A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  His words were a husky incantation. “You shy from me as a fawn does when it scents a stag. My scent causes you to be timid?”

  “Your scent?” she taunted, forcing a laugh, though humor was not what gripped her. She was terrified, petrified of the dark magic he wielded so easily, so ruthlessly. “You smell as I do when I bathe.”

  “Join me. We can both smell of berries, lavender and heather.”

  Challon tugged her toward him, his arcane spell weaving around her. Tamlyn leaned back, trying to break the physical hold. This man was her enemy. He scared her—yet, drew her as no man ever before.

  “See...you tremble. You fear me.”

  The new emotions paralyzed her, but not the same as when she had faced his knights. “I fear no Sasunnach.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted, as his hand brushed against her neck where her blood throbbed. “A cushla mo foil, if you have no fear...prove it. Kiss me.”

  Pulse of my blood, he had called her in the Scots.

  “Why would I wish to kiss you?” Oh, but she did! Had from the very first.

  “Curiosity? Proof? Desire?” His eyes held hers bound. “Come, fool, prove your words as a warrior-true.”

  Yea, she wanted to kiss that bold sinful mouth, had from the instant she locked eyes with his. Even so, she hated herself for the yearning; instincts warned she would give away a small piece of her soul if she let this dark earl too close.

  Still, she could not allow his challenge to go unanswered lest he cry her a coward. She suspected she had been maneuvered by a master schemer, but now it was a matter of Pict pride—or so she convinced herself. Feeling she had naught to win and everything to lose, she leaned to him and pressed her lips against his, hard and quick. Her mouth firmly closed. Even with that fleeting brush, she tasted him. With satisfaction of passing Trial by Ordeal, she sat back.

  “You see,” she said, almost to silence her taunting inner voice as much as him. The flavor of the earl remained on her lips, and made her yearn for another sample.

  He laughed, the musical sound ringing against the stone walls. “Is that what passes for a kiss to Highlanders? My horse could kiss better.”

  “You kiss your bloody beastie often, Norman?”

  Laughter died as his eyes burned into her soul, searing as hot iron. “As I said—you are afraid.”

  “Never!”

  He yanked her nearer, the front of the woolen sark getting soaked. “Then kiss me. Really kiss me. Kiss me like before.”

  So under his dark thrall, she had no choice. She had to obey. Against her will, her eyes drifted closed as she waited for the brush of his lips.

  “Open your eyes.” The command was low, seducing, holding a power, a pull. “Is miann leam, a cushla mo foil.” I desire you, pulse of my blood.

  She did as he asked—no, bid with a conjurer’s voice—unable to resist any more than she could stop her heart from beating. Eyes, color of the forest in spring, glittered before her. The room shifted, spinning on axis, but he held her moored with his ancient magic, plundering her will. Devouring her unprotected soul.

  First contact was light. Gradually, agonizingly, he put his mouth full against hers. Coaxing, his soft lips slid over hers, the touch sending bolts of lightning arcing through her body. His tongue stroked in velvet textures until she parted for him, then speared into her, making her taste madness.

  This time, she was not so maidenly shocked. Never had she kenned men liked putting their tongues into a woman’s mouth. Mayhap only Normans used this tool of sorcery?

  At that thought, she tried to jerk away. This man was her enemy! How could she permit him to handle her, caress her as a husband did his wife? Questions asked by a part of her that no longer held sway. Engulfed by awakening female instincts, her hands smoothed up those bonnie arms, and snaked around his neck. She gripped the wet locks and hung on for her very soul.

  ♦◊♦

  Julian’s arm caught her body and pressed her to his wet chest. Water splashed over the tub’s edge and onto the stone floor. The kiss consumed them with hungry flames, as they were lost to all.

  He felt drunk. This woman affected him as she had in the tent, drowning him in kisses of mead and sweet witch’s brew. He wanted to kiss her endlessly. Even so, he broke away to draw air. There was not enough.

  The strength of his craving for her frightened him. It roared through his body until the pounding was agony. He neither knew nor cared who claimed whom. As a man starving, he kissed her, again and again, unable to stop himself. More. Julian needed so much more from this pagan witch...more than he needed blood or air to survive.

  Julian’s sharp teeth nipped the column of her neck, wanting to spin her around and sink them into her soft, pale shoulder—claim her as a stallion would a mare. His hand slid into the rip of the sark. His smile felt savage, feral, as the calloused thumb pad traced invisible circles around the ruched, baby-soft areola. It tightened as he stroked it. He pinched the engorged nipple lightly, then firmer. Spreading fire in her pagan blood, he caught the jumping pulse-point under his ravenous mouth.

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn arched in the unyielding band of his arm, reveled to strokes of the elegant fingers. It was madness. Sweet, torturous madness. In a shard of sudden lucidity, she understood why women so willingly gave up their few freedoms, wanting to yield to a man...even an enemy.

  Lord Challon spoke between kisses, smatterings of words floating away on the smoke of the peat fire. The luminous need blotted out all, but the words were persistent.

  “...so you needs must have no worries about the Lady Tamlyn.”

  At least, she thought that was what he murmured. “Tamlyn?” she echoed, confused.

  He laughed, then kissed her shoulder in a tiny stinging nip, then soothed the spot with his oh so clever tongue. The kisses went on between the words he strung together. “I said...there be naught for you to fear...about my taking the lady to wife. She cannot...come between us.”

  Her mind screamed, listen, but his caressing her breast interfered with logic. A strange, pulsing ache burned between her legs, the yearning cut like a knife.

  “Taken unto wife? I do no’ understand.”

  “I see.” Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “I needs must marry with the lady to secure the claim to Glenrogha. You, I shall claim as mistress. With the Earl Hadrian gone from Scottish soil you need someone to care for you.”

  “Take Tamlyn—to wife?” Words floating in the air gained substance and crashed with a resounding thud. “Mayhap she will hold no’ wish to marry with you, Norman.”

  “Choice be not hers. When Edward granted charter for the four holdings, he made the daughters of The Shane my wards. I needs must wed one. I decided on the Lady Tamlyn. Edward received dispensation for my brothers to take unto wife the other two.”

  “You have not laid eyes upon the woman.” She blinked, still trying to grasp the enormity of what he was saying.

  “Matters not. I shall wed her—twisted spine, warts and all,” he stated flatly.

  Glancing down, she saw his hand still inside her sark, the darker fingers curved around her pale flesh. Jerking it out, she flung it back at him. “Mayhap Tamlyn shan’t feel the same!”

  “She shall be taught the way of things.” His strength was terrifying, as he forced her close and kissed her roughly.

  Panic bubbled in her throat. Fury drove all passion from her system, and not even his dark magic could conquer it. She shoved against those broad, bonnie shoulders. She broke the kiss and raged, “You want me for your whore?”

  “Never use that word,” he whispered. “We suit. You cannot deny it. As for the lady’s objections...she has no say. Edward spake his will.”

  “Then, Lord Arrogant, you needs must learn a bloody lot about your supposed lady bride.”

  “The lady be my concern. I shall handle her.”

  “Handle? Like a hound?” Tamlyn jumped to her feet, sputtering indignation. “What if I do not want to whore for you?
Shall you handle that as well?”

  “Your objections against becoming my lover ring hollow. Your body wishes it. Taking the Lady Tamlyn to wife is duty—”

  “And since you require heirs and no’ bastards, you shall lay with your lady wife at the same time you lay with me?” She spat the words, not sure precisely which made her the angriest.

  “I must marry. You, I shall enjoy taking to my bed. I want to plant my seed in your body. Watch you breed with my sons.” The words sprang from his deepest longing, and just as suddenly, Julian experienced the knife of regret their children would carry the taint of bastardy as his brothers had. Ignoring it, since there was no changing the situation, he reached out, grabbing her hips to guide her back to him. “I shall keep you on your back so you soon forget the touch of the Red Laird of Clan Shane.”

  Wordless from umbrage, Tamlyn did not know which insult to attack first. Only half of what he said registered, but the last took precedent. “You think I be The Shane’s whore?”

  “’Tis no shame in being a lord’s leman. A lady wife is taken for wealth, land or political alliances. ’Tis duty. This does not mean a man must endure a cold body in bed.”

  “Cold?” She closed her eyes and let out with an ear-piercing scream. “You have not set eyes on her yet! ’Tis arrogant to be so presumptuous.”

  Julian blinked, surprised. Clearly, this was scarcely the reaction he had expected. The door swung open and the guards stepped in. Lifting his hand, he signaled them to back out. With a nod, one guard closed the door.

  “Why raise such a protest? The lady refused all offers of marriage for nearly a decade. One of such temperament must shun the lures of bedsport. Likely, she nears hag at her age and shall thank you for keeping me away from her side most of the time.”

  “Hag? Most of the time? Oooo—” she growled, looking around for something to hit him with.

  He shrugged. “As you pointed out...I need heirs. If it is a battle you wish, I will oblige. It would be worth your surrender.”

  “Surrender? Like a thief you steal Glenrogha, make prisoner of my...her lord father, plan to force...ah...her into a loveless marriage, yet feel you can claim me as your whore? Contemptible. So English.”

  “My head aches with all this prattle.” He held out his hand to end the useless discussion. “Come, sweetling, finish washing me. The water cools.”

  His little boy smile and seductive voice curled around her, trying to trap her with its dark Selkie magic. It failed to cover his imperious manner. Lord Challon was so used to having everything his way.

  Nothing could dissolve the wrath boiling within her. Tamlyn stood vibrating with indignation, not knowing what distressed her most. That he assumed he could take Tamlyn to lady wife, just because an English king decreed it? Or, the unmitigated temerity of the swine to presume she was Hadrian of Kinmarch’s whore, and thus spoils of war he was entitled to claim!

  “I do no’ whore for The Shane!” She slapped the water, creating a splash into his face. “And you can scrub your own private parts, bloody Lord Dragon!”

  Stalking away, she pulled open the heavy oak door. Faces impassive, the guards turned and stepped together blocking her. Lips pursed, she slammed it in their hateful English faces. On a turn of the heel, she stormed past Lord Challon.

  As he stood to climb out, water streamed off his lithely muscled form. She tried to ignore the perfectly honed body of a warrior-true. Tried, but failed. He was so flawlessly created that she nearly walked into the wall.

  Too bad he was such a...a...pig!

  Not thinking, Tamlyn rushed into the solar, then turned in a semicircle. She had forgotten there was no outlet. She stayed, hugging her arms around her trembling body, fighting to keep from falling apart. Returning meant facing the earl in all his naked beauty. She shuddered, a sense of being cornered fluttering in her chest.

  Smaller than most solars, it was a bride’s gift from her father to his young wife. The outside wall had a real window inlaid with precious glass. The panes of the center were bordered on each side with narrow, alternating panels of pale yellow, green-garnet and deep amber, similar to the stained glass used in kirks. The window had made the passing of grey winter days more cheerful for the Lady Deporadh.

  Sunspring lifted over the top of Dunstrathraven Tòrr, spreading a glow through the foggy, dawn sky. Exhaustion prevented appreciation of the pagan beauty of the raw, awakening land. Too many emotions raged in her...desire, fury, helplessness. So exhausted, she could only stand shaking and trying not to cry. She vowed never to let this warrior see her shed the first tear.

  For the past three nights, she had found no rest. The same dream tormented her into breaking slumber. She had awoken covered in sweat, heart pounding. The nightmare faded, but wisps lingered—the sound of ravens screaming, then thunder of a coming storm.

  Yestermorn, the sense of looming danger was so pressing she had sought distraction in harvesting the flowers. The first violets of spring had a faery’s power. One could make a wish upon them and it would come true. Too bad she had forgotten to cast a wish upon them. Surely, a whole basket earned her at least one wish granted?

  So much had happened since and little would ever be the same.

  She wanted to find some overlooked corner, curl up with a soft plaide and sleep for days. Wanting to blot everything from her mind, she was afraid to do more than draw breath or she might crumble. A tear trickled down her cheek. She swiped it away with the tips of her fingers.

  On cat feet, Lord Challon came up behind her. Tamlyn grew aware of his presence when he placed his hands upon her shoulders, sliding the sark’s edge to the right. His voice was low. “’Tis a view to inspire bards.”

  She nodded. “Once the sun peaks over the tòrr the colors of the panes flood the solar.”

  “I spoke neither of hills nor window, but what is before them.” The soft, husky cant of his voice sapped her will, weakening her to surrender.

  Not as a last choice, but the only choice.

  His body edged closer. Hard curves pressed, molding to her contours. Snaking his strong warrior’s arms around her, he flexed the unyielding muscles to draw her back against his chest.

  “Please, do no’ hold me as this,” she whimpered the plea.

  “I cannot stop myself.” Challon’s whispered words came against her right ear. “You bind me, pagan.”

  His right hand swept her long hair over the opposite shoulder. Feather soft kisses, mere ghostly caresses, chained their way across her bare skin to her neck, ending at the ear’s shell. His tongue traced its swirl. Then flicked inside. Shivers rippled across her sensitized flesh.

  Words clamored inside her head, but she could not fight his dark lure. His fingers tilted her chin to where his mouth covered hers. He deepened the pressure. He plundered. Devoured. His hands skimmed over her breasts, belly and hips, the rough friction igniting the fire to flare.

  Winning her surrender...her soul.

  ♦◊♦

  Julian knew she was tired, nearing collapse—both physically and emotionally. In spite of that, he could not prevent himself from holding her, touching her, fondling her softness. If he could not he would go insane.

  Not playing fair, he used that exhaustion against her. Never before had he drawn such pleasure from simple gestures of foreloving. Every touch, each kiss was special, seeming to warm his cold warrior’s soul.

  He had been alone for so long...

  This stubborn Scots lass was passion embodied and he cared little if it was heathen enchantment, or if the price was his immortal soul. Julian could no more fight her allure than will his heart to cease beating. When her lips parted for him, male ascendancy flooded through his entire being. He entered, not with the thundering force raging in his blood, but in gentleness, coaxing to draw her to a final acceptance of him.

  Turning her within his embrace, he pressed her into his planes, reveling in the perfection of their fit...as if their bodies were two parts of the whole. His hands cuppe
d the curves of her derrière and raised her weight, rubbing his aching groin against the luscious torment of her woman’s heat.

  Mewing keens of urgency rose in her throat, as she arched into his iron-hard body. Grasping his shoulders, her nails all but drew blood. Her tongue dueled with his, then followed the battle into his mouth...willingly. His warrior’s drive thrilled in his conquering of this wild Highland lass.

  Someone cleared his throat.

  Guillaume stood in the shadowed archway between the two rooms. Bathed in the halo of the rising sun and the brilliant golds and green of the windowpanes, Julian’s eyes batted trying to focus.

  He warned, “Not again, Guillaume, should you value your hide.”

  “My Lord Dragon, ’tis of import,” Guillaume insisted.

  “What is so pressing you cannot sort it out?”

  Blushing, she eased from his embrace and leaned against the cool stone of the wall as though she needed support, almost seeking to melt into the shadows of the far corner.

  “You hold my attention,” Challon bit out. He was wrapped only in the short sheet of linen about his hips, and it did little to hide his arousal, clearly defined against the dampened material. “Out with it.”

  “I presumed you would wish to know that the Lady Tamlyn has been located.”

  Challon nodded. He wanted to set eyes on the woman who was to be his lady wife. Yet, he felt strangely discomforted discussing her in front of the woman he wanted so desperately. “Where has the Countess been hiding all this time?

  With a faint smirk, Guillaume’s eyes moved from Julian to the woman partially obscured by shadows.

  Julian frowned. For an instant, jealousy exploded within his being, blinding him from comprehending what his brother imparted. Then, he caught Guillaume’s flashing eyes and enlightenment dawned.

  “Julian, I present Tamlyn MacShane, Mistress of Dun Glenrogha, lady daughter to the Earl of Kinmarch,” with wry humor, he tacked on, “your betrothed.”