Cam had no clear idea how he’d expected Elise to react when he returned her heathen crystals to her. He still couldn’t fathom what had possessed him to return to the standing stones and gather them up after he’d ensured her safe return to the palace.

But no matter how misplaced or unwarranted it was, he couldn’t shake the uneasy sensation that she was in danger. And although it was nothing to do with him, he’d still been compelled to seek her out.

He’d half expected her to slap his face for daring to touch her pagan crystals. Instead, she looked on the point of fainting.

His grasp on the pouch tightened at that alarming possibility. “Here. Take them.” Once again, he shoved the pouch toward her. Much as he fantasized about holding Elise, the thought of carrying her unconscious body across the great hall wasn’t something he relished. Not least because he doubted Elise would ever forgive him for such a public humiliation.

He ignored the mocking voice in his head that wanted to know why he gave a shit as to whether Elise would ever forgive him or not. He didn’t need her approval. He didn’t need her pretty smiles or flirtatious glances.

He didn’t need anything from Elise. Except in the darkness of night while his body burned with unrequited lust, he wanted it all.

“Thank you.” Her voice was breathless and for a moment, he wondered if he’d misheard. She didn’t sound angry at his presumption. She sounded grateful. “It was kind of you to return them to me.”

She took the pouch from his outstretched palm and twirled her finger through the crystals. Fascinated, he couldn’t help staring at her averted face.

Before he’d traveled to Pictland in the spring, he’d imagined all Picts to be brutal barbarians. It had been an unpleasant revelation to discover they possessed knowledge and learning to rival that of the scholars of Dal Riada.

But even that paled into insignificance when compared to how Elise affected him. Right from the first moment he’d seen her, she had entrapped him. And she had managed it without a single seductive glance in his direction.

In the spring, it had corroded his pride. A Pict had destroyed his sister Isla and murdered his father in cold blood. For that, all Picts deserved eternal damnation. For his king, he had suffered the Picts hospitality. For the sake of peace and the treaty between Scot and Pict against the Vikings, he had forcibly tethered his festering need for vengeance.

But since the massacre at Dunadd, nothing was as clear as it once had been.

“You shouldn’t leave such things out where anyone might come across them.” Whatever he thought of her practices, they were obviously important to her. He had no wish for her crystals to be stolen. Especially when he suspected it was his fault she’d forgotten to take them with her in the first place.

She snatched her finger from the pouch as though it contained snakes and clasped the soft leather against her breast. He tried not to stare. Failed. Hell, why did Elise captivate him so?

“They wouldn’t harm anyone.” She sounded defensive and he reined his lascivious thoughts back into line. Elise wouldn’t part her thighs for him this night, or any night. MacIntosh had made it clear he had set his sights on her.

Another night, perhaps?

He swallowed; his mouth dry. Elise hadn’t passed two words with him in the spring. She was only speaking to him now because he had cornered her. What was wrong with him? She was only a woman, like any other.

Except she was like no other woman he’d ever met.

“I meant if someone came across them and took them.” As the words hung in the air, he sensed their absurdity. Who would wish to steal a handful of crystals? The realization he’d once again made a fool of himself in front of Elise blackened his mood and despite his best intentions, he felt a scowl form.

Elise licked her lips and God damn, was she really blushing again or was it a trick of the candlelight?

“Oh. Yes.” She sounded confused but he detected a trace of relief in her voice too. He couldn’t imagine why she would sound relieved. An unsavory possibility surfaced. Unless she’d thought he meant something else by his remark? Had she, in reality, been casting a spell?

A chill crawled along his spine at the thought. It was one thing to know she worshipped pagan gods. It was another to suspect her of witchcraft.

He shoved the suspicion aside. Black magic entailed blood sacrifice and there had been nothing by the standing stones to suggest anything of the kind.

Elise was not a witch.

He watched her secure the pouch to her belt. Her fingers were slender and her nails were not square cut, but a pleasing oval shape. He smothered a groan of defeat. What man found a woman’s fingers so cursed riveting?

She finally finished to her satisfaction and clasped her hands together at her waist. He waited for her to bid him farewell. For her to return to MacIntosh and lead the other man to her bedchamber.

He folded his arms across his chest. The alternative was to drag her into his arms and once he did that, he feared he might not be able to let her go.

“Would you care to have a goblet of wine with me?”

Her question was so unexpected he stared at her in disbelief. “What?” His voice was gruff and Elise flinched as though his response had physically wounded her. His glare darkened. Did she really want to spend more time with him or was this simply a perfunctory question, one to show her appreciation for his act but not intended to be taken seriously?

She took a deep breath. He refused to break eye contact, although every sense he possessed was vitally aware of how her breasts rose beneath her bodice, a tempting vision.

“As a small token of my thanks for returning my crystals.”

He could think of another way she could show her thanks. But Elise would never offer herself to him. All the Pictish ladies of the court enjoyed flirtatious banter and Elise excelled at the art. In the spring all the Scots warriors—save for Connor—had vied for her favor.

To his knowledge, she’d taken five as her lovers, including MacGregor. Each one possessed a silken tongue when it came to seduction. Each one could charm the sourest spinster into forgoing her virtue.

That was the type of man Elise found irresistible for her fleeting liaisons.

He didn’t want her gratitude. But this was likely the only time she would ever willingly offer him her company.

To hell with that. He wasn’t that fucking desperate for her company.

And knew that he was.

“Very well.” The words sounded feral. As though the thought of spending more time with her filled him with disgust.

She swallowed and then offered him a smile. It wasn’t one of her mesmerizing smiles that she so freely bestowed on his fellow countrymen. But it managed to paralyze him just the same. Because it was the first smile she had ever directed his way.

“Good. I wouldn’t wish you to think I’m ungrateful for your thoughtfulness. These crystals once belonged to my great-grandmother. I’d be devastated if I lost them.”

Unsure how he should respond to that, Cam grunted and followed her out of the alcove. Her hair rippled in golden waves to the small of her back. He imagined spreading those silken threads across his pillow and his cock hardened at the vision.

This evening was going to be torture.

As they made their way across the great hall, he realized she was still talking.

“… and then having to return to Ce so swiftly. It must have been hard leaving your homeland again so soon.”

“A warrior goes where he is ordered by his king.” Oddly, her words reminded him of just how long it had been since he’d set foot inside his own hill fort. Almost two years. But there was nothing there for him. Nothing but horrific memories.

“Of course.” She gave him a sideways glance. “But surely you must miss your loved ones, Cameron? Do you not possess a wife in Dal Riada?”

“No.” What woman would want to be mistress of Dunmar? His mother had never been happy there. Isla had died there. One day he would need to take a wife, and when that day arrived, he’d have to do something about Dunmar. But that was a problem for the future.

Elise gazed at him for a few seconds longer, but finally appeared to realize that was all he had to say on the matter. What else was there to say? He had no wife. Yet the certainty gnawed through him that, had he possessed the wit of MacGregor or MacIntosh, he could somehow have used Elise’s question to his advantage.

She cleared her throat as they approached the table where wine jugs stood. No coarse ale or common mead for those of royal blood.

“Do you have no kin, Cameron?”

She no longer affixed his family name when she addressed him, but the way she said Cameron in her enchanting accent still managed to fire his blood. Perhaps he should insist they spoke in Pictish. But her Gaelic inflexions were too pleasing.

“No.” He had no intention of saying anything more on the matter, except he caught the fleeting glance Elise shot him. There was an odd sense of despair about it. He felt his brows drawing together and forcibly halted the scowl before it could take hold of his face and cause Elise to once again retreat.

She was simply attempting to make conversation. It wouldn’t kill him to try to respond in a likeminded manner.

“I had a younger sister. She died in my arms when she was eleven.”

Elise’s eyes widened in evident horror and she turned from the table to face him. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She gripped her fingers together at her waist and looked as though she wished she were anywhere but here. “How terrible for you.”

Aye, it had been terrible. But it hadn’t been his intention to upset Elise by his remark. He’d only wanted to prolong their conversation. But it seemed every time he opened his mouth he managed to insert his considerably sized boot.

“It happened many years ago.” The words emerged as a growl.

“You must have been quite young yourself.” Elise appeared transfixed. He couldn’t imagine why. She even appeared unaware of the slave offering her a goblet of wine.

“I’d barely reached my sixteenth year.” For six months, he had watched Isla slowly lose her fight for life. Her death, and the reason for it, was scored into the fabric of his soul.

“At least,” Elise hesitated as though she was unsure whether to continue or not. “You were with her at the end, Cameron. I’m sure that gave her some comfort.”

He doubted his sister had even been aware of his existence at that point. The familiar acidic pain twisted through his chest at the memory.

This wasn’t something he wished to discuss with anyone, least of all Elise. How had they managed to touch on such a matter? Even he, with his lack of social graces, knew this wasn’t a topic fit for a princess.

“You have many sisters, I believe.”

Elise blinked in clear surprise at his abrupt change in the conversation. But how else could a man change the subject? He took the goblets from the slave and handed Elise one to distract her from the frown that was, yet again, furrowing his brow.

“I—yes. I have four older sisters.” Elise smoothed the fabric of her gown with her free hand and appeared unwilling to meet his gaze.

“But no brothers.”

Elise’s lips thinned. She clearly imagined he’d slighted her family. Silently he cursed his unwary tongue. In Dal Riada a woman craved for sons. Why would it be any different in Pictland? Yet he’d meant no insult. He had merely been stating a fact.

“I have only four royal siblings.” There was an icy edge to her voice. “But in Pictland the royal succession is through the female line. A son does not necessarily inherit the kingdom.”

He knew about the strange inheritance laws of the Picts. It was, after all, the reason his king had been able to seize Fortriu, the supreme kingdom of the Picts, due to the bloodline of his royal Pict-born mother.

The lines of inheritance were the last thing he wanted to discuss with Elise. Because they were also the reason for the massacre at Dunadd of every Pict male noble with a claim to Fortriu.

***

Elise took a fortifying sip of wine and tried not to stare as Cameron drained his goblet in one long swallow. His manner suggested he didn’t want to be with her. But she knew if that were the case, he would have refused her offer. She could only think he was simply incapable of sweet talk.

She’d never met a warrior or nobleman who lacked such a skill. Even Ferelei’s tongue possessed the ability to drip honey when it suited him.

At least Cameron didn’t try to blind her to his true personality by pretty lies and false promises. He despised her people and didn’t try to hide it. It appeared that whatever crossed his mind came straight out of his mouth. It wasn’t exactly comforting, but in an odd way, she found his bluntness… intriguing.

He glowered into his goblet. She had the strangest certainty that he was attempting to summon up another topic of conversation. Perhaps she should assist him. After all, she’d been the one who’d inadvertently caused him to recall the untimely death of his younger sister. Goddess, she’d wanted to sink through the floor when Cameron had told her. A look of such desolation had washed over his features, she’d had the frightening urge to wrap her arms around him.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her goblet at the thought. Cameron MacNeil was nothing like the girlish fantasies of a lover she’d harbored as a maid. And yet of all the Scots warriors, he was the only one she had ever imagined touching with more than her fingertips.

The seductive image sank into her mind. Shocking darts of pleasure attacked low, between her thighs. How would it feel if Cameron touched her there?

Her chest constricted and it became hard to breathe. Her lips parted in a vain effort to draw more air into her deprived lungs. But it didn’t help at all. If anything, it heightened the turmoil thundering through her breast and disbelief speared through her as liquid heat trickled from her pussy.

She knew they were surrounded by scores of ladies, warriors and slaves. But she and Cameron might have been alone in the feasting hall, for he was all she could see. He took a deep breath, his inevitable scowl still plastered across his face, and a terrifying combination of anticipation, delight and long denied lust rippled through her.

Was he going to ask her for an illicit assignation? Unlike his compatriots, he wouldn’t sweeten his words or flatter her with outrageous compliments. He would come straight to the heart of the matter.

With Cameron MacNeil, a fuck would simply be a fuck.

A shiver coursed through her and she tightened her grasp on the goblet before it slipped from her nerveless fingers. For the first time since her marriage, she imagined taking a man up on his offer. Giving herself to him. Discovering for the first time how it felt not to be ridiculed and belittled the moment she stood naked and vulnerable before a man.

Goddess, how wonderful that would be. But it was only a dream. No matter how her body yearned for more, she would never succumb. And while she couldn’t fathom why Cameron was the only man to have awakened her dormant desires, in the end it didn’t matter.

She would refuse him, as she refused them all. Let him tell his fellow warriors he’d taken her if that would save his face. He wouldn’t be the first. Except this time regret burned through her at the thought.

She didn’t want him to speak of her as another Pictish conquest. She wanted… goddess, what did she want?

“And you, Princess Elise.” Cameron’s growl dragged her back to the present and she held her breath, every sense aware of his closeness, the aura of danger he radiated. He was… intoxicating, and she had not the first idea why.

“Yes?” Was that truly her voice? She often used sultry tones when flirting with a man, but never had her voice sounded like this.

His dark eyes mesmerized her. He appeared as ensnared in this strange, sensual cocoon as she. It took every particle of willpower she possessed not to lean toward him, to luxuriate in the primal heat of his hard, muscled body.

“Do you have sons?”

Sons? Did she have sons? Had she misheard? Why would he ask her such a thing when they’d been talking about…

What had they been talking about?

Her bemused senses struggled to make sense of his question. “What?” Curse her husky tone. She sounded like a fool. A desire-drugged, lust-driven fool.

He swallowed and tugged on the open neckline of his shirt as though the linen choked him. But that couldn’t be, for the shirt was loosely tied and she could see a tantalizing glimpse of his bronzed chest.

Her mouth dried. Heart thundered. Blood rushed through her head and pounded against her temples. While she had been fantasizing that Cameron MacNeil harbored a secret desire to take her to bed, he had been thinking no such thing.

“Or daughters.” There was an undercurrent of desperation in his voice. This conversation was clearly killing him. Mortification washed through her at her dreadful mistake and yet again, she felt her face heat. “Children,” he added and offered her a thunderous glare to underscore his point.

Merciful Bride, please don’t let him guess where my errant thoughts wandered. She attempted to bestow a smile his way, to show that this conversation was just like any other she shared with a Scot warrior, but the act was beyond her.

She gave up. “No.” Now she sounded as monosyllabic as he did. She clutched the goblet tighter, relieved it wasn’t made of delicate glass. “My husband has seven grown children from his previous two marriages and is not inclined for any more.”

How she had wanted children as a young bride. But now she was glad, more than glad, that her dearest wish had not been granted. Children would have been merely one other way for Ferelei to exert his power over her.

Cameron’s brows drew together in obvious incomprehension. She didn’t blame him. It didn’t matter how many children a man had, when he took a new bride he always desired more.

But Ferelei was not a normal man. She suppressed a shudder and tried to thrust his face from her mind. He hadn’t wanted her to become pregnant because he hadn’t wanted her body to swell with child.

He hadn’t married her for what her womb would give him. He’d married her for her royal connections.

“Your husband must be a great deal older than you.”

Elise stared at him, momentarily loss for words. She knew his manner was blunt to the point of rudeness, but had expected him to remark upon the strangeness of her husband not wanting any more offspring.

But to comment on the vast age gap between them—she hadn’t expected that, not even from Cameron MacNeil.

And the way he said it suggested he found the notion repugnant.

The thought stung. Even though she found her marriage repugnant, she didn’t want anyone else thinking it. Especially not Cameron MacNeil.

“It was a mutually advantageous match.” Her voice was haughty. She couldn’t help it. Pride was all she had when it came to hiding the truth of her marriage to the outside world.

And it had been an advantageous marriage. Ferelei, thanks to his successful past as a pirate, was wealthy beyond measure. He had promised untold luxuries to the royal house of Circinn in return for the hand of their youngest princess.

“Advantageous for a merchant to marry a princess.” Cameron still sounded disgusted and it scraped along her nerves. He behaved as though Scots married only for love and never for duty. And she knew that wasn’t true. Her own cousin Aila had married a Scot prince out of duty when her heart had belonged to Connor.

“My husband is also a warrior of fearsome reputation.” Why was she defending Ferelei’s reputation to Cameron? She cared nothing for her husband’s reputation, or what anyone might think of him.

But for some reason she wanted Cameron to think her husband treasured her. She didn’t want him to imagine her family had virtually traded her to the highest bidder or that she’d regretted her decision to go along with their wishes every day since her wedding.

Cameron grunted. It was obvious her remark didn’t impress him in the least. “A pirate, then.” He sounded as though that fact gave him a measure of satisfaction.

It was true that many merchants with a warrior background had at one time or another engaged in piracy. Ferelei most certainly had. But she didn’t like the way Cameron instantly jumped to that conclusion. It suggested he thought Picts capable of little else.

“Not all merchants are pirates, Cameron MacNeil.” Damn, but she liked the way his name tasted on her tongue. She shoved the notion aside. Whatever she might think of the Scot, and whether he lusted after her or not, he’d made it very plain he would never act upon those base desires.

For which she grateful. Of course she was. It meant she wouldn’t need to find excuses to evade his amorous advances. “The name Ferelei mac Uurguist is enough to halt the most foolhardy into attacking my husband’s ships.”

But if only they would.