RavenHawke (Dragons of Challon Book 2)

by Deborah MacGillivray

  Aithinne snatched up the goblet and downed the thick liquid. “Sometimes, I really mislike your peering into my thoughts.”

  Oona shrugged as she set to unbraiding Aithinne’s long hair. “The Auld Ones saw you created in Tamlyn’s mold. But you are no’ Tamlyn. They touched your hair with faery fire, gave you the green flecks in your eyes. Where you two are most different is within. You want him? Use these nights of the waxing moon you have left. Summon the faery fire to burn her from his memory. You can, you ken. I looked into his mind when I went in earlier to leave him food.”

  “He was awake?”

  “He slept still. My spell sees he cannot stay awake for long periods. He becomes exhausted, confused and needs must rest. The herbs make him no’ remember.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Ah, not even going to feign disinterest?” she taunted. “I saw images of a woman. He does no’ understand them. Just thinks he does. ’Tis up to you to help him find his way.”

  Aithinne huffed. “You speak riddles, Oona.”

  “You think to see your path made so easy? This be the journey you wished for, but are you willin’ to fight for what you want, pay the cost? Too muckle in your life thus far has been easy.”

  “Easy? Have you mislaid what sense you were born with? I lost my parents to a fever when I was but nine. I raised the lads when I was a child myself. Thankfully, I became ward to Gilchrest. He was a dear man―”

  “A silly man, he indulged your headstrong ways, just as The Shane did Tamlyn, Raven and Rowanne, and neither man prepared the lot of you to deal with the world outside these glens. The four of you did as you pleased, spake and every wish was carried out. Times change. Scotland moves into dark days ahead. The strong-willed females of Clan Ogilvie must learn to deal with males and their world. These hungry men no longer ignore our glens. Greedy eyes espy Glen Shane and Glen Eallach. Long has Edward Plantagenet coveted these holdings. He has sent the Dragon of Challon to claim Tamlyn. Think hard lass, you shall be next. Mark my words.”

  Aithinne swallowed hard. “The Kenning has shown thus?”

  “Several seasons past the Laird Shane sought out Evelynour of the Orchard, our seer. He wanted an augury. He had met a man they called the Dragon and wanted to ken more about him. The Shane felt he would one day come for Tamlyn, that he would make a good match for his youngest daughter.”

  Aithinne’s eyes widened in astonishment. “The Lord Challon? Longshanks sent him, yet The Shane believed he was destined for Tamlyn?”

  “Evelynour saw him in visions. Dressed in the color of ravens, even mail and armor plate, he came in fog and riding a black stallion of war. At first, she was confused by the foretellings. There was a reflection―two that were near as one. Slowly, she discerned one warrior wrapped in the shade of the ravens. The other wore gray of the fog. One carried the device of a dragon on his shield. On the other a double faced bird―a raven and a hawk. Two men, Aithinne, not one. Lord Challon be the first, the one who dressed in black. The man who came for our Tamlyn. Mayhap her visions were muddled in the beginning because she saw two women who were much alike, as well.”

  “By the Lady Annis.” Aithinne smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. “What have the lads brought down on our heads by stealing St. Giles from Glenrogha?”

  “Mayhap ’twas the Our Annis granting you a chance to alter your destiny. Longshanks sent Challon to claim Glen Shane. Who shall the English send to claim Glen Eallach? In the past, the Comyns held muckle sway with the king. Edward might give Glen Eallach and you to Phelan, with no by your leave, then there would be naught you could do to shift his mind. Now King John Balliol has raised the Scottish standard, summoning all Scots to fight against the English invasion. The Comyns foolishly answered the call. They have lost favor with Longshanks. So where does Edward now cast his eyes to find a lord for Glen Eallach? He twigs Gilchrest was too old to protect Lyonglen and your holding of Coinnleir. He will want a young warrior, a strong one, able to stand against both the Comyns and Campbells.”

  Absently, Aithinne drank down the potion from the silver challis. She sat as the old woman began to comb her long hair. “’Tis why all these lies and deceit. If I can produce a child for Edward Longshanks, a heir―Gilchrest’s heir, then―”

  “Aye, he might,” the crone agreed. “He might also think a wee babe too small, that you and the bairn would need a champion. A smart lass would find her own man before the English decides the matter for you. Mayhap a man who already holds the king’s favor, eh?”

  The potion was hitting her blood, making it hard to focus on Oonanne’s words. She tried to contemplate what needed to be done, looking for an avenue out of this quandary. Only, her mind echoed with Einar’s words. Keep him. It now seemed as if Oona pushed her to do the same.

  Aye, it would be so easy to do. Could she dare?

  But at what cost to her heart?

  As a woman she wanted a husband to love her, to share the joy in the life they could build together. As lady of Coinnleir Wood―and now Lyonglen―she had too many others to consider. This was not about her happiness. This was about both fiefs surviving the coming war. About the future of her brothers.

  A rider had come with word of the Scots defeat at Dunbar, just days past. Nearly all of Scotland’s nobles were made prisoner to the English king or lay dead. Edward would waste no breath before he moved to refashion the nobility of the land. If the nobility were not humbled before him, swearing fealty, he would see Englishmen set in their places, on that she would wager her life.

  Her destiny could not be ruled by her feelings. It must be guided by the good for all of Glen Eallach.

  If only St. Giles had not called her Tamlyn.

  ♦◊♦

  Aithinne sucked in a deep breath and entered the tower chamber before she could change her mind. The scent of peat hit her nose, telling her Einar had been there to see to St. Giles’s needs. There was a wolf throw on the bed, a fire had been laid to dispel the room’s chill. Last night she dared not risk the firelight. This night―pain lanced through her― he would likely think her Tamlyn again.

  She swallowed, nearly choking on the hard knot in her throat wanting to escape.

  The subtle scent of herbs mixed in the smoke. Oona’s fine hand. The rich aroma of apple petals saturated the air, May Day blossoms providing a strong bespelling of love rites. She little needed Oona’s philter to stimulate her body, pushing her toward mating with St. Giles. All through the day, she only had to pause and think back on images of the night before. Everything came roaring back. Heat flooded through her blood to the point it was sheer agony to stay away from him. Her body throbbed to his invisible brand.

  “When I said I did not require the potion, it was not playing coy. I have no need of it. He is the magic.” She whispered the forlorn admission. “He may be chained to my bed, but I am the true prisoner of his powers.”

  Shame pulsed in her. She would join him this night knowing full well he loved Tamlyn. Oh, she resisted coming to him, not following through on her threat to have Einar take him back to Glenrogha. Her body held sway. Age-old mating instincts had awoken within her and there was no silencing their drive.

  It was as though he wove a dark enchantment, and with their joining he became a part of her. St. Giles was in her blood, in her heart. He ensnared her soul. There was naught she could do to shield herself from his charms.

  Never had she grasped how desires of the mind could wield such influence over one’s physical being. Oh, she had seen her cat when it came into heat. The feline had been quite humorous, howling and crawling around on her belly with her tail crooked to the side. Putting a hand to her stomach, Aithinne had a new sympathy for Puss, and was glad it did not affect a woman in the same fashion.

  Her eyes moved to the bed, hungrily seeking St. Giles. He rested half in the shadows, the tartan carelessly flung across his hips. With his body heat, he obviously did not feel the chill of the room. She would have been shivering and hudd
led under the wool. His left arm was carelessly bent across his brow so it covered his eyes.

  For several heartbeats, she stared at his beautiful form. He was so lean, so hard. A sleeping warrior prince awaiting the faery queen’s kiss to awaken him. Unable to resist, her hand reached out and touched him, stroking the strong thigh muscle. He was everything she could want in a man, as if Annis conjured St. Giles from her loneliest wishes.

  Use these nights of the waxing moon, summon the faery fire to burn her from his memory. Oona’s words echoed in her mind, along with Einar’s advice to cling to him.

  “If only it were as simple as saying, aye, I would keep you.” Regret threaded her voice.

  The logical side of her mind arose trying to sway her heart by reminding her of the anguish of him whispering Tamlyn’s name. How absurd to even consider he might wish to stay, to open herself to the sorrow that would come. Foolish indeed.

  Aithinne hung her head, closing her eyelids against the tears forming. Too late, for one dropped to his leg. Why she was suddenly so sad, overcome with a grief that was nearly devastating, she could not say. She should send him away now―this night―before she bound her heart, her soul more deeply to this beautiful warrior.

  She stepped back from the bed, her breath caught in her throat. His arm had been removed from his face, and those pale green-gray eyes watched her with an intensity that was frightening.

  For a heartbeat, she was not sure he was fully awake. Then, he stirred, faster than she could blink. Never could she have dreamt anyone could move that quickly. Before she could take another step backward, or even inhale in shock, his hands took her upper arms and sent her flying through the air.

  She slammed hard to the plane of the bed, knocking all air from her body. He straddled her thighs, pinning her. As she tried to rise, he used the chain across her neck. Stretched between both hands, he pressed the heavy metal to her throat, causing her to strangle.

  Chapter Five

  O drowsy, drowsy as I was!

  Dead sleep upon me fell;

  The Queen of Fairies she was there,

  And took me to herself.

  — Ballad of Tamlin

  Aithinne stared up into the face of a fierce warrior, a battle-hardened man capable of killing without hesitation. This aspect of St. Giles terrified her. Frantic, her hands pushed at his shoulders, against his chest, but nothing she did moved him, or caused the pressure on the chain to let up.

  “Who are you? Tell me why I am shackled in this room,” he growled the words.

  She searched his eyes, at first dreading he had not eaten the food which contained Oona’s potion. As they struggled to focus upon her face, she realized the brew still held him under its sway. So strong, he was fighting against the affects.

  He raged in fury and anguish, “Demon witch robbing my mind, why bespell me so…use my dreams against me? You destroy me.”

  Aithinne trembled in true fear. This was something she had not foreseen―the warrior unleashed, his strength used against her. She presumed the herbs and Oona’s spells would see him docile, compliant the whole time he remained captive in her bed. Another error.

  Mayhap it was the Selkie blood she sensed coursing within him. With that fey magic, he might hold a power to resist Oona’s crafting of the Beltaine love philter. If so, then the situation quickened to dangerous. She had no way to gauge how a warrior enraged would act with his judgment clouded. Panic rose as her mind warned a knight used to surviving in battle would act to protect himself from sheer instinct.

  Though the weight of the chain had not increased, it still cut into her throat where speaking was impossible. Shoving against his shoulders proved futile. While a sturdy lass, she was helpless against the strength of his powerful arms. She could sooner shove around a bloody horse.

  Instinctively, she sensed fighting this warrior was not the key. With a trembling hand, she reached up and traced her finger over the arch of his upper lip, then slowly along the fullness of the lower one. The tension on the chain slackened, as his focus drew to her hand on his mouth, then back to her pinned to the bed, choking.

  Brows furrowed, he flung the links aside as if he had held a snake. His hand shook as he gently traced her throat with his fingers, following where the chain had bit into her skin. In the moon’s shadows, she saw the glimmer of tears form in his pale eyes. “Be cursed…I…regret...”

  Aithinne coughed, nodded, and then tried to sit up.

  “I mislike this lack…of control,” he whispered hoarsely, fighting to speak the words. “It rubs against the grain of a warrior…why enchant me thusly? Why taunt me with a vision I cannot have…offer me my most cherished dream…torment me in a hell of my own fashioning, because I know it can never be?”

  Unable to meet his probing stare, Aithinne lowered her eyelids, feeling empathy for his confusion, the raw frustration. St. Giles was a vital man, one used to command. Shame flooded her, showing just how shortsighted she had been in not thinking this whole scheme through.

  Truly, she was not a selfish person, one careless of other people’s needs or feelings. Only, she had many responsibilities weighing down upon her shoulders these past two months. No one was there to help ease the burden. So many depended upon her to protect them, looked to her to shield all in Glen Eallach in this time of war with the English. Edward Longshanks terrified her. How was she, a mere Scots lass, to stand in the path of the most ruthless king to ever sit on the English throne?

  So desperate for a solution to her quandary, in all her plottings not once had she considered how the man might feel. Most males seemed too apt at spreading their seed around to any woman willing to lie with them. Thus, she presumed he would welcome, even enjoy the couplings, then just sleep the rest of the time.

  In her mind everything had been so straightforward, aims clear. Now the threads of her plans were unraveling about her. Rage and rebellion burned in this proud man. Her actions troubled his spirit, and because of their bond, that anguish echoed within her. Her head turned to the side to hide her dishonor, allowing the tears to trickle silently down her face.

  He lifted her chin with two fingers, then rubbed the droplets on her cheek with his thumb. “You cry, Faery Queen? Do tears of the Fae taste different? If I sample one, will the price be my mortal soul?”

  Her breath sucked in on a gasp, as he leaned forward, kissing the tears from her countenance. His tongue flicked out and lapped their taste. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly upward. “My mother believed tears from a faery can bless one with immortal life. In spite of this, she cautioned there is only one way to make a faery cry―to break her heart. Have I broken your heart, my Fae Queen?”

  More than he could ever know, her mind mourned. She put her fingers to his lips to stop the flow of words, unable to bear his concern. “Words wound deeper than any knife, my lord. Often fester and never heal.”

  ♦◊♦

  Frustrated, Damian backed off the high bed and tried to stand, but his knees would not hold him. The room spun. He caught the bedpost, holding on until the world righted once more. Scores of questions pressed inwardly upon his beleaguered brain, but his head hurt too much to think. Bloody hell, just breathing hurt!

  Until he looked at her.

  When he stared at this vision of beauty, he forgot the ache, forgot exhaustion. His blood renewed, and he wanted her with the frenzied urgency that seized a stallion when he scented a mare in heat. The urge rising within his flesh was primitive, raw, more than any man could contain. The muscles in his jaw flexed, trying to rein in control.

  Who was she? Why was he here?

  Images assailed his mind. Of him making love to her throughout the night. Had that been real, or merely a wish of his feverish, drug-muddled dreams? He tried to focus on her, but ended up slumping to sit on the cold stone floor. The swirling blackness sucked at him, waited to claim him once more.

  Had the whole bloody day passed in a blur? Night must have come again.

  Earlier, when he
awoke the first time, he had staggered to the narrow window to look out, see if he could figure where he was being held. The high hills that he saw from the narrow opening were unfamiliar. He was held prisoner, likely in a Scottish stronghold. Only why?

  Times were troubled, seeing loyalties shift at the flip of a coin. The English had moved northward, and Longshanks’s battle-seasoned troops from Flanders led the sweep through the Lowlands. What was left in their wake had not been a pretty sight. The sacking of Berwick turned the stomach of even the most grim-bitten warriors. It sickened his soul that men were capable of such blood churning atrocities. He saw how it nearly destroyed Challon.

  A runner had come to Glenrogha with report of the battle at Dunbar. The English routed the disorganized Scots in a single charge, their leaders fleeing along with the common soldiers. Word had come, only Sir Patrick Graham stood and valiantly fought to the death. Upwards of five-hundred score Scots were killed on the field of Spottsmuir. The resounding defeat saw the biggest measure of the Scots’ nobility dead or in irons.

  With the times so unstable, he wondered if some Scottish lord, who managed to escape the slaughter, had now taken him hostage in an effort to barter more generous terms when he came unto Edward’s Peace. If that were the case, then his life was not on the line―for now. Feasibly, they kept him drugged to save confrontation until they could ransom him back to Julian or Edward.

  Only why did the woman come to him? Was she real or a figment of his clouded mind?

  He turned his head to watch her, but the shadows from the firelight danced and played trickery on him. If he reached out and touched her wouldst her skin be warm? Would her hair be soft if he buried his face in it? Or was she a demon assuming Tamlyn’s form? Head lolling back, it was too much to unriddle.