RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “Why does he chuckle at the notion?” totally perplexed, Hugh asked of his brothers.

  Lewis sniggered and poked Hugh in the belly with the end of the wooden staff. “Methinks, Sir Brother Nodcock, he jests at our expense meaning our manroots.”

  Damian lost it, “Manroots? Man…roots?”

  He was laughing so hard, tears came to his eyes. A mistake. The three faces suddenly turned fox sly. Exchanging a silent communication, they shrugged, then came at him at once. Damian took a blow from Deward on the right thigh, Lewis caught him on the hip, though Damian did manage to deflect Hugh’s swing. But as he had cautioned them with the sword, a warrior needs a firm, well-placed grip, or the vibration from the blow to the weapon would travel up his arms, making it hard to hold. Which is precisely what happened, as he countered the well-aimed strike from Hugh. Lacking a good grip, his shoulders absorbed the impact to the point they tingled and grew faintly numb. Raising an eyebrow in reassessment, Damian decided Hugh had some strength, after all.

  Determined to give them a setdown, he changed the positions of his hands to deal with these rascals better. Even so, he had to admit they were actually rather good when they worked as a single mind. Worse, they labored in conjunction with each other, like some pack of small dogs nipping at your heels. They timed their attacks, keeping him busy countering the thrusts.

  Gradually, the vexing Scots shifted, circling to come at him from all directions at once. Deward jabbed the back of Damian’s right knee, causing his stance to buckle. Next, Hugh managed an on-target swing, so Damian was forced to counter with his staff raised. That permitted Lewis to deliver a jolt straight to his belly—too close to the groin for comfort. Had he been able to flex his stomach muscles, he could have absorbed the blow well enough, but being as it was lower, male panic kicked in and he flinched. Seizing the opening Hugh knocked the staff out of Damian’s hands, then Lewis and Deward shoved at the back of his knees whilst Hugh used his pole as a lever between his ankles. In one, two, three the lads had him down― Deward’s knee on his right arm, and Lewis applied his weight to the left. Hugh to sit triumphantly crossways on his thighs.

  “Never underestimate the Devil’s spawn,” Damian cursed under his breath.

  His mind spun and suddenly he was lightheaded, though it had nothing to do with losing this skirmish to the lads. Rather, it was one of those odd flashes of déjà vu—as though he had already done this same thing with Aithinne’s brothers. The echo was so strong, he closed his eyes and tried to cast his mind into the image, for once grab the shards of the dream. He could almost see it, wrestling with Aithinne, her brothers and the Viking. The face of an old crone floated before his eyes.

  Cosh him once more and I will take the chamber pot to you and it won’t be empty.

  With the words the whole scene vanished from his mind with a pop, the vision once more gone. He gritted his teeth in frustration.

  Opening his eyes, he stared at the three grinning faces. More than willing to take advantage and catch them off guard, he asked, “You wish to explain why Aithinne is lying to me?”

  Their smug expressions vanished. Deward and Lewis both looked to Hugh for silent guidance. Any hope of gaining answers disappeared as Aithinne came rushing into the practice yard.

  “What are you doing to my brothers?” Hands on her hips, she glared at Damian, still pinned on the ground. Her frown said she considered him similar to some sort of slimy creature found at the bottom of a cesspit.

  Damian turned his head to look at each brother in turn. “I am teaching them a valuable lesson by forcing them to hold me down. I would think that obvious, Princess.”

  They sniggered, but she huffed exasperation, then tapped her foot in impatience. “Get off him, you dolts. Of all the stupid imbeciles, cork-for-brains, gorked―”

  “Gorked? I will have you know, Sister, we were wide awake,” Lewis complained.

  “―asinine, chicken-brained―”

  Deward rolled his eyes. “Aithinne tends to rattle on, calling us names all the time, though I am unsure how we can be chicken-brained and cork-for-brains in the same breath.”

  Damian rose and dusted the mud from his clothing, whilst his eyes skimmed over the frowning woman. He could not resist the taunt. “Aithinne does seem the excitable sort.”

  “Aye, ’tis true, but Oona says it be worse now because of the ba―” Deward cut his sentence off, turning white then beet red under Aithinne’s withering glare.

  “―bad temper and freckles,” Hugh finished for his brother.

  Aithinne’s head whipped around. Damian felt sure Hugh was relieved his sister did not have a knife in her hand, for she looked ready to cut out his liver! Damian turned his attention to Deward, observing him. Hugh finished Lewis’s thoughts. Lewis would end sentences for Hugh. Only Deward went on and on. This was the first time either of his brothers had finished for Deward. Odd.

  “Sorry,” Hugh offered, seeming to shrink away from her. Bending over to pick up the staff, he then half-whispered to Damian, “She hates for anyone to notice her freckles.”

  “You lads may run along and partake of the noontide meal. We shall start anew come morning.” Replacing the weapons, and then motioning for his squire to return them to the armory, Damian ignored Aithinne.

  Her expression thunderous, she rounded on him once the others were out of eyeshot. “I thought I made it clear, Lord Arrogant, that I do not wish my brothers trained as killers.”

  He sheathed his sword and adjusted the baldric across his shoulder. “And I thought it clear you have no say in the matter. I am lord here now. I will not stand by whilst you keep the lads as childish milksops.”

  She looked about, as if seeking one of the staffs to take to him. “Oooooo, you―”

  “The lads are right―you do have freckles and a temper.” He reached out and tapped her nose once for each pale freckle. At each rap, her eyes grew wider.

  Oh, did she have a temper! Aithinne drew back and made to slap him―hard. Fortunately, he had good reflexes and caught her wrist, before the flat of her palm hit his face. He used the grip to jerk her close.

  “Do not ever mistake, Aithinne, to hit me. I shan’t ever hit you, so I expect the same respect from you in return. Try it again, you will find yourself turned over my knee, and I will use my hand on your bare bottom. Of course, there are some who find that a pleasurable pastime. Care to find out if it’s to your liking?”

  To his shock, she suddenly burst into tears. Staring at him with so much hurt in those hazel eyes, his heart squeezed. Her mouth opened, then closed, as though unable to put into words the sentiment she wished to express. Instead, she spun on her heels and fled.

  “Bloody hell,” Damian growled, watching her retreating back. “Females and tears. Bane of a male’s orderly existence.”

  ♦◊♦

  After the noon meal, rain had begun to fall again, the dark moody day reflecting Damian’s melancholia. He stood in the small clearing in the woods, next to the spot where his grandfather had been buried, not really sure what he should be feeling. He never knew the man. To the old baron, Damian’s mother and he did not exist in his life. He wanted nothing of them. Anger burned bright within him at that slight. He had seen bastards treated with more respect. As he had grown up in the household of Michael Challon, he had been aware that Guillaume, Darian and Destain were treated with the same respect as Julian. They were sons of Challon, and though bastardy tainted their birth, they were never deemed as unwanted or unwelcome in the vast Challon holdings. Yet, whilst his birth was of high nobility, Damian always felt as if he were the true bastard. Simply because an old man denied the marriage of his parents, denied his very right to exist.

  He was not sure why that troubled him. Many times he had reflected on the matter, hoping to set right how he thought about it. In his return to Lyonglen he had hoped to meet his grandsire, find some measure of peace with this issue that haunted him. Now the old man was dead. Damian was left with an emptiness, an i
ndefinable sorrow. Surely, he should feel naught toward someone who begrudged his very life. Oddly, as he stared at the mounded earth with the stones stacked on top of it, he was sad, left with questions, and what might have been had he returned sooner.

  He heard her silent steps approach off to his right, though he feigned ignorance of her presence. The subject of Aithinne Ogilvie and her precise status in his grandfather’s life was at best touchy. Thus far, he had avoided this issue, he remained convinced she lied about being Baroness Lyonglen. For the present, it mattered little. She would not let go of the pretense easily and there was too much to do to secure the fortress. Fighting with her was not the way to go. He needed Aithinne’s support to earn the deference and trust of the villeins and serfs of Glen Eallach.

  She remained silent for several breaths, as if unwilling to break his solitude. Finally, she held out a hand-sized rock to him. He glanced at it, touched by the gesture.

  “We add a stone to a grave each time we visit. Lets them ken we remember them, keeps them safe in our memories,” she explained.

  He stared at the stone for a moment and then accepted it. Leaning over, he carefully placed the stone at the center of the pile. Frowning, he noted there were bones of one or more small animals there. “Some sort of sacrifice?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Och, not a’tall. Oddly, cats seek out the stones to sit upon. I guess they are warm, holding the sun’s heat. They drag in rabbits and such, their supper.”

  Damian closed his eyes and lifted his face to the rain, allowing the mist to fall upon his countenance. Part of him was pleased she had come, that she cared enough to bring him the rock to add to the cairn. The other part was faintly irritated because her presence brought with her all those damnable questions he was in no mood to face just now.

  “What sort of man was he?” he finally asked, opening his eyes.

  She was so beautiful, standing solemnly, tears in her eyes. Why did he think the tears were for him, not Gilchrest Fraser? Her dark green woolen mantle, trimmed in black wolf fur, framed her haunting face. Flashes of images of her naked above him in the moonlight, riding him as she found her power as a woman, surged in his blood. He would like nothing better than to lay her down on this cool earth and bury himself in the hot magic of her sweet body. Drive all thoughts and questions from his mind. Instead, he had asked to know about the man who was his grandsire.

  “I once thought him the gentlest soul. He became our guardian after my mother and father had been lost to the dread fever that hit several glens.” She pulled her mantle, blocking the chill of the rain, the chill of the memories. “Then, I learnt how he cut his only daughter from his life. That makes me wonder how well I really knew him. He spoke of me being like a daughter to him. Had I wanted to marry against his wishes I suppose he could have turned his back on me in similar fashion. I canno’ imagine having no worries about those I love, are they well, safe? The act seems too heartless. It makes me fear my whole life was built on a foundation of lies.”

  She recognized as soon as she spoke the words the trap she had just stepped into. The green streaks in her widening eyes seemed more pronounced, as she regretted using the word lies.

  The side of his mouth quirked up in a taunt. “They say confession is good for the soul, Aithinne. Want to tell me about your marriage?”

  She drew herself up and glared at him, every inch a princess. “I save all urges to confess myself to my Uncle Malcolm, the Culdee at Kinmarch Kirk.”

  “Princess Aithinne!” The Viking came running up, fell to his knees before her and thumped his heart with his fist. “Riders come.”

  “Einar, up off your knees.” Aithinne rolled her eyes. “By the bones of Saints and Sinners, not Dinsmore again?”

  “Nay, Princess. The pennon is argent, with a bend azure and three golden garbs―‘Tis, Phelan Comyn―” Einar informed her.

  A small kernel of irritation bloomed within Damian’s mind. “Another of your suitors, Princess?”

  She swallowed hard at his tone, the expression in her eyes hurt, wary. “At one time, I considered him such. Now I am smart enough to see I am but a pawn in the game of power he plays with Dinsmore and the Bruces. All men want this glen. The easiest way―they think―is through me. I long ago grew determined not to permit these clans to use me for their means to their pale ends. The Bruces desire a stronger foothold in these Highlands. The Comyns and Campbells work to see they do no’ get it. Either wouldst hold the advantage over the other if they got their greedy hands on Lyonglen. Robbie Bruce finally married Isabella, daughter of Donald, Earl Mar last year, so Dinsmore and Phelan think they have a clear field now in reaching me.”

  He made a dismissive pass of his hand. “Einar, carry word to the guard that I come.”

  The Viking looked to Aithinne to see if she wished it so and did not move until she gave him a faint nod, granting her leave. As the man rose, he gave a slight bow of deference―to Aithinne―and turned to go.

  “Einar,” Damian called after him. “From this point forward, when I give you an order―obey it. You do not look to the Lady Aithinne for commands. Is that understood?”

  The big man nodded. “All of Lyonglen is under your command, Lord RavenHawke. Only I am no’ part of Lyonglen. I am the personal honor guard to the Princess Aithinne. I serve her. Only her. My homage is to her.”

  Damian took a step forward, only to have Aithinne catch his arm to restrain him with her gentle touch. “Einar, from now on you accept orders from Lord RavenHawke. He be lord here now. I am sure he will no’ give you any instructions that will be counter to my good.”

  “Aye, Princess.” Hesitation was in the pale blue eyes as he looked at Aithinne.

  She kept the pressure on Damian’s forearm until Einar was gone. “I was not countering you, Damian, but I have spent nearly ten summers trying to change Einar’s charge. I canno’ even get him to stop calling me Princess in all those years.”

  Damian placed his hand over hers about his arm. “Very well, Princess. Let us go offer well-come to your suitor.”

  ♦◊♦

  Julian Challon was seated at the lord’s table, once again his legs were crossed at the ankles and propped up on the tabletop. As he saw Aithinne approaching with his cousin, he arched a black brow at her and dropped his feet to the floor. She suppressed a smile, recalling Moffet saying how Tamlyn said yes or no to this powerful warrior and then did as she pleased. She wondered if it was that easy for her cousin to handle her Dragon in this fashion, pondered if that should be the tact she needed to take with Damian.

  Sadness filled her. Tamlyn might be able to get away with such behavior, but it was because Lord Challon was in love with her. Aithinne did not have such a hold over St. Giles.

  “We proceed as before, Aithinne. You do not speak to this man. Allow me to address the issues. You only answer him if I grant leave,” Damian instructed.

  Aithinne pursed her mouth, resenting his handling. “I have been speaking for myself, Lord RavenHawke. I have spake for all in this glen for nearly half of my life.”

  “Now, I do so and you look to me for lead, Princess.” He almost shoved her in the lady’s chair and then took his seat, as the double doors were opened.

  Phelan Comyn marched in, three of his men at his back. His scheming blue eyes quickly took stock of both Challon and RavenHawke. They passed over Aithinne, but she noticed there was no lingering to take in details. As she told Damian, Phelan’s real interest was in possessing Glen Eallach, not her.

  Phelan was still a handsome man in Aithinne’s eyes, nearly as handsome as St. Giles, only his virility paled when compared to the men of Challon. A force vital that pulsed from these Norman warriors, a presence so dominating few men could stand comparison without coming up short in the eyes of the beholder. Not just their physical beauty, there was the strength from within that shone through their green eyes, an air of being born to rule. All accepted this as a natural order of things.

  Aithinne saw Phelan recognized
this, too, a flicker of question, of fear of these English Dragons, passed through his eyes before he blinked to guise his unease. “I see it is so…Lyonglen be infested with dragons. I thought Dinsmore had lost what little wit he was born with when his tales reached my stronghold of a grandson of Gilchrest assuming title and land here. The whole of the Highlands kens the old man had no family.”

  Damian’s faint lift of his brow said he barely tolerated Phelan’s ill-chosen comment. “Dinsmore―never the brightest ray on the horizon.” He leaned back in the chair, and slumped, wearing an expression of boredom. “At least you have the wherewithal not to march in here with some cock and bull lies of coming on a missive from Edward.”

  Phelan chuckled, but it sounded tight, forced. “No’ one of his wisest moves, to be sure.”

  “So you have heard the tides of my assuming title here—yet, did not fully believe them since you thought Lyonglen had no heir. Wrong. My mother was Lyonglen’s daughter. She married a Norman Knight. I squired for Lord Michael Challon, and now serve his son, Julian.” He exhaled slight impatience, and then steeped his fingers. “There is my history…not, that I felt the need to give it. I just figured to save you all the questions.”

  Phelan gave a half-hearted smile. “Possibly some. Howbeit, there were other concerns raised. Mind Dinsmore and I have worry over Aithinne. She is a neighbor, a longtime friend, and now be lacking protection―”

  “Lacking protection? I did not take you for a dullard like Dinsmore. You are mistaken in thoughts. Glen Eallach was given to me to hold by Edward. I am baron here now. Since Dunbar, I think he demonstrates he now rules this land, not your king, John Balliol.’Tis merely a matter of time until Balliol surrenders. Already, Challon holds Glen Shane, has married with the Lady Tamlyn. I give fealty to him as overlord of Glen Eallach. All’s well and happy, eh?”