RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Twigging the image of her cousin in this stranger’s memories oddly twisted a knife in her heart. As if this gorgeous man would look upon her and see someone taller―with seven bloody dots on her nose―and find her lacking compared to the perfect Tamlyn.

  Her fingers flexed, almost as though she could reach within him and hold his heart. Own him. Brand him. “Scatty, fanciful thoughts,” she murmured in self-taunt.

  Despite the self-chastisement, fiery possessiveness arose in her. Aithinne’s pulse thudded in her ears, as her hand snaked down that shadowy divide of the upper chest and over the hard-corded muscles of his abdomen. His skin burned her fingertips as they traced the path to the brown plaide. She liked touching him. Glancing at his strong hands―hands accustomed to wielding a broadsword―she wanted them to touch her, stroke her.

  “Aye, my dark knight, you are the man to awaken the sleeping woman within me,” she confessed, all defenses down.

  Aithinne’s eyebrows shot up as the tartan jerked. Oona had explained how men grew stiff and larger as their hunger to mate rose. This avowal had drawn a frown from Aithinne. She had seen stallions before. When she told the crone that, Oona merely chuckled. “Men are no’ quite the same, lass.”

  Her eyes skimmed down his long leg to the leather shackle about his ankle, the chain binding him to the base of the heavy bed. Reaching out, she stroked the hard thigh, then up to the tartan. She blinked in surprise as the pulsing under the material came quicker, insistent, almost tenting it. Inquisitive, she gingerly lifted the cover. She sighed relief―thankful Oona had been correct. His male staff little resembled a horse’s. Though she had never made a study of such things, once she had seen a stallion ready to mount a mare. The animal’s had been kenspeckled and looked rather leathery. Aithinne shuddered and uttered a prayer for small blessings to the Auld Ones.

  Over the past seven years her guardian, Gilchrest Fraser, Lord Lyonglen, had rebuffed a score of offers for her hand in marriage. Caring little, she had never raised any objections, simply because no man before had drawn her interest strongly enough, saw her willing to bind herself to him. Despite the endless refusals, the suitors came in droves. Being baroness of Coinnleir Wood and ward to Lyonglen saw her too big of a prize for greedy men to resist. Most persistent of the neighboring lads were Phelan and Dinsmore.

  “I could be a swart hag and they would still clamor to win me,” Aithinne grumbled.

  The major headache, and a true threat, now came from Edward Plantagenet. Since appointing himself Lord Paramount of Scotland, after the death of their King Alexander, the English monarch continually interfered in all manner of Scottish affairs. One of those constant meddlings―Longshanks endeavored to arrange marriages for her, as well as for her cousins, Tamlyn, Raven and Rowanne. The English king was sorely vexed over their persistent refusals.

  As heiresses of Clan Ogilvie, no man could force them into marriage. A charter granted by Malcolm Canmore, two centuries before, reaffirmed and protected this ancient right of the Picts.

  Despite Oona’s frequent reminders ’twas past time when Aithinne should have been taken to wife, she was unsure she wanted to wed. Naturally, she wished for a helpmate, someone to share the burden of Coinnleir Wood, and now Lyonglen. Despite those daydreams, she enjoyed the clout of not having anyone telling her what she must do―or what she may not.

  That did not mean she lacked all curiosity about the forces of nature, or what happened betwixt men and women. Until this moment, she had viewed these matters with a detached questioning. At times, when she caught one of her maids giggling and blushing around a soldier, Aithinne wondered if there was not something missing within her. She had never yearned to be with a man, not once pined to give herself in that elemental way.

  Mayhap ’twas why she had devised this course of action so easily. She never stopped to reflect what it would entail to have a man inside her body, how she would feel. Such considerations had rarely seemed important before.

  “Now, my pretty stranger, you cause me to wonder about so many things.”

  Dropping the tartan, she stepped to the pot on the table. Dipping her fingers into the velvety ointment, she brought it to her nose and inhaled. The fragrant mix swamped her mind, intoxicating, lulling her, yet in the same breath it caused her heart to thud stronger, amplifying the effects of Oona’s potion.

  Sitting on the bed, her hand hovered just above this beautiful warrior. If she touched him again, there would be no turning back. Consequences of this night, this act, would have long-reaching effects, forevermore changing the course of her destiny.

  “My whole life distills to this instant in time when so much hangs in the balance.”

  Swallowing hard, she put her fingers to his heart and gently rubbed the silken salve to his skin. A jolt shot to her elbow, then her shoulder. By the time it hit her neck, it split like lightning. Part struck her brain; the second arc slammed into her heart, then ricocheted, reverberating through her being until she shimmered with a scorching force.

  The moon shifted from behind the clouds, pouring the ghostly radiance onto the bed. Soon it would bathe the whole surface with its unearthly glow. Anoint the virile warrior with Beltaine magic. Oona warned the spell would begin when the moonlight filled the chamber.

  “Time to change my mind runs out,” she whispered fearfully.

  She once more placed her palm over his heart, the rhythm stronger, speeding up. He burned, as if a fever consumed his flesh. Looking at the flat male nipple, she recalled Oona telling her what he would do to her breasts, that she would crave such treatment, even encourage him. Leaning forward, she laid her head against his chest, hearing the coursing of his blood, as her first finger gently traced a circle around his small, brown areola. The skin tightened, flesh pebbling. She smiled astonishment at the reaction.

  Strangely, though nervous at what lay before her, it felt so…right…being against him. Shifting to bring her legs up on the bed’s plane, she eased them alongside his. His male body was so different from hers. Hard where she was soft, flat whilst she was curved. She had never touched a male as she now stroked him.

  “Never wanted to before,” she admitted to the sleeping man.

  But as her hand palmed over his warrior-honed body, across the taut muscles to the indentation of his navel, she wanted―nay, needed―to have her hands on this man. The beat of his heart jolted as she rimmed the small dip in his belly. Oddly, she grew aware the thudding of his heart was in time to the pulsing under the cover.

  A slow grin spread over her mouth. “So many mysteries to discover.” Inquisitive, she lifted the tartan and pushed it aside.

  She had seen men jump into the loch to wash up, caught them dashing out, running for their plaides. Still, she never had a chance for a close inspection. Always ducking her head and scurrying away, she had not wished for one either.

  Each pulse lengthened the flesh. It was dark, swollen. She wondered if this condition proved painful for him.

  Aithinne reached out to touch the twitching shaft, surprised how scorching it burned, so soft, yet hard. Now riding high against his belly, she felt amazement such a change could take place. With impish curiosity, her fingers curled about his throbbing erection, her thumb stroking the distended vein running its length. Astonishing. She felt it altering, thickening within her fist.

  The moon’s luminosity spread across the bed, revealing his beautiful body in all its warrior’s splendor. His angelic face drew her eyes. The black hair lay in waves, not cut in the Norman style. Nagging questions once more arising, she whispered her worry, “Are you no’ English?”

  Despite reasons, or how the Fates had put this warrior in the path of her brothers, she little cared about the riddles his presence conjured. This man would father beautiful bairns. One would be hers. After their time together ended, she would see he returned to his life and never glimpse this warrior again. However, the image of his naked beauty would forevermore be burned in her mind.

  A knight to remembe
r.

  In the cold lonely nighttimes ahead, she would think back upon this man and know she had been blessed with his coming. Knew she would never permit another to lie with her.

  Aithinne arched up and brushed a light kiss against the full, sensual mouth. Her body lurched, hungry for more, suddenly desperate for more. She leaned into him and fitted her lips to his, intent on taking these secrets from him, kissing him as a woman would a man she desired.

  The world spun and she went flying.

  Literally.

  Chapter Three

  The Queen o’ Faeries, she caught me

  — Ballad of Tamlin

  Aithinne landed on her back with a thud, the shift occurring so fast she had trouble grasping how it happened. One instant, she was kissing him. Oh, how she kissed him! Then in a blink―she slammed to the bed’s surface. The breath had not left her lungs, though the whirling in her brain increased, effects of Oona’s concoction. She closed her eyelids to still the dizziness. Slowly, she opened them.

  The gorgeous stranger loomed over her―his knees on either side of her thighs, his palms flattened on the bed at her shoulders―pinning her. Her eyes widened as she felt an odd thump against the apex of her legs, heat pooling in her body as she understood what that thump was.

  Gray-green eyes, the shade of the passes of Glen Shane on a foggy morn, fixed her with an intensity inherent to predators. Mysterious fey eyes that could see more than mere mortals bore into her soul with the power of The Kenning. Long, thick lashes ringed them, while heavy ebon brows emphasized their mind-piercing hue. When she stared into them, the world narrowed. Nothing else existed. There was only this man with a warrior’s beauty far beyond words.

  This rattled her. Never had she met a man with such power pulsing through him. Never had any man so affected her senses, her body. Made it hard for her to think.

  Oh, this man was very special indeed.

  Formed with sensual curves, his lips could be given to satyric smiles. Smiles that could coax a woman to do his bidding with nary a hesitation. His jaw was strong, bespeaking of a man of great strength and determination, while high cheekbones lent a balancing hint of thinness, softening the arrogant lines.

  Used to the neat beard and mustache Phelan wore, or the scraggly white-blond chin whiskers of Dinsmore, it pleased Aithinne her stranger was clean-shaven. Lack of facial hair permitted the intriguing planes and shadows of his face to show to its full advantage. Moved by awe this man provoked within her heart, her hand reached up to cup his cheek.

  Wavy, black hair glistened in the moonlight with a dark auburn cast, a shade seen in people with blood of the Picts. That caused her to again question if he were English or Scot. Three curls fell over the hairline. Her hand itched to reach out and brush them off his forehead.

  The stranger’s face was sinful…in ways no mere man had right to be. The Kenning whispered, Selkie blood. The seal people of Scotland were said to possess such allure mortals could not resist them. But surely, this made him a Scot?

  The pale eyes showed signs the herbs coursed strong within him. Clearly fighting their influence, the long lashes batted several times as he focused upon her face.

  “Where...how...” Befuddled, his voice trailed off.

  He reached out with one hand, tracing the outer edge of her lips with his first finger. It shook, but The Kenning said it was not from the mandrake her brothers fed him, but some dark emotion within him akin to reverence. The finger edged along the seam, parting her lips, dipping into the moistness of her mouth.

  Eyes widening, she cautiously swirled her tongue around it, watching his reaction play out in the pale eyes. The lids lowered halfway as though he reveled in the sensation, held it within his mind. Pulling his hand back, he lifted his finger to his tongue, then closed about it and tasted her, savoring her flavor as one might relish mead.

  Oona had instructed her to feed him some the Beltaine mix―it would sharpen his mind, fight the lethargy of the brew. Aithinne scooted up, stretching to reach the pot by the bedside, only to have him block her with his left arm, indicating he had no intention of letting her off the bed.

  “Shhh…I but reach for this.” She gestured to the nearby pot before dipping her fingers in to scoop out a swirl of the balm.

  Black brows lifted, perplexed, yet he made no move to stop her. With shaking fingers, she carried the silken lotion to his sensual lips and spread the salve slowly over their fullness. His tongue swirled out, sampling the herbs―Oona’s magic. Then, he surprised her by sucking on her first finger, drawing on it rhythmically.

  Swallowing hard, her breathing grew shallow, raspy. She tugged it back and touched it to her lips. Tasting him.

  His brow creased, obviously in pain. “My head…”

  Her hand trembled when she reached for the goblet left by Oona, nearly spilling some of the liquid as she lifted it to him. “Here. Drink. It shall ease the pain.”

  The black brows lifted almost in challenge. “What manner of brew do you ply?”

  “Beltaine mead.”

  “Mead?” He rocked back on his haunches, his pale eyes shifting to the ornate cup, and then back to her. He finally put his mouth on the rim and drank while she held it for him. With it only half-gone, he paused.

  “Drink. ’Tis best if you drink it all,” she urged.

  The corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “No half-measures?”

  “Half-measures never see the deed done.”

  “I should not wish to disappoint my lady by leaving anything half-done.” With a faint nod, he drank the rest of Oona’s mixture. As she put the empty cup on the stand, he glanced about the room, confused. “How? I do not understand?”

  Aithinne silenced his questions by putting her fingers against his lips. Warlock eyes glowing, he kissed them, sending shivers up her spine.

  She advised, “Do not ask, dark knight. Just accept.”

  “But―”

  “No questions this night…only Beltaine magic.”

  “Either I am drunk…or mad,” came his raspy whisper, as if he spoke more to himself than her. “Mayhap both.”

  The moon’s pale rays illuminated the warrior’s intriguing countenance. Her reasons for having her brothers steal this man were so mixed she grew dizzy just thinking about them and the possible outcome. Nonetheless, as she stared up at his face cast in half-shadow, she knew the Auld Ones had blessed her with his coming.

  “Does it matter?” She placed her trembling hands on his muscular shoulders, reveled in the contours, a soul deep ache for this man rising within her.

  He smiled crookedly. “Damned if I know…damned if I care.”

  Leaning forward, he closed his lips over hers, moving with the gentleness of butterfly wings. The pressure was too light. Looping her arms about his neck, she arched to him, trying to capture his taste. Shaking in need.

  Part of the hunger was the potion. Still, she was wise enough to sense it was this man. As if conjured from her deepest wishes, he pleased her. Oh, how he pleased her!

  Inside, her body coiled tighter, craving, burning. As she surrendered to his warrior magic, vivid images swirled through her mind. She saw herself carrying his bairn, her body full from nurturing his seed within her, giving his child life and watching it grow. Aye, ’twas the man, not the concoction, a spell more potent than any witch’s brew.

  The mating need awakened, the scorching fire rolling throughout her body, driving her. Having no experience, she nearly panicked, wanting it all at once and not knowing where to begin.

  Running her hand over his flesh, she rasped, “Show me.”

  He pulled her against his chest, letting her feel his heart thunder its rhythm. Kissing her hair he whispered, the desperation raw, “You are no dream…but flesh and blood. Tell me you are real…oh, please…be real.”

  “Aye, I am real.”

  His hands cupped her neck, his thumbs brushing lightly along her jaw. “Then, let me worship you…as I have yearned to do for so long…a
s I have a hundred times in my deepest dreams.”

  He chained kisses along her neck, as his hands splayed over her shoulders and then down her bare arms. Reaching her hips, he skimmed along her outer thighs, until he found the hem of the chemise. Slowly, agonizingly, he ruched up the fabric, the soft gauzy material rasping over her sensitized flesh to her hips, then waist, over her breasts, tormenting her pebbled nipples to the point of torture. Finally, he whipped it over her head and tossed it aside, leaving her naked.

  Maiden modesty flared in her mind, urging her to cover her full breasts with her hands, hide from his devouring eyes. Only, with Oona’s love philter flaming her blood, she throbbed with needs and sensations she never dreamt of. She wanted those pale eyes to look upon her breasts, wanted him to stare at her with unveiled desire. Unsure of the ways of men and women, she trembled, afraid he did not like what he saw before him.

  Barely breathing, he just gazed at her.

  Fear surged within Aithinne. She crossed her arms over her breasts and allowed one side of her hair to fall over her face to veil her shame, her sadness at failing to please him as much as he delighted her. Pressure built in her heart. It moved up her throat as a tear formed in her eye. Bloody hell, she could not even blame it on those blasted freckles in this dim light!

  His right hand lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his stare. His finger caught the tear as it trickled down her cheek. “You cry. Why, my lady?”

  Her shoulders lifted in a shrug.

  He took hold of her wrists, gently prying her arms away from her breasts. For several heartbeats, he did not move. She couldn’t tell from his expression whether he found her lacking in some way.

  Finally, he uttered, “Beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.”

  Her breasts tightened, yet felt heavier, fuller. Setting his hands on her shoulders, he eased them up the column of her throat, his thumbs brushing ever so softly. She sucked in a ragged breath, finding it hard to get enough air. He smiled, then leaned to her and brushed his mouth against hers.