“I claim right,” Damian growled.
Now, the man had to face a furious Damian in a battle for his life. Damian insisted they cut the man free and to give him a sword, though MacThomas laughing suggested that they just kill the man and be done with it. Challon argued, since he was not wounded, that he should be the one to fight Phelan.
Phelan knew the instant he accepted the sword MacThomas held out for him, his life was over. Instead, the man knocked into Moffet and pushed him into Damian, giving Phelan the chance to seize Aithinne, and threaten to break her neck unless everyone moved back. A mistake.
Einar had sworn that no one ever touched Aithinne. He acted swiftly and without command. The tall Norseman threw a long-bladed knife into Phelan’s back. Before extracting the blade, he had given an extra twist to make sure the steel had done its work, and uttered, “No one harms my princess.”
They had carried Damian back to Glenrogha and removed the arrows. Infection tried to set in and he had lost a lot of blood, but he would pull through. Aithinne would see to that. Damian had played the situation for all it was worth and used Aithinne’s sorrow to get her to marry him before he ‘died’. He now recovered under the careful ministrations of his lady wife at Lyonglen.
They all had survived...
♦◊♦
That was twice now she had come close to losing Challon. Oonanne always warned bad fortune came in threes. Those words stayed with her in cold dread. Would she soon face losing him again…a man she had come to love as much as life itself?
A soft sob tore through her. Even though the ordeal was past, she could not stop crying, having lived it all over again, to the smallest detail in the dark recesses of her mind. The sound of horses screaming, the whirling noise of arrows darkening the sky, feeling as if there was no place to hide to stay safe. “I thought it was you—in my dream I saw the attack, saw the arrows flying through the air. Saw...them hitting you. I feared I wouldst lose you.”
“Damian and you are a pair. Blest—curst—with this ability to know things mortals should not know. Well, gift or no, neither of you were completely right. Damian had dreams for years about a woman—he saw her face, understood she would be the only one for him. When he came here, he assumed—”
“That it was me?” she finished. “He had not seen Aithinne. Had he met her first he would have recognized she was the woman in the dreams.”
“And for whatever reason, you assumed I was the one who took arrows in the fight? Why did you not tell me?”
“The magpies,” she replied, burying her head against the curve of his neck.
Julian scooted back in the bed, taking her with him, so he could prop his back against the head of the bed. “Four showed up the day Pendegast died.”
“Not that time. The morn of our wedding. Seven sat upon the gates as we left the bailey.”
“Seven herald a secret that must never be told?” He repeated that part of her rhyme about the strange birds. “Why would you keep that secret? Is not the gift to see the future to warn you of what is to come?”
“Ofttimes. Others to speak of the knowledge sets forces into spin, which in turn sees the prophecy fulfilled. As you said, it can be a curse as much as a gift. I feared telling you wouldst make it truth. I could only wait and try to protect you when the time came. I had the dream the night before we wed. Why seeing the birds unsettled me.”
“Damian had the same dream. He warned me of a danger up ahead.”
The attack had come and gone, though questions still remained. Mayhap it was those unanswered questions that had brought the dream back anew.
“You thought Pendegast’s brothers were behind the attack,” Tamlyn said.
“I did. I do. They will not allow his death to go unchallenged. I know Phelan Comyn sought to win Aithinne—by one means or another. But even he would not risk such a power grab without someone bigger backing him. One day I shall have to kill them. Expect that, Tamlyn. I will not have them hanging over our heads, attacking when we least expect it.”
She wanted to rail at him for resolutely anticipating another fight. She knew the words would be wasted. Her husband was a man who protected what was his.
And she was his.
Right now, she did not wish to think upon, the Comyns or Pendegast. She wanted the ugliness of battle and death driven from her mind. Only Challon had the magic to grant her the peace she so needed.
She moved. Dragging her body over his, she leaned up to him. “Kiss me, Julian. Summon the Dragon’s fire to scorch these lingering memories from my mind.”
Tamlyn intended to ride him, and moved so she could align his body to hers. Only, her husband had other ideas. With a wicked grin, he grabbed her ankles and flipped her on her back, pulled her legs straight so her ankles were on his shoulder. He moved so fast, bending her legs back, so was pinned by the weight of his chest. In that nearly helpless position, she squirmed trying to gain some sort of leverage. She could find no purchase. She needed none, for Julian plunged into her, one swift, hard thrust, burying his thick, burning flesh deep within her.
Letting go of her ankles, he grabbed her wrists and pushed them above her head. He smiled, white teeth flashing, as he knew she was at his total mercy. “I live to serve my lady.”
He pulled out part way, and then slammed into her again, repeating the rough action, again and again. Just as she began to fall apart inside, he shifted once more, this time, pulling her to sit on his thighs as he rocked back on his haunches. He wrapped his strong arms tightly around her waist. He took her mouth savagely, and thrust upward inside her again. The world shattered, leaving her little more than a helpless leaf buffed by the strong storm.
He would have none of it. Breaking the kiss, he commanded, “Again, Tamlyn.”
She could barely think. Only feel. She laughed. “I think again is my favorite word.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brisidh an teanga bhog an cneath.
(A smooth tongue will blunt wrath.)
— Auld Scots Adage
“Bespell down the eye of swift, voracious females,
Bespell down the eye of rapacious women....”
— Outer Hebrides Incantation
Nine sennights after the nightmare of Berwick and the attack on the return, Tamlyn stood, watching the sparks of the Samhaine balefire shoot high into the autumn night. In that solemn mood, she reflected back on all that had happened, how different her world was, in just the passing of six months.
She had hoped once they quit that hellhole, and put the ugly images behind them, that life would come around. Everyday patterns of daily routines of work and preparing for the coming harvest and the winter ahead would see life calm once more.
Peace remained elusive. Rumors were carried through the Highlands about troubles along the Marches, sparks of rebellion that could see the country aflame come spring. The drought of summer was making the land hard pressed. The harvest would yield less this year, which had her worried, how her people would make it through the coming winter months.
Also, not far from her thoughts was the fate of her father. She had hoped to learn something more of his fate while they were before the king, but Challon had refused to address the situation. She understood his caution, but still she fretted and missed Hadrian. Her eyes followed their twinkling lights as they were carried aloft by the warmed air. They danced on a path in the inky sky, faeries spinning and flying high on the wings of this magical night.
Tamlyn whispered a spell to be carried along with the winking sparks. “Let Hadrian be safe. May he soon return to those who love him.”
Silly, but she hoped the enchantment of this hallowed night would burn away the lingering horrors of Berwick’s sickness from her mind.
In odd moments, she still feared Challon harbored secret fears over her babe. She had tried to assure him the child she carried was conceived on Beltaine, warned him that he would feel the fool when she proved such by giving birth by Candlemas. He smiled, hugged her and
said to ignore him, it was only the foulness of Berwick rotting his mind, now that he was away from there he knew all was right. Most of the time she believed him. It was when she caught him watching her, when he was unaware, that caused her to wonder. His doubt was a knife to her heart.
Challon, rested his hand on her shoulder, gave it a small squeeze. He drew her back from the reflective thoughts. “Are you sorry you are not out there dancing?”
“No, that is the last thing I wish right now.” Tamlyn laughed and rested her hand on her rounded belly. Nearing six months into carrying her babe, she was more than content to watch the dancers capering around the Samhaine balefire. These days, she felt awkward at best and her back ached continuously.
Raven had sewn several new kirtles for her in hunter green, dark blue and burgundy. They hung loosely on her body from the small pleats at her breasts, trying to give the illusion she was not shaped like a cow. The heaviness of the child was cumbersome and often made her tired.
As if sensing her nagging pain, Challon’s hand slid from her shoulder, down the curve of her spine and began rubbing. Her husband had magic fingers―his touch firm, yet gentle.
She leaned into him, rubbing her face against his upper arm, relishing the scent of the man, and feeling that now familiar security of being his lady. Despite what shadows lingered in his eyes, she never doubted his commitment to her, to this glen. She had come to love her Dragon. She only wished he felt the same toward her. He never spoke of love, though she knew he needed her. She was satisfied to wrap him up in that desire for her and the need for the world they were creating together in this peaceful valley.
Someday mayhap, he would speak the words…
As her eyes followed the circles of dancers, weaving around the great balefire, Tamlyn blinked. Her heart jumped erratically as her stare frantically searched the crowd, trying to spot what had caught her attention. Only by focusing beyond the dancers, to the people standing at the edge of the firelight on the other side, did she locate what caused her senses to flutter.
A man stood, wearing a faded plaide, the length of fabric pulled up over his head into a hood. His auburn hair was long, with plaits of a chief at his temples. He wore a beard, but neat. The face was so familiar. He stared at Tamlyn, the pale ice green eyes unblinking, almost willing her to look at him.
As Tamlyn locked eyes with the man, she felt the world shift under her feet.
Challon’s arm wrapped around her back and held her upright. His right hand grasped her arm. “What is it, Tamlyn?”
She fluttered her eyelashes against the spinning flashes, as she once more sought the man on the other side of the balefire. He was gone. Had she imagined him? Sensing Challon’s alarm, she smiled faintly. He had been so caring, so solicitous since their return from Berwick.
“Just a twinge. The babe moved. So strong, it startled me.”
Julian herded her toward a bench. “I warned you that standing too much this night would be a strain for you. You rest here a bit, then I shall take you back to Glenrogha. I will not hear your naysay, Tamlyn, or I shall carry you the whole way.”
“Aye, Challon.” She nodded absently, still searching the gathering.
“Tamlyn, when I hear, aye, Challon, I always feel you ignore me and plan on doing precisely what you want.” Julian frowned his exasperation.
She suddenly spotted the man again. He was thinner than when she had last seen him months ago. Tears sprang up in her eyes. It was all she could do not to rush to him, hug him. With his index finger, he made a small circle in the air and then pointed straight down to the ground.
She counted to ten, trying to keep her emotions under control, then she gave a faint nod.
♦◊♦
Tamlyn’s steps silently carried her to the old Pict broch. No longer used for living quarters, it was still good for storage. The Picts built things to last, she thought. She entered, having to bend over. The door had been designed so anyone coming in was stooped over and vulnerable, which gave people inside the advantage of first strike. She rubbed her belly and gave a small moan because the stooping set her back to hurting again.
“Mercy,” she whispered to shadows, fighting a wave of dizziness. “I have three more months of this.”
She allowed her eyes to adjust, then reached for the torch in the holder and struck a flint to light it. The walls were clammy, sweating, so the torch hissed as it burned off droplets of moisture. For an instant she froze, thinking she heard a noise outside, footsteps, but then they moved on.
Naught more than a guard making his rounds.
The stone steps were worn, uneven and damp. She moved down them carefully, a step at a time, getting both feet on one before she moved to the next. Keeping her hand on the outer wall, she was not risking a fall in her condition. She followed the spiraling staircase downward to the lower level. She always hated going down here, the darkness, the silence―outside of the occasional drip of water―always closed in upon her and made her feel suffocated.
This was taking too long. Challon still slept when she had slipped out, but she feared that would only last so long. He was always exhausted after they made love, but he would soon awaken. When he found her gone, he would come searching for her.
Reaching up to the torch holder, she tugged with all her strength and a section of the wall moved back slowly.
Bright torchlight greeted her from the other side.
There were several men there, but she had eyes for only one.
He turned and smiled. “Hello, Tamlyn.”
She rushed into the arms of her father, hugging him tightly. He set her back a space, and then looked down at her belly, pressing to the fabric of her mantle.
She laughed through the tears. “Seems I be a bit different than when you last saw me.” Tamlyn wiped the droplets from her eyes.
“A wee bit. You seem more mature in some ways. You seem happy.”
“I am, now I see you are safe.” A self-depreciating smile crossed her lips. “Apologies for the waterfalls. I tend to get very emotional these days.”
Hadrian nodded. “It comes with carrying the bairn. Small price, eh?”
“The emotions, I can handle. The back pain, I can live without.”
Her father put a hand on her stomach. “How far along, Tamlyn?”
“May Day.” She blushed. “Carrying on a family tradition. The bairn should come on Candlemas.”
“Auld Bessa says all be fine?”
Tamlyn nodded. “She says I must be breeding a braw babe.”
“The English Dragon pleases you?” He smiled when she nodded. “I thought he might be the one.”
“Aye, Challon be the one.”
He nodded, mixed emotions flooding his eyes. Pride, worry, love. “Come, greet the others. We await the arrival of another. Hopefully, he shall arrive soon. Tamlyn, I believe you recall Andrew de Moray and his uncle―a priest―David de Moray. Men, my youngest daughter, Tamlyn, Countess Glenrogha, now Lady Challon.”
They all murmured their greetings. Tamlyn looked from her father to Andrew. “But how? We heard you both were in the Tower.”
“We were, my lady. My father still remains there, along with many other nobles. For some reason, Edward ordered your lord father and me moved to Chester. We escaped with help from Grant Drummond. From there, we headed north on swift horses,” Andrew replied with a devilish grin. “Like you, I am recently wed, and eager to be home with my bride.”
Hadrian patted Tamlyn’s shoulder. “Your husband’s doing, Tamlyn. The Dragon gave a plea to Edward when you were at Berwick, asking for more fitting lodging. It caused Edward to have us moved to better conditions at Chester.”
Tamlyn felt a flush of warmth flood her cheeks. Despite his continued refusal, Julian had kept his promise. It only made her feel guiltier for slipping away from him.
“Tamlyn, we need to hold up here for a few days and rest. While word goes out to Andrew’s people, we shall stay in the caves. There be plenty of food and water. At
night, we can have a fire. Once David gets word to Petty, Avoch and Boharm, then Andrew and I will head northward to the Black Isle.”
“I appreciate the shelter, Lady Tamlyn. Reginald de Chen controls my holding at Avoch. I plan to move there straight away, as soon as I have enough men of Moray rallying to my standard,” Andrew explained.
Torches flickered through the cave’s passageway, then several men emerged. Though they were strangers, Tamlyn had a fair idea who one was. As introductions were made, she barely heard them, so transfixed by the tall man with the blue-green eyes. “William, may I present my youngest daughter, Tamlyn, Lady Glenrogha,” her father finally said.
“A true daughter of Auld Alba.” William took her hand and brought it to his mouth.
Tamlyn’s eyes stared unblinking at the Scotsman before her. Rumors had been flowing through the Highlands all summer and fall. The English called him an outlaw, a brigand. The Scots whispered rebel, patriot. William Wallace of Ellerslie. Ever since Edward had crossed back over the Tweed and onto English soil, tales of Wallace’s flummoxing the English soldiery had been reaching Glenrogha regularly.
Only, ’twas not his exploits, which filled her with awe. When he had touched her hand, a jolt of lightning raced up her arm, nearly numbing her joints. At first glance, little save the man’s height would distinguish this Lowlander from others. He wore the dirty, ragged plaide with the bearing of a king, yet there was nothing pretentious about him. Though nearly a head taller than Hadrian and Challon, his power―as with them―was not from his physical stature. Raw force came from within. A fire burned bright in this man. It was terrifying. The vivid blue-green eyes stared at her, steeled with determination. The pain behind them nearly caused her to reel from the force.
“Glenrogha has heard of William Wallace, son of Alan Wallace. Scots speak of little else these days. I bid you cèud fàilte―a hundred welcomes,” Tamlyn greeted.
A Restless Knight (Dragons of Challon Book 1) Page 37