A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Julian’s face hardened to granite. “So, it seems I should be calling myself fool after all.”

  Chapter Eight

  Glas-labdraidh air nighinn, gum fhois,

  teang ‘an suilean dh’iomraicheas.

  (When a maid be tongue-tied, her eyes tell a tale.)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  Julian attempted to control his breathing, rein in his spiraling temper spurred on by his frustrated mating drive. By damn, the countess was within his possession the whole time! Small wonder she was so offended when he believed her the Earl Kinmarch’s whore. Also explained was the ridiculous insistence that he call her fool. By the Black Rood, he had been so caught up in her web, enthralled by her pagan charms, that he never pressed the blasted woman on the issue.

  Evidently, the daughters of The Shane thought it grand sport baiting dragons.

  Not liking any aspect of this, Julian frowned. Never before had he thought with what was in his braies, a mistake that saw many a warrior in their grave. He stalked away to where her heady, pagan scent could not cloud his mind. The fury refused to abate. Neither would the ravenous hunger vibrating in his blood.

  Swinging about, he glared at her. “So, Tamlyn of Glenrogha or Tamlyn MacShane, but never Lady Tamlyn, where are the warts, hairy mole and twisted spine? Deepest apologies for my brother spoiling your jesting game. Has no one warned you dragon-baiting summons great hazard? Dragons eat fair maidens, flesh and bone.”

  With slow deliberate steps, Julian stalked back to the wide-eyed woman. He gave her credit. She did not retreat from him, but held her ground. In a move to intimidate, Julian leaned into Tamlyn, letting her burn in the scorching heat that rolled off his body. Pressing her to feel his dragon’s fire.

  Tamlyn. The name echoed in his mind. Not a common name, one he had never encountered before coming to this Highland glen. Yet, it seemed to fit this woman. He could hear it falling from his lips, as he took her deep in the night. Tamlyn MacShane. Soon to be Tamlyn Challon. His lady wife. Despite his roiling black fury that bordered on uncontrollable, a spark of pride, of possession flared within his chest.

  His groin bucked hard as he considered she would bear his son. The craving was so intense that it flooded his muscles until it was physically painful, pushing him to take her. Here. Now. Standing as they were.

  By the heavens, what a turn! Edward had exiled him to this forgotten pocket of Scotland as the means to punish him. When he learnt the news, Julian had hidden his reaction, not wanting the king to suspect he welcomed the chance to get far from war, away from death. Glen Shane then loomed as his last hope for peace, for sanity. Never had he dreamt he might be so blest to have a woman such as the Lady Tamlyn.

  The violence of his rages of late scared him. Attempting to channel that foul distemper, he focused on Tamlyn. With no mercy, he used how she responded to his body as a weapon against her. His eyes bore into hers. He trailed the back of his hand down her neck, then to the tip of her breast, and watched the nipple pucker under the damp fabric, begging for his caress. How her traitorous body arched into his touch.

  With the tip of his finger, he faintly traced circles around the taut nub. Her breath hitched, provoking a mirror reaction within him. Driving lust racked his body, and it took the last measure of his willpower not to go down on his knees and suck that distended peak into his mouth. Teach her the ways of being a woman. His woman. His lids lowered, as he was lost to the pull of that image so strong in his mind.

  He saw her arousal shudder through her. Likely, her rebellious mind screamed for her to slap him for the too familiar touch. But the she-cat craved it. She could not deny what was between them. He saw it reflected in her amber eyes. Giving her what she really wanted, he used the edge of his fingernail, pressing it into the engorged nipple. Testing the depth of her awakened mating instincts. It would have been a sharp sensation, uncomfortable for an unaroused female. Her chin tilted, still defiant, yet she held still, allowing him to increase the pressure, rolling it against his nail. She breathed deeply, almost against will, pushing her chest higher into his caress. She wanted it. She wanted him. She wanted more. And he gave it, taking the hard bud between his thumb and finger he pulled slightly, and then gave it a sharp pinch. She tried to fight against the sensations. She could not.

  They now controlled her. He controlled her. His blood vibrated with the knowledge.

  Guillaume clearing his throat reminded Julian they were not alone.

  ♦◊♦

  Turning her head, Tamlyn shrank away from the smug gaze of the Dragon, away from his branding touch. There was no retreating from this man. She wanted to laugh, or project haughty insolence, but she lacked the grit to stand against the redoubtable power of this terrifying warrior.

  Her breath grew faster, nearly matching the cadence of his, her fear waxing in measure to his wrath, and yet both of them saturated with sensations that seemed to have a life all of their own.

  Had Sir Guillaume not cleared his throat, Lord Challon would have taken her. Worse, she would have let him.

  Tamlyn still tasted him, recalled the echoes of how it felt to be held in those bonnie arms. Her core throbbed, scorched by this warlord with the Selkie beauty. She stood in dread of this mighty Black Dragon, so aptly named. Only fools and blind men would not be. Never had she sensed such raw power. She felt wonderment at his mysterious, possibly more dangerous craft, the ability to touch her as no man before. A touch she craved. And oh, how she craved it. Her mind reeled with the sheer supremacy, a force that blotted out all will or thought. Never had she suspected such a wonder existed.

  His hand lifted to her face. She flinched, shutting her eyes, afraid if he put his long, strong fingers on her body again, she would be unable to resist him.

  “Open your eyes, Tamlyn.” He waited until she complied. Clearly, his frown said he had mistaken her response. He thought she was afraid he planned to hit her. “I strike neither woman nor child. No matter how witlessly they provoke me. What hoped you to accomplish by this game, other than playing me cat’s-paw before the whole of Glenrogha’s people?”

  Tamlyn tried to form an answer. The enslaving eyes of this warlock earl held her mind, destroying simple thoughts. She could only stare at him and swallow the dryness in her throat.

  “Seems the cat’s got your tongue. More’s the pity. I am sure I could find use for it.” He stared at her, the focus of his thoughts humbling. Then the steel shutter within his mind fell, and once again, she was left cold, empty, as The Kenning could no longer touch his lifeforce. With a lift of his brow, he turned his back on her and asked of his brother, “Has food been prepared for breaking fast?”

  “’Tis a well-run demesne.” Guillaume’s gaze slid past Challon to her. He inclined his head in a salute. The intense eyes lingered, running over her disheveled condition.

  Challon glanced over his shoulder to where she stood. Then, the two men locked glares, their thoughts unreadable to her. Finally, the earl stalked out of the solar and into the lord’s bedchamber.

  Her breath expelled as Tamlyn saw punishment was no longer eminent. Still, she could not quell the quaking in her legs. The Lord Challon was overwhelming.

  From where she stood in the shadows, she could see only part of the adjoining room. The Dragon crossed to the bed, dropped the small sheet and then pulled on black hose, which molded to his muscular legs. Next came the leather chausses, the black under-tunic, followed by the black leather jack. He donned the garments unassisted with deft and precise movements.

  Rarely had she seen a man so prepossessed of such lionesque bearing. So beautiful to watch. A man who would totally alter everything she had ever known.

  She feared there would be no standing against him.

  ♦◊♦

  Trying to tamp down on foul humors festering in his warrior’s soul, Julian fastened the ornate buckle on the baldric about his hips. This Scots female pushed him past the pale—in more ways than one. It would be best if he walked away until t
his violent disposition curbed, and until his body no longer ruled his mind.

  “Mayhap ’tis wisest for the peoples of Glenrogha to swear oath to me without their lady standing there wearing an expression worthy of Boudicca,” Julian decided.

  “Aye, the lady’s defiance could set torch to rebellion,” Guillaume concurred. “When she does appear belowstairs, it might be best if she did not show marks of your beard upon her face, eh? She be well-loved by her clansmen.”

  Julian continued dressing, ignoring his brother’s mild rebuke. It was earned. He had to win over the servants here. And if they had even a hint of what just passed in the solar they would perceive affront to their lady. Not putting a best foot forward.

  Guillaume pressed, “So what plans for the recalcitrant countess?”

  “Mayhap I shall toss her into the oubliette.” Hands on his hips, Julian closed his eyes and tilted his head back, trying to regain control of his overheated body.

  Of late, when his temper spiraled to the point of losing control, intrusive memories flashed before his eyes, to where he often had a hard time seeing what was about him. As a warrior this was terrifying. What if it happened on a field of battle, where the hesitation of a heartbeat could cost him his life? He had to fight from being sucked back to Wales, him kneeling over Christian’s gutted body, and the festering hell that was Berwick.

  “Julian, fair you well?”

  Hearing his brother’s concern, Julian opened his eyes and forced a smile. “Keep her under guard until this black temper cools. Let no one in. Fatigue numbs me so ’tis difficult to think. My head aches sorely and I have much yet to do before I take rest. I dare not go near her, or I might put my hands around that perfect throat and squeeze until bones snap.”

  “You might put hands on her, but it shan’t be with the intent of snapping bones.” Guillaume chuckled, arching a brow to remind Julian of his aroused state. “’Tis long-range plans of which I speak. Be you still of mind to take her as lady wife?”

  Once again, jealousy erupted inside him. Surprised by how territorial he grew where his fool—Tamlyn—was concerned, Julian exhaled. Opening his eyes, he studied his brother. Did Guillaume harbor hopes he had changed his decision? “If I manage not to murder her first...oh, aye.”

  Julian’s head snapped around as Tamlyn entered the room, his glare colliding with hers. He noticed her chin was now set in that familiar tilt of defiance. The effort was undermined by her shaking. He frowned. He wanted Tamlyn submissive, not cowed, though he feared it might come to that before he gained control of her.

  “Lord Challon, I wish to go to my room on the level below.”

  Julian saw it galled her having to ask his permission. His chest rose and fell several times before he deigned to answer. “You remain here.”

  Clearly incensed at having to beg leave, she complained, “I wish only to withdraw to my own quarters.”

  Julian flicked two fingers toward the door, signaling his brother. His eyes remained on her. With a nod, Guillaume left. He paused at the door to judge Julian’s mood. Satisfied, he closed the door quietly.

  Her amber eyes watched him, as Julian stalked toward her. “These rooms are your quarters, my lady.”

  “I presumed you claimed them,” she stammered, his physical presence clearly flustering her poise.

  “Aye, I do as the new earl of Glenrogha and Kinmarch.”

  “Surely, you cannot mean for us to share?” Tamlyn’s steps moved backward as he drew closer.

  Pure male dominance sang in his blood, bringing a smile to his lips. Indulging in the arrogant display, he continued the advance as she retreated. Cat and mouse. His fury transmuting into another fierce emotion. “’Tis precisely what I expect. What shall be.”

  Her spine jarred against the stone wall. “Such would not be seemly.”

  “By royal decree we are betrothed. Think of it as bundling—I believe you Scots call it.” Placing his hands against the wall on either side of her shoulders, he pinned Tamlyn. “You are mine. I own you. I can do what I will with you...and believe me, I will very much. Long nights, while we await the banns to be called, shall afford us time to become acquainted.”

  “I shall not wed with you, madach mire.” Mad dog. Her threat sounded hollow.

  “Back to calling me animal names? Lady, you shall do as you are told.” Grabbing her wrist, he spun her across the short distance to the bed, the high frame hitting the back of her hips.

  “I shall do more than call you names,” she warned.

  Placing a knee on the bed beside her right hip, he brought his body down against hers, forcing her back on the flat plane. Julian indulged in the flexing of animalistic superiority, and bigod, he enjoyed it! Physical domination was the fastest and most pleasurable way to demonstrate to Tamlyn there would be no fighting him.

  “You cannot—” She pushed against his chest to no avail.

  “Silence, woman,” he ordered. Closing his mouth over hers in a rough, possessing kiss, he proceeded to conquer her. No gentle wooing, this was laying siege to her, a staking of his claim. When he finally pulled back, he left her gasping. “Glen Shane now be mine and hold it I shall. Just as I shall take and hold you. Get used to it—to this—Tamlyn.”

  He kissed her again, longer, harder, deeper, savagely devouring her mouth. Molding her lips with bruising fervency. Sucking her lower one twixt his sharp predator’s teeth, he bit down—not enough to draw blood, just enough for her to feel his mark. To brand her.

  At the nip, Tamlyn once again shoved against his shoulders. He took her wrists, pinning them over her head with the grip of his right hand. The position left her arched, helpless. Exposed. What he intended. It was imperative he had Tamlyn MacShane subdued and under control before Edward could decide to inspect the glen.

  It was only a matter of time before the king would want to see for himself that Julian had been sent to a Scottish hellhole. Julian’s eyes traveled over Tamlyn, knowing full well her value. A price beyond measure. Edward would find displeasure that he had so carelessly given him such a reward.

  The thought of Edward seeing her this defiant nearly made him shudder. His mentor, his king had changed so much since his beloved queen’s death. Before, he was a most dangerous man. Now, there was a poison within his soul. For too long, Edward had been vexed by the refusals from the earl’s daughters. If the three sisters came under Edward’s fist...well, he would do what he must to prevent that.

  He had to bring Tamlyn to heel and quickly, for all their sakes. He had no time to woo this wild Highland lass. That left power and intimidation as his only weapons.

  The fingers of his free hand splayed over the slight swell of her belly, the place he would plant his seed. Where she would breed his black-haired, green-eyed sons. Sliding down, he cupped the apex of her thighs, pushing the material to mold between her legs. Her body jerked as he increased the ungentle caress, allowing no quarter.

  The corner of his mouth tugged as he watched her struggles, useless for he manacled her with the grip of his sword-hand. His strong thigh banded across her legs so all she could do was buck. His lady was a she-cat, a fighter. Rage drove her when reason should tell her to surrender. Smiling, he permitted Tamlyn to wear herself out.

  Soon, he would tame this Cait Sidhe. “Are you tired yet?”

  “No’ a’tall.” The defiance was ruined as the reply came through puffed breaths.

  “You lie.” He laughed.

  Slowly, he lowered his lips to her, only this time in softness, wooing. She fought him. ’Twas what he expected. Her body was rigid, her mouth flattened and closed. With supreme arrogance, he ignored her opposition, plying her with tender kisses to court her wild Highland spirit.

  By all that was holy, he was blest with this union, more than he had dared to hope in the darkest nights of his soul. Now he knew her to be daughter to the laird, he recognized her responses as untutored, making them all the more arousing. The innocence of her unguarded desires caused him to think her the
Earl Hadrian’s leman. His blood surged when he considered he would be the first man to be inside her body.

  He wanted naught more than to toss up the kirtle and push his aching male flesh into her slick heat. She would not resist. Later, she would regret it, but she would not fight him now. He could feel her female dampness on his fingers through the fabric of her plaide. Still he held back, exerting every scrap of his iron control.

  This pagan witch needed to learn he was master here. He meant to start as they would go in this marriage. Tamlyn was his property. He was overlord of Glenrogha and naught could alter that reality. She could only accept and bend to his will. She was not losing anything, but gaining his protection, the shield of being wife to the Black Dragon of Challon.

  His fingers worked magic through the fabric as he brought her to a shallow climax, her body bowing off the bed, as the fire undulated through her. His dragon’s fire. Gold eyes flew wide in shock at her first taste of passion.

  She would be easier to handle now. He released her wrists and leaned on his elbow, enjoying the sexual awe playing in her tawny eyes. ’Twas nearly his undoing. His body thrummed with need so strong it nearly crippled him.

  Kissing her once, hard and quick, Julian shoved away, leaving her there. It was urgent he distance himself before he lost control. Tamlyn needs must comprehend he was the conqueror, master over her and his emotions, that she held no craft, no dark ability to bind him with pagan spells.

  There would be no repeat of what happened in his tent.

  At the door he paused, commanding, “Fan an seo gus till mi, mo faidhaich.” Without glancing back, he strode from the room, the great door slamming behind him.

  ♦◊♦

  Stay here until I come back, my wildcat, the Dragon had ordered in princely arrogance, and presumptuously expected complete obeisance. Sensations pulsing in her woman's place reminded her of the warrior's touch, his total domination. Never had she met anyone like him.