A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “S’truth, Norman blood from his father flows in him. And no’ blood of a warrior such as the Earl Challon possesses. Annandale be a fool, a weakling. Men in two countries ken this. The son’s title and Scots blood come from his lady mother Marjorie. Pure Celt. That binds him to this land and her ways—more than e’en he kens. Robbie’s soul belongs to Alba. The day shall come when he claims what neither his grandsire nor Annandale could. This Bruce be born of fire. Yer sire should have heeded these warnings and stayed within the safety of Castle Kinmarch. Waited for when the time was right to fight. Bah! ’Twas madness to see Hadrian MacShane ride to the standard of a Comyn. Yer father should have considered his actions might come back on his daughters. Scotland will be ripped from within and without. And through those flames of destruction one man shall raise his head in defiance of Edward Longshanks.”

  “Who be this man? Do I ken him?” Tamlyn felt a chill crawling over her skin. She pulled the plaide around her shoulders.

  “A man of simple blood. He shall destroy much, for much has been taken from him, much will be taken from him. Everything he holds dear. This man faces a crucible most could not pass. In his betrayal, he shall give Scotland what she has ne’er had—a true sense of self. Just as yer dark lord arrived on the wings of spring, the winds of autumn shall carry this man’s name to all corners of this land. He will touch both of yer lives with the coming storm.”

  Dizziness assailed Tamlyn. Her skin shivered in waves of hot and then cold. “Be there more? Evelynour has seen more?”

  “Seven seasons past, the laird came to Evelynour and sought auguries about a man. A man he called the Dragon. The man he thought would make a braw husband for you. Bear that in your thoughts.”

  Tamlyn gasped. Her father had sought to know about Challon? How much easier it would have been had Julian Challon come to her as a suitor instead of her conqueror? A tear formed in the corner of her eye, stinging.

  “Evelynour of the Orchard predicted with the first flush of spring he would arrive. A dark warrior, a fierce man armoured in the color of ravens. Her prophecy now be revealed as truth. Challon’s life-threads be intertwined with yers, Tamlyn. ’Tis nay turning back for either of you.”

  “What else did she speak? Tell me.” She waited, almost breathless.

  “Dark shapes through flames. Blood, great famine, sorrows...and death. Two lovers with a love undying, whose souls have touched afore.” Bessa stroked her hand along Tamlyn’s cheek. “In this time of troubles, do ye not ken livin’ under standard of the Black Dragon shall serve Glen Shane? Harken to the cries of the ravens, Tamlyn, listen with the craft and not yer hot MacShane pride. ’Tis fated by the Auld Ones. Ye canno’ fight their will.”

  “My mind swirls. I be scared, Bessa. Scared what this man makes me feel.” Tamlyn fought more tears welling in her eyes.

  “A woman learns to handle her man. The Dragon warms to you. All saw this in the Great Hall. Instead of resisting, learn to reach his heart. Think. If something befell your Black Earl, wouldst no’ Longshanks just send another? Likely one worse in practice, mayhap filled with hatred for all Scots—same hatred what eats at this king? And no’ one as prettily made, eh? Aye, he be a braw and bonnie lad. No’ so hard a countenance to gaze upon, eh? Swallow that fool pride and listen with The Kenning. Hear what the ravens tell you about your dark lord.”

  Tamlyn pressed, “This man—the other who shall rise for Alba? How shall he be kenned?”

  Bessa lowered her head, drawing upon her fey powers. A shaft of light from the solar fell into the room and illuminated her glowing amber eyes, seeing what could not be seen. “Tall man he, nine quarters in length, a man above many. Brown hair streaked from the sun, he wears the braids of ceann-cinnidh—a chieftain—at his temples, though he be chief to none. Eyes bright as jewels, their color neither blue nor green. He stands to be counted against the roll of many. His life will be a shooting star, but in Scotland’s darkest night, and for ages to come, sparks from his wake shall light the fires of rebellion.”

  The potion sent its dark tendrils coursing through Tamlyn, causing her to slide down on the bed. She fought sleep, fearing the dreams would visit her once more. Suddenly, oddly, she wished she were snuggled beside the warmth of Challon’s body, sensing he could protect her. Batting her eyes, she was unable to keep the lids open.

  As her mind faded away, she heard Bessa croon, “Sleep, Child of the Stones. Sleep and dream of the man wrapped in the shade of ravens. Sleep and dream of a love you have kenned before. Sleep, Tamlyn. Sleep and prepare.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A’ bheairt sin nach fhaighear ach ceàrr,

  ‘s e forghidinn as fheàrr a dhèanamh rithe.

  (The loom that be awry best be handled carefully.)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  The slamming of the chamber door yanked Tamlyn from deepest sleep.

  Resting on her belly, she pushed up on her palms and blinked, trying to regain sense of mind. So restless within her dreams, her tossing and turning had caused the tunic, too big for her, to slide halfway down her arms and catch on the tips of her breast. The soft tartan covered her hips and legs, but she relished the coolness of the darkened room. Her flesh burned.

  The vivid dream washed over her, nearly sucking her under. She yearned to close her eyes and go back there to the waterfall...back to him. Her body pulsed from the warrior’s dark touch, as if she had actually lain with him. The images scared her. Terrified her. Her heart pounded out erratic rhythms of fear. Yet, was it truly alarm?

  Then, she sensed him. The Kenning reached out and brushed against his mind.

  “Good.” Julian Challon stepped from the shadows by the fireplace. “You be awake.”

  Had he been watching her? Her fuzzy mind struggled to break free of the dream, but suddenly, Tamlyn understood the Dragon had slammed the door to break her slumber.

  Since the thin tunic was half off her, maidenly modesty should have pushed her to clutch the woolen plaide to cover her body. Yet, some vague quality, a feeling almost feline, drove her instead to arch her spine and stretch, as a cat lazy from soaking up an afternoon of sunshine. Strange, she wanted Challon to gaze upon her body. To provoke his lust. Ancient instincts guided her, whispering there were ways to control a man that had naught to do with fighting him.

  Tamlyn eyed the Dragon, judging his mood. After sunbreak, she had awoken to find he was not within the chambers. Evidence of his presence lingered with a pulsing vibrancy, almost with the twinkling of faerydust. His stimulating male scent clung to the pillows, bedding―on her skin.

  Then, there were the dreams…dark dreams so acute, so achingly real her body throbbed with unfulfilled need. Images so intense, so sharp to the smallest detail, scents and sounds, that they now seemed memories of actual events.

  Echoes of something long ago?

  Steeling herself, she pushed out with The Kenning, trying to see into Julian Challon’s mind. She wanted to know more of this complex man. Their eyes met and held, guarded. At first contact, a shiver skittered up her spine. Not an unpleasant sensation, just disturbing, more powerful a lifeforce than she had ever come across. Julian Challon was a man rare. Thrumming curiosity mixed with pagan heat in her blood.

  It kept Tamlyn from backing down before this English Dragon.

  ♦◊♦

  Arching a brow, Julian suppressed a smile. Yea, his Cait Sidhe had assumed human form and sheathed her claws. For now. Her long supple spine was arched, presenting Julian with the tantalizing image of her barely covered by the forest green tunic. The thin material seemed dampened by sweat, to where it clung to the upper swell of her belly and hugged the curves of her full breasts.

  And look his fill he did.

  ’Twas a vision which left Julian’s mouth arid as the desert of the Holy Land. Instead of scurrying under the covers as if a shy maid, or tugging the tunic up, Tamlyn remained balanced on her palms, her rich gold hair spilling over one bare shoulder and down her back.

  Be
fore he found use of his tongue, the door pushed open and Tamlyn’s maidservant entered. Several pages followed on her heels, toting pails of the heated water he’d commanded fetched. Tamlyn gathered the tartan to her chest, and curled her legs to sit on the side of her hip, whilst she watched the lads empty the buckets into the tub.

  “I ordered you a bath,” he informed her redundantly.

  As this parade passed between them neither Tamlyn nor Julian spoke, but eye contact never broke.

  Strolling to the table, Julian picked up a few hulled hazelnuts and popped them into his mouth, scarcely tasting the treat. The action was a cover for how she unsettled him. Should Tamlyn find her full power as a woman, he would be lost. So odd, each time he saw her, he found her more pleasing to his eyes, as if her beauty increased with familiarity.

  Or was it her witch’s spell coiling tighter about him?

  His gaze stayed fixed upon her, as the servant went and held up a blanket, to allow Tamlyn to climb from the bed, unmolested by his stare. She slid out of the tunic. His tunic. Julian rested his hips against the table, crossing his booted legs at the ankles. His brows lifted in provocation, daring her to raise plaint to his presence since he displayed no inclination of quitting the chambers.

  He witnessed strong emotions reflected in her eyes. She half-expected he would stay. Half wanted him to. Yet, this side of her nature asserting itself also troubled her. He saw the confusion.

  Tamlyn asked in disdain, “Think you to stay, Lord Challon? ’Tis no’ proper.”

  “Julian.”

  “Beg pardon?” The huge eyes batted, puzzled.

  “I wouldst hear my name from your lips, Tamlyn.” His expression had to be predatory. He could not help it. His arms crossed over his chest to emphasize his resolve. After speaking to the Culdee, he was determined to bring Tamlyn to a meeting of the minds. Howbeit, his spirits were suddenly buoyed from the coming battle of their wills. “And aye—I stay.”

  A blush flooded her cheeks as she wrapped the cloth about her form, leaving it loose enough to hang about her hips in the back. “Plan you to watch as well, Lord Dragon?”

  “Julian,” he corrected, one side of his mouth quirking with a wicked twitch. “Aye, again.”

  He saw her swallow, flustered by the warring emotions within her. She wanted to play siren, yet the beautiful virgin was scared of him, scared of her own womanly power. Sucking in her courage, Tamlyn cross to the tub and unwrapped the wool. Holding it up, she gave pretense he was not there. The maidservant took the ends and held it chest high to create a curtain against his hungry eyes.

  Stepping into the steaming water, she chose to sit with her back to him. He almost laughed aloud as Roselynne winked at Tamlyn, before folding the fabric and setting it on the bench. The gesture was one of encouragement. Hmm, he had an ally, it seems.

  Roselynne brought the rag and pot of scented soap to her lady. “Shall I stay?”

  “Aye,” Tamlyn gasped, obviously wanting a buffer between them.

  Julian growled in the same breath, “Nay.” He raised two fingers and motioned toward the door in dismissal.

  Roselynne looked from Julian to Tamlyn, her lady’s defiant glare silently ordering her to remain. The woman smiled. With a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes, the maid curtsied. “As you so wish, Lord Challon,” and departed as ordered.

  As the door closed, he heard Tamlyn mutter, “Traitor. What about my wish?” but ’twas spoken without rancor.

  A flush crawled over her beautiful skin. Tamlyn leaned forward against her knees to shield her body.

  The door jerked open again as Moffet rushed in. Encircling her arms around her knees, she pulled them tighter to her chest. The young man was used to entering Julian’s quarters without knocking. He pulled up short when he spotted Tamlyn in the tub. Turning beet-red, he backed up a few paces.

  “Beg pardon, my lord,” his voiced cracked. “I came as ordered.”

  Julian grinned unrepentantly at Tamlyn, wondering who flustered more―Moffet or she?

  “So you did, my young squire. The Lady Tamlyn be adequately concealed. Come, remove my mail.” When the lad hesitated to go past the tub, Julian snapped playfully, “Moffet, the lady will be my wife anon. You need accustom yourself to her presence within my chambers.”

  Blushing, the squire jumped to follow Julian to the long bench. Mounting the three-legged stool, he unlaced the aiguillettes and released the buckles on the black mail.

  Tamlyn allowed her long hair to fall forward as a screen. She need not have bothered. Too flustered, Moffet never dared take his eyes from his master. Just the opposite, Julian wore a grin, saying naught could veil her from him. Peeking through her hair, Tamlyn covertly watched as Moffet unbuckled and removed the padded arming jack.

  Taking it with him, Moffet seized opportunity to escape. “I shall carry the mail to the sand barrel, my lord. If there be naught else?”

  Julian absently waved permission.

  Stretching his back, Julian ended the motion by pulling the tunic over his head and tossing it to the bench. He liked how Tamlyn stared at him, though she would be loathe to admit that she did. Her keen eyes roved over the lines of his broad shoulders, the honed warriors chest and waist, as he sauntered to the tub and picked up the pot of soap.

  She tensed as he reached out to gather her long hair, the bottom half wet from dragging in the water. He carefully separated the locks to plait them. The way Tamlyn tilted her head he could tell she found the rhythmic pull of his fingers weaving the stands soothing.

  Her voice was husky, “Are you planning to bathe, Lord Challon?”

  He almost laughed aloud. She had tried to sound so casual, yet he saw her knees tremble. “An invitation, Tamlyn?” His hand stroked over the back of her head, savoring the sleek softness of the deep gold hair. “By lack of response I take the answer be nay. Pity, that. I have too much work this day―though you tempt me. Another time, mayhap? A promise for a rainy day? I merely thought to visit you, and removed my tunic so it would not get soaked. We need to speak of matters, and I thought this a quiet space to do so.”

  “A dragon playing lady’s maid? Surely, ’tis forbad in Dragon’s Creed?” She glanced over her shoulder at him.

  His hand slid down her neck, then across her shoulder, the thumb tracing a harder trail. She shivered. Julian laughed, mimicking her accent, “Och, a dragon be a mystical beastie and may do as it wishes with none daring to gainsay.”

  “Assistance from a dragon might prove hazardous. They are no’ kenned to be nimble creatures.”

  His laughter increased, as did the depth of the bumps raised by his thumb’s pad on her sensitive skin. “My lady, you have much to discover about dragons.”

  The gold eyes stared at him oddly, poignantly. A tear glittered at the corner of one.

  “What troubles you, Tamlyn?”

  She shrugged, still hugging her knees against her chest.

  “Speak freely to me. We have much to learn about each other.”

  “When you laugh the sun broke through the clouds in your eyes. I think you do not laugh enough, Lord Challon,” she answered softly, blinking away forming tears.

  “I am a warrior, Tamlyn, and have known little else my whole life. ’Tis not cause for laughter. I want peace here. Mayhap—with encouragement—I shall find a reason.” He ran the soapy rag over her back, creating foam.

  Julian’s blood thrummed when he saw the responsiveness of her soft flesh. Restraint, he cautioned himself. He moved the rag over her gently, wishing his hand were the cloth. “By royal decree, we be betrothed. As you likely know, a betrothal contract binds us in the eyes of the church, even more than marriage vows. We be man and wife in all but act and deed.”

  “My people permit our women to choose their own husbands, Lord Challon. I cannot be commanded to marry with a stranger.”

  He watched as she swallowed the emotions rising within her, that stubborn chin tilting in an effort to control them. At the set of her jaw, Julian k
new her rebellious blood was coming to a quick boil over his declaring they were betrothed. Tamlyn was too spirited, too beautiful in her wild pagan ways to be broken, but he had to gain her acceptance hastily before Edward came northward and took a hand in matters.

  “You say that as if I force this decision upon you. I have no choice, either. Edward decreed I must marry one of the daughters of the laird of Glen Shane.” Julian pushed the point. “Would you rather I wed either of your sisters?” He waited for her reaction, smiled when her teeth bit down on her lower lip. Gad, she was stubborn! “I visited the kirk and spoke with Sir Priest.”

  He slid the soapy cloth over her square shoulder allowing the foam to slide over it and down to her breast. A frisson shook her as she slumped deeper in the water to prevent the suds from reaching her nipple.

  “How...did you find Malcolm?”

  “Malcolm?” Julian heard jealous tones tinge his voice. ’Twas surely a sign of broaching madness―being jealous of a man of the Cross. Aye, but this brand of priest had fathered seven sons.

  “Malcolm Ogilvie, my uncle. My mother’s brother.”

  Julian considered. “Then, why does he not rule Kinloch or Lochshane?”

  “Morag and Catriona, my aunts, held those titles. Since neither bore daughters, Rowanne became lady at Lochshane and Kinloch passed to Raven. Titles and lands pass through distaff side of the Ogilvies of Glen Shane. In the Auld Celtic Church—priesthood be an inherited position, passing from father-to-son. Malcolm’s line has always been the Culdee line. The kirk shall pass to his eldest son, Jamie.”

  He swirled the rag down her arm, allowing his knuckles to brush against the side of her breast. Her breath sucked in and held, but she did not challenge his advance. First step in gentling a horse was to allow it to become used to its master’s touch, his scent. Julian employed this principle with Tamlyn, though she would likely hit him in the face with the wet rag if he told her that. He planned to use her physical responses to wear her resistance down.