A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Straightening her spine, she crossed the room and approached the earl. Tamlyn tried to hide the quaking inside. ’Twas not precisely fear. Each time she was near him a strange vibration filled her, as though dozens of ravens fluttered their wings inside her chest. The sensation made it hard to draw breath. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist to prevent him from seeing she trembled.

  Challon sat almost sideways in the chair, with one leg hanging over the arm, a careless pose, as he sat drinking from the goblet of mead. A short time ago, he had been speaking with his squires, Gervase and Vincent, but they had withdrawn. Ever since, he had been staring intently into the fire, as though he concentrated his thoughts upon a problem. He glanced up as she stopped before him. It was hard to read his feelings, because her inner turmoil rattled her focus of The Kenning. The firelight played over his handsome face, making her nearly forget why she came.

  “Your cousin’s men will heal. They rest peaceful with Bessa’s tansy soothing their pains.” She nearly stammered out.

  When he just stared at her with that irritating mask of sangfroid, she wanted to kick his booted feet. His stillness was unnerving. He made no move to reply, and it goaded her temper that he kept her standing there. Everyone watching. She kenned what he did: letting all take note that she came to him. When he continued to watch her, unmoving and saying not a word, she gave a nod and started to turn away.

  “My lady,” he called, halting her. He waited until Tamlyn turned back. When she did, he held out his hand for her to take.

  “’Tis been a long day. I wish to retire,” she explained. What she truly wished, was to touch him. She could so easily envision her hand reaching out to caress the side of his face, to brush the curls off his forehead.

  Her amber eyes flashed a banked anger, telling him she knew precisely what he was doing. Also, warning there was a limit, and he was fast approaching that point. It took every thread of her resolve to remain placid in the face of his need to demonstrate his dominance. Her inner voice spake this was not only a show before their people, but a test between them. Julian Challon was a master at hiding his emotions. Nonetheless, even in this short space of being around him, she had started to sense the workings of his mind. Challon wanted a clear display of her compliance, so none mistook the import of her bowing to him as lord of Glenrogha.

  Defiance flared white-hot within her. Not even her lord father would dare such a spectacle of controlling her will. For once, she used her mind, not her pride to react. Very well, she bestowed this yielding. She sensed tension in Julian, fear she would be too willful to make compromise. That eased when she took the steps back to him, and placed her hand in his upturned one.

  “You worked hard to see Damian’s men at ease and tended. I give thanks.” His long fingers tightened about hers, and he used the hold to pull her nearer so she stood, her knee brushing against the side of his outstretched thigh. “You fare well?”

  “Aye, just a wee bit exhausted...so I wish to retire and seek my slumber.”

  His glittering green eyes bespelled Tamlyn. They roved over her face, and then down her body and back. She nearly smiled when the cool disdain shifted to heat at the idea of her going to bed. Yes, she was coming to see there were ways to control a man.

  “’Tis well you do so. Bid my squire to bank the fire in our chambers. I shall join you shortly.” Once again, he used his hold to tug her close, so his mouth could brush the knuckles of her fingers.

  At the touch of his lips, a deep shiver crawled over Tamlyn’s skin. Oh, aye, there were means to control a man. But she had to ponder if there were not ways to control a woman as well.

  ♦◊♦

  Unbuckling his belt, Julian pretended not to notice Tamlyn. She shifted, restless in the far corner of the bed, the tartan drawn to her chest. Pretending ignorance of Tamlyn was not an easy task. She watched him undress and then slide into bed. He felt her eyes roving over his naked form. Knew what she found in him pleased her.

  This night was different between them. She knew it. He knew it.

  No longer confined to the room by the presence of guards standing watch, she was no longer a prisoner. Yea, Moffet’s pallet rested just outside, but ’twas hardly the same. This night was the first time she had a choice. She came to his bed and stayed. Easily, Tamlyn could have put forth excuse she needed to stay belowstairs and care for the injured men. He smiled, pleased, she had elected not to hide behind that lie.

  He was coming to see many things to admire in Tamlyn. She had the spirit of a warrior. While that vexed him in his dealings with her currently, ’twas a trait that would breed strong sons. He sensed she had little use for games, and possessed a bone deep honesty he had rarely seen in women at court. There was an openness to her emotions, which permitted him to be so in tune with her mind’s workings. As they came to know each other, built a life together, this bond would strengthen.

  Lying back, he smiled in the darkness. How could one woman affect his senses, his hopes so much? Still, there would be obstacles to cross.

  “Tamlyn,” he snapped, tucking one hand behind his head, “lie down and stop hiding in the corner like I am going to eat you in one bite.”

  She huffed. “Is that not what dragons do to fair maids? Eat them in one bite?”

  He groaned at the choice of words. He doubted Tamlyn understood the torment they conjured, the jest setting a different image in his mind. His body throbbed to life, screaming a plaint of how much he needed to find a physical release with this woman.

  Nevertheless, he was determined to do this right. Even if it killed him.

  He would grant her time to adjust to him becoming her lord husband. He was a stranger, the invader, the man who had made prisoner of a father she adored. No matter how painful holding back would be, he was determined to do it for her sake.

  Mayhap upon their wedding night, his lady would look upon him with wanting, not just compliance. The priest had spake he would perform the ceremony a fortnight after May Day. He and Tamlyn could use the time to speak to each other’s minds.

  Provided it did not drive him insane.

  She wiggled again.

  “Tamlyn...” he growled warning.

  “Challon, are you all right? You sound in pain.” She scooted over to place her ice-cold hand on his upper abdomen.

  His body jumped in reaction―from her touch on him when he burned with fever for her―but more so from that icy hand. “God’s teeth, woman, your hand—”

  “Beg pardon, my lord, my hands get cold when I be uneasy.” She did not remove it though. Instead, her fingers slowly caressed the ripple of muscles that corded his belly.

  His groin bucked hard in reaction. “Really? Never would I have guessed such.” He closed his eyes, struggling against the overwhelming power surging within him.

  “Touching you is touching fire,” she whispered in awe.

  Even in the dimness, he could see tears in her eyes. He reached up and swiped one away as it fell. Instead of dropping his hand, he held it there, his thumb brushing the softness of her cheek. Feeling…he was not sure how to reason what filled his heart. It was a haunting sense of something new and precious found, and yet, as if the gesture was one he had done before. This odd stirring unsettled him, confused him.

  Under other circumstances, he would have relished her putting her hands―even cold ones―on his body. While it took the last shreds of his reason to keep from flipping her over onto her back, and thrusting his body into hers―showing her just how hot he could burn―he sensed Tamlyn needed more. She needed reassurance. She needed to know he honored her.

  “Lie down, wench.” Oh please, lie down before I get up and pound my head against the stone wall.

  She did, but her hand remained on him. For a breath, he thought he could control the driving urge, but then she wiggled again, scooting closer.

  “My hand feels so warm touching you. When I get cold like this, ’tis hard to rid the iciness. I shiver half the night. Would you mi
nd if I put my other hand―”

  Julian moved so fast Tamlyn barely had time to blink. He rolled over on his bent elbow and yanked her down on the bed next to him. Giving her a stern frown, he pulled the wool cover over them. “Not another word. Be still. Try to sleep. Or I shall have your maidservant come in here and sew us in.”

  “But I―” The words were muffled since he had pulled the cover up to her nose.

  “Wench, close your mouth or I shall stuff my glove in it.” His chest vibrated with the suppressed chuckle.

  She poked her face above the covers, then rose up on an elbow to judge his expression. “You always bark orders.”

  He sat back up to glare at her, almost nose-to-nose. “And you disobey them.” Putting a hand on her shoulder, he pushed her back to the bed. “Now obey me and sleep, before I get angry.”

  Silence filled the chambers. She did not stir again. Thankfully. Gritting his teeth, he battled his frustrated mating drive. His heart thundered out a tattoo of need that increased more with each breath, each ghostly caress of her special scent. If they would just remain still, mayhap his body would cool and listen to his mind. Possibly…in a hundred years.

  As he thought reason might rule again, she moved. First one foot, accidentally brushing against his calf as she straightened out her leg. God’s breath, her foot was as cold as her hands! Liking her personal foot warmer, she slowly—in hopes not to draw his notice—slid the other one under his calves, too. Then, she tried to roll so she was not lying on her left arm. She shifted again, then again, seeking the comfortable place to put it between them. Next came her hips, brushing against the side of his. Damn female, did she not understand the ordeal she inflicted upon him?

  “Tamlyn, if you place value on having a sane man for a husband…stop wiggling!” he snarled, but a laugh exploded on the end of the statement.

  “The Dragon be a grouchy beastie. Mayhap you have a toothache.”

  Frustration shredded control to the very pale. “Aye, I have an ache, but ’tis much lower.”

  “You do seem to be running a fever...” She rubbed her face against his bare upper arm.

  “Fever? Oh, aye, I have a fever.”

  Tamlyn sprang up on her knees. “Have you a wound? Fever comes if the pus rises.”

  “Something rises, Tamlyn—’tis not pus.”

  Sheer agony wracked him, as Tamlyn leaned over him to check his body for a wound he did not have. By damn, there was only so much he could stand! He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her to face him. For several breaths, their eyes locked―his in the heat of his thwarted need to take her, her golden ones in surprise.

  “Do not move nor wiggle,” he ordered. Her mead-sweetened breath fanned out in short gaspy sighs, nearly sending him over the edge. “Here is what we shall do. Lie down. No squirmings. You will close your cat-eyes and go to sleep or―”

  “Or what, Challon?” She blinked in curiosity.

  “Or we shan’t sleep a’tall,” he threatened. Nay, promised.

  “Ohhhhh...” she whispered, understanding sinking in.

  His mouth eased into a half smile. “One way to phrase it.”

  Comprehension became a query, her eyes probing. ’Twas almost as if she were trying to see into his mind. The sensation made him uncomfortable.

  “Why, Challon?”

  “You need time,” he stated simply. “There be much still unsettled between us. I know you have not accustomed your mind and will to this change. I would give you time to know me before pushing the marriage. Howbeit, Edward shan’t grant us that grace. So I bestow you the space until the wedding, honor you in this fashion.”

  There was a connection between them, a bond so strong it caused so many—too many—feelings. They threatened to swamp him. After Christian’s death he merely existed. He felt nothing, just a sense of emptiness. In some ways, he welcomed that hollowness inside him. It was easier to function day-to-day, not caring beyond the basic needs to survive. With spring’s return, something intangible stirred inside him, as if his emotions had hibernated through the cold dead of winter. Now, it was time to leave that shell. To live again. As his spirit awakened, it called out, starving for these lackings so devoid in his life.

  Perchance it came hand-in-hand with his growing old. He was no longer a young man with his whole life ahead of him. The time had come for him to build a future, leave something of himself to survive his passing. He wanted it with a mind-devouring hunger.

  Julian had seen the face of hunger. Men or women so long without food, with big eyes and gaunt bodies. If offered a feast they would have gorged themselves, only to find they sickened. Their bellies had shriveled from famine and could not stretch enough to accommodate the meal.

  Julian feared his heart was similarly shriveled. Tamlyn brought feelings to him, filling his heart to overfull. Though it tried to expand to create room for all these new emotions, ’twas almost too raw for him to endure. He, too, needed time.

  “Go to sleep, Tamlyn, before I truss you up and put my glove to use.” When she sat staring at him with those haunting eyes, he stirred, catching Tamlyn off guard. Tucking her under the blanket, this time he turned on his side with his back to her.

  Tamlyn must have believed his threat. She remained quiet. The peat fire died to a smolder in the solar, and coolness crept into the room. He forced his breathing to slow, pretending he had fallen asleep.

  As the chill increased, Tamlyn scooted close in soft movements, trying not to awaken him. Her hands were cold again. So were her feet. Silly female, so cold it was uncomfortable. It took all his warrior’s will to continue the sham of slumber when she placed them on him. One hand against his back the other on his waist. Then those ice chunks of feet pushed between his calves. When he did not stir, she shifted even closer, until he felt the full of her body, spooned against his.

  Slowly, her shivering lessened. She seemed to settle now that she stole his body heat. With a yawn and a sigh, she mumbled, “A dragon be better than a warming pan.”

  “Go to sleep, Tamlyn.”

  Her head nestled against his shoulder. “Aye, Challon.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gabhaidh an connadh fliuch, ach cha grabh a’ chlach.

  (Wet fuel will burn, but stones will no’)

  — Auld Scottish Adage

  The strident clanking of metal against metal broke Tamlyn’s serene slumber, as the first shards of dawn’s light crept into the solar.

  Still drowsy, she rolled onto her stomach and stretched. Challon was gone. Her hand slid over the bedding to where his warmth lingered. Tamlyn rubbed her cheek against the covers, a smile forming her mouth as she inhaled the heady, earthy smell that whispered his name. She had slept but a few winks, yet she felt so content. Never could her mind recall her bed having been so cozy. His fire, his scent, had wrapped around her, tormenting her, tempting her throughout the night. And like a cat curled before a fireplace, she had molded her body close to his and greedily soaked up that warrior radiance. All winter long she had slept shivering, her feet and hands always so cold that it was oft hard to find rest. Last night, his heat seemed to sink bone deep.

  If she were a bold, sinful lass, she would have followed through on the profane images swirling through her mind. Her hands on the Dragon, tracing the smooth skin over steel muscles. Or, putting her mouth against that strong column of his spine. Instead, she had lain awake and thought long on everything that had happened since his coming, of all she had learnt of this man. Of course, her mind conjured images of what it might’ve been like had he come to Glen Shane when her lord father had proposed. Just wishful dreams, not The Kenning. Sometimes, her gift allowed her to see into others’ thoughts, or things that had already happened to them. More perplexing and harder to understand were the shards of what was yet to come. The dream of the waterfall felt oddly different. Almost as if she had lived it before—lived it with Challon.

  Whispers, followed by more metal sounds, told her that his squire helped Lord Chal
lon don his heavy habergeon and plate. ’Twas not enough that she must grow used to one man being in her chambers, she needs must accustom herself to the comings and goings of his three squires as well.

  She stifled a yawn and struggled to awaken. If he was being fitted in battle garb, he was going outside the wall to hunt the men who had attacked Lord Ravenhawke’s party.

  Light coming in from the solar was blocked as Challon moved toward the bed. It shifted under his weight. He was dressed in the heavy black mail with the aketon underneath. The ringed metal was cold to her touch as she laid her hand upon him.

  “Beg pardon, my lady, I did not mean to break your sleep,” he spoke in hushed tones. “’Tis early still. You should rest.”

  “You wear mail,” her fingers lingering on the cool metal, she voiced her sudden fear.

  “We ride to hunt down those who attacked my cousin and his men,” he stated with a finality that brought a shudder to crawl across her skin.

  Last night, she had witnessed close up the damage done to flesh and bone by man’s weapons of war. “Scots have their own manner of fighting, my lord. They ken their forces are untrained, and most oft lack the numbers of the English. Instead, they use these hills and the mists to attack. They can be upon you afore you ken. And just as suddenly, melt back into the haar like they were never there. My lord father spake of this to me.”

  He nodded. “Damian told me of his attack. I shall be prudent. Through my years, I have fought in different countries. Each has their peculiarities.” Pressing his hand over hers, where it rested against his mailed chest, he asked, “Do I perceive concern in your voice, Tamlyn?”

  She heard the hope in his question. First impulse was to deny this. His coming into her life had been too easy for him. Her acceptance too easy. Almost as if it were meant to be. She saw little use in games, still she only handed him a half victory. “I discovered a dragon be better than a warming pan. My cold feet thank you, my lord.”

  His laugh was very low, and vibrated under her hand’s caress. “I suppose that will have to do for the nonce. I must go.”