A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  He almost sighed, as he tugged them open. “Is my lady ready to surrender or must I ram down her walls of resistance?” Tamlyn’s answer was to push back against his groin. “Alas, my lady must learn to open her portcullis.”

  Using his chest, he pushed her forward to her hands, as he slid into her liquid fire. Keeping his finger inserted and using his thumb to circle her little female button, with two strokes, she came apart. Her cry echoed against the solar’s stone walls. Julian wanted this feeling to go on, instead his body responded by following her.

  There was no holding back, no making it last. The release was blinding, pushing his head to spin. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he fell to his side, pulling Tamlyn to spoon against him. Mayhap next time he would make this last.

  Or the time after...

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn rounded the corner to the barracks tower, searching for Julian. She thought he had been working Damian, but she had not seen either of them in the lists. Glancing inside, she saw men on pallets resting, others working on their weapons, or playing lots in the corner.

  Her breath sucked in and held as she spotted Sir Dirk there with three other men. That same oily feeling in the pit of her stomach, that she had experienced the day he thought to rape her roiled through her belly. She did not want to be anywhere near the man, so she started to back out.

  “Lady Challon, you seek something?” Dirk smiled.

  That expression sent a chill to crawl up her spine. Mayhap ’twas poor Aithinne’s having the sickness in the afternoon putting ideas in her head, but she’d felt faintly queasy this past hour. Standing before Dirk Pendegast only made it worse.

  “I seek my lord husband.”

  Dirk glanced to his two friends and smiled. “I believe he went toward the stables with Lord Ravenhawke.”

  “Thank you,” she said coolly, and turned to leave.

  “Want I should escort you there?” Sir Dirk moved forward.

  She looked down her nose at him, a considerable feat since he was so tall. “No need. Vincent walks with me.”

  Tamlyn stalked to the stable, hearing Vincent ten paces behind her. One of the older squires serving Challon, he would likely be knighted within the next year or so, and move on to take up one of his family’s holdings in Normandy. She was sure Julian’s squires were bored, and maybe a little humiliated at having to play watcher over her, but Challon insisted she have one of the squires with her at all times while she went about her duties. She thought it nonsense. For the past ten years, she had run Glenrogha and never had a guard dogging her every step. Challon was unimpressed with her logic. In fact, he was quite stubborn. In this, his will ruled.

  Not seeing anyone about the stables, she moved through the long rows to the door on the other side, thinking Challon might be in the paddock. Stepping out, she glanced around, though still seeing no one. To her back, she heard a muffled cry, then the light coming through the inside was blacked out by a man’s body.

  The Kenning blazed forth, making her heart speed up. She was concerned for Vincent, but knew at this instant she needed to get away from here, run to the safety of Challon.

  Her dread was confirmed when Sir Dirk stepped into the light. She swallowed the cold nausea rising within her, trying to tamp down on her fears, to hide the visible reactions. Too vividly, she recalled how he fed off a woman’s terror. She would not gift him with what he wanted most.

  Tamlyn tried to think, but this man scared her witless. She had seen into his soul, and there was such poison rotting there. She found him an extreme contradiction. Likely, most women would find him attractive physically. All the same, what resided within the man rendered him as repulsive as a leper.

  “I am sorry. I guess Lord Challon is not here after all.” He moved closer. “I came to inform you.”

  She told herself to run, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. Desperate, she searched for a path to breeze past him without touching him. Instead of thinking clearly, she just wanted to vomit. The pounding in her head saw it impossible to think. This man had been tied to posts and whipped because of his attack on her. She knew he blamed her for the punishment. Even someone weak with The Kenning could sense his thoughts.

  “That was kind of you. You should not have bothered. If you will excuse me, this day I am busy and have little time to tarry. Challon shall be upset if I do no’ finish my duties.” She tried to move around him, but he caught her arm in a hard grip.

  “That is a lie. You lead the mighty Dragon around by an invisible ring through his nose. Or mayhap, I should say…his cock.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her mouth was so dry it hurt to swallow. Not wasting any more time on deliberation, she pulled her knife from the belt at her waist and swung at him. He met the arc with a counter blow that numbed her. The sgian dubh flew out of her grip. Not hesitating, she kicked out, catching him full in the groin, sending him to his knees. She spun to run. He lunged to grab her kirtle, and used it to slam her to the ground, the force causing her head to spin and her vision to darken. Frantically, she struggled not to lose consciousness.

  Tamlyn clawed her way to her knees, but the mud would not let her stand. The slimy muck sent her feet out from under her, hitting harder the second time. The third.

  With a sly smirk, Dirk tried to stand in the mud saw his legs go flying out, and he landed hard on his backside. He crawled forward, pinning her legs with his weight. He laughed, mocking. “Challon’s lady is in the mud. But then, you like to get fucked in the dirt, do you not? With everyone watching. I took a hundred lashes for you, bitch. My back still heals. I plan to get my worth out of riding you hard. Mayhap the mighty Dragon will see how ridiculous it is to let a woman lead him around like a gelding.”

  “Challon shall kill you.” She delivered the truth.

  Tamlyn swung out with her fist, bashing into his nose. She hoped to drive the bone back into his brain, but she had not been able to get a strong swing. The punch stunned him, but not enough. Grabbing her wrists, he pinned them over her head, manacling both finally with one hand. Putting his knee hard to one thigh, he forced her other leg wide.

  Finally, her fear found wings, as she gave out with one loud, long scream. Dirk slammed his fist against her jaw.

  Darkness swam around her, sucking Tamlyn under.

  ♦◊♦

  Julian dismounted Lasher, unease prickling up his spine. He glanced around the bailey, yet all appeared to be naught but typical late afternoon activities.

  Tamlyn.

  Panic swelling in his chest, he glanced up to the tower, seeking the stained-glass window. Fey whispers told him she was not there. He whipped around the inner ward, eyes searching desperately for what was discordant. Suspicion bubbled as he spotted two of Dirk’s men leaning casually against the outside of the barn door.

  “Something is wrong.” Nearly unable to draw breath, he turned to Damian as his cousin dismounted his grey steed. Damian glanced at the stables, then to Julian, clearly sharing his disquiet. As he opened his mouth to reply, a scream split the stillness of the calm afternoon.

  Julian did not hesitate. Damian followed.

  As Julian ran, he heard Damian calling to the guard, “To Challon! To Challon!” Men did not hesitate, but grabbed the nearest weapons and came running. Terrified, Dirk’s men bolted. Julian paid them little attention as he ran into the stable. He would deal with them later. Halfway into the barn, he saw Vincent face down in the hay. He rushed past. Damian could check on the lad’s condition.

  “You rutting bastard!” Julian snarled his blind rage, as he saw Dirk pinning Tamlyn in the mud. He grabbed the man by the shoulders and sent him flying, slamming him up against the side of the barn. With a feral growl, he rammed his knee hard to Dirk’s groin―hard enough to do damage.

  “Seize him,” he ordered Damian, as Dirk fell to his knees retching.

  Julian rushed to Tamlyn and knelt beside her, wanting to touch her, to hold her, but fearing she would reject his comfo
rt. A knife twisted in his chest. He could hardly breathe as he stared at her disheveled condition. The bruise on her chin where Dirk had hit her with his fist. Scratches and scrapes on her arms and legs. Deep bruises already forming on her thighs. Blood under her fingernails.

  Tears filled her large amber eyes, as he helped her sit. Her hand trembled as she touched her fingers to her bruised lip. The shaking growing worse, she refused to meet his eyes.

  Whipping off his mantle, he wrapped it around her, as he helped her to her feet. She was so weak she could barely stand, so he lifted her into his arms.

  He wanted to kill Dirk—here and now—but knew he needed to get her upstairs and to bed before she fainted.

  “Take him to the pit. Round up the other two. I shall pronounce judgment on the morrow,” Julian commanded before carrying Tamlyn from the ward.

  Her body trembled as she curled her head against his chest.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chan eil saoi air nach laigh leòn.

  (No hero be proof against injury.)

  — Auld Scots Adage

  The door opening, jerked Tamlyn from a deep sleep. She raised up on her elbow in the bed to see Julian already dressed.

  In black leathern hose, black silk shirt and black jack, Challon stood awaiting his squire. Moffet carried in the long hauberk and helped shrug Julian into it. Once that was on and the arming points buckled, he fitted the breastplate over Julian’s chest and secured that. Kneeling, the lad strapped on the greaves―protective plates on the lower legs. Finally, he pulled Julian’s black surcoat over his head.

  She recalled how tender Challon had been last night, bathing away the mud from her, treating her as a mother would a babe. Then, he held her and rocked her until Bessa’s tansy had pulled her into the darkness of sleep. She recalled his tears hitting her cheek.

  Julian watched her as he buckled the baldric. Flicking two fingers to the door, he signaled Moffet to depart, so they were alone.

  “Where do you go, Challon?” Tamlyn scooted to the edge of the bed, still sleepy from Auld Bessa’s potion. “You are girded for battle. Why? What has happened?”

  “You should go back to sleep, Tamlyn. ’Tis still early.” He reached out and stroked the back of her head. “First, kiss me, lass.”

  She started to shake as she rose to her knees on the bed. It put her at eye-level with him. Curving her arms around his neck, she kissed him, slowly, thoroughly, hoping to melt his armor plate. Putting his hands on either side of her waist, he yanked her hard against him, kissing her until she was breathless and wanting more. So much more. His mouth devoured hers, as if he poured all emotions into this single kiss.

  Something was wrong. The kiss almost felt as if he kissed her goodbye. It scared her. It terrified her.

  Keeping one arm about his neck, she studied every line in his stunning face. She ran her thumb over his black brow, smoothed the furrow, then sifted her fingers through the thick black waves of his hair. Her heart filled to overflowing with emotions for this man, her husband.

  “I must be the luckiest woman in all of Scotland.”

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “And why is that, lady wife?”

  “I have the most beautiful husband. The most caring. Any woman wouldst envy me. He is strong and brave. My people respect him. I respect him.” She so wanted to say she loved him, but was unsure if he wanted to hear the words.

  “Then, you should respect and obey your husband―and go back to sleep.” Julian gently stroked the bruise along her jaw where Dirk had hit her.

  The green eyes were guarded, keeping his emotions hidden behind iron shutters. She hated when he closed himself off from her like that.

  “Why do you leave, Julian?” Tamlyn twirled the curl at the back of his neck.

  The door opened and Gervase leaned in. “My lord, ’tis time.”

  Julian turned and gave a nod. “I shall be there straight away.”

  “Straight where, Julian?” A coldness speared through her.

  He gave her one of his level stares and softly kissed her again. “Go to sleep, Tamlyn. I shall be back before you awaken.”

  Panic surged in her. Ignoring his order, she climbed out of the bed, wrapping the blanket around her. “Do not dare leave until you answer me, Julian.”

  He stopped and exhaled in frustration. “Would that I had been graced with a biddable wife.”

  “You were not so lucky, Challon. You got me. And I am shrew enough to want an answer. I mean to have my answer.”

  “I challenged Dirk to Trial by Combat.” His jaw set, waiting for her explosion.

  And came it did. “No! I shall not permit you―”

  “You have no say in the matter, Tamlyn.”

  “I…do…say. You shall not risk your life because of what happened.” He half closed his eyes, shutting her out. “’Tis too late. I have thrown the gauntlet and Dirk picked it up.”

  “I do not care if pigs grow wings and fly. Kill him if you must. Hang him. Do not risk your life,” she pleaded.

  “Dirk comes from a wealthy and powerful family, much favored by Edward. I cannot just hang him. If I wanted legal judgment, I would have to turn him over to Edward for trial, and I doubt it would ever come to that. Edward would be bought off with enough coin to make him look the other way. If I desire punishment—by all the demons in Hell I do—then I needs must do it myself, and in a fashion that leaves Edward no recourse. I do not want him coming after me, or trying to hold this against us. I face Dirk in Trial by Combat and God judges him. The First Knight of Christendom will understand and abide by God’s law.”

  “Your God backs only winners, Challon.” Tamlyn countered.

  “Back to calling me Challon again? Ah, so you are mad with me? How could I hazard a guess?” He arched an eyebrow, trying to lighten the mood. “Go to sleep, wife. All will be done shortly.”

  “Damned if I shall. Och, of all the lackwit men in the world I be cursed with one bent on getting himself killed.”

  “Cursed? I recall someone speak how lucky she was to have me for her lord husband,” he pointed out. “Words to how I am so beautiful?”

  “Mayhap I would prefer an unpretty one that is alive, than a beautiful one who be dead.” She tried to block him from leaving, but the blanket tripped her.

  He caught her from falling, the green garnet eyes searching her face as he memorized every line. “Tamlyn, stay here. I do not want you there.”

  “I do no’ want you there either, Challon.”

  He took her mouth, kissing her hard with all the passion that was between them. As Tamlyn leaned to him, he suddenly yanked the blanket from her, spinning her from him like a top. Challon deftly opened the door and closed it, locking it before she could reach it.

  Tamlyn pounded on it, tears falling down her face. “Challon, do not lock me in here! Challon! Challon answer me!”

  ♦◊♦

  Tamlyn heard the ravens fussing over the passes. She glanced up to see them, flitting from tree-to-tree, screeching and fighting. Dread eating at her heart, she picked up her kirtle and broke into a run, heading to the open field of the dead angle.

  “My lady, please have care,” Moffet called, as he followed behind her. “You are barefoot. If you hurt yourself, Lord Challon will have my head on a pike. As it is, he shall thrash me for letting you out.”

  “Oh, hush. I told you I would thrash you if you did not let me out.”

  People lined along the side of the field, both Challon’s men and her villeins. A few whispered, but most remained still, watching the preparations. To the right end of the field flew the scarlet pennon with a golden eagle. She had never seen the pennon before, so presumed it to be the Pendegast standard. Several men milled about setting up weapons, readying the white steed for the vile man. Paying little attention, she pushed through the crowd.

  At the far end, she saw Challon with his squires, Gervase, Michael and Vincent. She spotted the huge wooden rack holding five lances and her blood turned
cold. Shoving to break past the people standing around, Tamlyn headed straight for Julian, determined to stop this at all costs.

  Julian examined one of the lances, running his hand over it. “Gervase, change this one out. I do not trust the grain in the wood not to shatter.

  “Aye, my lord.” Gervase immediately set to doing Challon’s bidding.

  “Challon, I want this stopped. Now!”

  He swung around to face her. His countenance composed, relaxed. How could he be so bloody calm when her heart felt as if a thousand ravens fluttered within? She could only see him, as all things about her lost focus. The soft breeze stirred the thick black locks on his forehead as he stared at her unblinking. So beautiful, it hurt her to breathe.

  “Tamlyn. I see you found a way out.” His lashes made a small sweep as he turned to glare at Moffet. “I cannot imagine how.”

  Damian came forward carrying the Glenrogha claymore. “I honed the edge myself.”

  “Julian—” Tamlyn started, only to have him cut her off.

  “Damian, take Tamlyn away from here, take her to Aithinne,” Julian requested.

  Nodding, St. Giles stepped toward her. “He is right, Tamlyn. Let me take you back to Glenrogha.”

  She backed up, staying out of reach of his grasp. “Why? So my idiot husband can get himself killed and I do not have to watch? You think that, then you are as big an amadán as he is.” She jumped to evade, but so did he, catching her upper arm to lead her from the field. “Take your hand off me, Damian St. Giles, or I shall claw your eyes out. I shall curse you until your ballocks shrivel and you shall never father children!”

  “Suddenly, I am pleased Challon got you as a lady wife.” He chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Tamlyn, calm yourself―” Julian began.

  Tamlyn kicked at Damian, missed because she kept her eyes on her husband. “I shall be delighted to calm myself―when you come back to Glenrogha with me and forget this cork-brain nonsense.”

  Julian exhaled and glanced skyward as if seeking patience. “I already explained why these steps are necessary. That swine dared touch you. No one touches my lady and lives. This is the only way.”