A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  The shadows of the day grew long and still Challon did not return. So exhausted by the emotional havoc, she finally closed her eyes and slept.

  The first rays peeked over the tòrr flooding the solar, letting her know dawn broke. She stirred, her hand reaching out...seeking something. She froze. She sought him. His warmth. Leaning forward, she rubbed her nose against the spot where he should have lain. The bed seemed cold, empty. Had he even been there?

  Tamlyn quickly dressed in the clothing Roselynne had left, a soft kirtle of woad blue. Wrapping the plaid ruana about her shoulders, she went to the door, expecting the ever-present guards there to block her way. She was surprised. The hall was empty. Was this Challon’s way to say she was no longer a prisoner?

  The hour was early still; only a few of her people were about their chores. They nodded in deference as she passed. She returned the greeting, sadly sensing a distance that had not been there before. Things had changed between them. They no longer knew how to treat her.

  Tamlyn felt apart from everyone and everything, as if a stranger in her own fortress, a place she had lived all her life. With determination, she headed to lady’s tower, and there she gathered her wort basket. Gathering herbs always gave her a sense of peace. Mayhap it would again—provided the Dragon’s men did not stop her from leaving the bailey.

  “Good morrow, my lady,” the guard at the gate greeted upon her approach. “You seek my Lord Challon?”

  She tried to smile. “I go to collect herbs and worts for healing.”

  “I will summon one of the Dragon’s squires to accompany you.”

  “I shan’t be out of sight—” she started to explain.

  He shook his head no. “The Earl Challon would whip the hide off my back if I permit you to venture beyond the curtain without a guard.”

  Tamlyn opened her mouth to argue, but figured ’twas little use. Resigned, she waited until one was fetched. Not Moffet, he was one of the older squires nearing the age of knighthood.

  “I be Vincent, my lady. I shall accompany you. My liege wishes it.”

  Exasperated at not having her wishes made orders—first time since she had become Countess Glenrogha—Tamlyn glared. “You remain two score paces behind me.”

  His dark blue eyes twinkled as if he understood her frustration. “Ten paces?” he countered.

  She felt churlish, especially when he seemed so polite. “Ten and five.”

  “Two and ten,” he answered, his grin impish.

  “Very well.”

  She trod on at a brisk pace, doing her best to ignore the tagalong squire. The Highland haar swirled, thickening at some points to swallow him, but she could hear his steps keeping pace with her.

  Odd noises in the fog drew her attention. Cautious, she paused to identify them. Ready to protect her with his life, the young squire drew his sword and moved to stand before her.

  His stance eased. “The Earl Challon.”

  The mist eddied, parting to reveal a black charger and the man upon its back. For a moment, shards of the dreams surfaced in her mind. Astride the monstrous destrier, Challon obviously had been working the animal for some time. Foam lathered the beast’s neck and flanks.

  Tamlyn was held spellbound by the mastery of him putting the horse through a series of set drills. Never had she seen a man so at one with an animal. Using only spoken commands and his knees to control the horse, the animal charged, whirled on his heels, and reversed directions. Challon set the horse sidestepping at a rapid pace that brought them near enough for her to almost reach out and touch the beast. On a whistle, it spun on its rear legs and danced off in the opposite direction.

  Shivering from the damp, she pulled the ruana over her head and turned away. The scene unsettled her, though Tamlyn had trouble understanding why. Mayhap it was the horse gave its all to please the man and clearly not through fear, but devotion. Few men spoke to an animal’s mind in the ways of the Fae as this one did.

  Blood of the Sidhe pulses within his veins—their chosen one—though he kens this no’. And for better or worse, her destiny travels the same path as this dark earl.

  Rattled, her feet carried her away at a swift clip. Not running, but with purpose. Only when she could see it in the distance did she realize where she was headed―the sacred grove of Fainne na Boidean—Ring of the Oaths.

  ♦◊♦

  Patting the horse’s neck, Julian walked the charger at a sedate pace to cool him down. He had worked Dragon’s Blood hard. Not battle-seasoned as Pagan or Lasher, still his youngest destrier showed great promise. He planned the three stallions siring the herd he intended to breed at Glenrogha. Knights would pay dear to have a mount of their caliber. His respect for the value of the beast was why he walked the animal, instead of racing like the wind after Tamlyn.

  Upon return to Glenrogha, he had received tides that she had left the fortress and went toward the wood to gather herbs. Only knowing his squire trailed after her stayed his panic. She was not trying to escape, he kept repeating in his head. Finally giving into the pressing urgency, he put spurs to the horse.

  He needed to see her, reassure himself he had not further ruined matters betwixt them by revealing too much of his pain, his hunger.

  Last night, he had stayed away until she’d fallen asleep, knowing if he came back to face her that he would muddle the situation even more. The emptiness inside gnawed at Julian. And if he’d stared into those haunting gold eyes, he would have been lost. He wanted to take her in an effort to bind her to him, brand her as his. A woman could be controlled through physical intimacy. Smart men knew this. Yet, something in his heart whispered the victory would be hollow. He needed Tamlyn to accept him. Mayhap ’twas foolish to hold such a desire, but hope seemed to grow alongside the sense that he belong to this secluded land.

  The question now plagued him. Some fey sense led him to her path. Guillaume had raised question if Christian’s shade guided him in seeking Glenrogha. Defying logic, Julian sensed a sentient consciousness behind the force driving him. Was this truth—his brother’s ghostly hand steered him to the chance of finding some small measure of peace? He would like to think it was the spirit of Christian. Before, in England, such thoughts might cause him to question his sanity. In this valley steeped in shade and mists, and untouched by the ways of the world, it seemed...natural.

  As he entered the odd circle of ancient oaks, a murder of ravens took wing, startling Dragon’s Blood to shy. Those damnable ravens again. The birds seemed forever close, as if they watched his every move. Spotting a flicker of blue up ahead, near the pool, he nudged the horse’s flanks with his knees. After a strange refusal, the beast entered. The animal’s fear was palpable.

  Carrying a basket, Tamlyn moved from one small shrub to the next in the manner of a butterfly, flittering from bloom to bloom. Giving sway to the urgencies riding him hard, he touched Dragon’s Blood with a gold spur. The horse reached her in a few swift strides.

  Her stubborn chin tilted, causing him to hesitate. He knew the tides he carried would likely provoke that rebel bent in Tamlyn, but mayhap it would also put an end to Scotland and Edward being bones of contention between them. His king would soon wish to return to England and take up preparations for the campaign against the French. With Longshanks gone from Scotland, and his greedy eyes turned to the land across the Channel, possibly dealing with Tamlyn would go smoother.

  Schooling his face to show only sangfroid, he dismounted, keeping the lead-rein in one hand. His green eyes noted Vincent discretely keeping watch not far from her. The corner of his mouth twitched, feeling empathy for the young man. This woman was hard enough for him to deal with. Julian tried to polish his squires’ courtly manners, but knew they needed instruction from a lady. That task would fall within Tamlyn’s hands soon. He did not know whether to envy them serving such a vibrant lady―or pity them. Nodding to the squire, he raised his left hand and flicked two fingers toward the direction of the dun, dismissing Vincent.

  “You r
ise early this foggy morn, Tamlyn. You slept well?”

  “Aye, I slumbered well, my lord,” she answered nervously.

  “Are you not curious how I rested?” Julian stepped close, his elbow brushing her arm. He savored even that smallest contact, hungered for more.

  Questions flooding her eyes, Tamlyn watched him. Reaching out, she tenderly brushed a stray curl off his forehead. “Your face be drawn. By the time I fell asleep, you had not returned. Did you rest well, Lord Challon? Did you even sleep?” Shocked that she had forwardly touched him showed upon her face. She blushed and turned away.

  Julian caught her wrist. “I kept watch on the boulevard—all night.”

  Tamlyn blinked surprise. “Why? As lord you can set your men to such tasks?”

  “I needed to be alone with my thoughts. I was unfit company, and dared not risk being near you,” he replied, admitting more than he intended.

  She looked puzzled. “I do no’ understand.”

  Using the hold on her wrist, he pulled her slowly against him, wrapping his arm about her waist. “Your mind does not.”

  Pleased that there was no resistance in her, only questioning, he just held her and allowed the sexual tension to spiral. He saw the jump in her pulse as his breath caressed her face, her breathing rising in cadence to match his.

  “See? Feel how our bodies speak to each other? They say with a woman it can be a strong driving force. In a man it oft overwhelms reason. ’Tis hard to recall the need to pay court, to woo you. My blood pushes me. Is miann leam, a cushla mo foil.” I desire you, pulse of my blood. And she wanted him. He saw it, witnessed the fire spreading through her, unsettling her. But she could not back away from the challenge any more than he could. “I strive to give you space, let your mind bend to the idea you will be my lady bride soon. Howbeit, I am a man, Tamlyn, and I have been lonely too long.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers, brushing lightly, waiting until she signaled her acceptance of him. And she did. The basket of leaves and herbs dropped unnoticed to the ground, as her hands caught hold of his shoulders to steady herself. He deepened the kiss, but still she did not pull back. Instead, Tamlyn pressed against him, her restless fingers moving to twine in the hair at the back of his head.

  By all that was holy, he wanted her, with an ache that nearly drove him to his knees. Had he been surer of her, of them, he would lower her to the ground and do as his body demanded.

  Julian broke the kiss, knowing if he did not there would be no drawing back. He turned from her and walked away several paces. He raised the edge of his shaking hand to his mouth. This desperate need for her rattled him, and in some ways he resented it and the weapon it put in her hands. He meant to rule her, not the other way around.

  Closing his eyes, he willed his body to calm, the iron control for once failing him. He sucked in a ragged breath. “Messenger came at dawn. There be matters of which we needs must speak. The Earl Warenne pressed the Scots into battle.”

  “And?” A shivered shuddered through her body.

  “Warenne chased the Scots to Spottsmuir, near Dunbar. The Earls Mar and Atholl―long supporters of Clan Bruce―failed to answer the call to Clan Comyn’s standard. Cospatrick, earl of Dunbar and March, along with both Bruces―Annandale and Carrick―sided with Edward. Even with those powerful clans—either riding under Edward’s banner or abstaining from supporting Balliol’s forces—Badenoch and Buchan rallied nearly forty-thousand troops.”

  “What shame for Cospatrick. He curries favor at the English’s side, thinking Edward might consider him as the next king of the Scots, whilst the Lady Marjorie commands Castle Dunbar. She be a Comyn born and bred, daughter to Buchan.”

  “Aye, she sided with her brother and father, turning the castle over to the Scots. Battle took place. Though outnumbered three times over, Warenne’s troops are battle-hardened horsemen, veterans from campaigns in Wales and Flanders. They held and repulsed the Scots. After that, the Scots crumbled. Edward ordered Cospatrick to invest Castle Dunbar. The castle fell...”

  “And the Lady Marjorie?”

  He hoped Tamlyn would not empathize too strongly with Marjorie Comyn, Lady Dunbar. “No one knows for sure. Some of Dunbar’s people escaped, using tunnels to the sea. Possibly, she slipped out with them, and has returned north to the Comyn stronghold in the Highlands.”

  Tamlyn shivered. “Or she was in the castle when it was stormed? Many mislike the Earl Dunbar. His persecution of True Thomas be nigh well legend. Pride wouldst not stand the disgrace of his countess handing his castle over to her kin.”

  Wariness snaked into her eyes, as she again viewed him with distance, with questions. She wondered if Dunbar had done away with his wife for her defiance. Well, had he not wondered the same? Cospatrick was not a forgiving man. “’Tis naught to us, Tamlyn. Soon, as Edward brings the Scots barons unto his peace, he shall prepare to depart for England and take up his campaign against France anew. It shall leave us to build our lives here.”

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn stared at him, fury rising in her blood. No man told her what to do—not even her lord father. It was on the tip of her tongue to voice there would be naught built together until she willed it. Only, the wind swirled around her, playfully tickling the stray strands of hair about her face. A fey, ghostly caress.

  Tame the Dragon…came words of The Kenning.

  She glanced to the side to see if someone stood there, but saw nothing. A few rays of sunshine suddenly poked through the fog, the brilliant beams shining down on Challon to create a blinding halo around him. Her breath caught and held at his beauty.

  Julian Challon was a hard man. Still, she thought back on the dreams, his dreams. The horrors of war, of seeing his brother die. No man should suffer such torment. Challon breathed out power and haughtiness in equal measure, assured of himself and his ability to control the world about him. That arrogance made her want to slap him, wipe that expression off his face. Yet, another part of herself that she did not understand yearned to touch that face, try to reach past the hardness.

  Tame the Dragon...once more, the words floated on the breeze. She stared at him, wondering if he heard them, too.

  Her hand lifted toward him. She could see his spine perceptibly stiffening in wariness, his eyes darken with a soul deep hunger. Well, she would show him he could not anticipate her. Softly, she laid her palm against the hollow of his cheek. The hooded lids of his green eyes shot up in surprise. For once, the iron shutters of control were down.

  This man so needed healing. Needed hope.

  Perplexity was clear in his green garnet depths, as they locked with hers, searching, probing, almost as if afraid to accept the gesture for what it was. She wanted to flinch from that wave of intensity, his dark power, from the animal heat radiating off him. His haunting male scent filled her head. The fragrance intoxicating...right. It was too much. She forced herself to remain still, her fingers curving to the contours of his much too beautiful countenance.

  “Julian,” she whispered.

  Slowly, his hand lifted to cover hers, lightly at first, still unbelieving, then tighter, desperate. Raw hunger leaped from those haunting eyes, from a mind consumed with an ache so strong it was frightening. The lids lowered and his head tilted back a degree; the gesture reminded her of one savoring something long denied.

  In the distance toward Glenrogha trumpets sounded, shattering the spell, calling his attention to the need for his presence.

  “Come. We needs must return.” He moved to the horse, mounting with ease. Taking his foot from the stirrup, he held out his hand for hers.

  Hesitating for an instant, her eyes searched his face. He smiled a small victory when Tamlyn put her foot in the stirrup and accepted his hand so he could aid her in mounting. Adjusting her to sit crosswise on his lap, he nudged the destrier to make haste toward Glenrogha.

  Approaching the dun, they saw the gates were closed, and men lined the boulevard. The Captain of the Guard recognized the Black Dragon and
waved. Upon word, the gates opened, and Julian spurred the horse through without slowing.

  Moffet rushed out to take hold of the destrier’s bridle to steady Dragon’s Blood and let them dismount. Tamlyn started to slide down, but Challon caught her upper arm. “My lady, whatever the trouble―we face it together. You by my side, I shielding you. I sense we reached pax ’tween us?”

  She glared at him for several breaths before nodding acceptance. “Oh, aye, pax. You now rule here as lord by the will of your English master, and choice of the Auld Ones. So be it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bha siud an dan da

  (’Twas fated for him.)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  Tamlyn watched from the top of the lord’s tower as Challon commanded the garrison below. Her men-at-arms stirred to his orders with a swiftness that caused her astonishment. For the most part, Glenrogha’s soldiery always obeyed her with nary a gainsay. Still, a few voiced complaint that she was a woman and needed to marry so Glenrogha had a man to lead them. She observed as the Scots complied with the Dragon’s bidding, clear they recognized Julian Challon was lord here now. A warrior-true, one they could respect. One they would follow. ’Twas unsettling. Tamping down on the errant emotions, she stood by and silently allowed the Black Dragon authority over her stronghold.

  She felt sure Auld Bessa had spread the tides that months ago her lord father had fixed upon the Earl Challon as a good husband for his youngest daughter, and had sought an augury from their seer to confirm this. None doubted Evelynour’s visions. Her pronouncement that the Dragon’s coming was the will of the Auld Ones, and that he was Hadrian’s choice, saw Glenrogha’s people resigned to fate. Already, they accepted him as earl here.

  Challon strode along the boulevard, mouthing words to reassure the men. His air said he was unconcerned, as if he expected her people to obey him without question—even if there might be Scots on the other side of the wall. The innate authority he exuded, this sense of control, saw soldiers moved to his word without pause. They drew on his calm, his strength. He patted a squire on the arm, lending his praise and assurance. The young man smiled at his lord, adoration clear upon his countenance.