A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Two tin pipes played a slow, haunting tune as Tamlyn rose up on her bare toes. She swayed, rocking to the accent of the drum, the heavy, throbbing beat of the bodhrán, providing cadence for the wanton roll of her hips. When the music swelled, the bagpipes joined in. Her body undulated in a dance so carnal, so profane, that a crippling wave of lust seized Julian’s whole being. Flames of desire roared through him. The pain tripled as Tamlyn began her dance, circling the fire, her lithe. Her sensual movements gained force, matching the power of the melody, as she kicked her legs out, spun, arched and leaped. She flung the net about, trailing behind her so it appeared she had wings.

  Julian stared. Awestruck. Entranced. The pounding of his heart echoed the bodhrán; his blood thickening until the drum set the rhythm of his heart. She held him spellbound, breathless. He was unable to take his eyes from her as she danced on air, lifted by the strange music. A music that had a life all its own.

  The tall Highlander stepped back into the light, swinging the claymore again. Tamlyn spun around him, and almost in pantomime he followed her, his circle turning inside of hers until they finally came face-to-face. The music lowered as the pair slowly began to move in unison, the sword and the net symbolically working as counterpoints in the blatantly sexual dance. Tension of the watchers rose, the crowd drinking in the wantonness exuded by the athletic pair. The very air was laden, thrummed with the erotic heat conjured by the earthy man and woman. The dancing drew them closer, Tamlyn’s body arching toward the Highlander, each feeding off the radiant sexuality of the other. Voices here and there began to hum the music, adding to the potent brew of this magical spell.

  A fine sheen of perspiration coated Tamlyn’s golden skin. She glowed with an inner light.

  And the force with which Julian wanted her nearly drove him to his knees.

  Julian’s possessiveness howled. No man should dare dance in such a manner with his lady. He took a step toward them, but Guillaume grabbed his arm to stay him. Shaking his head, his brother silently saying, do not interfere.

  Once again, the music lowered, and three other couples entered the circle of light, their sinuous movements mimicking Tamlyn and the Highlander. All eight pranced around the fire, swaying, almost touching at times, only to have the females twirl away playfully, taunting the males to follow their lead. Three more pairs joined the mating dance―for Julian could call it nothing else—provoking the whole crowd to feast off the high intensity of sexual emotion created by the enthralling dancers.

  They revolved around and around the fire, yet almost seemed a part of it. The whole scene binding his senses.

  Julian could only see Tamlyn.

  The other dancers were vague, faceless figures, mere shadows moving about Tamlyn’s golden presence. He burned for her. Jealousy ripped through him with talons every time the Highlander accidentally brushed his arm against hers. Each time Tamlyn looked into the man’s eyes. Julian would have marched over, claimed the woman that was his. Only, Guillaume’s cautioning hold bid him not to interfere. Emotions were so violent within him it nearly saw him nauseous, kept only at bay by the overpowering lust, lust so ravenous he never felt the like before.

  Each time the pairs circled, three more joined the swaying and spinning, until they numbered three circles of thirteen couples. They wove, first the men around the women, then the females circling the males. Teasing. Luring.

  And it was slowly killing Julian

  The music rose, driving the dancers onward. Then, it would fall again and slow as the couples drew closer together.

  Rage and lust surged through him to the point of blindness. He flung Guillaume’s hand away and stalked into the circle of blue light.

  ♦◊♦

  The music dropped and then swelled to crest again, sending Tamlyn spiraling away from the man who was their living king-god. The tune lifted Tamlyn, carrying her along, but some element was not right. Still she danced, feverishly, sensually, obeying the refrain and the pulse of the bodhrán. Still, her body pined for something, demanded of her.

  She had danced as the May Queen before. Never had it affected her in this manner. Her body throbbed with need, the pressure increasing. With dizzying force she twirled, casting the netting behind her as a warrior’s pennon.

  Suddenly, the netting seemed to catch. A hard jerk yanked her around, causing her to

  slam into the hard wall of a body. Disorientated, barely able to breathe, she stared into the chest covered in black. Slowly her eyes lifted to the burning green eyes.

  Challon.

  Her chest rose and fell, heaving from the exertion, but also from his nearness.

  Yes...oh, yes…this is what her body craved.

  Then she knew. The Kenning spoke she danced for him this night. Ached for him to come out and join in her as the true Lord of the Glen. Pressure within her increased, in her breasts, in the part of her a husband would claim. She blinked several times at the power exuded by this dark warrior, wondering which emotions were the strongest in him. Anger? Jealousy? Desire? Did his need match what pulsed in her? Would that control his actions? Would Challon dance with her and summon the powers of this special night?

  Her mouth crooked at the right corner. She decided to test if the Dragon would play. She took two steps preparing to spin away, but Challon used his hold on the netting to reel her back, forcing her to arch into him. Their bodies so close, their mouths almost touching so they shared each other’s breaths, she began to rock to and fro, seeing if he picked up the rhythm.

  Slowly, he did. Tentative at first, but his hips rocked against her with surer movements, as the bodhrán spoke to his blood. She turned, walking around him so they nearly touched, rubbing her back against his. He followed, woodenly the first time, his eyes never leaving her. As they continued dancing circles around the other, he soon mirrored her steps—as if he had done this a hundred times before. The music rose, pushing them onward, their sexual need grinding harder as their bodies rocked together. Their movements matched, he followed her making it a true mating dance.

  Voices joined with the music’s crescendo in near exaltation, proclaiming the rightness of what they were witnessing—the clan seeing their May Queen accepting the Lord of the Glen in rites that meant life, meant the clan would endure strong and healthy.

  The melody slowed, but the voices rose, chanting, some male murmuring yea…yea…oh yea, while others were a mere feminine sigh… as Challon swung the net around her and used it to drag her closer, until she was hard against him. The deep breaths pushed her breasts against his chest. The thinness of her kirtle did little to shield her from his arousal. Releasing his hold on the netting, his hands slid up and down her hips.

  Unexpectedly, Challon seized her about the waist, lifted her high, spinning around and around, carried on the music and the elation of the people watching. He gradually slowed, the dizziness paled to the windswept emotions storming through Tamlyn. Challon let her slide against his body, down to the ground, the friction both agony and ecstasy.

  Tamlyn never felt stronger, more empowered. Never felt weaker. She wanted to provoke him. She wanted to surrender. She wanted their bodies joined as one.

  Had the music stopped, or had she just ceased to hear it? All she could do was stare into the dragon green eyes. Drown in them. This man was her destiny. Nothing else mattered. He removed the netting from her grasp and then dropped it.

  Shaking, Challon took her face in both hands. The hunger in his eyes rippled, tangible. So strong, it nearly robbed her of breath. With a need, tempered with reverence, he took her mouth with his. Lightly at first. Then deeper, more desperate, more demanding. The primitive male need to mate unleashed. Beneath it all was his need for her. In ways, she knew he did not begin to understand.

  She smiled. He would.

  Lost in the power, Tamlyn was not aware of the hundreds of other people around them or their celebrating. To her the world stood still, narrowed, until there was nothing but the star-filled night.

 
And Challon.

  The cries of people from both clans filled the night air, and their dancing around them grew more frantic, expressing the joy at the bonding of these two people. A good omen for the glen. Some whispered they witnessed something very rare—of a love that was timeless, a love that had been before. How ages ago, another woman and a warrior danced on this high tòrr before the Beltaine balefire on a night such as this. The Elders recognized their coming again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Run do chridhe air do chuisle!

  (May your pulse beat as your heart wisheth)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  Julian trailed after Tamlyn, allowing her to lead.

  He was like a cat: drop him and he would always land on his feet. Yet, as Tamlyn took his hand in hers, he followed until his sense of which direction completely disappeared. She guided him away from the gathering on the tòrr. Their path spiraled down the hillside, the music growing softer, fainter, as did the laughter echoing through the dark night. For a bit, he thought she was taking him back to Glenrogha, but then she turned the opposite way, and headed deeper into the darkness. It was only when they paused, and the heady scent of apple blossoms filled his head, did he realize she had drawn him back to the orchard of the Silver Bough.

  She paused, leaning against him as if seeking his warmth.

  “Here—” He reached up with his free hand to the catch on his mantle, “you must feel the night’s chill.”

  Tamlyn’s laughter was low, so faint it seemed to drift away on the warm breeze. “Nay, the night be soft, my lord.” The tug of her hand spoke she wanted him to come.

  As the air swirled around him, he suddenly felt the difference. It was much warmer here, much warmer. Julian glanced up to see they stood under the natural arch formed by the two ancient apple trees, the entrance to the Sacred Grove. He hesitated. Too clearly, he recalled how the grove had not welcomed his presence this morn. The orchard had held him outside the entrance, reminding him he was male and thus not a part of this female bastion.

  He studied the lay of the land, how the hills rose sharply on either side of this mound. He wondered, when this grove was created ages ago was it laid out on purpose, or had the power of the land moved Tamlyn’s ancestors to plant the two apple trees at this precise spot. Their limbs intertwined through the centuries becoming as one to create the arch into the Grove of the Silver Bough. The entrance to the body of the glen.

  The balmy draft stirred through the apple trees, and like a living being rushed out to welcome him. For as he felt warded from entering this morn, he now sensed the grove embraced him, opened itself to his male presence. Maybe it was this strange night affecting his thoughts, but he now grasped the Scots beliefs in the May Queen and the Lord of the Glen. There was something very feminine about the dawn, the gentleness of morn with its pale colors, but then the night came, and with it the dark sensuality of the male side of nature. The grove offered him acceptance now, because he had opened himself to be a part of the force of life, part of the balance.

  How odd. In this moment, England and Wales felt very far away, as if none of that mattered to him any longer. He was no longer a part of that world. He allowed the sweet, redolent scent and the warm air swirl to around him, intoxicating him with this sense of belonging to this land. In a spinning sense—a blend of reality or fantasy—the ritual of the stag-man played through his mind. He understood the connection. Why the Scotsman had stood before him. As the images rolled through his thoughts, Julian saw the man jumping through flames, reborn. Only this time, it was with his own face.

  As he moved under the arch of the apple trees, he felt the whole world shift. Mayhap it was the moorings on his sanity rocking loose, but suddenly, the night, the land, the orchard, Tamlyn and he were in sum more than the individual parts.

  As if all this played out before.

  “Come…” she whispered.

  Julian smiled. Now that they were away from the great fire, his eyes were adjusting to the darkness. In spite of her drawing him deeper into the grove, his vision was stronger...his eyes drinking in the image of her in the golden gown that was nearly see-through in the moonlight. Tamlyn was a golden witch ensnarling his mind.

  “Where are you taking me,” he asked, not really caring. Not following her never entered his mind.

  “You will see.”

  Apple petals fluttered in the breeze, raining down upon them. Off in the distance, he heard the light tinkling of bells. Just as he had this morn. Every element felt mystical, as if some power rose from this spot in the earth. All in his life now seemed naught but guideposts leading him to Tamlyn and Glenrogha. He drank in the scent of the earth and the apple blossoms, he felt the force moving through him, renewing, healing.

  Glenrogha. He knew glen meant valley. “Tamlyn, what does rogha mean?”

  She paused, and looked back at him, smiling in the moonlight. “Choice...best, if you prefer.”

  He had heard her people speak of Tamlyn as the Chosen Daughter of Glenrogha―the chosen valley. The best valley.

  The warrior in him should feel exposed, moving away from the crowd and into the darkness. The hills still might harbor some of the lingerers from Clan Comyn. He had luck in that Clans Ogilvie and Shane harbored deep resentments toward the northern clan. Also, his path was made easier due to the fact this isolated glen was so far removed from the rest of the realm. Thankfully, they had never witnessed the horrors of war. So far, the people of the two glens seemed to accept him, welcomed his presences in Tamlyn’s life. Nonetheless, he knew it only took one or two malcontents to cause trouble.

  In spite of the normal wariness of his warrior mien, he sensed peace and safety in this grove, and was pleased Tamlyn had brought him.

  He tugged on her hand to slow her down. “Why have you led me here, Tamlyn?”

  She turned back, the shadows wrapping around her. “To show you my tree. This way.”

  “Your tree?” he echoed.

  “Aye, my lady mother planted the seed for my tree on May Day a score and six years ago.”

  She paused, going to a nearby tree. Putting her arms around the silver trunk, she hugged it. “This be her tree―planted on the day she was conceived. Sadly, it no longer produces apples, but Hadrian will no’ let it be marked for sacrifice. The blossoms stopped flowering after she died. My father tells he took her under its boughs on Beltaine, and the passing of nine moons later, I arrived.”

  Once more, she took his hand and drew him farther into the orchard, finally coming to a stop near the end of one row.

  “This is your tree?” he asked.

  “Aye, planted by my lady mother. As I planted one earlier this day.”

  Julian’s body pulsed in a dull throb. The music from the tòrr filtered down to the orchard, making him recall how she had danced with him before the balefire. The low pounding beat of the bodhrán throbbed in his blood. “I should be wary of us being away from the crowd. Stragglers that attacked Damian and his men might still lurk near. Yet...”

  “Yet?”

  “’Tis most peculiar.” He reached for the words to make her understand his confusion. “I feel protected here within this grove.”

  “You are safe in this orchard.”

  He pulled on her to make her stop. “You sound very sure of this. Why is that?”

  “None shall find their way into Glen Shane this night. The Sacred Mists will strengthen and protect us.”

  “What mean you? I have heard others speak of the mists protecting this valley.”

  Tamlyn hesitated, and then finally spoke. “I wonder if you and your Norman beliefs will truly understand. The mists of Glen Shane were a warding set long ago by the Daughter of Anne, the first Lady of the Glen. They protect us. Our passes remain hidden by the fog so none may see the entrance. For centuries, no invaders put foot on the soil in this valley.” Unable to meet his questioning stare, she turned away.

  Julian granted her no quarter. He had heard the whispers. Grabbing her
upper arm, he gently pulled her back to face him. “I saw the passes.”

  She stared up into his face, her answer barely a whisper. “The Auld Ones willed it so.”

  “Your gods allowed me into come to valley?” Julian paused, wanted her to admit it. “I saw the mists swirl, then lift so the passes were revealed to my eyes.”

  “The skeins of life spinning, weaving our fates.”

  “I felt...my heart felt...a sense of coming home.” In a soft voice, he queried, “How can that be? All that has come before seems so distant...as if nothing else matters, that I belong to this land. A land I have never seen before. How, Tamlyn?”

  A tear glistened in her eye, but he would not permit her retreat. He still held her, just above the elbow. The first finger of his right hand curled under her chin and lifted it, so she was forced to meet his eyes. “How, Tamlyn. Tell me?”

  Her lip quivered, as she drew in a shaky breath. “Your mind be guided by the kirk. You will no’ wish to hear our heathen ways.”

  “Tell me. This night I find myself believing in many things.” He reached out to cup the side of her head.

  “You have been here before…long ago―”

  “Nay, I would remember if I came to Glen Shane before. Never could I have met you and forgotten.” He took a step closer, compelled by the glittering tears in those haunting eyes.

  A weak smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You have forgotten me, Julian. My mind...my dreams...recalls you. You came, riding on a black steed. You wore black mail―”

  “Never. I say never.” His thumb traced over her chin, feeling the hint of a clef. “Never could I forget you, Tamlyn.”

  “’Tis so. Why think you the people of the glen accept you so readily? They are brave. They would fight for their lands, their home.”

  “My troops are too many―”

  “My people be Scots. Not mooncalf enough to face your English might on a field of battle, they would come from the mists, strike at your weakest points, your flanks, pick at your troops like a carrion bird on a carcass. When you gave chase, they would vanish into the fog and shroud themselves from your eyes. Instead, they accept your coming. My lord father recognized you. He sought Evelynour’s foretellings and she spake you were him come again.”