A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Julian arched a brow. Gads, these Scots bred sturdy women! The Lady Rowanne stood nearly the same height as he, and with an opulent form similar to his fool. Same proud carriage, same square shoulders, and rounded hips molded for the bearing of babes. Breasts men dreamed of fondling, sucking. Aye, this daughter of the Red Laird of Clan Shane might be seven and a score and no longer virgin, but no man with mind-half would kick her from his bed on a cold rainy night.

  Skillfully plaited with ribbons, the wheat colored hair fell over her right shoulder, across her breast and past the curvy hip. Not a hair out of place. Her appearance would serve her well at English Court. Notwithstanding the image of a lady proper, sexual heat radiated off her body. Yea, he could imagine those strong hands with long aristocratic fingers caressing a man whilst she slicked soap over his burning flesh.

  Inclination aside, he meant this hellion to be taken to lady wife by either Destain or Guillaume, so temptation to tangle with the long-legged beauty was best avoided. Besides, he noted with pleasure, his fool’s hackles of jealousy bristled over his interest in the baroness. A few heartbeats more and his Cait Sidhe would unsheathe her claws and begin hissing. Her strong reaction satisfied him. After his previous loss of control with her, this placed him on a better footing.

  “No need. My fool shall be set to the task.” His smile was arrogant, provoking, his eyes possessive as they skimmed over the woman in a declaration of ownership none present could mistake. He wanted the whole fortress to understand she now wore his brand.

  Lady Rowanne nodded ascent, barely covering her relief. As she turned to go, her eyes lingered on his fool in a silent question. The lady’s escape meant the other woman would be pressed to that service in her stead. It was apparent she tasted a measure of guilt.

  What Rowanne of Lochshane expected to twig in his fool’s witchy gold eyes he could not gauge. Fear, resentment, rage most likely. Aye, those emotions were reflected upon her arresting face. Only, jealousy possessed her mind and burned brightly. There was no doubt about it.

  He saw Lady Rowanne blink in disbelief, unable to cover astonishment. With a nod, the woman rushed to remove herself from the Great Hall.

  Chapter Seven

  Beul sois air na mnathan, mur faighear’s gach ait’ iad!

  (Curse females, if they no’ be found e’erywhere!)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  Tamlyn sat perched on a small stool in a dark corner of the lord’s chambers, watching the flurry of activities. And shivering. Not cold, she was scared, a fear that ran bone deep. The Black Dragon had come and life would be different from this point on. Very different.

  Trying to remain distant from all activities, she observed the steady procession as three squires of the Earl Challon toted his belongings into the rooms. Rooms by right belong to the Countess. Now his. They dodged maidservants, carrying buckets of steaming water to fill the huge wooden tub.

  Ignoring these comings and goings with clear disdain, Julian Challon stood next to the long, black oak bench. Moffet unbuckled and unlaced the aiguillettes—arming points of the plate and mail. Setting them aside, he pulled the padded aketon, which protected the Dragon’s skin from the metal, off his master’s broad shoulders.

  Glenrogha’s women cast furtive glances at the Norman lord, then to her, questions etched upon their faces. None risked speaking to her. All waited to take cue from their lady. Their curious eyes shifted from their chores to the body of the earl. Some held fear, worry, others an appreciative glint—especial the half-Irish Elfine.

  Lord Challon acted unaware of their scrutiny. As if the squire and he were the only ones present, he leisurely undressed. Tamlyn decided by the arrogant arch of the raven-black brows that this was merely a pose. He was quite mindful of the females buzzing around him, drawn by his Selkie perfection. Shards of jealousy ground within her, same as it had when the Norman contemplated Rowanne assisting him with his bath.

  Her mind was befuddled. She could not unriddle why she experienced such a burning urge of possessiveness toward this warlord. The emotion would neither be banished nor explained, but held a life all its own. And increased with each heartbeat.

  “Moffet, tote the armour and mail to the barrack’s tower to be sanded and oiled. See that the horses are settled in the stables. Then, break your fast. Afterward, find a quiet corner for a nap. This day you’ve earned your keep.” Challon said softly. All in the chambers understood the signal to withdraw and did so without word one being spoken. Even Glenrogha’s people moved to his will.

  The squire gave a nod, and then set the armour plate outside the chamber door, so not to disturb his liege when he returned for them. Hefting the weighty hauberk, Moffet started to depart the rooms, but hesitated when he spotted Tamlyn hidden in the shadows. He flashed her a gentle smile, and then pulled the heavy door closed.

  Once more, she was left alone with the Dragon.

  Julian Challon’s eyes skimmed over the oils and scented soaps awaiting his pleasure. Then, as if her presence forgotten, he tugged his under-tunic over his head and tossed the garment to the floor. Sitting on the bench, he removed the cross-garters and boots; each dropped with a thud in the hushed chamber. Movements unhurried, he loosened the lacings on the leathern breeches and pushed down his braies, stepping from them.

  Not once taking her eyes from him, Tamlyn stared as Challon stripped away his clothing without a shred of modesty. So rapt, she nearly forgot to breathe. She had seen men without clothing before, especially after the Floating of the Sheep—when they tossed them into the creek come spring to clean their wool before shearing. Only none was as beautifully formed as Julian Challon! His unclothed body put to rest the Scots’ belief that Englishmen had long tails like dogs.

  Tamlyn could not deny the warrior possessed bonnie arms and broad, square shoulders. His hips were narrow, the waist lean, lithely corded with hard muscle. His buttocks were rock-firm and with a typey curve, sloping into granite thighs used to control his mighty stallions of war with ease.

  Such things meant nothing to her. No more than her next breath—which she found trouble gathering!

  The man bore no shame about his naked form, as he strode to the steaming tub. To the contrary, he was quite comfortable walking in the all-together. Whether nude or in mail and armour, he moved with a born-to-rule grace. Climbing in, he lowered his body into the hot water and heaved a sigh.

  Tamlyn fought the uncertainty stirring to claim her. Her brain must have been bruised in the fall to sit contemplating—nay, ogling—this knight’s sleek, battle-honed body with such wanton hunger. She could not muster a degree of shame. Tucked in the shadowy corner, she prayed he failed to recall her being in the room.

  His head leaned against the rim of the tub, so still he might have fallen asleep. Shattering the thick silence, his deep melodic voice called out, “Come, my fool, you looked your fill. Now, I require your tender aid.”

  Lord Challon had not moved a muscle. His head remained facing away, yet he spoke as if he read her thoughts. Did these Normans possess eyes in the back of their skulls? Perhaps he was indeed a warlock!

  Too shattered to protest, Tamlyn rose to do his bidding. At least, being distressed was the excuse she afforded herself in obeying the enemy.

  Picking up the pot of softened soap, her lips curled into a wicked smile. Gentled with worts and oils, the lye soap smelled of lavender, heather and verbena. The mighty Black Dragon would exit his bath reeking not as a knight but a lady fair. Cupping the soap in her palm, she embraced the sense of purpose. “Lean forward, Sasunnach, so I may scrub your back.”

  He stretched his body against his inclined thighs. “I wager you love ordering me about.”

  “The Auld Ones grant small wishes. Lets them believe we are no’ greedy.”

  “As I said before—all men are greedy. I presume women to be the same. They lie through their teeth if they deny this. Some men just thirst for more than others. Some hungers be different.”

  “Some covet w
hat belongs to another,” she snapped.

  Hands shaking, she steeled herself to place them upon the Dragon’s flesh. She flinched, almost jerking back. Challon burned hot as a brand. Spellbound, she rubbed the frothy soap across his broad shoulders. Strange sensations twisted in her stomach. His back was taut...it was...beautiful. The muscles were knotted, rigid.

  She kneaded the hard planes, not pausing to wonder why she took such gentle care. “Your muscles be tight.”

  “’Tis been a hard moon’s passing. First the armies mustered at Newcastle, then moved into Scotland. So bloody cold and wet. Does the sun never shine here? Afterward, we took Berwick—”

  She stilled. “You came from Berwick?”

  Rumors had spread throughout the Highlands of the sacking of the ancient city. She knew of this, but his words gave reality to the whispers, making clear Glenrogha’s situation. It sent shards of terror into her soul.

  Lord Challon went on as if she had not voiced the half-question. “I’ve lived in mail, even slept in it for more sennights than I care to tally. Likely I’m as filthy as that pig you called me!”

  “Och, poor Dragon. And on the morrow, you ride to Kinloch. A knight’s reiving never sees end.”

  “My brother Destain shall sort out Dun Kinloch. Already I hold their lady. I foresee no troubles in the transfer of rule. For the present, I shall set him as governor there.”

  Tamlyn stroked the length of his bonnie spine; finely honed warrior’s muscles rippled beneath her hands. Challon’s flesh was molded over steel, contours pleasing to the touch. Only, she would eat an apple with a worm in it before she ever confessed that she drew pleasure in stroking him. She paused and eyed his back, questioning what was wrong with her.

  He sighed. “My fool, ’tis paradise on earth you conjure for my sore and aching body. What other tricks can you perform to soothe a dragon?”

  “If I were no’ so frayed by the troubles brought to our gates by a pack of reiving Normans, I would dunk your black head under and hold it.”

  He glanced over his right shoulder, teeth flashing in a seductive grin. “Then, I needs must see you stay fatigued to assure my safety, eh?” The Dragon’s words sounded as if they held a hidden meaning.

  Not twigging the Norman double-speak, she shrugged. “Bob your head under and wet it for scrubbing.”

  His eyes lingered on her in skepticism. “After you contemplated drowning me in my own bath? You may call yourself fool. I never shall.”

  “Och, I said I be too tired.”

  Leaning back, he took his upper body under, soaking his head. Water sluiced off his sleek skin when he sat up, and trickled down his taut stomach. And below.

  Tamlyn could not blink. Her heart thudded slowly, almost painfully. Dryness filled her mouth.

  Finally forcing herself to move, she lathered the hair as dark as midnight and scrubbed for a long time. Too long, her inner voice mocked. Angered by her weakness toward the earl, she ignored suds sliding into his eyes. Lye soap stung, she knew, yet he said nary a word.

  Leaning back, he submerged his head and shook it free of the foam. After he broke the surface, he kept his eyes shut. He held out his hand, and snapped his fingers. “Rag.”

  She considered prolonging his agony a wee bit, only she regretted the petty action. Such meanness was not in her nature. Irked that she had thrilled touching him, she had taken out her resentment in this shameful way. In contrite sympathy, she placed the small cut of sun-bleached cloth in his waiting hand.

  Stepping to the front of the tub to soap his feet, she waited as he dabbed his eyes. It afforded her a chance to study this beautiful lord up close without feeding his arrogance. With the curls wet and pushed back, he appeared less dangerous, accessible.

  So compelling.

  ♦◊♦

  “Evil stuff. What is it, second-cousin to Greek fire?” Julian barked, glaring at her through red-rimmed eyes. Raising his leg, he propped the back of his heel on the rim of the tub. “Offer I no rebuke for it accidentally getting into my eyes, mind. I detect lavender, berries and something odd...haunting...I cannot place.”

  Half closing his eyelids, Julian cast his mind inward, seeking the vague, and for some reason, poignant memory. A fleeting smile touched his lips. The same fragrance had been on her warm skin when he held her on the ride to Glenrogha. Again, that ghostly hand...just at the edge of his mind...brushed against his thoughts. Almost with remembrance of something long ago forgotten. It summoned a strange pressure in his chest. One he was not sure he liked.

  “’Tis heather. We even brew ale from it.”

  “Ah, the fabled Picts’ heather ale, whispered to have magical powers, so its secret be guarded jealously. And do these other extracts possess other unnatural qualities as well?”

  “Lavender be used to attract love—of a man. Wild berries bring luck and soothe a woman’s pains. Heather summons the rains and prevents rape.”

  His eyes flashed with amusement, as his long fingers tapped a rhythm on the sides of the tub. “Attracts men? Soothes female miseries? Prevents rape? ’Tis a witch’s concoction brewed by a female, eh? You created this?”

  “Aye, I be learned in the ways of worts and tansies, teachings from Evelynour, Oonanne and Auld Bessa.”

  “Three witches who chant incantations over cauldron by dark of the moon?”

  “Nay, just elders who reside in the Sacred Wood of Glen Shane. They treat both clans’ miseries.”

  “If you so say.” His bored dismissal conveyed he did not fully believe her, but little cared. “Very well, since you be so learned in such craft, I charge you to create a batch with scents for a man. In the coming days, I shall instruct you in the ways to please me, cat-eyes.”

  Julian watched her working. She had taken gentle care in the cleaning of his foot, clearly knowing how vital it was to a warrior to keep them from infection. Only, as she worked the soap up his leg, then over the knee, he wondered if she were aware that she had forgotten to use a rag. The strong fingers moved up his thigh, kneading the muscles. Julian swallowed the dryness in his throat, wondering how high that hand would go. Wanting her not to stop. He bit his tongue to keep from begging her to touch him, though his body burned with crippling need. He almost groaned when she stopped and switched instead to wash his arm.

  Soon, my fool, he thought.

  Fatigue lined her face. Nonetheless, he knew her lethargy came more from her fascination with the shape and muscles of his arm. She ran the foam up and down its length in near bliss. Well pleased by her reaction to his body, he drank in the sight of her witchy eyes, glowing by firelight. Never did he recall a woman’s eyes enthralling him so.

  A dark shadow tinged the skin where she had been struck. He reached out, his thumb faintly tracing the discoloration. He half expected her to slap his hand down. She would have before. All the resistance burnt from her. The only reaction to his touch was a sharp inhale and widening of her eyes. Her responses put him in control.

  She had been through nightmare enough for one day, or he would do as his body urged and finish what started in his tent. That did not keep him from playing at the edge of seduction. As she tilted closer, he blew across her neck where the throb of her blood was visible. His warm breath raised bumps on her soft skin.

  When he repeated the action, she snapped at him, “Stop that.” Eyes perplexed, wary, they met his in question. Her tongue darted out to moisten her dry lips, unaware how that small action twisted his gut into knots.

  Did she know how the little swipe caused his blood to boil? With a mix of innocence and wickedness, Julian inquired, “Stop what?”

  “You know, Lord Amadán.”

  With a smug smile, he settled back against the tub, resting his head on the rim. “How now, my fool. Safe enough for you?”

  ♦◊♦

  Safe? That was the last word which came to Tamlyn’s mind.

  In that position, she could see those beautiful arms stretched along either side of the tub’s edge. So lean,
so powerful. So bonnie. Dark images swirled through her thoughts, as she inhaled his intoxicating male fragrance. A clear, beguiling scent belonging to only him, and not overwhelmed by the worts of the soap.

  The right scent, The Kenning whispered.

  She envisioned those bare arms wrapped around her naked body, pulling her hard against his unyielding form, of him burying his mouth in the valley between her breasts. Her hands fisted in the silken hair, black as a starless night. She shook, petrified by these flashes of images. Foretellings? A wanting that went counter to all reason coiled within her.

  Uncomfortable by heat pooling in her loins, she leapt to her feet, kicking over the stool. To guise the abrupt move, she walked to the other side, dragging the footstool as though it had been her intent. Glaring longingly at his left arm, she denied herself, instead started on his other leg.

  “With the Earl Kinmarch made prisoner, you shall need protection, my fool.”

  “I thought all here are under the protection of the great Black Dragon,” she sneered.

  “I speak of a personal nature.” His countenance held a trace of calculation.

  Tamlyn could not untangle what he implied, her thoughts too foggy, witched by this Norman’s male sorcery. ’Twas also the damned lavender! The wort was at the center of any love-drawing ritual, its scent stimulating emotions and opening them to erotic lures. Her smugness over making him smell as a woman came back on her triple fold.

  But then, she doubted few women could resist this man even straight from sweaty mail and smelling of horse. Finishing with his leg, she began washing his arm. As she worked, she searched his face, trying to figure out what made him so different.

  “Your eyes are like ancient amber. Beautiful. Bespelling.” Challon brought the back of his wet hand against the curve of her throat, allowing soapy bubbles to slide down the column of her neck and under the sark.

  Her lids lifted as the foam crawled across the sensitive peak of her breast. From the glint in those dark green eyes, he was aware what torture the silky suds wrought upon her. Blushing hotly, she jerked away from him. His right hand shot out and caught her arm at the elbow. He had moved so fast she had no time to react.