By the time she entered the queen’s private garden, Elise had managed to convince herself she had misinterpreted Bride’s message. It was obvious her goddess had told her to approach any of the Scot warriors with her request—with the exception of Cameron MacNeil.

It would be likely wise to avoid Stuart MacGregor as well. Three months ago, he hadn’t been amused when she had failed to turn up in his bedchamber after an evening of harmless flirtation. It wasn’t her fault if he’d read more into her conversation than she had intended. Thankfully, his rancor hadn’t lasted more than a few hours. Only for as long as it took him to persuade another of the queen’s ladies to share his bed.

“Well?” The queen’s tense voice intruded into her thoughts and she glanced at her aunt to see her staring at the dowager. “Will Aila return before the birth of my grandchild?”

Relieved the queen hadn’t directed the question at her, Elise trailed her fingers over the weathered face of the stone sundial. Her aunt so often expected definitive answers from the gods, when in truth such revelations rarely occurred.

Her grandmother sighed, her thoughts clearly mirroring Elise’s own. “Devorgilla, I can only repeat to you what I have already said. Aila will survive the birth and her child will bridge the chasm between Pict and Scot. But whether she returns to Ce before her time is upon her—is not clear.”

The queen paced the length of the stone terrace, the only outward sign of her agitation. Then she stopped abruptly by the sundial and glared at Elise.

“What do you see?”

The raw desperation in her aunt’s voice pierced Elise’s heart. If only she could ease the queen’s pain. But like her grandmother, all she knew for sure was Aila and her babe would survive.

But there was one more certainty she knew that her grandmother did not.

“I will see her again, madam. Before the birth.” It was that certainty that had misled her into believing she would be allowed to accompany her cousin into Dal Riada. She had been wrong about that. But she knew she wasn’t wrong in her conviction.

The queen gripped her hand. “She will return?”

Elise dearly wanted to look to her grandmother for help but knew she couldn’t. This certainty was hers alone.

“I only know that I will see her again. And soon. But—I cannot say if that reunion occurs in Ce or elsewhere.”

The queen’s grip tightened. “Then look harder, Elise. Call on Bride. Ask her. Now.”

Elise obediently closed her eyes, smothering her sigh. She knew her aunt was grieving for the king, was devastated at Aila’s decision to return to Dal Riada and desperate to be at the birth of her first grandchild. But even so, the queen knew no god could be commanded. A mortal was the conduit. Those who believed could beg favor and offer sacrifice for imparted wisdom, but even for those chosen by the gods there was no guarantee their questions would be heeded.

But she loved her aunt. And so she opened her mind and her heart and sent blessing to her beloved Bride.

The distant call of birdsong faded. The summer breeze stilled. Her breathing slowed and her heartbeat echoed in her ears. And into her mind flowed the vision of…

Cameron MacNeil.

Shock punched through her and she gasped in disbelief. Her eyes snapped open, to be confronted by the unblinking gaze of the queen.

Goddess. Why had she thought of Cameron MacNeil? Now of all times when she was trying to help her aunt? And why hadn’t she managed to hide her reaction, the way she had learned to hide her true feelings so well over the last few years?

“Yes?” The queen’s voice was scarcely above a whisper.

Again, Elise closed her eyes and attempted to reach the plateau of calm required. But the Scot was still there, invading her mind, preventing her from communicating with Bride.

Panic snaked through her, coiling in the pit of her stomach. Bride didn’t always answer her call, that was true enough. But never before had anyone slid into her mind and severed the connection. It was—outrageous.

“Elise?” Her grandmother’s voice was mild and yet there was a distinct undercurrent of curiosity. As if, goddess forbid, her grandmother sensed what had occurred.

“I only see,” her voice faltered. She couldn’t lie to her grandmother, but she certainly couldn’t tell the absolute truth. “The Scots.”

Her aunt made a noise of disgust and released her hand.

“The Scots encroach everywhere. I don’t need the gods to tell me this. I want to know if I will ever see my daughter and son again.”

“Madam,” Elise was compelled to say. “My lord Talargan is well. Connor MacKenzie gave his word the prince would remain unharmed.” Talargan, Elise’s cousin and Aila’s brother, was a valuable royal hostage. His wellbeing was of paramount importance.

Unlike Droston, whose heritage, while noble, was certainly not deemed worthy enough to use as a means of negotiation.

The familiar rage at such injustice bubbled deep inside and she dragged in a deep breath in an attempt to smother it. The rage was ancient, a remnant from her younger self, and it did no good to rail against that which couldn’t be changed. Droston had her love and her undying support and she wouldn’t desert him when he needed her most.

One of the queen’s ladies approached to inform her that a messenger had arrived. With an impatient flick of her hand, the queen motioned him forward and took the sealed parchment.

There was a silence as she read the contents. Then she looked directly at Elise and unease fluttered in her breast at the look on the queen’s face. Was it bad news from Elise’s mother? Had something happened to one of her four sisters or their children? Had there been word on her father, who was also held hostage to MacAlpin’s greed and ambition?

“Elise.” Only someone closely attuned to the queen’s tightly controlled emotions could have detected the note of sympathy in her voice. Elise’s unease heightened, her stomach knotting, fingers gripping together. “Your husband is returned from the Eastern Empire. He is already on his way to Ce.”

The unease solidified, became a fist and gripped her throat in a remorseless vise. She remained standing, remained perfectly still. Even managed to keep her face utterly devoid of expression.

But inside, the scream pummeled against her skull, filled her brain and threatened to erupt from her tightly compressed lips.

Ferelei had been gone for four months. She hadn’t expected his return to Pictland for another two months at least. And now he was on his way to Ce to collect his wife. And once she was back in Fib, in the hill fort Ferelei called home, she would have no chance of discovering whether Droston was still alive.

She had less than two weeks—perhaps a lot less than two weeks—before her husband arrived. It left no time in which to carry out her tenuous plan of charming a Scot into sending a message to Dal Riada. Even if a message was sent today, it would take at least two weeks to reach Dunadd, the royal stronghold of the Scots.

As the unfairness of the situation thundered through her mind, a mad, shockingly seductive idea surfaced. What if, somehow, she managed to persuade a Scot warrior into taking her to Dunadd?

Ferelei’s fury would be boundless if he arrived in Ce and she wasn’t there. A wild, fantastical hope illuminated the darkness in her soul. Would his anger be so great as to fatally damage his heart? Could she possibly achieve, by this one outrageous act, not only Droston’s freedom but also her own?

The hope withered before it had time to fully bloom. Ferelei would never release her in so satisfactory a manner. He would ride after her, overtake her, and challenge any Scot foolish enough to voice dissent at his right to reclaim his wife.

And should his aged appearance mislead the Scot into thinking such a challenge an easy victory, he would be cruelly slaughtered. Although, thank the merciful Bride, Ferelei’s cock had been nearly useless for the last five years, his sword arm was still as fearsome as it had ever been.

“Perhaps,” her grandmother said, “we can persuade him to allow you to remain in Ce for the summer, Elise. It would be,” she paused for a telling moment. “A kindness to us all.”

Ferelei cared nothing for kindness. But he did care for the good favor of the royal houses of Pictland. It was a slender hope, but all she had.

It still didn’t help with her plan to discover the fate of Droston. Unless Ferelei could be further persuaded to not only allow her to remain in Ce, but for him to return home to Fib.

She forced a smile to her lips. Pride forbade that she show her aunt or grandmother how deeply she feared her husband. Despite her pride, she knew they were aware her marriage was far from happy. But that was scarcely a revelation. Few noble marriages were based on love.

They were likely more curious as to why she had never taken a lover during Ferelei’s frequent absences. But of course, they would never ask. And she would never tell.

“I will give sacrifice to the goddess for such a favor.” She curtsied, suddenly desperate to be gone, to be alone with her thoughts. Although since word of the king of Ce’s murder, she was never alone. Now she was tailed everywhere by a hulking bodyguard who neither smiled nor spoke, and whenever she remained within the palace confines, she was surrounded by a dozen or more of the queen’s ladies.

She should be used to it. She had grown up with such strictures. And yet in Ce with Aila, she had always enjoyed a measure of freedom her own mother had never allowed her. As a princess of Circinn, even as the youngest princess of five, she had never been allowed a moment to herself.

She had become an expert at eluding her companions.

And look at what her fierce desire for independence had cost her. Ten years ago, she had slipped on the wet rocks and tumbled down the crag into the river. Her leg had snapped like a twig, her skin and muscle ripped to shreds.

The memory rushed through her mind, as horrifying as if the events had occurred just the other day. If not for Droston, her childhood accomplice in their daring adventures, she would have drowned in those treacherous rapids.

He had saved her life. And she would do everything within her power to ensure she saved his. And the first step was to ensure Ferelei didn’t insist on her returning to Fib.

She lost her bodyguard with a simple maneuver she’d used many times in a variety of ways as a child. Instructing him to remain in the passageway, she entered a chamber filled with ladies embroidering and gossiping. And then she discreetly slipped into the adjoining chamber and left the palace through an alternative route.

With luck, he would never know.

***

As Cam left the monastery, located some distance from the palace and the local village, he was forced to concede it was as serviceable as any in Dal Riada. Not that its presence made any sense to him. Why would a heathen people like the Picts maintain a house dedicated to the one true God?

Of course, the monks were nothing like the ones in Dal Riada. They were irreverent and appeared far too fond of material luxuries, but he couldn’t fault their knowledge. Damned if he’d confess any of his sins to them, though.

A mirthless grin twisted his lips at the thought of confiding his murderous intentions against one of their premier warriors. But, without asking direct questions or mentioning a particular name, he had learned one thing—no warrior with origins in Fib was currently within the boundaries of the royal kingdom of Ce-eviot. Ferelei mac Uurguist, the bastard, was likely still at sea plundering any ship unfortunate enough to cross his path.

Unwilling to return to camp—unlike last time, no offer of palace chambers had been extended to the Scots—he tramped up the slope where he knew, beyond, was a secluded copse. It would be a welcome relief to be rid of the constant presence of Picts. He’d be in peace to consider strategies as to how to persuade MacIntosh to let him travel to the southern Pictish kingdom of Fib, where Ferelei would return sooner or later.

He eyed the massive boulder that sat on the rim of the slope. Its ancient pagan carvings caused an eerie shiver to scuttle over his arms. Wasn’t it sacrilegious to build a monastery in the center of such a stone circle? Without thinking, he reached out and brushed his palm across the surface of the rock. It was warm and oddly soothing. Unnerved by such errant thoughts, he snatched his hand away, took another step and nearly collided into the crouched form of the princess Elise.

Heart pounding, he glared down at her. She’d been completely hidden by the boulder until he’d almost fallen over her. And the way she was staring up at him, her blue eyes wide with shock, gave the impression she imagined he’d crept up on her unawares on purpose.

The thought irked him.

“What are you doing there?” His voice was harsh, his Pictish raw. She was fortunate he hadn’t crushed her delicate hand under his boot. It was sheer chance that he had not.

She sat back on her heels, her hand now safely clasped by her other on her lap. Her jaw was tilted at an angle as she looked up at him, and her sky blue gown, so unlike a Scotswoman’s gown, hugged her curves and gave an unobstructed view of her tempting cleavage.

Lust gripped low in his groin, twisting like a serpent. His shaft thickened and it was all he could do to prevent a groan from escaping his dried throat. He couldn’t even look at her for a moment without wanting to lift her skirts and thrust himself into her. Despite her heritage. Despite the fact she had never given him the slightest indication she was interested in him.

With damning reluctance, he dragged his hot gaze from her creamy breasts and the illicit fantasies of burying his face in her scented flesh. He battled the urge to pull her to her feet and trap her against the boulder, and instead focused on her face. And saw only her parted pink lips, so tantalizingly on level with his damn unruly cock.

Could she see his erection through his plaid? Insane images of gripping her head and ramming into her wet, willing mouth hammered in his brain. The vision burned behind his eyes, obliterating all else. The haughty princess Elise, on her knees before him, her tongue and lips fucking his cock as he pumped his hot seed down her slender, royal throat.

Infuriated by his lack of control he folded his arms across his chest. It did nothing to curb the rabid need clawing through his groin, or help cool the fervid fantasy incinerating his mind. But at least he was no longer tempted to reach out and slide his fingers through her shining hair.

Much.

She still hadn’t answered him. But then, why should she? She was a princess and he a foreign commoner. Doubtless, she considered his question impertinent. He should turn and walk away. Leave her.

The tip of her tongue moistened her lips and he could no sooner turn and walk away than he could summon up a witty remark on their unexpected meeting. So he did what he did best and glared at her.

She shivered, as if a breeze chilled her, but for once the wind didn’t race across the mountains. Perhaps he’d imagined it because a rose blush heated her cheeks and she certainly didn’t look cold.

“You startled me.” She spoke in Gaelic, her voice soft, her accent enchanting. Her blue veil framed her face, giving her a deceptive air of innocence. “Scots do not normally wander so far from the delights of the village.”

Was she accusing him of something?

“We haven’t been confined to the village, my lady.” He sounded as if he was being deliberately antagonistic when all he’d intended was to convey he was breaking no royal command. Even when he attempted to keep the peace when confronted by a Pict he appeared incapable of conversing in a civilized manner.

Not that he’d had much practice. He avoided them whenever possible and during the last week, none had gone out of their way to speak to him. His surly reputation from three months ago had obviously lingered in the locals’ minds.

Elise didn’t deign to answer, but he saw her grip her fingers together on her lap. Then his glance slid from her lap to the ground. Ice stabbed through his chest. God in heaven, she was kneeling at a pagan altar in front of the standing stone.

His fists clenched as he fought the urge to make the sign of the cross. He looked at Elise and she was staring at him as though she had done nothing blasphemous.

But then, she likely didn’t think she had.

The silence screeched in his ears. He couldn’t fathom why he still stood there, gazing at her like a dumbstruck boy. And so he once again glowered at the glittering crystals and smoking incense arranged in a five-pointed star design she had been—what, worshipping at before his arrival?

Elise moved to stand up, her normally elegant deportment marred by a slight stagger, as if the muscles in her right leg had cramped. Only when she stood before him did it belatedly occur to him that he should have offered her assistance.

MacGregor wouldn’t have missed such an opportunity to worm into her good favor.

“I’m sure you can wander wherever you please,” she said. “But there is nothing of interest here, only the copse.”

MacGregor, Cam knew, would have a ready response to that comment. Unfortunately, Cam couldn’t think of a single word. At least, none that conveyed flattery.

God Almighty, why did he have this despicable need to flatter? His lack of social graces had never plagued him before.

“And this.” He jerked his head at the ground. That she could so casually conduct pagan rituals within sight of the monastery made him feel ill. Why did the monks allow the people to continue with their ancient ways? Such practices would never be tolerated in Dal Riada.

“What of it?” There was an edge of defensiveness in her voice, as if she knew what she did was wrong. Once again, her blue eyes snared him, and once again, the urge to walk away thudded through his brain.

It was none of his concern what Elise did. Connor MacKenzie might be the tacit king of Ce, but he hadn’t outlawed the old beliefs. MacAlpin might covet all of Pictland, but he was still king of only Dal Riada.

But Cam had never possessed diplomacy. And he couldn’t shake the unease that polluted his blood. An unease so potent it vied for supremacy with the lust still burning his body.

The question refused to remain locked inside his head. “Is this some kind of demon worship?”

***

Elise stared at the black haired, dark eyed Scot warrior who glowered down at her, as though her very existence offended his sight. Yet if that was so why did he continue to converse with her? Why didn’t he turn and go on his way? And why did his angry countenance cause her nipples to strain against her bodice and illicit desire to spiral between her thighs?

It was hard to focus on his words when his closeness caused such havoc with her senses, but demon worship?

“I don’t believe in your demons, Cameron MacNeil.” And she didn’t believe this conversation, either. After steadfastly ignoring her three months ago, and during the last week, he now appeared rooted to the spot and had said more to her than she had ever heard him utter to any of the queen’s ladies. “This is an offering to my goddess.”

Not that Bride appeared to be listening. Surreptitiously Elise pressed her thighs together, in an effort to stifle the distressing tremors fluttering through her core. This was the reason she couldn’t speak to him. Because whenever he drew near, her body behaved like an untouched maid of thirteen. And it had been eight years since she had been thirteen and believed the touch of a man would bring her nothing but delight.

But why did she feel this way with Cameron MacNeil? None of the other Scots warriors affected her, no matter how many pretty words they whispered in her ear.

For a moment, she thought he was going to take issue with her response. The Scots were rigid in their beliefs, but he had no right to criticize. They were in Pictland, not his barbarous Dal Riada. And what did it matter if her request to Bride teetered on the precipice of sacrilege? She would do anything her goddess demanded if, by so doing, Ferelei’s arrival in Ce would be prevented. Permanently, if possible, but indefinitely would do.

Cameron MacNeil continued to glare at her, his eyes smoldering with black passion. She tried to ignore the prickles of awareness that burned her flesh beneath his gaze. But her chest constricted and it was hard to breathe, never mind engage in conversation with him.

That he desired her was obvious. That he hated the fact he wanted her was also painfully obvious. She could only hope he had no idea of the effect he had on her.

“Why are you out here alone, my lady?” he said, still speaking in his bone-meltingly accented Pictish although it was apparent to them both, she was more fluent in his language than he was in hers.

But how did he manage to inject so much venom into such a mundane question? If he loathed conversing with her people to this degree then why did he continue to torment her with his unwelcome presence?

As if to belie her thoughts, her treacherous gaze drank in the way his unbound hair whipped across his face in the Highland breeze. The way his white linen shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. How it molded against his powerful chest beneath the length of plaid slung over his shoulder.

His presence tormented her. But despite that, it was not unwelcome.

Fire flooded her veins, warming her cheeks. Goddess, she was blushing like a maid. No man made her blush. She was immune to their charms, no matter how much she enjoyed their company. And even if Cameron MacNeil awoke long dormant desires within her, it was nothing but a cruel contradiction—for she certainly did not enjoy his company.

Her heart hammered an erratic rhythm as she watched him step closer to her. The sky receded. The earth fell away. He filled the world and stole the air, raised the heat and made it hard to think, to reason.

He was so close she could feel his uneven breath across her face. Could see the deep brown of his eyes, the intriguing thickness of his lashes. For a fleeting instant, his features softened and she saw beneath the simmering hatred he appeared to hold against her people. And in that moment, the gaping chasm of want and loneliness that corroded his soul slammed through her breast.

She gasped. A shiver trickled along her spine at the eerie certainty that she had just glimpsed the true man beneath the warrior. For one brief moment, his façade had cracked. And even though now, once again, his countenance was as forbidding as it had always been, she knew the truth.

His air of fury and his curt words were not intended as a personal affront against her or her people.

It was an act of self-preservation.