A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Eyes the color of the deep forest, shade of sacred green garnets said to adorn the Holy Grail, they were ringed with lashes so long a woman would cry envy; almost feminine, though none would dare ascribe that trait to him. An inner searing light pulsed from the hexing eyes. Heavy ebon brows bracketed them, emphasizing their mind-piercing hue. When she stared into them, the world narrowed. Nothing else existed.

  There was only this knight all in black.

  His jaw was strong, square. The small full mouth, etched with sensual curves, was seductive, though touched with a trace of what might be cruelty. High cheekbones lent a balancing hint of thinness to the face, softening the arrogant planes. Glistening with a bluish cast, two jet curls fell over the high forehead, a countenance sinful in ways no mere mortal man had right to be.

  Tamlyn sensed a willful, razor-sharp intelligence within this warrior. The last man she would want to face as an adversary.

  Images possessed her, singeing her with an ancient fire...of her hands on the bare flesh of his chest, how it would feel to be kissed by this dark knight. Shocked, she nearly reeled back from him. By what means of conjury did he put these visions in her mind? The Sasunnach warrior was dangerously beautiful, a killer-angel with soul-stealing eyes. She trembled with dread, yet could not take her gaze from him.

  “My orders were not made clear, hmm?” He rotated to frown at the group, yet never wholly shifting his focus from her. Angry green eyes encountered only down turned, evasive ones.

  Skewered by the blistering glare, a mercenary blurted, “Bloody wench pulled a blade on Sir Dirk—cut him, she did.” He flipped the knife tip first into the soil at the commander’s booted feet.

  “After he so chivalrously thought to rape her, eh?” His voice was smooth as black velvet, compelling as the night. He smiled, warmth even flickered in the spellcasting eyes as if he found the situation mirthful. Tamlyn sensed he was far from pleased by their actions. Had he been a cat, his tail would be snapping. “So, a mere Scots wench armed with a small knife held off five—five—of Edward’s warriors? I cannot envision you dare the temerity to disobey my command. Not after warned you were to handle these villeins softly.”

  “We...she...” Sir Dirk’s words died under the glower of his liege.

  “She be naught but a common wench.” The second mercenary spit on the ground. “A castle worker or some swine girl from a croft.”

  Contempt flashed in the commander’s eyes, then they returned to rove over Tamlyn’s curves, in a way that declared he missed few details. Nonetheless, it was impossible to scry reactions or emotions there. He kept them shuttered behind a will of iron, a master of the game.

  “What’s your name, lass?” his husky voice coaxed with a sorcerer’s cant, though little masking impatience. He glanced to Bansidhe, grazing not far from them. “No serving wench has a mare of such quality. Howbeit, your clothes are worn, shabby. You work at Glenrogha, demoiselle?”

  Aspects of this warrior set Tamlyn to quaking, more than the others combined. “Bansidhe be mine, my lord.”

  “How many soldiery be within Glenrogha’s curtain wall?” he demanded. His sanguine air conveyed he was used to all obeying him.

  “I be a simple lass, my lord. These are men’s matters.” Tamlyn felt sick considering how few of the guard remained within the bastion. Hadrian had stripped all three of the daughters’ holdings of fighting age men for the Scottish King, John Balliol.

  A faint lift of his brow signaled his doubt over the humble mien ringing true. “Simple? Not with that unyielding audacity in those gold eyes. You grasp our language.” The man observed too much. Grabbing her free wrist, he examined her palm. “Not the hand of a highborn lady—nor a commoner, either. How long can the dun hold against siege?”

  “I ken no’, my lord. Winter just passed. Supplies should be hard pressed.” No truth in her words, the fortress was well stocked and could last many moon’s passings.

  His lips spread into a smile, slightly lopsided. Totally disarming. Tamlyn suspected this beautiful warrior anticipated no revelations to Glenrogha’s strengths or weaknesses. Rather, he tested to descry her responses, judging her.

  “I repeat—how be you called?’ His soft voice belied a steel underneath. A voice, that if he so chose, could promise dark lures.

  “Òinnseach,” she replied in private jest, foreseeing this Southron commander could not understand her godforsaken tongue.

  Green eyes bore into her for several breaths, then he burst into a peal of laughter. “Fool? Your name is fool?”

  Tamlyn’s eyes batted, unable to guise astonishment. Likely, she was more startled than he had been when she spoke French.

  “Yea, cat-eyes, I comprehend enough of your guttural patter to keep my throat from getting split.” He released the grip on her wrist. Bending down on his right knee, he extracted the weapon from the ground, and then wiped the blade on the side of his thigh. “This be a sgian dubh—black knife.”

  Turning over the elegant weapon, the dark warrior studied the exquisite handle of blackened horn, ending in the carving of a cat’s head. Runes covered the base of the ringed knuckle-guard, and an inlay of amber adorned the hilt.

  As she struggled to rise, he lifted the hem of her faded kirtle. The hidden sheath for the fancy dagger was lashed inside the edge of the right boot.

  “Leave go, Southron,” she hissed, skittish at being touched. Strange, this man did not repulse her the way the others had, but terrified her in a manner she could not understand.

  Tucking her knife under his belt, he eyed her in appraisal. “You conjure riddles, my fool. I might presume you be leman to the lord here, only it seems the Earl Hadrian grants the demesnes of Lochshane, Kinloch and Glenrogha to his three lady daughters to hold. In this backward land, men commit the unnatural folly of allowing women to rule fortresses.”

  “Hadrian MacShane be laird to the lands of Clan Shane, but he gives no power to his lady daughters. They hold titles and fiefs in their own right, as females have for centuries through Clan Ogilvie. Our Rite of Line guarantees this.”

  “Blatherskite,” he scoffed, raising a chuckle from his men, “women thinking they can control a stronghold.”

  Tamlyn glowered. “Alba breeds women with strength and intelligence. No ease will you discover in the taking of the honours of the Ogilvies.”

  His sensual mouth lifted at the right corner. “Already I claimed Dun Lochshane, my fool. We met nary resistance.”

  Clinging to aloof pride, Tamlyn stood her ground whilst he rose, nearly pressing his body against hers. Blood thundered within her as heat from his body buffeted her senses. In spite, she refused to be bullyragged by a man only half a head taller than she. Unblinking, she met his warlock eyes, as his breath fanned across her face.

  “Lochshane was taken unawares. Riders reached Glenrogha. You shall find no haste in this undertaking.”

  “We shall see. We...shall...see.” With an arch of his brow, he swung back to the soldiers. “I find little taste for discovering my men acting like a pack of rutting beasts. I shall deal with your disobedience after we take the fortresses. Place her on Lasher. Fetch the palfrey. We rejoin the main thrust of my host.”

  Fires of Bel! Tamlyn faced the terrible Black Dragon! She should have guessed by the midnight armour, mail and mantle. She oft had pondered why the English called this lord the Black Dragon when his standard was a green wyvern on a field of deepest black. One glimpse of the imposing warrior and she knew. ’Twas not the colors of heraldry to which they referred, but the man himself. Awe filled her as she stared at him, trying not to gape.

  Tales of Welsh villages set to torch under the Dragon’s command were whispered so they did not carry to the ears of bairns. Worse were the rumors of the sack of Berwick, nearly a moon’s passing. Scots feared thousands upon thousands score perished in a nightmare of slaughter and flames.

  As she fumbled with the sark’s drawstring, tightening it to close the ripped front, her eyes strayed to the imposing
figure of the knight in black. She felt torn, unable to believe this man with such an angelic countenance could be the commander of Edward’s dragon standard, to slaughter all in England’s path, putting them to the sword, and scorching the very earth.

  She jumped when hands took hold of her arms. Sir Dirk’s glower turned Tamlyn’s blood to ice as he did his liege’s bidding. He shoved her toward the midnight charger of the Dragon.

  The ornate black selle d’guerre—high cantle and pommel war saddle—rested upon material of darkest green edged black, covering the destrier from withers to flanks. Recoiling, she knew her fears were correct. This man was no ordinary commander, but the king’s champion—Julian Challon, Earl of Challon and Torqmond.

  The earl mounted in lionesque grace, seating himself against the high square back of the creaking saddle to leave room for her. Resisting for an instant, her heels dug into the soft ground. The stallion reared slightly, bouncing upon its hooves.

  “Beware, fool. Lasher is unaccustomed to another’s weight and squirmings. I hold no desire to see you trampled under his shod feet. Quite the killer be he,” the earl cautioned.

  The knight picked her up and deposited her atop the horse. From above the knee, her legs were bare due to sitting astride. Worse, she rested against the leathern and metal covered thighs of this Norman. She blushed hotly at the intimate position.

  Tamlyn turned partially in the saddle. He was so close. Too close. His warm breath feathered across her cheek. Even so, she challenged and held his eyes. Dark, arcane eyes.

  The most beautiful eyes she had ever seen.

  “Like his master?” she challenged.

  “Aye, a truth you do well to recall at all times, demoiselle.” A strange, almost poignant light flickered within those mysterious depths, then vanished as if it never had been, displaced by the fierce determination announced by the set of his jaw.

  The Dragon spurred the stallion to rear, throwing her back against his armoured chest. He placed his hand on her waist to anchor her. In reaction, her belly tightened under the pressure. She could not seem to breathe.

  Tamlyn looked down to see his thumb rested on the bare skin just above her waist exposed by the rip in the sark. That thumb burned, a brand on her flesh.

  She was still dizzy from the fall. That little compared to the way this warrior’s touch sent her blood to thrumming. She tilted her head to study his face, see if he reacted to their contact. No emotions played in those green eyes. So aloof, yet their force rocked her to the core.

  “To Glenrogha!” he called.

  Reaching the road, Tamlyn viewed the full extent of the great Dragon’s host.

  Knights—so many knights! Mounted upon Heavy Horses and armed with lances, they were a terrifying sight. Outnumbering them two-to-one came Hobelars―lightly armed and protected cavalry, used for quick flanking maneuvers. Welsh archers were equipped with deadly longbows and protected by pavises—shields as tall as a man. Infantry were comprised of Southron mercenaries, while conscripted Kerns from Ireland marched under the Harp Pennon, trailing behind foot soldiery belonging to Edward’s war-seasoned troops from Flanders.

  She breathed in dread. So many. Too many.

  Helplessness reared to life within every fiber of her being. Despair was an emotion Tamlyn had never faced. Her world had always been safe, secure. She feared there would be no standing in the path of this ruthless earl.

  What was to become of Glenrogha? Of her?

  Lightheaded, she slumped, her spine hitting the metal of the Dragon’s chestplate. His strong fingers flexed on her waist, a reminder of his control. Looking down, she saw the gait of the horse caused her breasts to sway perilously close to that invading thumb.

  Tamlyn shut her eyes, trying to will it all away.

  Chapter Two

  Ar uair a thig ur, thig lagh ur.

  (When a new king comes, new laws come.)

  — Auld Scottish Adage

  Feeling the woman before him sag, Julian flexed his elbow and drew her back against his chest. Shock of what he had prevented must be hitting her mind. Concerned she would slip from the saddle, he held her close. Sensations evoked by her nearness intrigued him. Most odd, he experienced a deep sense of rightness at having her in his embrace.

  Damn their eyes! Had he not given orders how he wanted the villeins treated? Handle them softly, he had stressed. After Berwick—especially after Berwick—no stomach had he to witness Edward’s dragon standard raised before another town. The nightmare arose in his mind, of the flag bearer waving Edward’s new pennon—the command that no quarter was given. It had come just before a thousand Heavy Horse hammered down the weak and rotting wooden curtain walls of the Scottish city and madness ensued.

  The green dragon on a field of black was long the standard of the earls of Challon in Mortain. It sickened him the Scots now confused it with Edward’s new dread banner. A terrible slur to his family’s ancient and honorable name. Umbrage flared bright in his mind, but he reined in futile emotion and worked to banish the horrible memories.

  Julian swallowed cold, rising bile eating at his insides. Wales had been bad enough, a festering nightmare that plagued his soul. Only, Berwick had been nothing more than senseless profane bloodlust. A demonstration to the Scots of the force of Edward’s might. The whole town paid price for the Angevin savage streak that rode the Plantagenet hard as a demon demanding blood sacrifice.

  Breaking the English encampment at Hutton, the king had ridden forth to the gates of Berwick, richest city in all of Scotland. There, he demanded immediate surrender. The foolish, prideful Scots jeered and called for Edward to do his worst.

  He had. His very worst. A horror unimaginable!

  In a wave of fire and blood, the English had rolled through the nearly defenseless town. Twenty thousand men, women and children came under Longshanks’ sword in the three-day killing frenzy. So many, they would need burying in mass pits once command finally came down. Now, several sennights past, Edward’s decree saw the putrid corpses remaining where they had fallen, hacked down in the streets. A reminder to the Scots what terrible consequences their defiance had wrought.

  A nightmare that would haunt Julian to his dying days. He never wanted to experience the revolting likes again. Never again.

  Returning to his sense of self, he realized that his arm tightly clutched the woman before him—almost as if to absorb her heat. Hoping to banish the chill within his heart? He forced his muscles to relax, not wanting to alarm her after the rough handling from his men.

  Julian breathed a sigh of relief when Lochshane came over with little more than words exchanged, the first of the three fiefs within Glen Shane, controlled by the daughters of the earl of Kinmarch. When the Captain of the Guard received tides of the approaching host under standard of the Black Dragon, surrender came quickly enough. There, they informed him their lady, Rowanne MacShane, was not within the curtain, but visited Glenrogha this day.

  By all, Julian would soon face that daughter of The Shane along with her younger sister, Lady Tamlyn. Then, he would deal with their fates.

  Only, where did the female in front of him fit? He moved his thumb ever so gently on her bare skin, felt her stomach muscles contract in reaction. His groin tightened at her response.

  Her clothes were thin, near ragged. Her wool breacon was a design similar to many found in this northland. Greens, black and a line of saffron so faded, it was nigh impossible to discern a pattern.

  Fanning around her hips, her long hair was a shade rare. Julian was used to the pale blondes so favored at English Court, or the black-haired beauties of his native Normandy. This Scots’ was neither. Nor was it the curly red so populating Scotland. The luster and hue of aged bronze, images of it spread across a bed as she lay beneath him flooded his mind.

  Her eyes fascinated him. As a rule, Julian would be hard pressed to tell a woman’s eye color—even those he had bedded. Frightfully intelligent, penetrating, hers held a power, a pull. She rarely blinked. Th
at directness would spook most men. Julian was not most men. To him they held a challenge, one his hot warrior’s blood would be driven to conquer.

  When he held her knife and looked into those amber eyes, he lost sense of time. A crippling jolt of lust had wracked his body. Just heartbeats before, he had berated his knights for attacking her. Yet, had he been alone with this woman, he would have lain her down on the cool earth and taken her. Nothing and no one could have stopped him.

  Despite the overpowering physical response, something elusive brushed against the back of his mind, a haunting feeling he could not place. Arcane sensations rippled up his spine as he had stared, bound by both the knife and the woman. The spinning sense of déjà vu possessed his mind. A feeling… something from long ago? With certainty, he knew when he was old and grey and memories dimmed, he would still vividly recall the vision of her kneeling, those haunting eyes staring up at him. Nearer gold than brown, they possessed aspects of a lynx having assumed human form.

  Legends whispered throughout these heathen hills warned of Greymalkins or Cait Sidhe, witches royally descended from the Picts. These fey women possessed powers to transmute nine times into catamounts. He had scoffed at such superstitious drivel. Never more. One now sat in front of—and upon—him.

  As his thumb stroked the soft skin just below her breasts, the corner of his mouth twitched. He pondered what it took to send this strange one to purr.

  Without word one, the rows of knights shifted, allowing their liege to pass to his personal van. He ignored his brothers’ glares—garnered for riding off without escort—and for several deep breaths Julian held the stallion in place, studying the fertile land stretching before him.

  Some ghostly voice whispered to his soul that this pagan glen was rare, different. A jarring sense of coming home filled his heart, as if he were born of this rich black loam. The feeling of well-come had haunted him since entering the passes of Glen Shane, and seemed to increase as the approach to the fortress neared. When first viewed, the sister’s demesne of Lochshane failed to touch him as strongly. The fey pull was for and to Glenrogha. Well, it now belonged to him. By the Rood, take and hold it he would, and no one could stop his course. Impatience pulsed heavy within his blood to reach the fortress that was now his.