A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  “I have heard some of these rumors. I assumed Auld Bessa spread these tales to help you.”

  “Not tales...a prophecy. A dark warrior came to this valley. His name was Fitheach—Raven—a warrior-king. He took the Daughter of Anne to wife. ’Tis why the Auld Ones showed you the way into our valley.”

  He felt the fine tremors wracking her body. He stepped closer, not in intimidation, but in succor. “Shhh...why do you tremble so, Tamlyn?” His reason told him this was naught more than a dream spun of Highland mists, but one he could use to bind her to him.

  Then why did his soul hunger to believe her words?

  His mind cast back, how his scouts had hunted for the entrance from Kinmarch, which led into Glen Shane, searching for nearly half a day. Finally, he had grown exasperated with their failure. He had spurred Lasher away from the troops. No sooner than he had ridden a few rods, the mist became so thick that it swallowed his soldiers and heavy horse behind him. For a space, time seemed to bend in upon itself, and he seemed so alone.

  Except for the cries of ravens.

  Their cacophony grew louder, almost deafening, causing Lasher to shy. He had trouble making the charger move forward. The horse refused to obey the signals of his knees, and was sweating and showing clear signs of fear.

  Suddenly, the mist swirled and slowly lifted, showing he stood at the mouth of the passes to Glen Shane.

  He leaned toward her, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “If your gods will it, who am I―a mere mortal―to defy them? By the same token, my lady, you must be bound by their will as well.”

  A tear slipped over her cheek and he caught it with his lips, drinking in the healing nectar.

  Tamlyn trembled against him. Her hands grasping his upper arms, her fingers digging into his muscles. He had an idea she had brought him here for more than to show him her tree. Yet, the skittishness told him she was still frightened of being with him.

  He forced himself to pull back and set her from him. “We need to go back to the tòrr, Tamlyn.”

  Her face reflected her confusion in the moonlight. “I…I thought―”

  “Tamlyn, soon we will wed. Then, as your lord husband I shall claim you. ’Tis not that I do not want you. You know I do. But I told you, I grant you the time until the wedding.”

  She lowered her head shyly, but then reached out to touch his chest lightly with her fingertips. “What if I do not want to wait, Julian? Some things are just meant to be.”

  The breeze shifted, carrying notes of the pagan music, floating down to them. The throb of the drum beat out a tattoo that seized his heart, almost beating for it. Tamlyn tossed back her hair, a feline smile curving her small, full mouth. Picking up the beat of the bodhrán, she rolled her hips, her whole body rocking to the sensual melody.

  Tamlyn swayed toward him, brushing her body against his, rubbing with a friction that sent heat through his muscles, spreading as if Greek fire exploded within him. Breathless, held in her thrall, lust spiraled in him, seizing his body, his mind. Putting her hands on his hips, she swayed against him, encouraging him to pick up her rhythm. Arching on her toes, she brought her mouth to his in a slow, light kiss, dragging her lips over his. Vaguely, he grew aware her hands tugged at the chain across his upper chest, unhooking the fastener so his mantle fell away from his shoulders. Its inky blackness splashed across the white blossoms under the tree. He stared, again thinking of the symbolism of the two colors.

  Tamlyn was right. This was meant to be. Somehow, it seemed fated that he should take Tamlyn on a bed of apple blossoms and his midnight mantle.

  It registered in his mind, her hands unbuckled his baldric. As it separated, they both moved quickly to catch the sword before it hit the ground. His eyes locked with her witchy greymalkin orbs, as Tamlyn pulled back with the sheath.

  As his hands remain around the pommel, an image flooded his memory of Tamlyn dancing with the Highlander. The Scotsman had driven the sword into the earth. How that act nearly crowded his mind to madness. For a long instant, they remained transfixed, the music curling around them. Sensing what she wanted of him, Julian raised and then plunged the sword into the ground beside the mantle.

  Tamlyn smiled, a woman empowered. As though she was sure he was held in her spell, could not break away from her. That nothing could stop this. The questing hands moved over his chest to help pull off the surcoat. Next came the sark. Julian tossed them to the ground with little thought.

  Once more, she kissed him. He tasted the sweet oatcake on her breath, yet as he sought to deepen it, she slithered down his body. The vision of this pagan princess on her knees before him set Julian’s blood thundering to the point he felt faint. With nimble fingers, she undid the lacing around his boots and he kicked out of them. A heady mix of pure innocence and raw wickedness, Tamlyn’s hand slid up his tensed thighs, over his groin, then her body followed the same path.

  Running her hand over his chest, she kissed him lightly again, then whispered, “Dance with me, Julian.”

  His body seemed to know what she wanted for he began the slow rocking, his hands on her waist, mimicking the pagan rhythm they had dance before. Tamlyn rotated so her back was against his chest, her rounded derrière pressing to his hard groin. She placed her smaller hands over the top of his, sliding them up to her breasts. He swayed with her, grinding his body to hers while he squeezed her full breasts until she moaned. She took her hands from his, pulling at the golden gown until her breasts were freed.

  Control suddenly slipped from his Highland enchantress. Now, he seized dominance of their dance. Her nipples were distended, hardening as he stroked them, using his thumb to circle around and around. She keened a rasping sound in the back of her throat, greedy, urging him on, encouraging him to squeeze them, roll them. Totally lost to the power that rose between them, bound them.

  Suddenly, he spun her to face him. His arms went around her hips, and then lifted her. In rising hunger, his mouth feasted on her right breast. Sucking it hard, he drew on it in a rhythm that he knew would echo inside her body. Her head fell back, her long hair cascading behind her. Carefully, reverently, he lowered Tamlyn to the black cloak. Hands clutching his upper arms, she arched to him.

  For an instant out of time, Julian paused to stare at the beautiful woman under him. He wanted to capture this image in his mind. When he was old and grey, he would conjure its power and recall Tamlyn, so beautiful, her golden hair pooling about her on his black mantle, the white apple blossoms raining down upon her.

  Julian wanted this to last, to go slowly with her, make the beauty of this joining perfect for her. Only, she would not let him. He kissed her as he undid his leathern hose and pushed out of them and his braises, then his hands ruched up the golden gown to her hips.

  He slid his fingers through the soft curls, finding them wet from her body’s desire, preparing her for his invasion. He moaned as he slid a finger in her, hoping to stretch her body, then two. She was so very tight. He did not want to hurt her.

  “Julian…please…” She seemed unable to gasp anything further.

  Taking her hands, Julian interlaced his fingers with Tamlyn’s and pushed them up beside her head, his body aligned to make them one. His erection, nudged against her opening, moistening the tip with the honey from her body. He knew virgins felt pain, but wished hurt to be no part of her memory, so he held back, kissing her breathless. Just as he flexed the muscles of his hips and slid into her, ready to breach the maidenhead, she jerked her head away from his, gasping.

  “Wait…”

  He blinked, nearly blind with the quickening rolling through his blood. “Wait?” came his strangled reply.

  “Aye…you needs must…make a wish.”

  Julian echoed the words as if they were foreign. “A wish?”

  “Aye, ’tis vital. Wish for what your heart desires the most, Challon.” She kissed the column of his neck.

  Julian forced his eyes to focus on the woman beneath him. She lay on his mantle, so black in the m
idst of the snow-white petals. Her golden hair spread out around her, the cat-eyes shining. He knew he belonged to this woman. Aye, she was likely a witch, but then mayhap it was a witch’s charms he required to heal him, to exorcize the black miasma claiming his soul. No price was too high to own her, possess her.

  Tamlyn sensed his hesitation. “Our joining be special. My people call it deas-ghnath mohr.”

  “Grand rite,” he repeated.

  “Aye, ’tis magic. Wish for what you want most, Julian.”

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn stared up into the face of the man who was about to claim her, and had never seen anything more rugged, more terrifying in his male power. Has never seen anything more beautiful. She hoped in her secret heart he would wish for her to love him. She knew she loved him and always would, no matter what lay ahead of them. Likely, she had loved him from the very first, when she had been kneeling and her eyes met his. She had been too unused to the ways of emotions, desire and love to understand what was happening to her. Now she knew. Their meeting was a planting of a seed of a twining vine that grew, binding them together.

  “Speak your wish, Julian.”

  A crooked smile touched his lips. “What about you? Do you not get one as well?”

  “Oh, aye, my wish is for your wish to come true.” Her replying smile was all woman, mysterious, and born of the cat, confident of the man who was about to make her his.

  Warmth left his face, replaced with seriousness, a yearning so deep it caused her to blink. “My wish…I want a child…a son born of your body.” His hand slid down her and came to rest, his fingers splayed on her belly.

  ’Twas not the words she wanted to hear fall from his lips. But then a child―their child―mayhap was a binding spell. She saw how desperately Julian desired a son. One day, she hoped he would come to desire her, love her with the same intensity.

  “Then, so be it,” she intoned. Tamlyn turned her head into the shadows of his neck to hide her lingering sense of disappointment. She wanted to hear Challon say he loved her. Wanted it with the same burning ache she heard in his voice when he asked for a son of her body. It was too soon. Such things would come in time. Her lip quivered so she bit down on the inside to stop it from giving her feelings away.

  “Tamlyn, look at me,” he commanded, his voice soft, deep. “I want to see your eyes when I take you.”

  She blinked, staring into his shadowy countenance. She gave a faint gasp as she felt him stretching her. Then, felt that hot, pulsing flesh push against her barrier. Her body was magic, conforming to accept him within her. Confused, she felt Challon start to pull back, but then he plunged forward. A cry escaped her lips, but he caught it, kissing her until the pain passed. She was amazed how deep he was within her, how joined their bodies were.

  He raised up slightly and then moved inside her again, this time causing her to cry out her need.

  He whispered against her lips, “Dance with me, Tamlyn.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Cha duine duine ‘na aonar.

  (A man alone is no man.)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  Sounds of jingling bells intruded on his healing slumber. Julian resisted awakening. He could not remember the last time he had rested so peacefully. As he gradually stirred, the reality of what happened last night, under the rays of the moon and showers of apple petals, spread through him. Alarmed, he tried to jerk up, but found a sleeping Tamlyn half-draped across his chest. For a heartbeat he smiled, then he leaned over and kissed her bare shoulder.

  God’s teeth, last night had been so good. Tamlyn burned out all memories of anyone else—there was her, and only her. Nay, she seared away the past. He felt detached from his previous existence: England no longer held meaning or importance for him. There was only his life here in this bespelled valley. Never had he known such a wondrous night. Never tasted the pleasure he found with his Scots lass. He had taken and taken, hungrily using her warmth to exorcise the chill lodged in his soul. And she and her magic had done that...and more. She blazed bright and hot as the sun, scorched him to the very core with her white-hot pagan fire.

  What surprised him was his yearning to give. He had to fill her with himself—not just his flesh—but with a radiance that branded every inch of her body, her being, her mind with his complete possession. Julian wanted to own her, rule her, bend her unto his will.

  Somewhere along the path, all that dominance had been ripped from his hands.

  She now owned him. Possessed his very soul.

  On his long journey to Glen Shane, he had passed time making plans for the future in his mind. Focusing on the days ahead was what kept him going when he had lost all hope.

  And now, those dreams were becoming a reality. On the steps of the ancient kirk, he would take Tamlyn to lady wife before all of the two clans. The pomp and the circumstance would be formidable, befitting a man once a king’s champion. Already, he had started arranging all the details, down to what they both would wear. Raven was sewing a dress for Tamlyn, copied from a drawing he had done.

  Long ago, Julian had learned to appreciate the power of appearance. So much of what people thought, how they treated you, hinged upon how they viewed you. The lavish wedding to his virginal bride and the feast to follow would be talked about, praised and envied. Julian’s possession of the lady of Glenrogha would spread throughout the Highland clans and beyond. Men feared his reputation. Precisely for that reason, he had spent many years polishing and perfecting that invisible shield. Being the Black Dragon was as strong a weapon as his lance or sword. Nothing less would be expected when the Dragon of Challon wed. Tides of his marriage would be upon the lips of bards throughout these Isles.

  He intended his bonding with Tamlyn would follow that exacting creed, serving to enhance the legend of the Dragon. After they spoke their vows, they would reign jointly over the wedding feast. Such a spectacle would fuse in the minds of the people of both clans that he was now her lord husband, and she came to him willingly. In that pleasing daydream, then and only then, would he lead Tamlyn to their chambers, where he would instruct his lady wife on the pleasures of their marriage bed. On the morning after, the bloodied sheet would be hung from the window as proof of his taking of his virginal bride.

  Somehow, Tamlyn had led him to losing his head, and he had taken her as a common wench on the ground ’neath the apple tree. ’Twas unfortunate, but there was no taking it back. What would Glenrogha’s people think of him now? That he dishonored her? How could they not?

  ’Twas no way to start the marriage of the Dragon of Challon, the new earl of Glenrogha.

  Feeling contrite, he slid out from under her, and quickly dressed. Fastening the buckle on his baldric, he glanced about, checking to see if anyone was lurking near. At least, no one seemed near. He finished tying the leather lacings about his boots, and then squatted.

  Julian reached out to shake her. Instead, as his hand drew close to her bare back, he could not stop from caressing her. She was so rare, so precious, it caused him to feel frightened, venerable in a way he misliked. He lightly drew his thumb down the column of her spine. She shivered.

  “Awake, Tamlyn. Dawning is long past.”

  She blinked, and wobbly pushed up on his mantle. Her gold gown was bunched up about her hips; her half-naked body caused him to suck in his breath and hold it. Dark marks were appearing on her left breast. He winced. He wanted to lean down and kiss the faint bruises his mouth had left. Only, that was a path to madness. He helped her rise, and to rearranged the twisted gown. Picking up his mantle, he shook the white blooms from it, then swung the black material around Tamlyn’s shoulders. The least he could do was shield her from any prying eyes as they returned.

  As he went to fasten the catch at her shoulder, she stepped close and leaned into him, lifting her face. “Madainn mhath, mo thighearn dorcha.”

  Good morn, my dark lord. His ear for her language was becoming stronger. ’Twas a pretty language, especially when she spoke it. She s
tood before him, so close he could smell the heady apple blooms on her skin. Tamlyn wished for him to kiss her. And he truly wanted to. But if he kissed her, he feared they would not make it back to the fortress.

  Instead, he reached up and tugged the cape closer around her neck, almost in a gruff fashion, intending on hurrying her back to Glenrogha. Howbeit, as he looked at her, apple blossoms scattered through her long hair, he had a hard time thinking. Oh, what a lucky man he was! Tamlyn was a gift beyond measure.

  He exhaled, exasperated with himself. “Come, lass, I needs must get you back to Glenrogha. I am sure they wonder where we are.”

  She reached up and pulled a sprig of the blooms from his hair. “My people are not fools, Julian. They ken where we went.”

  He frowned. He still harbored hope they he could slip into the fortress, and hopefully, get to the lord’s chamber without drawing interest. The likelihood of that possibility was fading with the Highland mists. “Come, we needs must hurry.” He took her hand and turned away.

  Tamlyn was rooted to the spot and refused to follow him. Her resistance was firm. Glancing back, he lifted his brows in question. The tilt of her chin was one of a woman resolute.

  “Tamlyn, what is it?”

  She gave him a smile. “Julian, I shall no’ move from this spot ’til you wish me a good morn and kiss me. Mayhap I lack experience in these matters…” she gave him a pointed frown, “unlike some others…”

  He heard the jealousy in her tone. “We have many days and nights to speak to such concerns, but now—”

  “Challon...” This time he heard the edged warning in his name. He stood there in a small struggle for control. His male dominance almost pushed him to refuse her request. But she waited, wrapped in his black mantle, with apple blooms still falling about her, spotlighted by a shaft of sunlight punching a hole into the orchard. What man would not want to possess her, want to own her...die for her?