Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) (4 page)

And this time he wasn’t thinking only of his immortal soul.

“My husband died nine years ago.” There was a quiet pride to
her voice and acidic disappointment seared his gut.

A widow. It made no difference, now, whether Aila returned
his interest. He would as soon take an untouched maid to his bed as he would a
widow, for either would expect more from him than he could give.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” More than she would ever know.
But as she gazed toward the copse, he couldn’t help another glance. Couldn’t
help but admire the delicate profile of her face. Couldn’t help but think she
had been widowed while still a bride.

Why hadn’t her king arranged for a suitable remarriage? No
Scot woman of noble blood would be left unattached. It was unthinkable.

The Picts couldn’t be that indifferent to the security of
their warriors’ widows. Or was that why she worked in the monastery? Because
she had to earn her keep?

Aila risked darting the silent Scot a glance. He was staring
into the trees, seemingly lost in thought, a frown darkening his brow.

Her breath quickened as she dragged her heated gaze over his
profile. He was too far away for her to reach out and touch, yet he was
physically closer to her than any free man, aside from her own kin, had been in
nine years.

A savage Scot he might be, but he had been touched by the
ancient gods when it came to beauty. Hair so black it reminded her of a raven’s
wing, and although it was shorter than that of Pictish men—barely reaching his
shoulders—the wind-tangled mass fascinated her.

Her fingers tightened in Drun’s fur as the outrageous notion
of sliding those same fingers through the Scot’s—through Connor’s—hair
whispered through her mind. And instead of strangling the thought in its
infancy, she lingered over it, savoring the novel sensation. The realization
that, unbelievably, the thought of touching another man no longer sent waves of
revulsion plundering through her heart.

Acidic guilt speared through her, an ancient pain she’d
lived with for more than a third of her life, yet now clouded by the passage of
so many years. Involuntarily she sought the comforting weight of her cross. Was
it so wrong to find another man intriguing? Connor would be gone soon. She
would never see him again. Why shouldn’t she have a little fun while he
remained? Practice her long unused skills of flirtation on him? At least he,
unlike her shadowy dream-lover, would respond.

She clawed through her mind, trying to find a subject to
engage his interest. At fifteen she’d had no problem talking to anyone, male or
female, whatever their rank. For a second her younger self mocked her for the
reclusive woman she had become. For the woman who couldn’t find a single thing
to say to the man by her side.

The man who appeared more than content to remain staring
into the copse. Had she misunderstood the heat of appreciation in his voice
when he’d spoken to her? The gleam of approval in his eyes? Connor had told her
he’d wanted quiet and she hadn’t believed him. But perhaps he’d told her the
truth? Because he certainly gave the impression of a man wishing for nothing
but his own company now.

The breeze rustled through the grass. If he wanted to be
alone then he could leave. This was her special place and if she wished to
talk—then she would. She drew in a quick breath and fancied she caught an
elusive hint of wild Scot warrior on the breeze. “How long are you staying in
Ce?”

He turned to her and again she was entranced by his stormy
eyes. The frown vanished and a half-smile tugged at his lips as if far from
wishing to be alone he had only been waiting for her to resume the
conversation.

Perhaps that was it. He’d offered his condolences on the
death of her husband and had then assumed she no longer wished for his
intrusion.

And up until this moment, that was exactly how she always
felt.

“Until our business with your king is concluded.”

She dearly wanted to know what his business was, but if he
refused to confide in her mother, the queen, he certainly wouldn’t confide in
her—a woman whose rank he was entirely oblivious to.

No matter. Her father would tell them both upon his return.

“I hope,” she said, feeling daring and lightheaded and
inexcusably young again, “you’re not here to provoke war, Connor.” How easily
his name slipped from her tongue. How easy it was to slip back into the
meaningless banter she’d so enjoyed before her premature widowhood.

His eyes crinkled, as if he found her banter equally
enjoyable. “War is the last thing on my mind, Aila.” She liked the way he said
her name in his strange accent. He made her name sound exotic—foreign. She
tried without success to ignore the delicious tremors that quivered through her
sheath and spilled, like magical stardust, into her bloodstream. But it was
hard to remember why such feelings were wrong when his deep voice, hypnotic
eyes and irresistible smile made her feel so right.

Had Scots always been so disarming in their manner? She’d
been a child, younger than Finella, the last time any had visited Ce. And then
the encounter between their two peoples had been anything but amicable.

“What is on your mind, then?”
Reckless
.
What
was she saying? But how exhilarating it felt to flirt with danger, to tease
with words and a glance. Until this moment, she hadn’t even realized how much
she’d missed such amusing interaction with a delectable-looking man.

Her ever-present guilt streaked through her heart. Reminding
her that she was alive, and while she might no longer deserve death, she
certainly didn’t deserve a second chance at happiness.

And for the second time that afternoon, she smothered the
guilt. Time enough to repent for her moments of pleasure after Connor had left
Ce.

For the first time in nine years, she was looking at a man
who was looking at her with desire in his eyes. She knew her behavior was
unforgivable. She should declare her status, shatter this enchanting spell, but
the words lodged in her throat.

Because the truth was, she wanted to hear him say he desired
her. Wanted unbiased proof that someone—a stranger—could look at her and see
the woman beneath this chilly facade, the woman who yearned to live once more.

“What’s on my mind?” He repeated her question and the breath
stilled in her breast as anticipation scrambled through her stomach. This was
madness; she was behaving like a thirteen-year-old maid, yet she couldn’t help
herself.

“Yes.” Was that really her voice? He would think her
shameless. And she didn’t care. She had not enjoyed herself so much since—she
couldn’t even recall.

Connor offered her a smile that looked more pained than
passionate. “I’m wondering what it is you do in the monastery, Aila.”

She continued to stare at him until the meaning of his words
lodged into her brain with the force of a newly crafted arrow. Heat rose in her
cheeks, a humiliating burn that radiated throughout the rest of her body.

She had misinterpreted his interest. Mortification paralyzed
her and the overwhelming desire to flee flooded her senses.

But she was a princess. With grim determination, she
remained motionless, desperate not to show how badly her error had shaken her
confidence. Pride, forged through countless generations and refined to an art
form during the last few years, surged through her. Rescuing her and preventing
any from seeing even a hint of her true thoughts.

Thoughts she had no right harboring in the first place. But
that knowledge did nothing to soothe her wounded feelings.

“I’m an artist.” He would never guess the wretched turmoil
beneath her calm facade. Obviously she had been too long on her own, ensconced
within the familiar love of her family, to judge with any accuracy a man’s
intent.

While her mind imagined they had played a double-edged game
of words, Connor had imagined no such thing.

Connor saw the fiery blush sweep her pale cheeks before it
faded just as rapidly. It was the only indication she gave of understanding, in
humiliating detail, the reason for his tactical withdrawal.

If he had any sense of honor, he’d make some godforsaken
excuse and leave. They both knew attraction sizzled between them. Both knew
that, up until mere minutes ago, he would have acted on that attraction had she
given him the slightest encouragement.

She had. And he, with as much finesse as a blundering ox,
had retreated.

His arse remained rooted to the ground, his gaze remained
fixed on her averted face. And his cock, damn it, refused to accept she was
forbidden fruit by virtue of her widowed status.

“An artist?” Why was he prolonging this torture? It was
clear she wished him gone. Any woman would wish him gone after having rebuked
so gentle an advance. He should seek out one of the married women in the
palace; one whose warrior husband accompanied their king, and slake the fire in
his blood. The lust-fueled fire that was blinding his good sense when it came
to Aila.

She looked at him and inclined her head in a regal manner.
“An illuminator, to be precise.” There was no residual hint of breathlessness
in her voice. No censure. She was coolly polite, as if the libidinous
undercurrents of their previous conversation had existed only in his lascivious
mind.

Her cloak slid down her arms to pool around her waist and
her vibrant emerald gown exposed her slender frame. Without her protective
cloak, the extent of her fragility was potently obvious. She looked as though
one robust gust of the famed Highland wind could sweep her away.

Something tightened in his gut. Linked to the lust that
still seethed through his blood and yet, somehow, apart.

He ignored it. With more success than he managed to ignore
his cursed erection.

“An illuminator?” Mentally he cringed. Was he condemned to
repeat every word she uttered? But not only was he finding it difficult to
concentrate on her side of the conversation, what he did manage to focus on
didn’t make sense.

Women, to his knowledge, simply did not undertake the craft
of illumination. Clearly they were at cross-purposes.

She offered him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
Her stunning green eyes, that no longer sparkled with mirth.

“My husband taught me the art while I was still a child. I
do what I can to ensure the memory of his many achievements lives on.”

He watched her as she absently caressed the dog, as her
disinterested gaze shifted from him and focused on the trees on the far side of
the stream.

Not for the first time her words confused him. Had she not
been married to a warrior? The thought gnawed at him. It was scarcely
comprehensible. She was of noble blood. She would, undoubtedly, have married
one of similar status.

The art of illumination was a craft held sacred by learned
monks. How, then, had she ended up with a man of the church? He’d heard of such
couplings where husband and wife regarded each other as brother and sister. A
marriage devoid of earthly passion, dedicated to the worship of pure, spiritual
love.

Not only was she widowed, she was probably a virgin widow.
Double the reason to make good his escape. Yet he remained, unable to tear his
fascinated gaze from her.

“And you teach others this craft?” But why did she teach?
And again he couldn’t imagine why her father or king hadn’t arranged a more
suitable second marriage for her.

Once more she inclined her head. As if she were a queen and
he a lowly subject undeserving of verbal response.

It was glaringly obvious she wished him to leave. His gaze
dropped to the dog, who was staring at him with glazed brown eyes. It began to
slowly thump its tail on the ground, fully aware of Connor’s regard.

Aila gave a scarcely smothered sigh and flattened her hand
on the dog’s head, clearly willing it to be still. “Time to go, Drun,” she said
and as the dog laboriously raised its great head and struggled to its feet, he
rose and went toward her.

She stared at his proffered hand as if he offered her a
writhing snake. After another second’s hesitation, she gripped the gaping edges
of her cloak together in one hand and placed her other in his.

Her hand was small, fine-boned, her fingers slender and
faintly stained by the tools of her trade. But as her skin brushed his palm,
awareness sizzled in his blood, thundered through his chest. As if, instead of
a touch as light as a butterfly, she had wrapped her naked body around him and
knocked him forcefully to the ground.

Slowly he curled his fingers around hers. Never before had
his hand so utterly dwarfed that of a woman. His sun-darkened skin stood out in
stark relief against the paleness of hers as though she rarely ventured into
the outside world, never mind spent any time enjoying the warmth of the sun.

He risked glancing at her face as with utmost care he pulled
her to her feet, but her lashes were lowered, shielding her eyes. She clasped her
cloak about her at her breast and appeared not in the least affected by their
touch.

“Thank you.” Her voice was cool as she withdrew her hand,
and he flexed his fingers, trying to eradicate the lingering awareness that
clung to his flesh.

“With your leave, I’ll escort you back.” Aye, because it
made perfect sense to spend as much time as he could in the company of this
woman. A woman who was not only out of bounds for a brief sexual fling but
happened to arouse him to agonizing heights with the slightest touch of her
hand.

She didn’t even glance at him. “As you wish.”

He stared at her retreating back as she made her way up the
gentle slope. As dismissals went, it was blatantly clear. Why then was he
compelled to follow her? After all, he was the one who no longer wished to
continue with a liaison. Wasn’t he?

It was a good question but he couldn’t answer it. And
instead of turning in the opposite direction, which was the logical course of
action, within a few strides he was by her side.

She shot him an oddly furtive glance. The confusion in her
eyes, in that one fleeting second as their gazes meshed, sliced into him like a
blade. It was obvious she found his continued presence inexplicable.

That made two of them. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed
self-torture.

The silence screamed between them. He might not be a
seasoned seducer of women, but he’d never before been tongue-tied around one.
He might have been thirteen years old again, and in the presence of a temptress
from one of his night-fevered fantasies.

Breath hissed between his teeth. Never had his fantasies
involved a virgin widow. He’d be damned if he’d start now.

“Hey, boy.” He offered his fingers for the dog to sniff.
Aila shot him another glance, but there was no confusion in her look this time.
It was clearly disapproving. He ignored her obvious wish for him to remain
mute. “He’s a great age for a deerhound.” He’d never seen a dog with so much
gray fur and rubbed the creature behind his ears.