A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Tamlyn tried to tamp down her upset. “She was merely defending her home. That hardly earns a thrashing. Men who beat children have no honor, Sir.”

  The tall man of Challon gave her a grin. “I do believe there was special cause. ’Twas not her rebellious bent my brother was trying to curb, rather the choice of weapons she used. The messenger said Destain had intent to handle the rebellious maid gently until she tossed a chamber pot at him.”

  Tamlyn pressed her lips together to keep the laughter from escaping. “Oh, well, perhaps he had provocation.” She drew herself up to a stance proper for the chatelaine of her fortress. “Come, we shall speak more as I show you to your rooms.”

  ♦◊♦

  Worn to the bone, and more than a bit saddle-weary, Julian dropped into the lord’s chair. He wanted to see Tamlyn, to hold her, but the hour was late. Most likely, she was exhausted from the May Day preparations and caring for the wounded.

  He accepted the tankard of mead from the servant. “I give thanks.” So exhausted, he failed to take notice if the serf be male or female, before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

  “You be most welcome, Lord Challon. Shall I fetch you anything else?” A young man spoke. A page.

  “Nay.” Julian lifted his eyelids to watch the servants rushing around to see his men fed. The sight pleased him. ’Twas almost seamless, this fitting together of his men and Tamlyn’s folk. They worked together well and with purpose. To a stranger’s eye, they would judge all at peace.

  Damian stared at his cousin over the rim of the tankard. “Julian, has it drawn your notice how the villeins and serfs of Glen Shane accept you so easily as the new overlord here?”

  “Tamlyn’s approval sees this,” he answered evasively. Julian sighed, setting the tankard down, barely touched. He was tired—having not slept much last night due to Tamlyn’s constant wigglings.

  The day had been long, riding hard to catch up with the fleeing men. Pushing onward with little stopping, they had tracked the Scots rebels all the way to the other side of Lyonglen. There, the scouts lost all trace. They had simply vanished into the great mountains. It made him recall Tamlyn’s warning that Scots came and went with the mists. The rebels had moved on after pausing last night, likely trying to make it to Comyn territory. Still, Julian held concerns if that were truly the case. He had a small detachment break off, and circle around to flank them, in the advent the rebels were reversing, trying to catch them in a trap. Even so, there was nary a sight of the fleeing men. In the morn, he would send a detachment to ride the hills to assure they were not retracing their steps.

  He sighed, pondering if he would get any rest this night either. For the moment, he enjoyed the hot fire seeping into his bones. Age was showing, he knew. Years past, he could spend days in the saddle with little concerns. Now he ached to the marrow.

  “’Tis more.” Damian’s words brought Julian’s mind back to the present. His cousin’s pale eyes studied him with a predator’s intensity. “Are you awares rumors spread amongst the people here that The Shane had entered into negotiations with you and planned on wedding you to the Lady Tamlyn. Is this so?”’

  Julian rubbing his forehead, trying to banish the dull throb. “There be threads of truth to them, though mayhap someone stretches facts a bit. Auld Bessa carries the tales, I am betting.”

  “So, the crone speaks in verity then?” Damian pressed. “Never have you spoken of this to me.”

  Julian stretched and then yawned. “Let’s say ’tis no lie. The Shane approached me about coming for a visit to Kinmarch several months ago. With all that has happened, it slipped my mind. Since the baronesses were wed at that point, one can see where the track of his thoughts headed. Why do you ask?”

  Damian shrugged, his gaze dropping to the mug. He stared into the mead as if to scry answers hidden there. “I merely pondered if you had heard the whispers.”

  “I met the Red Laird several times at English Court. He spake of his love for this valley and his daughters, especially the youngest. Mayhap ’tis why I fixed my mind to marrying Tamlyn even before I laid eyes upon her. If Auld Bessa seeks to smooth my path by saying negotiations were in place, and it assures my acceptance with these Scots, then so be it.”

  Troubled, he studied his cousin. Damian had been in a peculiar mood since arriving, and only seemed to grow more reflective, so unlike the carefree knight he knew.

  Damian’s expression deepened. “I was never brought to the Highlands after my parents wed, because Lyonglen banished my lady mother for marrying a Norman knight. She loved this land and her heart missed it, so she oft spake of the Highlands and their ways. I recall her telling me of the women of Clan Ogilvie. I fear I know more about them than you. They are of Pict blood. They rule as a man, own lands, and have great sway on their councils. They cannot be forced to marriage. They have to give consent. You wouldst be going against ancient laws if you try.”

  Julian exhaled, losing control on his spiraling temper. “I know you set great store in these visions you say come from your mother’s Scottish blood. But I advise—nay, warn you—fix your mind elsewhere. Despite whatever dreams you had―where you see the face of a woman who looks like Tamlyn―you be mistaken. Heed my counsel—look for another answer to the question.” He pushed to his feet. “As sure as the sun rises in the morn—’tis not Tamlyn’s face you see. Tamlyn be mine. No man shall come between us.”

  Without sparing another word to his cousin, Julian spun on his heels and left the Great Hall.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ’S ioma latha fada gu Bealtainn.

  (There be many a long day until May Day.)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  When Julian entered the lord’s chambers, he pulled up. Tamlyn rested on her belly, sleeping deeply, so deeply she barely seemed to draw air. His breath caught and held, whilst his eyes drank in the sleek curves of her bare back. The plaide blanket covered her hips, whilst the mass of shimmering gold hair spilt over one shoulder. Blood surged in his exhausted body, and suddenly, he did not feel quite so tired.

  He carefully removed his sword and baldric so their clanking would not disturb her. With her constant squirmings last night, he doubted she found any more rest than he had.

  As he sat on the long bench, undressing, his gaze never left her still form. Her pagan beauty moved him in a way words failed to express. He just knew he needed her, that his life had been cold, so empty before her golden presence came to bless him.

  As Damian and he had grown, he had become aware his cousin oft experienced feelings—warnings—he could not explain. Especially clear in Julian’s memory was just a year ago in Wales. As they approached a pass, Damian unexpectedly reached over and yanked the reins on Pagan, bringing their mounts to halt. He insisted they rode into a trap. And oddly, he had been right. Flanking the passes, they outwitted the Welshmen lying in wait for them. There was no way Damian could have known. Later, with a shrug, his cousin had chalked it up to his mother’s Scottish blood.

  Now, Damian insisted that fey ability had conjured the face of the woman he would marry, and that face was Tamlyn’s. Julian had seen his cousin right too many times to doubt that Damian believed what he asserted. It was not Tamlyn. It could not be Tamlyn. Julian knew he would never let her go. Glenrogha and Tamlyn were his, and hold them tightly he would. Neither king nor cousin had better try to change that.

  His dark side spurred him to take her tonight, brand her body, inside and out. Claim Tamlyn, bind her to him so she would never leave him. With a mind muzzy from fatigue, he had trouble remembering why that was not the path to travel.

  After disrobing, he felt the penetrating chill in the chamber. In just his braies, he walked to the fireplace and added a brick of peat, still finding humor in that the Scots burnt dirt to stay warm. It caught quickly, flaring to life. The heavy earthy scent filled the chamber. Closing his eyes for several breaths, he stood inhaling the mysterious scent, and just listened to his heart thud out a plaint for Ta
mlyn.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Fool, stop thinking about the wench and go lie next to her, hold her,” he whispered to the shadows.

  Quick steps had him moving to the raised bed, and then carefully sliding under the covers. Oh, what he would not give to roll her over and push his throbbing flesh into that slick, warm heat of her body. A glow spread through him. He envisioned the many nights ahead, when after a long day of exhausting duty, he could come to bed and seek just that. Tamlyn waiting for him was heaven in his mind.

  Drawing a ragged breath, he scooted closer, needing Tamlyn’s nearness as he needed his next breath. Her scent hit his blood, a heady potion. Gently placing his hand on her back, he savored the coolness of her skin, its softness.

  He drew his shaking fingers down the column of her spine, hesitated when he reached the tartan. The darker side of his desires held sway, so he slowly edged the material away exposing her rounded derrière. His palm traced over the curve, and unlike her back, the flesh was warm. Unable to stop himself, he leaned against her and kissed her shoulder. She sighed, and then a small shudder rippled over her. She turned, arching into him. Seeking his body heat.

  And he had plenty to spare.

  Tamlyn had no idea just how hot he burned for her. The beautiful breasts tightened under the cool air of the room, the soft, sandy-colored areola ruching to where her nipples jutted high and taut. With the pad of his index finger, he faintly circled the dusky tip, watching it retract even more. Tamlyn was so responsive. Unable to resist, he slid down the bed, just enough to use his tongue in the same action.

  Her breath sucked in as her body bowed against his mouth, wanting more. His trembling hand sought the tip of the other breast, stroking, circling, then finally gave it a small tug and rolled it, as he greedily drew the first nipple into his mouth. He kept up that rhythmic pull on them both, her hoarse sighs rising in strength as craving seared through her body and mind.

  Male territorial instincts spiraled within him, provoking him to take what was his. Edward’s betrothal decreed she was his in all but deed. None would gainsay should he take her now and wave the bloody proof of her virginity as a pennon from the lord’s tower of Glenrogha. He wanted to claim her, first with his hands, then his mouth and tongue―wanted to lap at her scalding honey―then, he wanted to ride her hard, her under him, over him, up against the wall, mount her as a stallion did a mare…and a score other ways.

  “Yea, Challon, I…canno’…run from you,” came the faint breathy words. She was strangely trapped in dark dreams, where the heart was open, and truth and desire spoke.

  His heart slammed against his ribs at the avowed words, seizing them as a near salvation after doubts from Damian’s pronouncement had rooted in his mind. At first, Julian was puzzled by how lost she was to walking through her dreams, but he lifted her chin and brushed a soft kiss against her small mouth. She tasted of herbs, the flavor tart and sweet. Had she taken a potion? Mayhap ’twas the old crone’s doings. Locked in the tendrils of the philter, she slumbered in Morpheus’ realm. In spite of the lingering fear of enchantment, it thrilled him that her dreams were of him; it fed his hunger that she knew there was no escaping him.

  Bending his knee, he gently pushed his left thigh between hers, forcing it up against her female mound. Her thighs locked around his leg, rubbing against his like a cat. ’Twas nearly his undoing. He wanted to kiss her, kiss her until dawn. Slow and soft. Hard and ravenous. He wanted to kiss her as the first shafts of morning speared into the solar, watch her golden beauty under him, and then slip into her body. He envisioned her eyes opening as she awoke in the throes of a shattering release, recognized he owned her, and no man but him had right to touch her…ever.

  If he kissed her, the fantasy would be made real.

  Instead, he wrapped his arms about her body, pulled her tight against him, and helped her rock out her urgent need. A strangled cry escaped her throat, as the faint thrusting of her hips stilled. Leaning to Tamlyn, he lightly brushed his lips over hers, drinking in the moans of her crest, sharing it, and using all his restraint not to devour her mouth with the hunger clawing at his insides.

  Julian leaned back against the headboard, hugging her to his chest. He shook from the force within him, the blind yearning, unable to fathom all Tamlyn caused him to feel. In all his years, he had never required many things. He loved his brothers. Loved his father. And loved Damian as a brother. He needed his chargers to protect his life in battle. Yet, as he sat holding Tamlyn close, he could not recall ever needing anyone, that his happiness rested on the whims of another.

  But he did need Tamlyn.

  If he could not bind her to him, make her breathe for him as much as he needed her, he feared for that final shard of his sanity. He was a hard man—had to be to survive and live to this age. Only, he was so weary. He needed more than fighting, had to know his life counted for something other than an instrument to further Edward’s pale aims.

  He put his hand to the back of Tamlyn’s head, cradling it with a fierce possessiveness.

  Julian called himself fifty-seven kinds of a fool for placing so much hope on Tamlyn.

  He might be casting his lots, only to have all his dreams crushed.

  Feeling tears suddenly flooding his eyes, he panicked. By damn, this madness was overtaking him! He was a warrior, and not to be brought to his knees by a woman. Not this easily! He scooted Tamlyn aside and slid from the bed, embracing the anger.

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn roused slowly. She had dreamt of the black knight again, of the sacred pond, and how he had kissed her under the falling water. Every detail had been so real. This time, the dream did not end with the falls becoming flames, and the screaming of ravens, but moved past—to him claiming her on the muddy bank of the hallowed pool.

  Her body still pulsed with sensations, the brand of his possession.

  Challon had not returned by the time the evening meal had been ready. Over and over, she assured herself there was naught to fash about. He was safe. The taibhsearachd—second sight—had shown she was present when the attack upon him came. Since she remained locked within Glenrogha’s walls there was little chance of it happening. He would return. Still, the ever-present nagging had dogged her steps throughout the long and tiring day, ending with her head aching to the point she was sick. Auld Bessa recognized the distress and had appeared at her elbow to push another tansy at her.

  Not relishing the taste of the potions, her stomach rolled. She tried to shove it aside. Waking up on the following morn was so hard. “Nay, my head always fills as if ’tis stuffed full of wool come daybreak, and I always sleep too long.”

  “Sleep be what you need, lass.” The crone put the cup on the table before her. “Drink. ’Tis a different one. No’ so harsh on the tongue. Go ahead, stubborn wean. Bodies need healing rest. You needs must slumber in the lowest realm where dreams come to be. ’Tis your trial to face what be ahead. On the morrow, you wake resolute, and ready to deal with life’s troubles.”

  With grumbling reluctance, she downed the thick liquid. The mixture tasted of rose, lavender and heather. Too late, she detected the sweet, tart flavor of mandrake. “You feed me Mayapple?” Almost an accusation, the words came out slowly, as she could already feel the tansy starting to spread through her system. “What have you done, Bessa? I feel...strange.”

  “You have no’ found rest peacefully for a sennight. This nightfall you shall find that dark slumber of Annwn.”

  Blinking her eyes, she pushed to her feet, struggling to stand. Fighting against the effects of the herbs, she barely made it up the stairs to the chambers. It was with the greatest effort that she undressed and climbed into bed. Closing her eyes, she reached for the cover to pull it up over her since the chamber was cool. The plaide remained fisted in her hands at her hips.

  Within heartbeats the black knight came to her again, and he kissed her under the falls. Every detail had been so achingly real. The taste of his hot mouth, the contrast of
the coolness from the droplets of water. This time the dream went on, to him touching her, stroking her. Finally, he laid her down on the muddy banks of the sacred pool, and had taken her in a savage claiming.

  Giving her no quarter. She did not want one.

  Now, lying in the bed, her mind struggled to separate from the vision. Everything had felt so real that she was loath to let go of being there with him. Her body still vibrated with the hungry sensations, ached for him to possess her again. Reaching out, her hand stroked the bedding, surprised to discover it warm. Challon had returned in the night? She rubbed her nose against the coverlet and allowed his special scent to flood her mind, summoning all the profane, erotic images of her lovemaking with the warrior all in black. A wall of heat roared through her body, excruciating. Her breasts sensitive, a tightness in her womb clenched like a fist.

  Her eyes glanced about seeking Challon, wondering where he had gone. Had he left already?

  Grey light filtering into the chamber from the solar told her dawnbreak neared. She listened for sounds or stirrings. All was quiet, yet somehow, she sensed Challon’s presence. Sliding from the bed, she wrapped the soft ruana around her, and on silent feet padded into the other room.

  Tamlyn paused under the solar’s archway. Effects of the potion still eddying within her, she blinked, trying to adjust to the brilliance of the rising sun. The light was almost painful to her eyes. Damn Bessa and her strange concoctions!

  Then, in the halo of the morn’s rosy radiance, she spotted him. Challon stood motionless, a silhouette against the stained-glass window. The Kenning roared to life within her, as a wave of sadness brushed against her mind. Oddly, she sensed a troubling chaos. His emotions clashed violently—anger, pain and crippling need. She almost sucked in a breath as she felt the anger was directed at her. Everything was too jumbled for her to discern what was tearing at his soul. Tamlyn wondered, mayhap, if he was recalling his brother, Christian. She wanted to go to him, hold him. Offer this man solace he so desperately needed.