A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  With faint arch of one brow, Julian Challon turned his back on her, dismissing her from his attention. His hands clasped together behind his hips, as he rejoined the conversation with the other warriors.

  Two men flanking his sides studied her with keen intensity. The one to the right she thought to be his brother—the man who had entered the Dragon’s tent, yet could not be positive. Only the Black Dragon stood apart.

  But then, legends did.

  Tamlyn hesitated, unsure, having received no sign what the Norman warlord expected her to do. As if she had intention of complying!

  Still, his reaction tweaked her pride. ’Twas fine by her if he ignored what took place in his tent. She had yet to confront her body’s betrayal of mind and will. Only, his insolence pushed her toward peevishness. The Black Dragon seemed so unstirred by this dark craft he wielded effortlessly, ruthlessly, robbing her of all volition to fight him.

  Whether in laughter or Pict temper, her emotions were on the surface for all to see. More than once that lack of guile landed her in trouble. Yet, it was honest. Never had she fathomed these games women and men played to gain some perceived advantage over the other.

  This warrior shunned her, as though by will she would vanish and cease to vex him. It was hardly what she imagined from the arrogant Norman. A smug grin, surely, as most men tended to strut peacock proud when they tricked a woman into surrender.

  For spite, she meandered about the camp. None spoke to her, let alone challenged her movements. All eyes went to their liege to take a cue from him.

  They were busy dousing fires and organizing weaponry, stirred with hushed urgency by the commands of the Black Dragon. Careful to stay clear of the squires readying the magnificent Frisian and Andalusian warhorses, she observed the soldiery and knights of the combined troops of Plantagenet and Challon moving off into the night toward Dun Glenrogha.

  She felt certain if she attempted to slip away, the Dragon’s indifference would alter in a blink. Temptation rose within her to mime escape just to get a rise from the haughty earl. Exasperated by his dispassion, she felt like screaming at him. Challon was not indifferent so much as demonstrating his mastery, letting Tamlyn see how far down on the scale of importance she ranked. He forced her to come to him in a display of male audacity and conceit.

  It taxed her not to march over and kick this Norman Dragon in his leathern-clad arse!

  Finally, he deigned to turn back around. The devilkin eyes raked over her form, the near apathy shifting to fierce calculation. Odd emotions. Despite the icy controlled air, sexual response betrayed itself in the faint flaring of the nostrils of his aristocratic nose.

  Fires of wrath abated.

  Another heat quickened within her body, fed by those unearthly green eyes. Vision spinning, she lost sight of all surrounding her. The world narrowed to the dark warrior, until all about them receded. There was only one man...a man whose color was that of the sacred ravens.

  Save for that imperceptible reaction, Tamlyn might question if the burning passion, that just a short time ago consumed them both, was naught more than mists from a dream. His detachment stung. How could he remain so unaffected while she was not? It was obvious these feelings so new, so surprising to her, held little value for the Norman earl.

  She swallowed the knot in her throat. Just as well. They were enemies, and could never be anything more. The tightness went down to lodge in her heart at that finality.

  With an incline of his head, he contemplated her with the wariness of a hard-bitten fighter facing a foe. Minds working on the same level, Tamlyn mused.

  The arch of the jet brows denoted his aloof mien. “Shortly we move out, my fool.” He straightened his spine, as if bracing for her reaction.

  “Your squire says to Glenrogha. How can this be?” Her hands fisted at her sides, trying to hide the trembling. Her nails dug into her palms. Fearful of drawing blood, she forced them to unclench. The actions not missed by his all-seeing eyes.

  “The gates of Dun Glenrogha are open.” Challon studied her, gauging her reaction to his news. “’Tis near dayspring. I see no reason to await full light to take possession of my fortress.”

  “Lies!” Her head shook in denial, fighting for her next breath.

  “Nary a lie, demoiselle. Whilst you slumbered, my men slipped over the east loch wall and met token resistance. Hardly astonishing when the citadel be under command of a woman. An absent woman, at that.”

  Tamlyn struggled to contain the quakes of fear threatening to claim her. Wanting to inquire about her sisters, she bit her tongue. Mayhap it was childish not to reveal her name to the arrogant Dragon, but she held onto the tiny advantage. It might still serve her in some manner.

  “Time to mount,” Challon announced, seeing the squires leading forth the barded stallions. “Sir Guillaume, take my fool before you.”

  “If that be your wish, Julian.” Wearing a half-grin, the taller man paused, his eyes flashing in communication with his brother.

  Not bothering to reply, the earl turned to mount his black destrier.

  Smarting from Challon’s rebuff, she lifted her chin. “You be brother to the Dragon?”

  “That brings surprise, demoiselle?” he asked, the grin spreading into a dazzling smile. Aye, these men of Challon were born lady-slayers.

  “I did no’ ken dragons came with brothers.”

  “Julian be just a man, though oft he convinces one to cipher otherwise. I am Guillaume Challon. My other brother, Sir Destain waits within Glenrogha’s walls. Darian Challon, another brother—by a different mother—still serves with Edward. We are Julian’s bastard half-brothers.” His midnight brow arched almost in challenge, awaiting her reaction.

  The blunt confession made her blink. Not due to the bastardy, since Scots never looked upon this the way the English did, just that few men were so forthcoming. He almost wore his status as a pennon.

  “Yet, you serve him as liegemen?”

  “Eagerly, as knights banneret. My lord brother be a rare man. Never once has he treated, Darian, Destain or me as aught but beloved siblings. ’Tis one of the highest honors` to serve the great Dragon of Challon.”

  More facets of the man that failed to fit a legend. Julian Challon had bastard half-brothers, yet love, loyalty and respect rang clear in the words of Sir Guillaume.

  The handsome knight mounted a snow-white Andalusian horse, kicked his foot out of the stirrup, and then leaned forward to offer his hand. Tamlyn paused, her mind crying out to flee, run away from what lay ahead. Only, she was no coward. She was lady of Glenrogha. It was her duty to do her best to protect her people. Cautiously, she accepted his strong grip, and stepped into the stirrup, not putting up a protest as he settled her before him.

  Foreboding gnawed at her insides as she observed the massive force fall into formation. In the cloudless night, Guillaume Challon maneuvered the prancing horse into the line of riders, streaming down the tract to Dun Glenrogha.

  Tamlyn rocked to the rhythm of the stallion’s prancing gait, fretting why the Lord Challon ordered her taken before his brother for the ride to the fortress. Not that she wished to ride with the overweening earl! The farther she was from the man, the easier she breathed. ’Twas naught more than feminine curiosity, and mayhap a wee touch of pride—though she was loathe to acknowledge it.

  She frowned over her jumbled reactions to Julian Challon. They little made sense to her. The Dragon was the invader, her enemy, the foe to her people. He was here to steal the holdings of both clans. How could she have permitted this Norman warlord to embrace her? To her shame she kissed him back, her body responding to his dark touch.

  When the vile Sir Dirk had put hands upon her, she had not felt the same. His contact, his crude actions, pushed her to feel ill. She had held only one thought—to see her sgian dubh buried in his foul heart.

  The question begged an answer—why had she not behaved identically when Julian Challon caressed her? Instead of revulsion, her traitorous nature war
med to his dark lure with hungry instincts. She felt confused, frightened.

  He had stolen dominion of her soul. All will to resist fled, leaving her with fires of craving. The need to feel the dark lord’s sword-roughened hands upon her flesh pulsed within her...to caress him in return. Against all reason, she had wanted him to take her. Desperately.

  Her trembling hand brushed away a tear trickling down her cheek.

  Her vanity was still bruised over him calling her stout. Had it truly been his belief? Mayhap compared to delicate English beauties a healthy Scots lass seemed, well...stout. Men from four countries spoke of The Shane’s daughters as grand lasses. Her lord father bragged in highest praise that his daughters represented the breed. That did naught to ease the sting Challon failed to find her comely.

  Glenrogha’s gates were swung wide. Torches burned along the bastion’s battlements, boulevard and inner ward, a spectacle beautiful to behold, reminiscent of the tòrr lit by balefires on Beltaine Eve. So terrifying, the images burned into Tamlyn’s mind, as a sense of helplessness washed over her. Never in her whole life had she felt so forsaken, so vulnerable.

  Her existence at Glenrogha was rarely exciting, more often grinding. Yet, her days remained fulfilling. She drew satisfaction from seeing Glenrogha run well and her people prospering from their joint efforts. Now, as she neared her beloved stronghold, every aspect of her life would be altered.

  The feared Black Dragon had come as conqueror, and nothing and no one would ever be the same.

  With wordless precision, armoured knights, long shields slung over their shoulders, shifted the prancing chargers into a formation of threes, passing through the predawn landscape. Conical helms, shoulder spaulders, lower arm vambraces and cuisses—thigh plates—reflected flickering glints of the breeze stirred torches. Dancing over them, the glow gave the long flow of English mounted on Chevaux de Batalles an eerie skeletal outline. It was as though a ghostly host of the Unseelie Court—malevolent warrior-faeries—rode upon a rade, descending on the Scottish holding.

  ♦◊♦

  Glenrogha’s people gathered in the shadows of the Pict broch, as though the ancient stonework shielded them magically. Braver souls mulled near the center tower to glimpse the mighty Black Dragon of Challon. They observed the ward filling with the limitless number of Southron chivalry, girded in elaborate armour and mail, and mounted upon monstrous, barded stallions of war. Obviously, Julian judged, never had these serfs witnessed such an awe-summoning spectacle.

  Standing in the stirrups of the black saddle, Julian rotated to glance at the formidable assemblage. Raising his hand, he commanded the imposing host to halt. His pose was one of power resolute, a man born and bred to rule—the precise impression he intended to brand into these Scots’ minds.

  “Sir Dunstan, see the troops bed down in the outer ward. By noontide, no later, the force should ready to push onward to Dun Kinloch.” Julian’s deep voice shattered the strange stillness reigning over the bailey.

  Dismounting, Julian climbed the stone steps of the lord’s tower, and then paused at the top to permit his personal guard to catch up. Making use of the interval, he cast his attention to sweep over the fortress and its people. Once again, ghostly feelings of belonging brushed against his mind. A shiver snaked up his spine.

  The ostentatious display of his armoured knights bordered upon excess. Howbeit, such a lingering image would serve him well in bringing these stubborn Scots quickly under his control. Shock and worry etched their faces. It pleased him, worked to his favor. He wanted peace here. If it came through fear instead of respect, so be it.

  He spared a glance to Guillaume, as his brother gripped his fool around the waist and swung her to the ground. His brother’s hand at the small of her spine propelled her forward, guiding her toward the staircase. Julian’s teeth set as jealousy speared through him. The emotion knotted his gut. Trying to mask the reaction, he nodded to his guard.

  It was time to enter Glenrogha.

  Torches in iron sconces lit the long corridor, leading to the Great Hall. Black oak doors were swung wide and the fireplaces within blazed in a manner bordering on festive.

  A smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Destain stood waiting upon Julian’s arrival. Thighs wide apart in a balanced stance, the blade of his great-sword rested tip down, halfway between the space created by his booted feet. Both hands clasped the leather-wrapped hilt. A careless pose, yet Julian knew it was one of coiled anticipation, ready to strike before anyone could draw the first breath.

  Before turning his attention to the people gathered behind his brother, Julian tarried an instant to survey the hall. In the fleeting heartbeats, he took full measure of the great chamber—the heart of the stronghold.

  The lord’s table was dominant and would remain in place, whilst the long trestle tables below-the-salt were broken down and put aside each night. A mark of prestige. Only high lords had such in their halls. A triple fireplace covered the greater portion of the far wall, providing light as well as warmth. A recent addition, he judged. Oddly, no rushes covered the floor. The stone slabs appeared scrubbed clean and were not a home for fleas or rats attracted by food scraps. No tapestries covered the stone walls, nor were they plastered and painted, not even a simple covering of limed whitewash.

  During his wide travels, he had been a guest in scores of castles more richly appointed. Even with those points lacking, Glenrogha possessed an understated elegance that pleased him. This place showed much potential. His mind already could see improvements; his coinage would be well spent here.

  The Great Hall felt...familiar. This inner sense of coming home did not reflect upon his countenance. He kept his stare impassive. None could hazard whether he was impressed or found distaste in the surroundings.

  Raven of Kinloch, Rowanne of Lochshane, several foster women, and three men-at-arms—sans weapons—waited before the trestle table on the raised dais.

  Julian’s eyes sought Guillaume. “Deploy soldiery on the allure. Double guards at the gates. Send out scouts toward the remaining dun. Then, set a detachment to search thoroughly this place, no corner spared torchlight. Since dayspring nears see the meal fetched.”

  “It shall be made as you bid, my lord brother,” the banneret replied. Before taking leave to comply with the instructions, his brother paused to run his hazel eyes over the twin sisters, lingering on the taller blonde woman. The gleam in his eyes warned—no promised—their personal skirmish was far from finished.

  Julian inclined his head at the remaining Challon. “Compliments on an undertaking flawlessly executed, Sir Destain.”

  With a mocking half-bow, he quipped, “You expected other from your humble servant, my lord?”

  “Never.” Julian removed his leather gauntlets, using the pause to study the people flanking his taller sibling.

  Expressions were an odd mix. Unflinching defiance from the ladies—by damn, these Scots females pulsed with warrior’s blood—to grudging resignation laced heavily with fear from the rest. Julian suppressed a smile. In spite of the ranging emotions, all were touched with a dram of curiosity. It was not every day when one faced a legend. Good. Let that impression linger in their thoughts.

  “So, Rowanne MacShane, has the Lady Tamlyn been twigged, or be she still counted amongst the missing?”

  “Our Tamlyn has not made herself kenned,” came the lady’s elusory reply.

  His eyes narrowed on her. Julian allowed the moment to spin out, locked in this staring game. Unable to hold the scrutiny, the woman looked down. Odd reaction. She was as defiant as before. Yet, it was as if she now lied and had trouble meeting his stare. He also noted several of the Keep’s servants exchanged questioning expressions, but then masked their countenances to echo the baroness of Lochshane’s lead. Something was off.

  His brow creased into a frown. “This playing seek-and-hide with the Sisters MacShane wearies me. I demand answers not half-truths. Where be the mistress of this fief?”

  “When
we broke slumber yestermorn, we discovered her gone. No message why.” Again, the woman had trouble meeting his eyes, looking instead at her darker twin.

  He had to control his breath, as anger pulsed through him. “And have you puzzled out where might one begin the quest for the elusive lady?”

  Lady Raven offered, “Perchance our Tamlyn sighted your host coming through the passes and retreated to Dun Kinloch.”

  Unlike her fair sister, this woman met his stare. Few could gaze into the grey eyes with the long sweeping lashes and not accept every word from her as truth. Despite, his warrior’s instinct warned she tried to deflect his attention from her twin.

  “Mayhap.” He scowled, his patience waning. The tone conveyed he disbelieved the possibility, but would deal with the matter later. “Some queer sense warns she has not wandered far. Since Tamlyn the Absent be not here to greet her new lord, Lady Rowanne, you may see to readying the lord’s quarters for my possession. Order a bath drawn. Once fast be broken, all villeins inside the curtain shall come forth and swear fealty before me as their lord, the new earl of Glenrogha.”

  Lady Rowanne swallowed hard at his command, and then flashed a look of annoyance just beyond him. Over his shoulder. He noted his fool a step behind him, trying to hide her shaking. Her gold eyes shifted repeatedly between the other woman and him.

  “Shall you require...aid with the bath, Lord Challon?” Lady Rowanne inquired, fury and panic barely veiled in the soft brown eyes.

  Julian stepped close to her in a move of intimidation. Taking measure of the mistress of Lochshane, his eyes roved over her lush body in the pale blue velvet côtehardie, the low square neck of the gown trimmed with grey fox fur. A silver girdle encircled the waist of the side-laced gown, the heavy chain hanging down to the hem. Her graceful neck was adorned with a silver Pictish torque, whilst hand-wide cuffs banded both wrists.