Her Savage Scot: 1 (Highland Warriors) Page 8

  Chapter Seven

  Revulsion clenched deep in Connor’s gut. It was hard enough for a warrior to watch one of his own cut down and mutilated by the Norse barbarians. He couldn’t even begin to fathom how a young girl like Aila had coped with such trauma.

  He took her hand, and her cloak slid to the worn stone floor. She stared at him but didn’t protest at his action and he had the uncomfortable sensation she had tumbled back in time to that horrifying moment.

  The recollection he, through his own clumsy attempts at humor, had inflicted upon her.

  He led her to a carved timber chair by one of the windows and continued to hold her hand as she gracefully sat. “Is there anything I can get you?” His voice was gruff. “Shall I call the monk, Uuen?”

  She blinked, as though awakening from a dream. A nightmare.

  “No.” She sounded surprised by his question. Her fingers slid from his. “I’m sorry, Connor. I know it happened long ago but…it still has the power to affect me.”

  “Of course.” Shame burned his throat. “It’s not something you could ever forget.”

  Her dog laid his great head across her lap and she wrapped her arm around his neck. “Yet people have been telling me for years that’s exactly what I should do.”

  He snatched her cloak from the floor and shook it, silently cursing his tactlessness. “An easy command to give.” He carefully draped her heavy woolen cloak across her shoulders. A golden chain glittered across her nape and disappeared into the depths of her cleavage. Feeling that he somehow soiled her by such liberty, he jerked his gaze away from the tempting curves of creamy flesh. “You must have been very young.”

  “Not really.” Her free hand went to her breast, and her fingers traced the chain as if reassuring herself it was still there. “I was seventeen.” And then she frowned. “Yes. I was young.” She sounded surprised. “A bride of two years.”

  She was the same age as he. And while he had been claiming first blood on the battlefield, she had seen her husband murdered. By their common enemy.

  If he hadn’t agreed with MacAlpin’s plans before, Aila’s revelation would have been enough to convince him. He hoped her king returned soon so he no longer had to keep his plans confidential.

  He knew Aila would approve. Somehow it was important she agreed although he couldn’t fathom why. It was small recompense for the loss of her husband.

  It was obvious she’d cared for him. Even if he hadn’t been a husband to her in the fullest sense of the word.

  And there was his other reason why Aila was so completely off limits. But it made no difference. The longer he was in her company, the tighter she ensnared him. Without even trying.

  Last night her face and body had haunted his sexual fantasies and fractured dreams. But even when he was awake, he couldn’t escape her mystical enchantment. No, because he had to deliberately seek her out as if her presence was somehow necessary for his peace of mind.

  Except peace of mind was the last thing she gave him.

  “So you returned home to Ce and continued your husband’s calling.” It wasn’t a question, because the facts were plain. But she gave him a strange look, as if she didn’t understand his meaning.

  For a moment there was a silence. Then the tip of her tongue flicked over her lips, and his good intentions not to think about her in a base, lustful fashion evaporated as swiftly as dew on a summer morn.

  “Would you like to see some of my work?” Her voice was diffident and her glance slid from his as though she expected him to decline.

  His fleeting resolve to make his excuses and leave vanished with insulting ease. Obviously his body enjoyed the sweet torture it endured while in her company. “I’d be honored.”

  Her glance met his. Did she doubt his sincerity? But without a word she inclined her head and rose, leaving her cloak draped over the chair.

  He watched her open a heavily carved chest. She turned and spread the vellum onto the table and his gaze riveted on the exquisite hunting scene depicted.

  Fascinated, he braced his palms on the table, on either side of the vellum. The scene was just over half finished and the brilliant colors and vivid detail rendered him speechless.

  This was Aila’s work? It had the touch of a master.

  “It shows the beginning of time in Pictland.”

  He shot her a glance then looked back at the illumination. “Not a hunting scene?” There were noblemen and horses in a forest setting, a waterfall glinting in the distance.

  “It’s not finished, obviously.” Her fingers fluttered over the untouched side of the vellum. “But this is our great High King Cruithne and his seven sons.” Her arm grazed his and her silken hair was mere inches from his jaw. He kept his gaze on the vellum. But every sense he possessed vibrated in acute, agonizing awareness of her gentle touch and evocative womanly scent.

  Connor was certain she was unaware of the effect she had on him. She pressed more firmly against him as she focused on her art. He held his breath, tensed his muscles but it didn’t ease the pounding need in his blood.

  “The seven princes who named our seven provinces.” She turned and smiled at him and with a jolt, he realized that shadow of sadness was no longer present in her eyes. Instead they sparkled with life, as they had done down by the stream.

  Before he had rebuffed her.

  “Here is Ce.” As she reached across him, the curve of her breast brushed his biceps and every muscle clenched with involuntary reaction. For one torturous second he thought she was offering herself to him, until his lust-fueled senses realized she was only pointing out one of the finished figures, who sat astride a magnificent stallion. “And this is Fidach—prince of our northwestern kin.”

  “This is…” He struggled to find the right word. Failed. “Remarkable.” Part of him wanted to move away from Aila so he could regain full possession of his senses. But the other part—the greater part—rebelled from retreat. He could enjoy her innocent touch and respond intelligently to her conversation. It would simply take—concentration.

  “Don’t you have anything like this?” She straightened, severing the excruciating featherlike touch, but didn’t appear to notice how close they were.

  He clawed through the fog in his brain, trampled the lust stampeding through his blood. With every second that passed he became more convinced he’d misread the signs yesterday afternoon.

  Aila did not flirt. She just did. And it was his misfortune that everything she did he found hopelessly arousing.

  “Mostly.” He sounded as if a toad were lodged in his throat. “Our illuminations are in texts.”

  “I teach the texts.” She sounded matter-of-fact, as though it was no great skill. “This,” she nodded to the work before them, “is to update our histories. They’re starting to disintegrate.”

  Aila watched Connor as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. A bright frisson of triumph streaked through her. He wasn’t as immune to her touch as he liked to pretend.

  On the heels of that thought slithered the inevitable serpent of guilt. How could she think of such things here, of all places? When only minutes ago they had been talking about Onuist’s horrific death?

  He had died nine years ago.

  And in many ways, so had she. But her heart had continued beating. Her lungs had continued to draw breath. Her old goddess turned deaf ears to her pleas to join Onuist, intent on punishing her by keeping her alive against all rational odds.

  In defiance, she’d turned to the new God. And found purpose once more for existing.

  Connor turned to her. Admiration glowed in his eyes but was that for her skill with the paint or for herself as a woman?

  “I believe,” his voice cocooned her like sun-warmed honey, “the Scots could learn much from the Picts.”

  “And I believe we could learn much from you, also.” Her words sounded husky, but she didn’t care. She didn’t understand what had happened yesterday by the stream and it no longer even mattered.

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nbsp; The moment shimmered between them and beneath the veneer of civility a wild, primitive desire simmered. She was standing so close to him, she could admire the thick lashes framing his eyes, see the faint scar that slashed along the length of his jaw and inhale his unique male scent of woods and spices and danger.

  “Aila.” Almost a whisper, his voice caressed her senses as evocatively as if he’d trailed his fingers along her naked arm. He leaned closer to her, his eyes dark, his gaze intent and her breath tangled in delicious anticipation. He was going to kiss her.

  “My deepest apologies.” Uuen’s unapologetic voice sliced through her foolish daydreams as effectively as a newly forged broadsword. It took all her willpower to remain exactly where she was and not leap back, as though he had caught her doing something untoward.

  Instead she slowly turned to him and Connor jerked back, suddenly appearing to realize the inappropriateness of their close communion.

  She smothered the insane urge to giggle at his obvious discomfort. Because with every second that passed, she became more convinced Connor MacKenzie saw more than an aloof, impenetrable ice maiden whenever he looked at her.

  “Yes, Uuen?” Her voice sounded in perfect control, despite her breathlessness. Uuen was too far away to notice any physical signs of her attraction toward Connor and would never guess her true thoughts.

  Unfortunately Uuen’s lips twitched. It was obvious he guessed far too accurately. She ignored his pointed pause and refused to break eye contact. Eventually the monk flashed her a knowing grin and gave a half-bow. “Your students await, my lady.”

  Disbelief trickled along her spine. She’d forgotten about her students. How had she managed to forget something like that? Thank God Uuen had been able to prevent them from entering the library and seeing her shamelessly flirting with the Scot.

  I wasn’t doing anything wrong.

  The voice of defiance was surprisingly strong, effectively smothering the coils of guilt that threatened to engulf her. She probed that flare of rebellion but it didn’t waver, didn’t back down. With a sense of disbelief, she felt the guilt retreat, fade, vanish.

  “Lady Aila.” Connor’s low voice penetrated her bemusement and she looked up at him as he gazed with fierce intent at her. “Would you do me the honor of sitting with me at the feast tonight?”

  Her thoughts tumbled, incoherent. But one thing glittered with absolute clarity. Connor wanted to continue their acquaintance. For an abandoned, glorious moment, she almost acquiesced to his request. And then reality returned.

  If she dined in the hall this night, there was no chance Connor would remain in ignorance of her true status. It was possible her royal blood would make no difference to him. No. She was convinced it wouldn’t.

  And yet it would change things. How could it not? She was the eldest Princess Devorgilla of Ce. But with Connor, she was Aila.

  She knew she was making absurd distinctions. That Connor’s attitude would remain the same toward her. But the possibility of prolonging this intrigue, of snaring this Scot’s continued interest without the complication of her lineage coming between them, beckoned like an illicit flame.

  She would go to hell for her sins. But hadn’t she been to hell already?

  The instant rebuttal shocked, yet excitement sizzled through her at her daring. And still Connor awaited her reply.

  “I won’t be attending the feast tonight.” Yet for the first time since returning to Ce after the death of Onuist, the thought of participating didn’t send shivers of terror along her spine.

  She thought he was going to ask her why. She could see the question in his eyes and braced herself. But then he appeared to reconsider.

  “I’d like to speak with you again, Aila.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Uuen standing in the doorway, blocking her students from entry. As if he wished to give her additional time alone with the Scot.

  Madness, of course. Despite his love of gossip, Uuen would want no such thing for her.

  But Connor wanted to see her again.

  “Perhaps,” she said as her fingers went to grasp her cloak in a gesture of comforting familiarity. Except her cloak remained on her chair. For a second the realization disoriented her. “I may venture to the stream this afternoon.”

  Her words vibrated in the air between them. An invitation? Or merely a statement? The choice was his.

  The tension etching his face eased into an irresistible smile. Her breath caught in her lungs and her stomach fluttered as though she were a young maid. It was only a smile, but its power slid into her blood like a potent aphrodisiac from the far-flung, exotic Eastern Empire.

  “Then perhaps,” his husky whisper entwined with the lingering magic of his smile, “I also may venture to the stream once again.”

  She wasn’t sure she could reply without him discovering how deeply he affected her. And so she inclined her head and offered him her hand.

  His warrior’s hard fingers slid beneath hers. Such a gentle touch from one accustomed to battle. He bowed before her, his dark head so close as he bent over her hand, she had to hold her breath to prevent herself from burying her face in his wild, Scots hair.

  Lips brushed her knuckles. So fleeting she could scarcely feel them at all, yet so profound she felt his touch imprint upon her soul.

  He straightened and their gazes locked. Slowly his fingers slid from hers, flesh against flesh. Every second stretched into a golden infinity, focused on the sensitized tips of their fingers as they clung together, as though a force beyond anything she had previously encountered enchained them.

  Finally they separated. Her skin tingled from their contact, as if they had just enjoyed a far more intimate exploration of the flesh than an innocent, everyday farewell.

  There had been nothing innocent about that touch. And as she watched Connor stride across the room, a ragged cry of caution echoed through her heart.

  If she met Connor by the stream today, she would irrevocably alter the predestined course of her life.

  Chapter Eight

  Connor reined in his mount, crossed his forearms across the pommel of his saddle and surveyed the valleys below.

  “Impressive,” Ewan commented as he pulled up alongside. “And the hill fort of Ce-eviot still towers above this mountain.”

  Connor glanced across the valley toward Ce-eviot. They’d left the formidable ramparts surrounding the lands of the King of Ce for an uninhibited gallop across the countryside. Yet still the Pictish palace dominated the landscape.

  No wonder MacAlpin was eager to negotiate. Eager to lay claim to this wealthy northern province through a strategic political marriage.

  He glanced back at the two Ce warriors who’d accompanied them and remained on guard some distance off. The excuse had been so no other Ce tribe would attack the lone Scots but Connor wasn’t fooled. The Ce queen trusted them no further than she could see them. Probably not even that.

  “Still no sign of the princess?”

  Ewan shrugged. “I begin to doubt her existence. I hope to God MacAlpin is certain there is an elder one. I don’t want to bear any responsibility in tethering that bonny little Devorgilla to your brother.”

  Connor narrowed his eyes against the sun that glinted on distant rivers in the valleys. “There’s an elder princess. And MacAlpin wasn’t exaggerating as to her being a recluse.” Which likely meant the rest of his description also rang true. Hard to fathom when the younger princess was such a friendly, mischievous child. “And we can hardly demand to see her when we can’t explain our purpose here until their king returns.”

  Ewan flung him an amused look. “Maybe it’s the queen herself who keeps the princess locked away. Maybe she’s mad as well as a hag.”

  “So long as she’s capable of bearing an heir. That’s all that’s required of her.”

  “I almost feel sorry for your brother.” The grin on Ewan’s face belied his words. He obviously believed Fergus more than deserved the unappealing, widowed princess
.

  “Fergus will do his duty.” Whether he liked it or not.

  “I just hope she’s malleable. I don’t relish the notion of accompanying a fractious female back to Dal Riada.”

  Connor shot the glowering Ce horsemen a glance. They were too far away to overhear the conversation but clearly resented the fact they were here at all. “I doubt we’ll have much to do with her. Let her entourage deal with her tantrums.”

  Ewan grunted. “Speaking of tantrums. That damn hotheaded MacNeil started a fight this morning. Can’t get it through his thick skull we’re trying to ally ourselves with the Picts, not assassinate them one by one.”

  “I’ll talk to him. He can’t jeopardize our mission because of his personal feelings.” Hell, they all had personal feelings when it came to the Picts. But sometimes a warrior had to follow orders that went against his natural inclinations. And Cameron MacNeil had sworn, back in Dal Riada, that his undying loyalty was Connor’s.

  A certainty that went beyond fealty to his king and duty to his people coalesced deep in Connor’s gut.

  They couldn’t afford to fail in this mission.

  After the last of her students left the library, Aila took out her vellum and prepared to continue working on the histories of her people. It was an endless task, but she enjoyed it because it absorbed her mind and soothed her soul.

  Gave her purpose.

  Uuen strolled over and perched on the edge of her desk. After a few moments when it became clear he wasn’t going to take her continued silence and refusal to look up at him as blatant signs she didn’t want to talk, she gave a loud sigh. “Yes, Uuen?”

  “My lady.” She could tell by the tone of his voice he was in the mood for gossip. “Your confession yesterday made no mention of a certain Scot warrior.”

  “That was because I had nothing to confess.” She kept her eyes on her work. Her thoughts concerning Connor had been far from pure and most assuredly required absolution. Yet, like her erotic dreams, she had no intention of confessing such things to Uuen.