He took the steps back to her and stood looking down on her lovely face. He lifted the hand he held to his mouth and pressed his lips to the palm. “Good morrow, my lady.”
Once more, he turned away. And again, she offered him resistance. “Be that was passes as a kiss in the morn for you bloody Sasunnaich?”
Giving her a sigh of exasperation, he slowly pulled her toward him. She smiled, victory flashing in her eyes. Fine, he would concede this slight skirmish to his beautiful lady. His right hand lifted so his thumb could brush that faint shadow of a clef in her chin. “So you be wantin’ a kiss, eh?” He mimicked her accent.
Tamlyn looked up at him with huge, luminous eyes, the centers widening as her body picked up on the sexual magic rising between them. The corner of his mouth tugged up, reminding himself how bloody fortunate he was. He had a feeling with Tamlyn as lady wife his days would seldom be peaceful, but they would never be filled with ennui. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against hers.
Just as he leaned into the embrace, he dipped his knees down, and in a move too quick for her to react, trapped her in the voluminous material. His shoulder caught her at the waist, and he hefted her up and over it.
“Challon! Put me down!” she commanded, as if he would obey.
He laughed and gave a small slap to her rump. “Quit wiggling, or I will drop you.”
“This is no’ amusing,” she complained. “I demand you put me down.”
“I shall. Once I get you inside the damn fortress. So close your mouth, wench.”
“Put me down...” she demanded. After several heartbeats, she added a soft, “please.”
“You wanted a kiss and you got one, wench. Now hush. We have to go passed the gate, and I would like to do so without you screaming like an alewife.”
Her head popped up and she twisted, trying to see his face. “Alewife? Och, you will regret this, Challon.”
“Aye, an alewife,” he teased.
He pulled up as he moved from the grove and into the open land of the dead angle. Four mounted men—Vincent and Gervase, with two squires—were riding out on patrol. They reined their mounts toward them when they spotted him. He quickly flipped the material over Tamlyn’s head.
“Challon—” she squeaked the protest.
He barked, smacking her on the hip again. “Hush. Remain still. Riders approach.”
Gervase halted his horse before him. “Good morrow, my lord. We go to ride the ridges as you ordered.”
“Fine.” He replied, acting as if it were commonplace for him to wander about with a woman flung over his shoulder. He formed his face to his usual stern demeanor. “I hope all is well after the celebrations?” His chest almost moved with the stifled laughter—asking about daily life, whilst he had Tamlyn tossed over his shoulder.
“All be calm.” Gervase struggled to keep his face devoid of emotion. “Except—”
Challon frowned. “Except what?”
“’Tis the Baron Ravenhawke,” Gervase told him. “He has not returned.”
The tides brought no alarm to his mind. Julian asked, “Are his men still here? The horses remain in the barn? Mayhap he decided to go to Lyonglen.”
Gervase shook his head to the side. “The horses remain stabled. None of his cadre has left. His personal belongings, mail and sword are still in his room.”
Tamlyn wiggled again, attempting to make herself more comfortable. He had to get her into Glenrogha—quickly. “Damian be so damn pretty he likely found some wench to keep him warm last night.”
Gervase exchanged glances with Vincent, who finally spoke up. “Mayhap, my lord, but Sir Guillaume saw him go off with three men. They were not of this glen.”
Julian nodded. “Ride off in the direction they headed. Check around and send word back to me.”
“Yes, my lord,” both men said in unison, before nudging their mounts to lope away.
“Challon—” Tamlyn barked. It was not a question.
He smacked her once again. “Hush, wench. We approach the gate.”
“Challon, put me down now, before I begin wailing like the Bansidhe.”
He chuckled. “Do that, and I will stuff my kerchief in your mouth.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” She reached back with her hand, grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged.
“Ouch!” He reached up and caught her wrist, preventing her from snatching him bald.
“Challon, put me down. Now!”
He stopped walking, as the gate came in sight, and shifted her weight. “Did I mention to you about you being stout? Oh, yes, I recall—”
“You did! You graineil peist!” She tried to bite him on his back, but her teeth could not get through the heavy material of his surcoat.
“A loathsome worm? For trying to get you into the fortress without everyone—”
“Och, of all the lackwit tomfoolery.” She began wiggling. Off balanced, too easily she could fall.
Growling, he dropped his shoulder, rolled her off and caught her. He set Tamlyn on her feet, and watched as she battled to get her hair out of her face. “I merely wish to keep talk down of—”
She put her fisted hands on her hips. “Och, Challon stop being a mooncalf. All saw us walk away from the balefire. You think to hide me? A woman tossed over your shoulder like a sack of apples?”
“It was my intent—”
She glared at him, as if she were ready to use one of those fists to clot him. His rebel. Her spirit was amazing. And he thought her as beautiful, hair going in ten directions, as when she danced for him before the bonfire, or laid on his mantle under the snow of apple blossoms.
“Truly, Challon? You do not think they can tell you are dragging a woman around? You wish to hide me? My people know I led you away. They understand. They approve. You wish them to think you are carrying around some other female? Did that ever enter your cork-brain?”
He took a step forward in a move to intimidate her. “My men think what I tell them to think. If I say, what woman tossed on my shoulder?—then they bloody well shall agree naught be amiss.”
Instead of being unsettled, she burst out laughing. “And you really believe that?”
He glared at her. “Tamlyn, we needs must return. We can talk more once we are in the lord’s chamber.”
“The Dragon huffs and puffs and blows smoke, and all in his path cower and tremble.” she taunted, dancing out of grasp as he reached for her.
Another group of riders came out of the gates, drawing his attention away from the infuriating female. He turned back to her and lunged forward, catching her arm. “Come, we must—”
Tamlyn stuck her tongue out at him, and then ducked her head under the mantle, so she appeared like some headless being. The black material was meant for his height, so it almost dragged the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“Obeying the Dragon’s wishes. He desires me hidden—I be hidden,” came the muffled reply.
The riders slowed, giving him a nod of deference. “Good morrow, my Lord Challon. We ride to Kinloch on orders from Sir Destain. Farewell, my lord...my lady.”
Julian gave a nod of deference, as Tamlyn’s head popped through the opening of the cape.
“See...told you they would ken me anyway,” she said in triumph.
Taking her arm, he nearly dragged her toward the gates. “You would do well to learn to be a biddable lady wife, else I might have to beat you.”
“False words roll off your tongue, my Lord Dragon. Besides telling me I be stout, you also assured me that you never raise a hand to things weaker than you,” she reminded, allowing him to propel her through the gates.
The guards held the open gates until they passed through, and then closed them after they passed beyond. Julian gave them a regal nod, and his stare warned them to remember their place. Once they were out of their hearing, he said, “I am coming to doubt that you are weaker than me. So, you might rethink that assurance.”
♦◊♦
Jul
ian glared at the looking glass as he scraped his beard off his face with the razor-edged knife. He had to admit the soap that Tamlyn created did make the task easier on his skin, though he must remind her about creating a batch with more manly scents. Picking up a cloth, he wiped the blade on it. Overwhelmed by so many conflicting and indefinable emotions, he felt irritated with himself, edgy.
He almost winced when he thought back on their entering the stronghold. His plan had been to slip inside and go directly to the lord’s chamber, and hopefully reach the rooms without passing anyone. That was foiled as Tamlyn escaped his grasp, and headed straight for the Great Hall—in her gold gown, his mantle and a basketful of apple blossoms falling from her tussled hair.
The great room was full of Glenrogha’s people, breaking their fast. His brothers sat at one end of the main trestle table, across from Tamlyn’s sisters. The chairs for the lord and lady were, of course, empty. Jovial chatter died as all eyes went to Tamlyn and then him.
The sisters stared at Tamlyn in reserved judgment. Rowanne glared daggers at him, but when he met her challenging stare, unflinching, she looked away. An interesting reaction. He would judge Rowanne every measure a warrior as Tamlyn, yet this was not the first time the lady of Lochshane turned away from him in a battle of wills. Something was off there. He shrugged the impression aside. He had other matters to deal with—like catching Tamlyn.
Guillaume and Destain wore bemused smiles, and faintly raised their cups in a salute.
“So, the Wee Ones did not carry you off after all.” Destain jested.
Tamlyn started toward her sisters, but Julian finally snagged her upper arm and turned her to face him. Raising his brows, he advised, “May Queen, I suggest you retire to chambers and dress in a raiment more suitable.”
She flashed a smile of innocence. “Very well, Lord of the Glen. I needs must fetch clothing from my old room. May I have your approval to gather my things?”
Her words were laced with a hint of mockery, her voice low, so only he could hear her. The wench! To all in the room it appeared she was deferring to him, when she was as recalcitrant as ever.
Julian reached up and plucked a twig from her dark gold locks. “Remember what I said about beating you?”
“Do hush, Challon.” She gave a small shake of her head, setting the fragrant blossoms to dropping from her long hair.
Her maidservant, Roselynn rushed up. “My lady, I shall help you change.”
And without a by your leave, the unmanageable female dashed up the stairs with her maid on her heels. Clearly, control had slipped from his hand, and he was going to have the Devil’s own luck in bringing her to heel.
“By damn, even the Culdee was in the Great Hall,” he spoke to his likeness in the polished mirror. “What am I to do with her?”
A heat spread through his blood as he recalled watching her body swaying to that pagan music, the overwhelmingly violent emotions upon seeing her dance with another man. No fool, he sensed the dance was symbolic, rites with a deeper meaning. Tamlyn had assumed the role of May Queen because another had run away to marry a man from a distant clan. In his mantle of green plaide, the strapping Scotsman had stepped forward and plunged the claymore into the dirt, before taking up the mating dance with her. For that was what it had been. A dance of mating. The meaning of sinking of the sword into Mother Earth was not lost on him. They need not explain the essence of the rite to him, not likely to any man who watched.
As Julian had stared at them, watching them swaying, the undulations of their bodies, he was furious. This was his woman. No man had the right to dance that way with his betrothed. At Court, it would have been reason enough for Julian to draw sword and demand honor be addressed. Yet, these Scots watched, cheered the dancers on, and even drew pleasure from these pagan rites. As he had been forced to observe, his blood heated to the point where he could stand it no longer. When she had twirled away from the young man, Julian found himself stepping between them, before he even realized what he was doing. Not caring if these Scots perceived his actions as an affront.
Tamlyn was his, and he claimed her.
The muscles of his body had seemed to know the sensual movements, the music flowing around them to enfold them in the erotic reverie. After that, he could recall nuances, essences more than details, her glowing amber cat-eyes, and the soft feel of her body as she danced close against him.
Before he had time to organize his thought or reactions to last night and its repercussions, the door flew open and Tamlyn practically danced in, carrying a stack of clothing and linens. Maddeningly, she hummed the same song they had danced to before she had led him off. Weaving her witch’s enchantment again? She bounced on faery feet to him and brushed a faint kiss across his unresponsive lips
Damn her cat-eyes. His blasted body sprang to life from just her scent, just the light brush of the small, warm mouth.
She wore the look of a woman thoroughly loved, and not in gentleness. He had not been careful with her as he should have. She had been a virgin. Even when he broke through the maiden’s veil, she had not reacted with fear or pain, but embraced his burning need.
“You seem rather joyful, wench.” Still angry with himself, he intended for it to come out with a tinge of insult. Instead, the tone was playful, teasing.
She smiled saucily. “Wench? After I spent the night tuppin’ with you, that be all the words of love I receive?”
Tossing down the rag, he stated, “There will be too much to arrange the ceremony for today, so we will speak vows on the morrow.”
“Whyever for? ’Tis only a little over a fortnight’s wait.” Her brow lifted in confusion.
“I think it best amends be done whilst the damage remains fresh in people’s minds.”
Her good spirits wilted. “Damage? What damage be this, Challon?”
He wanted to remain gruff with her, but the corner of his mouth tugged up in a half-smile. “Have you noticed when you are in good spirits with me you call me Julian? When you grow peeved, I become Challon. Blast it. I took you on the ground with no more regard than a common harlot. Honor demands the slight done you—”
Her laughter filled the chamber.
He suddenly fancied the notion of throttling her! With just the brush of her lips and the scent of her body, he wanted her with the same power, just as he wanted her under the apple tree. This could not go on. He would not permit her to befuddle his mind and emotions in this manner. No one bent the Dragon of Challon to their will, not even Edward could fully claim such. Especial no woman.
Julian’s reply was interrupted by a knock on the door. He frowned at this distraction but called, “Come.”
The door pushed opened and two pages brought in pails of heated water. They emptied them into the wooden tub in the corner, smiling at Julian. “Good morrow, Lord Challon. You enjoyed our May Day?” one asked.
“Hush, Connor Og.” Tamlyn winked at the lad. “Hurry. Fetch the remainder of the water before your lord grows impatient.”
The two boys dashed off, chuckling, as a third came in with a tray of food.
“I ordered you a bath, Challon. You can relax in the steaming water, and I shall feed you. Then, we can discuss this damage, and why you think it necessary to move the day for our wedding.” Tamlyn went to the tray and picked up a clay pot. She sat on the edge of the heavy tub, slowly poured in some sort of powder, then lazily stirred it with her hand.
“I must make amends—”
“Hush, Challon. Undress and get into the tub before you ruin my good spirits. Then, you can tell me what sort of damage you think you have wrought.” She helped him undress, efficiently as a squire, then guided him into the hot water. “I think I shan’t like what you have to say.”
Trying to figure at what point he lost control of the situation. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Just a moment of silence, and then he would find that iron will that ruled his life.
Twice more, the boys returned with buckets. On the last trip. Co
nnor Og sat two beside the tub for rinsing, before scurrying off again.
She waited until the door was closed before going to the stack of clothing. Picking up a simple white chemise, she said, “Let me get out of my Beltaine gown. Then, I shall assist you with the bath. Whilst I do that I shall answer your questions, and mayhap ease some of your foolish concerns.”
“We should marry as soon as possible,” he insisted.
The golden kirtle dropped to the floor and she stood naked before him. Julian swallowed hard, his pulse jumping. Tamlyn lifted her hair back and pulled on the chemise, so thin it did little to hide her beautiful body from his hungry gaze.
So mesmerized, he forgot what he was about to say.
Placing the tray with the food across the tub, she pulled up a stool and sat. “You soak and chew while I explain, for if I hear more nonsense about damage I might push your head under.”
“Blast it, Tamlyn. Honor demands that the slight done you―”
Her laughter filled the chamber.
“You dare laugh?” He sucked in his breath trying to stare her down.
He caught her arm as she brought a slice of dried apple to his mouth. Holding her wrist, he allowed her to feed him. Chewing slowly, his eyes devoured her. “I recall another time you helped me with my bath. I believe you threatened to drown me then, too.”
“Not drown you...precisely.” He started to tug her toward him.
“Behave, Challon.” She fed him a chunk of cheese. “I rather thought you smart enough to understand what happened last night. First, there be no affront by your taking me on Beltaine. No one here thinks less of you. There was no disrespect done me, no dishonor before my people. I told you they approve. In fact, they view our bonding as a good omen.”
He tried to pull his hand away, but she caught his wrist. Being playful, he engaged in a bit of a tugging war. “I recall you speaking of some prophecy. It seems strange to me.”
“Le d-thoil, allow me to explain. You heard what was spake last night about the May Queen and the Lord of the Glen. Oh, aye, there was dancing, drinking and jocularity. Underneath the festivities are traditions with meanings going back to the dawn of time.”
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 26