Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (28 page)

He wanted to deny it. With every enraged particle of his
being. And yet he couldn’t. Because, in his heart, he knew the truth.

His mother flattened her hand against his chest. “I know you
haven’t been married long enough for the babe to be yours.” Her voice was soft,
as if she knew how much, how selfishly, desperately, he wanted that child to be
his. “But if she is with child, then this is the last link we will have with
Fergus.” She clutched his shirt, as though she feared he might storm off. “I
should be there for the birth. And Connor…” She paused, forcing him to look at
her. Forcing him to remain silent when he wanted to roar his despair to the
heavens. “The child will still be linked to you by blood. You must always
remember that.”

“Aye.” His voice was bitter. Did Aila know? How could she be
feeling, knowing she bore the child of one brother while married to the other?

When she had been forced into both marriages? Had Fergus
forced himself on her that night?

“I know how deeply you desire a son of your own.” His
mother’s voice penetrated his thoughts and he wanted to tell her he desired no
such thing. After that first reckless night he’d done everything he could to
ensure Aila would not conceive. He knew she hadn’t fallen in Ce—she’d told him
that in no uncertain terms the following day. And even if, in a dark corner of
his soul, he did crave a child with her, he would never put her through such a
deadly ordeal.

But it was too late. Fergus had already planted his seed.
Fergus had already set Aila on the perilous path of childbirth.

“The princess is strong,” his mother continued. “You and she
will have your own children. Afterward.”

But suppose Aila did not survive birthing Fergus’ child?

His mother gripped his hand, as if something in his
expression chilled her. “Connor.” Her voice was urgent. “Do not think of it.
Not all women die in childbirth.”

He knew that. But it made no difference. Because all he
could see in his mind was Aila in pain. Struggling to give birth to the child
whose existence forged the future of this bloodied alliance.

And she would struggle in a foreign land, surrounded by
people she considered her enemy. Far from the land she loved.

Aila sat on a stool in front of her mirror as Cailleach
brushed her hair in preparation for the feast. She felt refreshed, strangely
invigorated, and knew it had little to do with the rest she had taken.

It was because Connor had not been in Dunadd as the massacre
had occurred. It was because he respected her enough to apologize for the
despicable actions of his barbarous king. It was because he had taken the
trouble to give her a chamber of her own where she could once again enjoy her
illuminations.

He was the Connor she’d fallen in love with in Ce and his
blood was not tainted by the same duplicity that corroded the honor of his
countrymen.

Unheeding of what Cailleach might think, she gently caressed
her belly. Now she’d had a few hours to consider it, she could think of
Olafsson’s broadsword without seeing it dripping in blood. Could see it the way
Connor had naturally assumed she would.

As a magnificent trophy of war.

Vikings did not relinquish their swords easily. To claim one
in battle, from a Viking not even dead, was an astonishing feat.

No wonder Connor displayed it on his wall in pride of place.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Connor entered the chamber.
Her ladies, as always, fluttered in agitation, unsure whether they should treat
him with courtesy or disdain.

Connor didn’t give them the chance to make up their minds
this time. “Leave us.”

She turned on the stool and watched her ladies depart.
Connor waited until the door shut behind them before he faced her.

“Are you feeling any better, my lady?” His tone was oddly
formal and unease rippled through her stomach. Or perhaps it was simply a
symptom of her condition.

“Much better, I thank you.” She stood up, somehow not liking
the distance between them. But the strangely shuttered look on his face
prevented her from moving toward him.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He could have been speaking to a
stranger, not his wife. Not the woman he shared his bed with. The woman who
carried his child.

The unease magnified. She clawed through her mind for
something to say to him and could think of only banalities.

“I fear I’m not yet ready for the evening.” She raked
distracted fingers through her unbound hair and saw the way his eyes followed
her action. “I did not realize the hour was so late.”

“It’s not late.” He dragged his gaze from her hair to look
her in the eyes. “My lady, there is something I have to ask you. Please forgive
me.”

Ask her? Forgive him? Her stomach churned and it had nothing
to do with her condition and everything to do with the sick unease that
clenched her heart.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him flex his fingers
before he folded his arms across his chest. And although he didn’t move away
from her, an invisible mountain loomed between them.

She hoped her anxiety did not show on her face. “Of course.”
Or in her voice.

He remained silent, staring at her, his eyes dark as though
he battled the urge to take her in his arms and to hell with the feast.

She hoped he would. She needed his arms around her. Wanted
to shatter this unnatural formality. But most of all she wanted to confide in
him. Tell him of their babe.

“Are you with child?” The question hit her with the force of
a fist, punching through her mind, his harsh tone leaving no doubt as to what
he hoped her answer would be.

The kernel of hope in her breast shriveled but she refused
to crumple. And perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Connor only looked as if her
being with child was the worst catastrophe he could imagine. Perhaps, in
reality, when she confirmed his suspicion he would be elated.

“I am.” She infused each word with pride. No matter what
Connor’s feelings might be, she wanted this child. She loved this child. And
her child’s father would know that from the start.

He didn’t move. And yet she felt his entire body flinch at
her words, his eyes darkened, jaw clenched and muscles flexed beneath his
shirt. He didn’t say a word and he didn’t have to. In that fleeting moment, his
involuntary response said everything.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be. The denial screamed
through her mind but what did it matter? This was the reality. And the reality
could not be clearer.

“Are you sure?” The words were stilted.

“Yes.” Pride would sustain her until Connor left the
chamber. “Do you require a catalogue of my symptoms?” Her voice grew colder
with every word. It was the only way she could keep the scalding tears at bay.

“No.” He sounded horrified by the idea that she might tell
him of the physical manifestations his child had wrought. “Your word is enough
for me.” He swallowed and appeared transfixed by the kitten she held in one
hand. “I will arrange for a physician to attend you.”

“I don’t require a Scot physician to tell me what I already
know.” But what did she expect? And what would happen when the babe was born?
There were no Pictish healers here. Her mother and grandmother, her sister and
cousins would not be in attendance.

She would be surrounded by strangers. And only now, as
Connor refused to meet her eyes, when it became excruciatingly plain that he wanted
no part of their child, did the full force of that fact hit her.

The silence screeched along her nerves. Her legs began to
shake but she wouldn’t show any weakness before him. Finally he glanced briefly
up at her face before once again fixing on the kitten.

“Is there anything else you require?” His voice was little
more than a growl.

He didn’t want a child. That was his choice. But the outcome
of that night in Ce was the responsibility of them both. Not just her. And yet
he behaved as if it was entirely her doing. “Besides my mother?” Her voice
dripped scorn. “No, I don’t believe so.”

He looked at her then. And the bleak despair she saw in his
eyes pierced her heart. “Aila, are you happy about this?” He sounded oddly
uncertain. “Do you want this child?”

She bit back her instant response.
I want this child more
than anything else in the world. As much as I want your love.

“I do.”

He jerked his head and a modicum of tension seeped from him,
as if until this moment he honestly hadn’t been certain how she felt about it.

“There’s no need to attend the feast. I’ll make your
excuses.”

Rage heated her blood, but it was more than rage. Deadlier
than rage.
Rejection
.

“So now you are so ashamed of me you’ll hide me away? What
do you intend to do, Connor, keep me hidden until this babe is born?”

“I thought you would prefer not to attend the feast.” He
scowled at the floor. “Of course I’m not ashamed of you. I’m…proud of you.”

A bitter laugh escaped. She couldn’t help it. “How gracious
of you, my lord. I fear I cannot extend the same sentiment to you.”

He stiffened at the insult to his integrity and finally
caught and held her contemptuous gaze. “I’m sorry.” His voice was as harsh as
his glare. “For everything you’ve been through. But I can’t change the past,
Aila. I can only offer you a future.”

“A future that includes this child.” To emphasize her words
she splayed her fingers over her belly, daring him to ignore the fruit of their
pleasure that night.

For a fleeting moment, anguish gripped his features.

“Aye. Of course I include the child. Did you think I would
forsake him? Forsake you?” He appeared unaware of how she glared at him.
“You’re my wife, Aila.”

Fury propelled her forward until she was standing so close
to him she could feel the heat of his body radiating from him. “And this babe
is of your blood.” She fisted her free hand and battled the urge to hit him for
his cruel coldness toward a child of his flesh.

’“I know the babe is of my blood.” His gazed raked over her
face and then he stepped back as though he could no longer bear to be so close
to her. “His heritage is not in question.” He had the nerve to sound offended.
“If it’s a boy he will inherit Dunfodla. His bloodline will be unchallenged.”

Did Connor really think she cared which primitive Scot hill
fort her child would inherit?

She stiffened her spine and drew the pride of her ancestors
about her like a protective cloak. “My child,” she said with deliberate
emphasis, “will inherit one thousand years of Pictish heritage and have claim
on the kingships of Ce and Circinn.” She paused for one moment to allow her
words to fully penetrate. “And isn’t that what is really important here,
Connor? How my child serves to strengthen MacAlpin’s claim on my ancient
lands?”

It had been three weeks since Connor had discovered, and
rejected, she carried his child. Aila attempted to ignore the dull ache in her
lower back, knowing if she so much as stretched, word would get back to Connor.
And he would insist they immediately make camp for the night.

They were only hours from Ce-eviot.

She still couldn’t fathom it. After her last deadly thrust
in their chambers, Connor had made no attempt to defend his king. He’d just
looked at her as if she’d plunged a broadsword through his heart before he’d
offered her a bow and left.

He had never returned.

Two days later he had informed her, with utmost civility,
that he intended to return her to Ce to await the birth of her child.

Her child. Not theirs. But she’d been so astonished by the
knowledge she would soon see her kin she’d failed to correct him on that fact.
Or enquire what would become of her once their child was born.

Before they had left Dunbrae, he’d gathered a band of
warriors to accompany them. She recognized many of them. They had accompanied
Connor on his first visit to Ce.

He needed them. It was clear the nobles of Pictland would
relish nothing more than to run through any Scot they encountered. Only the
advance knowledge that Talargan and many of their young noble warriors were
held hostage at Dunadd, and that the eldest Princess Devorgilla was being
escorted to the land of her kin, prevented bloodshed and ensured a roof over
their heads.

Her ladies, riding by her side, were fairly glowing with
excitement at the thought of returning home. And she too could not wait to see
her mother and sister, grandmother and cousins. The realization she wouldn’t be
alone among strangers when her time came reassured her beyond measure. And yet
dark discontent gnawed through her soul.

For three weeks, Connor had been solicitous for the state of
her health. Had ensured her comfort in every way he could. Had treated her with
the respect her status demanded.

But he hadn’t shared her bed. As though, upon discovering
she nurtured his child, his desire for her had withered.

Yet she saw the furtive glances he arrowed her way when he
thought no one aware. The raw hunger in his eyes, the leashed passion in his
bearing. And as the journey progressed, and his reined desire became ever more
apparent, a strange certainty coalesced.

Did Connor avoid her because he thought that was what she
wanted? Was he concerned not so much that she was with child, but that the fact
she was might lessen her desire for him?

As her beloved Ce-eviot finally came into view, her
conviction strengthened. There was more to his strange attitude than him simply
not wishing her to bear his child. Tonight she would ensure they shared the
same chamber. Tonight she would insist he explained his reasons for not wishing
her to conceive.

Somehow she would get through to him. Somehow she would
convince him. Because despite how he’d withdrawn from her, how could she
possibly believe he did not care for her?

She was MacAlpin’s prized hostage. Her place was in Dal
Riada, a guarantee that her people would not rise up and slaughter the
treacherous Scots.

But Connor had brought her home. Because he knew how dearly
she wanted to be with her kin for the birth. He’d brought her home without his
king’s knowledge and she could scarcely comprehend what MacAlpin’s fury would be
when he discovered it.

If those weren’t the actions of a man who cared, then what
were?

Exhaustion all but crippled her and dusk had fallen as they
reached Ce-eviot, and the contingent of warriors who met them radiated a potent
force of welcome and antagonism. In the blazing torchlight she saw her mother
and grandmother waiting on the threshold, their personal guard triple what it
had been before she left.

Connor helped her dismount, his hand steady and sure in
hers. She would have clung on to him, brought him with her to greet her kin,
but as soon as she was safely on the ground, he broke contact. Stepped back.
Allowed her to precede him, as befit her royal status.

Except Connor was her husband. He had the right to walk by
her side in Ce. And yet she had no time to confront him because her mother and
grandmother were there, holding her hands, their silence in the presence of
their enemy piercing her heart.

For long moments nobody spoke. Nobody moved. And then her
mother gave her hand a squeeze before releasing her and turning to Connor.

“Are you here to claim the kingdom of Ce by force?” Her
voice was cold, regal. Yet Aila knew, as acutely as all of them present, how
depleted of warriors Ce were. So many of them remained hostage to MacAlpin.

Connor bowed. Aila ached to go to him, to show her support,
but her grandmother clung to her hand as though she would never let her go.

“Devorgilla, Queen Brilicie of Ce,” he said, giving her
mother her full title. Even now, in such dire circumstances, his accented Pictish
still sent a tremor along Aila’s spine. “Please accept my heartfelt sorrow at
your loss.” He glanced at Aila before once again focusing on her silent mother.
“We have returned Aila, Princess Devorgilla of Ce to her homeland.”

He made it sound as though MacAlpin had allowed her return.
She would be sure to inform her mother of the truth.

“For that,” the Queen of Ce said, “we are duly grateful.”
She cast a disdainful glance over the Scot warriors. “We are in mourning for
the murder of my king. There will be no celebratory feasts for your men.”

“We did not expect such, madam. Will you allow us to make
camp within your ramparts this night?”

“Certainly.” The queen’s voice was pure ice. Aila knew, as
well as her mother, the request was a formality. And yet, unlike her mother,
Aila knew if the request was denied, Connor would ensure his men camped outside
the ramparts of Ce-eviot.

The queen turned her back and entered the palace. For one
agonizing moment, Aila looked at Connor, wanting to tell him to follow them.
But her grandmother dragged her away, and besides she would not invite him in
without her mother’s permission. In any case, Connor needed to supervise his
men. There would be time enough for her mother to officially welcome him as her
son-through-marriage.

She heard her mother order one of her guards to organize an
all-night watch on the Scots. It did not surprise her. The Scots would do the
same, keeping a distrustful eye on their reluctant hosts.

Finally they were alone in her mother’s private chamber and
the three of them clung together in silent sorrow. Her grandmother pulled back
first, her eyes wet, a look of wonder on her face.

“Aila,” her voice was hushed. “You are with child.”

Her mother jerked back. “With child?” She glanced at Aila’s
belly then back at her mother. “So it has come to pass as you foretold.”

You are the founding stone. For the bridge that will one
day unite all our kingdoms.

Aila recalled the words as clearly as if they had been
spoken only yesterday. But her grandmother had said them the morning after she
had spent the night with Connor. Before she knew she had conceived his child.
At the time she’d hugged the words to her heart, thinking perhaps her dreams
were not impossible after all. That it was acceptable to love again.

But it had meant so much more than that. How could she not
see the words for what they truly were? A message from Bride. Telling her, with
absolute clarity, that her child would bridge the divide between Pict and Scot.

She gasped, pulled away, pressed both hands against her
belly.

Until the Viking raid of Fidach, she had imagined her
goddess showed her tantalizing visions of the children of Onuist. And then, as
she recovered from her injuries, she saw only the goddess’s malevolence. In
taunting her with a family she knew would never be hers.

Yet Bride had always known. And Aila had refused to see
beyond her own pain and disillusionment. Had turned her back and cast the
goddess from her heart. Bride—who was part of her heritage. An intangible,
essential part of her soul. It didn’t matter whether Aila accepted her or not.
But by denying her existence, the frost of rejection had consumed the core of
her being. Only with the arrival of Connor had the goddess finally found her
way back into Aila’s heart. Yet even before that, Bride had prepared her to
once again open her mind to the wonder of physical love. By sending a mystical
dream-lover.

“What is it?” Her mother’s urgent voice catapulted her back
to the present. “Aila, is it true? You were only wed to that—to the prince for
such a short time.”

“It’s true.” She looked at her grandmother, saw the wariness
in her eyes. “This child is my husband’s. Connor MacKenzie’s.”

“Connor MacKenzie’s?” Her mother sounded horrified. “But
how—Aila.” She gripped her hand, agitation clear on her face. “Did he force
you, my love? On the journey to Dal Riada?”

“No.” Her voice was harsher than she intended. She knew why
her mother was so confused. She had been married to Connor for less than a
month. That was scarcely time for her to realize she had conceived. “Mamma, you
should know that MacAlpin thinks I am still in Dal Riada. Connor brought me
home to you so I might have our child surrounded by my kin.”

“He disobeyed his king?” Her mother looked as if she might
collapse. “For you?”

“It was always him,” her grandmother said softly. “From the
first time I saw him, I knew it was him. Devorgilla,” she turned to her
daughter, “Connor MacKenzie was chosen by the goddess long ago. He fulfilled
his destiny by coming to Ce, but he was just as deceived by his king as we
were.”

Aila remembered her grandmother’s gentle teasing in that
week before her father had returned to Ce. As if she had known of Aila’s secret
rendezvous—and far from being furious she approved the liaison.

“Mamma.” She waited until her mother’s bemused gaze rested
upon her. “My husband is an honorable man. Please welcome him as your
son-through-marriage. For the sake of our child.”

The Queen of Ce, widowed at the hand of Scots, relaxed her
grip of Aila’s hand. “He brought you to me, risking the displeasure of his
despicable king. I will welcome him as your husband, Aila.”

* * * * *

Aila stirred, waking slowly, reveling in the notion she was
in her own bed. And then she frowned, rolled onto her side and squinted at the
untouched half of her bed.

Connor had not joined her last night after his audience with
her mother.

She sighed and absently tickled the kitten. Last night she’d
been so weary she’d retired before seeing Connor again. But her mother had
promised he would be made welcome. Promised he would be allowed to join her as
was his right as her husband.

He had decided not to. Goddess, this had gone far enough. If
he needed to hear her tell him that she still desired him, then she would tell
him. And perhaps, in time, she would even tell him once again how very much she
loved him.

The early morning breeze was fresh as she left the palace,
four guards tailing her. But she had no need of her cloak. Nor even her shawl.
Because, since re-embracing Bride, her soul was no longer fractured and the
chill in her bones that had been her constant companion for the last nine years
had finally thawed.

Frowning, she scanned the surrounding area but could see no
sign of a camp. Perhaps Connor had pitched farther away from the palace than
she’d thought. With a sigh she turned toward the monastery. She had to see
Uuen.

It was odd, walking such familiar ground without her
faithful shadow, but Drun spent his nights with Finella now. She hadn’t wanted
to disturb her sister so early in the day.

She paused by one of the sacred standing stones and looked
toward the monastery. It had been built more than two hundred years ago but
compared to these stones that surrounded it in a gigantic circle, it was but a
babe. As the new religion was just a child when compared to the gods of
antiquity.

Uuen made no secret of his delight at her return. She might
never have been away, except for the fact her father was now dead, she had been
married twice and she was now with child.

“The queen is filled with bitterness at the death of our
noble king,” he said. “But now you’re here I pray her pledges of vengeance will
subside.”

Instinctively Aila’s hand covered her belly. “I also wish
for vengeance.” She recalled MacAlpin’s arrogance in his war chamber and
renewed fury flooded through her. “I won’t rest until I see that upstart king
slain, drowning in his own blood.”

There was a silence and then Uuen sighed. “My lady,
sometimes the only way forward is to extend forgiveness to our enemies.”

No. She would not forgive. The ancient ways of her people
did not forgive such outrage.

Her feelings must have shown on her face as Uuen, after a
swift glance at her hand cradling her belly, said, “Not because MacAlpin
deserves your forgiveness, my lady. But because living with the desire for vengeance
will corrode your soul. Is that the legacy you want to leave your future
generations? A blood feud?”

A blood feud? No, she didn’t want that for her child. Her
child, who was as much a Scot as a Pict. Did she want her child to hate his
Scots heritage?

Much as she loathed the Dal Riadan king, she did not hate
all Scots. And she didn’t want her child nurtured in an atmosphere of
bitterness and dark plots of retribution.

Grudgingly she conceded Uuen and his ceaseless calls for
forgiveness might have a point. And as he changed the subject, and began to
tell her of local gossip she had missed, she slowly relaxed.

Until he began to make plans for her to resume her teaching.

“Uuen, I was wrong. My goddess lives. I was only half alive
while I denied her. I’m sorry.”