t appeared in the least relieved that he’d
managed, at great inconvenience to all concerned, to avert another huge, public
feast for her.

Maybe he should not have bothered. Maybe she didn’t give a
damn who saw her or not. And yet he couldn’t rid his mind of the bawdy comments
at their wedding feast, nor the way Aila had fleetingly cringed beneath the
onslaught.

Fool that he was, he thought she’d appreciate his gesture.
That she’d look at him without that remote expression in her eyes. Look at
him—as if she saw him.

But she’d ignored him as effortlessly as she had ignored him
from the moment they had wed.

She rarely opened her mouth to him. Unless they were in bed.
Dark lust gripped his loins, a torturous reminder of how eagerly she responded
to his touch in the black of night. How she clawed his chest, dragged her
fingers through his hair, dug her teeth into his flesh. She opened her mouth to
him then, but only to drive him insane with need. She never uttered a single
word.

“That’s a beautiful cross, my lady,” his mother said,
leaning forward to admire the damn cross Aila never removed from her neck.
Except in bed. His treacherous cock throbbed in remembrance of the last two
nights, in anticipation of the night to come. Another night when she would open
to him, accept his touch, but refuse, ultimately, to give him anything of
herself at all.

“Thank you.”

He watched the way her fingers fluttered over the cross
before dropping to her lap. He had the sudden vision of ripping it from her,
slinging it into the fire, watching it blacken and finally melt.

As if destroying the cross would make any difference.

“It’s very unusual,” Nighean said. “I’ve never seen anything
quite like it before.”

“It’s very old,” Aila said. He glowered at the wall,
despising the way he soaked up every word she spoke. Her accent enchanted him.
Always had. “It was a wedding gift from my—my—”

“Her first husband.” His harsh voice cut through her
stumbled words. He offered an insincere grin to the three ladies who stared at
him with varying degrees of interest. Aila, he noticed, showed the least
interest of all. “I, alas, am only the princess’ third lord and master.” And
this time his self-loathing leer was directed only at her.

A blush seeped over her cheeks, but she didn’t break eye
contact. In his peripheral vision he saw his mother and Nighean become suddenly
absorbed by the contents of their plates, but he hardly registered their
presence.

It was Aila’s response he wanted. Aila’s retort. Aila’s
anger.

God damn it, why wouldn’t she lose her temper with him? Why
wouldn’t she shout and scream and tell him how much she hated his king, his
country? Why did she treat him with such indifference?

Except when they were in bed?

“Yes,” she said. Was that a thread of passion he detected in
her voice? “I fear I have a reputation for husbands dying on me shortly after
the ceremony.”

“Your fear is unfounded in my case.”

Her green eyes glinted. He raised one eyebrow, goading her,
daring her to respond. Hoping she wouldn’t once again retreat behind that regal
mask she wore like a shield.

She tilted her chin at him and the look she arrowed his way
suggested she thought he was something disgusting one of the hounds had dragged
in from the midden.

At last. He braced himself, hoped his mother and Nighean
would grace them with privacy but mainly—fuck, the only thing that mattered was
that Aila would finally discard this infuriating masquerade.

“How reassuring.” The smile she offered him could have
frozen a loch in midsummer. And then she delivered her deadly thrust. “My
lord.”