A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “I am no’ your wildcat, Lord Dragon,” she said to the empty room.

  Oh, how she had tried to resist being sucked into the eddying pools of his dark green eyes. There was no escaping when the scent of his pure male heat rolled over her.

  The man smelled...so right. She ignored the voice of The Kenning.

  Rolling to her side, she trembled. A silent tear slid down her cheek.

  Everything inside was so confused, so jumbled. Ashamed, she had wanted him to take her. Never had she known her own body could defy her will.

  Wallowing in self-pity was futile, so she rose and went to the chest belonging to the Dragon. Pushing back the lid, she rummaged through his raiments until she found a simple dark green sark. By all, she figured the earl owed her. Unlacing her kirtle, she slid out of her dirty clothes and dropped them onto the stone and plank flooring.

  Looking down, she blinked when she saw they landed atop of Challon’s discarded garments. Dismissing any significance, her knees barely held as she climbed into the cooling water. Taking a handful of the soap, she began scrubbing the scent of the Sasunnach warrior from her skin, rubbing until her flesh was bright pink. Each stroke only reminded her that he had touched her, what he had made her feel.

  Her head dropped in despair. A sob welled in her chest as she acknowledged defeat. She could rid her body of his musky male odor, but the taste of his lips lingered.

  Paying no heed to the cold water, she pulled her knees to her chest, leaned forward and released tears she had fought so hard to hold back.

  She was losing the battle against this arrogant warlord. She fought not only him, but also her own wild nature. And by the Auld Ones, she hated him for it.

  Hated herself even more.

  Chapter Nine

  Am fear air am bi an uireasbhaidh, biodh an t-soathair.

  (A man who wants needs must accept the trouble.)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  The bluish flames of the peat fire burned low as Julian entered the lord’s chambers. Its soothing warmth and scent lingered, brushing against his mind with that same sense of coming home.

  At first glance, he feared Tamlyn had escaped somehow, mayhap through a secret passage. On the morrow, he would check out that likelihood. Howbeit, after the small lurch in his heart, he saw she slept curled up on the far side of the curtained bed.

  Pulling aside the half-closed drapes of red and black plaide, his eyes lingered on the slumbering form of the woman who was to be his lady bride. A smile molded his lips when he saw his tunic covered her lush curves. A sign of his coming possession.

  So weary, Julian’s body screamed for sleep. Even so, he hesitated, unsure if he dared surrender to the need, only to face the nightmares waiting.

  Instead, he stared at the slope of her hip outlined under the green silk. His eyes hungrily traveled up to where the leather lacings crisscrossed over her full breasts. Her nipples puckered, pushing against the soft material. Lust racked his body as he gazed at those soft mounds, rising and falling with the cadence of her breathing. Images swirled through his brain of him holding them, testing the firmness, of his mouth laving one with this tongue, while his fingers gently toyed with the hard nipple of the other. Or, seeing their paleness above him, shadows caressing the naked flesh as he drove upward into her body.

  God’s teeth, he tried to dispel the heady pull. These flashes felt more like memories...as if he had already lived and loved Tamlyn before.

  Julian blinked, fighting both exhaustion and the coming visions. Oddly, instead of seeing his brother dying, or walking through the ugliness of Berwick—as he had every night since—other scenes flooded his thoughts. Of Tamlyn under and apple tree, the white petals falling about her until they appeared as heavy as snow. Of a giant balefire high upon a hill and hundreds of people dancing around it. And in the bizarre tableau, his mind saw a creature—half-man half-stag—walking toward him.

  Mayhap the feeble hold he had on the threads of his sanity was finally slipping away. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the buzzing inside his head. The noise grew louder...louder...sounding like the strident cries of ravens.

  Seeking to shake the somber fit of mind, Julian reached out and slowly traced the lacings back and forth across Tamlyn’s breasts. His finger gently nudged the material to where the tip of one was exposed. Unable to resist, he lightly touched the soft flesh, watching the nubbin contract to where the small berry of her nipple jutted, begging for his attention. With deep regret, he dropped his finger, knowing he had to stop, or he would end up taking her.

  Why did she affect him so?

  This wanting was unlike any he had ever experienced. Sighing, he blamed fatigue for his weakness for this Scots lass. Without doubt, she could not stir him so otherwise.

  Pulling the jack over his head, he tossed it on the trunk. His tunic followed. Then, he unlaced his boots and chausses, the effort nearly took more strength than he had left. Clad in only hose, tied about his waist, he strode to the hearth and added a brick of peat to the fire, still bemused how these Scots burned dirt.

  He paused at the table to pour a goblet of mead. Swallowing, savoring the sweet, crisp cider and fermented honey, the flavor was pleasing, satisfying. Like kissing Tamlyn.

  Tamlyn.

  Setting down the empty cup, he padded on cat feet back to the bed on the raised dais. He unlaced and removed the hose, then slid under the black wolf throw and tartan cover, pulling it over them. Tamlyn’s skin radiated heat, dispelling the coolness of the bedding. He scooted closer, drawn as a moth to a flame.

  Her hair, heavy with the texture of silk, was irresistible. Lightly, so as not to waken her, he stroked his fingers over the gold mane. When she remained unstirred in her slumber, Julian shifted his body, molding against her.

  Almost thankfully, he absorbed her calming radiance, praying her potent witch’s craft would hold at bay the coldness tormenting his soul. If only he could steal just a few hours of rest.

  His lids drifted shut as he breathed in the intoxicating lure of wild berries, purple flowers...

  And Tamlyn.

  ♦◊♦

  Within the dark dream Tamlyn stirred, comforted by the allaying warmth. Swirling images strengthened and, as for three nights previous, the hazy realm carried the disturbing sounds of a great storm nearing the Sacred Passes.

  Eerie thunder from Thor’s hammer, Mjölnir, shook the ground, as her bare feet trod the soft, rain-soaked earth. Mists, so thick they appeared spun from wool, veiled the Highlands and Lowlands alike with impenetrable greyness as she waited, barely able to draw breath. The sense of foreboding was oppressive, stifling.

  Something comes.

  Bumps skittered across her chilled flesh. Aye, something dark and unearthly approached, shrouded in the shifting fog.

  The stillness shattered as a jet stallion—a creature born of the darkest night of Winter Solstice—broke from the eddying fog. Nostrils flaring, the beastie expelled streams of hot vapor into the moist loch air. The destrier tossed its head, the heavy mane undulating. It sent metal fittings of bit and bridle jingling. Faerybells tinkling in the silence. ’Twas no Púca—a goblin steed, bringer of ill-dreams―for upon its back sat a knight.

  He wore an unadorned black breastplate, black leathern breeches and studded jack. The color of a starless night, his mantle rippled heavily behind him. The material restless, almost imbued with a lifeforce all its own.

  Thousands of unseen ravens screamed within the fog. Their cries increasing to a deafening dissonance, as the raw energy of both rider and steed held Tamlyn in awe. Paralyzed, she was unable to flee as the black knight and his terrifying horse of war bore nearer. Fearful they meant to run her down, she shut her eyes and waited to be crushed under the shod feet of the chevel de bataille.

  At the final instant, the knight controlled the horse, halting so she stood by his right leg. Inclining in the creaking saddle, he bent toward her, his hand held the offering of a white rose. Tamlyn reached for i
t, hesitant to accept it. Why would this warrior gift her with a flower?

  A tear-shaped bead of red hit the bud. Then a second. Still another and yet another, until the whole bloom was sanguine from the blood where black thorns had lacerated the warrior’s palm. She blinked. The color changed again and was now black.

  Black as the ravens of death and foretellings hidden in the fog.

  Her eyes lifted as the warrior removed the helm, revealing the face of Lord Challon. Breeze stirred his black curls, as he stared down upon her. His dark green eyes were so empty. Behind the vast nothingness, Tamlyn sensed pain, so crippling that it nearly drove her to her knees. Moved by empathy, she stroked the tip of her finger along the wrist of his right hand, down the length of the first finger, and to the ring of gold. The seal of Challon. The mighty dragon rampant upon it.

  As Tamlyn touched the metal, a bolt of lightning seized her. She was carried to a place unfamiliar...a huge town, the likes of which she never before laid eyes.

  Hordes of people ran—scores, hundreds—pushing and shoving, fleeing something terrible. Their desperate cries filled the cool spring air. They slammed into her, knocked her about, and propelled her with them along the narrow, twisting wynds. Fire blackened buildings. The acrid smell burned her throat and turned the noontide sun to midnight.

  Bodies were everywhere. Hanging from gaping windows. Vennels were impassable from men, women and even children, hewn down where they had fled heavy horses of war. The air was gagging, suffocating. Some corpses were older, beginning to rot, drawing blueflies, maggots and ravens, saying they had been dead a day or more. Blood ran into riverlets, swirling with the soft mud into a foul black miasma.

  Tamlyn stared in revulsion, the taste coppery in her mouth. So vile, it pushed her to retch, over and over, until dry-heaves left her body bruised from the force. Her mind echoed with the words of a man, “...the pearl of Scotland…”

  ♦◊♦

  Julian caught Tamlyn’s tense body in his arms, as a silent scream ripped through her mind. Trapped in the nightmare, she could not break free. He knew the experience only too well.

  She struggled weakly against him, but soon settled in his embrace. He whispered gentle assurances. She was safe; he would protect her from whatever may come. Surprisingly, she accepted the security of his arms, pressed her face to the curve of his neck. Her soft hands slid around his waist and clung as if she could not absorb enough of his heat.

  Julian leaned back and draped her across his chest. His hands traced circles along her spine to give her ease. Most odd, he found the action soothed him as well. Soon his lids drifted closed. There was satisfaction in this simple embrace. Not with sexual intent―though that was never far from mind and body when this Scots lass was near. This solace, meant for her, yet it seeped into his soul. Just having her next to him, offering her succor, was one of those seemingly insignificant things his heart craved with an endless yearning.

  Dawning must be drawing near. Strange. For the first time since Berwick, Julian slept with no hellish visions haunting him. He had forgotten rest could be so serene, so healing.

  A piteous whimper came from Tamlyn, as words fell from her sleeping lips. “The pearl of Scotland...lies...crushed...’neath my heel...”

  Julian’s blood chilled.

  He had heard those words before—spoken by Edward. Agony poured through his soul as he recalled kneeling in the bloody mud, retching out his guts. Nothing could have prepared him for seeing that vile well, crammed with the desecrated body of those helpless women. No man should have to witness such a horror.

  Berwick...by damn, would there never be an end to his sickening torment?

  For three days, the unholy bloodbath raged. When Edward, mounted upon his mighty warhorse, Bayard, rode up High Gate with his commanders, they happened upon ugliness unimaginable. An English soldier hacking a woman to death as she gave birth.

  With heartless ennui, yet ever mindful of his self-professed piousness, the king ordered his dogs leashed. The cold Devil’s Breed blue eyes flicked over the woman’s lifeless, child-swollen body and drawled, “The pearl of Scotland lies crushed ’neath my heel.”

  How had those words come to be in the mind of Tamlyn after nearly a month’s passing? Most likely, she would know that Berwick was called Scotland’s Pearl due to its important commerce with Europe, but naught of Edward’s sick jest.

  On this eve he had lain beside her, and for the first time since the sacking of the town, not been tormented in the hot coals of Berwick’s everlasting Hell. Had she, with some strange spell, taken the dreams from him and suffered the torment in his place?

  Having no answers left him uneasy. Mayhap she was indeed a witch. How else could she possess such knowledge?

  A violent wave of nausea roiled over him.

  Shoving her away, he rolled to the bed’s edge, and sat up. He fought the bile roiling into his throat. Panic gripped him. What else could this fey lass twig about him if she knew this much already? Could she see he had killed his own brother?

  Oh, Jesu, have mercy upon him!

  ♦◊♦

  Sensing the loss of warmth and protection, Tamlyn opened her eyes. Naked, Challon sat perched on the bedside, his strong back to her. She sucked in her breath sharply. By the Auld Ones, the man was beautiful...everywhere! Something in his tense position evoked a poignant note, compelling her to offer words of comfort. Somehow, she sensed he needed her.

  That jerked her fully awake. Offer solace to the Norman? Was she daft? She grabbed the wolf throw, clutching it to her chest. Her movements caused him to start.

  For an instant, he looked at her with haunted eyes, his emotions a strange mix of perplexity, sadness and abhorrence. Grabbing his hose, he dressed.

  “You slept with me, Lord Challon?” she queried, heat flooding her face.

  His tone was unyielding. “Your place be with me now.”

  “’Tis no’ seemly. I was maid—”

  His laugh was harsh, condescending. “And still are, my fool—if you were to start with.”

  Julian wielded anger as a shield for his sense of vulnerability. Twice she had disarmed his warrior’s nature. The first time with the witchery of lust, now by stealing his mind, his innermost secrets.

  He leaned across the bed, grabbed the wrist of the hand grasping the fur and yanked her to him. So close, he could feel the warmth of her breath. He had to fight to keep from closing his mouth over hers. It would not do to kiss her whilst in this mood, or the raging beast inside him would devour her.

  “What sort of man do you take me to be?” he snarled, a wounded beast.

  Tamlyn trembled, yet spoke her truth. “The kind that would force a woman to marry him, just to gain control of her lands, and still seek to claim a whore for his pleasure.”

  “Permit me to enlighten you, little-virgin-long-in-the-teeth. Had I taken you during the night―and it would not have been just once―you would not be able to walk this morn. Rest assured, when I claim you as lady wife you shall be very aware of my possession. Not an event a person sleeps through―or would want to.”

  “Rape you mean,” she retorted.

  “Not between us. Never between us.”

  “You demand I marry with you without my consent. ’Tis not fair.” She trembled under his hand, tears glimmering in the corners of her eyes.

  “Show me where ’tis decreed that life is fair, my fool. Never have I found such. There are no golden rules, no Auld Code,” he scoffed, as if speaking to a child.

  She tried to jerk away from his iron grip, but he held her firmly. “I have done naught to earn such enmity from Edward Longshanks.”

  “Your very existence angers the Plantagenet. You are Scot—first black mark for him. Never have you rendered fealty before him—second wrong in his Devil’s Breed eyes. And your final offence―you are a woman holding a fortress through an ancient charter in your own right and title. Edward is a firm believer in the Law Salic. All those spurned offers of marriages now ha
ve come home to haunt you. Before heading back to English soil, Edward shall garrison soldiery at every fortress, keep, and peel tower throughout Scotland. All nobles will be forced to sign instruments of fealty and be on their knees before Edward Plantagenet, king of all Britain―not to a new King of Scots. Accept this. Learn to live with and make the best of it for there is no changing our paths. Heed my words, Tamlyn.”

  She lifted her chin, prideful. Still, she could not hide the quivers that ran through her body. “Never shall I swear to a Sasunnach ruler.”

  He bent her back, his bare chest pressing her flat to the bed’s surface, demonstrating she could not fight him. He hovered just above her. Touching. Yet, not touching. “As lady wife of the Black Dragon you shan’t need to endure such a humbling before the king. You shall speak your vows to me as your lord husband when we proclaim our union. Already I be Edward’s man.”

  “You may lick his boots. Never shall I.”

  “You are not hearing me, Tamlyn. No one gives you a choice. After calling banns, we shall marry. Like it or not, you cannot fight me and win. Help the situation for us both. Accept, yield to me. Ta da mhargadh deanta.” Your match is made.

  “My match is not made.”

  Challon inhaled and closed his eyes as if to seek patience. “Surrender. There be no alternative―for you or me. I am now the lord of Glenrogha. Already your people understand the way of it. Even your knights foreswore you. Yield to me and let us begin a life together in peace.”

  Disbelief and hurt flickered in her chest. She was finding it hard to keep his face in focus, as the tears could not be held back much longer. “All? They all forswore me?”

  “Five knights refused. They are held in the oubliette. They speak they will tend allegiance when their lady does. I understand this is all very sudden, but you are clearly an intelligent woman. Use that instead of purchasing grief by futile rebellion. You have people here to think about.”

  “You canno’ force me to accept you as husband,” she countered.

  “Make no threat you cannot keep, faidhaich.” Lazily, his thumb-pad stroked the slender column of her throat finding her pulse. It jumped erratically under his touch. “I doubt force shall ever be necessary betwixt us. Your body already accepts me, warms to me as master, desires me. Only your mind battles uselessly. Your blood jumps from my nearness. I see the throb here.”