It made Julian ache for a son of his own.
The lad looked up when Julian entered the tent. “My lord, I made all as Sir Guillaume bade,” Moffet informed, with adoring eyes.
Julian patted him on the dark head. Pangs of wanting a son twisted his gut. “As do you always. No lord be blest with a better squire. This I so spake to your lord father less than a fortnight ago.”
The lad grinned. “I try, my lord, though I fear the Scots will die of laughter when they hear my becursed voice.”
“Time shall witness the problem sorted out, then you face troubles not fighting foes, but comely wenches. Aid me from my armourments. Then, partake food and rest. I shall require you later.”
Julian’s eyes settled upon his fool in a banked predator’s gleam. He never took them off her the whole time the lad unbuckled plates, mail and his aketon—arming jacket.
Gleaming in flickering firelight, the dark gold hair curtained her shoulders and back with the texture of silk. It took his last shred of willpower not to march over, fist his hands in the thick mass, and drag her to the ground. He swallowed hard, choking back the knot of desire clogging his throat, lest she rank his character as low as that of his men.
In an effort to distract himself, he tried to focus on details about her. The drawstring of the ripped leine-croich had been retightened so the wool in front met, though it did little to mask her curves. Blasted female did not even wear a chemise! Small wonder his knights disobeyed his command.
His lust feasted upon her full, sensual form barely shielded by the thin material. Her pagan earthiness hit a man hard as a fist to the solar plexus. As if sensing his musings centered upon her breasts, her nipples pebbled, clearly defined under the clinging fabric.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a slow feral smile. Heat flared in his blood. His eyes sought hers in unspoken communication, man-woman responses. So arcane, so ancient, so elemental. The honey-colored eyes flashed in anger, causing the twist to his mouth to deepen. He could not suppress it.
Anger implied awareness. Awareness could be bent into arousal. In the right hands—his hands. Yea, his fool and he would deal well together. Very well indeed.
Moffet rushed to complete his tasks, only tripping thrice. Before scurrying off to comply with his lord’s instructions, the lad pulled the tent flaps closed.
♦◊♦
Tamlyn’s eyes watched the young man lowering the tent panels, leaving her alone with the Black Dragon. She resented the Norman’s smug grin and lecherous eyes. His aura conveyed he was master at controlling all and there was naught she could do to alter this. The male arrogance provoked her, drove her to want to slap that expression off his face.
His much too beautiful face.
Oddly, instead of woolen hose as most men wore, his was made of tanned animal skin. She had never seen the like. They molded to his body like a glove. The soft leather rode taut over his loins, drawing her attention to that area of male anatomy where a lady should never linger in contemplation. Dressed in only them, boots and a short under tunic—the hem tucked into the wide belt—he should present a less imposing façade minus the mail and armour. Julian Challon gave the impression of indolence, reminding her of a catamount sunning itself on a rock. So relaxed, and yet, ready to strike in the blink of an eye. An indefinable air, a predacious insouciance, caused him to seem more dangerous. The drawstring of the tunic rode loosely about his shoulders, the edge revealing honed muscles. Élan vital pulsed from this man in hot waves.
With inherent, casual grace, he strode to the large trunk where the repast waited. In precise movements, he poured wine into the ornate cup. Burning eyes flicked from the golden goblet to her, the small battings of the lids made more pronounced by long, thick lashes. “Wine, demoiselle? ’Tis French.”
Tamlyn shifted, ill at ease under the earl’s scrutiny. With the flaps down, the tent muffled the noises outside. It felt as though they were alone instead of in the midst of an army readying on the eve of a siege. His radiant virility lent the enclosed space a suffocating sensation. Tilting up her chin, Tamlyn eyed him without flinching. A bluff.
She was forced to reassess the Earl Challon. He exhibited kindness and affection for his young squire; ofttimes knights did not. As well, he had displayed softness toward her. Legends spoke dragons breathed fire and were never benevolent. Julian Challon’s gentleness did not fit fables. How could she remain indifferent toward a man who patted a lad’s head, reassuring his confidence and self-worth? A man who had rescued her as a Knight of the Auld Code.
“I wish to go home.” Tamlyn tasted panic. The Kenning warned her to get far away from this lethally beautiful warlord. He threatened her in ways she scarcely understood.
“You shall...anon.” He raised the cup. “Wine?”
“You likely poison the bloody stuff,” she huffed, trying to create distance. Being detained by him in the tent seemed too intimate. She felt exposed, vulnerable.
Smiling, Challon brought the cup to his lips. Once more, she wondered how it would feel to have that mouth pressed to her own. Aye, she longed for this man to kiss her. Raw desire slammed into her with a force that was unnerving. She hated herself for the burning yen. Never had any man affected her so. Oh, why did he have to be a Norman? Soft, full, his mouth closed upon the golden rim and took a deep draught. His Adam’s apple undulated as he swallowed.
Unable to meet his penetrating gaze, she looked away―had to for the sake of her soul. With the pull of a warlock’s lodestone, Challon drew her against will, her eyes compelled to return, to drink in his comely visage and superior masculine form. Sighing, she admitted she liked—nay, enjoyed—watching this Norman. Curse his black head! She shivered, hugging herself as small bumps crawled over her skin. Her body trembled with a chill, though felt hot in the same breath. How could that be?
His stare never left her, the compelling eyes sending frissons of awareness up her spine. Tamlyn was not frightened; rather, she was disturbed by his dominating presence. Every aspect of this warrior was daunting, humbling.
“’Tis damp. Have you a plaide?” A cover would offer a measure of protection from his branding gaze.
“If you are cold come closer to the brazier.” He motioned with an upturned palm.
“I would rather have a plaide, if you do no’ mind.”
“I find that I do,” he said calmly. The lids over the incisive green garnet eyes lowered, jeweled light of assessment flared behind them. “I prefer you where mine eyes can see you. All of you.”
She muttered, thinking he could not hear her, “Chomh dana le muc.”
Eyebrows, dark as his midnight hair, lifted in amusement. “I do believe you just called me a pig.”
“I said, you be as bold as a pig.” Tamlyn fought against the escaping smile. “A wee distinction, Sasunnach.”
“I know naught about swine.” His eyes danced with humor. Pure green scorching fire “I have been called worse. And I am bold—a man who dares much. Are all Scots females like you?”
“What mean you, Norman?”
♦◊♦
“For one, you are rather tall.” Julian spoke the word as though distasteful.
Skittish as a fawn, she edged toward the flickering coals. Or was it toward him, Julian wondered? Condescension of blood-royal molded her intriguing face. Ah, touchy and prideful was she? Julian smiled to himself, strangely pleased.
“You are small for a Norman.” She tried to sting with the barb.
“’Tis true Norman men tend to be taller than Saxons and Scots. I be middle height for men of my country,” he answered, unruffled by her taunt. “Men—and women—oft mistake in judging by such trifling standards, underestimating my threat until ’tis too late. My height lends speed, quickness.” He traced his eyes down her body and then back, pausing to linger on her full breasts. It set her to blushing. “Also, better for...other...er...activities.”
A faint frown crossed her face, as though she failed to comprehend his double-meaning. Jul
ian found the puzzled expression fascinating. The corner of his mouth twitched; he could feel it, but was sure the tic did not show. Wickedly, his actions put him in mind of a cat toying with a dormouse.
“Also, you are, ah, well...stout,” he stated offhandedly.
Outrage flooded her cheeks. “Graineil peist!”
“I meant no insult with my humble observances. I doubt, demoiselle, you can claim same by calling me an earthworm...and a loathsome one, at that.”
“I suspect, Lord Challon, you have never been humble in your whole bloody life!” When he said naught in reply, just stared impassively, she stomped her foot and snapped, “I am no’ stout!”
“Not as you infer. I merely mention your hips are wider apart, rounder. Do females of your clan carry breeding easily?”
“’Tis not fit for you to speak of such matters.”
“Oh come, come, come, my fool, playing the blushing virgin ill becomes you.”
Clearly baffled by his jibe, she tried turning the tables by countering, “Do all Sasunnach warriors behave as you?”
“And that being?” Julian removed the small knife from the sheath at his belt and carved the wedge of cheese.
“Arrogant.”
“Oh, I be that. Others vary.”
“Greedy,” she snapped.
He shrugged. “All men be greedy. Lies they speak if they say different. Some men are greedier than others. A few have simpler aims and take a direct path in getting what they desire.”
And he wanted this woman. Nothing would stop him from claiming her.
“You come to our lands as thieves, rapists.” Frustrated fury bubbled in her as she saw he took no umbrage at the insults she hurled at him. Still, he figured she found it easier to wield ire, a shield against other emotions he clearly provoked within her.
“I neither steal nor commit rape. There be no need.” He flashed a smile, giving her a clue that there was little doubt his claim was truth. He stuck the shiny blade into the cheese, then held it out to her, almost beckoning her to come closer. “Would you like cheese, demoiselle?”
She glared at him as if he presented a dead rat. He waited. From her reaction, he judged that she found his stillness almost as unsettling as the fact he refused to rise to her baiting slurs. After several blinks, he shrugged and carried the soft cheese to his mouth.
He enjoyed the play of emotions upon her face. Her eyes watched his slightest move, the weakening, the longing clear in her eyes. His body reacted, raw desire slamming into him with a force that was daunting. Never had any woman affected him so. Well, it little mattered she was Earl Hadrian’s leman. She was his property now.
Realizing he was aware of her responses, she scoffed, “As I said...arrogant. Hordes of thin-waisted, English lasses toss themselves at your big feet, eh?”
He choked back the laugh wanting to burst forth. Breaking off a hunk of bread, he held it out to her. “Yea, I weary of stepping over their prostrate bodies.”
He was not surprised she spurned this offering, too. Inwardly, he applauded her hackles of vanity over his calling her stout. He used the word precisely for that reason—to get a rise out of her Scots temper. He found it calming trading quips with his fool.
“Know you well the Lady Tamlyn?”
“In Alba we value rank little. Her people call her Tamlyn MacShane or Tamlyn of Glenrogha. She has no use for Sasunnach pretensions.”
“Then you share her confidence?” He let his skepticism ride heavily in his tone.
Something resembling mischief flickered in her amber eyes. “Aye, I ken her, better than most.”
“They say she be a bit long-in-the-tooth.” He liked that her spurs never found purchase, yet in turn, she was so easily flustered. It gave him an upper hand.
Oddly, the power of his words slammed into her, and she sucked in a hard breath. “I do no’ use your Norman tongue oft enough, but I take you to mean she be old, not her teeth seem a muckle length.”
“Your French serves you well—as we both know.” He lowered his lids partially, reckoning flaring in his mind. “Aye, ’tis age of which I speak, not condition of her teeth—provided she still has any in her head."
A frown curved her mouth. “And how old be the mighty firedrake of Challon?”
“Five-and-thirty, next Michaelmas. And I have all my teeth.” He flashed them before biting the cheese.
“Och, the Dragon also has teeth a bit long.”
“Yea, all the sharper for it, my fool.”
Raising his lids, he watched her. Some sour note was in her responses. His focus on her narrowed, trying to pick apart what was off, why she took offence at comments about the Countess Glenrogha. Outwardly, his appearance would be little more than a sleepy countenance to her. A few might comprehend his expression was anything but dispassionate. His brothers would. They would caution it as lethal—when Julian Challon was at his most dangerous. Generally, by that time, it was too late.
“So he comes northward to take a bite out of Alba?”
He settled back against the edge of another trunk, stretching out his long legs. In a careless pose, he crossed the black boots at the ankles, his gold spurs gleaming with the flicker from the brazier’s flames. He noticed she stared at the black leathern chausses, how they hugged his thighs and rode tight on his hips. Julian contented himself with drinking the wine to hide his amusement over her appraisal of his body—and most interestingly his groin. He was pleased how he affected her.
“Edward means to subdue the Scots. He shall.”
She knew he had caught her watching him, so to cover she began the restless pacing again. “Ages ago, Merlin’s prophecy foretold of Le Roi Coveytous—the Covetous King. To protect this land, the mage set an ancient Spell of Making to bring defeat upon this king’s head.”
He scoffed condescension, “Mere fables.”
“And was it not spake that your king was in attendance at Glastonbury, nearly a score years past for re-interment before high altar of the bodies of Arthur and his queen?”
“Aye, Edward was there, paying homage to hanks of hair and a few bones. Fine example of men bending fables to further pale aims. The abbey faced crumbling to ruins, their coffers empty since their flock strayed back to the Auld Ways. Convenient discovery of the bodies reversed that. As for the Plantagenet’s presence—he was there to press claim he be the right and true king, heir to these isles, by blood of Arthur that flows through his veins.”
“Another fable.”
Lifting the chalice, he smiled and nodded. “Precisely, my fool. Present I was for the ceremony, in all its pomp and splendor. Old Arthur likely rolled in his real grave due to all the self-serving in his name that day. At re-interment, Edward proclaimed he is Arthur’s heir by direct line. Shall the ancient warrior-king and his all-powerful wizard rise and be counted alongside the Plantagenet?”
“Twisted logics from a king’s champion— his creature.” She prodded with the slurs, determined to tweak his nose. “Longshanks covets all he views and in following that overreaching trail he shall find Merlin’s prophecy awaiting.”
“You might be interested to learn that the Welsh boast four score years passing Merlin’s prophesy rose to bring about the downfall of Le Roi Coveytous—King John, Edward’s grandsire.” He grinned at her lack of a comeback. “’Tis the nature of Plantagenets to covet. They covet as they breathe. They know no other way. ’Tis the way kingdoms are forged.”
“So boasts a man who cleaves to the power of sword and lance.”
He almost laughed at her fiery resolve. “Females hold little understandings of the realities of warfare.”
“Oh, aye, we just see to the holdings whilst you males traipse off to The Holy Land, fighting an enemy we women merely hear tales about. No Scotswoman e’er faced rape at the hands of those barbarians. Same claim cannot be boasted by the English.”
“Wouldst you see The Holy Land in the foreign devils’ keeping?”
“Mere fables to me. You Knights of the S
word rush to standard of king and kirk. You leave pitiful, inferior females behind to keep the wolves from the gates, nurse the sick, and see to the harvest so we do not starve. We collect rents, sort out clan disputes, rule law, and hang reiving scum. When you highborn knights return from your grand fine adventures, you weary of hearthside. Then, you create wars upon our isles. We lasses needs must fear for our lives, facing slaughter―or worse, left with the seed of the vile enemy growing within our bodies. Aye, you be right, my Lord Challon. We ken naught of weighty male matters.”
Julian’s eyes raked over this unusual woman. Surprisingly, he enjoyed this banter, even the upbraiding of his supposed masculine superiority. Never had he spoken with any female on subjects of such consequence, never once witnessed one standing toe-to-toe with a man, willing to argue and hold her ground.
Most would be fearful to repeat these beliefs since the Church could and would prosecute the words as heresy. Women were for serving, bedsport to relieve male humors and for breeding heirs. The clergy still debated if females were even endowed with souls. Men, ’twas held, found equals only amongst other men. Women weakened them, lured them into temptation. Yet, here he sat relishing this spirited repartee with his fool and eager for her next taunts, enchanted by her vibrant face that expressed her every thought.
“So, they permit the daughters of the clans to work their tongues.”
She snapped, “Aye, they do, they have, and they shall.”
“Do they not also beat their women?” His raised brows arched to add emphasis to the rejoinder. He found himself liking her, admiring her. Her quicksilver shifts in moods were intriguing. Taking a deep breath, he suddenly had a sense that coming to Glenrogha was the best thing that had happened to him in a long dark year.
“Few e’er raise hand to me. No husband shall, but once. In Alba, he must answer to her clan, else some night he might waken to a sgian dubh buried in his wicked heart.”
“A black knife for a black heart? Hmm?” He raised the cup in mock salute. “Same fate which befell the Lady Rowanne’s lord husband?”
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 5